Hi, hope you're doing good 🥰 Since requests are open, could I ask for a Garrett x reader one where she's behind the school's hockey social media account and has to do fun interviews with the guys during practice/before games etc and both have been pining after the other for ages and everyone can tell in the comments until finally he does something about it! Have a lovely day!!
Admin's Favorite - Garrett Graham
Blurb: Running Briar hockey’s social media account was supposed to keep you behind the camera, but Garrett Graham keeps finding ways to make himself impossible to ignore. The comments notice, the team makes it worse, and somewhere between cut clips and postgame interviews, you start to wonder if being admin’s favorite goes both ways.
Garrett Graham had a talent for ruining perfectly good content, though technically, every video he appeared in performed better than anything else you posted. The views climbed faster, the comments doubled, and the Briar hockey account gained followers every time he leaned into frame with that easy grin like he knew exactly what to do with a camera in his face.
The problem was not that Garrett was bad on camera. The problem was that he rarely looked at it.
He looked at you.
You had noticed it weeks ago and blamed it on the angle at first. You were the one holding the phone, so obviously his attention drifted toward you when he answered questions. That was normal. It did not mean anything. Then the comments started noticing too, which made it a lot harder to pretend you were imagining it.
Your job was to make the team look good online, not accidentally become half of Briar hockey’s favorite ongoing subplot.
You were standing near the boards during practice with your phone in one hand and your notes app open in the other, scrolling through the list of short-form videos you needed to film before Saturday’s game. Rapid fire. Guess the teammate. Pregame rituals. A few behind-the-scenes clips. Maybe one clean transition if the guys could behave long enough for you to record something usable.
That last part was already looking unlikely.
A puck hit the glass in front of you hard enough to make you jolt, and when you looked up, Garrett was skating by with an apology that did not look very apologetic. He circled back with his stick loose in one hand, face flushed from practice and hair damp under his helmet, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had nearly shaved five years off your life.
“Sorry,” he called through the glass. “Didn’t see you there.”
“You absolutely saw me there.”
His grin widened, which was answer enough.
Since he was already hovering, you lifted your phone and started recording. “Rapid fire, Graham. Favorite pregame song?”
Garrett stopped on the other side of the glass and seemed to consider it for half a second before giving you the least helpful answer possible. “Depends on the game.”
You gave him a look over the top of your phone. “Boring answer. Favorite snack?”
“Also depends.”
“Try harder.”
His laugh carried through the glass, warm and easy, and he finally gave in. “Fine. That granola bar thing you had last week.”
You lowered the phone a little without meaning to. “You made fun of me for eating that.”
“I noticed it, didn’t I?”
That was the problem with Garrett. He could say something simple and make it feel like there was more tucked underneath it, especially when he was watching your reaction like he cared more about making you smile than getting through the question.
Behind him, Logan skated past and let out a dramatic cough that sounded suspiciously fake. Garrett did not even turn around. He only lifted one gloved hand in Logan’s direction, dismissing him without taking his attention off you.
You raised the phone again and tried to get back on track. “Favorite part of game day?”
This time, Garrett actually answered. He said something about the crowd, the energy, and the way the locker room felt right before the team stepped out onto the ice. It was a good answer, the kind you could actually use, and you were already thinking about where to cut the clip when his gaze slipped from the phone to your face.
“And the account’s gotten better this year,” he added.
You kept the phone up, though your thumb twitched near the stop button. “That wasn’t the question.”
Garrett’s mouth curved. “Still true.”
You stopped recording before your expression could betray you too clearly. He must have known exactly what he had done, because his smile softened, but instead of pushing it, he tapped his stick against the boards and skated backward.
“Make sure you get my good side, admin.”
By the time you posted the clip that afternoon, you had cut it down to the safest version. Garrett talking about game day, Garrett laughing when Logan nearly crashed into him in the background, Garrett saying the account had gotten better in a tone you convinced yourself sounded normal enough to leave in.
It took exactly eight minutes for the comments to become insufferable.
@ briarhockeyfan: he looked at admin more than the camera btw
@ campuscrushwatch: no because why did his voice get softer at the end
@ grahamcracker88: this account is now a slow burn and i support it
@ briarupdates: admin please blink twice if garrett graham is flirting with you
@ briarstudentsection: he said “still true” and i folded from my dorm room
You stared at the screen with your thumb hovering over the comment section, your face warm enough that you turned the brightness down as if that would somehow make it less obvious.
People online exaggerated everything. You knew that. They could turn a five-second clip into a full conspiracy board if they were bored enough between classes. Garrett was charming with everyone. He smiled at professors, dining hall workers, fans in the stands, and random students who stopped him on campus. He could probably get a vending machine to apologize after stealing his dollar.
That was just Garrett, you told yourself.
You repeated it later in the week when he showed up beside you before an early practice with two coffees in his hands.
The rink was still half-empty, the air cold enough that your fingers ached around your phone. You had arrived before most of the team to film quiet shots of the arena, the kind of soft, cinematic clips that made game day posts feel more polished. You were crouched near the bench, trying to get a clean shot of the logo at center ice, when a coffee appeared in front of you.
Garrett stood there in sweats and a Briar hoodie, one strap of his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair still messy like he had barely made it out of bed.
“You said the café line was crazy before eight,” he said.
You took the cup and stared at the label, realizing he had somehow gotten your order right. “I said that two weeks ago.”
“I have a decent memory.”
“You remembered my coffee order?”
“I did.” A sly smile spread across his face.
“Thank you,” you said, quieter than you meant to.
He nodded toward your phone. “You filming this morning?”
“B-roll.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“It’s literally just empty rink footage.”
“Still fancy when you say it.”
Dean’s voice carried from down the hall before he could say anything else, loud enough to make Garrett glance over his shoulder. Before he left, he nodded toward the far end of the rink where the doors always let in a brutal draft.
“You should film from this side today. Better lighting.”
You knew very well that lighting had nothing to do with it, but you looked toward the warmer side of the rink anyway. “Better lighting?”
“Definitely.”
He left you with the coffee and a smile you thought about for the rest of practice, which was embarrassing because the coffee was good, the lighting was not noticeably better, and Garrett had still somehow gotten exactly what he wanted.
The worst part was that it did not stop there.
When the rink air left your fingers stiff around your phone, Garrett started steering interviews closer to the tunnel instead of making you chase the guys along the boards, and he acted like it was only because the sound was better there. When you stayed late after a game to pack away the small tripod and mic equipment, he always seemed to come out of the locker room slowly enough to walk toward the exit at the same time. When you asked the team who was most likely to survive on a deserted island, Garrett gave your name because you “looked like you could organize everybody into staying alive,” and Dean immediately yelled from off camera that Garrett was not on the island, he was just trying to get invited.
That clip performed disgustingly well.
The comments were worse than ever.
@ briarbluecrew: dean is us and we are dean
@ rinksidebabe: garrett saying admin’s name like that. okay. okay!!!!
@ briarhockeyofficialfan: can someone make a compilation of him forgetting this is a team account
@ hockeyhousegossip: he is down horrendous
@ deansburner: admin cutting the camera every time she laughs is my favorite genre
You should have ignored it, and you really tried, but the more people commented, the more aware you became of every little thing. Garrett leaned closer when you asked him a question. Garrett found you before you found him. Garrett smiled at your laugh like he had been waiting for it. The guys snickered whenever he volunteered for segments he used to pretend were beneath him.
At first, it was funny. Sweet, even. Then one night, while editing a mic’d up practice video in the media office, you found a clip that made your chest go tight.
Garrett had been standing near Logan at the bench, helmet pushed back, mic still live on his shoulder. You were in the background of the shot, reviewing footage on your phone, unaware the camera had caught any of it.
Logan’s voice came through the audio first, amused and far too pleased with himself as he pointed out that Garrett was not exactly subtle. Garrett shoved him without looking away from where you stood, and Logan kept going, saying he could always ask you out like a normal person. Garrett told him to mind his business, but there was a laugh under it, quieter than the one he used for the camera. Then he looked down, tapped his stick once against the floor, and admitted he was working on it.
You sat very still in the glow of the computer screen.
The clip was only seven seconds long, but it would have made the internet lose its mind. You could already picture the comments, the edits, the captions, the flood of people acting like your almost-something with Garrett was public property just because it had happened near a camera. After watching it one more time, you cut it from the video and posted the final version without it, keeping that small, private moment out of everyone else’s hands.
No one knew the difference, except maybe Garrett.
The next day, he watched the edited version while sitting on the boards after practice, phone in his hand and brows lifted just enough for you to notice. You were filming a few players taking shots at an empty net when he came over, quieter than usual.
“You left out Logan being annoying.”
“Logan is annoying in every video. I have to ration it.”
Garrett studied you for a moment, and something in his expression changed into something warmer than humor. “Thanks.”
You shrugged, trying to make it casual. “It wasn’t really hockey content.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice softer around the edges. “It wasn’t.”
The way he said it made your stomach flip.
After that, you started filming him less. Not obviously, at least you hoped it was not obvious, because you still included him in team videos. Leaving Garrett Graham out of Briar hockey content would have been ridiculous, and everyone would have noticed immediately. Still, you stopped seeking him out first. You asked Tucker for more answers. You filmed Logan goofing off with Dean. You captured wide shots, team huddles, game day skates, and anything that made the account feel like the account again, not a weekly episode of everyone waiting for Garrett to finally do something.
He noticed by Thursday.
Practice had just ended, and you were packing your bag near the tunnel when his skates stopped beside you. You did not look up right away, mostly because you already knew it was him. Garrett had a way of taking up space even when he was silent.
“Did I do something?” he asked.
That made you look at him. He had changed out of his gear but not into his usual post-practice ease. His hair was still damp, his hoodie half-zipped, and there was a slight crease between his brows that made your chest squeeze.
“No,” you said quickly. “No, you didn’t do anything.”
He nodded once, but he did not look convinced. “You’ve barely pointed the camera at me all week.”
“I’ve pointed it at you.”
“For work, yeah.” He paused, glancing toward the rink, then back at you. “You stopped teasing me.”
You tightened your hand around the strap of your bag and looked past him, where a few of the guys were still lingering near the bench. They were far enough not to hear, but close enough to remind you why you had been trying to be smart about this.
“The comments were getting weird,” you admitted, and when his expression shifted, you hurried to explain before he could take it the wrong way. “Not bad weird. Just a lot. People notice everything, and I don’t want it to look like I’m making the account about you, or like I’m unprofessional, or like I’m using the team account to flirt with you.”
Saying it out loud felt worse than thinking it.
Garrett was quiet long enough that you had to look back at him.
“You’re not,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that his voice could stay between the two of you. “You’re good at what you do. Everybody knows that. The account is better because of you, not because I occasionally make an idiot out of myself on camera.”
You tried not to smile. “Occasionally?”
His mouth curved, but he did not take the bait. “If I made you uncomfortable, I’ll stop.”
That softened something in you immediately.
“You didn’t.”
“Good.” He looked relieved for half a second before he added, “I like making you laugh. The camera just happens to be there half the time.”
Your breath caught a little, and Garrett noticed. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped for one brief, devastating second before he looked away like he was trying not to push too much at once.
From down the hall, Dean shouted something about Garrett moving before the bus left without him. Garrett ignored him for another moment, his attention still on you.
“Film me tomorrow,” he said. “For real. I’ll answer the questions properly and everything.”
You let out a quiet laugh. “That sounds fake.”
“It probably is,” he admitted, and there he was again, warm and teasing and Garrett. “But I’ll try.”
You smiled despite yourself, and his face did something unfair in response, something bright and pleased that made you want to hide behind your phone even though you were not recording.
“See?” he said. “Worth it.”
Friday night was the big game, and the arena felt alive long before warmups started.
You moved through the familiar chaos with your phone in hand, capturing laces being tied, sticks being taped, jerseys pulled over pads, and the blur of the student section filling in beyond the glass. The team was loud in the way they always were before a game, all restless energy and shouted jokes and rituals they pretended not to take seriously.
Your segment for the night was simple. Good luck charms.
Tucker showed you the same tape job he swore he did not care about but recreated exactly every game. Logan claimed he did not need luck because he had talent, which immediately got him shoved by two teammates. Dean gave a deeply dramatic explanation about his lucky socks that you knew you would have to cut down before posting.
Then you found Garrett near the tunnel.
He was leaning against the wall with his stick in one hand and his helmet tucked under his arm, looking calmer than he had any right to be. When he saw you coming, his face changed in that familiar way that made the comments feel a little less ridiculous every time.
You lifted the phone. “Good luck charm?”
Garrett glanced at the camera, then at you. “Are you posting this?”
“That depends on whether you say something usable.”
A few weeks ago, he would have made a joke immediately, something big and easy for everyone around him to hear. Instead, he took a second, and the pause felt different enough that your grip tightened around the phone.
His eyes stayed on you.
Then his mouth curved softly, like he had decided against whatever answer had first come to mind.
“Routine,” he said. “Same tape, same warmup, same playlist. Nothing exciting.”
You knew there was more. He knew you knew.
Still, you nodded and kept your voice steady. “Very inspiring.”
“I do what I can.”
You stopped recording, and the noise of the hallway rushed back in around you. For a second, neither of you moved. Garrett shifted his stick to his other hand and leaned a little closer, his voice dropping beneath the sounds of the team behind him.
“Ask me again after the game.”
Your heart stumbled. Before you could answer, someone called his name from the locker room, and Garrett backed away with one last look at you before disappearing through the door.
You posted the pregame clip a few minutes later, and the comments started before puck drop.
@briarhockeyfan: he almost said admin. i know he almost said admin.
@studentsectionbabe: “are you posting this?” SIR WHAT WERE YOU ABOUT TO SAY
@grahamcracker88: the tension has escaped containment
@campuscrushwatch: this is my stanley cup
@briarupdates: admin cutting the clip there is criminal behavior
You did not check them again until after the game.
Briar won by two.
The last five minutes were loud enough to rattle the glass. You filmed the student section losing their minds, the team spilling over the boards, the flash of helmets and gloves, and Garrett getting tackled into a hug by Logan hard enough that both of them nearly went down.
By the time the players made it back toward the tunnel, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
You caught Garrett just outside the locker room, still breathless from the game, hair damp and face flushed, looking like he belonged to every bright, roaring part of the night.
You lifted your phone. “Three words for the win?”
For once, Garrett looked directly at the camera.
“Worth the work,” he said.
It was a good answer. Clean, simple, easy to post.
You lowered the phone with a laugh. “Who are you and what have you done with Garrett Graham?”
He smiled, softer than usual. “Told you I’d try.”
Around you, the hallway was crowded for another minute, players pushing past, coaches talking, someone yelling about food from inside the locker room. Garrett waited until the noise shifted away from you, until no one was close enough to turn the moment into a performance.
Then he nodded at your phone. “Still recording?”
You checked the screen even though you knew you had stopped it. “No.”
“Good.”
Your pulse jumped.
Garrett took one step closer, just enough to make the rest of the hallway fade into something distant. “Then I’m asking without the account, without the comments, and without Logan making faces behind me,” he said. “Let me take you out.”
For all the time you had spent wondering, all the comments you had pretended not to reread, all the coffee cups and little looks you had tried to explain away, the words still managed to knock the air from your lungs.
Garrett Graham, who could handle pressure in front of a packed arena without blinking, looked nervous. Not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would notice from down the hall, but you could see it because you had spent too much time watching him through a lens and not enough time admitting you knew his face by now.
“You want to take me out?” you asked, softer than you meant to.
His smile tugged at one corner. “I’ve wanted to take you out for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Long enough that Logan has become emotionally invested.”
You laughed, and the relief that crossed Garrett’s face made your chest feel too full.
“Yes,” you said. “You can take me out.”
Garrett’s grin broke wide, bright and boyish in a way that made him look less like the captain everyone yelled for from the stands and more like the guy who remembered your coffee order because you had complained once before eight in the morning.
“I had a better speech planned,” he admitted, looking down for a second with a smile he could not quite hide.
You smiled too, because the idea of Garrett Graham planning anything to say to you felt almost too sweet to handle. He had spent weeks turning every camera pointed at him into an excuse to look at you, and now that he finally had your full attention with no phone between you, he seemed a little less sure of what to do with it.
“I don’t think you needed one,” you said.
Garrett looked back at you then, his expression softening in a way that made the noise from the locker room fade behind him. The win was still happening all around you, in the shouts from down the hall and the dull thud of doors opening and closing, but he was standing close enough that the rest of it felt distant.
“Good,” he said, voice quieter now. “Because I’m pretty sure I forgot half of it.”
You laughed, and that seemed to settle whatever nerves he had left. His hand lifted slowly, giving you time to move away if you wanted to, but you stayed exactly where you were as his fingers brushed lightly against your cheek.
When he leaned in, the kiss was soft. Sweet enough that it caught you off guard, even though you had spent weeks pretending you had not thought about it. His hand settled at your waist, gentle and warm, and you smiled against him before you could help it.
Garrett pulled back just enough to see your face, but not enough to let go.
“That was better than the speech,” he murmured.
You felt your smile grow. “Definitely better than the speech.”
He laughed under his breath, and this time, when he kissed you again, it was quicker, lighter, like he could not quite resist doing it once more now that he knew he was allowed.
A shout came from inside the locker room, followed by Logan’s voice calling Garrett’s name, but Garrett only closed his eyes for a second like he was trying to convince himself not to ignore all of them completely.
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Off Campus Masterlist
NOTE: 2nd part of ⤷ Oh, Baby ˎˊ˗
The roar of the gymnasium, the shrieking whistles, the heavy thud of a stray kickball, the collective hum of dozens of parents, snapped back into focus like a sudden slap to the face.
You couldn’t breathe. As he walked toward you, everything else in the gym seemed to disappear from his view. Every step he took across the polished wood floor felt like a countdown.
Your first instinct was to grab Lily’s hand and run. You could make it to the double doors, throw her into her car seat, and drive until Hastings was nothing but a speck in your rearview mirror.
But Lily was already moving.
"Look, Mommy! He has stickers!" Lily chirped, entirely oblivious to the ground opening up beneath her mother's feet. She pointed a tiny, denim clad arm directly at Garrett as he stepped into the small circle space by the kindergarten teacher’s desk.
"Lily, sweetie, we have to go find your cubby," your voice came out breathless, tight, and completely unconvincing. You forced your feet to move, stepping into the space just as Garrett arrived.
Up close, the reality of him hit you like a wave. He smelled the same, something sharp and clean, mixed with the faint trace of old leather, but the boyish arrogance was completely gone. His eyes, once so bright and teasing, were dark and swimming with shock. He was looking at Lily, then up at you, his jaw tight as he actively fought to keep his composure in a room full of townspeople.
"Hi there," Garrett said. His voice came out rough enough that he had to clear his throat before trying again. He forced a polite, tight smile for the kindergarten teacher, though his eyes never truly left Lily's face. "I'm... I'm Garrett. I run the youth rec leagues here."
The teacher smiled warmly. "Oh, wonderful! Garrett, this is Lily Y/L/N. It's her very first day."
"Lily," Garrett repeated, the name tasting heavy and foreign yet entirely right on his tongue. He slowly lowered himself down to one knee, bringing himself eye level with the little girl. His hands trembled where they rested on his knees. "It's... it's really nice to meet you, Lily."
Lily beamed, entirely captivated by the shiny gold sticker sheet he was holding. She took a step closer to him, her light up sneakers clicking against the floor. "I like your shirt. It looks like a policeman shirt."
Garrett let out a breathless, wet laugh, his chest heaving as he stared into her wide eyes. He reached out, his fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before he gently pressed a star shaped sticker onto the front of her denim jacket. "It is just a volunteer shirt, Lily. But thank you."
He looked up then, his gaze rising from the little girl to lock onto you. The warmth in his eyes vanished. He looked at you instead, searching your face for something, an explanation, a denial, anything that made sense of what he was seeing.
"Do you like sports, Lily?" Garrett asked, his eyes remaining fixed entirely on your face. His voice carried a heavy, double meaning that went completely over the teacher's head but pierced right through you. "Do you like to run fast?"
"I can run super fast," Lily bragged, bouncing on her toes. "Mommy says I have too much energy."
"Is that so?" Garrett murmured, his jaw flexing. He slowly stood to his full height, and suddenly there wasn't nearly enough room between you. He kept his hands tucked into his pockets, a clear effort to keep them from shaking. "Your mommy sounds like she has her hands full."
"We should go, Lily," you managed to say, your voice barely louder than a whisper. The noise around you blurred into something distant. "The teacher needs to take everyone to the classroom now."
The kindergarten teacher clapped her hands together, calling out to the remaining parents and children in the corner. "Alright, penguins! Time to line up by the door! Parents, this is where we say our quick goodbyes so we can start our morning adventure."
Lily did not hesitate. She turned and hugged your knees tightly, giving you a quick, sticky kiss on the cheek before running over to the neat line forming by the exit. She did not look back, completely ready to conquer her first day.
You stood frozen as the line of children filed out into the hallway, leaving the gymnasium suddenly feeling massive and terrifyingly quiet.
You turned on your heel to sprint for the main exit, but Garrett was already moving, his heavy footsteps echoing right behind you.
The hallway blurred around you as you hurried toward the heavy glass doors, your purse strap slipping off your shoulder.
"Wait."
The word was not loud, but it had the authority of a command.
You kept walking, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Garrett, please. I have to get to work."
A hand wrapped gently but firmly around your forearm, stopping your momentum. The warmth of his hand seeped through your sleeve. He did not pull you, but the sheer weight of his presence forced you to turn around.
When you looked up, Garrett looked completely undone. The composed volunteer from the gym was gone. His eyes were red at the rims, confusion twisting his features.
"Five years," Garrett whispered, his grip loosening on your arm until his hand just hovered there, trembling. "You chose Hastings. You came to a town forty minutes away from the city. Why here?"
"Because it was quiet," you said, your voice breaking as the tears you had been holding back finally slipped down your cheeks. "Because nobody knew me here."
Looking at him now, the hallway disappeared.
Suddenly it was June again.
Graduation music drifted through the open doors. His father's voice carried from somewhere down the hall, talking about scouts, training camp, the draft. Garrett had been trying to listen to both conversations at once, and you had known, even before the fight started, that neither of you was going to walk away happy.
It hadn't been one explosive mistake that ended you. It had been months of trying to fit two futures together that no longer matched. The argument had only been the final crack. Raised voices. Tears. A slammed door. Then silence. The kind that settled between two people who still loved each other but no longer knew how to stay.
You hadn't walked away because you stopped loving him.
You had walked away because, for one terrible night, letting go had seemed kinder than asking him to choose.
But Garrett didn't know what happened two weeks later.
"You didn't look for me," Garrett said, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes searching yours. "After that night... after everything we said to each other, I thought we were just letting go. I thought we were leaving the wreckage behind. But you knew."
"I found out right after I moved into my apartment here," you confessed, a sob catching in your throat. "Garrett, we had just spent hours shouting about how impossible our lives were going to be. You had the draft. You had scouts watching your every move, and your dad counting down the seconds until you made it to the pros. I was terrified. We had already parted ways, and I didn't want to be the reason you looked back and felt trapped by a life you didn't choose."
"I would have come back," he said instantly. He took another step, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from him. "If I had known, the draft wouldn't have mattered. The fight wouldn't have mattered. I would have turned right around and walked away from everything if you had just given me the choice. You did not give me a choice."
The hallway fell silent. Neither of you moved.
Five years settled between you all at once. Five birthdays. Five years of scraped knees, bedtime stories, and school pictures Garrett had never known existed.
You dropped your gaze to the scuffed linoleum floor, unable to bear the look on his face any longer.
"What happens now?" you whispered.
Garrett didn't answer immediately.
He looked toward the glass doors leading outside, then back down the hallway where Lily's classroom had disappeared only minutes earlier. His chest rose with one slow breath before he looked back at you.
When he spoke, his voice was quieter than you'd ever heard it.
"I'm not going back to the city today." Your eyes lifted to his.
"I'm finishing my shift at the rec table," he continued. "And at three o'clock..."
He swallowed.
"...I'll be sitting on that bench outside."
His eyes never left yours.
"I don't expect you to have everything figured out by then." He paused. "Hell, I don't either."
The corner of his mouth lifted into a tired, almost disbelieving smile.
"But I'd like the chance to meet my daughter."
The words cracked something open inside you. Not because they were angry. Not because they demanded anything.
Because they were so heartbreakingly simple.
He wasn't asking five years back. He was asking for three o'clock.
You closed your eyes for a second before giving a small nod.
"I'll bring her."
Garrett's shoulders sagged with a relief so quiet it almost hurt to look at.
"Thank you."
For a long second, neither of you knew what came after that.
Then Garrett stepped back.
"I'll see you this afternoon."
You watched him disappear through the gym doors, his shoulders a little straighter than before. The exit stood only a few feet away, but you found yourself staring after him instead.
The life you'd built in Hastings wasn't hidden anymore.
And for the first time in five years you weren't sure you wanted it to be.
Three o'clock came far too quickly.
Garrett was already sitting on the weathered wooden bench outside the front entrance when the final bell rang. He'd been there for nearly twenty minutes, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly enough that his knuckles had gone pale.
Every time the doors opened, another wave of children poured outside. Some sprinted toward waiting parents. Others dragged oversized backpacks behind them, already talking a mile a minute about finger painting and recess.
Garrett watched every single one.
He wondered what Lily had been like on her first day of preschool.
Whether she'd cried when you left.
Whether she'd made friends easily.
Whether she'd always talked with her hands the way she had this morning.
Five years.
Five years of little moments that nobody could ever give back.
The doors opened again. This time, you stepped outside first. Your eyes found him immediately. For a second, neither of you moved. Then you walked over slowly, stopping a few feet away.
"She takes forever packing up," you said quietly.
Garrett let out the smallest huff of laughter.
"Yeah?"
You nodded.
"She always wants to make sure every crayon makes it back into the box." A tiny smile tugged at your mouth before disappearing again. "She says they get lonely."
Garrett smiled despite himself.
"That..." He swallowed. "That sounds like you." You looked at him.
"No," you said softly.
"It sounds like you."
The words hit him harder than he expected. You glanced back toward the school doors.
"She also hates peanut butter."
He blinked.
"What?"
"Everyone assumes kids like peanut butter." You shrugged lightly. "She won't touch it. Said, she might meet a friend that gets sick because of it."
Garrett listened carefully. As though each tiny fact was something precious.
"She sleeps with a turtle night light."
Another pause.
"She can't whistle."
His eyes stayed on yours. You weren't just making conversation. You were quietly handing him five years he'd never gotten to live.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," you admitted with a shaky laugh.
"I do," Garrett said. Your eyes lifted to his.
"Because you're trying to catch me up."
Neither of you noticed the school doors opening again until a familiar little voice echoed across the sidewalk.
"Mommy!"
Lily came barreling outside with her backpack bouncing wildly behind her. She launched herself toward you before stopping short the moment she spotted Garrett.
"The sticker guy!"
Garrett stood so quickly the bench scraped against the concrete.
"Hi, Lily."
She smiled at him like seeing him twice in one day was the most natural thing in the world.
"I finished my cat."
"You did?"
She nodded enthusiastically before wrestling a slightly crumpled piece of paper out of her backpack.
"I made him orange."
Garrett accepted the drawing with both hands. The cat had one ear bigger than the other. Its whiskers were purple, and its tail somehow curved through its own body.
Across the top, written in uneven kindergarten letters, was:
MR. CAT
Garrett stared at it. Not because of the drawing. Because it was the first thing his daughter had ever given him. His vision blurred.
"It's perfect," he whispered.
"I know," Lily said proudly.
You laughed. It was the first laugh Garrett had heard from you that sounded like the girl he'd fallen in love with. Lily slipped her little hand into his without thinking twice.
"Come on."
Garrett looked down.
"Where are we going?"
"To Mommy's car."
She said it like the answer should have been obvious.
"You didn't see my turtle backpack."
Garrett looked up at you. You held his gaze for a long moment. Then, almost too quietly to hear.
"You can walk us."
Relief washed across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He tightened his fingers around Lily's hand just enough for her to feel it.
"I'd like that."
The three of you started across the parking lot together. Lily filled the silence all by herself, talking about glitter glue, recess, and how Mrs. Simmons let everyone pick their own reading rug.
Garrett listened to every word.
Not because the stories were extraordinary. Because he'd waited five years to hear them. You walked beside them, watching Lily chatter happily between the two of you.
Nothing had changed.
There were still difficult conversations ahead. Years that couldn't be reclaimed. Trust that would have to be rebuilt one day at a time.
But as Garrett laughed at something Lily said and she immediately reached for his hand again, you realized something you hadn't let yourself believe was possible.
Maybe moving forward didn't have to mean leaving the past behind.
Maybe it just meant finally letting someone walk beside you through it.
(NOTE: i do overall fandom master taglists, not separate ones for individual series/fics! Feel free to send me a message if you'd want to be added or removed)
₊ ֹ ˖ GARRETT WITH A BLUNT GIRLFRIEND THAT LIKES MAKING HIM BLUSH ᱺㅤㅤ ୨౿
one thing about you was that you were loud, a bit too carefree, and with absolutely no filter. while your boyfriend, garret was no introvert or virgin bride, he was still not used to being with someone just so—so blunt and brash.
and that came with some consequences, because there would be times where you would tease the shit out of him or make explicit comments so causally at all times, it made him flush like a schoolgirl.
that has never happened to him before you. like ever.
before, he was the one making girls blush, making their panties melt, and then came your hurricane self, with an obnoxious smirk making him shy as fuck.
sometimes he’d be left speechless because he always thought he’d be the one doing all that in a relationship.
sometimes he’d be too embarrassed at the fact that he was blushing, so he wouldn’t even know how to respond.
he was a hockey player who shoved people out of the way for a living, for fuck’s sake—why was he so weak for you?
see, and that’s why he tried to resist it, but the more he did, the worse it got
for example, if he just came out of the shower with his naked chest on display and you were there to witness, the first thing you’d do would be let out a whistle
“the things i’d do to lick those water drops off of you clean”
you never missed the deep patch of red flashing across his body as he quickly grabbed a towel, drying himself off before throwing on a shirt and shorts like that would somehow make it better.
then he’d walk over to you, pressing a deep kiss to your lips, trying to regain some sort of composure.
or again, if he was suited up for an event in which he looked so sinfully hot in, and you’d walk up to him as he fumbled with his tie, pulling him by his opened tie and fixing it as you tighten it, making him all red. pressing a gentle kiss to his lips
“what are you thinking about” he’d clear his throat before asking as you gazed at him with dilated pupils.
“how long it’d take for me to take this thing off you, pretty boy” and boom, here goes his willpower.
“you can’t say shit like that to me when i’m about to leave in like five,” he’d groan loudly, putting his forehead on you, adjusting his slacks while you giggled, feeling proud of yourself for getting him so weak.
or the last straw—when he walked into his room after another tiring practice, not knowing you’re in his bed, quickly taking his shirt off, leaving him in only loose sweats that show his boxers band, with a dark happy trail leading to a happy place.
you eyes drag up and down his body from your position in his bed as he moves around in his room before his eyes snap towards you and his whole composure softens realizing your there.
but you’re still staring. still tracking every movement which makes him a bit confused. does he have something on him?
“what?”
“you walk like it’s big” you blurt out, licking your very much dry lips.
“what’s that supposed to—“ he’s midway into his question when dean passes by garret’s room, still in his jersey, and yells out “it means you’re walking around like you’re being weighted down by something and that something is your dick! you’re welcome!” before moving into his room, shutting his door.
your boyfriend, per usual, flushes at the crude words
it was true, he just had a natural sway in his hips and that confident, lazy walk—it exceeded big dick energy.
or when he sat, he took space, thick hockey thighs spreading to make room for himself and his heaviness, it was so obvious that he had to make room for something big to sit like that.
“you get what i mean now?” you mutter, eyes glued onto his crotch as the familiar bulge forms
“baby i’m feeling very objectified at the moment” he murmurs as he closes his door before walking over to you, as he lowers himself on top of you, nuzzling his face into your neck
he was a mess, and it was better if you didn’t look into his face right now.
you just grab his curls as you push his head off of you, before pushing him onto his bed as you straddle him.
“awh poor baby you want me to stop?” you coo as your fingers find his chain resting on his chest, gently tugging onto it
he’s so mesmerized right now, so he shakes his head side to side as you lean back, keeping eye contact as you lean back before slipping a finger into his sweats, slowly pushing them off his legs
“that’s what i thought, big boy” he raises his hips, helping you take his sweats off
you know what, garret decided he liked the fact that he turned putty at the hands of his girlfriend. it was a humbling reality check that he wasn’t the one with all the charm, and his usual tricks didn’t always come to play.
he needed that once in a while.
masterlist guys this is kinda off topic but i’m so obsessed with belmont’s curls
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – garrett plans to ask properly over dinner. instead, panic, hospital security, and two hours of waiting turn the moment into something far less polished and much more honest.
warnings – hospital lockdown, anxiety/panic, fear for a loved one, trauma references, relationship discussion, emotional vulnerability, fluff.
notes from me – EVERYBODY STAY CALM!!!!!
word count – 4.8k
navigation – masterlist |
The emergency department being locked down turns out to be excellent for her academic career.
Somewhere behind two sets of badge-access doors and several increasingly irritated security guards, something has happened in psych. The details have reached the rest of the department in broken little pieces: a patient tried to leave, somebody made a threat, a door may or may not have been damaged, and one student insists she heard the phrase improvised weapon while another swears it was only a plastic chair.
Nobody actually knows anything, which hasn’t stopped everyone from knowing it very loudly.
What she knows is that the hospital stopped accepting incoming ambulances just after six, the waiting room thinned out by seven, and the usual constant churn of paramedics, relatives, stretchers, crying children, people with towels wrapped around bleeding hands and men experiencing chest pain who still want to finish a cigarette first, has slowed to something almost civilised.
Nobody is being allowed in or out without security approval. Ambulances are being redirected. Visitors are stuck on whichever side of the doors they happened to be standing when lockdown started, which has created several administrative issues and one woman near reception who has spent forty-five minutes explaining to anyone who’ll listen that her husband’s phone charger is in the car.
Inside ED, though, it’s quiet. Not empty, hospitals are never empty. There are still monitors chirping, call bells going off, nurses walking quickly without looking like they’re walking quickly, and a man in bay six repeatedly asking whether anyone has seen his trousers despite the fact that he’s currently wearing them.
But it’s quiet enough that Maria lets her trail behind while she checks the resus trolley, explaining which supplies always disappear first and which doctor will accuse someone else of moving the paediatric cannulas while actively holding the paediatric cannulas in his hand.
It’s quiet enough that she gets to watch a wound review without three people squeezing past behind her. Quiet enough that one of the senior nurses talks her through the differences between the hospital’s various referral pathways without being interrupted halfway through by somebody vomiting in a bin.
Quiet enough, eventually, that she ends up at the little staff desk with her assignment open beside a half-eaten packet of crackers, Maria leaning over her shoulder and squinting at a paragraph on clinical prioritisation.
“You’ve answered the question,” Maria says, tapping one blunt fingernail against the screen. “Then you’ve answered it again in different clothes.”
She frowns at the paragraph. “I thought the second part sounded more academic.”
“It sounds like you just regurgitated a policy manual.”
“That’s academic.”
“No, honey.”
She laughs and deletes six lines, which feels rude after spending twenty minutes building them. “Better?”
Maria scans it again. “Much.”
She tilts her head at it. “Do you think I need another source?”
“You nursing students always think you need another source.”
It’s, genuinely, one of the best placement days she’s had in weeks. She gets almost two pages of her assignment done. She reviews her notes from the morning. One of the nurses shows her where everything is kept in the minor procedures room, including three cupboards she had been walking past for months under the assumption that they contained cleaning supplies.
She asks questions without feeling like she’s standing in somebody’s way. Nobody yells at her. Nobody grabs her. Nobody looks at the badge clipped to her scrubs and immediately begins speaking to her like she invented hospital wait times.
At nine-thirty, Maria lets her help redress a surgical wound while the patient tells them both an extremely detailed story about her neighbour’s son and his divorce. At ten, she gets a full set of observations on a man who rates his pain as somewhere between a four and the collapse of Western society. At ten-fifteen, she drinks an entire coffee while it’s still warm.
It’s beautiful.
There are worse places to be trapped than a hospital with functional heating, free pens if a person has flexible morals, and a veteran nurse willing to proofread an assignment between medication rounds.
By ten-forty, the lockdown is still active but security has started organising escorted staff exits in groups. Night shift has arrived in pieces, badged through one at a time, and the department has begun that strange end-of-shift exhale where nobody relaxes, but people start looking at clocks.
She signs the last of her notes, checks them twice, then once more because Maria is standing behind her and has taught her that confidence is wonderful but signed documentation is legally binding.
“Go,” Maria tells her, nudging her hip away from the computer with one hand. “Before they find another reason to keep you.”
“I’m a student. They don’t need a reason. They can just point at something and call it a learning opportunity.”
“Then move faster.”
She grins and heads toward the little locker room, shoulders aching with the ordinary tiredness of an eleven-hour day rather than anything dramatic. Her face has almost completely returned to being her face again.
There’s still the faintest yellow shadow under one eye if the lighting is especially hostile, and the bridge of her nose complains when she forgets and rubs it too hard, but otherwise she’s healed enough that strangers no longer look at her and immediately become concerned.
More importantly, Garrett has stopped treating her like she might shatter if he kisses her without filling out a risk assessment first. Which has been excellent. Really, incredibly excellent.
There are few upsides to a man feeling guilty for disappearing for nine days, but Garrett Graham’s current willingness to do essentially anything she asks has introduced several persuasive arguments in favour of forgiveness. Not total forgiveness. She isn’t an idiot, and she’s not letting him believe one apology and some extremely dedicated oral effort have erased the part where he made her feel insane for over a week.
But they’re close to normal again. Better than normal in some ways, because Garrett has started saying things instead of deciding she should psychically interpret from across campus. He texts if practice is running late. He tells her when his dad calls. He asks before touching her when she’s gone quiet, even when she has to resist the urge to say, Garrett, you’ve had your mouth on my entire body, you can put your hand on my knee without submitting a formal request.
Tonight he’s picking her up at eleven. Then he’ll drive her back to the dorm with the heater turned high enough that the windows start fogging, wait while she showers, complain about the size of her bed, and stay anyway.
She’s going to sleep for eight hours with her cold feet tucked against his shins and absolutely no remorse.
She opens her locker, shoves her assignment notebook into her bag, and pulls on the puffer jacket she had folded badly over the top shelf. Her phone is sitting beneath it, screen black.
She presses the side button. Nothing.
“No,” she mutters, pressing it again as if the phone might respond better to disappointment.
The student at the locker beside hers glances over while tying her hair into a looser ponytail. “Dead?”
“Completely.”
“Reception’s been shit all day anyway. None of my texts sent.”
She sighs and drops the useless rectangle into her bag. “Great. Love that for modern communication.”
“I had one bar near imaging.”
“Show-off.”
The other girl laughs, shouldering her backpack. “You getting picked up?”
“Yeah. Garrett’s outside.”
The name comes out without the careful little pause it used to have. Without her trying to make it sound casual enough that nobody might suspect she likes him. She notices only because there had been a time when saying Garrett’s picking me up would have required three disclaimers and a small presentation on why that did not make him her boyfriend.
Now it simply feels like information.
Garrett’s outside. Garrett will have the heater on. Garrett will probably have food because he’s begun approaching her eating schedule with the intensity of a captain correcting a weak defensive formation.
The student gives her a knowing look anyway. “Must be nice.”
“It is,” she says, too tired to lie, then ruins the sincerity before it gets dangerous. “He’s very trainable.”
They head back through the department together. She says goodbye to Maria, who points two fingers at her eyes and then at the assignment like she expects photographic proof of revisions. She waves to the nurses at the station, gets stopped long enough for one of them to press a banana into her hand because everyone over thirty in healthcare believes students are permanently fifteen minutes from scurvy, and joins the little group forming near the secured exit.
Security walks them out in batches of six. It’s deeply dramatic for what amounts to a group of tired nurses, two students and one radiographer discussing takeaway options while following a man in a fluorescent vest down a corridor.
The lockdown has changed the hospital’s atmosphere without changing much of what the building looks like. The same polished floors. The same antiseptic brightness. The same signs instructing people to wash their hands and be kind to staff.
But doors that usually open automatically are shut. Security personnel stand at every junction. A metal shutter has been pulled down across one of the side entrances, and through the glass near reception she can see people clustered outside under the awning, some smoking, some pacing, some staring through the doors as if concern might eventually activate them.
She hadn’t really considered the outside of it. Inside, the lockdown had meant fewer ambulances and enough time for assignment editing. Outside, apparently, it’s meant parents and partners and friends waiting in the cold without any information beyond hospital, lockdown, no entry.
The thought has only just begun rearranging the shape of her day when they reach the final set of doors.
She hears Garrett before she sees him.
“Please, can you just tell me which section?” His voice is coming from somewhere beyond the corner near the security booth, rougher than usual and stripped of every trace of his easy, teasing rhythm. “Like– ED? Is it ED? Is everyone okay? I’m not– I’m not trying to be a dick, man, I just need to know if she’s okay.”
The security guard sighs with the exhaustion of someone who has had this conversation several times and has found each version less charming. “As I’ve already explained, sir, I can’t provide patient or staff information. If you’re not immediate family–”
“She’s not a patient. She works here. Well, she’s a student, but she’s here on placement and she finishes at eleven and her phone’s off and nobody’s come out and–”
“Sir.”
“Right. Yeah. Sorry.” There’s a pause, then Garrett says, sounding like every word is being dragged through his teeth, “If she was my girlfriend, would you tell me?”
The guard’s quiet for a second.
Garrett barrels into the silence before the man can answer. “Because she’s my– fuck. Okay, well, she’s not. Technically. But if she was, would that help? Is there a form? Do I need to prove something?”
“Would calling her your girlfriend make you leave me alone?”
“Would you tell me if she’s okay?”
“No.”
“Then probably not.”
She rounds the corner, and Garrett’s standing under the flat white light near the security desk, still in his Briar tracksuit from practice, curls damp and pushed back badly like he has run both hands through them a hundred times.
His gear bag has been dumped near the wall. His shoulders are drawn high and tight, jaw flexing hard enough that she can see the muscle move from several feet away. Dean, Logan and Tucker are gathered farther back near Garrett’s car, all three of them looking unusually sober. Dean has his arms folded. Tucker keeps checking the doors. Logan’s bouncing one heel against the pavement.
There are other people around them. Parents. A woman holding a takeaway cup in both hands. A man still wearing slippers. Everyone turned toward the doors whenever they open.
“Garrett?”
His head snaps toward her.
The change in his face is so immediate it makes her stop walking. His whole body drops by half an inch, shoulders loosening with a breath that seems to leave from somewhere below his ribs, mouth parting around nothing.
He crosses the space between them fast enough that the security guard takes one thoughtful step backward. Her bag slides from her shoulder when Garrett reaches her, but he catches neither the bag nor his dignity. He only gets both arms around her and pulls her into him so tightly her feet nearly leave the floor.
“Oh,” she says into the front of his jacket, startled enough that the sound comes out small. “Hi?”
Garrett’s face presses into her hair. His arms tighten. One hand spreads over the middle of her back, the other at the base of her skull, holding her against him like he’s just found her somewhere she wasn’t meant to be.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
Her cheek is mashed against his chest. She can hear his heart going much too fast beneath the fabric, hard enough that for one strange second her brain starts counting automatically.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Garrett pulls back only far enough to look at her, hands coming up to her face so quickly she almost laughs. His palms cup her cheeks, thumbs moving under her eyes, over the healed line of her cheekbone, gaze scanning her with the frantic thoroughness of someone checking for blood.
“Am I okay?” he says. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah?”
She blinks at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
His stare goes flat with disbelief. “The hospital was in lockdown.”
“Psych was locked down.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Oh.” She glances past him toward the security guard, who has developed the distant expression of someone pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. “Yeah, somebody tried to leave or made a threat or something. I don’t really know. It was fine.”
Garrett’s hands stay on her face. “Fine.”
“Mhm.” She smiles because he looks so genuinely horrified by the concept that it starts feeling funny. “It was actually a great shift.”
For a second, Garrett doesn’t move. Behind him, Dean makes a tiny, strangled sound.
Garrett’s brows pull together. “You had a great shift.”
“Yeah.” Her smile widens. “It was super quiet because all the ambulances got redirected. Maria helped with my assignment, and one of the nurses showed me where they keep all the wound stuff, and I got to–”
“You did homework.”
“Yeah, heaps. I got nearly two pages–”
Garrett kisses her. The interruption is so complete that the rest of the sentence disappears somewhere between his mouth and the hand sliding from her cheek into her hair.
Her surprised little hum presses against his lips. He kisses her harder in response, or maybe just closer, angling her face up and pulling her into the front of him as if the first hug didn’t provide sufficient evidence that she is physically here.
It isn’t a sexual kiss, despite the way Garrett generally approaches kissing her like it’s a skill he takes personal pride in. It’s too messy for that. Too relieved. His mouth catches hers once, then again, barely leaving enough space for either of them to breathe, his thumbs warm near her ears and his body still carrying the cold from outside. She catches the front of his jacket in both hands, more to steady him than herself.
When he finally pulls away, he does not go far. His forehead drops to hers. His breathing is rough against her mouth, eyes shut for a second as if looking at her has somehow become too much information at once.
“They wouldn’t tell me anything,” he says. “Because I’m not your–” His mouth tightens. He opens his eyes. “Because I’m not anything to you.”
Her frown arrives before she can soften it. “What?”
“On paper,” he says quickly. “I know I’m– I know we’re– fuck.”
Garrett Graham can explain a power play to a room full of concussed men using a salt shaker and three beer caps. He can talk to reporters after a loss without giving them one useful emotion. He can flirt while injured, exhausted, drunk, half-dressed or actively being insulted.
But asking a girl to be his girlfriend outside an emergency department reduces him to nouns and distress.
“I don’t want to be nothing to you,” he says, and this time the words come out low and blunt, dragged past whatever pride had been blocking them. “Not on paper. Not if something happens. I don’t want to stand out here while some guy tells me I’m nobody and he can’t tell me if you’re okay.”
Her fingers loosen slightly in his jacket.
Garrett presses his forehead more firmly to hers, eyes dropping somewhere near her mouth rather than meeting her gaze. “I wanna be yours. I want you to be mine. I can’t do this again, baby. I can’t not know what happened, or where you are, or if you need me, or if I’m allowed to–”
His breath catches, small enough that she might miss it if she weren’t close enough to feel it move through him.
Something behind her ribs softens. Not because she thinks being his girlfriend would magically make hospital security hand over classified information. It probably wouldn’t. The guard had made that extremely clear.
But she knows what Garrett’s actually saying. She can hear the older fear under the fresh one. The locked doors. The inability to get inside. A woman he loves somewhere beyond his reach and a man at the entrance telling him there’s nothing he can do.
It’s there in the way his hands hold her face, careful and desperate at the same time, like he’s not only convincing himself she’s safe now but trying to correct another night, another house, another version of himself that had been too young and too small to help anyone.
She slides one hand from his jacket to the back of his neck. His skin is cold beneath his curls. “Okay,” she murmurs.
Garrett looks at her. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Her thumb moves once at his nape. “I’m here.”
His jaw works. “That’s not–”
“Is this your way of asking me to be your girlfriend?”
Garrett exhales so hard it almost becomes a laugh. He closes his eyes again, his forehead still against hers. “Fuck. I guess so.”
She giggles. She can’t help it. The sound comes out warm and soft between them, partly because Garrett looks so wrecked and earnest and annoyingly beautiful under hospital security lighting, and partly because this is the least polished romantic gesture anyone has ever attempted.
His eyes open. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“A little.” She smooths the damp curl near his temple. “You’re asking me out during a psychiatric lockdown while a security guard watches.”
The guard, still several feet away, turns his head toward the doors with admirable professionalism.
Garrett’s mouth twitches, but the anxiety doesn’t leave his eyes. “I had a different plan.”
“You had a plan?”
“Yeah.”
That surprises her enough that her own smile falters into something softer. “You did?”
“Dinner. Tonight. Somewhere with actual cutlery.” His hands slide from her face to her waist, keeping her close with less panic now but no less certainty. “I was gonna ask properly.”
Her stomach gives one slow, lovely turn.
She looks at him for a second, really looks. At the practice clothes and the tired shadows under his eyes. At the wet curls and the little red mark across the bridge of his nose from where his helmet must have pressed. At the fear still moving under his skin even while his mouth starts trying to recover its usual shape.
“I thought we didn’t have time for the whole girlfriend-boyfriend thing,” she murmurs.
Garrett shakes his head immediately. “Fuck that.”
She lifts her brows.
“I’ve got time to stand outside a hospital for two hours annoying security.” His hands tighten at her waist. “Figure I’ve got time to be your boyfriend.”
Her smile breaks before she can stop it.
Garrett sees it and kisses her again, quick and warm and a little crooked because she’s already laughing. His mouth stays close when he murmurs, “Answer me.”
“I was answering.”
He kisses her again. “You were bullying me.”
“That’s how I communicate affection.”
“Baby.”
She kisses him this time, lifting onto her toes and pulling him down by the back of his neck. Garrett makes a quiet sound against her mouth, relief loosening through him so visibly she feels it in the way his body finally stops bracing.
“This is the weirdest way I’ve ever been asked out,” she whispers when she pulls back.
Garrett’s eyes narrow. “How many times have you been asked out during a lockdown?”
“Exactly one.”
He grins against her mouth. “So I’m winning.”
“By default.”
“Still counts.”
She laughs again, her fingers curl softly into the hair at the nape of his neck, and Garrett goes quiet beneath her hands.
“Yeah, baby,” she says. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”
For half a second, Garrett only stares at her. Then the breath leaves him. His eyes shut, his forehead drops to hers again, and his arms fold around her with enough force that she feels the edges of her puffer jacket compress between them.
“Thank fuck,” he mutters.
She smiles into the side of his neck. “Very romantic.”
“I’m your boyfriend now. Be nicer to me.”
The words move through her in a slow warmth from her chest outward, down both arms, into the hands still holding him. Boyfriend. Garrett. Hers, on purpose, without either of them immediately following it with technically or casual or neither of us has time for this.
She thinks she had known. Garrett had a key to her dorm’s emergency contact plan and she had a mug in his kitchen. He drove her to placement, carried her bags when she was concussed, slept curled around her in a bed too small for his shoulders and knew which nurses she liked by name.
They had been dating for months with all the bureaucratic competence of two people trying to avoid filling out the correct form. Still, hearing him say it feels like discovering the room has another window.
From near the car, Dean’s voice cuts through the moment at full volume. “She said yes?”
Garrett’s head lifts from her shoulder. She turns in his arms.
Dean’s standing beside the bonnet with both hands cupped around his mouth. Tucker smacks one of his arms down immediately, but he’s laughing. Logan has already started grinning, shoulders dropping with obvious relief.
She twists enough in his arms to call toward the boys, “I said yes.”
The reaction is humiliating. Dean throws both arms into the air like Briar has won a championship. Logan shouts, “Finally,” loud enough that one of the waiting parents turns to look. Tucker claps twice with the exhausted satisfaction of a man whose roommates have at last completed a basic administrative task.
“Oh my God,” she says, already laughing as they start toward her. “Why are you all here?”
“Because he was losing his fucking mind,” Logan says, reaching them first. He pulls her into a quick hug before Garrett can object, squeezing her hard enough that her bag slips farther down her arm. “And because nobody was answering.”
Tucker hugs her next, gentler but no less relieved, one hand patting the back of her jacket. “We didn’t know if the lockdown was in ED.”
“It wasn’t.”
“We know that now.”
Dean reaches her last and immediately wraps both arms around her and Garrett together, because Dean has never met a boundary he could not make communal. “Our girl survived.”
“She did homework,” Garrett says over her head, still sounding personally betrayed.
Dean pulls back and stares at her. “During a hostage situation?”
She rolls her eyes. “It wasn’t a hostage situation.”
“Some guy said there was a weapon.”
“A student said she heard somebody else say there might have been a plastic chair.”
Dean nods solemnly. “Furniture violence.”
“You’re all idiots.”
Logan ruffles her hair, which she had spent the entire shift keeping reasonably neat. She slaps his hand away too late. “Hey!”
“You’re officially dating G now,” he says. “There are consequences.”
“What consequences?”
Garrett catches Logan by the back of his hoodie and pulls him away before he can touch her hair again. “Stop mauling my girlfriend.”
My girlfriend. The phrase fits Garrett’s mouth with embarrassing ease, like he’s been storing it behind his teeth and only needed permission to start using it irresponsibly.
Dean’s face lights with immediate malice. “Your girlfriend?”
Garrett points at him. “Don’t.”
“Sorry. Just confirming. This is your girlfriend?”
“Dean.”
“The girl you’ve been dating for six months is now your girlfriend?”
Tucker exhales. “Let him have ten minutes, man.”
“No, because this is historic.” Dean turns toward the security guard. “Sir, did you hear? That’s his girlfriend.”
The guard gives him a tired look. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Garrett says, entirely sincere.
She presses her face into Garrett’s shoulder because laughing openly seems cruel when he’s suffered enough, though his arm tightens around her waist like he knows and doesn’t especially mind.
Logan picks up Garrett’s abandoned gear bag. Tucker takes hers before she can protest. Dean starts explaining, with no factual support whatsoever, how close Garrett had been to scaling the hospital exterior.
“I wasn’t gonna scale anything,” Garrett says as they start toward the car.
“You asked whether there was roof access.”
“I was asking generally,” he mutters.
“You asked the guard if the windows opened.”
“They don’t,” she says, falling into step beside him.
Garrett looks down at her. “See? Useful information.”
She slides her cold hand into his. His fingers close around it instantly, warm despite the air, thumb passing once over her knuckles.
The car’s waiting beneath a streetlight, windows already faintly fogged from the heater. Through the glass, she can see a takeaway bag on the passenger floor and the familiar outline of the hoodie he always brings because he knows she will insist her jacket is enough and then complain about being cold twelve minutes later.
Her whole body begins to register the end of the shift at once. The heaviness in her legs. The hospital smell caught in her hair. The dry ache behind her eyes from fluorescent light and too much screen time. Garrett beside her, no longer some uncertain shape she has to defend with disclaimers.
Her boyfriend.
Garrett opens the passenger door for her, then pauses before she climbs in, one hand still linked with hers.
“You sure?” he asks quietly.
She looks up at him. The boys are circling toward the other doors, already arguing about who has to sit in the middle. The hospital glows behind Garrett’s shoulder, bright and sealed and full of other people’s emergencies.
“About dating you?”
“Yeah.”
She pretends to think about it, mostly because Garrett deserves one final second of suffering for asking her out beside a security booth.
His eyes narrow. “Baby.”
She smiles and reaches up, smoothing one curl back from his forehead. “I’m sure.”
The tension leaves the corners of his mouth.
“Even though,” she adds, climbing into the warm car, “I had a genuinely amazing day while you apparently experienced psychological warfare in the parking lot.”
Garrett leans down into the doorway and kisses her once, slow enough that the boys immediately begin making noises behind him.
“Yeah,” he murmurs against her mouth. “We’re gonna work on your lockdown etiquette.”
She smiles into the next kiss. “We’re gonna work on your emotional regulation.”
“Fair.”
“And you’re buying me fries.”
“I already bought you fries.”
Garrett pulls the door shut carefully, sealing her inside the warmth, the smell of hot food, clean upholstery and the faint cold-air trace of him. Through the windscreen, she watches him walk around the bonnet while Dean says something that makes him shove at his shoulder.
Her phone is dead. Her assignment is half-finished. Her hair has been ruined by three overgrown hockey players, and she’s going to have to explain to Maria that the lockdown was academically productive but romantically destabilising.
Garrett gets into the driver’s seat and looks at her once before doing anything else, as if he still needs to make sure she remains where he left her. She reaches across the console and takes his hand. His fingers thread through hers. Easy. Immediate.
Then Logan leans forward between the seats and says, “So, are you guys gonna be weird now?”
Garrett starts the car. “Get out.”
“We just got in.”
“Then it’ll be easy.”
She laughs, sinking deeper into the warm seat as Garrett’s thumb moves over her hand and the hospital disappears slowly behind them.
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poolside | 1k cabo celebration, found family au ⋆⭒˚.⋆
⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration masterlist!
⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration info!
summary: in which one slightly risqué bikini photo sends garrett over the edge.
notes: hi everyone, i hope you all enjoy this request! poor garrett is really being put to the test 🙂↕️🙂↕️
ꪆৎ
the afternoon sun in cabo is relentless in the best way.
warm against your skin, bright enough that everything around the pool almost glows beneath it. the water sparkles under the light, turquoise and impossibly clear.
allie and grace are in the pool, while sabrina lays stretched out beside you, sunglasses tipped low on her nose, half asleep.
it’s entirely peaceful.
suddenly your phone vibrates against the lounge chair. at first, you barely register it, too focused on the warmth of the late afternoon sun soaking into your skin.
it continues to vibrate. once, twice, three times. your brows pinch slightly in confusion, before eventually giving in, reaching for your phone out of mild curiosity.
you glance over lazily, eyes landing on the screen.
'baby 🤍 is calling...'
your lips part slightly as warmth blooms instantly in your chest. it's not unusual for garrett to call, he calls you all the time.
whether it’s because he misses you in that quiet, aching way he never quite knows how to handle, because something random happens and you’re the first person he wants to tell, or because he’s walking home alone and wants nothing more than your voice to keep him company.
but three calls in a row?
that makes your brows pinch slightly, especially because you know exactly where he is this afternoon.
malone’s, a team lunch, which means one thing, he’s been drinking.
you sit up slightly, a small smile gracing your features. your bikini top shifts slightly as you move, warm skin peeling from the lounge chair. you brush a hand through your hair, trying and failing to look unaffected.
sabrina notices immediately, peeking over her sunglasses. “garrett?”
you try to hide your smile, failing miserably. “yeah.”
she grins. “answer it!"
allie immediately notices too. “wait...is that garrett?”
grace turns in the pool. “put him on speaker.”
“absolutely not” you say instantly. swiping to accept, you answer his call, pressing your phone up to your ear.
“hi garrett.”
there’s a beat before his voice sounds. rough, warm, slightly lower than usual.
“hey, baby.”
the sound of his voice alone does something unfair to you, warmth curling through your chest so quickly it almost makes you laugh.
god, you miss him.
your smile widens instantly. there’s something different in his tone, you recognise it immediately. “have you been drinking?”
a quiet pause.
then-
“maybe.”
you laugh softly. “garrett.”
he exhales a laugh, “don’t sound so disappointed, y/n.”
“i’m not.” your voice turns teasing. “how much have you had?”
“enough that dean told me to stop staring at my phone.”
you can practically picture it. malone’s loud and busy around them, dean unimpressed, logan laughing, tucker silently observing the entire thing. garrett, sitting there with that soft, slightly dazed look he gets whenever he’s thinking about you.
the image only makes your smile deepen.
“why were you staring at your phone?”
silence.
“you really gonna make me say it?”
your lips twitch, clearly amused by the conversation before you. “yes.”
another beat.
then he says, voice quieter now. “that photo you sent me the other day just about killed me.”
heat crawls into your cheeks immediately, turning a shade of deep crimson red. you know exactly which photo, the bikini, the one you’d bought the first day in cabo.
it was tiny, the photo more revealing than what you’d usually take. you had stood in front of the mirror for a full minute debating on whether to send it, thumb hovering over the screen, heart racing just a little.
garrett's reply had been delayed, suspiciously delayed. you had assumed he was busy, apparently not.
you lower your voice. “garrett.”
he keeps going, the alcohol clearly having stripped away all hesitation.
“seriously.”
you hear movement on his end, fabric rustling, like he’s shifting somewhere more private.
“are you trying to kill me?”
you duck your head, fighting a smile. sunlight warms your shoulders, yet, the heat spreading through your body has nothing to do with the cabo weather anymore.
you bite back a smile. “i didn’t realise it affected you that much.”
he lets out a short laugh. “baby.” the nickname comes out almost pained, “you have no idea.”
your heart kicks. there’s something about tipsy garrett, always affectionate, always soft. his usual restraint slips just enough that everything he feels reaches you unfiltered.
he becomes painfully honest, completely sincere, and there’s something devastatingly endearing about it.
you glance towards the pool. allie is now watching you with shameless interest, clearly trying, and failing, not to eavesdrop. the second your eyes meet, her mouth curves into a knowing smirk. you immediately turn away, feeling the flush on your cheeks intensify at the nature of your conversation.
“what exactly about it?”
you hear his inhale, like he wasn’t expecting you to ask that.
“you want details?”
your voice turns teasing. “maybe.”
silence, then his voice drops lower, rougher. “the color.”
your breath catches, fingers tightening slightly around your phone.
“looked insane on you, y/n.”
pause.
“your legs.”
another pause.
“the fact that you looked like you knew exactly what that photo was going to do to me.”
your cheeks burn, because maybe, maybe you had. “i was just showing you my bikini, garrett.”
he laughs softly, the sound low and warm through the speaker. when he speaks again, his voice is rougher, almost breathless, like the image alone has left him a little wrecked.
“liar.”
you smile, clearly amused by it all. “you’re dramatic.”
“am not.” you can hear the grin in his voice.
“although i did have to put my phone face down for ten minutes.”
you burst out laughing. “oh my god.”
“i’m serious, y/n.”
he sounds offended now, “logan saw my face and started laughing.”
you can practically hear it. logan’s loud laugh, dean’s inevitable commentary, tucker quietly piecing together exactly what happened.
“that’s embarrassing" you tease.
“deeply.”
you laugh once more, softer now.
his voice shifts, the teasing fading. it warms, softens, settles into something quieter, something sincere.
“you looked beautiful.”
your chest tightens at his words.
that’s garrett. beneath all of the teasing, beneath all of the flirting, he always finds a way to strip everything back to something real. something soft, something honest, something that makes your heart feel unbearably full.
you swallow. “yeah?”
“yeah." his voice is incredibly soft now, “couldn’t stop looking at you, baby.”
your smile fades into something gentler, more vulnerable. “miss you.”
silence.
then a quiet exhale from his end sounds, like the truth of your words land heavy. “i miss you too, y/n.” you hear him shift again.
“been missing you a lot today.”
your chest aches at the quiet honesty in his voice. there’s no teasing now, no joking, just him. your heart aches.
“why today?”
he’s quiet for a second. when he speaks again, his voice is low and honest. “because i saw that photo.”
pause.
“and it hit me that everyone there gets to see you.”
another pause. “and i don’t.”
your heart twists painfully. beneath the words, you hear what he actually means.
i miss you.
i wish i was with you.
i wish distance didn’t feel like this.
your expression softens immediately. he's not being possessive, not being controlling, just longing to be with you.
you lower your voice. “garrett…”
he laughs quietly, completely self-aware. “sounds stupid when i say it out loud.”
“it doesn’t.”
silence.
“because i wish you were here.”
his voice softens further. “wish i was there with you.”
you close your eyes briefly, the image coming easily to mind.
him here beside you.
close enough that warmth radiates from him.
his hand finding yours without hesitation, fingers slipping between yours like it’s second nature.
his thumb brushing slow, absentminded strokes over your skin.
you hear quiet voices in the background over the phone, pulling you from your brief daydream.
it's the boys. their voices are muffled and indistinct at first, blending together into low chatter and occasional laughter. then one voice cuts through a little clearer, faint, but unmistakable, dean.
“is he still being pathetic?”
you laugh before you can stop yourself. in the background, you hear logan immediately protest. “dean that’s harsh.”
then tucker adds, quieter. “not inaccurate though.”
garrett groans louder this time. “ignore them.”
you smile. “never.”
his voice lowers one final time, gentle, warm. “send me another photo?”
you laugh. “garrett.”
he sounds amused now. “preferably one with your face.”
your chest softens at his words.
“i miss your face, y/n.”
all teasing has disappeared, replaced by something achingly tender.
you smile helplessly. that’s the thing about garrett, he undoes you so easily. not with grand gestures, not with rehearsed words, just simple honesty, soft affection, the kind that feels impossible not to believe.
“maybe.”
garrett laughs quietly. “worth a try.”
you smile. “i love you.”
his reply is immediate, certain, like breathing. “love you too, baby.”
a brief pause follows.
“enjoy the rest of your day.”
your heart squeezes.
“talk later?”
you can hear the smile in his voice now. softer, steadier, less affected by the alcohol and more grounded by the sound of you, as though hearing your voice gave him exactly what he needed.
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Summary: Garett attends y/n’s awards night expecting a long night of academic jargon. Instead, he watches his girlfriend collect award after award, realising his nerdy girlfriend might be the smartest person he’s ever met.
Word Count: 1.5K
“Why do I have to come?”
Garett glanced up from tying his shoes to where Dean sprawled dramatically across the couch in the hockey house living room.
“Because Tucker’s busy, Logan said no, and I need someone to suffer with me.”
Dean pointed accusingly.
“So you admit this is suffering.”
“It’s an awards ceremony, not a funeral.”
Dean stared at him blankly.
“For science students.”
“…fair.”
Dean groaned loudly and dragged himself upright anyway.
“You owe me wings after this.”
“Done.”
“And beer.”
“Greedy.”
“And if anyone starts talking about molecules, I’m leaving.”
Garett snorted and shoved his jacket on.
Honestly, he didn’t think the night would be a big deal.
Y/N had invited him earlier that week while curled against him in his dorm bed, absentmindedly highlighting something in a chemistry textbook thicker than his anatomy notes.
“Will you come to my awards ceremony Thursday?”
“What kind of awards?”
“Science department stuff.”
Garett had immediately grimaced.
“That sounds horrifying.”
She kicked his leg lightly.
“Please?”
And because Garett Graham would probably agree to literally anything when she looked at him like that, he’d sighed dramatically and said yes.
He figured it was one of those polite academic events where everyone got a certificate for surviving organic chemistry.
He just needed to uphold the supportive boyfriend duties, easy enough.
Now though, standing outside the university’s Natural Sciences building while Dean looked personally victimized beside him, Garett was beginning to question his life choices.
Students and faculty crowded the entrance dressed significantly nicer than usual for a Thursday night. Parents carried flowers. Professors chatted near display boards filled with research posters Garett absolutely did not understand.
Dean stopped dead in front of one.
“What the hell is computational biophysics?”
“No clue.”
“There are graphs.”
Dean shook his head solemnly.
“This is why athletes should stay with athletes.”
Garett rolled his eyes.
Then he spotted Y/N across the lobby.
And for a second, everything else disappeared.
She stood near the auditorium doors talking to a professor, wearing a dark blue dress and heels he already knew were going to kill her feet later. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders and she laughed softly at something the professor said.
But what caught Garett off guard wasn’t how pretty she looked.
It was the way everyone around her seemed to know her.
Students waved while passing. Professors stopped to talk to her. One older faculty member actually touched her shoulder proudly while speaking. It reminded Garett uncomfortably of hockey banquets. Of people stopping him after games. Recognizing him on campus. Talking about his stats and goals and future.
Only this wasn’t hockey.
This was her world.
And apparently she mattered in it a lot more than he realized.
Y/N spotted him then and immediately brightened.
“There you are.”
Garett grinned automatically as she walked over.
“You know,” Garett said while following her up the stairs, “you still haven’t explained what this actually is.”
Y/N glanced back at him with a grin.
“It’s just the College of Natural Sciences awards ceremony.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not fake.”
“It sounds fake.”
She laughed under her breath and hooked her fingers through his.
The building buzzed with students and faculty dressed nicer than usual. Professors chatted near the entrance while families filled rows of seats inside the auditorium.
“Nerd convention,” he muttered.
Y/N nudged him with her shoulder.
“You’re literally dating one of them.”
“Yeah, but you’re my nerd. Different category.”
That earned him an eye roll, but he caught the smile she tried to hide afterward.
Dean looked between them and gagged dramatically.
“You two are disgusting.”
“Why are you here?” Y/N laughed.
“He was emotionally forced.”
“I was bribed with wings,” Dean corrected.
Y/N smiled before slipping her hand into Garett’s.
“You look nice, hockey boy.”
“You saying I usually look bad?”
“I’m saying your formalwear is usually team-issued.”
Dean barked out a laugh.
Before Garett could respond, someone called Y/N’s name from across the lobby.
She turned immediately.
“Oh, I have to go sit with my department. You guys are over there.” She pointed toward the auditorium seating. “Please try to survive.”
“No promises,” Dean muttered.
Y/N leaned up to kiss Garett quickly before disappearing into the crowd.
Dean watched her leave before looking at Garett.
“She’s definitely smarter than you.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. I can feel it.”
Garett shoved his shoulder as they headed into the auditorium.
The room slowly filled while faculty shuffled papers near the stage. Dean looked seconds away from death already.
“If this lasts longer than an hour,” he whispered, “tell my family I loved them.”
Garett ignored him, gaze drifting toward Y/N a few rows closer to the front.
She sat between other science students laughing quietly about something, completely relaxed.
Comfortable.
Again, it reminded him of himself before games.
Like she belonged here.
The ceremony started a few minutes later.
Dean lasted approximately seven minutes before leaning over.
“I haven’t understood a single word.”
Garett smirked slightly.
A professor stepped to the podium.
“We’d first like to recognize undergraduate excellence in research…”
Polite applause filled the room.
Garett half-listened at first, attention drifting occasionally.
Then….
“For her work in analytical chemistry research…”
Y/N’s name echoed through the auditorium.
Garett straightened immediately.
She walked across the stage while the audience applauded warmly.
Dean blinked.
“Oh. She’s getting an award-award.”
Garett frowned slightly.
“Apparently.”
Then twenty minutes later her name got called again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth time, Dean looked personally offended.
“What the hell?”
Garett could only stare.
Because suddenly the entire room was making sense.
The professors that knew her.
The students whispering about her.
The way she carried herself here.
This wasn’t some random ceremony where everyone got participation certificates.
This was recognition.
Real recognition.
One professor smiled while handing her an award and said into the microphone:
“Students like Y/N remind us why we love teaching.”
The audience applauded louder at that.
Garett felt something warm and overwhelming settle in his chest.
Because he knew what it felt like to be noticed for something you worked your ass off at.
To walk into a room and have people know your name because you earned it.
Hockey had always been that for him.
But sitting there now, watching professors light up when his girlfriend crossed the stage, he realized science was that for her.
And somehow that made him emotional as hell.
Dean leaned toward him slowly.
“Dude.”
“Yeah?”
“Your girlfriend’s kinda famous.”
Garett laughed quietly under his breath, unable to look away from her.
Y/N sat back down, smiling shyly while another student whispered congratulations beside her.
“She’s just…” Garett trailed off.
“Terrifyingly smart?”
“Yeah.”
Dean nodded solemnly.
“She could probably build a bomb.”
“She studies chemistry, not terrorism.”
“How do you know there’s a difference?”
Garett shoved him again, but he was smiling.
By the end of the ceremony Y/N had four awards, two faculty recognitions, one research distinction, and apparently an entire department ready to adopt her.
Garett honestly felt stunned.
Because outside of this building, people looked at him first.
At parties.
At games.
On campus.
He was Garett Graham.
Star hockey player.
Center of attention without trying.
But here?
Here, people looked at her the same way.
Like she was impressive.
Important.
Exceptional.
And watching it happen made him absurdly proud.
After the ceremony ended, the lobby filled immediately with congratulations and conversation.
Y/N got stopped every three feet.
A professor asked about her summer research plans.
Another student congratulated her tutoring award.
Someone’s mom literally told her, “You were wonderful up there.”
Garett stood off to the side watching her laugh politely through it all.
And suddenly he understood something.
This was her version of the rink.
This was where she shined.
A few minutes later she finally escaped the crowd carrying several certificates against her chest.
Dean stared at the stack.
“I’m actually embarrassed for the rest of the department.”
“Oh my god,” Y/N laughed.
“I’m serious. You won half the ceremony.”
“It was not half.”
“Forty percent minimum,” Dean argued.
She rolled her eyes before turning toward Garett.
But the second she looked at him properly, her smile faltered slightly.
“What?”
Garett stepped closer slowly.
“You never told me you were basically the Wayne Gretzky of science.”
Y/N immediately groaned.
“Please never say that again.”
“I’m serious.”
Her cheeks pinked slightly beneath the lobby lights.
“You looked at home up there,” Garett admitted quietly. “Like… this is your thing.”
Something softer flickered across her expression then.
“It is,” she said.
And Garett swore he’d never heard her sound prouder.
He reached for the awards in her arms before leaning down enough to kiss her forehead gently.
“I’m really proud of you, baby.”
The words clearly hit harder than she expected because her entire expression softened instantly.
“I understood like three percent of the ceremony,” stated Garett.
Dean nodded seriously beside them.
“I understood zero percent and even I’m impressed.”
Y/N laughed quietly.
Then Garett wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his side.
And standing there surrounded by professors and research students and academic achievements Garett felt more certain that his girlfriend was every bit as exceptional as people said he was on the ice.
Summary: Garett Graham has spent his whole life trying not to become his father. Y/N has spent hers believing controlling men are proof of love. Neither of them realizes how deeply those beliefs have shaped their relationship, until one small word finally breaks everything open: “Allowed?”
Word Count: 2.1K
The first time it happened, Garett barely noticed it.
He was sprawled across Y/N’s bed half-awake, one arm thrown over his eyes while she dug through her closet for something to wear to dinner. Music played softly from her speaker, the same playlist she always put on when she got ready.
“Babe?”
“Mhm,” he mumbled.
He heard hangers clack together.
Then:
“Is this okay?”
Garett moved his arm enough to look over.
She stood in front of the mirror wearing a dark red skirt and a cropped sweater, turning slightly as if trying to check herself from every angle.
His brows lifted immediately.
“You look amazing.”
A small smile tugged at her lips, but she still hesitated.
“Are you sure it’s not too short?”
That made him sit up a little.
The skirt barely reached mid-thigh, sure, but there was nothing shocking about it. Girls wore shorter things to class every day.
“If you like it, wear it.”
She looked relieved at the answer, smoothing her hands over the fabric before turning back toward the mirror.
And that was it.
Mostly.
The conversation sat somewhere in the back of his head afterward. He figured she probably wanted reassurance. Lots of girls did that. So he let it go.
—
The second time happened two weeks later in the library.
Garett was hunched over a statistics worksheet while Y/N highlighted something in her physics notes beside him. She suddenly sighed dramatically and dropped her head onto his shoulder.
“What?”
“My professor assigned lab partners.”
“Sounds unfortunate.”
“It is,” she muttered. “I got paired with some guy named Eric.”
Garett snorted. “Poor you.”
She didn’t laugh.Instead she glanced up carefully and said,
“Is that okay?”
His pencil stopped moving.
“What?”
“The partner thing.”
He stared at her for a second, genuinely confused.
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?”
Her expression shifted like she hadn’t expected the question back.
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I just wanted to let you know.”
Something about the way she said it made his stomach twist slightly.
Not jealousy.
Not anger.
Just… something strange.
“You don’t need my permission to do your lab, baby.”
“I know,” she answered quickly. Too quickly.
Then she smiled and nudged his shoulder like she wanted to move past it.
“Good because he already seems annoying.”
Garett laughed and let it drop, but the weird feeling lingered.
Permission.
The word sat wrong in his chest.
—
A month later, Garett was at Malone’s with Logan, Tucker, and Dean while a game played across the TVs overhead. The place buzzed with noise and music and clinking glasses.
Y/N was there too, sitting on the table nearby with her friends.
He wasn’t paying much attention until he heard his name.
“She invited me to this thing Friday,” one of her friends said. “You’re coming, right?”
Y/N hesitated.
“I don’t know if Garett would want me going.”
Garett’s head lifted immediately.
Logan kept talking beside him, oblivious, but Garett’s focus narrowed completely onto her table.
“What?” her friend asked. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Y/N shrugged lightly, tracing the rim of her drink.
“I don’t know. It’s at a frat house.”
“So?”
“I’ll ask him.”
Garett felt something cold settle heavily in his stomach.
Not because she was asking, because she sounded so normal about it, like it was expected, like of course she needed to ask her boyfriend first.
The conversation moved on, but Garett barely heard any of it after that. Instead, memories kept surfacing unwanted and sharp.
His father’s voice.
His mother asking permission for things that didn’t require permission.
The constant checking in.
The careful wording.
And suddenly every tiny interaction with Y/N replayed differently in his head.
Is this okay?
Would you mind?
Can I?
Should I change?
His beer suddenly tasted bitter.
“You good?” Tucker asked.
“Yeah,” Garett answered automatically.
But he wasn’t.
—
Later that night Y/N sat cross-legged on his bed wearing one of his hoodies while Garett changed for bed.
“So…” she started carefully.
He glanced over. “So?”
“My friends are going to this party thing on Friday.”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
“They wanted me to come.”
There was that same careful tone again.
Garett leaned against the dresser, already knowing where this was heading.
“And?”
She twisted the sleeves of the hoodie around her fingers.
“Would that bother you?”
The question hit him harder this time.
Not because she asked. Because she looked nervous asking it. Like she was bracing for the wrong answer.
Garett suddenly felt sick in a way he couldn’t explain. For one horrible second, he pictured his father standing where he was. The thought made his chest tighten immediately.
“Baby,” he said carefully, “why would it bother me?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged softly. “A lot of guys don’t like their girlfriends going to frat parties.”
“And what do you want?”
That seemed to genuinely throw her off.
“What?”
“What do you want?” he repeated gently. “Do you wanna go?”
She nodded after a second.
“A little.”
“Then go.”
Her shoulders visibly loosened in relief.
Relief.
Like he’d granted her something.
Garett hated how much that bothered him.
“You don’t have to ask me for stuff like that,” he said quietly while climbing into bed beside her.
She looked confused.
“I was just trying to be respectful.”
And there it was again. That awful twisting feeling in his chest because she sounded sincere. Completely sincere. Garett wrapped an arm around her anyway and kissed the top of her head.
“You’re allowed to do things without my approval, you know.”
She smiled softly against him like he’d said something sweet instead of something that quietly terrified him.
“Okay,” she whispered.
But somehow, Garett knew she didn’t really understand what he meant at all.
—
Rain tapped softly against the apartment windows while Garett flipped through a textbook he hadn’t actually read a single word of in the last ten minutes.
Y/N sat on the floor beside the coffee table surrounded by folded clothes and an open duffel bag, packing for the weekend trip her friends had planned for weeks.
Tonight, something in Garett’s chest had been tight all evening, maybe because he’d noticed the way Y/n kept glancing at him while she packed. Like she was gauging his mood first. Or maybe because he was tired of hearing echoes of his father in harmless conversations. Or maybe because he was starting to realize this wasn’t harmless to her at all.
“You excited?” he asked finally.
“A little.”
“A little?”
She smiled faintly without looking up.
“I’ve never really gone on trips like this before.”
“That’s kinda depressing, baby.”
She laughed softly.
The sound loosened something in him for about half a second.
Then she pulled a black dress from the pile and held it up uncertainly.
“Do you think this is too much?”
Garett’s jaw tightened instantly.
“Too much for what?”
“For the club they wanna go to.”
He closed his textbook carefully.
“If you like it, wear it.”
She nodded and folded it into the bag.
A few minutes passed quietly.
Then:
“And I’m allowed to go to the club part too, right?”
Everything in Garett went still.
Allowed.
The word slammed into him so hard it almost felt physical.
Suddenly he was twelve years old again listening to his father tell his mother what she was “allowed” to wear. Where she was “allowed” to go. Who she was “allowed” to see.
Allowed.
Allowed.
Allowed.
“Stop saying that.”
The words came out sharper than he intended.
Y/N froze immediately. Her hands stilled over the zipper of the bag as she looked up at him, startled.
“What?”
“You keep saying stuff like that.”
Her brows pinched together.
“Like what?”
“Allowed.” Garett stood abruptly, shoving a hand through his hair. “Permission. Asking me if things are okay every five seconds like I’m supposed to control what you do.”
Confusion spread across her face first.
Then hurt.
“I was just asking…”
“But why?” he interrupted, frustration bleeding through despite trying to hold it back. “Why do you think you need my approval to go out with your friends? Or wear something? Or talk to another guy in class?”
Y/N stared at him now like she genuinely didn’t understand why he was upset.
And somehow that made it worse.
“I’m trying to be respectful,” she said quietly.
“There’s a difference between respect and asking me to run your life.”
“I’m not asking you to run my life.”
“You literally just asked if you were allowed to go to a club.”
Her expression crumpled slightly at his tone.
“Well… yeah.”
Garett let out a disbelieving laugh, turning away before immediately regretting it.
“Jesus Christ.”
The apartment went painfully quiet.
When he looked back at her, she looked small.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Just confused.
And that killed his irritation instantly.
“Why are you upset?” she asked softly.
The question cracked something open in him, because she really didn’t know. She had no idea why hearing those words made him feel sick. No idea why every conversation lately had been clawing at old memories he spent years trying to bury.
Garett swallowed hard and sat back down on the couch, suddenly exhausted.
“My dad was controlling,” he admitted quietly.
The words hung heavy between them.
Y/N blinked.
“What?”
“He controlled everything.” Garett stared at the floor while speaking, jaw tight. “What my mom wore. Where she went. Who she talked to. She used to ask permission for every little thing because it was easier than fighting with him.”
He laughed bitterly.
“And lately every time you ask me if you can do something, I feel like I’m turning into him.”
Y/N’s face fell instantly.
“Garett…”
“I know you don’t mean anything by it,” he said quickly. “I know you’re not doing it on purpose but….” He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t want that. I never want you feeling like you need my permission to exist.”
The silence afterward felt fragile.
Then quietly:
“My dad was like that too.”
Garett looked up sharply.
Y/N sat curled in on herself on the floor, fingers twisting together nervously.
“In my house,” she said slowly, “that was just… normal.”
Her voice sounded embarrassingly small now, like she was suddenly hearing it herself for the first time.
“If I wanted to wear something my dad didn’t like, he’d tell me no. If my mom wanted to go somewhere, she asked first.” She shrugged weakly. “They always said when I got older my boyfriend or husband would decide those things instead.”
Garett felt his chest ache.
“Oh, baby.”
“I thought that’s what girlfriends were supposed to do,” she admitted. “Like… checking in. Making sure your boyfriend’s comfortable. I thought that meant you respected him.”
Garett stared at her for a long moment before standing and walking over.
The second he crouched in front of her, her eyes dropped automatically like she was bracing for criticism.
That alone nearly broke him.
He tilted her chin up gently.
“You never have to earn being loved by obeying me.”
The tears gathering in her eyes spilled instantly.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” she whispered shakily.
“I know.” His voice softened immediately. “I know you didn’t.”
She looked devastated anyway.
“I just thought… if someone loves you, they’re supposed to care what you do.”
“I care,” Garett said carefully. “But caring isn’t controlling you.”
Y/N looked at him uncertainly, like the concept itself felt unfamiliar.
And honestly?
That hurt more than anything else.
Garett pulled her into his lap before she could protest, wrapping both arms around her tightly.
“You know what I want?” he murmured against her hair.
“What?”
“I want you to do things because they make you happy. Not because you think some guy has to approve them first.”
Her fingers curled weakly into his hoodie.
“That’s hard to unlearn.”
“I know.”
His hand rubbed slowly up and down her back while rain continued tapping softly against the windows.
For the first time all night, the tension finally began easing from his chest.
Because now he understood.
And now she did too.
After a long silence, Y/N mumbled quietly into his shoulder,
“So… I can wear the black dress?”
Garett barked out a surprised laugh, tightening his arms around her.
“Baby,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “you can wear literally whatever you want.”
And when she smiled against him this time, it felt a little less like relief and a little more like freedom.
blurb: garrett graham keeps showing up at the diner near closing, and you keep telling yourself he’s only being nice. but when he offers you a ride home after your late shift, you realize he’s been waiting for more than just last call.
warnings: 18+ only, smut, sexual content, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie ,praise, teasing, slight insecurity/out-of-his-league thoughts, garrett being confident and protective, late-night diner setting, slight public/semi-public risk
You knew Garrett Graham's order by heart, which was embarrassing for a lot of reasons.
One, because he was just a customer.
Two, because you had never once written it down after the first night.
And three, because Garrett Graham was the kind of guy a girl like you was supposed to admire from a safe distance, preferably while pretending not to admire him at all.
He came into the diner late, always late, usually with cold air rushing in behind him and three other hockey players crowding around his shoulders like trouble had learned how to walk on two legs. Logan was always talking first, Dean was always laughing too loudly, Tucker always looked like he knew exactly what everyone else was thinking, and Garrett—
Garrett Graham walked in like every room had been waiting for him.
Tonight was no different.
The bell above the diner door gave a weak little jingle at half past midnight, and you looked up from wiping down the counter just in time to see them spill inside, still flushed from the cold, hair messy from the wind, jackets half-zipped, laughing about something that probably involved either hockey, alcohol, or somebody making a bad decision.
Garrett was at the center of it, broad-shouldered and grinning, with a faint bruise near his jaw and snow melting in his dark hair.
You looked down before he caught you staring.
That was the rule.
Look once. Maybe twice, if he was distracted. Never long enough for him to notice.
"Please tell me you still have pie," Dean said, dropping into their usual booth like he was personally offended by the concept of closing hours.
"We close in forty-five minutes," you said, grabbing menus they never used.
"So that's a yes?" Logan asked.
"That's a 'you're lucky I haven't locked the door already.'"
Tucker smiled, quiet and polite. "Good to see you too."
You liked Tucker. Tucker tipped well and didn't make you feel like your pulse was doing something stupid.
Garrett slid into the booth last, stretching one arm along the back of it. He watched you approach with that easy, lazy confidence that made your stomach tighten before he even opened his mouth.
"Hey," he said.
One word. That was it.
Ridiculous.
"Hey," you said, setting the menus down. "Usual?"
Logan's head snapped toward Garrett. Dean's grin spread instantly.
Garrett didn't look away from you. "You remember?"
You gave him a look, trying to keep your face calm. "You've ordered the same thing every time you've come in."
"Maybe I like hearing you say it."
Dean made a choking noise into his hand.
You ignored the heat climbing up your neck. "Burger, no tomato, extra fries, chocolate shake."
Garrett's smile tilted. "See? Perfect."
You told yourself he meant the order.
Obviously he meant the order.
You turned before he could see your face betray you, but you heard Logan whisper, not quietly enough, "Dude."
Garrett kicked him under the table.
The diner was quiet except for them. It usually was at that hour. The after-bar rush had already come and gone, leaving behind sticky tabletops, half-empty ketchup bottles, and a tired yellow glow from the lights above the counter. Outside, the parking lot was nearly empty, the neon sign buzzing red against the black windows.
You put in their order and busied yourself refilling coffee, stacking clean mugs, pretending you didn't feel Garrett's attention every time you crossed the floor.
That was the thing about him. Garrett looked at people like he meant it. Like he had never accidentally done anything in his life. When he smiled at customers, they smiled back. When he joked with the cook, even the cook softened. When he said your name, you had to remind yourself it was probably because he'd read it off your name tag the first time and had a good memory.
Not because he cared.
Not because he noticed you.
Girls like you did not get noticed by Garrett Graham.
Girls like you served his booth, took his tip, and watched him leave with the kind of girls who belonged in his world.
Pretty girls. Loud girls. Confident girls who knew exactly how to lean into him when they laughed.
You knew how to balance three plates along one arm and how to smile when men twice your age called you sweetheart. That was about it.
When you brought their food over, Dean and Logan were arguing about whether one of their teammates had actually hooked up with twins or had just lied so badly that everyone let him keep the story out of pity. Tucker was shaking his head. Garrett was quiet for once, leaning back with his eyes on you.
You set his plate down in front of him.
"Extra fries," you said.
His fingers brushed yours when he reached for the plate.
It was nothing. Barely contact.
Still, your breath hitched.
Garrett noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His gaze flicked up to yours, sharp and amused, but not cruel. "Careful."
You pulled your hand back. "I'm the one carrying hot food. Pretty sure you're the one who should be careful."
Logan laughed. "Oh, I like her."
Garrett's eyes stayed on you. "Yeah. Me too."
For one awful second, you forgot how to move.
Then Dean whistled low, and you snapped back into yourself.
"Enjoy your food," you said quickly, turning away.
You made it halfway to the counter before you heard Tucker murmur, "Subtle."
Garrett muttered something back, too low for you to catch.
You spent the next twenty minutes pretending to clean things that were already clean.
Every time you glanced over, Garrett was either eating, laughing, or looking at you like he was waiting for you to look back. It made you feel too aware of yourself. Of the old diner dress you wore under your apron. Of your tired feet. Of the way your hair had started slipping loose after a long shift. Of the fact that you probably smelled like coffee and fryer oil instead of perfume.
At one point, Dean asked for more napkins, and when you brought them over, he leaned forward with a grin that could only mean trouble.
"So," he said, "what time do you get off?"
Garrett's head turned so fast it was almost funny.
You froze with the napkins in your hand.
Logan coughed into his fist. Tucker looked down at his plate like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Dean blinked innocently. "What? I meant because we're keeping her here late."
"No, you didn't," Garrett said.
Dean's grin widened. "No, I didn't."
You should have been mortified. Maybe you were. But Garrett looked genuinely irritated, and that caught you off guard more than the joke did.
"It's fine," you said lightly, setting the napkins down. "I'm used to customers being annoying."
Dean put a hand over his chest. "That hurts."
"It was supposed to."
Garrett smiled then, but it was smaller than usual. Warmer, maybe. Like he liked that you didn't fold under the teasing.
You went back behind the counter before you could think too much about it.
Eventually, the boys finished eating. Logan tried to steal the last of Garrett's fries and nearly got stabbed with a fork. Dean left a dramatic tip in quarters until Tucker silently replaced it with actual bills. They got up in a loud, chaotic wave of scraping boots and zipped jackets.
You were carrying a stack of plates when they headed for the door.
"Night," Tucker called.
"Don't miss us too much," Dean added.
"Impossible," you said.
Logan laughed and pushed him outside.
Garrett lingered.
Not long enough for it to be obvious to anyone else, maybe. But long enough for you to notice.
He stood near the end of the counter, hands in his jacket pockets, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
"You done soon?" he asked.
You glanced toward the clock. "After I clean up."
"By yourself?"
"It's a diner, Graham. Not a war zone."
His mouth tugged at the corner. "You walk home?"
You hesitated.
That was answer enough.
Garrett's smile faded a little. "You walk home this late?"
"It's not far."
"That wasn't what I asked."
You shifted the plates in your hands, suddenly self-conscious. "I've done it plenty of times."
He looked toward the window, where the parking lot sat dark and mostly empty beneath the buzzing neon sign. Then he looked back at you.
"I'll wait."
Your stomach flipped. "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"I'm serious. I still have closing stuff. It'll take a while."
"Good thing I'm patient."
You almost laughed. "You?"
Garrett grinned again, and there he was. Easy. Cocky. Impossible. "I can be."
"Somehow I doubt that."
"Guess I'll prove you wrong."
You stared at him for half a second too long. Then you looked away, busying yourself with the plates.
"Suit yourself," you said, hoping your voice sounded normal.
It did not feel normal, having Garrett Graham sitting at the counter while you closed. He didn't make it easier either. He took off his jacket and draped it over the stool beside him, sleeves pushed up his forearms, watching you move around the diner like he had nothing better to do.
You flipped chairs onto tables. He helped with the ones near the windows before you could tell him not to.
"You're going to get me in trouble," you said.
"For helping?"
"For touching things."
He held up his hands. "My mistake. Wouldn't want to ruin your very complicated chair system."
"There is a system."
"I believe you."
"No, you don't."
"No," he admitted, smiling. "But I like listening to you explain it."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling before you could stop yourself.
That was the problem with him. He made it too easy. He talked to you like you weren't just the girl bringing him coffee at one in the morning. He asked how long you'd worked there. He remembered that you hated the graveyard shifts but liked the quiet after everyone left. He noticed the little bandage on your thumb and asked if you'd cut yourself.
He noticed too much.
By the time you locked the register and grabbed your coat from the back, the diner had settled into silence. Garrett waited near the door, his broad frame outlined by the neon glow bleeding through the glass.
"You really waited," you said softly.
His brows drew together like the idea of leaving had never occurred to him. "I said I would."
Something about that made your chest feel too tight.
You turned off the last row of lights and stepped outside with him. The cold hit immediately, sharp enough to make you suck in a breath. Garrett noticed that too. Before you could protest, he shrugged off his jacket and held it open.
"Put it on."
"I have a coat."
"You have a thin piece of fabric pretending to be a coat."
"It works fine."
He gave you a look.
You lasted three seconds before taking his jacket.
It was warm from him, heavy over your shoulders, and it smelled like soap, cold air, and something clean you didn't want to think about too closely. You tugged it tighter around yourself as he locked the diner door behind you after you handed him the keys, then gave them back with a little twirl around his finger.
His Jeep was parked beneath the diner sign.
Of course it was.
You had noticed it before. More than once. Black, slightly dirty from winter roads, somehow fitting him perfectly. He opened the passenger door for you, and you paused.
Garrett looked over. "What?"
"You don't have to drive me home."
His mouth curved. "You already said that."
"And you ignored it."
"Because it was stupid."
You blinked. "Excuse me?"
"It's late. It's freezing. You're tired. I have a car." He leaned one arm on the open door, looking entirely too comfortable. "Let me give you a ride."
The pause that followed was small.
Tiny, really.
But the way his mouth twitched told you he heard it too.
Your cheeks heated despite the cold. "You're enjoying that wording a little too much."
Garrett's grin spread slowly. "I wasn't going to say anything."
"Liar."
"Yeah," he said, voice dipping just enough to make your stomach flutter. "Probably."
You climbed into the Jeep before you could embarrass yourself further.
The inside was warm, the seats worn leather, the faint scent of him everywhere. Garrett shut your door and walked around the front, and you used those few seconds to breathe like a normal person.
It did not help.
He slid into the driver's seat, close enough that the whole Jeep seemed to shrink around him. His knee nearly brushed yours when he started the engine. The heater kicked on with a low hum, blowing warm air over your cold hands.
"Where to?" he asked.
You gave him your address, and he repeated the street name like he was committing it to memory.
The drive should have been simple. Five minutes, maybe seven with the lights. But the air inside the Jeep felt too charged, too quiet in the aftermath of the diner. Outside, the streets were slick and empty, glowing under streetlights. Inside, Garrett's hand rested on the gearshift, fingers relaxed, and you tried very hard not to stare.
"You're quiet," he said after a minute.
"I'm tired."
"Is that the only reason?"
You looked out the window. "What other reason would there be?"
He huffed a laugh. "I don't know. You tell me."
You could feel him glancing over at you between looks at the road. You wished he wouldn't. You wished he would keep doing it forever.
"It's just weird," you admitted.
"What is?"
"This."
"Me driving?"
"You driving me."
"Why?"
You picked at the sleeve of his jacket. It swallowed your hands. "Because you're Garrett Graham."
He was quiet for a beat.
Then, "That supposed to explain something?"
You laughed under your breath, but it came out nervous. "It explains a lot."
"Not to me."
Of course not.
You glanced over at him. The passing streetlights cut across his face in flashes, catching the strong line of his jaw, the bruise near his cheek, the curve of his mouth. He looked unreal like that, one hand on the wheel, hair messy, eyes focused but soft at the edges.
You looked away first.
"It means guys like you don't usually wait around after closing to drive girls like me home."
The Jeep slowed.
You immediately regretted saying it.
Garrett pulled into the empty side lot behind a closed laundromat, tires crunching lightly over old snow. He put the Jeep in park but left the engine running. The heater hummed between you.
Your pulse started climbing.
He turned in his seat to face you. "Girls like you?"
You swallowed. "Garrett—"
"No, I want to hear this." His voice wasn't harsh, but it had lost the teasing edge. "What does that mean?"
"It means..." You let out a breath, embarrassed now. "It means you could have anyone."
His brows lifted slightly. "And?"
"And I'm not exactly the kind of girl people expect to see you with."
"People?"
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
You gave him a look. "Yes, you do."
Garrett stared at you, and for once, he didn't look amused. He looked almost offended, but not at you. More like he hated the thought itself.
"You think I've been coming into that diner for the fries?"
You blinked.
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. "They're good fries. Not that good."
Your chest tightened.
"I thought you were just being nice," you said.
"I'm nice to old ladies and kids selling raffle tickets." He leaned a little closer. "I flirt with you."
"You flirt with everyone."
"Not like that."
You wanted to believe him. That was the dangerous part. You wanted to believe him so badly that it scared you.
"Garrett," you said softly, "you don't have to say all this."
"I know."
There it was again.
I know.
Like wanting you was not an accident. Like being here with you was not charity or boredom or a joke his friends would laugh about tomorrow.
He reached across the center console, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. His fingers touched the edge of his jacket where it sat around your shoulders, tugging it a little closer around you.
"I've been trying to get you to look at me for weeks," he said.
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "I look at you all the time."
His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Not when I can see it."
Your breath caught.
The windows had started to fog at the edges, the cold night pressing in from outside while the heater filled the Jeep with warmth. You could hear the soft rumble of the engine. You could see the diner sign in the distance, still glowing faintly red across the lot.
Garrett's hand stayed near your collar, his knuckles brushing the side of your neck.
"You really didn't know?" he asked.
You shook your head.
Something changed in his expression.
Not smugness. Not victory.
Want.
Clear and focused and enough to make your whole body go still.
"I know now," you whispered.
His eyes darkened.
"Yeah?" he asked.
You nodded, barely.
Garrett leaned in slowly at first, giving you every chance to stop him. You didn't. You couldn't. The space between you disappeared inch by inch until his mouth brushed yours, once, light enough to make your heart stumble.
Then again.
Deeper.
Your hand found the front of his shirt before you realized you had moved. Garrett made a low sound against your mouth, and that was all it took for the kiss to change. His hand slid into your hair, angling your face up as he kissed you harder, like every quiet look across the diner had been leading to this exact moment.
You forgot the cold. Forgot the empty lot. Forgot every reason you had ever convinced yourself he was too far out of reach.
There was only Garrett, warm and solid and kissing you like he had been waiting all night to stop being careful.
Garrett pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead nearly touching yours, his hand still firm at your waist. The space between you felt too small now, every inch of it getting in the way. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, darker than before, and when his thumb slipped beneath the edge of his jacket on your shoulders, your breath caught.
"Tell me to stop," he said, low enough that it barely carried over the hum of the heater.
You shook your head before you could think better of it. "Don't."
Something in his expression shifted, the last bit of restraint leaving him.
Then he kissed you again, and there was nothing gentle about it anymore.
His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer as far as the front seat would allow. Your own hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, feeling the hard strength of him under your palms. The kiss turned messy, impatient, full of weeks of pretending you hadn't noticed him and one night of Garrett proving he had noticed everything.
When his mouth moved along your jaw, your head tipped back against the seat.
"Garrett," you breathed.
He went still for half a second.
Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark and fixed on yours like he was giving you one last chance to tell him no.
You didn't.
You reached for him again.
Garrett's restraint snapped in his expression first.
"Back seat," he rasped against your lips. "Now."
He shoved your shirt up, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and biting until your back arched and his name slipped out of you.
He worked your pants down with impatient hands, like he had been trying not to touch you all night and had finally run out of reasons not to. When he freed himself, he was already hard and slick at the tip. You reached down, your fingers wrapping around him, and he let out a choked sound, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Please," you whispered, your own legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him flush against you. "Garrett, please."
He didn't make you wait. He guided himself against you, paused just long enough to look at your face, and then pushed in with one deep, steady thrust. You gasped, your eyes widening at the sheer size of him filling you completely. Your breath caught at the feel of him, your fingers tightening in his shirt.
"Fuck," he groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. "You're so tight… so fucking perfect."
He began to move, the rhythm frantic. Because of the cramped space, every thrust was deep, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your entire body. The Jeep shifted beneath you, the small cabin filled with rough breathing, quiet curses, and the low hum of the heater.
You clung to him, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. Every time he pushed into you, you felt how much he wanted you, the way he was focusing entirely on your reactions.
"Do you believe me now?" he panted, his pace increasing, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you know how much I want you?"
"Yes," you cried out, your voice breaking. "Yes, I do!"
The pleasure built until you couldn't hold it back anymore. You tightened around him, and Garrett groaned against your neck, holding you close as he came inside you. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, both of you breathless.
For a long time, the only sound was your breathing and the ticking of the cooling engine. Garrett didn't pull away immediately; he stayed tucked against you, his heart drumming against your ribs.
Slowly, he pulled back, a cocky, satisfied smirk returning to his face, though his eyes were soft. He reached down, gently helping you pull your clothes back together, his fingers lingering on your skin.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice returning to that low, steady tone. He reached over to the front seat, grabbing a hoodie and draping it over your shoulders.
You laughed softly, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the heater. "I think I'm okay."
He kissed your forehead, then leaned back just enough to look at you like he still wasn't done proving his point.
"So," he said, his tone teasing. "I think I might need to start coming to the diner more often. Maybe every day."
You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "You might get banned from my section, Graham."
He chuckled, squeezing your hand. "Worth it. Besides, I think I owe you another ride home soon. Maybe somewhere with a bed next time."
He winked, and for the first time, you didn't feel like he was out of your league. You felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – studying pharmacology after a concussion goes about as well as expected, especially with garrett watching every wince.
warnings – concussion recovery, facial bruising, headache, dizziness, mild pain, studying stress
notes from me – as very very requested my loves!!! obviously set in the days after wanted you. enjoy!! x
word count – 4k
navigation – masterlist |
The problem with trying to study after getting her face rearranged by the emergency department, was that pharmacology didn’t become more sympathetic just because her nose had gone purple.
It felt rude, honestly. Like the world could have made a few accommodations. A grace period. A government-issued apology. Maybe a small handwritten note from whatever educational demon had decided beta blockers, ACE inhibitors, and antiemetics all needed to exist in her brain at the same time her skull still felt like someone had filled it with wet cement and then shaken it for clarity.
Instead, her laptop sat open on her desk, glowing too brightly even with the screen dimmed down, her notes spread around the keyboard in a loose semicircle of academic suffering.
A gel ice pack lay pressed over the bridge of her nose and under one eye, wrapped in a tea towel because the actual skin there was still tender enough that direct cold made her want to leave her body.
The swelling had gone down enough that she no longer looked like she’d been in a bar fight with a doorframe and lost, but the bruising under her eyes had turned that ugly yellow-purple shade.
She had told Garrett three separate times that it looked worse than it felt. That wasn’t entirely true. It looked awful. It also felt awful. But saying both seemed like a bad idea when Garrett was already lying on her bed with his textbook open on his chest, watching her over the top of it like she was a complicated play Coach had asked him to analyse and possibly avenge.
“You’re doing it again,” he says.
She doesn’t look away from her notes. “Doing what?”
“Making that face.”
“I have one face right now, Graham. It’s bruised.”
“No, you’ve got a specific one.” His pencil pauses against the margin of his textbook. He’s meant to be studying, too, allegedly, though most of his evening has been spent reading the same two pages and looking up every time she inhales too sharply. “The one where something hurts and you’re pretending it doesn’t because you think I’m gonna be annoying about it.”
She keeps the ice pack where it is and uses her free hand to click her pen twice. The sound is tiny and irritating in the quiet of her room. “I would never accuse you of being annoying.”
Garrett’s eyebrows lift.
“Out loud,” she amends.
“Better.”
Her mouth twitches, which immediately tugs at the split in her lip. Enough to send a bright little sting through the swollen skin. She winces before she can stop herself, small and quick, but Garrett sees it anyway.
The bed shifts. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“Not what I asked.”
She rolls her eyes. “You didn’t ask anything.”
He frowns. “I said hey. It counts.”
“That’s not how language works.”
“It is when I say it with concern.” He sits up properly now, textbook sliding off his chest and landing half-open beside his thigh. His hair is a mess from where he’s been lying against her pillow, dark curls pushed up at the back, and he’s wearing an old Briar hoodie with the sleeves shoved to his forearms, looking unfairly comfortable in a room where she’s actively losing a fight with medication classifications. “You alright?”
She gives herself a second before answering because the honest thing is sitting too close to the surface, and if she says my head hurts in the wrong tone Garrett might cross the room with that careful face again.
The one from the hockey house doorway. The one she keeps seeing when she closes her eyes, even more clearly than the bed rail or the blood or Maria’s hands on her shoulders.
She nods, then regrets it. “Yeah. I just…” Her eyes shut for half a breath. The ice pack is beginning to go soft against her face, cold fading into damp towel. “Head. Hurts.”
Garrett doesn’t say anything for a moment. That’s how she knows it’s bad, because Garrett’s first instinct in most situations is to put his mouth somewhere on the problem. A joke. A chirp. A smug little comment that makes her want to throw a highlighter at him and kiss him in the same five-second span.
This time there’s only the quiet creak of her bed as he stands. She opens her eyes when his shadow falls across the desk. “I said I’m fine.”
“I know.” He’s behind her now, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him at her back without him touching. “I heard you.”
“That’s new.”
“Mean.” His voice is soft enough that it barely scrapes against the inside of her headache. One hand comes to the back of her chair, not her body, fingers curling loosely over the wood like he’s making himself stop there first. “Can I?”
It’s such a small question, but it lands in her chest in that strange, quiet place everything about him has been landing lately, deeper than she wants it to, warm and inconvenient and almost sore.
She looks down at the page in front of her, at her own handwriting gone increasingly feral over the last hour. Her throat works once. “Yeah.”
Garrett’s hands settle on her shoulders slowly, like he’s waiting for her body to object before he commits any pressure. His palms are broad and warm over the soft fabric of her sweatshirt, thumbs resting near the base of her neck, fingers spread carefully away from the bruised side of her shoulder.
For a second, he just holds her there. Solid and present, his body close behind hers in the tiny dorm room, his knee bumping lightly against the back of her chair.
“You tell me if anything hurts,” he murmurs, mouth close to her ear.
“Garrett.”
“I know. You’re fine.” His thumbs press in, gentle at first, then a little firmer when her shoulders immediately betray her and drop half an inch under his hands. “Tell me anyway.”
She exhales through her nose because smiling is still a risky activity. “Bossy.”
“You like that about me.”
“I tolerate it because you’re tall and occasionally useful.”
“Occasionally,” he repeats, like he’s offended, but his hands keep moving.
The first slow sweep of his thumbs up either side of her neck makes her eyes close without permission. It’s embarrassing how fast her body gives up on pretending dignity is available.
Garrett works carefully, thumbs circling into the tight muscle at the top of her shoulders, then sliding inward, then up, following tension she hadn’t realised she was carrying until it starts to loosen in tiny, reluctant increments.
The ache in her skull doesn’t disappear. It isn’t that magical. But something around it softens, the hard protective clench of her jaw and neck easing just enough for the pain to become less of a shout.
“Oh,” she says before she can stop herself.
Garrett’s hands still for half a second. “Good oh or bad oh?”
“Good.” Her voice comes out smaller than intended, half-muffled behind the ice pack. She clears her throat. “That’s nice.”
“Yeah?” His thumbs move higher, just under the hairline at the top of her neck, pressing carefully into the little knots there. “You’re tense as hell.”
“I got hit in the face by a man having the worst day of his life and then tried to learn renal meds. My body’s making reasonable choices.”
“Your body’s unionising.”
“Honestly, good for her.”
Garrett huffs a laugh behind her, warm against the crown of her head, and the sound sits in the room better than the silence had.
His fingers slide down to her shoulders again, testing lightly around the side that had been wrenched when the patient grabbed her scrub top. “This shoulder still sore?”
She hums, trying to evaluate it like a sensible person and not like a girl who has Garrett Graham’s hands on her in her dorm room while she’s concussed enough that her thoughts keep arriving with buffering time. “Not as bad.”
“That means yes in nursing-student bullshit.”
She opens one eye. “You’re getting fluent.”
“Immersion learning.” His thumb brushes along the edge of her shoulder, barely any pressure, more warmth than massage now. “You’re always talking at me about symptoms.”
“I educate you.”
“You threaten me with blood clots when I don’t stretch.”
“That’s education.”
“That’s terrorism.”
She laughs, and it comes out soft and rough and immediately makes her lip sting again, but she doesn’t mind as much because Garrett bends at the same moment and presses his mouth to the top of her shoulder through her sweatshirt.
The kiss is light. Barely there. It shouldn’t make her stomach do anything at all, considering she’s been kissed by Garrett in far less clinical circumstances.
He’s had his mouth on almost every inch of her body and has made her forget her own major once, maybe twice, depending on how forgiving the grading system is. A kiss over cotton shouldn’t matter.
It does anyway.
His mouth lingers for half a second, then moves closer to her neck. Another kiss, still soft, still careful. He pauses before the next one, like he’s listening for the smallest sign that she wants him to stop. When she doesn’t move away, his lips find the side of her throat, just beneath her jaw, warm enough that her fingers loosen around the pen.
“Garrett,” she says, but there’s no warning in it.
He hums against her skin. “Hm?”
“You’re meant to be studying.”
“So are you.”
Her lips curve in a small smile. “I have a concussion.”
“Yeah, and I’m supporting you.”
“You’re kissing my neck.”
“That’s emotional support, baby.”
She tips her head back the smallest amount, and Garrett’s mouth follows the movement like he’s been waiting for permission to be stupid about it. He kisses higher, just beneath her ear, then higher again, into the soft skin at the edge of her jaw where the bruising hasn’t reached.
It isn’t heated in the way it usually gets with them. It’s too slow for that, too careful, his hands still steady on her shoulders, his body bent around hers like he’s trying to keep the world from bumping into the sore places.
Her eyes close. The ice pack shifts down her face, and she catches it before it can fall into her lap.
Garrett lifts his head immediately. “Too much?”
“No.” She blinks up at him from the chair, ice pack in hand, probably looking tragic and swollen and extremely unlike the kind of girl a person should be trying to seduce under fluorescent dorm lighting. “You stopped.”
His mouth does something soft before the grin catches it. “You almost dropped your face pack.”
“It’s a gel pack.”
“Face gel sounds stupid.”
“You sound stupid.”
“There she is.” His thumb brushes once over the top of her shoulder, fond and light. “Come sit on the bed. I’ll give you a proper one.”
She narrows her eyes, which is only a little ruined by the yellow bruising under them. “Are you sucking up to me, Garrett Graham?”
He grins then, fully, and it does the same annoying thing it always does, cutting through the ache and the tiredness and the low humiliation of being injured in front of half the hospital.
“Mm.” He bends and kisses the unbruised side of her jaw again, smiling against her skin. “Little bit. That okay?”
He asks it teasing, but there’s something under it, quieter and more serious, tucked into the way his hand stays on the back of her chair instead of sliding somewhere more possessive.
Something that says he knows he has been doing a lot of this lately. Hovering. Checking. Bringing her water before she asks. Watching how fast she stands. Reading the discharge sheet. Sitting in her room because she said studying alone made the walls feel too close, and then pretending he needed to get work done too.
She looks at him for a beat too long. The joke waits in her mouth, easy and ready. She lets it stay easy. “If I keep getting special treatment, I have no complaints at all.”
Garrett’s grin shifts into something warmer, pleased in a way that makes him look almost younger. “Good.”
“Although,” she adds, reaching blindly for the lid of her pen and missing it by an inch, “I reserve the right to become insufferable.”
“You were already there, baby.”
She turns in the chair enough to glare at him.
He puts both hands up. “Concussed. I meant brave.”
“You meant insufferable.”
He grins. “I meant beautiful and brave and moderately frightening.”
“Better.”
“Great recovery by me.” He leans past her and closes her laptop with two fingers.
“Hey.”
“You’ve been staring at that page for twenty minutes.”
“I was… absorbing.”
“You were wincing at anticoagulants.”
She shrugs. “They know what they did.”
“You can study later.” Garrett picks up the ice pack, presses it gently back into her hand, then nods toward the bed. “Come on. Before your skull files another complaint.”
She should argue. There are at least twelve arguments available to her, all of them responsible and academic and doomed. Instead, she lets him tug her carefully out of the chair, one hand at her elbow and the other hovering near her waist without quite touching until she leans into him enough to make the choice for both of them.
Standing makes the room tilt very slightly. That low, unpleasant float she’s been getting when she moves too fast, the one that makes her stomach tighten and her eyes search for a fixed point.
Garrett becomes the fixed point without saying anything, his hand firming at her side while she blinks through it.
“Good?” he murmurs.
She nods once, smaller this time. “Yeah.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m dizzy, not dying.”
“Those are different, yeah.”
She snorts softly. “You’re learning.”
“I’ve got a very hot tutor.”
She huffs, and he smiles like making her almost laugh is worth something.
Her bed is unmade because Garrett has been occupying it for an hour, one of her pillows crushed behind where his back had been, his textbook splayed open near the foot of it like it lost interest in itself.
He clears it with one hand, setting the book on the floor with the care of a man who’s decided education is no longer the priority, then sits near the headboard and pats the space between his legs.
She looks at him.
Garrett looks back, eyebrows lifting. “What?”
“You’re very comfortable in my dorm room.”
“Yeah. Your bed knows me.”
She rolls her eyes. “My bed is filing a complaint.”
“Your bed loves me.”
“My bed has terrible taste.”
“Your bed has seen things,” he mutters.
“Garrett.”
He laughs, soft and stupidly pleased, and holds out a hand. She takes it because standing upright is overrated and because his fingers are warm around hers.
He helps her onto the mattress carefully, like she’s not fragile but does deserve warning labels, and gets her settled with her back to his chest, legs stretched out in front of her.
The position should feel too intimate for people who keep insisting they’re not anything with a name. It does, in a way.
But so much of her has already existed here now – tired, sick, stressed, half-asleep, wrecked after placement, laughing into his hoodie, crying against his chest – that her body recognises the shape of him behind her before her brain has time to make trouble out of it.
Garrett’s hands return to her shoulders. The angle is better this time. His thumbs work down either side of her spine, careful and slow, then back up to the base of her neck. She melts by degrees, forehead tipping forward, ice pack resting loose in both hands now.
“Fuck,” she mutters. “You’ve been hiding this skill set.”
“I’m good with my hands.”
“Don’t make me roll my eyes. It hurts.”
“Sorry.” He pauses. “But I am.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet.” His mouth brushes the back of her neck, just once. “You keep letting me in your room.”
“Because you bring snacks.”
He snorts softly. “I brought grapes once.”
“They were good grapes,” she hums.
Garrett’s laugh is quiet against her hair, but it fades when his fingers find a tighter spot near her shoulder blade and she sucks in a breath. He lightens the pressure instantly. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.” She reaches back clumsily and touches his wrist before he can pull away entirely. “Just tender.”
“I hate that.”
“What, my shoulder?”
“All of it.” He says it low. Honest in a way that makes her chest feel too full for the size of her ribs. His thumb moves once over the fabric of her sweatshirt, barely there. “You walking around hurting.”
Her fingers stay around his wrist. She can feel his pulse beneath her thumb, steady but not as slow as he probably wants it to seem. “I’m not walking much. You keep making me sit down.”
“Good. Finally, a system that works.”
“You’re so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m doing great.”
“You’re doing too much.”
Garrett goes still behind her. She feels the shift through his chest at her back. She closes her eyes for one second, because she hadn’t meant it like that. Or maybe she had. Maybe part of her did mean it, not as a complaint but as a hand pressed to something tender.
He’s been careful for days. Sweet. Annoying. Present in a way that keeps knocking loose pieces inside her she had thought were safely wedged down.
Then his voice comes softer. “Too much bad, or too much good?”
Her throat tightens around the answer. She looks down at the ice pack in her lap, at the towel dampening around the edges, at the purple smudge of bruising visible on her cheek in the dark reflection of her laptop across the room.
“Good,” she says, because it’s easier when she doesn’t look at him. “Just… noticeable.”
Garrett’s mouth touches her shoulder again, slow and warm through the sweatshirt. “I can be less noticeable.”
She almost laughs. “No, you can’t.”
“Fair.” His hands resume their work, gentler now, less massage and more quiet contact. “I can try.”
“That sounds bad for your brand.”
“My brand is evolving.”
“Into what?”
“I don’t know.” He kisses the side of her neck, not high enough to turn the moment sharp, not low enough to turn it into a joke. “Guy who rubs your feet, apparently.”
She tips her head back against his shoulder and looks up at him. “My feet?”
His grin returns, relieved to have somewhere lighter to put his face. “They hurt from last night?”
She blinks. “Garrett.”
“What?”
“You’re such a suck-up.”
“Didn’t answer.”
“I walked from the bathroom to the couch and then you practically carried me upstairs.”
“Yeah, and those slippers have zero arch support.”
She gives him a flat look. “My UGGs?”
“Medical opinion,” he shrugs.
“You do not get to have medical opinions.”
His mouth turns down as he lifts one shoulder. “I live with you now, professionally.”
“You do not live with me.”
“I have a toothbrush here.”
“You brought that because you’re presumptuous.”
“I brought that because you wouldn’t let me use yours,” he says. “Even though my tongues constantly in your mouth anyway.”
She laughs for real this time, then immediately presses the ice pack back to her face with a muffled, “Ow. Fuck.”
Garrett’s arm slips around her waist on instinct, holding her steady even though she hasn’t gone anywhere. “Careful.”
She huffs a breath through her nose. “Don’t be funny, then.”
“That’s asking a lot.”
She settles back against him, still smiling faintly despite the sting in her lip and the dull pound behind her eyes. Garrett shifts, reaching down for one of her feet and lifting it into his lap with such casual commitment that she makes an offended little sound.
“You’re actually doing it?”
“Obviously.”
She stares at him. “Graham.”
“What? You’re getting the full service.”
“Is there a brochure?”
“Yeah. Says stop studying and let your very hot not-boyfriend be useful.”
The words slip out easy enough. Not-boyfriend. Familiar. Safe because it’s a joke, dangerous because it isn’t.
She feels them settle between them, a thing they both look at for half a second before Garrett bends his head and starts pressing his thumb into the arch of her foot like he didn’t say anything at all.
Her toes curl despite herself. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah?”
“I take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about you,” she sighs.
“You said one three minutes ago.”
“I was confused.”
“Head injury,” he nods.
“Exactly.”
Garrett smiles down at her foot, then glances back up at her face. His expression softens when he sees her looking at him. “Good?”
She lets herself look for another second. At his messy hair, the hoodie sleeves pushed up his arms, the textbook abandoned on the floor, the careful set of his mouth around all the things he isn’t saying because maybe he knows she can only handle so much softness before she starts making threats.
The headache is still there. Her face still aches. Her shoulder still twinges when she breathes too deeply. Tomorrow, she’ll have to study properly, and the bruises will still be yellowing under her eyes, and Maria will probably text to make sure she isn’t doing something stupid like attending placement concussed.
But Garrett’s thumb is working slow circles into the sole of her foot, his other hand warm around her ankle, and her room smells faintly like ice pack plastic, his soap, stale tea, and the vanilla candle she keeps insisting doesn’t count as a fire hazard if they never light it.
“Yeah,” she says, sinking a little deeper into him. “Good.”
Garrett’s mouth curves, small and pleased, and he ducks his head to kiss her ankle because apparently he has decided subtlety is for men with worse hands and less nerve. “Told you I’m occasionally useful.”
She closes her eyes, the ice pack slipping loose in her lap again. “Don’t ruin it.”
His thumb presses into the arch of her foot again, and her whole argument dissolves into a soft, helpless sigh. Garrett’s grin touches the side of her knee. “I’m doing great.”
She wants to disagree on principle. She really does.
Instead, she lets the room go quiet around them, lets her notes sit abandoned on the desk, lets Garrett Graham hold her sore foot in both hands like it’s a very serious academic responsibility, and decides, for once, that maybe the responsible thing isn’t fighting every nice thing.
Garrett keeps rubbing her foot. The ice pack melts slowly through the towel. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs, loud and distant, and the sound doesn’t make her flinch this time.
After a while, when she’s gone boneless and her breathing has started to even out, Garrett murmurs, “You falling asleep on me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Studying,” she mumbles.
“You’re studying the back of your eyelids.”
“Important anatomy.”
His laugh brushes her hair. “Yeah, okay.”
She feels him shift just enough to reach for the blanket at the foot of the bed, drawing it up over her legs without moving her off him. It’s awkward and not especially smooth and takes him two tries, which makes it better somehow.
When it’s finally settled, he goes back to her foot like he has no intention of stopping until she tells him to. She doesn’t tell him to.
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summary: when garrett started fake dating hannah, the last thing he expected was to fall for her roommate.
request: yes/no
warnings: nothing?
word count: 2.74k
authors note: so this idea was actually so much fun to bring to life but lowkey there is like zero detail in the beginning as I didn’t want to make it seem like reader liked her best friends boyfriend or like garrett was “cheating” on hannah
It started as a deal that was supposed to be simple.
Hannah needed Justin Kohl to finally notice her.
Garrett Graham needed to pass Philosophy or risk Coach ending his life before midterms.
So they made a bargain after class when he knew she did well on the assignment Garrett had leaned back, unfazed by the fact that he had gotten her name wrong “fake dating. We make people think we’re together. Justin notices. You win.” Garrett pointed at Hannah who furrowed her eyebrows.
She cocked her head “and what do you get?” She knew that it was a two way street so she didn’t know what he was meant to get from it.
Garrett motioned to his paper “an A,” he spoke in a duh tone as Hannah had stared at him for a long moment.
Then, against all better judgment, she’d agreed.
Neither of them realised what they were actually agreeing to.
Sure they knew it was going to be real to the world.
With everyone’s eyes on them as the fifth line page as they were the newest and hottest topic.
What Garrett didn’t expect was that he would actually want to be in a relationship with someone after this.
What made it complicated was that it wasn’t Hannah, that he learnt to care for.
It was you.
The girl that was Hannah and Allie’s roommate.
Hannah’s best friend.
The person she trusted with everything.
And the first time Garrett saw you, he completely forgot how to act like a functioning human being.
It was supposed to be a quick visit.
He’d knocked on the door expecting Hannah with her bag ready to go and study.
Instead, you opened it.
Your hair was messy and you were in one of your old band hoodies.
Garrett stopped breathing for a second.
Just one.
But it was enough “hi there,” your fingers wrapped around the door as you cocked your head.
And he’d replied, far too late “hi,” his cheeks reddened and he swore he was in some cruel play teaching him about feelings.
You smiled and he somehow felt lighter “Han, your boy is here!” You called out to her door where she burst out of her room.
Hannah noticed immediately how Garrett was rattled.
Of course she did.
Because Garrett Graham was many things, but subtle was not one of them.
Hannah giggled over her book“you know you were staring at her,” she said later that night.
Garrett scoffed as he shook his head “I was looking at the girl that opened the door.” He argued as he looked at his water bottle.
The girl grinned as she shook her head “you are,” she shot back, enjoying how she clearly she was pushing Garrett’s buttons.
The hockey player rolled his eyes “I met her once.” He pointed out as he didn’t even know your name.
Hannah just smiled into her drink “all I’m gonna say is that love at first sight is a real thing.” He didn’t answer as he flipped to a different page in the notebook that he held.
Which was answer enough.
What made it worse in the way that felt almost unbearable was that Garrett never acted on it.
He couldn’t.
Because the fake relationship was still going.
Because everyone thought he was Hannah’s boyfriend.
Because you were Hannah’s best friend, and he wasn’t about to turn your world into a mess.
So he stayed careful.
Polite.
Friendly.
He helped you carry things when your arms were full.
He remembered your coffee order once and then never forgot it.
He asked questions about you that he pretended were casual.
And every time, you told yourself the same thing: that he was dating Hannah and that you had to drown yourself in male attention until you could fully accept in your heart that he was off limits.
End of story.
Except it never felt like the end of anything.
What you didn’t know, and what you couldn’t know was that you weren’t totally invisible in the way that you intended to be.
You thought Garrett belonged to someone else.
You intended to take how you felt about hockey captain to your grave before anyone found out about it.
So every time your heart tripped over itself when he smiled at you, you shoved it down.
Every time he leaned in too close, you stepped back.
Every time he looked like he wanted to say something more, you convinced yourself you were imagining it.
Because you couldn’t do that to Hannah, and you sure as hell assumed that her boyfriend was smart enough not to cross that kind of boundary with you.
So you made yourself small in all the places it mattered.
The breaking point, for you, came in October.
Garrett asked you to get coffee.
Just you.
Not Hannah.
Not a group.
Just you.
It was meant to be something so simple that you shouldn’t have been phased.
And for half a second, something bright and impossible flared in your chest.
Then reality snapped it in half, “oh,” you said carefully.
His expression shifted immediately “oh?” It felt like a slap to his face as he clenched his fist.
You cocked your head “why?” Your eyebrows furrowed as you felt like you were dancing on a tightrope.
Garrett actually let out a soft laugh “because I want to spend time with you.” He shrugged as he let his words hang in the air.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to hurt “it’s probably best I don’t,” you added quickly, forcing your voice steady.
Garrett looked like he’d been physically hit “right,” he said quietly as he licked his lips “okay.”
And then he walked away with his hands shoved into his hoodie.
And you stood there hating yourself for the rest of the day without really knowing why.
That night, he showed up at Hannah’s dorm looking like something had gone wrong in his chest “she said no,” he muttered he knew you were out on a date because Hannah had told him earlier that week that you were planning on going out with some guy from a class of yours.
So the dorm was technically a safe, you free space.
Hannah didn’t even look up “no to what?” Hell, part of her didn’t even know who he was talking about.
“Coffee.”
Now she looked up as a grin formed on her face when everything clicked into place “you asked her out?” She pushed onto her knees as she clasped her hands together.
“I asked her for coffee.”
Garrett’s correction came with a scoff from Hannah “that’s asking her out.” She pointed out in a duh tone.
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
Hannah studied him for a long moment “oh my god!” She clasped her hands over her mouth as she gasped.
“What?”
Garrett’s eyes went wide as he watched the girl “you like her,” the announcement came as Hannah pointed at him.
“I don’t.”
She laughed as he shook his head “you do,” it was clear to her now that you were the reason why Garrett was getting soft; she had nothing to do with it.
It made him finally snap “I can’t.” The captain’s tone was harsh as he tugged his fingers through his hair.
In that moment Hannah was ready to go marching down the quad to find you and announce that the boy who liked you was in fact very single “Garrett-” or at least force Garrett to accept that he clearly did like you.
Garrett shook his head as he got up “I can’t,” he repeated, quieter this time.
Because you were on a date with another guy.
Because the fake relationship still existed.
And the media frenzy that would follow from him for going for two best friends was bound to be uncomfortable.
Because he wasn’t supposed to want anyone.
And because, worst of all, he didn’t think you wanted him back.
The weeks that followed were a slow unravelling.
You noticed him pulling back.
Less teasing.
Less lingering.
Less of whatever you’d been imagining before you convinced yourself it was never real.
And it hurt more than it should have.
You told yourself it was relief.
That it was better this way.
That you were just being dramatic.
But it felt like a loss.
Everything broke on an ordinary afternoon in November.
You came home from a morning lecture when Hannah asked to talk.
Her tone made your stomach churn “sit down,” she said gently when you dropped your bag.
That alone made your heart drop.
You started walking towards the bench as she exhaled.
And then she said it.
“We never dated.”
You blinked “what?” You dropped onto the bench next to her as your ears rang.
Hannah tucked her hair behind her ears “Garrett and I. It was fake.” You swore in that moment that the world stopped.
Like a record got scratched when the needle pushed off of it.
For a second, your brain simply refused to process the words “fake,” you repeated.
“Yeah.”
You cracked your knuckles as you ducked in your teeth “how long?” You ran your fingers along your arm.
She felt like she was setting off a live wire“the whole time,” her expression was blank as if she was waiting for you to respond first.
It felt like something inside your chest cracked open all at once “the whole time?” you whispered as you frowned when she nodded.
Your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose “so I’ve just been avoiding him for months for no reason?” You almost laughed as you couldn’t believe this.
Your body felt like it was drowning and your head was barely able to stay above water.
Hannah argued back “it wasn’t for no reason because you didn’t know.” she said quickly as she shook her head.
“But I did,” your voice broke “I thought I was being respectful. I thought I was being a good friend. I thought-” your throat tightened, suddenly everything collided at once.
Every moment you’d stepped back.
Every time you’d stopped yourself from wanting.
Every time you’d felt guilty for even thinking about him.
Every moment you swore you were the worst friend alive for letting Garrett take up too much space in your brain.
And none of it had been necessary.
None of it had been real.
Your breath hitched, “oh my god,” you said again, but this time it didn’t sound like disbelief.
It sounded like overwhelm.
Hannah stood up, alarmed, “hey-” she reached for your hand
You shook your head as you raised your hand to stop her “I need a minute.” Your brain felt like it had been going a mile a minute and you were desperate to slow it down.
But there wasn’t a minute.
Because there was never a minute when you wanted time to be on your side.
Because the door opened.
And Garrett walked in.
The moment he saw your face, everything in him stopped “what happened?” he asked immediately seeing how your expression was teary-eyed.
You looked at him like you didn’t know where to put all the emotion in your body “Hannah told me.” You blurted it out as you sniffled still wishing that the ground had swallowed you whole.
His expression changed instantly.
Tension. Realisation.
Then guilt “what did she tell you?” Garrett had come up with a whole speech to tell you how he felt, and this really wasn’t it.
Hell he had literally made John Logan ask you out so that Garrett could come and see you in a place that wasn’t the library or the dorm.
Your voice shook when you answered “that you two weren’t real.” He exhaled slowly, careful to not be the one to break the silence.
Behind him, Hannah quietly grabbed her jacket “I’m going to- I got nothing I’ll leave you two to this,” she said, already backing away so fast that neither one of you could argue.
He scoffed as he shook his head “traitor,” Garrett muttered, not looking away from you.
The door closed.
And the room felt too small “you thought we were together,” he said softly as he placed his bag on the floor.
You laughed once, but it came out broken “everyone thought that.” You shook your head as you brought your knees to your chest.
“That’s not an answer.”
You sighed as you looked out of the window “it was real to me,” you said, quieter now “and that was the problem.”
Something in his expression shifted “I didn’t know,” he said as he took a space on the bench next to you.
“I know.”
Garrett reached for your leg “I didn’t mean for you to-” he cut himself off as you shifted your legs away to block his hands.
Your hand wiped your cheer fearing that it was still damp from your previous tears “I know,” you repeated, sharper this time, then immediately softer.
“I know. That’s not what I’m upset about,”
Garrett cocked his head “then what is it?” Your breath shook as your body felt numb.
You pinched your fingers together in an attempt to steady yourself “everything I stopped myself from feeling,” you admitted feeling like an idiot.
You didn’t want to admit the truth but when he looked at you, it was as if you’d lost your filter“because I thought I was respecting something that didn’t even exist.” The words landed between you like something fragile breaking.
Garrett went still.
Then, carefully, “you stopped yourself?” It made you roll your eyes.
You let out a shaky breath “don’t make me say it again.”A beat and then his voice dropped.
“Did you like me?”
Your eyes burned because the slight change in tense had you thinking that you were the biggest idiot of all “yes.” You nodded, your voice came out barely above a whisper.
Something in him broke open at that.
Because he had been so careful.
So patient.
So convinced he was the only one falling.
Like you were the person his mom promised him was out there since he was a kid “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he said, almost letting out a laugh
Your breath hitched as you felt sick his laugh was quiet, almost disbelieving, “since the first day I met you.” He carried on when you didn’t speak.
That made your chest ache harder “I thought you were with Hannah,” you said with a sigh as you finally looked at him.
“I wasn’t.”
You nodded as you licked your lips “I know that now,”he turned his body to fully face you, slower this time, like he was giving you every chance to stop him.
Garrett hated how much he felt the need to care in this moment, hell he hated how you made him feel so many emotions he didn’t think he was capable of experiencing “I was trying not to mess anything up,” Garrett brushed his fingers through his hair.
“That’s why I didn’t- I never intended on crossing any lines.”
It should have comforted you that you both had the same moral compass in this “you already did,” you whispered your brain shouldn’t have felt this annoyed still.
Like there was hurt in your heart that your mouth was having to figure out how to mask in real time.
His gaze flickered to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly “I think I did.”
The air between you felt charged now. Fragile or maybe real.
“Can I-” he started, then stopped.
You nodded before he finished the question.
That was all it took.
Garrett closed the distance carefully, like he still didn’t fully trust it.
Like you might disappear if he moved too fast.
His hand lifted to your cheek, warm and steady.
And when he finally kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or uncertain.
It was like something that had been held back for too long finally giving in.
Soft at first.
Then deeper.
Like relief.
Like relief you didn’t realize you’d been waiting for.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
You just breathed the same air.
And for the first time all semester, nothing about it hurt.
Besides now you’ve got to give Garrett the job of telling John Logan that realistically… You wouldn’t be making your first date with him next week.
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Summary:
A huge win, a night of celebrating at Malone's, and a slightly drunk Sarah who's suddenly convinced Garrett is the hottest guy in the bar. Garrett can't help playing along, even though there's one tiny detail she keeps conveniently forgetting: he's already her boyfriend.
The win had been incredible.
The celebration was deafening.
And my teammates were unbearable.
In other words, a completely normal night.
Malone's was packed. The music was way too loud, someone had hijacked the jukebox for the last thirty minutes, and Dean had spent at least twenty convincing himself he could dance.
He couldn't.
Nobody had managed to talk sense into him.
As for me, I had a Coke sitting in front of me because while the rest of the team celebrated the win by drinking whatever they could get their hands on, I'd promised to drive.
Which meant no alcohol.
Something that normally didn't bother me.
Especially when the alternative was sitting back and watching Sarah have fun.
"You don't have to babysit me," she told me for the fifth time that night.
I raised both hands.
"I'm not babysitting you."
"Yes, you are."
"I'm just making sure you stay alive."
"How romantic."
"Thank you. I try."
Sarah rolled her eyes.
Then she smiled.
And for a second, I completely forgot what we were talking about.
That still happened, even after all this time.
It was a problem.
One I had absolutely no intention of fixing.
"I'm getting another drink," she announced.
"Want me to come with you?"
"Garrett."
"What?"
"I can walk by myself."
"That remains to be seen."
She punched my arm.
Lightly.
More affectionate than anything else.
"You're impossible."
"And yet you keep coming back."
"You're so arrogant."
Sarah laughed and shook her head before disappearing into the crowd.
I watched her walk away because it was impossible not to, because I liked seeing her happy, and because, if I was being completely honest, I liked the way she looked at me like I was the only guy in the room.
Though that was probably my fault.
An hour later she was still happy.
Only now she was drunk too.
Not completely wasted.
Not to the point where she couldn't stand.
But enough that her cheeks were pink and her smile was a lot bigger than usual.
I was leaning against the bar when she suddenly appeared in front of me.
Alone.
Looking serious.
Very serious.
Far too serious.
That should've worried me.
"Hi."
I blinked.
"Hi, sweetheart."
"Do you come here often?"
It took me a few seconds to process the question.
"What?"
"I asked if you come here often."
"Sarah..."
"Oh, I get it."
She stepped a little closer.
"You're one of those mysterious guys."
I couldn't help laughing.
"What is happening right now?"
"I'm just trying to get to know you."
"Get to know me?"
"Yeah."
"We've been together for over a year."
"That doesn't answer my question."
I stared at her.
She stared right back.
Completely serious.
And then I understood.
Oh my God.
She was flirting with me.
Like I wasn't her boyfriend.
Like she didn't know exactly what she did to me.
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.
"Well," I said, leaning a little closer, "I guess I do come here pretty often."
"Interesting."
"Is it?"
"Very."
"Why?"
Sarah rested her elbows on the bar and slowly looked me up and down in a way that made me raise an eyebrow.
"Because you're really hot."
I nearly choked on my drink.
From a nearby table, someone burst out laughing.
Dean.
Of course.
Dean.
"Don't laugh," I called.
"Never."
He was practically folding in half.
I turned back to Sarah.
She was still studying me.
Like she was evaluating something.
Like she was deciding whether I deserved her attention.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, resting her chin on her hand.
That was when I had to look away.
Because I knew exactly where this was going.
And because I was enjoying it way more than I should've.
"Yeah."
Sarah sighed dramatically.
"What a shame."
"Why?"
"Because I just decided I liked you."
"That sounds complicated."
"Very."
"My girlfriend thinks so too."
She frowned.
"Is she pretty?"
"Very."
"Prettier than me?"
"Definitely not."
Her smile appeared instantly.
"Good answer."
"I'm a wise man."
"You don't even believe that."
"But you do."
Sarah giggled and leaned a little closer.
"So what else can you do, Garrett?"
The way she said my name made me smile.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
"Depends on what you're interested in finding out."
Her eyes sparkled.
Oh.
So she wanted to play.
Perfect.
I was excellent at that game.
I don't know how long we sat there.
Ten minutes.
Maybe twenty.
Sarah perched beside me.
Asking ridiculous questions.
And me answering as though we'd just met, even though every answer carried a second meaning she understood perfectly.
"What do you study?"
"History."
"That sounds smart."
"Thank you."
"I could never do that."
"I'm sure you could."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I get distracted easily."
"I noticed."
She laughed.
Then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a softness that didn't match the mischievous smile on her face.
"You're still really hot."
"'Still'?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been evaluating me?"
"All night."
"That's a little concerning."
"I don't regret it."
"You should tell me these things more often."
"So your ego gets even worse?"
"Too late."
To our left, Logan was filming something on his phone.
"What are you doing?"
"I need evidence."
"Delete that."
"Never."
"Logan."
"This is too good."
Sarah turned on her stool to look at the rest of the table.
"Who are they?"
Dean raised a hand.
"I'm Dean."
"I don't trust you."
"That's fair."
"You have a face that causes problems."
Dean placed a hand over his chest.
"I feel attacked."
"Because I'm probably right."
Logan nearly fell off his chair laughing.
I laughed quietly to myself.
Sarah turned back to me and placed a hand on my forearm.
"You, on the other hand, seem dangerous."
"Only seem?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"I could prove otherwise."
She lifted an eyebrow.
"Oh really?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
I leaned closer, enough that only she could hear me.
"I could tell you exactly what I'd do if you weren't so drunk."
Sarah's lips parted slightly.
Then she smiled.
Slowly.
Like she'd just won something.
"That sounded very confident."
"I am."
"Do you always talk like that?"
"Only when I have a pretty audience."
Her cheeks turned even pinker.
And I loved that.
"Then I want to get to know you better," she said quietly.
God.
I adored her.
An hour later it was obvious the night was winding down.
People were leaving.
The music was getting quieter.
And Sarah had her head resting on my shoulder.
Much calmer than before.
Much sleepier.
Much sweeter.
"Ready to go?"
She nodded.
"Yeah."
"Good."
"Will you take me home?"
"Of course."
"What a gentleman."
"I try."
"I like you."
I couldn't help smiling.
"I would hope so."
"No, Garrett. I mean I really like you."
I glanced down at her.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"That's dangerous for me."
"Why?"
"Because then you make me smile like an idiot."
Sarah lifted her head just enough to look at me.
"And that's bad?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether you're planning to keep doing it."
She laughed softly and nudged my shoulder.
"You're so full of yourself."
"And you're flirting with me."
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"I don't want it going to your head."
"Too late."
I helped her to her feet.
She immediately grabbed my arm.
Not because she needed help walking.
Just because she wanted to.
And honestly...
I wasn't complaining.
The night air was cool when we stepped out of Malone's.
The parking lot was almost empty.
Sarah stayed close to my side.
Eyes half-closed.
Wearing a peaceful little smile.
When we reached the car, she rested her head against my shoulder.
"Garrett?"
"Yeah?"
"I have a confession."
"That sounds dangerous."
"A little."
I opened the passenger door.
But she didn't move.
She stayed right where she was.
Pressed against me.
"I knew it was you."
I blinked.
"What?"
"From the beginning."
"Then why did you keep doing it?"
Sarah looked up at me.
And gave me one of those sleepy smiles that always completely destroyed me.
"Because I like it when you flirt with me."
Something warm settled in my chest.
Something familiar.
Something that happened every time she said things like that.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You could've told me."
"And miss all that fun?"
"How selfish."
"I know."
I shook my head.
Unable to stop smiling.
Unable to stop looking at her.
Unable to remember what my life had been like before her.
Sarah rose onto her toes.
Placed a hand against my chest.
And pressed a soft kiss to my jaw.
"You're my favorite person," she murmured.
"Only your favorite person?"
She smiled against my skin.
"Tonight, yes."
"That's a little offensive."
"Then you'll have to try harder."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah."
"And what exactly would I have to do to earn first place again?"
Sarah looked at me with an expression far too innocent to be real.
"Keep looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want to kiss me."
I went still for a second.
Then I smiled.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
"Sarah, I've wanted to kiss you since we walked into the bar."
Her eyes widened slightly.
Then she smiled like she'd just heard exactly what she'd been hoping for.
"Then you should."
And that was the moment I lost any chance of pretending this wasn't affecting me.
Because I'd spent the whole night looking after her.
Making sure she was okay.
Watching her have fun.
And somehow she'd still managed to completely ruin me.
In the best possible way.
I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her a little closer.
"You're dangerous when you've been drinking."
"And you're very easy to distract."
"That's because you're standing too close."
"Is that a problem?"
"Not when it's you."
Sarah smiled.
And intertwined her fingers with mine.
"Let's go home, sweetheart."
"Yeah. Let's go."
"Are you gonna keep flirting with me in the car?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether you keep looking at me like that."
She laughed softly and rested her forehead against my shoulder.
"I can't promise anything."
"Perfect."
Because after an entire night of celebrating, music, and chaos...
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – after a head injury at clinical, garrett graham gets to be the one doing the looking after for once.
warnings – head injury, concussion, facial bruising, blood, medical care, patient aggression, emotional distress, caretaking, strong language
notes from me – we're getting somewhere my loves!!!! based on this ask, hope u enjoy! <3
word count – 11.9k
navigation – masterlist |
The car smells like hospital hand sanitiser and Maria’s vanilla air freshener and the coppery, unpleasant trace of blood she’s pretty sure is still stuck somewhere under her nose.
She sits very carefully in the passenger seat with her bag clutched in her lap and the discharge papers folded into the front pocket because Maria had put them there for safekeeping after watching her try to read the same paragraph three times and then ask, quietly and with genuine confusion, whether nausea was spelled with an o. The answer is no. Apparently. She knows that. Usually.
Her head throbs with every tiny vibration of the road, a dull, spreading pressure behind her eyes and across the bridge of her nose, pulsing in time with her heartbeat like her skull has decided to develop a second career as a bass drum. The split in her lip keeps reopening every time she moves her mouth too much, which is rude, considering she would very much like to continue pretending this is all fine and fine people generally require functional lips for lying.
There’s dried blood under her nose. She can feel it there, tight and flaky against her skin, the way she can feel the swelling beginning to gather beneath both eyes, heavy and hot and humiliating.
Her scrub top is folded in a plastic bag somewhere near her feet because the front of it’s torn and streaked with blood from the first few awful seconds before anyone could get to her, before security and Maria and Steph from triage had managed to pull her backwards by the waist while the patient screamed so loudly the whole department seemed to go airless around it.
It wasn’t his fault, not really. He was frightened and out of it and nobody expected him to come up that fast, one second curled tight on the bed with his voice climbing, the next swinging blind and hard enough that his elbow caught her straight across the face.
She remembers the crack of pain before she remembers making a sound. Then her own cry seemed to set him off worse, his hand catching a fistful of her scrub top before she could step back, the brutal pull forward, the bed rail coming up too fast.
Her nose had hit first. Or her mouth. Or her forehead. It’s all a little rearranged now, bright flashes and metal and Maria shouting her name and someone saying, “Security, now,” with enough force to make the whole bay move.
She knows it wasn’t anyone’s fault. She knows psych presentations can turn quickly, knows agitation isn’t always a straight line with warning signs and a polite little interval where everyone gets to reposition themselves safely.
She knows all the rational things. She also knows her face hurts badly enough that thinking in full sentences feels like pushing through wet cement, and she is, medically speaking, having a really fucking shit time.
Beside her, Maria drives like a woman who’s spent twenty years transporting compromised student nurses and actual glassware with equal care. One hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, her voice soft enough not to scrape against the inside of her skull when she says, “How’s the head, honey?”
She exhales through her nose and immediately regrets it because her nose doesn’t wish to be involved in breathing at this time. “Super normal. Love having one.”
Maria makes a small sound that could be a laugh if it wasn’t wrapped so tightly in concern. “Nausea?”
“Not worse.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She lets her head rest back against the seat and keeps her eyes on the blurred glow of streetlights sliding across the windscreen. The movement makes her stomach roll faintly, but not enough to tell Maria about, because Maria has already done enough.
Maria had stood in the consult room while Dr. Patel checked her pupils and her nose and the swelling around her cheekbones, one warm hand resting between her shoulder blades every time she tried to make a joke and ended up going quiet instead.
Maria had found her spare hoodie from the locker room and helped her into it when lifting her left arm made pain streak down through her shoulder. Maria had said, very gently, you’re not catching the bus after getting your bell rung in my department, like that settled the matter.
“A little,” she admits. “But I’m not going to vomit in your car.”
“Kind of you.”
“I’m very thoughtful.”
“You’re concussed.”
She sighs softly. “Also that.”
Maria’s eyes flick over her in the dim light, quick and practised. “You remember what Dr. Patel said?”
She does. Mostly. The words have been looping vaguely around the edges of her head since he handed her the paperwork. Mild concussion. No fracture. Neuro obs stable. X-ray clear. Rest. No driving. No placement until reviewed. Come back if vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, unusual drowsiness, changes in vision, weakness, seizure, or if anything feels wrong enough that you’re trying to talk yourself out of seeking help.
No being alone tonight.
That last one had landed harder than the rest, somehow. Maybe because the ED had been too bright and too busy and she had been sitting there with a wad of gauze under her nose, feeling like a leaking appliance. Maybe because the doctor had said it in that professional, non-negotiable way that made arguing feel childish. Maybe because the idea of someone watching her because her brain had been knocked around made her feel suddenly, horribly small.
“Wake me every few hours,” she says. “Check I’m not getting weirder.”
Maria’s mouth tips. “You said weirder.”
“That’s the clinical term.”
“It’s not.”
“It should be. Easier to spell than altered level of consciousness.”
Maria actually laughs that time, but it fades quickly. “You can’t be home alone.”
“I know.”
“And you’re not going to pretend you’re fine and sit in your dorm by yourself because you feel embarrassed?”
Her eyes drift shut for half a second, then open again when the darkness makes her head swim. “I’m not embarrassed.”
Maria’s silent.
She sinks a little lower in the seat. “Okay. Maybe a normal amount.”
“There is no normal amount of embarrassed after being assaulted by a patient at work.”
“It wasn’t assault.”
Maria sighs. “Honey.”
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” she argues.
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt.”
Her mouth twitches before she remembers her lip is split. Pain snaps bright and sharp through the swollen skin. “Ow. Fuck.”
Maria’s hand lifts slightly off the wheel like she wants to reach over, then thinks better of it. “Don’t smile.”
“That’s bleak advice.”
“Currently medical advice.”
She presses her tongue carefully to the inside of her lip and tastes blood again. The whole evening keeps arriving in pieces. The patient’s arm. The bed rail. Maria’s face above hers, too close and too worried. Someone cutting away the torn edge of her scrub top.
Her own hands shaking in her lap while she tried to tell everyone, very reasonably, that she could finish the shift if they just gave her a second. As if she hadn’t been bleeding on her own shoes.
The thought makes heat rise under the bruising in her face, which is unfair because her face has already suffered enough. “God,” she mutters. “Everyone saw.”
Maria sighs, not impatient, but close to something sad. “Yes, everyone saw that you got hurt.”
“I’m the student.”
“Yes,” Maria nods.
“I’m supposed to be useful.”
“You were useful all day.”
“I ended the shift with a concussion and a bloody nose.”
“You ended the shift injured because an unpredictable situation escalated. That’s not a performance review.”
She knows that. She does. She would say that to anyone else. She would put her hand on another student’s shoulder and mean it completely. She would tell them they were in the wrong place at the wrong second and that sometimes you can do everything right and still get hurt because hospitals are not made of lesson plans and perfect outcomes.
Unfortunately, she’s not another student. She’s herself. And herself currently has blood in her hoodie sleeve because she keeps forgetting not to touch her face.
They hit a bump in the road, not even a large one, but it sends pain blooming through her skull with such immediate nastiness that she sucks in a breath through her teeth and grips the strap of her bag.
Maria notices. “Almost there.”
She opens her mouth to ask where there is, and then remembers campus, her dorm, her room, the bed with the old sweatshirt shoved under the pillow, the roommate who is not there. Her stomach drops so abruptly it makes the nausea worse. “Shit.”
Maria glances over. “What?”
“My roommate’s not home.”
“Tonight?”
“She’s at her sister’s. Like, hours away.” She closes her eyes, then opens them again because the inside of her head does not enjoy visual privacy right now. “Fuck. I forgot.”
“Okay.” Maria’s voice stays calm. That is possibly the worst part. “Do you have someone else? A friend you could stay with?”
She thinks of Lucy first, because that’s the correct answer. Lucy would absolutely let her stay. Lucy would probably panic and then overcorrect into a level of cheerfulness that could qualify as a secondary head injury. Monique would be better, quieter, but Monique has an exam tomorrow and lives across campus in a building where the lift is always broken, which feels like a personal attack under current conditions.
Then her brain, unhelpfully and immediately, supplies Garrett.
Garrett’s room with the lamp on. Garrett’s hand at the back of her neck. Garrett’s voice low in her ear telling her to stop studying and sleep. Garrett sitting on the edge of her bed taking off her shoes after a bad shift.
Garrett looking at her like competence is something he can be proud of even when she feels like she’s wearing it badly. Garrett, who has been hit in the head enough times that concussion protocol is probably written somewhere in his bones.
Garrett, who’s not technically her boyfriend, except the technicalities feel very stupid when her head is throbbing and her lip is bleeding and she wants him so badly it makes her chest ache worse than her shoulder.
“Yeah,” she says, and her voice comes out softer than she means it to. “Uh. Yeah. I have someone.”
Maria doesn’t look smug. That’s probably part of why she is a good preceptor. “Address?”
She gives her the hockey house. The words feel bigger in the car than they should. Maybe because saying his address out loud to Maria feels like she’s accidentally handed over evidence. Maybe because the last time Maria saw Garrett, he’d been standing in the ED hallway with panic sitting badly under his skin while Logan asked what day it was for the third time.
Maybe because Maria now knows exactly where to take the concussed student nurse with the split lip and the ruined scrubs, and that place is apparently Garrett Graham’s house.
Maria only nods and changes lanes.
The hockey house is lit up when they pull onto the street, every downstairs window glowing warm and yellow into the cold, the porch light flickering faintly over the steps. There are cars out front, some vaguely familiar. The sight of it loosens something in her chest. At least someone’s home. At least there’s a couch, and people who know what pupils are supposed to do, and Garrett somewhere inside if the universe has decided to be kind after all the other things it did tonight.
Maria puts the car in park and turns toward her. “Wait. I’ll help you.”
“I can walk.”
“I didn’t ask,” Maria responds.
She huffs, which hurts less than smiling. Maria gets out first and comes around, opening the passenger door before she can argue again. The cold hits her face and instantly makes her nose ache in a new and innovative way.
She climbs out slowly, one hand braced on the car door, shoulder protesting when she reaches for the strap of her bag. Maria takes it from her without comment.
“Rude,” she murmurs.
“Concussed.”
“Everyone keeps saying that like it explains everything.”
“It explains a lot.”
The walk up the path feels longer than it should. The porch steps require more concentration than she likes, which annoys her because she’s watched drunk freshmen navigate these steps while carrying open cups and zero dignity. Her sneakers scrape lightly over the boards.
Somewhere inside, someone yells something that might be, “You’re cheating,” followed by Dean’s voice saying, “It’s not cheating if the game lets me do it,” which feels like an argument that has existed in this house for generations.
She knocks once because lifting her hand twice seems excessive. There’s a crash inside. A hockey house crash. Male voices overlap, loud and irritated and completely unaware of the fact that sound is currently a weapon. She winces before she can stop herself, one hand coming up toward her temple and hovering there uselessly.
Maria’s mouth tightens. “You okay?”
“Yep.”
The door opens on Logan in sweats and a faded Briar shirt, hair a mess, controller in one hand, expression halfway to annoyed until he sees her. Everything drops out of his face.
He says her name once, startled and low, and then, “What the fuck happened?”
The room behind him seems to quiet in stages. Maybe because of his voice. Maybe because she’s standing on the porch looking like an ED discharge summary with legs.
She becomes suddenly, viciously aware of herself: the bruising already shadowing beneath her eyes, the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood dried under it despite Maria helping her clean up, the split lip, the hoodie zipped crooked because raising her shoulder hurts. She hadn’t thought much about how she looked in the car because looking required mirrors and mirrors required courage she didn’t currently possess.
Then Garrett appears behind Logan, and the whole night rearranges itself around the look on his face. He must have been in the living room. His hair’s damp at the edges like he showered not long ago, curls loose over his forehead, sweatpants low on his hips, a dark t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders.
He steps into the doorway with his mouth already forming some question, probably a chirp, probably something warm and annoying about why she’s showing up with supervision. He sees her, and all the colour leaves his face, as if something has reached into him and taken it by the roots.
His eyes move over her once, too fast and not fast enough. Nose. Mouth. Bruises. Hoodie. The stiff way she’s holding her shoulder. Maria beside her with the bag and the paperwork. Back to her face, where his attention catches and stays.
She tries to smile. It’s a mistake immediately. Pain sparks through her lip, and she winces instead, which feels like the saddest possible version of flirting. “Hi,” she says.
Garrett doesn’t answer.
Logan steps back at once. “Jesus. Come in. Fuck. Come in.”
Warmth and sound and the smell of boys and pizza and laundry detergent roll over her as she steps into the house. The living room lights make her eyes sting. Dean and Tucker are on the couch, controllers in hand, the TV paused mid-game like they’ve both forgotten the concept of winning. Dean’s mouth opens. Tucker’s face changes quietly, which somehow feels worse.
“Holy fuck,” Dean half-yells.
The words hit too loud. She flinches before she can make herself not do it.
Tucker moves instantly. “Dean, get the lights, man.”
“What? Oh. Shit, yeah.” Dean scrambles for the lamp with the guilty urgency of a man who’s suddenly remembered inside voices exist. The room drops into a dimmer yellow, the overhead going off, the TV brightness turned down under Tucker’s quick hand. It changes the whole house at once, softens the edges, takes the blade out of the light.
Maria watches all of it with a look that would be approving if she weren’t still too professional to be obvious about it.
“She’s had a head injury,” she says, voice calm, eyes moving to Garrett because everyone’s eyes move to Garrett, because this is his house and not-his-girlfriend has arrived at his door concussed and bleeding. “Mild concussion. X-ray was clear, no nasal fracture, but she needs monitoring overnight. No alcohol, no driving, no being alone. Keep the lights low, noise down. She can sleep, but someone needs to check on her as per the discharge instructions. If she starts vomiting, gets more confused, can’t be woken, worsening headache, vision changes, weakness, anything that feels off, take her back in.”
Garrett nods slowly. He’s still staring at her.
Logan, maybe because Garrett looks like he’s briefly lost access to language, reaches out and takes the paperwork from Maria. “Yeah. We’ve got it.”
Maria turns back to her, and her face softens in that way that makes the back of her throat go tight. “I’ll see you in a couple days, honey. Not tomorrow. Rest tomorrow.”
She nods carefully. Even that tiny motion makes pressure throb through her skull. “Thanks for driving me.”
“Text me when you wake up.” Maria’s eyes flick toward Garrett again. “And listen to them for once.”
That almost makes her smile. She resists, heroically. “No promises.”
Maria gives her shoulder the gentlest squeeze, nowhere near the painful side, then lets herself out. Logan closes the door softly behind her, like the whole house has been put on medical quiet time.
For half a second, nobody moves. Then Dean says, much quieter this time, “Who the fuck did that?”
She lets out a breath that doesn’t quite make it to a laugh. “Hi to you too.”
Dean’s on his feet now, controller abandoned on the couch, all his usual lazy beauty sharpened into something pissed and bright. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” Her head’s beginning to pound harder now that she’s standing still. The adrenaline from getting out of the car, climbing the steps, seeing Garrett’s face, all of it drains down through her body and leaves her feeling oddly hollow.
Garrett notices, his hand comes to her elbow, barely touching at first like he’s afraid pressure might break something. The warmth of him lands through the hoodie and her body, traitorous and exhausted, turns toward it before her pride has any say.
She steps into him. She leans forward and presses her forehead against his chest because the angle is the only one that doesn’t put pressure on her nose, one hand curling weakly in the soft fabric of his shirt.
Garrett tenses under her for a fraction of a second, like seeing her had knocked him out of himself and her touching him is what pulls him back in wrong. Then his arms come around her.
Careful. So careful it almost makes her cry. One hand settles at the back of her head without pressing, fingers spread wide over her hair, the other around her waist, holding her there with a gentleness that feels nothing like the boy who body checks men into boards for sport and everything like the one who once took her UGGs off because outside shoes didn’t belong in bed.
She closes her eyes, just for a second. Garrett’s voice, when it finally comes, is rough enough that she feels it against her cheek. “Baby.”
“I’m okay,” she says into his shirt, because she’s decided to start lying as a hobby.
His hand flexes once at her waist. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m not actively dying.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
She manages a weak shrug. “Clinically significant distinction.”
Logan exhales behind them, shaky in a way he probably wishes nobody noticed. Tucker moves around them quietly, collecting controllers, turning the game off properly, lowering the TV volume until the room becomes mostly the hum of the refrigerator and distant campus noise through the windows. Dean’s still standing there looking like he needs something to hit and has, unfortunately for everyone, found only furniture.
Garrett pulls back enough to look at her, but not far enough that she loses him. His eyes scan her face again, slower now. It’s almost worse than the pain. The way his gaze catches on the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood at one nostril, the split in her lower lip. He looks wrecked by it. Offended, almost, like her body has done something behind his back.
“Come sit down,” he says.
She wants to make a joke about his captain voice. She really does. It’s right there, familiar and easy. Unfortunately, her brain loses the sentence halfway through assembling it, and by the time she finds a piece of it, Garrett’s already guiding her to the couch.
Dean moves a cushion out of the way. Tucker places another behind her back. Logan stands nearby with the paperwork in one hand, reading it with a frown so intense it looks like he’s preparing for finals in head trauma.
They all shift around her with this strange, quiet purpose that makes her chest feel too full and her face feel too sore to hold whatever expression she wants. Garrett crouches in front of her and reaches for her sneakers.
She blinks down at him. “What are you doing?”
His mouth barely moves. “Taking your shoes off.”
“I can take my shoes off.”
He looks up at her, and there is something in his face so taut and helpless that the argument falls apart in her lap. “Can you let me?”
Oh. That’s not fair. That’s wildly not fair.
She swallows and looks away first. “Yeah.”
Garrett unties her sneakers one at a time, slow with the laces, careful of the way moving her leg pulls faintly at her shoulder. He sets them neatly beside the coffee table. When her feet are free, she curls her legs up onto the couch without thinking, tucking herself sideways into the cushions because upright feels like an idea designed by people whose skulls are not currently full of angry bees.
Garrett’s hand hovers near her knee, then settles there. “Did you want water?”
She nods, then instantly regrets the movement. Pain washes across her forehead, hot and thick. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Ow. Fuck. Yes, please.”
Garrett rises. Her hand moves before she decides to move it, fingers catching the loose fabric of his sweatpants at the thigh, barely enough to stop him if he wanted to go. But he does stop. Immediately. She opens her eyes. Garrett’s looking down at her hand on him. Then he looks at Logan.
Logan’s already moving. “I’ve got it.”
Garrett sits beside her instead. He does it carefully, couch dipping with his weight, his thigh warm along the outside of her curled legs. He doesn’t crowd her face. Doesn’t pull her in too fast. Simply sits close enough that she can feel him there, his hand returning to her knee, thumb still because even his restless touching has gone cautious.
Dean hasn’t let the original point go. He sits on the edge of the coffee table across from her, elbows on his knees, all dramatic cheekbones and very real anger. “No, seriously. Who the fuck did this?”
She opens her mouth. The first answer is too long and falls apart before she can get to it. Her head gives one hard pulse. She shuts her eyes briefly, tries again. “A patient.”
Dean stares at her. “A patient did this to your face?”
“He was really agitated,” she explains as Logan comes back with water. He hands it to Garrett, not her, which would be annoying if her hands didn’t feel vaguely unreliable. “It escalated. He didn’t mean it.”
Dean’s expression says that this isn’t helping his blood pressure. “He didn’t mean it.”
“No.” She lets Garrett pass her the glass, taking it with both hands because one feels optimistic. The cold of it is nice against her palms. Her lip stings when she drinks, water catching briefly at the split, but her throat is dry enough that she keeps going anyway. “He was out of it. Psych presentation. It wasn’t– nobody did anything wrong.”
Tucker returns from the kitchen with an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel and offers it out with both hands like a peace treaty. “For your face. Or your shoulder. Or… wherever. I don’t know. I’m not the medical one.”
She takes it and immediately loves him a little for the towel. “Thanks, Tuck.”
Logan, reading from the discharge sheet now, says, “It says shoulder strain?”
“Logan.”
“What? It does.”
“Stop reading my lore out loud,” she huffs.
Dean gives her a look. “Your lore says shoulder strain and concussion.”
She lets her eyes close for a moment. “My lore is private.”
“Your lore showed up bleeding on our porch.”
She would like to laugh. She really would. Instead, the corner of her mouth twitches, pain bites through her lip, and her eyes water instantly. “Ow. God. That’s so annoying.”
Garrett’s hand comes up, stops short of her face. His fingers curl in midair before he lets them drop. “Your lip’s split and you’ve still got dried blood under your nose, baby.”
The baby does something terrible to her. It always does, but right now it’s worse because his voice is stripped down to the bone. He’s looking at her like he’s trying to keep himself from shaking by cataloguing every visible injury.
She shrugs with one shoulder and immediately regrets that too. Pain tugs from the side of her neck down into the joint, sharp enough that her breath catches.
Garrett sees it. His jaw flexes. “Don’t shrug.”
“I forgot.”
“How do you forget your shoulder hurts?”
“Concussion,” she says, because if everyone else gets to use it as an explanation, so does she. “It looks worse than it is. Promise. I’m just drained. And foggy. I keep losing my train of thought, which is the rudest symptom. Like, I was mid-sentence with Dr. Patel and just fully misplaced the rest of it.”
Tucker’s mouth softens. “That sounds scary.”
She looks down at the glass in her hands. The condensation has started to wet her fingers. “Mostly annoying.”
She lifts the ice pack toward her face, but her shoulder protests halfway up and makes the movement jerky. Garrett catches the pack before she can pretend she meant to do that.
Her eyes flick to him. “I can hold an ice pack.”
“I know.” His voice is quieter now. He shifts closer, one knee turning toward her on the couch, the wrapped ice pack careful in his hand. “But how many times have you looked after me, huh?”
She has no good answer for that. Too many. Not enough. In locker room hallways, in his bed, on this exact couch with bruises over his ribs while he tried to convince her hockey was a sufficient medical explanation for all bodily damage. She’s pressed ice to his cheek and taped his fingers and made him take painkillers and once threatened to call Maria for backup if he said manageable one more time.
Garrett’s mouth moves faintly, not a smile, but close enough to hurt. “Let me.”
She lets him. Garrett lifts the ice pack to her face with a care that makes her throat tighten, angling it over the bridge of her nose and the swelling beginning to spread under one eye without pressing too hard.
The cold hurts first, a bright, mean sting over bruised skin, then settles into something almost relieving. Her breath comes out shaky despite her best efforts.
“Too much?” he asks.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She shifts her gaze past him because his face is currently unmanageable. Dean and Tucker and Logan are all watching her with varying degrees of poorly concealed worry. Dean looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Logan still has the discharge paper. Tucker has both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie like he doesn’t trust them not to hover. “What?”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“You guys look like this every week and I don’t stare at you.”
Logan snorts, but it comes out thin. “That’s because we’re hot when we’re bruised.”
She manages an eye roll, which is a win. “You’re concussed half the time and deeply irritating the other half.”
“Range,” Dean says automatically.
She points weakly toward the TV with the hand not holding her water. “Relax. Go back to your video games.”
Tucker’s brows pull together. “No, but– but it’s different.”
Her eyes move to him.
He looks briefly embarrassed, then pushes through it anyway. “It’s you.”
Her chest does that awful thing again, too soft and too sore at the same time. She looks down because taking that directly from Tucker feels unfairly intimate, like he’s handed her something warm without warning.
“I’m okay,” she says, and it’s not entirely true, but she tries to make it sound close enough. “Really. I was observed. I had neuro obs. I had scans. No fracture. Nothing’s broken. Just bruised and concussed and mildly tragic.”
“Mildly?” Dean asks.
“Moderately if you keep fucking yelling.”
His face changes instantly. “Sorry.”
The apology is so immediate that she almost smiles again and has to stop herself like a responsible person. “It’s okay.”
Garrett’s hand holding the ice pack is steady. His eyes have barely left her face, and the longer she sits there under that attention, the more she realises he still hasn’t really said anything. Not like Garrett. Not a joke, not an actual question, not one of the bossy little comments that usually lands him in trouble and somehow still gets her to drink water.
His silence has weight. It sits beside her on the couch, pressed into the careful line of his shoulders.
She turns her head just enough to look at him. “You’re being weird.”
His eyes flick to hers. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
His mouth presses together. For a second, he looks younger than he usually does. Less Briar captain, less untouchable campus landmark, more boy on a couch holding an ice pack to a girl’s swollen face with fear making a mess under his skin.
He swallows. “Do you want me to loosen your hair?”
The question is so small and practical that it nearly undoes her. Her hair is still claw-clipped from placement, half-fallen now, strands tugging at her scalp from where it got pulled in the scuffle and then shoved messily back while she was being assessed. She had forgotten about it until he said it, and now she can feel every tight little pull at the roots, all of it feeding into the headache sitting behind her eyes.
“Yes, please,” she says.
Garrett lowers the ice pack and hands it to Tucker without looking. Tucker takes it like an assistant in surgery. Garrett turns slightly toward her, one hand moving behind her head, not touching at first. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“It all hurts.”
His face does something awful.
She softens her voice. “I’ll tell you if it hurts more.”
“Okay.” His fingers find the clip carefully. He’s taken her hair down before, usually with far less medical purpose and far more smugness, but now every motion is slow, almost reverent. The clip gives, and the weight of her hair loosens down her back. The relief is immediate enough that her eyes flutter shut without permission.
Garrett catches that too. “Better?”
“Mhm.”
He combs the fallen strands away from the side of her face with his fingers, avoiding the swelling, avoiding the blood, avoiding every place that might make her flinch. His thumb brushes once near her temple, feather-light.
She opens her eyes and finds him looking at her. “I’m okay,” she says again, quieter this time. “Really.”
Garrett doesn’t argue. That might be worse. He only nods once and takes the ice pack back from Tucker, pressing it carefully to her face again.
For a while, the room adjusts around her. Dean sits back down, but he doesn’t pick up the controller. Tucker goes to the kitchen and returns with a straw for her water like a man who’s discovered a side quest and intends to complete it properly. Logan reads the discharge instructions twice, then starts setting alarms on his phone without announcing it, because subtlety, in this house, is sometimes just everyone pretending they cannot see love doing administrative tasks in sweatpants.
She drinks water through the straw because lifting the glass is annoying and because nobody makes a thing of it. Garrett keeps the ice pack steady. Every so often, he asks a question in a voice too even to be casual. Headache worse? Nausea? Vision okay? She answers as best she can. Same. Little bit. Yeah, mostly.
When Dean shifts too fast and the couch creaks, he freezes like he’s committed assault by upholstery. That makes her huff something dangerously close to a laugh, and Garrett immediately murmurs, “Careful,” like her face is now a team responsibility.
The fogginess comes in waves. Sometimes she’s fully in the room, tracking Dean’s quiet rage and Tucker’s gentle fussing and Logan’s forced calm. Sometimes the edges blur a little, slow, like her thoughts are moving through syrup. Garrett’s thigh is warm against her curled legs. His arm rests along the back of the couch behind her, a soft barrier between her and the world.
She leans into him by degrees until her shoulder touches his chest and her head tips carefully toward the place beneath his jaw that smells like soap and boy and safety.
She doesn’t mean to get sleepy. She has discharge instructions that say she can sleep, she knows that, but the idea of giving in with everyone watching feels embarrassing in a new, stupid direction. Still, her eyelids grow heavy. The headache spreads and dulls under the cold. The room is dim. The boys are quiet. Garrett is warm.
At some point, Dean says softly, “You want me to call Lucy or someone?”
She tries to answer. The name gets halfway through her head and then wanders off. “Tomorrow,” she murmurs.
“Okay,” Dean says, and for once there’s no joke attached.
Garrett shifts beside her. “Baby?”
She makes a small sound that could mean what or I’m alive or don’t make me move, depending on how generous he feels.
“You getting sleepy?”
“No.”
There’s a pause.
Logan says, very quietly, “That was the least convincing thing I’ve ever heard.”
She opens one eye to glare at him, but the room tilts slightly with the effort, so she closes it again. “Your face is least convincing.”
“Strong comeback.”
“Thank you.”
Garrett’s lips brush her hair. It’s quick, maybe accidental, except nothing Garrett does with her feels accidental anymore, no matter how hard both of them have tried to label it otherwise. “I’m gonna take you upstairs, okay?”
Her eyes open properly at that, or as properly as they can. “I can walk.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that and then doing the thing for me anyway.”
His mouth curves faintly for the first time all night. It’s tiny and tired and painfully Garrett. “Yeah.”
She should argue. She’s built a respectable portion of this entire situationship on arguing with Garrett Graham while letting him do exactly what she wants him to do. But her shoulder aches, her face throbs, and her legs feel like they belong to somebody who’s spent the day being chased by weather.
More than that, she wants him. She wants his hands steady under her thighs, his chest close, his room dark and warm around them. She wants to stop being the student who got hurt and start being the girl Garrett carries upstairs because the floor feels too far away.
“Okay,” she whispers.
Dean looks at the TV like he’s never been interested in anything more. Tucker suddenly finds the water glass fascinating. Logan folds the discharge papers with great concentration. Nobody says a word.
Garrett slides one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees with the same careful strength he uses for everything he takes seriously. “Shoulder?”
“Fine.”
His eyes flick to hers.
“Not worse,” she corrects.
He nods once and lifts her.
It does hurt, a little. Her shoulder pulls, her head pulses, and the movement makes nausea roll faintly through her stomach. But Garrett holds her so close and so steadily that the discomfort never gets sharp enough to scare her. Her hand curls in the front of his shirt, her face turning carefully toward his neck because pressing into his chest would bump her nose and she’s learned at least one thing tonight.
Dean’s voice follows them, low and rough from the couch. “G.”
Garrett stops at the foot of the stairs but doesn’t turn fully, like turning her too much might hurt.
Dean’s eyes move over her once, then to Garrett. Whatever he’d been about to say gets swallowed down and changed into something smaller. “We’re downstairs if you need anything.”
Garrett’s hold tightens by a fraction. “Yeah.”
Tucker adds, “I’ll bring up more ice in a bit.”
“And meds when she’s due,” Logan says, lifting the papers slightly.
She wants to tell them they’re all being ridiculous. She wants to say she’s fine, to make some joke about the Briar hockey team turning into a poorly licensed urgent care clinic. But her throat feels thick, and her eyes sting in a way that has nothing to do with the swelling, and for once the joke doesn’t come quickly enough to save her from feeling it.
So she only says, “Thanks, guys.”
Dean nods, jaw tight. Tucker gives her a small, worried smile. Logan says, “Anytime,” like he means it and hates that there’s a reason to.
Garrett carries her upstairs slowly. The stairwell is dim, the house clutter softened into shadows: a hoodie over the railing, someone’s shoes kicked near the landing, a dent in the wall nobody has confessed to making.
His breathing is steady beneath her ear. His arms don’t shift, don’t tremble, don’t let her feel for one second like she’s heavy or inconvenient or anything other than something he’s decided belongs safely against him.
Halfway up, she murmurs, “Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re still being weird.”
This time, his breath leaves him in something almost like a laugh. It brushes warm over her hair. “Yeah, baby,” he says, voice low enough that it belongs only to the stairs and the dark and the careful space between them. “I know.”
His room is already dim when he gets there, like he’d been in it before everything happened and left the lamp on low beside the bed, the shade turning the walls a warm, soft yellow that doesn’t stab behind her eyes.
The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of cold air, shifting the edge of the curtain and carrying in the far-off sound of campus on a weeknight, car doors and laughter and somebody shouting down the street like the world has not personally offended her face.
Garrett nudges the door open with his shoulder and steps inside carefully, like the room might have developed hazards in the ten minutes since he last saw it. One of his hoodies is thrown over the desk chair. There’s a textbook facedown on the bed that he must have been pretending to read earlier, a roll of hockey tape on the nightstand, his phone charger twisted into a knot on the floor.
The ordinary mess of him sits around them so gently that it makes something behind her ribs go weak. His room. His bed. His detergent and the clean soap smell of his skin under the faint cold of the hallway.
For the first time since the bay, since the rail, since the white burst of pain and Maria’s hand firm between her shoulder blades, her body seems to understand that it’s stopped moving.
Garrett lowers her onto the edge of the mattress with so much care it almost becomes annoying. One arm stays behind her back until she’s properly sitting, the other at her knees, and even after he lets go he keeps his hands there for a second, hovering near her like he’s not fully convinced gravity has been handled.
She blinks down at him because he’s crouched in front of her now, broad shoulders between her knees, face tipped up, eyes moving over her again with that same awful, quiet attention.
She can feel what he’s seeing before he says anything. The blood dried tight beneath her nose. The swelling already darkening around the bridge of it. The split in her lip, tacky and sore. Mascara smudged under both eyes from the crying she doesn’t remember allowing herself to do properly, only the wetness and the sting and Maria saying, breathe for me, honey, nice and slow.
Garrett swallows. His hands rest lightly on her calves, thumbs still. “Did you want to wipe your face?” he asks, voice careful. “You’ve got, uh…” His eyes flick down, then back up, and his mouth tightens around something he doesn’t let out. “Some mascara under your eyes. And some blood still.”
She knows he’s trying very hard not to sound like the sight of it is putting his organs in the wrong order. She loves him a little for the effort, which is a thought she cannot touch right now because her brain is concussed and reckless and clearly looking for loaded weapons.
She nods once, then immediately remembers that nodding is no longer a neutral activity. The headache flares behind her eyes, thick and punishing. “Ow,” she says, small and irritated.
Garrett’s hands tighten on her legs. “Hey.”
“I’m good.” Her tongue touches the split in her lip and she tastes metal again. “Can you?”
His face changes. Barely. A little fracture through the tight worry, something softer underneath it. “Course.”
He stands, and the second his hands leave her, her body reacts before her mind catches up. Her fingers snag in the hem of his t-shirt, clumsy and sudden, and the movement pulls through her bad shoulder so sharply that a soft, wounded sound slips out of her before she can bite it down.
Garrett freezes instantly. Entire body going still. “Hey. Hey, you’re good.” He turns back toward her, one hand coming carefully to her wrist, covering her fingers where they’re twisted in his shirt. “I’m just going to the hallway, yeah? Bathroom’s right there. Two seconds.”
She knows that. Obviously she knows that. She’s been in this house enough times to know the bathroom is six steps from his door and usually contains at least one towel on the floor and Dean’s body wash in a place where it doesn’t belong. She knows Garrett’s not leaving. She knows the door is open, the house is full, Logan’s downstairs reading concussion instructions like the exam is tomorrow.
Still, her fingers don’t let go right away.
Her head hurts. Her mouth hurts. Her shoulder is a hot, sharp line down one side of her body. And the small, rational part of her brain that usually handles dignity and sarcasm is sitting in a dark room somewhere with a blanket over its head, because all she can think is that she wants him where she can reach him.
Garrett’s thumb moves once over her knuckles. “I’ll keep the door open.”
She nods more carefully this time. “Okay.”
He waits until her fingers loosen, then steps backward instead of turning right away, eyes on her the whole time. It would be funny, maybe, if it didn’t work. If she didn’t feel her ribs unclench slightly because she can still see him, because he backs into the hallway like she’s a wild animal he’s trying not to spook and not a nursing student with blood under her nose and one of his sleeves somewhere in her fist.
He disappears only when he reaches the bathroom, and even then he keeps talking. “Still here,” he says, and the water starts a second later, soft against porcelain. “Just getting a washcloth.”
“I know,” she calls back, then winces because even her own voice feels too loud inside her skull.
Garrett comes back with the washcloth damp and folded in one hand. His other hand shuts the door halfway, enough to soften the rest of the house into a distant murmur. The mattress dips when he sits beside her, turned toward her with one knee bent on the bed.
He smells like clean skin and laundry and something faintly sweet from the kitchen downstairs, and she has to swallow around the childish, humiliating urge to press her face into his chest and stay there until her body stops feeling like it has been borrowed from a car crash.
“Here we go,” he says.
The cloth touches just beneath her eye first.
She stiffens on instinct, because everything has hurt tonight and her body is no longer trusting innocent objects, but Garrett pauses immediately. “Too cold?”
“No.” Her voice comes out thinner than she likes. “Just surprised.”
“Okay.” His face stays close, intent in a way that would normally make her flustered for more interesting reasons. “I’ll go slow.”
He does. He wipes the smudged mascara from beneath one eye with feather-light strokes, the washcloth barely dragging over skin, then folds it to a clean corner and does the other side. He works like he has been given something fragile and a little dangerous. Like every movement is being negotiated with the injuries on her face and the dull heaviness behind her eyes.
His jaw flexes when the cloth comes away grey-black with makeup and faintly pink with old blood, but he doesn’t comment. He only turns it again and brings it to the place under her nose.
“That might hurt,” he murmurs.
“It already hurts.”
His eyes lift to hers. “Yeah.”
She looks down at his wrist, at the veins there, at the old tape mark near his thumb, at the little scrape over one knuckle from practice or a game or some Garrett-related misuse of his own body. Usually she would notice and ask. Usually she would press her thumb near it and say, what’s this? and he would say, nothing, and she would call him annoying and make him let her look anyway.
Tonight she just watches his hand hold the cloth and lets him clean the blood away. The dried parts tug where they have hardened on her skin, and she sucks in a breath through her mouth when the washcloth brushes too close to the swelling at the bridge of her nose.
Garrett stops every time, waits for the little movement of her fingers in his shirt to settle, then continues. He wipes around the split in her lip last, his mouth flattening when fresh blood beads at the edge.
“You’re gonna bruise like hell,” he says, almost to himself.
She tries not to smile. It becomes a tiny, crooked thing anyway and immediately hurts. “Hot.”
His eyes flick back to hers, and for the first time since she arrived, something almost like Garrett moves across his face. Small. Tired. There and gone. “Yeah, baby. Real intimidating.”
“Good. I’ve always wanted to look tough.”
“You already look tough.”
“That’s because you have questionable standards.”
“No,” he says, and the softness in it makes her look away first. “I don’t.”
The room goes quiet except for the dull throb of the house underneath them, the creak of something downstairs, Logan or Dean moving around, the low murmur of the boys trying and failing not to sound worried through the floor. Garrett folds the washcloth over itself and sets it on the nightstand, then looks down at the rest of her.
The hoodie Maria put on her is zipped to her collarbone, dark fabric stained rusty near the cuff where she must have touched her face. Her scrub pants are still on, wrinkled and creased from the shift, one knee smudged faintly with something she refuses to identify. There is a hospital sticker on her shoe that nobody noticed until now, bright and stupid and stuck to the edge of the sole.
Garrett’s gaze catches on the blood at her sleeve. “You want out of these scrub pants?” he asks quietly. “And your hoodie has blood on it, baby.”
She looks down, as if this is new information. Her brain takes a second to make sense of the stain. “Oh.”
“It’s okay.”
“Yeah,” she says after a moment. Then, because the word seems to have scraped something loose on the way out, she adds, “Sorry.”
Garrett’s head lifts. “Why the fuck are you sorry?”
The sharpness of it makes her blink. He says it too quietly, all the force held under his tongue. But it lands somewhere tender anyway. She presses her lips together and immediately regrets that too. “Ow.”
Garrett’s expression softens, but his eyes stay fixed on her. Waiting.
She sighs, and it comes out shaky enough that she would like to file a formal complaint with her nervous system. “Because you…” The thought keeps slipping. She can see it, vaguely, but reaching for it makes her head pulse harder. “You didn’t sign up for this. I should’ve gotten Lucy or Monique. Or stayed with Maria, or– I don’t know.”
“No.” Garrett shakes his head once, and then stops himself, like maybe he’s remembered that head movement isn’t anyone’s friend right now. His hand comes to the side of her face, careful of the bruising, thumb brushing just below her temple where the skin is untouched. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re apologising for coming here.”
Her throat tightens. She looks at his shoulder because his face is too close and too much and still not close enough. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”
“Had to what?”
“Look after me.”
For a second, he only stares at her. Then he exhales through his nose, rough and almost disbelieving, and his fingers slide into her hair at the side of her head, holding it back from her face like the gesture can stand in for all the things he’s trying not to say too fast or wrong. “You think I’m sitting here because I feel obligated?”
She has the very strong, very pathetic urge to cry, which is inconvenient because crying would involve her face. “I don’t know.”
“Baby.”
She closes her eyes.
“Hey.” His thumb moves once. “Look at me.”
She does, reluctantly, because Garrett’s voice has gone into that low place that usually gets him what he wants and because her resistance is currently running on fumes.
His face is steadier now. Still pale underneath the warm lamplight, still tight around the edges, but steady in the places he’s offering to her. “I want you here.”
Her breath catches around something that hurts in a completely separate way from her nose. “Are we…” She stops, partly because the sentence is embarrassing and partly because she loses the middle of it for a second. The fog rolls in, cottony and irritating. She blinks, and Garrett waits. He doesn’t hurry her. Doesn’t fill the gap with a joke. Just keeps his hand at her face until she finds the rest. “Are we okay?”
His expression breaks so gently it makes her chest ache. “Course we are.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He brushes her hair back again, knuckles barely grazing the side of her neck. “We’re okay.”
She nods carefully. A tiny movement. “Good.”
Garrett’s mouth lifts at one corner, soft and sad and warm all at once. “Good?”
“Yeah.” Her fingers curl in his shirt again. This time, she doesn’t pull. “Because I really…” She swallows. Her throat is dry. Her head is thick. The truth comes out before she can dress it up in something safer. “I just wanted you.”
Something in him goes still. A held breath somewhere in the centre of him, then he nods, and the smile that comes with it is small enough that it feels private, even with the door half open and the boys downstairs and the whole house softly rearranged around her injury. “I know the feeling.”
She sniffs, because her body is committed to making the worst possible choices, and pain snaps up through her nose so sharply her eyes water. “Ow. Fuck.” She presses two fingers near the side of her face. “You do?”
Garrett’s smile shifts. “You want me to say it again while you look like you’re about to sneeze blood?”
“Maybe.”
“I know the feeling,” he says, and this time he doesn’t look away. “Because who better to nurse me back to health than you, huh?”
The laugh that escapes her is tiny and breathless and immediately followed by a wince, but it’s real. “I’m not even good at it today.”
“That’s okay.” He leans in and kisses the top of her head, nowhere near the bruising, lips warm against her hair. “I’ll cover this one.”
He gets up slowly this time, one hand staying in hers until the last possible second, then moves to his dresser. She watches him pull open drawers.
He finds a pair of grey sweatpants first, soft and old and definitely his, then a zip-up hoodie because it will not need to go over her head. She can see the moment he chooses it for that reason. The little pause, the glance back at her shoulder, the jaw tight enough to tell on him.
When he comes back, the clothes folded over his arm, he crouches in front of her again. “Alright. We’ll do this slow, okay?”
She nods, then corrects it into a verbal answer before her head can punish her. “Okay.”
“Pants first.”
“Romantic.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m known for it.”
He helps her stand only as much as she needs, one hand at her good elbow, the other at her waist. The room sways faintly when she gets upright, unpleasantly loose at the edges, and Garrett’s hand firms at once. “Dizzy?”
“Little bit.”
“Sit?”
“No, I’m good. Just…” She looks down at the drawstring of her scrub pants, then at him. “This is a very low dignity moment for me.”
Garrett’s gaze flicks up, and there it is again, the smallest spark of him through the worry. “Baby, you’ve fallen asleep drooling on my chest after telling me I had slutty veins.”
She frowns. “I said that?”
“You did.”
“That does sound like me,” she accepts.
“Exactly. Dignity’s been dead.”
She huffs, almost laughing, and he helps ease the scrub pants down her legs without making a production of it. Nothing in his face changes in the way that would make her feel watched, despite the fact that he’s, technically, undressing her in his bedroom.
His touch stays practical, warm, almost painfully respectful. He holds the sweatpants open for her one leg at a time, keeps a hand at her hip while she steps in, then draws them up slowly over her thighs.
They’re too big, of course. They sit low on her hips and pool at her ankles in a way that would be funny if everything didn’t hurt. Garrett ties the drawstring in a loose knot and pats it once.
“There,” he says. “Very fashionable.”
“Shut up. I’m concussed.”
“I know. That’s why I’m letting you get away with that tone.”
Her mouth threatens a smile, so she bites it back and looks down at herself instead. The hoodie is next. Garrett reaches for the zipper, then stops. “Where’s the top?”
She blinks at him. “What?”
“Your scrub top.” His voice stays even, but not naturally.
Her mind searches the department and comes back with torn fabric, scissors, someone’s gloved hands. “Um.” She rubs her fingers against the seam of his sweatpants, trying to make the thought stay still long enough to look at it. “Um. Bag. Maybe. They had to cut it off, I think.”
Garrett’s jaw tenses. It’s quick. A muscle jumping once, his mouth going flat, his eyes dropping away from her face for half a second like he needs to put the reaction somewhere she can’t see it. But she sees it anyway. She’s concussed, not blind.
When he looks back up, he’s forced something lighter onto his face. It’s not quite convincing, but the attempt is so Garrett it makes her ache.
“Damn,” he says. “Liked that pair.”
She stares at him. “Pair?”
“Set. Outfit. Whatever.” He lifts one shoulder, careful to keep his voice mild. “Made your ass look great.”
The giggle escapes before she can stop it. Immediately, pain blooms across her lip and nose, and she presses her fingers to her mouth with a muffled, “Ow. Don’t flirt with the concussed.”
Garrett’s smile is barely there, but warmer this time. “Can’t help it.”
“You should try.”
“I’ve been trying for months. Terrible at it.”
That one sits in the room longer than it should. Her eyes lift to his, and for a second, neither of them moves. Then Garrett clears his throat softly and reaches for the zipper of her hoodie.
“This one’s gonna suck,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
That’s somehow worse than if he had lied. “Okay.”
He unzips the bloodstained hoodie slowly, easing one side down her good arm first. That part is fine, or close enough. The bad shoulder is different. Even with the zip-up, even with him going painfully slowly, the fabric drags over the sore joint and catches near her elbow, and the strain of lifting even a fraction sends pain snapping hot and deep through her shoulder and up the side of her neck.
She makes a sound she hates. Small and broken enough that Garrett’s whole face changes.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he murmurs immediately. His hands freeze, one holding the fabric, the other at her waist. “I’ve got it. You’re okay. Don’t move.”
Her eyes burn fast. Too fast. The pain isn’t even the worst she has felt tonight, which somehow makes crying more insulting, like her body has chosen this as the point to become unreasonable. A few tears slip out anyway, hot and humiliating over her swollen cheeks.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
Garrett’s eyes flash. “Do not.”
“I know. I know, I’m just–” Her breath catches in that horrible little pre-sob way, and her face hurts too much to do anything with it. “It hurts.”
“I know.” His voice drops, low and steady. He shifts closer, bracing her gently with his own body while he works the sleeve down by tiny increments. “I know. I’m sorry. Almost done. There you go. Good girl. That’s it.”
The praise lands somewhere stupid and warm under all the pain, and she would make fun of him for weaponising it if she were not currently trying not to cry into his shirt. The hoodie finally comes free, and Garrett gets his zip-up around her without making her lift her arm higher than necessary, guiding the sore side in first, then the other, then drawing the soft fabric closed around her body. It smells like him immediately. Clean laundry, cold rink air, skin.
The relief of being out of the hospital clothes hits harder than she expects. She folds forward into him.
Garrett catches her like he has been waiting for it, one arm firm around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head before she can tip into the wrong angle. “There we go,” he murmurs into her hair. “Got you.”
She nods against him, but it’s barely a movement. “Hurts.”
“I know, baby.”
“I’m being a baby.”
“No.” His hand spreads over her back, broad and warm through the hoodie. “You’re being concussed with a fucked-up shoulder.”
She breathes against him for another minute, letting the warmth of him settle over the sharper edges. His heart is steady under her cheek. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe that’s just what she needs it to be. Either way, his arms stay around her until her breathing evens out, until the tears stop sliding hot under her eyes, until she can pull back without feeling like she might tip sideways into the nightstand.
Garrett helps her lie down against his pillows. He has her on her back at first, then adjusts when she makes a face, turning her slightly onto her good side with slow hands and a pillow tucked near her shoulder so it isn’t pulling strangely. He moves like he’s learning her injury as he goes, like the map of her pain matters enough to memorise. It makes something soft and sore press up behind her ribs.
When he climbs in beside her, he doesn’t pull her in immediately. He waits, lying on his side facing her, one arm bent under his head, the other resting near the blanket between them. Giving her space to decide how much contact feels possible. Which is very considerate of him and also deeply annoying because she has no interest in space.
She curls into him as best she can, awkwardly, her bad shoulder protected between them, her forehead carefully finding the safe hollow below his collarbone. Garrett lets out a breath that sounds like he has been holding it since the front door.
“There,” he says softly. “That okay?”
“Mhm.”
His hand comes to her hair again. Fingers sliding slowly from her temple back over her scalp, loosening what the clip and the shift and the panic left behind. The motion sends a dull, pleasant ache through her, somewhere under the headache, a different kind of heaviness.
She sighs before she can stop herself. “Feels nice.”
Garrett’s thumb moves near her hairline. “I’ll keep doing it then.”
She lets her eyes close.
For a while, the room stays still around them. The lamp glows behind her eyelids. The house below makes small, careful sounds, a cabinet closing softly, footsteps pausing in the hallway and then retreating, the quiet evidence of three hockey players trying very hard to be normal about the girl in Garrett’s bed with a concussion.
Her head throbs anyway, steady and deep. Her lip pulses. Her shoulder aches in its own miserable rhythm. But Garrett’s hand keeps moving through her hair, slow enough that her breathing starts to follow it.
She’s almost asleep, or something near it, when Garrett speaks. “What happened?”
His voice is quiet. He asks like he’s been holding the question in both hands for too long and needs to set it somewhere.
She opens her eyes to the dark cotton of his shirt. Her brain takes a few seconds to come back online. She breathes out slowly through her mouth because her nose is still a disaster.
The memory is there at once, too close and too bright around the edges, and her body reacts to it before the words arrive. Fingers curling lightly in the front of his shirt. Shoulder tightening, then complaining. The ghost of the rail coming up fast.
Garrett’s hand pauses in her hair. “You don’t have to.”
“No.” Her voice is quiet. “It’s okay.”
He starts moving his hand again, slower now.
“It was a psych patient,” she says. “He was really agitated. Not like… violent, at first. Just scared, I think. Curled in on himself, wouldn’t really let anyone near him. Maria was with me. We were trying to keep the room calm, but the ED was so busy and loud and everyone was stretched thin, and he just…” She stops, trying to find the order of it. Everything feels slippery when she looks too directly. “He lashed out. His elbow got me in the face. Accidentally, I think.”
Garrett’s chest goes very still under her cheek.
“And I cried out,” she continues. “I don’t know. It just hurt and it surprised me, and I think that freaked him out more. Or the noise did. Or maybe he just didn’t know what was happening.” She swallows. Her throat feels raw. “He grabbed my scrub top before I could move back. Pulled me forward. My nose hit the bed rail. Or my mouth did. I’m not sure. It happened really fast.”
Garrett’s arm tightens around her, then loosens immediately like he’s afraid of hurting her. His hand remains in her hair, but the fingers have gone still.
“Security came in,” she says. “Another nurse pulled me back. Steph, I think. Or maybe Maria. Both, maybe. I don’t know. I remember Maria saying my name a lot.” She looks down between them, though there is nothing to see but the dark fold of his shirt and the edge of his hoodie on her body. “He didn’t mean it.”
Garrett is quiet for long enough that she starts to wonder if he has stopped breathing.
Then he says, “You keep saying that.”
“He didn’t.”
“I know.” His voice is rough, scraped thin at the edges. “I know he didn’t, baby. I just…” He takes a breath. It moves carefully through his chest. “You got hurt anyway.”
The words land with the same awful simplicity as Maria’s had in the car. That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt. She closes her eyes, because everyone has decided to be kind in the exact way she cannot defend against.
“I know,” she whispers.
Garrett’s hand finally moves again, fingers sliding over her scalp, then down to the nape of her neck where he can touch without brushing bruised skin. “Is this how you feel?”
She opens her eyes. “What?”
“When I come home after a game all bruised and shit.” He shifts just enough that she can feel him looking down at her, though she doesn’t lift her head to meet it yet. “Is this what it feels like?”
A tiny breath leaves her. Not quite a laugh. More tired than that. “You mean do I also go weird and silent and look like I might throw up?”
“Yeah.”
“Then yeah.” Her fingers smooth over the fabric of his shirt because she needs something small to do. “Kind of, I guess.”
Garrett doesn’t answer.
She turns her face slightly, enough to look at the line of his jaw in the low light. He’s staring at the wall beyond her head, mouth set, brows drawn, hair falling messily over his forehead. He looks angry and young and helpless, which is such a strange combination on him that it makes her chest ache.
“It’s different,” she says softly. “You’re playing a game you love. You know the risks. I know that. And you guys are all… insane about pain, which I’ve accepted against my will.”
His mouth twitches without humour.
“But I don’t enjoy seeing you hurt.” Her voice goes quieter around the admission. “Even when it’s normal hockey hurt. Even when you’re smug about it and standing in the kitchen telling me it’s fine while your ribs look like someone used you as a doorstop. It still makes my stomach feel weird.”
Garrett’s eyes come down to her then. She tries to hold the look for a second and manages maybe half. His attention is too raw tonight. Too stripped of the things he usually wears over it.
“I know you’re tough,” she says, looking at his collar instead. “I know you can take it. I know half the time you think me worrying is funny or hot or both, because you have a very damaged sense of romance.”
“That’s fair.”
“But I still…” She frowns slightly, the thought losing shape, then finding it again. “I still hate it. Not because I think you’re weak. Because you’re not. Obviously. It’s just your body, you know? And I like your body.”
Garrett’s eyebrows lift faintly.
She narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to become insufferable.”
“Maybe a little.”
“I have a concussion. Be kind.”
His face softens again, the almost-tease folding back into something warmer. “I’m being so kind.”
“You’re doing okay.”
“Glowing review.”
She breathes out through her mouth, and for a moment the room feels almost normal. Almost. Garrett’s hand in her hair. His chest under her cheek. The two of them managing to find the familiar shape of each other even through the bruising and the blood and the fear still sitting somewhere near the foot of the bed.
Then Garrett’s thumb brushes the side of her head again, light and careful, and his voice drops. “I hated seeing you like that.”
She looks at him this time.
He doesn’t look away. His eyes are dark in the low light, all the usual teasing stripped out of them. “At the door,” he says. “I hated it.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” His mouth tightens, then releases. “You were standing there with blood on your face and Maria next to you and you looked at me like you were sorry. Like I was gonna be upset that you came here.”
Her throat works. “I didn’t want to be too much.”
Garrett makes a sound under his breath, small and rough. “You got hurt.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re allowed to be too much.”
The sentence is so simple it feels dangerous. Her eyes sting again, and she presses her face carefully into his chest before the tears can do anything stupid to her already stupid face.
Garrett’s arm comes around her, careful of her shoulder, his hand settling between her shoulder blades where he can hold without hurting. “Especially here,” he murmurs into her hair. “Especially with me.”
She doesn’t answer. She can’t, really. Not without crying, and crying hurts, and she’s tired of things hurting. So she only curls her fingers more tightly in his shirt and lets him keep his hand in her hair.
After a while, she says, very quietly, “I’m really tired.”
“I know.” Garrett kisses the top of her head. “You can sleep.”
“Logan set alarms.”
“Of course Logan set alarms.”
She manages the faintest smile. “He looked very serious.”
“He loves a protocol.”
“He does have the head injury experience.”
Garrett huffs a soft laugh against her hair, the sound loosening something in the dark. “Unfortunately.”
She lets her eyes close again. The headache is still there. The bruising is still swelling around her nose, hot and heavy. Her shoulder still aches beneath his hoodie. None of it has gone away.
But Garrett’s fingers keep moving through her hair, and his body is warm where hers has gone cold and wrung out, and downstairs the boys are quiet in a way that makes the whole house feel like it is holding its breath around her.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“If I say something weird, it’s the concussion.”
His hand pauses for half a second. “Okay.”
“And if I say something nice.”
His mouth brushes her hair. “Also concussion?”
“Probably.”
“Got it.”
She’s quiet long enough that he likely thinks she’s drifted off. Maybe she has, a little. The edge of sleep is soft and close, pulling at the corners of the room, blurring the pain into something thick and manageable. Then she murmurs, “You’re good at this.”
Garrett’s chest rises slowly beneath her cheek. “At what?”
“Looking after me.”
His fingers resume their movement through her hair, slower than before. “Yeah?”
“Mm.”
His voice, when it comes, is barely more than warmth in the dark. “Only because you taught me how.”
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2.) “You lost the baby.” “It’s a fake baby.” “That’s not the point!”
Dean Di Laurentis x Reader
When you signed up for Introduction to Child Development to fulfill a specific credit requirement you thought it would be an easy grade. At least that’s what everyone said, so naturally when your boyfriend needed the same specific credit requirement you’d convinced him to take the class with you.
“I thought you said this was going to be easy.” Dean whispers. You stare at the fake plastics babies at the front of the class.
“Apparently, I was lied to.” You say under your breath.
“I’ll give you the luxury of choosing your own partner, considering that’s generally how it works in procreation.” The professor says. A weak wave of laughter rolls through the classroom. Dean grabs your chair pulling you closer to him, if that’s even possible.
“Got my baby mama!” He announces to the class.
The first few days aren’t so bad, your fake baby, who Dean has affectionately given the name Deana doesn’t cry too often and when she does you just stick the key in her back and get her to stop. It’s nothing like a real baby.
“Babe, I have an exam today I can’t take her with me.” You say, grabbing your bag and heading down the stairs.
“I have practice!” Dean says. Garrett rolls his eyes.
“No he doesn’t, it’s media day, he can stick it in his locker and get it if it alarms.” Garrett says referring to the plastic baby like a bomb.
“I thought media day was tomorrow?” Dean says. “On Thursday?”
“Dude. It is Thursday.” Garrett says patting him on the shoulder. Dean thinks for a second.
“Huh.” He says. “Okay I can take her.” He says, you sigh handing him over the fake baby.
“Please don’t do anything stupid, and don’t shake her, it has a monitor in there.” You say.
“Are you questioning my parenting abilities?” He asks feigning offense. You stare at him.
“Dean, you forgot what day of the week it was. Yes I’m questioning your parenting abilities. In fact I’m questioning your self care abilities.” You say exasperatedly. You turn to Garrett, “is it actually safe to leave him unsupervised?”
“Jury’s still out.” Garrett says. You laugh, pressing a kiss to Dean’s cheek before heading to your exam.
The exam goes well. Your day has been going great actually until you get a text from Dean.
Dean 💙🏒: so, hypothetically how mad would you be if I lost the baby???
You:
Dean 💙🏒: that seems like pretty mad…
You: please tell me you’re joking 🙃
Dean 💙🏒: …
You meet Dean outside of the rink.
“Are you serious right now!” You shriek, worried about your grade.
“I’m sure she’ll turn up.” Dean shrugs.
“You lost the baby!” You exclaim, causing a few students to turn their heads your way.
“It’s a fake baby!” Dean reasons.
“That is not the point!” You say face palming yourself.
Your phone dings at the exact time Dean’s does.
Hannah 🎶: attachment: 1 image
You open the text to see your fake baby riding in the back of Garrett’s Jeep.
Dean 💙🏒: for the love of God, put her seatbelt on
You: oh thank goodness, I was afraid she was gone for good
Garrett 🏒: I’m reporting you to the Department of Fake Family Services.
Dean 💙🏒: you can’t take her from us she’s the light of my life! 😫
You: for real though can you bring the baby back I don’t want to fail this class 🤣
Garrett 🏒: She’s thriving. You’re just jealous she prefers her cooler god-parents.
Hannah🎶: We’ll return her after ice cream.
You: She is made of plastic, Hannah.
Hannah 🎶: And yet she’s having the best day of her life.
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – garrett is late, the hockey house is loud, and trusting him again feels harder than it used to. luckily, he arrives ready to grovel.
warnings – hurt/comfort, anxious thoughts, relationship tension, trust issues, emotional repair, hockey house chaos.
notes from me – based on these asks!!! thank u my loves, we're officially in post-nine days territory!!!!
word count – 7.6k
navigation – masterlist |
The first bad feeling arrives before she can talk herself out of it. It’s stupid, probably. Premature. Fully unfair, considering Garrett Graham isn’t contractually required to be standing at the door like some kind of emotionally available golden retriever just because he told her to come over before her shift.
But the hockey house is warm and loud in that familiar, badly insulated way when she lets herself in, but Garrett’s voice isn’t one of the voices inside, and something under her ribs does this small, ugly drop before her brain can catch it.
Not again, her body says, dramatic and unhelpful.
Her brain, which has survived pharmacology and several hospital bathrooms with suspicious floor puddles, tries to be rational.
He’s probably in the shower. He’s probably upstairs. He’s probably doing one of the ninety-seven hockey-related things that make up his life and not, actually, recreating the worst nine days of her recent emotional history for sport.
Still, her fingers tighten around the strap of her backpack as she toes the door shut behind her, the winter air clinging to the back of her neck where her puffer jacket doesn’t quite cover.
She stands in the entryway for half a second too long, scrubs wrinkling at the knees from the bus ride over, badge clipped to her pocket, hair pulled back in a claw clip that had seemed stable three hours ago and has since started half falling out.
“Garrett?” she calls, and tries very hard not to sound like the word matters.
No answer.
From the kitchen, Tucker’s head appears around the corner. He’s wearing a faded Briar t-shirt, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder, and the slightly stressed expression of a man trying to feed four athletes before someone starts eating cereal directly from the box again.
“Hey,” he says, then immediately softens like he’s remembered he’s been entrusted with a fragile object and not just a message. “He’s not back yet, sorry. Coach called him in for a meeting after practice.”
“Oh.” Her hand slides down the backpack strap, readjusting for no real reason. “Right. Okay.”
“He wanted us to let you know when you got here that…” Tucker squints toward the ceiling like Garrett’s exact wording might be written there in moisture damage. “Uh. What did he say? Oh. He’s sorry, and he didn’t have time to text, but he will drive you tonight, definitely, and he’ll be here as soon as he can.”
The relief is embarrassing because it doesn’t feel like relief at first. It feels like her throat loosening too quickly. Like a bruise being pressed and then not pressed. Like she’s been carrying a tray with too many little glass things on it and someone has finally said, careful, I see it.
She nods, already making her face do something casual. “Okay. Thanks.”
Tucker watches her for one second, observant in the quietly competent way he gets when he’s cooking or cleaning blood off a counter after Dean decides to cook. Then he gestures toward the kitchen with his spoon. “You can come in. It’s warmer in here.”
“I was going to,” she says, because saying thank you would feel too naked for the size of the moment. “I’m just… slowly removing outerwear first.”
Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, all good."
The jacket is huge and black and makes a soft shushing sound as she folds it over the back of a chair near the dining table. Her backpack lands beside it with a heavier thump, full of placement notes, a stethoscope, three pens that may or may not work, and the kind of granola bar she keeps buying despite the fact that it tastes vaguely of compressed drywall.
The kitchen smells incredible. Warm oil, garlic, something lemony, rice steaming on the stove, chicken browning in a pan with enough seasoning that it feels like the whole house has briefly become a functional domestic environment.
She steps in properly and leans against the edge of the counter, watching Tucker move between stove and chopping board with efficient little adjustments of heat, towel, spoon, pan. “What're you making?”
“Chicken bowls,” he says. “Rice, vegetables, some yogurt sauce thing. High protein, high carbs, low chance of Logan saying he’s starving again in forty minutes.”
“So, science.”
“So, self-defence.”
She smiles before she can stop herself. “Smells amazing.”
“Yeah?” Tucker glances toward the cutting board, where half a capsicum sits beside a cucumber and a pile of herbs. “You mind cutting that up for me? Little cubes.”
She moves to the sink, pushing up her sleeves. “Little cubes I can do.”
Her hands know the routine before her head fully catches up. Soap. Warm water over wrists, between fingers, under nails. Twenty seconds because hospital habits follow her into every kitchen now, because the line between clinical and normal has started blurring in ways that made Logan once say she washed her hands like she was about to perform surgery on his sandwich.
She dries them on the towel Tucker points to with his elbow, then takes the knife he slides across the bench.
For a few minutes, it’s easy in the way this house sometimes is when nobody’s trying too hard. The knife knocks softly against the board. Tucker moves around her without crowding, reaching past for salt, then a bowl, then the little container of sauce from the fridge.
Music hums from somewhere in the living room, low enough not to fight with the sizzle of the pan. It should be strange, standing in Garrett’s kitchen in her scrubs while Garrett isn’t here. It should feel like overstepping, maybe, or like she’s arrived too early to a thing she isn’t supposed to trust.
But she’s cooked beside Tucker before. She's stirred pasta sauce while he flipped chicken, cut carrots while he told her which spice Dean keeps accusing him of using with intent, leaned her hip into this exact counter while Garrett sat on the island behind her with his hand hooked in the waistband of her sweatpants like that was a normal roommate-adjacent arrangement.
This house has already made space for her in too many tiny ways to pretend it hasn’t. Oat milk in the fridge. Her name on a leftover container. A hoodie abandoned over the back of a chair that everyone knows is Garrett’s but nobody moves because she likes stealing it when she gets cold.
The problem is she notices all of it now.
Before, she had been able to tuck each little thing away under casual. Funny. Convenient. Sex with benefits and transportation. But after nine days of not having it, every detail has come back with teeth.
The hand towels by the sink. The chipped blue mug she uses without asking. The corner of Garrett’s bed closest to the wall. Things she had let become familiar before she realised familiar could be taken back.
Tucker reaches across to turn down the pan. “He really was sorry,” he says, not looking directly at her. “About not texting. He wanted to. Coach has been on his ass.”
Her fingers pause for half a beat around the knife handle, then continue. “Yeah. He mentioned that.”
“Yeah.” Tucker nods, adding a handful of chopped herbs to the sauce. “He was a nightmare for the last, like…” He makes a face, not quite committing to the number. “Week. When you weren’t coming around much.”
The cucumber gives slightly under the blade. She lines up the pieces again, smaller, neater. “Well,” she says, because it comes out before she can decide whether she wants it to, “he wasn’t speaking to me.”
Tucker stops stirring. It’s only a second. He doesn’t make a whole thing out of it. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t realise.”
She gives him half a smile without looking up. “Yeah. It was super fun.”
“Sounds like him,” Tucker says, gentle enough that it almost doesn’t sound like a joke.
Her mouth twitches. “He had his reasons.”
“I’m sure.” Tucker scrapes the sauce into a smaller bowl, then sets the spoon down with a quiet click. “Still. I’m glad you’re talking to him again. He’s way less of an asshole when you’re around.”
That pulls a real laugh out of her, small but immediate, and it startles her a little because it doesn’t scrape on the way out. “He’s not an asshole.”
Tucker looks at her like she’s said something both sweet and medically concerning. “That’s because you’ve never seen him when you’re not around.”
She points at him with the knife. “I’ve seen him on low sleep, after a loss, and once when Dean ate the food he labelled. I’ve seen range.”
“You’ve seen curated asshole. Boutique asshole. Small batch.” Tucker takes the knife gently from her hand because she’s started gesturing too much with it, which is probably fair. “We got the industrial supply version.”
She’s laughing properly when Logan appears at the bottom of the stairs with the stunned, relieved expression of a man spotting land after months at sea. “Oh my God,” he says. “Thank God you’re here.”
She turns, still smiling. “Hi?”
He comes into the kitchen holding a notebook, a laptop, and three loose sheets of paper somehow all pressed to his chest like he’s physically restraining an academic crisis.
His hair is a mess, hoodie twisted slightly at the shoulder, eyes bright with desperation. “I’m taking this anatomy class because I thought it would be helpful with hockey or whatever–”
“Aren’t you a business major?”
“Yeah, yeah, elective.” He waves that away with the hand holding the notebook, almost losing a page in the process. “But I need help, man. I’ve been staring at this diagram for an hour and I’m starting to think the human body is badly designed.”
“It is,” she says. “But usually not for the reasons anatomy students think.” She glances at Tucker, who’s already grinning into the pan. “Fine. Come here.”
Logan drops into one of the chairs at the little kitchen table with such force that the legs scrape across the floor. She wipes her hands on the towel, then pulls out the chair beside him, leaning over the notebook.
It’s musculoskeletal, thank God. A worksheet on major muscle groups, actions, and injury relevance, which is deeply funny considering half this house treats muscles like disposable equipment until one of them starts making noises during squats.
“Okay,” she says, drawing the page closer. “What part is killing you?”
“All of it.”
“Helpful.”
He points at the diagram of the shoulder like it has personally betrayed him. “This rotator cuff shit. Why are there four? Why can’t there be one big one?”
“Because then your shoulder would have the stability of a shopping trolley with one bad wheel.” She taps the page with the end of his pen. “These are small muscles but they matter a lot. They keep the head of the humerus stable in the socket while your bigger muscles do the obvious stuff.”
Logan squints. “Humerus is arm bone?”
“Upper arm bone. Yes.”
“See, that’s a stupid name. That’s not on me.”
“It’s a little on you.”
Tucker laughs quietly from the stove.
She turns the notebook toward herself and draws a rough little shoulder joint in the margin, because explaining anatomy to hockey players is often less about textbook definitions and more about translating the body into ways they’ve injured it.
“Think of it like when you’re taking contact near the boards and your arm gets jammed awkwardly. Your deltoid, here, is the big muscle everyone notices, but without these smaller stabilisers, your shoulder would be sliding all over the place every time someone hits you.”
Logan goes still, then nods slowly. “Oh. Okay. That makes more sense.”
“See?”
“Why didn’t the professor say it like that?”
“Because your professor probably has a healthy relationship with sports-related trauma.”
He points at the page again. “What about hip flexors?”
She leans closer, stealing a carrot from the bowl Tucker sets near her elbow. “Stride recovery. When you bring your leg forward after pushing off. Garrett complains about tight hip flexors when Coach does too much conditioning, then pretends he didn’t complain because captaincy is a disease.”
Logan’s face clears like someone has turned on a light. “Ohhh, fuck. Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.” Then he looks at her, curious. “How do you know that stuff? The hockey stuff?”
“I’ve been sleeping with Garrett for, like, six months,” she says, reaching for the pen again. “I know hockey.”
Tucker makes a sound into the chicken that is suspiciously close to choking. Logan, to his credit, just nods like this is academically valid. “Fair.”
Her own face gets hot about half a second later, but she refuses to acknowledge it because acknowledging things in this house is how they grow legs. She circles a term instead. “Adductors. Think groin.”
Logan winces. “Hate that.”
“Most men do.”
“No, I mean I pulled mine last year and thought I was dying.”
“You probably acted like you were dying.”
“I was brave.” He writes something down, then glances at the next question. “G helped me with some of this last week, but he wasn’t as good as you.”
She frowns faintly, still looking at the page. “Garrett doesn’t know any of this shit.”
“Yeah, he does. Or, like, more than me, which isn’t an achievement, but still.” Logan flips back a page, scanning. “He knew the hamstring muscles. And some nerve thing. Sciatic? He said if I wrote sciatic nerve for everything below the waist I’d probably get partial credit.”
She stares at him.
Logan looks up. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says, but it comes out thinner than she expects. “He just– he listens to me rambling?”
Logan gives her an odd look, like the answer is obvious enough that he’s not sure what shape to make his face around it. “Yeah. He never shuts up about you.”
The kitchen keeps moving around her. Tucker scraping rice from the pot. The dull hum of the fridge. Music from the living room slipping into a new song. Logan tapping the pen against his page once, twice, three times before he seems to realise she hasn’t answered.
“He doesn’t?” she says, because her mouth has decided to embarrass her in instalments.
Logan snorts. “Are you kidding? He’s so stupidly proud. It’s actually gross.” He leans back in the chair, warming to the betrayal with the easy cruelty of a roommate who has suffered enough to feel entitled to speak. “He’ll be like, she can name every bone in the hand, and we’re like, okay, man, congrats on dating a textbook. Or he’ll say some weird hospital thing you told him, and Tucker will be trying to cook, and Dean will be pretending not to listen, and Garrett’s just standing there explaining wound care like he invented gauze.”
Tucker lifts a hand without turning around. “He did explain, uh, wound vacs to us for eleven minutes.”
She blinks at him. “He hates the phrase wound vac.”
“He said that too,” Tucker says. “Several times.”
Logan points the pen at her. “And after that bad IV day? He made me watch a video about starting IVs in dehydrated kids.”
Her face changes before she can stop it. She feels it. The small, stupid slip of her features. The way her mouth parts around no sound at all.
Logan’s expression softens in that dangerously casual way he gets when he’s about to say something sincere and act like it was an accident. “He talks about you like you’re the smartest person he knows.”
“Oh,” she says, very quietly. “That’s really… um.” She looks down at the worksheet because the rotator cuff, at least, has the decency not to look back. “That’s really nice.”
Logan lets her have the page for a second. Tucker makes himself busy with bowls. Nobody points out that she’s gone still over an anatomy assignment because Garrett, who had spent nine days making her feel like she’d imagined the whole shape of them, had been in this kitchen bragging about her tendons and nursing skills like a man with no sense of plausible deniability.
Then Logan clears his throat and ruins the tenderness because he is still Logan. “So, if my professor asks, can I say my source is Garrett’s incredibly hot nursing girlfriend?”
She immediately kicks his leg.
“Ow.”
“You can say nothing.”
He nods. “Noted.”
“You can say your source is studying.”
“That feels less fun.”
Tucker sets a bowl near her elbow. “Eat some of this before you go. Garrett will ask.”
The sentence is too gentle to argue with, so she just takes the fork he hands her and keeps helping Logan.
They go through hip flexors, adductors, biceps femoris, ACL, MCL, the difference between flexion and extension, which Logan insists is not intuitive until she uses skating mechanics and he suddenly understands like the joint itself has whispered to him.
She’s explaining why the gastrocnemius crosses the knee when Dean strolls into the kitchen wearing only a towel around his hips and the deeply satisfied expression of a man who has never faced consequences proportionate to his behaviour.
She doesn’t even look up. “No.”
Dean stops. “That’s rude. I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re damp and nearly naked in a food preparation area.”
“I’m clean and emotionally available.”
“Two lies in one sentence,” Tucker says.
Dean ignores him and comes up behind her chair, bending to wrap both arms around her shoulders in a wet, obnoxious hug.
She shrieks because his skin is cold from the shower, shoving at his forearm while Logan dissolves into laughter. “Dean! Get off, you’re literally dripping on me.”
“It’s called affection, Florence. Some people pay for this.”
“Not enough people, apparently.” She elbows him until he releases her, then grabs a napkin to wipe her sleeve. “I’m helping Logan.”
Dean peers over her shoulder at the worksheet. “Anatomy? Sexy.”
“It’s not sexy, man,” Logan says, betrayed by the subject as a whole. “It’s awful.”
“Speak for yourself. I have a deep respect for the body.”
Tucker turns with a bowl in each hand. “You thought the clavicle was in the leg.”
“For like eight seconds, man. Let it go.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose, but she’s smiling, and that feels like something. A small one, maybe. Her shoulders are lower than they were when she arrived. Her stomach has stopped waiting for a hit that hasn’t come.
She’s sitting in the kitchen at the hockey house eating chicken and rice from a bowl Tucker made while Logan writes down flexion = bending in aggressive capital letters and Dean drips shower water on the floor.
It’s ridiculous. It’s warm. It’s hers in a way she doesn't know what to do with.
Dean leans against the counter, towel tucked low on his hips, and squints at her scrubs. “Are one of us meant to drive you to work?”
She glances up. “What? No. Garrett’s driving me when he gets here.”
“Oh. Right.”
It’s too casual. Dean does a lot of things casually, because if he did them earnestly the room might combust, but this one sits wrong.
She watches him for a beat, fork paused halfway to her mouth. Tucker has suddenly become very interested in arranging bowls. Logan looks between them, decides survival lies upstairs, and slaps his notebook closed.
“I think I got it,” he says, standing too quickly. “Thank you. You’re the best. If I pass, I’m naming my firstborn after you.”
“Please don’t.”
“Middle name, then.”
“Logan.”
“Fine. No offspring tribute.” He grabs his laptop and bolts toward the stairs like a man fleeing a vibe. “Still the best.”
The kitchen feels quieter after he leaves, even with Tucker at the stove and music still moving through the living room. Dean crosses his arms loosely, towel be damned, and looks at her with the kind of big-brother expression she didn't sign paperwork to receive.
“So,” he says.
She narrows her eyes. “So?”
“Are you actually giving him another chance to not be a dick, or is this just…” He gestures vaguely around her, the kitchen, the bowl, the scrubs, the invisible Garrett-shaped dent in all of it.
Her fork lands in the bowl with a soft clink. “Garrett and I are fine, Dean.”
“Right.”
“And none of your business, really.”
“Sure.” Dean nods, then pushes away from the counter enough that the joke drains out of his posture but not fully out of his face, because he's Dean and cannot be expected to operate without at least one layer of asshole. “Except Garrett made it my business when he spent a week and a half bitching about how much he missed you to me.”
Her breath catches in the most inconvenient, infuriating place. Tucker, wisely, turns away to rinse something that absolutely does not require rinsing.
Dean sees it because Dean sees everything he shouldn’t and almost nothing he should. His voice drops slightly. “I’m serious. Are you serious?”
Her mouth opens. For a second, nothing feels enough to say. Garrett’s not my boyfriend is there, worn smooth from use. We’re just talking is there too, flimsy and terrible. We’re fine, again, but Dean has already made it clear he’s not purchasing that particular product tonight.
She looks down at her hands, at the faint red mark the fork handle has pressed into her finger, and feels all of the last few weeks move under her skin at once.
Garrett crying into her shoulder. Garrett’s split knuckles in her lap. Garrett saying I don’t want to leave you in her dorm room like the words had cost him something. Garrett not answering texts. Garrett listening while she studied and then carrying pieces of her knowledge into this kitchen like proof.
“I mean,” she starts, and immediately hates how small it sounds. “Garrett’s not– he doesn’t want a girlfriend, so–”
The front door opens hard enough to hit the wall.
“Ew,” Garrett says from the entryway, breathless and already moving. “Dean. Put clothes on.”
Dean looks toward the hall, towel slung low around his hips, hair still dripping onto the back of his neck. “You’re threatened because I look good.”
“I’m threatened because you’re one bad knot away from making me file a complaint with housing.” Garrett appears in the kitchen doorway with his gym bag still hooked over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped.
His jaw is tight, that overworked captain set still sitting in the muscles there, but then his eyes find her at the table and the whole thing cracks.
“Hi, baby,” he says, and it comes out softer than the entrance deserves.
Her fingers tighten around the fork in her hand before she can stop them. “Hi.”
Garrett’s gaze drops over her, quick but not casual. Scrubs, badge, hair clip, the bowl in front of her, the slight guarded angle of her shoulders that she wishes he didn’t know how to read. He drops his bag beside the table with no real care for where it lands and crosses to her like he’s been waiting the whole drive back to do it, like every step between the front door and the kitchen is personally offensive to him.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he says before she can stand, before anyone can make a joke big enough to hide behind. His hands go to the back of her chair first, not her body, which is new enough that she notices it in the small, tender, stupid place behind her ribs. “Coach called me in straight after practice, and I didn’t have my phone, and by the time I got out I was already late and I know that sounds exactly like the sort of thing I shouldn’t be asking you to just believe right now, but I swear to God–”
“I already filled her in, bro,” Tucker calls from the stove, gentle but quick, like he’s throwing Garrett a rope before he can drown himself in his own apology.
Garrett barely looks at him. “Yeah?”
She nods, keeping her fork very busy with a piece of chicken that has already been sufficiently stabbed. “He did.”
“I wanted to text.” Garrett says it like the distinction matters, like he knows maybe it shouldn’t and needs her to understand anyway. His hands flex once against the back of the chair, the wood creaking softly under his fingers. “I was sitting there in Coach’s office thinking about it the whole time. Like a psycho. He was talking about forechecking and leadership and I was just looking at the clock thinking, she’s going to get there and I’m not going to be there.”
Dean makes a low noise from the counter. “Romantic. Concerning, but romantic.”
Garrett points at him without looking. “Put pants on.”
“Still threatened.”
“Deeply. Your knees are ruining my night.”
She should laugh. She does, a little, but it comes out thin enough that Garrett’s attention snaps fully back to her. He keeps catching everything. Before, he used to take her laugh and run with it, smug and bright and pleased with himself. Now he watches the edges of it. Measures. Looks at her like he’s trying to learn a language he spent weeks pretending he didn’t need.
“It’s okay,” she says, because it’s easier than saying, I believed you for almost ten whole minutes and then my body remembered what it felt like when you stopped choosing me.
Garrett’s mouth pulls, not quite a smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t take the absolution cleanly. That’s the part that makes her chest ache. He doesn’t grin and kiss the top of her head and act like the room has reset because she handed him a word small enough to carry.
He crouches slightly beside her chair instead, one hand finally lifting toward her knee before stopping short, like he catches himself asking permission without wanting to make a performance out of it.
“Can I?” he asks, low enough that it’s mostly for her.
Her throat does something irritating. She nods once.
His hand lands on her knee over her scrubs, warm and careful, thumb moving just once like he has to remind himself not to overdo it. “I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter. “I know I said that already. I’m probably gonna say it too many times and get annoying.”
“You’re already annoying.”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves faintly. “But I used to be charming-annoying. I’m trying to get back there.”
The fork presses into her palm. She hates him a little. For being funny under it without using the joke to escape the apology. For sitting in front of her in his own kitchen with Dean half naked three feet away and Tucker pretending not to listen like a gentleman, still somehow making the room narrow down to the careful shape of his hand on her knee.
“I’m not mad you had a meeting,” she says.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Garrett’s eyes flick up to hers, and the answer is there before he says anything. The wince that’s barely a wince. The tiny drop of his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
For a second, nobody makes a joke. Even Dean has enough survival instinct to examine the ceiling. Tucker stirs something that absolutely doesn’t need stirring, the spoon scraping softly along the bottom of the pan.
Garrett looks down at her bowl, like he needs a safer place to put some of the feeling trying to crawl up his throat. “You ate?”
“I’m eating.”
He looks toward Tucker anyway.
Tucker lifts one hand. “She ate. Like, actual food. Not sad little hospital pocket snacks.”
“I don’t have hospital pocket snacks.”
“You had two granola bars in your scrub pocket last week,” Garrett says immediately.
She stares at him. “Why do you know that?”
“Because one of them fell out in my car and hit me in the ankle like a brick.” His thumb moves again over her knee, absent now, the old Garrett sneaking through the new carefulness. “Also because I care about your terrible survival habits.”
“Touching,” she says dryly.
“It is. I’m basically a saint.” He glances down at her scrubs again, and this time his expression shifts before he can stop it, warmth and want moving across his face so plainly that her stomach dips. “You look pretty.”
She blinks. “I’m going to work.”
“I know.”
“I’m in scrubs.”
“Exactly.”
She gives him a look.
Garrett’s mouth does that slow, dangerous almost-smile, but it doesn’t quite sharpen into cocky. It stays soft around the edges, like even the teasing is kneeling a little. “What? I’m supposed to pretend I’m not into the whole competent hospital thing?”
“It’s not a thing.”
“It’s a thing.”
“I have pens in my pocket and scissors on my waistband.”
“Hot.”
She gives him a look. “Garrett.”
“Baby, I’m being brave and honest during a vulnerable time.”
Dean groans. “I liked him better when he was emotionally constipated.”
“No, you didn’t,” Tucker says.
She laughs properly this time, and Garrett catches it like a man watching the first window light after a blackout. His hand tightens on her knee, not enough to hold her there but enough for her to feel how badly he wants to.
That’s the part that unsettles her most, the wanting. Garrett has always wanted her loudly in ways that made it easy to roll her eyes – hands on her waist, mouth at her neck, ridiculous comments in kitchens, that smug little lift of his eyebrows when he caught her staring.
This is different. He looks at her like he would take whatever scraps of normal she’s willing to give him and build a whole evening out of them with his bare hands.
His gaze drops to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “Can I kiss you?”
Dean, because he's pathologically incapable of letting a moment live unharassed, whispers, “Growth.”
Garrett reaches blindly for the nearest object and throws a napkin at him without looking away from her. It flutters pathetically to the floor halfway between them. “Shut up.”
She should make him wait. Not as a punishment, she doesn’t want to punish him. That would be easier, cleaner, something with edges. This is muddier. Her body leans toward him while some bruised, newly cautious part of her stays sitting very still, arms crossed, watching for the trick.
She hates that she has that part now. Hates that nine days built a little guardrail in her chest and left her to trip over it every time Garrett reaches for her.
But he’s still crouched there. Still asking. Still looking like he might actually survive being denied if that’s what she needs, which makes her want to kiss him more than if he’d assumed she already would.
She nods.
Garrett rises in one smooth motion, his hand sliding from her knee to the edge of the table for balance as he bends over her chair. He doesn’t take her face in both hands, doesn’t swallow the space like he has a right to it.
He touches two fingers lightly under her chin, tips her up, and kisses her like he’s trying to be allowed rather than forgiven. Warm. Careful. Devastatingly restrained, which is rude of him, honestly, because restraint has no business feeling this good.
When he pulls back, he stays close enough that his breath ghosts over her mouth. “Hi,” he says again, and this time there’s the faintest smile in it.
Her own mouth betrays her. “You said that already.”
“Didn’t do it right the first time.”
“Very high standards.”
“With you?” His eyes flick over her face, naked enough that something behind her ribs tries to hide under the table. “Yeah.”
Dean makes a strangled noise. “Jesus Christ, Graham.”
Garrett finally straightens, but one hand stays at the back of her chair, fingers brushing the fabric near her shoulder without quite touching skin. “You got a problem?”
“I have several. The main one is that I’m hungry and you’re grovelling in the protein bowl area.”
Tucker points his spoon at Dean. “Then put pants on and make a bowl like a person.”
Dean looks offended. “I’m in a towel, not uncivilised.”
“You’re both,” she says, reaching for her fork again mostly because her hands need something to do.
Garrett’s attention drops to the motion, then to the bowl. “Finish that.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Are you giving me orders now?”
“No.” He catches himself so quickly it almost hurts. Then, softer, his thumb brushing the back of her chair. “No. I’m asking. Please finish it before I take you in. Evening shift on half a bowl is how you end up texting me at midnight saying you feel weird and then admitting weird means you haven’t eaten since noon.”
Tucker turns to the sink. “That does sound like her.”
“I’m being attacked in a safe space,” she says.
Garrett’s mouth curves. “This house has never been safe.”
“That’s actually true,” Dean says. “I once found Logan asleep under the beer pong table and he bit my hand.”
Logan’s voice carries from upstairs, offended and muffled. “I was disoriented!”
“Rabid,” Dean calls back.
Garrett smiles, but even while he does, his hand reaches for the water bottle near her bowl and nudges it closer. The little practical care of him slipping back in around the wound, testing whether it still fits.
It does.
She takes the bottle because refusing would be childish and because she’s thirsty. Garrett watches her drink with visible satisfaction, like she’s completed a drill correctly. “Don’t look so proud,” she mutters.
“I’m easy to impress.”
“No, you’re not.”
“With you, I am.” He says it too fast to have dressed it up.
Her eyes drop first. Garrett notices. His fingers shift against the chair, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t lean in and force the softness to continue until she has nowhere to put her face. He lets her look down. Lets her stab at rice. Lets the silence become normal before it can become too much.
Then, because he’s still Garrett and cannot go more than ninety seconds without behaving badly, his gaze trails over her when she stands to take her bowl to the sink. “Also, for the record, your ass looks ridiculous in those scrubs.”
Dean lifts a hand. “As an observer, it did sound respectful.”
“You’re not helping,” she tells him.
Garrett’s grin finally gets a little smug, which is a relief in a way she refuses to interrogate. “I’m just saying, if the hospital wanted me to behave normally, they shouldn’t have made the pants fit like that.”
“The hospital didn’t make my pants for you.”
“Then that was short-sighted of them.”
She rolls her eyes, but the laugh is already tugging at her mouth, and Garrett sees it. He always sees it. He steps closer while she rinses her bowl, near enough that the heat of him lands at her side. His shoulder brushes hers once, deliberate and light.
“I’m gonna shower,” he says, quieter now. “Then I’ll take you. We’ll be on time.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“You.” His answer is immediate. No joke. No dodge. “Mostly you.”
The water runs too loud over the bowl. She turns it off. The sudden quiet makes his honesty feel louder.
Garrett leans one hip against the counter beside her, hands in the pocket of his hoodie like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching again. “I know I made it weird,” he says. “The trusting me part. I know I don’t get to just say sorry and have you go back to how you were before.”
Her throat tightens. She looks down at the sink, at the little grains of rice caught near the drain. “I don’t know how I was before.”
His mouth presses together.
“I mean, I do,” she says, softer, because the look on his face is too much. “I just didn’t realise how much I was… doing. Until I stopped.”
Garrett’s eyes stay on her profile. She can feel them. Careful, dark, too focused. “Doing what?”
Waiting for your texts. Sleeping better in your bed. Looking for you in every doorway. Letting your roommates become my people. Letting myself believe you would be where you said you’d be.
She gives him the smaller truth because it is the only one she can hold in the middle of the kitchen. “Getting comfortable.”
Garrett exhales like it hurts. “Baby.”
“Don’t do the voice.”
“What voice?”
“The one that makes me feel like I kicked a puppy.”
“You kind of did.” His mouth twitches, but it doesn’t last. “A really hot, emotionally improving puppy.”
She snorts before she can stop herself. “God.”
“I’m serious about the improvement.”
“That part was not the issue.”
“I know.” His hand leaves his pocket slowly, telegraphed enough that she could move away if she wanted. She doesn’t. He touches the side of her wrist with two fingers, not quite taking her hand. “Can I keep trying?”
The question lands so plainly that the kitchen, for all its mess and Dean’s damp towel and Tucker’s aggressively respectful silence, seems to tilt around it.
She looks at him then. Garrett Graham, who’s talked his way out of penalties and into beds and through rooms full of people who wanted to hate him and couldn’t quite manage it, looks suddenly stripped of every easy thing he knows how to do.
He’s still handsome in that unfair, stupid way, hair curling around his forehead, shoulders broad under the hoodie, mouth made for smugness and currently doing none of it. But the wanting is right there. It’s in the restraint, in the way his fingers hover at her wrist like he’s asking to earn back one inch at a time.
Her walls don’t come down. They don’t collapse because he looks sad and says please with his eyes. She’s not that girl, or she’s trying very hard not to be. But something in her opens a little window.
“You can keep trying,” she says.
His fingers close around her wrist like the words have weight. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” His thumb moves over her pulse once, and his face does something soft and almost wrecked before he gets it under control. “Good. Great. I’m very good at effort. Huge effort guy.”
“There he is,” Dean says. “The emotionally improving puppy has found delusion.”
Garrett looks over. “I swear to God, if you’re still in that towel when I come back down, I’m setting it on fire.”
She laughs again, and this time when Garrett tugs gently at her wrist, she lets herself step closer. Close enough that his hand can settle, carefully, at her waist.
His gaze drops to her mouth. “Come upstairs with me for a second?”
“I have to leave soon.”
“I know.” His voice lowers. “Just a second. I need to change. Shower. Be near you without Dean’s nipples in my peripheral vision.”
Dean looks down at his own chest. “They’re normal nipples.”
“They’re everywhere,” Garrett says.
She covers her mouth, laughing, and Garrett’s hand at her waist tightens like the sound has gone straight through him. He looks at her for one beat too long, all the humour thinning into something hungry and relieved.
“Shower?” she asks, quieter.
His eyes lift. “You asking?”
“I’m asking if that’s what you meant.”
Garrett’s mouth curves, but the smile is careful. Hopeful in a way he probably doesn’t realise shows. “Yeah. That’s what I meant.”
“You’re very subtle.”
“I’ve had a hard week.”
She reaches up and taps two fingers lightly against his chest. “Go shower, Graham.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and the relief in him is almost too much to look at.
He turns her gently by the hips before he starts walking, guiding her ahead of him out of the kitchen with one palm settling low at her back.
Tucker calls after them that there are containers in the fridge for after her shift, and Garrett calls back, “I know,” at the exact same time she says, “Thank you, Tuck,” which makes Dean groan something about domestic terrorism.
Halfway up the stairs, Garrett’s hand slips from her back to her hip, then pauses like he’s second-guessed whether he’s allowed. She reaches back without looking and catches his fingers.
Behind her, he goes quiet. She keeps walking. So does he. His hand closes around hers, a little too tight for half a second before he eases it, thumb dragging once over her knuckles.
“Your ass still looks great,” he says after a few steps, because sincerity has limits and Garrett has reached his.
She laughs, turning her head enough to glare at him over her shoulder. “I’m in scrubs.”
“Yeah. We covered this. Big fan.”
“I’m about to spend six hours charting vitals and answering call bells.”
“Hot and community-minded.”
“You’re impossible.”
She makes it to the upstairs landing still smiling, which feels dangerous in a way that’s not entirely bad. Garrett catches up behind her before she can turn toward his room, his chest brushing her back, his free hand coming carefully to her waist. He bends until his mouth is near her ear, not touching yet.
“I’m going to make it up to you,” he says.
The sentence moves through her slowly. Garrett, low and serious in the hallway while the house bangs and laughs beneath them. His hand is steady at her waist, his breath warm against the side of her neck, and for once he doesn’t sound like he’s trying to win the moment. He sounds like he’s prepared to keep showing up after it.
Her fingers tighten around his. “Start with getting me to work on time.”
His laugh brushes her skin. “Done.”
“And don’t use all the hot water.”
“Harder, but I’ll try.”
“And stop looking at me like that.”
He turns her gently, crowding close without trapping her, his hands settling at her hips. “Like what?”
Like you missed me. Like you’re sorry. Like you want to crawl under my skin and fix what you broke from the inside.
She lifts her chin. “Like you’re trying to get out of trouble.”
Garrett’s eyes flick to her mouth. “Baby, I’m trying to earn my way out. Big difference.”
Her stomach dips. She hates him. She really does.
His grin tugs at one corner, but it doesn’t hide the yearning under it. If anything, it makes it worse. He leans in slowly enough that she can stop him, and when she doesn’t, he kisses the corner of her mouth first, then her cheek, then just below her ear, each one warm and brief and almost unbearably patient.
“I missed you,” he murmurs against her skin.
Her eyes close before she can stop them. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t ask her to say it back. He only presses one more kiss to the side of her jaw, then pulls away enough to open his bedroom door, still holding her hand like he’s not stupid enough to let go first.
The room smells like clean laundry and hockey gear he has tried, with only partial success, to contain. His bed is unmade. A textbook lies open facedown on his desk beside a mug she recognises as hers.
Garrett follows her gaze and clears his throat. “You left it here.”
“I know.”
“I kept it safe.”
“Strong work.”
His mouth curves, but when he shrugs off his hoodie, his eyes stay on her face more than they used to. Still checking. Still waiting for the little no in her shoulders, the small step back, the place where he should stop. She watches him notice the watching, and something warm and sore twists beneath her ribs.
“You okay?” he asks.
She looks at him for a second. At the curls, the tired eyes, the bare stretch of his shoulders now that the hoodie is gone, the boy standing in front of her trying so hard not to reach too fast.
“Yeah,” she says. Then, because she means it enough to let him have it, “I’m okay.”
Garrett’s whole face loosens.
“Okay,” he says, voice rougher than before. “Good.”
He takes one step closer, then another, and when his hand comes up to the badge clipped at her scrub top, his finger only hooks gently beneath the lanyard, tugging her in by almost nothing. “Come on, baby,” he murmurs. “Clock’s ticking.”
She rolls her eyes, but her hand is already in his, and when he leads her toward the bathroom, she lets herself follow without asking the room to promise anything bigger than this.
The shower turns on with a rusty cough behind the door, steam beginning to gather at the edges of the mirror. Garrett looks back at her from the doorway, smile soft, eyes still careful.
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pairing – garrett graham x petal!reader
summary – after months of small humiliations, one party becomes the final straw, and garrett learns too late that being sorry after the damage isn’t enough.
warnings – angst, breakup, argument, jealousy, public humiliation, relationship insecurity, crying, swearing, emotional hurt, no happy ending.
notes from me – uhhhhhh, you guys asked for it!! but based on this ask, thank you bby!! i was stuck on ideas for their break up until you sent this through!!
word count – 3.7k
navigation – masterlist |
The door had shut behind her with a hard, cheap little clap, cutting off the full ugly body of it all, the music and the shouting and the sound of someone in the kitchen yelling for Dean like Dean had ever once improved a situation by arriving. But pieces of it kept slipping through anyway.
Bass through the walls. Laughter when the door opened again somewhere behind her. The sticky-sweet smell of beer and perfume and winter-damp wool clinging to her coat like the house had put hands on her and refused to let go.
Her boots hit the pavement too hard. Every step sent a thin jolt up through her knees, but she couldn’t make herself slow down because if she slowed down, Garrett would catch up properly, and if Garrett caught up properly, he would talk. He always wanted to talk after the thing had already happened.
After she had already stood there with her cup going warm in her hand while three girls boxed him into the corner by the kitchen and laughed up at him like he had invented oxygen and jawlines and playoff hockey.
After one of them touched his arm and he didn’t step back. After another one said, “You’re so bad,” in that breathy, delighted voice girls used when bad meant attractive and accessible and maybe mine if I keep smiling right. After he had looked over once, seen her looking, and still stayed.
That was the part her body couldn’t get around. The seeing. The quick flicker of his eyes across the room, the half-second of recognition, the tiny change in his face like he knew, he knew exactly what it looked like, and then the way he’d smiled back down at the blonde in front of him anyway because Garrett Graham had never met attention he didn’t know how to catch one-handed.
“Baby.”
His voice came from behind her, breathless enough that he had jogged the last few steps. Good. Great. Fantastic. He could chase her now. He could find his legs now that the whole party wasn’t watching him be wanted.
She walked faster.
“Baby, come on.” Garrett’s sneakers scraped lightly over the pavement as he caught up beside her, his shadow cutting across the wet shine of the sidewalk under the streetlamp. “Can you just stop for a second?”
“No.”
“Okay, then can you slow down before you eat shit? You’re in heeled boots.”
She let out a laugh so sharp it barely sounded like one. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“Nothing. That’s just–” She shook her head, eyes burning already, which made her angrier because she hadn’t even got to the yelling properly and her body had started betraying her like some kind of amateur. “That’s so you.”
Garrett moved into her path just enough to make her have to angle around him. Big and warm and breathing a little harder than normal, curls messy from the party heat, the collar of his jacket sitting crooked like one of those girls had maybe caught it when she leaned in to say something stupid into his ear. “What does that mean?”
“It means move.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
She stopped so abruptly he almost walked into her. For one second they stood under the streetlamp outside the row of dorm buildings, campus stretched cold and quiet around them, the party pulsing behind them like another life.
The air bit at her cheeks. Her hands were shaking, so she shoved them into her coat pockets and curled them there until her nails pressed little crescents into her palms.
Garrett’s face softened the second he saw her properly. He always looked sorry once the damage had a visible shape. “Hey,” he said, lower now. “Baby–”
“You’re such a piece of shit.”
His mouth closed. The words came out flat and ugly, too quick to stop, and for half a second even she seemed to hear them from outside herself. Not because they weren’t true in the hot, vicious courtroom currently operating under her ribs, but because they were not the sort of thing she usually said to him first.
She usually worked up to it. Usually gave him three warning shots and a sarcastic little exit route and enough room to pretend they were having an argument instead of watching one person bleed out slowly from the same cut.
Garrett blinked once. “Me?”
She laughed again, and this time the wetness in it made her want to claw her own throat open. “You’re such a fucking piece of shit.”
“Okay.” His jaw tightened, but he nodded, both hands lifting slightly like he was trying to calm a dog that had bitten him before and might do it again. “Okay. Let’s talk about why I’m a piece of shit.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“No, seriously. Let’s talk about it.” His voice had gone careful in that way that made her feel more insane, like he was standing there with a clipboard while she came apart on the pavement. “This is what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve been trying to talk to you about this all night.”
“All night?” Her head snapped back like the sentence had shoved her. “Garrett, you were not trying to talk to me all night. You were trying to flirt your way through three girls and then act shocked when I didn’t clap for you.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
She stared at him.
“I wasn’t,” he said again, faster now, one hand dragging over the back of his neck. The old move. The Garrett Graham damage control special. “Jesus, they came up to me. What was I supposed to do, tell them to fuck off?”
“No, apparently that’s reserved for me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to say it.” Her voice climbed, then cracked, and she hated the crack so much she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste metal. “You do this thing where you make me feel like I’m ruining your night by existing.”
Garrett looked genuinely thrown for a second. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not.” The defensive edge came in then, quick and familiar, the one that always arrived right after his guilt and right before her humiliation got turned into a debate topic. “I’m allowed to talk to people.”
“Holy fuck,” she said, quietly enough that it came out worse.
“What?”
“You’re fucked.”
“How am I fucked?” His hands spread, and there was a flash of frustration under the apology, the part of him that couldn't understand why wanting her and disrespecting her were not mutually exclusive in her body. “Talk to me. I’m right here. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No.” She pointed back toward the house, eyes hot and too full now, the streetlamp turning everything soft-edged and horrible. “You know what? Actually, go ahead. Say your piece. Say your Garrett Graham bullshit. Please. Tell me what shit you’re gonna come up with this time.”
He watched her for a second, mouth pressed tight, breath coming out white in the cold. A car rolled past at the end of the street, slow enough that its headlights moved over them like a searchlight, catching the shine on her cheeks before she could turn away.
“Nah,” Garrett said finally. “I want to hear you out first.”
Her laugh was immediate and mean. “Of course you do.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you want me to say it first so you can pick it apart.”
His brows drew together. “I’m not trying to pick anything apart.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m trying to understand what happened in there.”
“I’ve been telling you what happened.” Her voice broke properly this time, anger ripping through the words before she could sand them down. “For months. For fucking months, Garrett.”
His expression shifted. “No, you’ve been getting upset and then shutting down.”
“Because you make me feel stupid when I talk.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“But you do.” She stepped closer without meaning to, the space between them shrinking until she had to tilt her face up to keep looking at him. “You do, and then you stand there like because you didn’t mean to, I’m supposed to take that home and sleep next to it.”
Garrett swallowed. His hands dropped to his sides. “Okay. Then tell me properly now.”
Something in her face twisted. “Properly?”
“I get you’re frustrated–”
“Frustrated?” The word came out almost silent. Then she laughed, one hand flying up like she could physically bat it away from her. “Oh my god.”
“I’m trying to talk to you.”
“No, you’re trying to make me calm enough that you don’t have to feel like the bad guy.”
“That’s not–”
“You’re not respectful in the slightest,” she said, and the tears started then for real, hot and fast and humiliating, slipping down before she could do anything useful with her face. “Have some fucking respect for your fucking girlfriend!”
Garrett went still.
She made a frustrated sound, almost a groan, pressing the heel of her hand to one eye for half a second before dropping it again because crying into her own palm on a sidewalk was not the kind of tragic she respected. “What the fuck.”
Then she turned and started walking again.
“Hey, stop.” Garrett caught up in two strides, and his hand came to her waist. Warm fingers through her coat, a gentle pull meant to turn her back to him, and her whole body rejected it before her mind caught up.
She shoved him away with both hands. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Garrett’s face changed so quickly it almost made something in her collapse. His hands lifted, empty. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t.”
“I don’t want to fucking talk to you.”
“I feel like shit,” he said, voice rougher now. “Please talk to me.”
The words should have softened her. Maybe some version of her, one who hadn’t spent the last month measuring how long it took him to remember she was standing beside him in rooms full of girls who wanted him, would have stepped into that roughness and let it mean enough.
But tonight her chest was too packed with old little injuries, all of them awake at once, crowding under her ribs until she could barely breathe around them.
“You weren’t feeling bad fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “Surrounded by girls. You weren’t feeling bad yesterday when we got stopped every three seconds and I stood there like an idiot while people talked through me to get to you. You weren’t feeling bad when you dropped my hand in that coffee shop, or when you missed the first half of my showcase because practice ran over and apparently I was supposed to be grateful you made it before bows.” Her breath hitched. She hated that one. Hated that it came out. “There was no consideration for me. There wasn’t. Or you wouldn’t have acted the way you fucking acted.”
“Whoa. Hey.” Garrett stepped closer, then seemed to remember and stopped himself. The restraint looked painful on him. “First of all, I always consider you. Always. I can’t help that people want to talk to me–”
She started laughing before he finished. Her body had found one last emergency exit before sobbing, and it was laughing in Garrett Graham’s face under a dorm streetlight with mascara starting to move at the corners of her eyes. “Holy fuck.”
His mouth tightened. “What?”
“How bad did you really feel if this is your version of a fucking apology?”
“I’m trying to explain.”
“You’re explaining why it’s not your fault.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” She wiped under one eye with the side of her finger, furious when it came away damp and black-smudged. “You stand there in the corner with three puck bunnies flirting with you like, what? You’re rubbing that shit in my face?”
“No. No, no, no.” His face opened with alarm, real now, not defensive for one precious second. “Baby, that’s not– no. I wasn’t flirting with them. It’s not like that.”
“If you felt bad, you wouldn’t have continued to do it,” she said. “But you did. And you have. Over and over. So, cool. You want them, go get them. They’d be more than happy.”
“I don’t want them.” Garrett’s voice cracked around the denial, and the sound did something terrible to her stomach. “That’s not what this is. I get it, okay? I fucked up. I get that. But I’m human.”
The air went very thin for a second. She stared at him, tears cooling on her cheeks, the whole night narrowing down to his face and those two words sitting there between them like an insult wearing a reasonable coat.
“No,” she said.
Garrett’s brows pulled in. “What?”
“No. I don’t buy that shit.” She shook her head, slow at first, then harder, because if she stopped moving she might actually feel how much of her was splitting open. “I’m human too, Garrett. I’m human, and I’m not letting three different guys get me drinks and hang off me all night because I know how that would make you feel. I know. I don’t need a fucking thesis. I don’t need a seminar on empathy. I just think about you before I do things.”
He flinched.
Good, some ugly little part of her thought, and then immediately felt sick from the taste of it.
“You do not have the same respect for me that I have for you,” she said, quieter, which made it worse. “So I don’t want to hear that I’m human shit. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” Garrett stepped one half-step closer, stopped again, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. His eyes were bright now, not with tears exactly, but with panic pushing hard against the back of them. “Baby, I don’t. I just want you to hear me out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I did that to you.”
She shook her head, and the movement sent more tears down. She could feel them hitting the cold air and tightening on her skin. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re not fucking sorry.”
“I am.”
“You feel no guilt about any of this.”
“Yes, I do.” His voice rose, desperate now, and for the first time all night Garrett looked younger than himself. A boy in the street with his jacket open against the cold, trying to hold water in his hands after the glass had already shattered. “I do. You can go ask any of the boys. Go ask Logan or Dean or Tuck. I swear.”
Her face crumpled before she could stop it, but the laugh still came out. Small, disbelieving, wrecked. “Oh, the same boys that keep telling me I’m the love of your life? Huh? Those ones?”
Garrett’s mouth parted.
“Those boys?”
“You are,” he said, and then stopped like he’d stepped too close to a ledge he hadn’t realised was there. His throat worked. “I–”
The cold moved between them. The party door opened in the distance, letting out a bright slash of noise and some girl’s laughter, then shut again. She watched Garrett stand there with the sentence stuck in his mouth, and there should have been some triumph in it, maybe. Some relief. The love of your life. The thing girls were supposed to want to hear. The thing that should have fixed something.
It didn’t. It only made the hurt widen, because what was she supposed to do with that? Let the love of his life get humiliated in coffee shops? Let the love of his life stand beside him at parties while he forgot how to be careful? Let the love of his life go home every night with a stomach full of little explanations she had to feed herself so she wouldn’t seem needy?
She shrugged, and the movement felt loose and awful on her body. “So be it.”
Garrett stared at her.
“So be it, Garrett.” Her voice dropped into something almost calm, except the tears wouldn’t stop, so the calm looked deranged even to her. “Be the love of my life.”
His face changed. The panic went quiet for one second, like she had hit somewhere deeper than anger could reach. “I’m trying.”
She looked at him, really looked, at the red at the tips of his ears from the cold, the crease between his brows, the mouth she had kissed against lockers and in his bed and outside this dorm with her hands in his hoodie.
He was trying. That was maybe the worst part. He had been trying in the way Garrett knew how. Apologising after. Ordering the coffee right. Kissing the top of her head. Pulling her back in with warmth every time she got close to the edge. But he kept letting the edge exist.
“I’m done,” she said.
Garrett shook his head immediately. “No.”
She turned away from him, because if she kept looking at his face she was going to start bargaining against herself. “I am.”
“No, hey.” He followed her. “You’re not even letting me talk.”
“I let you talk for months.”
“You’re not letting me talk now.”
“No, I’m done.” She spun back so fast her coat swung open, cold hitting her through the thin party top underneath. “I’m done. I’m good. I’m not doing this stupid back and forth with you where I tell you something hurt me and then you explain your intentions like I’m dating your intentions. I’m not. I’m dating you. And you acted the way you acted, and you won’t change that shit, so we’re done.”
“Baby–”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It is.” She nodded too many times, tears still spilling, breath starting to shake now in a way she could not control. “It’s fine. I get it now.”
“No, you don’t.” Garrett’s voice went rough, almost angry with fear. “You’re hurt and you’re pissed off and you’re deciding something huge because of one night.”
“One night?” she whispered.
He realised it the second it left his mouth. She saw it. The tiny collapse around his eyes. “No,” he said quickly. “I know it’s not one night. I know that. I didn’t mean–”
“You never do.”
Garrett flinched again, and this time it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything except more damage in a street already full of it.
“I’m trying to fix this,” he said. “Let me fix it.”
“There’s nothing to fix.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Don’t.”
“It is.” He took a step closer, and then stopped himself again, because she had told him not to touch her and he was finally, finally listening when it no longer had anywhere useful to land. “It’s bullshit. You don’t get to just– baby, come on. You don’t get to decide this alone.”
For a second she almost smiled, because it was so perfectly him. So wildly, painfully Garrett. Still arguing with the scoreboard after the game had ended. Still believing there had to be a third period if he wanted one badly enough.
“I just did,” she said.
His face went blank. The dorm entrance buzzed faintly behind her, ugly fluorescent light spilling over the steps. Her fingers had gone numb in her pockets, and her face felt swollen from crying, and somewhere inside the building there were people doing laundry or microwaving noodles or living tiny, ordinary lives not currently ending under a streetlamp.
She wanted that so badly it almost made her dizzy. A room. A door. A place to put her body down without Garrett looking at her like she was taking his apart.
“Go back to your puck bunnies, Garrett,” she said, and the bitterness came out exhausted now, all the teeth worn down. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done.”
She turned before he could answer. He said her name once, not baby this time, and that almost did it. That almost made her stop. Her actual name in Garrett’s voice, cracked at the edge, chasing her up the first step like a hand she had told him not to use.
She kept walking.
The key card shook when she pulled it from her pocket. She missed the scanner once, plastic tapping uselessly against the panel, and behind her Garrett made a small sound like he was physically stopping himself from coming closer. She swiped again. The lock clicked.
“Please,” he said.
She opened the door. Warm stale dorm air hit her face, carrying the smell of old carpet, microwave popcorn, and somebody’s overworked vanilla plug-in. She stepped inside and turned just enough to see him through the wired glass before the door shut between them.
Garrett stood on the sidewalk with both hands in his hair now, elbows out, jacket open, mouth parted around words he had nowhere to put. For one awful second he looked completely lost. Alone under the streetlamp, staring at the door like he could still make it open if he found the right thing to say.
Then the door closed. The sound was small. Pathetic, almost. A dull latch catching in an institutional frame.
She made it halfway up the stairs before her legs stopped working properly. One hand caught the railing, cold metal biting into her palm, and the first sob tore out of her so hard she bent over it, forehead nearly touching the sleeve of her coat.
A brutal little failure of breath, her ribs pulling too tight around nothing, her mouth open while the stairwell blurred in ugly blocks of cream paint and grey steps and the dark smudge of mascara on her fingers.
She pressed both hands over her face, trying to hold herself together with pressure, but there was too much of it. Garrett’s face. The girls’ laughter. His hand letting go in the coffee shop. His voice saying I’m human like she hadn’t spent months being human quietly beside him. Be the love of my life. I’m trying.
The words kept moving around inside her, useless and sharp, knocking against every place she had already bruised trying to love him without asking to be chosen out loud.
Downstairs, through the thick dorm door and the stairwell concrete and the blood in her ears, she thought she heard him say her name again. Or maybe she wanted to. Either way, she climbed the rest of the stairs alone.
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tags: tattoo artist reader, first time tattoos, meet cute, POV third person, no use of y/n for reader-insert, fluff, mention of domestic abuse and past trauma
word count: 3.6k
summary: Garrett’s just been made captain, and he wants to celebrate by getting something a little permanent. He’s unprepared by how beautiful his tattoo artist is. (or the story behind garrett's iconic tattoo)
notes: cross-posted on ao3 ; title from lucy dacus’ “thumbs,” which is very garrett coded if anyone wants to listen; tysm for the love on habit lines ! i’m currently working on part two of it, but it’s been evading me a little. this one came to me and i just couldn’t not write it. already have ideas for other parts. let me know if you guys are interested !! i'm also open for requests!! ; banner by @pixopix
p.s i don’t go into too much details of how the reader looks, but i definitely have simone ashley specifically in this picture in mind when i wrote this (just bc i have a huge crush on her lmao)
Garrett gets the tattoo the summer after his sophomore year at Briar.
They had just dominated the frozen four and he just became the highest scorer of the season. He’s been made captain. The name stretched on the back of his jersey felt as insignificant as the DNA running through his veins. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had accomplished something that his father couldn’t touch. Because Phil Graham might be this hockey legend everyone keeps comparing him with. He might pretend to be a father. He might be the man haunting his worst memories. But he wasn’t the one skating suicides every single day. He wasn’t the one training until he bled. He wasn’t the one who won Briar their last game of the season. He’s just a name. Garrett worked hard for what he’d done and not even Phil can take that away from him.
So he decides to commemorate the occasion. Something permanent, because he needs a little permanence in his life. Something to ground him whenever his dad’s voice gets too loud in his head. To remind him that he earned his place.
He sees the phrase randomly while looking up designs on his phone during his Lit lecture, thumb bitten raw and foot tapping on the floor.
Nullum Gratuitum Prandium.
He pauses in his seat, foot hovering the air mid-tap.
There is no free lunch.
Fighting back a grin, Garrett saves the phrase on his notes app and switches his phone off, finally paying attention to his professor drone on about Hamlet.
The tattoo shop is just a ten-minute drive from campus. It’s owned by three Briar U Fine Arts alumni, and the artists are mostly students from the same department looking for extra cash. Garrett spends a whole week stalking their Instagram, repeatedly going to the story highlights they have on their page dedicated to each of their artists. He fixates on one in particular; the tattoo artist’s designs are mostly florals and classical figures, intricate fine lines, shadings, and delicate designs that make his eyebrows raise, impressed at the skill level evident through the pieces.
But there’s one highlight that catches his eye: it’s a back piece with a handwritten script covering the client’s entire back. Underneath the tattoo are scars; some light and faded, some ugly and dark and raised on the skin. The text is a diary entry complete with the date on the upper right portion, a confession of being a victim of domestic abuse and a promise to oneself that they’re going to make it out.
Reading it makes a lump appear in Garrett’s throat.
His dad never left scars. Not physical ones, anyways. They’re harder to explain than the bruises, because those can be excused away by hockey.
His thumb presses on his phone screen, holding down so the image of the tattoo doesn’t go away. He’d never be as brave as the guy who got the back piece. But Garrett books an appointment with that artist, anyway, because sometimes pretending is enough.
He goes to the shop on a weeknight after practice, freshly showered and wearing his Briar U Hockey hoodie and sweats. The place is so small upon entrance, he could probably spread his arms and touch both ends of the walls. There’s the counter facing the glass door, walls littered with drawings, neon light-up signs, other artworks, and stairs leading to the second floor.
He gives his name and tries not to show his nerves too much, but the lady at the counter sees right through him. “First time?”
He considers lying for a second, but that would make him feel more pathetic, so instead he mumbles out a “yes,” with the tips of his ears burning.
The lady chuckles. Tattoos cover both her arm sleeves, multicolored and intentional. She’s probably in her late 30s, but the bleached hair and eyebrow piercings make her more youthful. She double checks his booking and hums at what she sees on the computer. “Well, you’re in good hands. You picked one of our best artists.”
“Really?” Garrett asks, trying not to feel too proud of himself yet.
“Yup,” she confirms, handing him a slip of paper. “You can go on up. She’s ready for you.”
The stairs are concrete and steep, covered in graffiti and stickers. Garrett rarely finds himself in situations where he feels uncool, but inside the shop with all the art and the cool music playing on the speakers, clad in his Briar U get up, he’s aware of how out of place he looks.
The second floor is more spacious. It’s open-plan, with tattoo beds spread out across the floor organically. Only two clients occupy the space, one getting a piece on his thigh and the other getting one on her rib. They chat among themselves, quiet and familiar, giving him the impression that they’re regulars.
“Garrett?” A voice calls his name, causing him to turn around. What he sees makes his throat dry up.
She’s tall. Probably only a couple inches shorter than his 6’2 frame. Long black hair, strong jaw, dark glowing skin. She’s wearing a black tank top that shows off an intricate dragon tattoo running from the top of her shoulder down to the back of her upper arm. She’s the most beautiful woman Garrett has ever seen.
“Uh–what?” He says unintelligently.
Her lips twitch like she’s trying to hold back a smile. “You’re Garrett, right?”
He has enough sense to nod, swallowing thickly. “Yes.”
“Cool,” she says, lips still doing that twitchy thing that makes it a hundred times difficult for him not to look down at it. “I’m the artist you booked. You wanna pick a bed?”
The words almost short-circuit his brain, but he manages to maintain his cool with a clear of his throat. He points to the one nearest to the both of them. “Here’s fine.”
She gestures for him to sit down, which he does diligently. She goes over to one side of the room to get a metal cart of what he assumes are her tattoo stuff, pushing it until it’s right in front of the leather stool beside the tattoo bed. “So what do you have in mind for tonight?”
He clears his throat again, only because it still feels dry enough that if he tries to speak, he’s afraid his voice will crack. He takes out his phone from his pocket and opens up his notes app. “I don’t have, like, a final design yet but I have the phrase I want.”
Garrett tilts the phone towards her to let her look. She walks closer until she’s slightly behind him, then crouches over his shoulder to take a look at his phone. In the back of his mind, he registers her scent; something woodsy and floral that sends heat down his stomach.
“Is that Latin?” She asks, voice quiet now with their proximity. Garrett makes the mistake of looking up at her. Her eyes are slightly narrowed, lips pursed as if she’s already picturing a design in her head that she can’t wait to put on his skin. Her eyes dart towards him. “What does it mean?”
He gulps. “Well, the direct translation is ‘there is no free lunch,’ which to me basically means—you know. Everything in life is earned.”
Her eyebrows shoot up at that. He doesn’t miss the way she looks down at his hockey shirt, the car keys peeking out from the pocket of his sweats. He’s used to that; the quick write off as a rich, entitled, nepo baby. It’s a look he’s been getting his entire life. So he’s not sure why getting the same perusal from her, a random tattoo artist he didn’t know, bothers him enough that he feels untethered in his skin.
“I like it,” she finally says, shooting him a small, knowing smile. She straightens up, dusting her hands on her jeans. “So what are we thinking? Bicep? Chest?”
Garrett scratches the back of his neck. “I was thinking my back, actually.”
“Oh?” Her tone is enough to get the tips of his ears red again. “Is this not your first time?”
He rolls his eyes at that, finally feeling somewhat back in his body. “Why does everyone keep asking that?”
She smiles bigger, which does nothing to tame the zoo forming inside his stomach. “Nothing, just—bold choice. I’m liking it even more now.” She pulls up her ipad from the cart and starts messing around with it. “I already have a few ideas if you’re willing to hear me out. Nothing too artsy. Something a little utilitarian, yeah? Since the phrase is essentially a sports mantra. Are you thinking lower back or upper?”
Garrett thinks about it for a second. “I don’t really know. Depends on the design, maybe.”
“Got you,” she tells him with a nod, still busy with her ipad. “So why get a tattoo now, if you don’t mind me being nosy?”
He leans back against the leather tattoo bed, eyes drifting towards the ceiling. Even the light fixtures are funky and ununiform, adding to the overall chaotic yet artistic vibe of the shop. Something about the low buzzing of the tattoo guns, the artwork, and how removed from his normal life the place is makes it easy for the truth to slide from his lips. “As a reward, mostly. I’ve busted my ass off the past two years training and winning games and for the first time, I finally feel like I’m worth more than the name on the back of my jersey.”
The words feel too honest and raw, especially spoken to a stranger. But there’s that feeling of weight being lifted from his chest, too, for being able to say them out loud without being scathed.
“You just gave me an idea,” she tells him, voice going up in barely contained excitement. She takes a few minutes, and then she’s tapping his shoulder and handing the ipad over to him.
He sits up straight and takes it from her hands. The design is simple—utilitarian lettering, like she said, curved in a semi arch.
“I was thinking if we put it right here—“ her fingers reach out to trace over his upper back, making Garrett jolt in place. “—and curved like that, it could be placed right underneath where your name on your jersey usually is. That way, you’d know that behind the name, your mantra’s always going to be there, reminding you that you’ve earned your keep.”
Garrett sits there in silence for a few seconds, lips slightly parted and staring up at her in surprise. This beautiful stranger who weirdly understood him completely.
“So?” She asks, waiting for him to speak.
He feels another tug at his stomach. “Let’s do it.”
“Cool,” she grins down at him. Her eyes flicker to his shirt again. “You can fold your shirt and place it on the bottom tray of the cart while I get the stencil ready. Surface is clean, I promise.”
Right. A back tattoo meant he had to be shirtless. Which is fine. He’s shirtless more hours of the day than he’s not. Garrett’s never been self-conscious about his body–growing up being forced to work out and go to practice and chug down protein shakes does that to a person. He knows he looks good; better than the average college student who goes to the gym occasionally, anyway. His abs are well-defined, his chest and shoulders broad, his arms even bigger. Muscular in a meaty way, because lean gets you thrown easily to the boards of the rink. Still, when he hoists his shirt up and over his head and hears his tattoo artist suck in a breath at the sight of him, a warm feeling begins to bloom in his chest. Warmth and proud and smug and a little shy, too.
He looks at her with his eyebrows slightly raised, a smile threatening to tug his lips up. She meets his eyes defiantly, like she doesn’t care that he caught her looking. The stubbornness makes another animal kick inside his belly.
“On your stomach, please,” she gestures at him with a finger. “I’m going to wash the area with green soap first just to make sure your skin’s clean. I might have to shave it, too, but from the looks of it your hairs are thin on your back, anyway, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Garrett stays quiet, his cheek resting on his folded arms. The second her gloved hands touch the skin of his back, his fists clench tightly. He’s only grateful he had enough self-control not to jump this time. They spend a few minutes like that, her cleaning and shaving his back with careful hands while he tries to pull himself together.
He’s been around plenty of beautiful women in his twenty years of existence, but something about her gets to him. Maybe it’s the way she holds herself with such sureness; the stubborn tilt to her chin, the dragon tattoo, the casual display of talent. Maybe it’s the way she reads him like a book. Either way, Garrett has to fight to keep his breathing normal around her.
She applies the stencil thoroughly, eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. After she’s done, she gives his back a tap. “Go ahead and look at it in the mirror for me. See if you like it. We can adjust the font size or the placement, but in my opinion it looks pretty sick already.”
Garrett does as he’s told. The mirror on the wall is huge and slightly rusted at the edges with lots of stickers littered around the surface. He turns to look at his back and feels his throat tighten up.
She must see something in his face, because she smiles at him softly and says, “Good?”
Garrett looks at the stencil for a second. Not permanent yet, but it’s getting there.
“Yeah,” he coughs, clenching his jaw. “I love it.”
The first press of the inked needle on his skin makes him jump embarrassingly. She laughs at that, muttering “you good?” but otherwise continuing with her job. Because she’s a professional. This is her job. Garrett repeats the words in his head enough times for them to stick.
“You have a lot of bruises,” she says after a few silent minutes of just the tattoo gun buzzing in the air.
The sentence makes him smother a smile. “Yeah. Hockey.”
“I figured,” she counters with a short chuckle. “I heard you guys won your last game. Congratulations.”
Somehow, the fact that he or even just his team had been on her radar enough for her to know that sends a thrill down his spine, something more pressing than the needles. “You like hockey?”
“No,” she says immediately, unashamedly. “But everyone on campus seemingly does. I just hear things.”
So she’s a student. Garrett carefully files this information in his brain, because he’s being totally normal. “What year are you in?”
“About to be a junior,” she hums. The tattoo gun goes over a sensitive spot that has him hissing, and one of her hands squeeze at his shoulder to soothe him. “Shit. Sorry. You okay?”
“Fine,” he manages to grit out, skin stinging more from the squeeze than the needles. “And same. So are you in Fine Arts?”
“Technically,” she answers, wiping at something on his back. “My major’s Art History, but we don’t really get to whip out our sketchbooks that often as much as we do thick dusty books, so.”
Art History. There’s an overlap there that Garrett has to warn his mind not to fixate on. They may very well be in the same classes. Maybe they already were at one point and he just didn’t notice. But that scenario felt unrealistic; he’s sure that if he’d seen her in one of his classes, he would have noticed her. It would be impossible not to.
“You’re really good,” he finds himself saying instead, voice low and steady. “I saw your designs on Instagram. That’s what made me choose this shop, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Garrett answers honestly. The repeated poking on the skin of his back is more tolerable now; she’s settled on a rhythm that almost lulls him to a state of vulnerability. Like they’ve entered an alternate reality where anything he says won’t have consequences in the real world. “I saw that piece you did. The diary entry.”
He feels her falter for a few seconds. Just a blip, but he senses it all the same. When she speaks, her voice is more careful, a little guarded, and Garrett finds himself hating it. “Did you?”
“It was so vulnerable,” Garrett scrunches his eyebrows together, trying to find the right words. “So–I don’t know. Raw. Brave. I want to be like that.”
He doesn’t say anything compromising, even with the loaded words. He doesn’t reveal anything about himself or his trauma that will come back to get him in trouble. But one of her hands travel to his shoulder again. Not quite squeezing. Just hovering there. The almost-contact brings him a relief he’s not sure he’s ready to decipher yet. “I think this is a great start.”
“Yeah?” It’s his turn to ask, moving his head slightly to try and take a look at her.
“Don’t move,” she scolds instantly, making a grin form on his face. “But yes. No lunch is free, right? You earned this.”
Garrett feels a pang in his chest. “That’s right. I did.”
It’s over before he can even begin to comprehend whatever it is he’s feeling. One minute he’s lying there on his chest, eyes halfway closed and heart beating stupidly fast, and the next she’s wiping his back with an antiseptic wipe and saying, “all done.”
“Already?” He can’t help but ask, bracing his arms to the tattoo bed to pull himself up. “Can I see?”
She stands from the stool, an almost fond smile on her face. She’s so beautiful Garrett has to pinch himself to stop staring at her. “Go ahead. Hope you don’t hate it.”
The first thing he notices is how red his skin is. Slightly swollen, the tattoo visibly raised from the surface. And then it finally sinks in: he did it. The words are dark in contrast with his tanned complexion, curved neatly and filled with meaning. “Holy shit.”
“That a good holy shit or a bad one?” She teases from behind him, her arms crossed in front of her chest and her hip popped to one side. She’s removed her gloves, long fingers waving on the skin of her arm. She’s still smiling at him like she’s proud of him, and it makes something stupid settle in Garrett’s chest.
“It’s perfect,” his voice comes out gruff and a little too emotional to not be embarrassing, but that only serves to make her grin wider.
She goes over all the cleaning and healing process, having him repeat after her just to be sure, which makes him feel a little bit like a kid in class who has a big fat crush on his teacher. She gives him a couple pamphlets, a business card, and a sachet of complimentary aftercare ointment, all of which he takes with careful, ready hands.
“That’s basically it,” she finishes with a clap of her hands. “Come back or call us if something goes wrong, though hopefully that doesn’t happen.”
Finally seeing an in, he flashes a small grin at her. “And if I just want to come back anyway?”
“For another tattoo?” She asks, though her eyes are shining like she sees exactly where he’s going with this.
Garrett shrugs, all faux innocence. “Maybe.”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes. Garrett’s a little too proud at getting any reaction from her at all. “Goodbye, Garrett Graham.”
“Wait, you know who I am?” He suddenly asks, taken aback at the mention of his full name which he didn’t remember giving when he booked the appointment.
She shrugs. “Like I said. A lot of people around here love hockey and I hear things. Captain.”
“You know who I am,” he repeats, a slow smile beginning to form on his face, smug and confident and more reminiscent of the Garrett that he usually is.
“Oh my god,” she laughs, pointing down the stairs. “Goodbye.”
He’s still chuckling when he goes down, bidding a goodbye to the lady at the counter and ignoring the knowing look she gives him. His smile feels like a permanent fixture on his face, though he doesn’t realize it until he’s arrived at home and met the curious looks of his friends.
“The hell’s got you so happy?” Dean asks, giving him a weird look.
Garrett pauses by the door in surprise. “Huh?”
“You’re smiling, like, creepily widely, G,” Logan adds before turning back to the TV to the game they’re playing.
Garrett scoffs. “No, I’m not.”
But even as he says it, he feels his lips split his face open, the traitor.
He doesn’t tell them about the tattoo. Not yet. Something about it feels intimate, somehow, the idea that only he and the gorgeous tattoo artist know about the piece branded on his back. It makes him want to keep it to himself for a little while. Get used to the permanence first before letting other people take a peek at it.
He shoves a hand to his pocket and pulls out the aftercare ointment she gave him for free and feels his smile get even bigger.
Yep. He’s going to need to book that appointment soon.
pairing – garrett graham x petal!reader
summary – garrett came prepared to be supportive. he was less prepared for juliet, romeo, and the violent emotional consequences of theatre.
warnings – angst, jealousy, romeo and juliet themes, stage kiss, strong language
notes from me – based on these asks!! thank u so so much my loves!! <3
word count – 10.6k
navigation – masterlist |
Garrett had shown up early, which was already a little humiliating. Not early like a guy who respected curtain times and understood theatre etiquette, and had looked at the ticket email before Dean started screaming in the group chat that if anyone made Allie look out into the crowd and see an empty seat, he would start naming names and ruining lives.
Garrett was early in the way a man was early when he had checked the time four times in the car, parked badly, moved his car because he decided she would absolutely notice if he got towed during her show, then stood outside the lobby doors with a bouquet in one hand and the awful, throat-tight knowledge that he had spent too much of their relationship treating this part of her life like something he could maybe catch if hockey didn’t need him first.
The flowers had seemed like a good idea at the florist. Or not a good idea, but a necessary one. A visible one. Something that said, I’m here, I planned to be here, I didn’t wander in because Dean bullied me and there was nothing on TV.
Pink peonies, because he was now the kind of man who knew the word peonies and had stood under fluorescent lights while an elderly woman in a cardigan told him they were romantic but not too bridal, which had nearly made him walk into traffic.
Now, sitting in the middle of the theatre with the bouquet wrapped in brown paper between his boots, he felt insane, and very aware that Logan had already looked at the flowers twice with the face of a man trying to decide how much emotional ammunition he’d been handed.
Dean, thankfully, was distracted by being unbearable in Allie’s direction. He had chosen a seat with the intense focus of someone attending the Olympics, one arm stretched across the back of the empty chair beside him, his knee bouncing under dark jeans, his mouth already running.
Tucker sat on Garrett’s other side, calm and broad and unfairly composed, holding the program in both hands like he actually intended to understand the plot instead of simply clap when everyone else clapped. Logan was beside him, slouched low in his seat with his legs too long for the row, eating sour candy he had smuggled in his jacket and making no attempt to do it quietly.
Behind them, half the team had somehow materialised in a cluster of too-large bodies and whispering stupidity, because hockey players were like mould in that once one of them found a warm, enclosed space, the rest appeared and started causing structural concern.
“This is nice,” Tucker said, looking around the little black-box theatre with mild sincerity. “Smaller than I expected.”
“It’s intimate,” Dean said, with the authority of a man who had learned one theatre word and was preparing to abuse it. “Allie said that. Intimate staging.”
Logan leaned forward around Tucker to look at Garrett. “Does intimate mean we’re gonna get spit on by actors?”
Garrett looked straight ahead. “Please shut up.”
“I’m asking for safety reasons.”
“You’re eating candy out of your pocket in a theatre,” Tucker said. “I don’t think safety is your top concern.”
Logan frowns. “It was sealed.”
“It’s not sealed anymore,” Dean said, glancing back with immediate disgust. “I can hear you chewing from here, man. This is culture. Have some respect.”
Logan stared at him. “You once ate a hot dog during a minute of silence.”
“That was different.”
“It wasn’t different.”
Garrett let them bicker because it gave him something to listen to that wasn’t the stupid, low thud of his own pulse. The theatre smelled like dust and old wood and perfume and the faint sharp sweetness of someone’s drink from the lobby bar.
The audience had that pre-show hum to it, bodies settling, coats being shoved under seats, people leaning close to whisper in the dark. It felt nothing like a rink. Here, everything was softer and stranger. Lights hung low over the stage. A metal fire escape climbed along one side of the set.
Someone had built the suggestion of a city street out of brick flats and graffiti and a balcony that looked unstable enough to make every protective instinct in his body sit up and request paperwork.
He had been bad at this before, enough that the truth of it sat in his stomach like a bad hit. He’d gone to some shows. He had clapped and kissed her after and told her she was great, and he had meant it in the quick, easy way you meant things when you loved someone but hadn’t learned yet how to make room for the parts of them that didn’t orbit you.
He had missed others because practice ran over, or because a game had gone late, or because he’d thought catching the last twenty minutes still counted if he apologised with coffee and his hands on her waist. He remembered her face once, outside this same building, smile still on because other people were around, eyes already going flat at the edges when he’d said, baby, I’m sorry, Coach kept us late. He remembered thinking she would get over it because he was there now.
Jesus. He wants to go back and punch himself in the mouth.
The lights dipped once. The audience responded with a little ripple of attention, everyone straightening as if the room had tugged them forward by the chest. Garrett’s hand moved before he could stop it, brushing once over the wrapped flowers between his shoes, checking they hadn’t somehow died from his anxiety.
Logan noticed because Logan was a parasite with excellent peripheral vision. “You petting the bouquet, G?”
Garrett turned his head slowly. “You want to watch the play from the parking lot?”
“I’m just saying, they look supported.”
Dean leaned around Tucker, eyes bright with terrible delight. “Wait, are those for her?”
“No,” Garrett said. “They’re for Juliet’s father. Big fan.”
Tucker’s mouth twitched. Logan lost a small piece of candy into his lap and spent three frantic seconds trying to recover it without looking down. Dean pointed at him with open approval. “That was actually good. Emotion is making you funnier.”
“Dean,” Tucker said mildly. “Curtain.”
“It’s not a curtain,” Logan whispered. “It’s a blackout.”
Dean’s face tightened. “I’m going to kill everyone in this row before intermission.”
Then the stage went dark, and Garrett forgot how to care about them. The first scene came up hard and bright, all city noise and music and bodies moving fast under neon-edged light.
It was Romeo and Juliet, technically, but not the stiff, dusty version Garrett had half-remembered from high school, where everyone wore tights and spoke like they were trying to summon a ghost. This was modern and restless, all sharp jackets and street corners and phone screens glowing in palms, the old language threaded through new bodies like a live wire.
The cast moved with the kind of confidence that looked accidental only if you didn’t know how much work it took to make chaos land cleanly. Garrett found Allie first, because Dean’s whole body reacted beside him like someone had pulled a string attached directly to his spine.
She swept across the stage in dark blue, hair pinned up, mouth cutting through a line with such vicious brightness that Dean whispered, “That’s my girl,” in a tone that made Logan gag quietly into his sleeve.
Garrett barely heard him, because then she came on.
For a second, she wasn’t even speaking. She stepped into the light on the balcony set, one hand resting loosely on the rusted rail, and the whole room seemed to understand at once that it was supposed to look. She had that stage stillness, the kind Garrett had only recently learned to recognise as something active, something muscular.
Her chin lifted slightly, her hair catching the light, the white slip of her dress moving around her knees like the air had decided to participate. She looked younger and older than herself at the same time, soft and electric and so far away from the girl who had rolled her eyes at him over light ice that his chest tightened with the strange, proud shock of it.
“Holy shit,” Logan whispered.
Garrett’s jaw moved. “Yeah.”
“No, like, holy shit,” Logan said, a little quieter this time, as if the room had trained him without permission. “G, why didn’t you tell us she was this good?”
Garrett didn’t have an answer that didn’t make him sound like an asshole. Because I didn’t know enough. Because I watched her, but I didn’t see it right. Because sometimes when someone loves you, you get lazy and assume you already understand them.
He kept his eyes on the stage instead, on the way she leaned into her next line with a breath that changed her whole face, and let the silence answer badly for him.
Tucker, who had been sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, nodded once like he was confirming something private. “She’s got the room.”
Dean made a small, offended sound from the other side of Garrett. “Of course she does. Have you met theatre girls? They’re terrifying. Allie once made a freshman cry by asking what his objective was.”
The boys behind them had gone quieter too. Even Jacobs, who had come because somebody said the lead actress was hot and then made the mistake of saying it within Garrett’s hearing, was no longer whispering.
Good. Great. Wonderful for him. Everyone in the room discovering she was incredible at the exact same time Garrett was trying to act like he didn’t want to stand on his chair and inform them that he had known first.
Then Romeo entered, and Garrett’s mood deteriorated immediately.
The guy playing him was tall. Annoyingly tall. Theatre tall, which was different from athlete tall because it involved less useful muscle and more hair that looked like it had been arranged by a committee of mirrors.
He came in wearing a black jacket and battered boots, face tilted up toward the balcony with a stupid, open, moon-eyed expression that Garrett understood was probably acting but still found personally offensive. The audience liked him instantly. Garrett could feel it, the soft little lean of attention, the appreciative murmur when Romeo stepped under Juliet’s balcony and looked up at her like she had invented oxygen and he had been suffering before now.
Buddy, Garrett thought, jaw tight. Let’s relax.
Romeo started speaking up to her, voice low and rough in a way that made three girls two rows ahead shift in their seats. Garrett hated him. In the moment, with his Juliet looking down from the balcony in that white dress and smiling like the first crack of daylight after a bad night, Garrett hated him with surprising athletic clarity.
She laughed at something Romeo said. Not her real laugh, Garrett told himself immediately, because he had become the kind of man who categorised her laughs like a lunatic. It was higher, lighter, edged with Juliet’s nerves instead of her own bite.
Still, the sound went through the room and people smiled in response, and Garrett felt a hot, possessive little flare under his ribs that was so stupid he nearly rolled his own eyes at himself.
She’s acting, Graham. That is literally the point of the building you are inside.
Romeo put one hand on the railing below the balcony, gazing up at her. Fine. Acceptable. The staging required proximity. Garrett could be mature. Garrett could sit in a chair and watch a man pretend to love the girl Garrett was very actively, publicly, and with flowers, trying to win back. He could do that. He was a leader. He had survived overtime penalty kills with his lungs on fire. He could survive a theatre boy in boots.
Then Juliet came down the fire escape.
Slowly, carefully, one hand sliding along the metal rail, the hem of her dress brushing the steps. Garrett’s whole body tightened because the set really did look like a lawsuit pretending to be scenery, but she moved like she trusted it completely, bare legs pale in the stage light, face still turned toward Romeo like the rest of the world had fallen away. The audience held its breath with her. Garrett held his for different reasons. At the bottom, Romeo reached for her hand.
Reasonable. Stage blocking. Safety. Garrett could respect safety.
Romeo’s fingers closed around hers. Garrett’s teeth pressed together.
Logan leaned toward Tucker and whispered, “Oh, he’s not enjoying this.”
Garrett didn’t look away from the stage. “I can hear you.”
“I know.”
Romeo drew her closer, and she went. Because that was the scene. Because Juliet was supposed to be reckless and lit up from the inside and stupid with first love, and she was so good at it that Garrett could see the exact second her body chose him. The idea. The tragic, impossible thing. Her shoulders softened. Her face opened. She looked at Romeo like the whole city had gone quiet around the shape of him, and Garrett’s stomach gave an ugly little twist before he could shove the thought down.
Why does she look so happy?
Acting. She was acting. She had just screamed at a roast chicken in a rehearsal last month, apparently. This was what she did. She made false things look true enough to hurt people. Very normal. Very professional. Someone should have warned him this profession was a direct threat to cardiovascular health.
Romeo’s hand went to her hip. Garrett sat up.
Tucker’s hand landed on his forearm without looking at him, calm and immediate. “No.”
“He has his hand on her hip.”
“She’s Juliet,” Tucker said, like this explained the legal framework of theatrical touching.
“That doesn’t mean he needs the whole hip.”
Dean leaned over, eyes still on Allie but somehow catching the exact right moment to make everything worse. “It’s actually more of a waist-to-hip transitional area.”
Garrett turned his head just enough to look at him. Dean’s mouth snapped shut, though he looked extremely proud of himself.
Onstage, Juliet lifted her hand to Romeo’s cheek, and the room seemed to soften around it. The lighting had gone warm, low gold catching along her jaw and the white of her dress, the city set fading into shadow behind them.
She said a line that Garrett didn’t fully understand because Shakespeare still sounded, to him, like someone had dropped normal sentences down a long staircase, but he understood her face. He understood the way she made wanting look terrifying and sweet, the way she held herself like the feeling was too big for her ribs and she had nowhere to put it except in the space between them.
The guy playing Romeo leaned in. Garrett’s hand tightened around the armrest.
The kiss wasn’t long. Objectively, if he were being normal, it was a stage kiss, angled enough that most of the room got the idea without getting anything real. It was over in seconds. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t have mattered. Garrett still felt like every primitive part of his brain had stood up with a clipboard and started filing complaints.
Logan made the mistake of whispering, “Yikes.”
Garrett said, very quietly, “I will end you.”
“Supportive audience energy,” Logan whispered back, delighted and terrified.
The play kept moving. Garrett tried, genuinely, to be normal about it. There were fight scenes, which helped because watching men shove each other under red light and yell in half-Shakespeare gave him somewhere to put the tension.
Mercutio died against a graffiti-covered wall with Allie kneeling beside him, her face crumpling so suddenly Dean went very still beside them, and Garrett found himself dragged out of jealousy by the ugly efficiency of the scene. The actor’s blood was fake and too bright, but Allie’s hands shook like she’d forgotten it wasn’t real. Dean swallowed hard, then leaned back as if offended by having feelings in public.
“You good?” Tucker murmured.
Dean blinked at the stage. “Yeah. I just didn’t know theatre was gonna attack me personally.”
“It’s Romeo and Juliet,” Garrett said. “People die.”
Dean looked at him. “I know that, jackass. I didn’t know I was gonna care.”
That, Garrett thought, was the thing. Caring kept sneaking up on him from the wrong angles. He had come prepared to be proud and jealous and maybe a little smug when she looked out and saw him there with flowers like an evolved man. He hadn’t come prepared for the weird ache of watching her belong so completely to something that had nothing to do with him.
This was sharper. Better. Worse. She was brilliant in a world he had only ever visited. She was moving through language and light and other people’s bodies with a kind of skill that made his throat feel tight, and the more the audience leaned toward her, the more Garrett wanted to both hide her from them and shove everyone by the face toward the stage and say, Look. Look what she can do.
By the second half, his jealousy had become less clean. Romeo still annoyed him, obviously. Romeo had hair that flopped into his eyes and hands that took liberties because blocking was stupid and fucked up and he’d absolutely complain about it later. But the guy was good. That was irritating too. He gave her enough to work against, met her where she was, made the scenes breathe around them. Garrett could admit that internally while still wishing him a mild injury. Nothing career-ending. Just enough to discourage kissing.
Juliet’s bedroom scene nearly killed him.
The set had shifted into a small apartment bedroom, blue morning light spilling through fake blinds, rumpled sheets, a pair of sneakers kicked near the bed. Modern, intimate, too close.
Romeo sat beside her, one hand braced behind her on the mattress, and she leaned into him with her forehead near his shoulder, voice low and threaded with dread as dawn crept over the scene. Garrett could feel the whole audience listening harder. He knew, distantly, that his teammates had stopped making jokes entirely. Even Logan’s candy bag had gone still.
Romeo brushed hair from her face. Garrett had to close his eyes for half a second and breathe through his nose.
When he opened them, she was looking at Romeo with tears shining under the stage light, not falling yet, but gathered there like her body was trying to hold back the inevitable with sheer stubbornness. Her mouth trembled around a line, then steadied, and something in Garrett’s chest pulled so hard he forgot to hate the guy beside her.
Dean whispered, hoarse and confused, “Dude.”
Garrett didn’t answer.
“Like, I don’t even understand what she’s saying half the time,” Dean continued, sounding genuinely distressed by the fact of his own admiration, “but she’s so fucking good.”
Tucker nodded once, eyes on the stage. “Agree.”
Logan sniffed. Garrett turned his head a fraction. Logan stared forward, jaw tight, eyes suspiciously glassy. “What?” he whispered, immediately defensive. “Her dad’s being a dick.”
Garrett looked back at the stage before his own face could betray him too badly. Her Juliet had gone smaller now, hemmed in by grief and family and the terrible machinery of the story. The bright, reckless girl from the balcony was still there, but buried under something heavier.
She made the change visible in her body, shoulders curving in, hands folding and unfolding at her sides, chin lifting every time someone tried to press her down like pride was the last clean thing she owned. Garrett knew that posture. Not Juliet’s. Hers.
The way she had stood in Malone’s with her bag strap biting into her palm and wet eyes she refused to let him name. The way she had looked at him in his bedroom wearing his jersey and said, Don’t talk to me like that, even with her voice soft at the edges. The way she protected herself with steel so fine you only saw the shine if it cut you.
By the final scene, the theatre had gone so quiet it felt almost unnatural. The city noise was gone. No music. Just dim light, stone grey and cold, the stage stripped back until the tomb looked like an abandoned subway platform after midnight.
Juliet lay still on a raised concrete slab, white dress spread around her, one arm fallen loose at her side. Garrett’s body objected to the image before his mind could explain it. He knew she was acting. He could see her breathing if he looked closely enough. Still, the sight hit some old, animal place in him that didn’t enjoy seeing her motionless under cold light with everyone watching.
Romeo stumbled in half-broken, voice wrecked, and even Garrett, who had spent the last two hours wishing the guy would stand farther away on principle, had to admit he was selling the hell out of being doomed. He dropped to his knees beside her. His hand hovered over her face, shaking. The room held its breath.
Garrett’s fingers dug into his own thigh.
“Don’t,” Logan whispered, very softly, though whether he meant Romeo or Garrett or the entire concept of tragedy was unclear.
Romeo touched Juliet’s cheek, then bent over her. The kiss landed on her lips. Garrett’s mind went white for one clean second, then returned with several unhelpful thoughts at once.
Absolutely not. She’s dead. She’s acting dead. He’s kissing her while she's acting dead.
That somehow feels worse.
His hand moved toward the armrest again and found Tucker already there, not even looking at him, palm out like he had anticipated the exact trajectory of Garrett’s restraint leaving his body.
Garrett gripped the armrest instead of committing a public incident in row three. Onstage, Romeo pulled back, his face crumpling, and Garrett found himself furious in at least six directions. At the kiss. At the story. At the fact that she was so still. At himself for ever making her feel like he could not show up for this when this was what showing up meant. Sitting there and letting her devastate him in a room full of strangers.
Romeo died. Juliet woke. The audience shifted all at once, a tiny broken ripple of fabric and breath, because she woke like hope arriving too late. Her eyes opened slowly, lashes fluttering under the cold light, and for one horrible second her face softened with relief before she saw him. Before Juliet understood.
Garrett felt the change hit the room through her body, the way her breath caught, the way her hand went to Romeo’s chest, the way her mouth opened without sound first, grief too large to fit through the door.
Dean made a sound beside him. “Oh, fuck off.”
Tucker’s eyes were wet. He was pretending they weren’t with enormous dignity.
Logan dragged both hands down his face. “This is bullshit.”
Garrett couldn’t even make fun of them. His own throat had gone tight enough that swallowing felt like something he had to plan. She was crying now, silently at first, then with one sharp, broken sound that made the hair on his arms lift. It came from somewhere low in her body, pulled up through the ribs, raw enough that the whole room leaned back from it and forward at the same time.
She took the knife. Garrett knew it was fake. He knew, obviously, because there were rules and props and rehearsals and nobody was letting his almost-girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, girl, whatever unbearable word currently fit the shape of her, handle an actual blade under lights.
Still, his heart kicked hard against his ribs as Juliet pressed it to herself and delivered the last line like she was handing the audience something she had no strength left to carry. Then she folded down beside Romeo, her hand finding his jacket, cheek turned toward the cold concrete, white dress pooling between them.
The lights held.
No one clapped right away.
That silence did more to Garrett than applause would have. The whole theatre sat suspended in the aftermath of her, like everyone had forgotten what their hands were for. Garrett could hear the old building breathing. Someone sniffed two rows back.
Dean had both elbows on his knees, hands clasped near his mouth, staring at the stage with a kind of betrayed wonder. Logan was blinking too much. Tucker had gone completely still.
Garrett looked at her lying there under the fading light and felt something inside him rearrange again, not gently. It wasn’t just that he wanted her back. He did. Badly. Stupidly. With flowers and light ice and every ounce of patience he had scraped together from parts of himself nobody had previously asked to be patient.
But watching her tonight had made the wanting deeper and less selfish in a way that scared him more. He didn’t just want her tucked back under his arm at parties where everyone could see. He wanted to be the guy in the third row who knew when to shut up and watch. The guy who understood that the part of her that could do this deserved more than apologies after the fact. More than showing up when it was convenient. More than Garrett Graham deciding, late but not too late, that loving someone meant learning the shape of the rooms where they became themselves without you.
The blackout came soft and total. For half a second, nobody moved. Then the theatre erupted.
Applause hit like a wave, loud and immediate and messy, people standing before the lights had fully come back up. Dean shot to his feet first, clapping so hard Garrett thought he might bruise himself, yelling Allie’s name with absolutely no shame.
Logan stood too, swiping once at the corner of his eye and then pointing at Garrett like the tears were somehow Garrett’s fault. Tucker rose more slowly, but he clapped with both hands, steady and proud, his mouth curved in a small stunned smile.
Garrett stood because the room had stood and because his body couldn’t stay folded into that seat anymore. His hands came together hard, the sound swallowed by everyone else’s, and when the cast came out for bows, he found her immediately.
She wasn’t Juliet now. Not completely. The white dress was still there, the tears still shining faintly on her cheeks, but when she stepped forward with the rest of the cast and the applause rose again, her eyes swept the crowd with a breathless, searching brightness that belonged to her.
Garrett clapped harder, stupidly, like volume could make up for every time he hadn’t understood. Like she might feel it from the stage and know exactly which pair of hands was his.
Romeo stood beside her, because of course he did, one hand linked with hers as they bowed. Garrett’s jaw tightened on reflex.
Tucker, without looking away from the stage, said, “Let her have the bow, man.”
“I’m letting her have the bow.”
“You made a noise.”
Dean, still clapping like Allie had personally invented theatre, leaned across Garrett with wet eyes and no dignity. “G, I’m sorry, but your girl is fucking insane.”
Garrett looked at the stage. She was smiling now, wide and overwhelmed, cheeks flushed under the lights, one hand pressed briefly to her chest when the applause swelled again.
The expression hit him so cleanly it almost hurt. His girl. Not in the way he had once taken for granted, not as a claim he could wear without earning it. But in the quiet, stubborn, hopeful part of him that had been saying it for weeks anyway.
“Yeah, I know, man,” Garrett said, voice rough enough that Logan glanced over. He didn’t care. His eyes stayed on her as she bowed again, shining under the lights while the whole room gave itself to her.
The applause was still inside her body when she came offstage. It had settled somewhere strange, under her skin, in her ribs, in the pulse point at her throat, in the soft trembling line of her thighs where adrenaline and stage lights and the last two hours of pretending to die beautifully had all decided to move in and start paying rent.
The black hallway behind the theatre was too narrow for the amount of noise everyone carried into it. People were laughing too loudly, crying a little, hugging with sweaty arms and half-fastened costumes, someone yelling for water, someone else yelling that the prop knife had gone missing.
Her final costume was still clinging to her. The white dress, soft and thin and wrecked a little by the last scene, stuck lightly to the back of her knees, the hem smudged grey from the platform, one side marked with a careful streak of fake blood that looked too dramatic up close and apparently devastating from the third row if the way Allie had grabbed her after bows and whispered, “You fucking bitch, I almost sobbed my lashes off,” meant anything.
Her hair had come partly loose from its pins, curls falling around her face and sticking to the edge of her damp cheek. There was still a track of stage tears drying tight on her skin, and one of her hands shook every time she lifted it, which was fine, normal, professional, and not at all like her body had briefly forgotten the difference between performance and exorcism.
She was halfway through letting one of the assistant stage managers unclip the little mic pack from the back of her dress when she remembered, all at once and with a force that made her stomach drop in the best, stupidest way, that Garrett was out there.
Garrett, who had been in the third row the entire time. Garrett, with Dean and Logan and Tucker and half the hockey team arranged behind him like the world’s broadest, least subtle emotional support section. Garrett, who she’d seen only in flashes because every time her eyes had gone near that row, something in her chest had become dangerously loud.
Garrett clapping so hard during the bows she had almost missed the grip change for the second curtain call. Garrett standing there with his dark curls and those shoulders and his face doing something so open, so stupidly bright, that she’d had to look at Allie instead because Juliet could survive a fake knife to the chest but she couldn’t survive Garrett Graham looking proud of her under stage lights.
The mic pack came free with a little tug.
“You good?” the stage manager asked, already distracted by someone else needing help with a ripped sleeve.
“Yeah,” she said, and then she was moving.
She should have changed first. Probably. Or wiped the fake blood from her side, or fixed her lipstick, or at least made sure she hadn’t left her phone in some doomed little pile of bobby pins. There were practical steps, normal post-show steps, entire systems designed to transition a person from tragic teenage girl back into human woman with keys and a water bottle.
She ignored every single one of them and slipped through the side door into the lobby with her dress still ghost-pale around her knees and her heartbeat acting like it had been invited to embarrass her.
The lobby had turned into that strange, glowing after-show mess where everyone looked slightly brighter than they had before, flushed from clapping, too warm in winter coats, voices lifted by relief and the need to tell someone they’d been moved before the feeling got away.
People clustered under the old sconces, programs folded in hands, drinks abandoned on high tables, parents crying near the poster, students shouting over each other, cast members being pulled into hugs by people who had no idea how much sweat was happening under all that theatrical softness. The air smelled like beer and perfume and damp wool and flowers.
She found Garrett immediately. It was embarrassing, honestly, how fast. The lobby was packed, full of moving bodies and raised arms and people calling her name from three directions, and still her eyes went to him like her body had been keeping a map of his exact coordinates all night.
He was standing near the far wall with the boys around him, but not really with them, not in the way Garrett usually was with a group. Usually he took up the centre of things without trying, shoulders loose, grin easy, body angled toward whoever had the room at that second.
Now he looked like he had forgotten there were people beside him. Tucker was saying something to one of the other guys, Logan had both hands in his hair like he was recovering from a major emotional injury, and Dean was still red-eyed in a way he would probably blame on stage dust until his death, but Garrett was only looking at her.
And he was holding flowers. Pink peonies wrapped in brown paper, a little crushed at one edge like he’d been gripping them too hard. The sight hit her so unexpectedly that she stopped for half a second in the middle of the lobby, ridiculous in her dead-Juliet dress, while some freshman nearly walked into her back and apologised to the air.
Garrett’s face changed when he realised she was coming toward him. Something almost nervous, his mouth parting slightly, shoulders shifting as if he had to remind himself not to move too fast.
Then the grin came anyway, because he was Garrett and incapable of not looking like sunshine had learned arrogance when he was happy. It spread across his face so bright and unguarded that the last of the stage-shiver in her knees turned into something much warmer and far more dangerous.
She didn’t think. Thinking would have made her slower, more careful, more aware of the boys and the flowers and the fact that Garrett had been there for all of it, every scene, every line, every staged kiss, every stupidly vulnerable second of her under lights.
Thinking would have reminded her that they were still balancing on the narrow little bridge between exes and something else, still saying goodnight instead of kissing, still letting baby slip and pretending it didn’t rearrange something in both their chests.
So she didn’t think. She went straight to him, cheeks warm, throat tight, smiling so hard it almost hurt. “Hi,” she said, breathless and stupidly soft.
Garrett looked down at her like she’d knocked all the words out of him and he was deeply offended by the inconvenience. His eyes moved over her face, catching on the tear tracks, the loose hair, the faint blood smudge at her side, then came back up warmer than before. “Hi, baby.”
The word landed right in the open place the applause had left behind.
She should have been normal about it. She had been called Juliet by strangers for two hours. She had died in public. She had been kissed by a man in front of approximately a hundred people and had continued breathing through it like a professional.
Still, baby in Garrett’s voice did something so specific to her body that she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her smile from turning into something hopeless.
Garrett held the flowers out, and the brown paper crinkled faintly in his hand. “These are yours.”
She looked at them, then back at him, grin widening before she could control it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His mouth softened, and the nerves came back around the edges now that he had to actually hand over the evidence of caring. “I was told they’re romantic but not too bridal, so.”
A laugh slipped out of her, tired and bright. “Wow. Professional.”
“I learned a lot today.”
She took the bouquet, fingers brushing the paper, and for one stupid second she could not stop looking at it. Peonies. Pink. Pretty and full and very Garrett in the sense that he had clearly stood somewhere and overthought them.
When she looked up again, he was watching her face. “You were–” he started, voice rougher than she expected.
“Babe!” someone gasped from behind her, and then a girl from one of the movement classes she had taken last semester appeared at her side, already reaching for both of her arms. “Oh my god, you killed it. Like, actually killed it. The final scene? I wanted to throw up.”
The praise hit with the strange, automatic warmth of post-show attention, her body responding before her brain caught up, smile brightening, shoulders turning. “Oh my god, thank you so much,” she said, letting herself be squeezed because that was what one did in lobbies while still in costume and emotionally porous. “That’s so sweet. I was so nervous about that scene.”
“You couldn’t tell at all. You looked, like, devastating. Everyone around me was crying.”
“That’s so concerning and so nice.”
The girl laughed, kissed the air near her cheek, then disappeared back into the crowd with a promise to text her, which probably meant she would send twelve blurry photos and a voice note at 1 a.m. about lighting cues. She turned back to Garrett immediately, flowers pressed against her chest, smiling in apology.
“Sorry,” she said. “You were saying?”
Garrett blinked once, like he’d been left holding a sentence that had gone cold in his hands. “Oh. Uh.” His eyes flicked briefly over her shoulder to where the girl had gone, then back to her. “I was just saying that–”
“Yo, Juliet.”
This time it was one of the football guys. She knew him vaguely from parties and campus and the unfortunate social overlap that happened when every athlete at Briar seemed to believe all other athletes were part of one large, sweaty extended family.
He was broad and loud and already beaming, wearing a letterman jacket over a hoodie, one hand lifted like he was approaching a teammate after a win.
“You were insane,” he said, stopping beside her with the full confidence of someone interrupting because it had never occurred to him that he might be. “Seriously. Congrats. That was fucking sick.”
Her smile came up again, because he meant it and she was still too full of performance and relief to be ungenerous. “Thank you,” she said, laughing when he lifted a hand for a high five and then seemed to realise she was holding flowers and hovering somewhere between celebration rituals. She shifted the bouquet into one arm and slapped his palm with the other. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Didn’t understand, like, forty percent of it,” he admitted cheerfully. “But you were crazy good.”
“That’s honestly the most honest review Shakespeare has ever received.”
He laughed, told her again that she killed it, then got swallowed by a cluster of his friends who immediately started yelling at another cast member. She turned back to Garrett, who hadn’t moved, but had developed a very specific expression. Something close to baffled irritation, like his brain had identified a pattern and was not enjoying the data.
“Yeah?” she prompted, tilting her head a little, still smiling because she could feel the shape of his frustration before he had named it and some very unkind part of her found it charming.
Garrett drew in a breath. “You were incredible,” he said, getting the words out faster this time, as if the lobby might tackle him if he gave it a gap. “Like, holy shit, I–”
She heard her name shouted from the side and had exactly half a second to turn before Romeo swept in.
His actual name was Micah, and under normal lighting, without tragic music or a blood capsule tucked into his cheek, he was significantly less threatening than Garrett had decided he was. He was tall, yes, and pretty in a deeply annoying way, with dark hair and the bone structure of someone who had been told to consider modelling by four separate aunties, but he was also wearing eyeliner that had smudged under both eyes and had spent the last half hour backstage crying because his mother cried and then Allie cried.
Still, he came at her like a disaster, laughing already, arms open. “There she is!”
“Oh my god,” she squealed, because the post-show hysteria was contagious and because they had survived the thing together, the balcony, the fights, the kiss, the death, all of it. “We did it!”
Micah grabbed her around the waist and lifted her clean off the floor.
She shrieked, one hand clamping down on the bouquet, the other flying to his shoulder so she didn’t accidentally take someone out with her heel. “Micah!”
“We killed it,” he said, spinning her once in a tiny, reckless circle that made her dress flare around her legs and Garrett, somewhere in front of her, go very still. “We actually killed it.”
“We killed it,” she laughed, breathless, when he put her down. She grabbed his arms and bounced once on her toes because her body had decided dignity was for people who had not just received a standing ovation. “The tomb scene? You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were actually crying.”
“I was crying!”
“You dramatic bitch.”
“You stabbed yourself with commitment.”
“I did. I’m very brave.”
“You’re a genius,” Micah said, still grinning, and then pulled her into a quick, crushing hug that smelled like stage makeup, sweat, and the greenroom mints everyone had been stress-eating. “Seriously. You were magic.”
The compliment went through her softly, one performer to another, clean of everything except the strange intimacy of knowing exactly how hard the other person had worked. She hugged him back, laughing against his shoulder. “So were you.”
When she pulled away, Micah squeezed her arm once, told her he had to find his boyfriend before he got tackled by his mother, and disappeared into the lobby chaos with eyeliner still halfway down his face.
She turned back to Garrett. Garrett was staring at the exact space Micah’s hands had been.
“Hi,” she said again, because it was impossible not to.
His eyes lifted slowly to hers. There was a smile trying very hard to happen on his mouth, but jealousy had both hands around its throat. “They all just interrupted us.”
She blinked, adjusting the flowers against her chest. “What?”
“We were talking.” Garrett’s brows pulled together like the facts had only just assembled themselves and were now standing in front of him with a clipboard. “And everyone kept coming over. Like, in the middle of the sentence.”
Her mouth twitched before she could stop it.
Garrett saw. “Don’t.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She shrugged. “I’m listening.”
His expression shifted, still irritated but losing the fight against recognition. His gaze moved briefly over the lobby, the people still calling her name, the hands waving, the bodies angling toward her as if access was simply part of the price of admission.
Then his face changed. Slowly. A small falter in the line of his mouth, a quiet little hit behind his eyes that made her chest go softer than she was prepared for.
“Oh,” he said.
She held the bouquet a little tighter. “Yeah.”
Garrett looked at her. Really looked this time. The flowers between them. Her costume. The lobby crowd. The way another person two tables away had already lifted a hand and opened their mouth like they were about to call her over. His jaw shifted, but the jealousy had loosened around something else now. Something less fun to tease.
“This is how–” He stopped, breath leaving him in a short, humourless almost-laugh. “This is what people used to do to us. To me.”
She nodded once, small. “Yeah.”
Garrett’s mouth pressed together, his eyes flicking down for half a second like he was watching some old version of himself let go of her hand in a coffee shop and call it nothing.
“At least I apologised to you,” she added, because if they stayed too long in the ache, she might do something mortifying like touch his face in public while dressed as a dead teenager.
Garrett’s eyes came back up, and the corner of his mouth pulled despite himself. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. I’m very emotionally evolved.”
“You got lifted by Romeo thirty seconds ago and called him a dramatic bitch.”
“And I came back to you,” she said, before she could decide whether the sentence was too much.
Garrett’s face changed again.
The lobby kept moving around them. Someone laughed too loudly near the bar. Dean yelled Allie’s name from across the room, followed by Allie yelling, “Dean, I’m right here,” in a voice that suggested they were seconds from a public dispute over affection.
Logan shouted something about needing snacks because grief had burned calories. Tucker, steady as ever, was apparently speaking to an elderly woman about how long intermission had been, looking polite enough that she might adopt him.
Garrett stepped closer, enough that the space between them stopped belonging to the lobby and started belonging to the two of them. His hands came to her waist carefully, warm through the thin fabric of the dress, fingers settling low enough to steady but not crowd.
The contact made her breath catch in the smallest possible way. Garrett noticed because Garrett always noticed when it mattered now. His thumbs held still, waiting, and when she didn’t step back, his face softened with something too bright to be smug.
“You were incredible, baby,” he said, and this time there was no interruption, no shout from a teammate, no Romeo with his stupid hands and his boyfriend waiting somewhere by the poster. Just Garrett’s voice, low and rough and full of something he was not trying to dress up. “Like, holy fuck.”
The praise moved through her differently than the others. Garrett saying it with his hands on her waist and flowers crushed gently between them made the room tilt a fraction toward warmth.
She looked up at him, smile trying to be teasing and not quite making it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes dropped for one quick, helpless second to the fake blood at her side, then back to her face. “I mean it. The guys were losing their minds. Dean cried.”
Her mouth fell open. “Dean cried?”
“Logan also cried.”
“Did he?”
“No idea. I’m saying it because it’ll piss him off.”
She laughed, and Garrett’s hands flexed once at her waist, like the sound had done something to him. He looked past her then, toward where Micah had vanished, and the softer expression on his face narrowed by a fraction. “Let me drive you home?”
Her brows lifted. “Already?”
“Yes,” he said immediately, then seemed to realise the speed of it and cleared his throat. “I mean. When you’re ready.”
She smiled harder. “You sound very relaxed.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Mhm.”
Garrett leaned down slightly, voice dipping close enough that it brushed warm near her ear without quite becoming a secret. “I’m sick of sharing you with fuckin’ Romeo.”
The giggle came out before she could make it dignified. A giggle. Awful, bright, humiliating. Garrett’s face did something pleased and hungry in response, which did not help anyone.
She looked down at the flowers because his expression was becoming a health hazard. “Sure.”
“Sure?”
“You can drive me home.”
His smile spread, slow and victorious enough that she immediately regretted giving him the word without terms and conditions. “Great.”
“Don’t look so smug.”
“I’m not.” His hands slipped from her waist before they could become something too public and too impossible to walk away from, but he stayed close, turning slightly when someone tried to squeeze past so his shoulder blocked the bump before it reached her. Then his gaze dropped to the floor near her feet. “Where’s your bag?”
“Oh.” She looked around, the flowers crinkling in her arms. “Backstage, I think? Dressing room. Maybe by the greenroom. Or under Allie’s stuff. It has my shoes in it.”
Garrett stared at her. “You don’t know where your bag is?”
“I’ve been busy dying.”
“Fair.” His mouth twitched. “Stay here.”
He said it without thinking. She looked at him.
He caught himself almost instantly, hands lifting a fraction. “Sorry. Not stay like a dog. Stay like a girl in a white dress holding flowers who’s gonna get ambushed by twelve more people if she starts wandering.”
“Mm.” She pretended to consider this. “Better.”
“I’m learning.”
“Go find my bag, Graham.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He left her there for maybe two minutes, which was long enough for three more people to hug her, one professor to squeeze her hand and tell her, very seriously, that she had finally understood stillness, and one girl from the front row to say, “I don’t even like Shakespeare, but you made me care,” which nearly undid her more than anything else because she could smell Garrett’s flowers every time she breathed in and could still feel the shape of his hands at her waist.
By the time Garrett came back, he had her tote bag hooked over one shoulder and her rehearsal bag in the other hand, both looking slightly ridiculous against his dark sweater in the exact way Garrett always looked ridiculous carrying her things without shame. Dean trailed behind him for three steps, still talking.
“I’m just saying,” Dean said, hands spread, “that was a death scene. Like, a death scene. Allie stabbed someone emotionally in act three, and then your girl came in and finished the job. I need a drink and possibly closure.”
Garrett didn’t slow down. “Talk to your girlfriend.”
“I tried. She said I was breathing too close to her eyelashes.”
“She’s right.”
Dean looked wounded. “You don’t even know where I was breathing.”
“I know enough.”
She smiled as Garrett reached her, taking in the sight of her bags over him, the slightly harassed look on his face, the way the bouquet made everything smell soft and pink in the middle of the chaos. “You found them.”
“Eventually. Your dressing room looks like a tornado hit a jewellery store.”
“That means the show went well.”
Dean looked at her with open, red-eyed admiration. “Dude, seriously. That was insane. Like, I know I said that already, but I need you to understand I’m being sincere, which is deeply uncomfortable for me.”
Her expression softened. “Thank you, Dean.”
He nodded once, then ruined it immediately by pointing at Garrett. “Also, this one looked like he was going to fight Romeo during the balcony scene.”
Garrett closed his eyes. “Dean.”
“What? He did.”
She looked up at Garrett, delighted. “Did you?”
“No.”
Dean coughed. It sounded suspiciously like liar.
Garrett opened his eyes and looked at him. “Allie’s leaving.”
Dean’s whole body turned like a compass finding north. “Where?”
“Made you look.”
She laughed so hard the flowers shook. Dean’s face went through betrayal, admiration, and rage in quick succession before Tucker appeared behind him and put one calm hand on his shoulder.
“Allie’s by the bar,” Tucker said. “She’s talking to Dexter. You have maybe two minutes before she gets recruited into something.”
Dean pointed at Garrett like this wasn’t over, then left immediately.
Tucker smiled at her, warm and quiet. “You were really great.”
“Thank you,” she said, and with Tucker it came out softer because Tucker never made praise feel like noise. He nodded once, then clapped Garrett on the shoulder as he passed.
Logan appeared next, because they were leaving in stages designed to test Garrett’s blood pressure. “I didn’t cry,” he announced.
“Nobody asked,” Garrett said.
“I’m just making sure we’re clear.”
Her lips pressed together. “Okay.”
Logan looked at her, then gave in after about half a second. “You were really fucking good.”
“Thank you, Logan.”
“Like, rude-good. Made us all look uncultured.”
“You are uncultured.”
“See?” Logan gestured to Garrett. “This is why we missed her.”
Garrett’s expression went flat. “Goodnight, Logan.”
Logan grinned, saluted with two fingers, and wandered off toward a cluster of teammates before Garrett could set him on fire with his eyes.
Garrett adjusted her tote higher on his shoulder. “Can we go before someone else confesses something?”
She lifted the bouquet in one hand and waved toward someone calling her name near the poster. “Thank you!” she called back, smiling when they blew her a kiss. Garrett made a low sound beside her, not quite a groan, not quite a laugh, and she glanced up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re making noises.”
“I’m experiencing personal growth.”
“That sounded like jealousy,” she grinned.
“Growth can be jealous.”
She laughed, and Garrett slid his arm around her shoulders as they started toward the exit. He did it carefully but more confidently than he would have a week ago, palm settling over the bare curve near her upper arm, his body warm through the thin dress when she leaned, just a little, into his side.
She let herself be tucked there. Let people see it, which was maybe the more terrifying part, and also the part that made something in her chest unclench in slow increments as they crossed the lobby.
It should have felt strange, walking through the crowd under Garrett’s arm while people kept stopping her. Instead, it felt almost funny. Sweet. A little overwhelming. Every few steps someone called out to her, and she kept smiling, lifting the flowers, saying, “Thank you, babe!” or “Oh my god, thank you!” or “I’m so glad you came!” while Garrett held her bags and her weight and the door and whatever else needed holding.
He didn’t rush her. Even with his jaw still doing that tiny jealous thing whenever someone got too close, he didn’t pull her away mid-sentence. He waited. He looked at her when she spoke. He kept his arm around her shoulders like a quiet, steady answer to the entire room.
By the time they made it outside, the cold hit her damp skin so fast she gasped. The night air slid under the thin white dress and around her ankles, finding every place the costume hadn’t been designed for weather or dignity. Garrett felt the little shiver that moved through her before she said anything, and immediately shifted her bags down one arm so he could start shrugging out of his jacket.
“No,” she said, already knowing she would lose.
“Yes.”
“Garrett, I’m covered in fake blood.”
“Don’t care.”
“It’ll get on your jacket.”
“Great.”
She snorted, but let him settle it around her shoulders. The warmth dropped over her like a hand, heavy and familiar, the lining still holding him. Clean soap, cold air, Garrett. The bouquet crinkled against her chest as she pulled the jacket closer, and his eyes tracked the movement for one second too long before he looked away with visible effort.
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded, mouth curving. “You’re welcome, Juliet.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“What?”
“Don’t start calling me Juliet,” she groaned.
“Why? Too soon after the tragedy?”
“Too theatre-boy.”
Garrett made a face. “I’m not theatre-boy.”
“You’re carrying two tote bags outside a theatre after bringing flowers to a Shakespeare adaptation.”
His mouth opened. Closed. “I’m still not theatre-boy.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m hockey-boy at the theatre.”
“That’s worse.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head as they crossed the damp pavement toward the parking lot. Behind them, the lobby doors kept opening and closing, spilling bursts of light and noise onto the sidewalk, voices following them in little waves. Her heels clicked unevenly against the concrete. She had forgotten how tired her feet were until the cold made each step feel newly negotiated.
She smiled into the collar of his jacket. For a few steps, they walked quietly, close enough that his arm brushed hers every time he adjusted her bags. The flowers were heavy in one arm now, full blooms tipped toward her shoulder, the paper slightly damp from the cold air.
Her body was starting to come down from the show in slow, uneven pieces. The lobby brightness receded behind them. The applause thinned into memory. Garrett beside her remained very solid, very warm, very much there.
Then he muttered, barely under his breath, “Fucking Romeo.”
She turned her head. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, I heard you.”
He shrugged, mouth turned down. “You heard incorrectly.”
She stopped near the edge of the lot, looking up at him with the kind of smile she knew made him suspicious. “He has a name.”
Garrett looked across the cars like the concept of names had failed to impress him. “Don’t care.”
“Garrett.”
“What? I don’t.”
“His name is Micah.”
“Cool,” he nodded.
“He’s very nice.”
“Happy for him.”
She laughed, warm and helpless now, and Garrett’s mouth twitched despite his commitment to being unreasonable. “You’re being insane.”
“I sat through him kissing you multiple times.”
“They were stage kisses.”
“He enjoyed the work.”
“Oh my god.” She started walking again, shaking her head. “He has a boyfriend.”
Garrett paused for one beat too long. She looked back at him.
He recovered poorly, shifting both bags and scoffing like the entire revelation had meant nothing to him and certainly had not just loosened every jealous muscle in his body at once. “Okay. And?”
“And?” she repeated, delighted. “That’s all you have?”
“I don’t even care.”
“You very clearly care.”
“Well, he was grabbing your waist a lot. Could’ve pulled something.”
She stared at him.
Garrett shrugged, too casual by several degrees. “I’m an athlete. I notice biomechanics.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You notice men touching me.”
“Also that.”
The honesty came out so dry and quick that she laughed again, and this time Garrett did too, soft and low in the cold. The sound settled over the parking lot, over the wet shine of the cars, over the ridiculous ache sitting open in her chest. It felt good to laugh with him after everything.
Garrett unlocked the car, the lights flashing once. He opened the passenger door before she could reach it, then looked down at the flowers, her dress, his jacket around her shoulders, the bags hanging from him like he had been attacked by accessories.
“You got it?” he asked.
“Mm.” She climbed in carefully, gathering the white dress so it didn’t catch, the bouquet balanced against her shoulder. The warm, familiar dark of his car wrapped around her, smelling faintly like leather, winter air, and Garrett’s gum. She settled into the seat with a soft exhale, the night finally catching up to her in her calves and lower back and the loose, trembling place behind her knees.
Garrett crouched slightly beside the open door, setting her bags by her feet with surprising care for a man who had just been slandering Romeo on public property. “Your shoes in here?”
“Yeah.”
“Phone?”
“Probably.”
He gave her a look.
“In the tote,” she amended.
“Keys?”
“Also probably.”
He sighed. “Baby.”
She smiled down at the flowers because the word still did a tiny, devastating thing every time he said it with that half-scolding warmth. “I’m an artist. Organisation would ruin the mystique.”
“You died for two hours and forgot where all your belongings were.”
“Method.”
“Right.” His mouth pulled at the corner, then he reached for the seatbelt.
“I can do it.”
Garrett stopped immediately, hand hovering near the belt. “Okay.”
She looked at it. Looked at the flowers in her arms. Looked at her dress. Considered the logistics with the grave focus of a woman who had stabbed herself onstage and was now being defeated by car safety.
Garrett waited. Patient. Smugness held behind his teeth with heroic discipline.
She sighed. “Can you?”
His grin appeared in one bright, insufferable flash. “Yeah, baby.”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“I would never.”
He leaned in carefully, one hand braced on the roof of the car, the other drawing the belt across her without brushing anywhere he didn’t need to. It was such a small, ordinary thing. Seatbelt, click, one tug to check.
But his face was close enough that she could see the faint redness in his eyes from the play, the little crease between his brows where he was concentrating, the way his gaze flicked to the bouquet in her lap and softened again.
When he finished, he didn’t pull back right away. For a second, the parking lot noise thinned. The lobby doors were distant now, the voices muffled by cold air and glass. She looked up at him from the passenger seat, flowers between them, his jacket slipping off one bare shoulder, her fake blood probably ruining the lining, and Garrett Graham looked at her like he was still somewhere in the third row trying to understand how a person could be both someone he knew and someone he had not known enough.
“You really were incredible,” he said, quieter this time.
Her fingers tightened around the bouquet. “Thank you.”
His eyes held hers for one second longer, the smile small and almost shy at the edges, which was so unlike him and so very him lately that it made her chest ache. Then he tapped the top of the car once and straightened.
“Don’t puke in my car from all that tragic dying.”
She rolled her eyes, warmth breaking cleanly through the tenderness. “I’m not drunk this time.”
“Good. I was worried Shakespeare was gonna betray your balance again.”
“One chair humbles you and suddenly you’re a medical professional.”
Garrett laughed as he closed her door gently, the sound cut off by the glass. Through the windshield, she watched him walk around the front of the car with her bags still slung over one shoulder, flowers reflected faintly in the dark window beside her, his jacket warm around her like proof.
He got into the driver’s seat a second later, bringing the cold with him. The car dipped under his weight, the overhead light catching briefly on his curls, on the line of his jaw, on the smile he was failing to hide as he looked over at her.
“What?” she asked.
He grinned, full and bright and a little too cocky now that Romeo had been demoted to harmless gay man with strong cheekbones. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her as the engine warmed and the heater began to push soft air against her cold legs. His eyes dropped briefly to the flowers in her lap, then back to her face. “About how good you look with my flowers.”
Her stomach flipped, stupid and immediate.
She looked out the windshield before her smile could get too obvious. “Drive, Graham.”
“Yes, baby,” he said, still grinning, and pulled out of the parking space with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching, after a careful second, across the console.
He didn’t take her hand. He rested his palm there, open and warm under the low dashboard light, giving her the choice like he had been doing lately with every touch, every step, every almost.
She looked down at it. At the long fingers, the faint tape mark near one knuckle, the steady patience of him waiting. Then she shifted the bouquet into her other arm and slid her hand into his.
Garrett’s fingers closed around hers at once, warm and sure, his thumb moving once over her knuckles as the theatre disappeared behind them and the night opened up ahead.
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