#bs45

The front door clicks shut, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. You sink deeper into the hot water, closing your eyes as the steam rises around you. The bathroom is your sanctuary, the only place where you can truly relax after a long day.

"Someone's enjoying themselves," a low voice drawls from the doorway.

Your eyes snap open to find Beckett leaning against the doorframe, his hockey bag slung over his shoulder. He looks exhausted, but there's a familiar glint in his eyes that makes your heart race.

"Long game?" you ask, watching as he drops his bag by the door.

"Long enough," he replies, stripping off his shirt to reveal the lean, muscular torso you know so well. "But I think I've found something much more interesting to do now."

He crosses the room in three long strides, kneeling beside the tub. His eyes rake over your naked body, lingering on your breasts before moving down to where the water laps at your hips.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks, though his tone makes it clear he's not really asking.

Before you can answer, he's already sliding into the tub behind you, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you back against his chest. The water sloshes over the sides, pooling on the floor, but neither of you cares.

"I've been thinking about this all night," he murmurs against your ear, his hands already beginning to roam. "Thinking about you, here, naked and waiting for me."

His lips find the sensitive spot behind your ear, his teeth grazing the skin lightly. You shiver despite the heat of the water, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

"Beck," you breathe, your hands coming up to rest on his arms.

"Shh," he whispers, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. "Just let me take care of you."

His thumbs brush against your nipples, teasing them into hard peaks. You gasp, arching your back as pleasure courses through you. He chuckles low, clearly enjoying your reaction.

"So responsive," he murmurs, pinching your nipples gently. "I love how your body reacts to me."

One hand drifts down, tracing patterns on your stomach before sliding even lower, parting your folds. You're already wet and not just from the water.

"Someone's eager," he teases, his fingers finding your clit. "Have you been waiting for me like this all night?"

You can only moan in response, your hips bucking against his hand as he begins to circle your clit with expert precision. His other hand continues to play with your breasts, alternating between gentle caresses and firm pinches that leave you gasping.

"Beck, please," you beg, your body trembling with need.

"Please what?" he asks, his voice a low growl. "Please touch you? Please make you come? Tell me what you want."

"I want you," you manage to gasp out. "I want you inside me."

"Not yet," he says, his fingers slipping lower to tease your entrance. "I want to hear you beg some more."

He slides one finger inside you, then another, curling them to hit that spot that makes your vision blur. You cry out, your hands gripping his arms as pleasure overwhelms you.

"That's it," he murmurs, his thumb returning to your clit. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

His lips find your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. You know he's leaving marks, dark purple hickeys that will be visible tomorrow, but you can't bring yourself to care. All that matters is the pleasure building inside you, threatening to consume you entirely.

"You're so close, aren't you?" he whispers against your skin. "I can feel it. Come for me, baby. Let me feel you come around my fingers."

His words are your undoing. With a cry, you shatter, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash over you. But he doesn't stop, his fingers continuing their relentless assault as he pushes you toward another orgasm.

"Beckett," you gasp, trying to push his hand away. "It's too much."

"No," he says firmly, his free hand gripping your thigh, holding your legs open. "You don't get to decide when we're done. I do."

He shifts position, spreading your legs wider as he increases the pressure on your clit. You're oversensitive now, every touch sending jolts of pleasure and pain through your body, but he doesn't let up.

"Look at me," he commands, and you force your eyes open to meet his in the dim light. "I want to see you when you come again."

His fingers move faster, harder, pushing you toward the edge once more. You're trembling uncontrollably now, your body completely at his mercy. When you finally come again, it's even more intense than the first time, your vision blurring as you cry out his name.

"Good girl," he murmurs, finally withdrawing his fingers. He brings them to his lips, tasting your arousal with a satisfied smirk.

For a moment, you both just lie there, panting as the water begins to cool around you. Then Beckett shifts, pulling out of you before gathering you into his arms.

"Come on," he murmurs, standing up and reaching for a towel. "Let's get you to bed."

He wraps you in a fluffy towel, his touch gentle now as he dries you off before lifting you into his arms and carrying you to the bedroom. There, he lays you down gently before joining you, pulling the covers over both of you.

"Sleep," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "You've earned it."

The first message from Beckett is simple: "Your profile says you like hockey. Hope that's not just to get matches." It's cocky, a little arrogant, and exactly the kind of line that would normally have you swiping left. But his pictures are devastatingly handsome, dark blonde hair that falls into his eyes, a smile that's equal parts charming and dangerous and the kind of athletic build that promises stamina.

"It's not," you reply. "But I prefer my hockey players in person rather than on TV."

Three days later, he's at your door, looking even better than his pictures. The agreement is clear: this is sex, nothing more. No sleepovers, no expectations, no feelings. Just two people satisfying a mutual need.

"Rules?" he asks as you lead him to your bedroom.

"No feelings," you say immediately. "This is physical. That's it."

"Deal," he agrees, his eyes darkening as he looks at you. "And no sleeping over. I'm not a cuddler."

"Perfect," you reply, though something inside you twinges at his words.

The sex is explosive, better than you've had in years. Beckett is attentive but dominant, his hands and mouth exploring every inch of your body as if he's mapping you for future reference. He finds your spots with an ease that feels both thrilling and dangerous.

"God, you're responsive," he groans against your neck as he drives into you, his rhythm punishing and perfect. "I knew you'd be like this."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you meet his thrusts, your bodies moving together in a dance as old as time. When you come, it's with a cry of his name, your body convulsing around him as he follows you over the edge.

True to his word, he leaves shortly after, with nothing more than a casual "See you around" tossed over his shoulder. You tell yourself you're relieved, that this is exactly what you wanted.

But then he messages you two days later: "Free Thursday?" And you agree.

And so it begins, a pattern of late-night texts, sporadic hookups, mind-blowing sex. Always at your place, never his. Always him leaving before morning. Always maintaining that careful distance.

Months pass and the lines begin to blur. You find yourself looking forward to his messages, saving your best stories to tell him when he's over. You notice small things, the way he furrows his brow when he's concentrating, the little scar above his left eye, the way his laugh transforms his entire face.

Worse, you notice the way he looks at you sometimes, like there's something more behind his eyes than just casual desire. The way his fingers linger on your skin after sex, as if reluctant to let go. The way he sometimes falls asleep beside you, despite his rule against it.

You're in trouble. Deep, serious trouble.

The realization hits you one night as you watch him dress after another round of incredible sex. He's humming to himself, a contented smile on his face and your heart aches with a love so intense it takes your breath away.

This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't part of the deal.

"I have an early morning," he says, leaning down to kiss you. "I'll text you."

But you know you can't answer. Not anymore.

The next day, you block his number. You delete your dating apps. You throw yourself into work, into friends, into anything that will keep your mind off him.

For a week, it works. Then there's a knock on your door. You know who it is before you even look through the peephole.

"What the hell?" Beckett demands when you open the door. "You just disappear? No explanation?"

"This was supposed to be casual, Beck," you say, using his nickname for the first time. "No strings attached."

"So you just cut me off without a word?" he asks, his eyes flashing with hurt and anger. "After months of… whatever this was?"

"It's better this way," you insist, though your voice trembles. "Clean break."

"Bullshit," he retorts, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Something changed. I know it did. Just tell me what happened."

You can't. You won't admit that you broke the cardinal rule of your arrangement, that you developed feelings for the one person who made it clear he wasn't looking for anything more.

"Please leave," you say instead, your voice barely above a whisper.

He studies your face for a long moment, his expression softening. "This isn't about the rules, is it? This is about you."

Your composure cracks, a tear escaping down your cheek. "Please, Beck. Just go."

He does, but not before you see the understanding dawn in his eyes. The realization that this isn't about him leaving in the mornings or not calling you his girlfriend. This is about you protecting yourself from more heartbreak.

Two weeks pass in agony. You miss him with an intensity that surprises you, the sound of his laugh, the feel of his hands on your skin, even his annoying habit of leaving wet towels on your bathroom floor.

You're at a coffee shop near your apartment when you see him. He's with friends, laughing at something someone said and for a moment, your breath catches. Then his eyes meet yours across the crowded room and the smile fades from his face.

He excuses himself and approaches your table, his expression unreadable.

"Can we talk?" he asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, gesturing to the empty chair across from you.

"I've been thinking about what you said," he begins, his hands fidgeting with a sugar packet. "About how this was supposed to be casual."

"I shouldn't have just disappeared," you admit. "That was unfair to you."

"No, you were right," he says, surprising you. "We had rules. Boundaries. And I think… I think I broke them first."

You look up, confused. "What do you mean?"

"The no sleepovers rule," he explains. "I started falling asleep at your place. Not because I was too tired to leave, but because I didn't want to."

Your heart races as he continues.

"The no feelings rule," he says, his eyes meeting yours. "I told myself I was keeping it, but I wasn't. I started looking forward to your messages. I started saving stories to tell you. I started imagining what it would be like to wake up beside you every morning."

"Beck," you whisper, tears welling in your eyes.

"I was scared too," he admits. "This arrangement was safe. No expectations, no disappointments. But it wasn't enough. Not anymore."

He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. "I don't know how to do this. The relationship thing. I'll probably mess it up a lot. But I want to try. With you."

A tear escapes, sliding down your cheek. "I caught feelings too," you confess. "That's why I ended it. I was scared you didn't feel the same."

He stands, pulling you up with him, and wraps you in his arms. "Feel the same? God, I think I've been halfway in love with you since our first hookup."

You laugh through your tears, burying your face in his chest. "You're such an idiot."

"Your idiot," he corrects, tilting your chin up to kiss you. It's different from your other kisses, slower, deeper, full of promise rather than just passion.

"Come home with me?" he asks when you finally part. "My place this time. And tomorrow morning, I'll make you breakfast."

You nod, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. "I'd like that."

You groan out loud, pointer finger clicking through all the channels. It’s late, and you’re laying on the couch with your boyfriend, his arm slung around your shoulders, as you both fight the temptation of sleep. It’s that point of the night where you’re both tired, but too tired to deal with getting up from the couch to sleep in the proper place.

“Nothing on…” you whine out, and he quietly agrees with a hum.

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about right now?” You mute the television, dropping the remote somewhere beside you.

You see his side profile and the long brown eyelashes blinking up at the screen that wash the soft curves of his face in white blue light.

“What?” Even though he’s more alert, his voice is still groggy. Bad for you, your traitorous mind associates this tone of voice with…other things that happen late at night. Your legs tremble slightly despite yourself.

You can feel Beckett shift next to you.

“When you got bitched on the ice the other day.”

He pulls his arm from around you away to help him sit up straighter. He says nothing for a second, disbelieving, and then recovers: “I did not get ‘bitched’” . He’s watching your face now, notices the small upturn of your mouth, and relaxes his body a bit. You were joking, well, sort of.

“That’s what it looked like to me,” you counter, turning back to the screen where you have no idea what’s on but you pretend you know what it is.

“He came up from behind. It wasn’t fair.” His jaw ticks. That tells you he’s still thinking about it days later.

Beckett, in his young and naive brain, high sticked an opposing player when he knew he wasn’t going to get there soon enough. The play would have kept going — the refs didn’t want to call it — but another player charged into Beckett. He had tried to turn around in time, to take him face on, but he was shoved close to the collarbone instead, where chain met skin, and was the first to go down in the scrum. The referees had interjected before the opposing player jumped him, and in the moment, your heart pounded loud in your chest, cemented to your seat in the stands.

You saw it reposted on social media the next day, how fans clipped him skating away from the incident, his helmet off and sporting the sweaty brown hair that fell over his eyes as he was fighting a blur of red anger, trying to be the bigger person. You thought about the fight for other reasons than he did, obviously.

You liked to make fun of him, to say stupid things, only to see his cheeks flush and his attention turn fully to you. Where he tries to explain something logically while you just get louder and act dumb and it usually all ends with him giving up, and you victorious. Usually.

He didn’t want to give up tonight.

You shrugged at his excuse. “Sounds like something someone who lost would say.”

“Baby,” his voice levels, deep and scratchy and making it hard for you to look away from his pink lips, “the guy was fucking small. It was the only way he could get me.” He’s looking deep in your eyes to see if that mischievous glint would give way. Weren’t you falling asleep on his arm five minutes ago?

“So you’re saying I could, technically, lay into you like that? You’re that weak?” You straddle his hips, just hovering over them, laughing before he even responds.

“You don’t want to start this,” he warns. You bring your balled fists out in front of you, pretending to square him up. He brings his own hands up to encircle your wrists in them. It’s a gentle hold, just holding you in place, but he’s warm, and he thumbs over the inside of your wrists. You try to ignore it.

“I could easily take you.” You have the most evil smile on your face, contrary to your red cheeks, and it’s the most obvious bluff of your life, and he knows it too. He scoffs at your words. He had you underneath him this time last night, writhing and gasping as he held your legs up to push deeper, pressing kisses to skin, ‘you like this? this is what you need, hmm? my cock filling you up?’.

“Really?” He asks, grinning now that you try to wiggle your arms out of his grasp. He won’t budge.

“Not fair!” You squeal. He looks down your body. The blankets discarded on the ground somewhere. Your top is all wrinkled and your nipples show through the thin cotton. You’re exposed from your belly button to the low waistband of your shorts. It’s like the fabric is begging him to pull them off your hips.

“You wouldn’t even be able to get up if i checked you across the boards.” You say, stilling on his lap. You try to force a serious, tight lipped expression, but there’s laughter building in your chest. He can’t stop looking up at you in that patronizing way. Slow blinks. It makes your skin prickle. You’ve totally been derailed from your mission.

“Yeah?” Silently asking if you really want to take it this far.

You nod, oblivious, and before you can register it he’s grabbing your hips and laying you flat down on the couch. He’s between your legs, eyes staying on yours as he nudges his fingers underneath your waistband and pulls them and your panties off in one slide.

“Beck…” You complain, voice breaking in the middle. It wasn’t a very convincing complaint. His fingers are red hot and bruising on your outer thighs. Claiming. You try to shift your hips, to wriggle out of the overwhelming feeling of the world pushing you from all sides, the crushing feeling of his touch expelling the air in your lungs. He merely holds you closer, breath tingling your lower stomach as he achingly presses his lips on your skin. His large hands now hold steady on your hips, pushing you down into the couch. He’s trying to make a point.

“God…” you falter when his head dips down and licks a strip of skin on your inner thigh, “…you fall for it so easily.”

“Don’t say stupid things,” he says, now captivated by the wetness visible on you.

“Or what? You’re going to fuck me?” Your head tilts back onto the cushion. You almost laugh at your own words. He doesn’t respond, but abruptly latches his tongue onto your clit without warning. You gasp, legs instinctively shutting around his ears. He pulls off, shakes his head and uses his forearms to push your bent legs as far apart as he could. You’re spread wide open for him.

“Don’t move.” You nod at the command despite your better judgment. When the light from the tv flashes onto his face in waves, you notice his dilated pupils, and those searching eyes that for a split second, try to detect discomfort on your face. You’re throbbing, desperate for stimulation. You were used to him being gentle at giving head, starting at a slow pace, partly because he was inexperienced and partly because he didn’t want to hurt you. But he’s a lot better now, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him to be more confident in himself, take you and do whatever he wanted without your instruction.

He slaps your pussy softly. You bite your lip. Head thrown back again cause if you saw his cheek resting on your inner thigh, breath heavy, bottom lip pushed up where you need him the most for one more second you’d jut up into him. You’d lose all your sanity and start crying.

He’s on you again, not teasing anymore, just keeping his flat tongue on your clit, lapping the bud and squeezing the tops of your thighs as he holds you in place for him. He’s not giving you a break, a lapse in intensity or a moment to feel one agonizing stroke before he’s doing it again. You’d try to buck up into his mouth, but the way he’s pinned your legs makes it impossible. You’re gripping one hand on the top of the couch, the other runs through his soft hair. Apparently ‘don’t move’ didn’t apply to that, because he doesn’t stop. Instead he groans lightly into your clit when the pads of your fingers push into his scalp.

He comes up for air with a loud pop. You see the glossy arousal on his chin and covering his stained lips as if you’d kissed him very hard and for very long. You whimper at the cool feeling of the air in the room. He gripped you harder, as if you’d had forgotten about what lead you here. He was indulging in the fact that really, you couldn’t resist him. How easy it was for his hands to throw you around and bend you and mold you just right. Not just for his pleasure, but yours too.

In fact, you couldn’t even manage complete thoughts right now. The constant blur of strong hands and rough calloused skin and lean muscle that forced your eyes to roll back made it pretty hard.

“Better to not fight me on this, right?” You always thought his voice would get easier to deal with. You thought it wouldn’t affect you as much as it did in the beginnings of your relationship. You were so wrong. Every inflection stung, like the way he’d purposely lower his voice when he adds those one worded questions to the end of a statement, pleading you to respond. He loves forcing words out of you, even if they’re gibberish, because he wants to hear how much he affects you. A form of indirect praise that he selfishly wanted all the time.

“Yes, yes,” you repeat hurriedly, chest heaving, “keep going.”

He uses two fingers to spread you open, face pulled back enough to see it all. Your arm falls over your eyes, and because he’s not holding onto you so tight, you grind onto him when his tongue prods your entrance.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize before he can even say anything. He’s drawn back, scanning your body again. “Good,” he mutters, more to himself, and drags two fingers over your folds and watches your eyes flutter. He tries again, opening you up to force his tongue in your heat. You manage to stay still, nose and brows scrunching up as you feel his tongue explore you. But it’s not enough, and he knows that. Sometimes it feels like he’ll bring you to the edge, tongue coming out to press down on the sensitive bud with more of your juices. His saliva is all mixing and making terrible, god-awful noises that make your thighs twitch and toes dig into the cushions. But then he’ll stop, still applying pressure, looking up at you with those baby blue eyes with a mix of reverence and cockiness. I made you this way. You’re mine and making sweet noises because you fall apart on my mouth so easily.

“Beck, please…” You lament as he draws a particularly long moan out of you when he decides to keep going at the unrelenting pace he had at the start. He only goes harder, not letting you breathe or even think about the mounting pressure before it washes over you so fast you sob, tears wetting your eyelashes.

He doesn’t stop either, he just holds you through it, tongue compounding the pleasure and it feels like the peak of your climax just keeps rising. You don’t see anything for a long while, but you feel every touch, every twitch, and every sound he makes against you. His deep groans of contentment make you clench and clench until there is nothing else your body can give. You fall hard, gasping and whining his name while he doesn’t let go of you. He knows if he does you’ll cry out, so he comes up and leaves soothing caresses on your sides.

“Was that too intense?” He wipes his chin with the back of his hand.

You shake your head.

It was. A bit. You’re lying.

“Don’t kiss me though, please,” you manage to get out. Even with your eyes closed, you can tell he’s beaming, eyes crinkling in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. He attacks your neck with cum covered lips, and you yelp, trying to bat him away with shaky hands.

"wait," you say under your breath, leaning forward slightly.

your friend notices. "what?"

"that guy," you murmur, nodding subtly. "the one in the black shirt. that's sam dickinson."

your friend squints. "who?"

"hockey," you say, a little more certain now. "i've seen the clips of him."

you don't say the rest out loud -- that recognition alone makes your attention sharpen, and makes the group feel less like random strangers and more like something slightly notable. because if sam dickinson is here, then the others probably aren't just random either, right?

your eyes drift again and land on him this time. the one standing just slightly to the side, laughing at something one of his friends says as they wait in line. straight dark hair, an easy posture, with a stillness that doesn't quite fit him. you don't recognise him which somehow makes it worse.

"okay," your friend says slowly, following your gaze. "who are you looking at?"

you hesitate. "i don't know."

that earns you a look. "you don't know, but you're staring like that?"

"i'm not staring," you say immediately, which is objectively a lie.

your other friend leans in, grinning. "you're absolutely staring."

you glance away too fast, back down at your drink, suddenly very interested in the conversation happening near you. "i think he plays hockey too."

"everyone plays hockey here," your friend says dismissively.

"no, like... higher level," you insist, quieter now. "he's with sam dickinson. so he's probably-"

"a hockey guy," your friend finished. "got it. and?"

"and i don't know if i should-" you stop yourself, because saying go over there out loud makes it feel real.

your friends exchange a look. one that says we are about to ruin your life in the most supportive way.

"you're going to go say hi," one of them decides.

you blink. "oh i am absolutely not."

"yes, you are," the other agrees.

"they're in line," you protest weakly. "it would be weird."

"it would be bold," you friend corrects."

you stare at them. "those are the same thing,"

"no," they say in unison.

and then one of them nudges your shoulder. "worst case scenario, you walk away. best case scenario, you stop staring at a stranger."

you groan quietly, dropping your forehead to your hand. "i hate you both."

"no you don't," your friend says cheerfully. "go on, now."

the line is still moving slowly. you can feel your pulse doing something annoying and reaching your throat as you glance up again. he's closer now, close enough that you can see the way he listens when his friend talks.

you stand up before you can talk yourself out of it and your friends immediately sit up straighter, wanting to catch every moment of the interaction.

"oh my god," one whispers. "she's doing it."

"i'm going to die," you mutter to yourself.

you walk toward the counter area, but not directly at him. at least not yet. you pretend to check the menu board like you suddenly care about pastries. you give yourself three seconds before you go talk to him... then five... then you catch yourself stalling.

he glances sideways briefly, just a flick of attention but it lands on you anyway. you look away too fast, immediately questioning every life choice you've ever made and how it's led up to this moment.

his friend says something, and he laughs. then he shifts slightly, and now he's closer to your line of sight again. you inhale, taking a deep breath and step forward, no backing out now.

"hi," you say.

it comes out steadier than you feel.

he turns toward you fully now, a little surprised but not in a bad way, just curious.

"hey," he replies.

up close, it's worse. not because he's intimidating, but because your brain is suddenly aware of how normal and real he looks. how he's not just a concept in your brain.

you gesture vaguely immediately regretting having hands. "sorry, this is kind of random, but i- uh- i think i recognise your friend? sam dickinson?"

he glances over his shoulder briefly, then back at you. "yeah, that's sam."

"right," you say, nodding too much. "i thought so ."

a beat of silence follows. he's watching you now, clearly trying to place why you've approached him. you push through it before your courage evaporates.

"and i'm sorry if this is weird," you add quickly, "but i just wanted to say hi. i don't actually know if you're... like... a hockey player or anything. i just thought you looked familiar and my friends convinced me to come over."

that earns you a small smile from him.

"oh yeah?" he says, amused. "your friends convinced you?"

you glance back once, only to see them both giving you aggressive thumbs-ups from the table.

you wince.

"unfortunately, yes," you admit.

he laughs properly at that this time, and it's softer than you expected.

"i'm beckett," he says after a second.

you nod, giving him your name as well.

he shifts his weight slightly, hands relaxed at his sides. "so you came over to say hi because you thought i looked familiar?"

"kind of," you say. then, more honestly, "mostly because i was going to spend the rest of the afternoon wondering if i should've."

that gets another, better, smile.

"fair enough." he says.

behind him, his friend in line calls something out -- his name, maybe, or a joke you don't catch -- and beckett glances back briefly, then returns his attention to you like it's the more interesting option. that does something mildly catastrophic to your brain.

you clear your throat.

"look," you say, before you can overthink it into silence. "this is going to sound very forward, but i'm already here, so i'm just going to say it."

his eyebrows lift slightly. "okay."

you take a breath.

"can i have your number?"

silence. it's not a heavy silence, just out of surprise.

then his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to smile too much too quickly.

"yeah?" he says.

you immediately want to die. "if that's weird, i can just-"

"it's not weird," he cuts in, still smiling now. "just wasn't expecting it."

"same," you mutter.

he pulls his phone out, unlocking it, then holding it out for you. "here."

you take it, fingers brushing hid for a second longer than necessary, and type in your number with hands that suddenly feel like they belong to someone else. when you hand it back, he looks at it for a second before nodding.

"got it," he says.

you exhale like you've been holding in your breath since you stood up.

"cool," you say, immediately regretting how that sounds.

he just smiles again, softer this time.

"cool," he echoes.

behind you, one of your friends makes a small cheer of celebration that you refuse to acknowledge. you step back, suddenly unsure what the protocol is for ending a conversation like this without tripping over your own feet.

"so," you say, grasping for normalcy, "i should probably-"

"yeah," he agrees gently, still smiling. "beach?"

you blink. "yeah."

he nods once, like that makes sense. "have a good day," he says.

"you too," you manage.

and then you walk back to your table on legs that feel mildly unreliable. your friends immediately erupt in whispers the second you sit down. you don't say anything for a moment, just glancing back once more.

he's still there in line, phone in hand now, glancing at the screen briefly before looking up again -- just for a second. and when he does, he catches your eye. he smiles once more, knowing this is just the beginning of something he already assumes will continue.

your phone buzzes after turning away from him, with a message appearing on screen.

i was hoping you'd come up to me ever since i walked in

The apartment is quiet when Beckett gets home from practice. You’re in the kitchen wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts when he walks in — 6’3” of broad-shouldered, post-shower hockey muscle, dark hair still damp and curling, gray sweatpants low on his hips. The second he sees you his whole face softens with that look he’s had since you were sixteen.

“Hey, my girl,” he says softly, dropping his bag and crossing the room in three strides. He wraps you up in his arms immediately, lifting you so your feet leave the floor. His face goes straight into your neck, breathing you in like he needs it to survive. “Missed you so much today. Couldn’t stop thinking about you… about us… about what we talked about last month.”

You hold his face in both hands and kiss him slow and deep. “I went off the pill like we decided. I’m ovulating right now, Beck.”

His eyes darken, but the first thing he does is kiss your forehead, then your nose, then your lips again — gentle, reverent. “You sure you’re ready, baby? We can wait if you want. I just… I want this with you more than anything, but only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper. “I want to start our family. With you.”

He lets out a shaky breath and rests his forehead against yours. “Okay. Then I’m gonna take such good care of you tonight. I love you so fucking much.”

He carries you to the bedroom like you’re precious, laying you down on the bed with so much tenderness it makes your chest ache. For a long time he just kisses you — slow, deep, loving kisses while his big hands stroke your sides, your thighs, your breasts. Every touch says I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re safe with me.

When he finally pulls the shirt off you, he takes his time looking. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “My high school sweetheart… still the only girl I’ve ever wanted like this.”

He kisses down your body slowly — collarbones, the swell of your breasts, each nipple with a soft suck that makes you arch, then lower. When he settles between your thighs he looks up at you with those soft, intense eyes “Tell me if anything feels off, okay? I want this to feel good for you the whole time.”

Then his mouth is on you — warm, slow, attentive. He licks you in long, gentle strokes, learning every reaction like it’s the first time even though he knows your body better than anyone. When two thick fingers slide inside you he curls them just right and keeps his tongue steady on your clit.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” he asks between licks, voice low and caring. “Tell me what you need. Slower? Harder? I’ve got you.”

You moan and thread your fingers through his hair. “Just like that, Beck… feels so good.”

He keeps going until your thighs are shaking and you’re gasping his name, cumming on his tongue with soft cries. He doesn’t stop until you gently push his head away, oversensitive. Then he kisses the inside of your thigh, your hip, your stomach, and crawls back up to hold you while you come down “You did so good for me,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “My perfect girl.”

You reach for him, stroking his cock — thick, heavy, already leaking for you. He’s so hard it looks almost painful, but he still takes his time, letting you touch him however you want.

When you guide him between your legs he pauses, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding your hip “Still okay?” he checks, eyes searching yours. “I can go slow. We have all night.”

“I want you inside me,” you breathe. “Raw. I want you to breed me, Beck.”

His breath catches, but he still moves carefully. He rubs the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself, then pushes in inch by careful inch while watching your face the entire time “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs. “You’re so tight, baby… fuck, you feel perfect.”

When he’s finally buried to the hilt he stays still for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing with you. One of his hands finds yours and laces your fingers together “I love you,” he says quietly. “So much. Since we were kids. I can’t believe I get to do this with you — try to make a baby with the girl I’ve loved since high school.”

Then he starts moving — deep, rolling thrusts that grind against the deepest part of you. Every stroke is measured and caring, but the breeding talk starts flowing, sweet and filthy at the same time “Gonna fill you up so good tonight… pump you so full of my cum you’ll feel it for days. Want to get you pregnant, baby. Want to watch your belly grow with our baby… want to take care of you every single day while you’re carrying my kid.”

You squeeze his hand and wrap your legs higher around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Yes — breed me, Beck. I want your baby. I want to have your kids and build a life with you.”

He makes a soft, broken sound and kisses you hard, still moving deep inside you. His free hand strokes your cheek, brushes hair from your face, touches you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

When you start getting close again he notices immediately. “You gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Go ahead… I’ve got you. Let go.”

You cum hard around him, clenching and fluttering, and he follows right after with a low groan, pushing as deep as he can go. You feel every hot, thick pulse of his cum flooding your womb — long, powerful spurts that seem endless. He keeps grinding through it, pushing it deeper, while kissing your face and whispering, “Take it, baby… take all of me… I love you so much.”

He doesn’t pull out. He stays buried inside you, rolling you both carefully onto your sides so he can keep holding you close. His big hand rests on your lower belly, thumb stroking slow, reverent circles “Stay just like this,” he murmurs against your hair. “Let me keep you full. I want it to take so bad, but even if it doesn’t tonight… I’m gonna keep trying. Gonna keep breeding you until you’re pregnant with my baby. Because I want everything with you.”

You stay connected like that for a long time — talking softly about the future. He tells you how scared he is of being a young dad but how excited he is because it’s you. How he already pictures himself at your appointments, rubbing your back when you’re tired, learning how to braid a little girl’s hair if you have a daughter, teaching a son how to skate. How he’s going to be the kind of dad who shows up — the kind he wished he had more of growing up.

You cry a little from how much you love him. He kisses your tears away and holds you tighter, still inside you, still hard and twitching occasionally like his body refuses to stop trying to breed you.

Eventually he gets fully hard again while still buried deep. He checks in again — “You want more, baby? Or do you need a break? I can just hold you like this all night if that’s what you need.”

You roll your hips and moan. “More. Please.”

This time he lets you take control for a while. You end up on top, riding him slow and deep while he lies back and watches you with pure adoration. His hands stroke your thighs, your waist, your breasts — gentle, loving touches “Look at you,” he whispers. “My beautiful girl… riding me so good. Gonna look even more beautiful when you’re pregnant. I’m gonna take such good care of you, I promise.”

You lean down and kiss him while you ride, and he holds your face in both hands like you’re something fragile and perfect. When you cum again he follows, pulling you down onto his cock and flooding you with another thick load, groaning your name against your mouth.

Afterward he cleans you so carefully with a warm cloth, murmuring apologies if anything feels too sensitive, then he pushes two gentle fingers back inside to keep his cum where it belongs “Want to keep as much of me in you as possible,” he says softly, almost shy about how much he wants this. “Is that okay?”

You nod, pulling him down to kiss you again.

He brings you water, makes sure you’re comfortable, then climbs back into bed and spoons you from behind — one strong arm around your waist, big hand splayed possessively yet tenderly over your lower belly. His soft cock rests between your thighs, still close, still ready.

You fall asleep like that — full of him, wrapped in his arms, listening to him whisper how much he loves you and how he can’t wait to meet the baby you’re going to make together.

You wake up to sunlight and the feeling of Beckett’s fingers between your legs again — slow, careful, checking how wet and ready you are while he kisses the back of your neck “Morning, my love,” he murmurs. “How are you feeling? Sore? Want me to just hold you, or…?”

You answer by pushing back against him. He slides into you from behind in one smooth, gentle thrust — spooning sex, lazy and deep. His arm stays around you the whole time, hand on your belly, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rocks into you “Still want to breed you this morning,” he whispers. “Still want to put my baby in you. Gonna keep you full all day if you let me.”

You cum together again — slow and sweet — and he stays inside you afterward, holding you close while you both come down.

Later he makes you breakfast in bed (your favorite), feeds you bites, and then pulls you into his lap on the couch for another round — you riding him while he holds your hands and looks at you like you hung the moon “I’m so proud of you,” he tells you between kisses. “For moving here with me. For believing in us. For wanting to build a family with me. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life taking care of you and our kids.”

By the time the sun starts setting again you’ve lost count of how many times he’s cum inside you. Your belly feels slightly swollen from how much he’s given you, and every time he sees it he gets this soft, awed look and rubs it gently like he’s already imagining it round with his baby.

That night he runs you a bath, washes you tenderly, then takes you again in the tub — slow and deep, water sloshing, both of you whispering “I love you” between moans.

When you finally fall asleep that second night, Beckett is still inside you, arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go, one hand resting over your belly like he’s already protecting what might be growing there.