#soft enforcer

The thing about Garnet Hathaway was that people assumed they understood him the second they saw him.

The grit. The edge. They saw the smirk under the visor. The way he leaned into scrums like he was born for the chaos of it. The edge in his grin when he chirped someone across the faceoff circle. On the ice, he thrived in the noise of boards rattling, skates carving sharp lines, the crowd roaring when he threw a clean hit that made the bench erupt.

And when they looked at you standing beside him—broad shoulders, deep voice, calloused hands of your own—they usually assumed they understood that, too.

They were wrong about both of you.

You were unmistakably male-presenting: sharp jaw usually shadowed with stubble, solid build that filled out your T-shirts, hands just as rough from your own work and workouts. When you wrapped an arm around Garnet in public, there was no mistaking that it was your boyfriend tucked into your side. And Garnet never shied away from it. If anything, he leaned in harder.

Still, it was in private that the real softness lived.

The one who texted you the second the plane landed.

The one who FaceTimed you from hotel rooms with his hair still damp from a shower, voice low so he wouldn’t wake his teammates.

The one who, despite being built like he could knock down walls, always paused at your door like he needed a second to breathe before stepping inside.

Tonight, when he got back from a road trip, he barely made it two steps inside your apartment before sagging slightly at the sight of you, you could see the fatigue in the way he carried himself.

He tried to hide it. Of course he did.

He was still in team sweats, duffel slung over one shoulder, jaw tight like he hadn’t quite turned the “hockey” part of himself off yet.

You stood from the couch and crossed the room in a few long strides. You were taller by just enough that when you stepped into him, he had to tilt his head up a fraction.

“C’mere,” you said, voice low and steady.

He dropped the bag without argument.

Your hands slid to his waist first, firm and grounding. He exhaled like that simple touch knocked the wind out of him. When you pulled him in, his forehead bumped against your collarbone.

“Missed you,” he muttered into your chest.

The words were muffled by your shirt, but the heat of his breath seeped through the fabric. You hooked a finger under his chin and tilted his face up. Your thumb brushed the bruise forming along his cheek. Your other hand stayed planted at the small of his back, protective and sure.

“You let them hit you too much,” you murmured.

He huffed a faint laugh. “Part of the job.”

Your thumb dragged slowly along his jaw, over the scruff there. “Not in here.”

He went quiet at that.

You kissed him first—slow, deliberate. You didn’t rush it. Your hand spread wide against his back, fingers pressing into solid muscle. He melted into the kiss, hands gripping at your sides. For a guy who could level opponents into the boards, he was almost shy when it came to you taking control.

He liked when you did.

When you deepened the kiss, angling his head with a gentle but unmistakably firm hand, he made a low sound in his throat—soft, needy. His fingers curled into your shirt like he was bracing himself. You pulled back just enough to look at him. His ears were pink. His breathing uneven.

“Talk to me,” you said, brushing your nose against his. “What do you need?”

He hesitated, eyes flicking down to your mouth before back up again. That tough exterior cracked so easily in your hands.

“Just… wanna be yours for a bit,” he admitted quietly. “No fighting. No proving anything.”

Your chest tightened. “You are,” you said simply.

You guided him backward until his calves hit the couch. With a gentle push at his shoulders, you sat him down. Standing between his knees, you looked down at him—solid, capable, powerful—and completely willing to let you take the lead.

Your hands moved to the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up slowly. He raised his arms without being asked. When the fabric cleared his head, his hair was mussed, his expression open. Leaning down you pressed a kiss to the bruise on his shoulder. Then another along his collarbone. Your stubble scratched lightly against his skin, and he shivered at the sensation.

“God,” he breathed, fingers sliding into your belt loops like he needed to hold onto you. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You smirked faintly. “Think I do.”

Your hands were firm when you touched him—masculine, steady, unapologetic. You kneaded at the tight muscle in his shoulders, thumbs digging in just enough to make him groan. He let his head fall back, exposing his throat to you. You took advantage of it, pressing slow kisses along the column of his neck. He reacted instantly, hips shifting forward before he caught himself.

“Easy,” you murmured against his skin.

He swallowed hard. “You make it hard to be.”

You laughed softly at the unintentional pun and pressed your forehead to his. “You don’t have to be anything right now.”

He leaned forward suddenly, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face against your stomach again. His grip was strong, possessive almost, but the intent wasn’t dominance. It was comfort.

You slid your fingers into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. His entire body softened under your touch.

“Miss when you do that,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

Eventually you stood and held out your hand. He took it without hesitation, letting you lead him down the hallway like he trusted you with every inch of himself.

In the bedroom, the lights were dim. You shut the door and turned back to him. He stood there watching you, a big frame filling the space, but his expression was soft—expectant.

You stepped in close again, crowding him until his back hit the wall. Your forearm braced beside his head. Your free hand slid under his chin, tilting his face up. He looked smaller like this, even though he wasn’t. It was the way he gave in to you. The way he let you hold him in place.

“You’re mine,” you said quietly.

His eyes darkened. “Yeah.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time. Your hand slid down his chest, over firm muscle, stopping at his waist. He followed your lead easily, letting you guide him toward the bed.

When you finally pushed him back onto the mattress, he went willingly, stretching out and looking up at you with flushed cheeks and parted lips. You climbed over him, bracketing his hips with your thighs. The weight of you settled over him, solid and grounding. He exhaled slowly, hands sliding up your back, thumbs pressing into muscle there.

“Feel safe with you,” he admitted softly.

You bent down, pressing your lips to his one more time—slower now, more tender than heated.

“Good,” you murmured against his mouth. “That’s the point.”

Later, when the intensity ebbed and the room went quiet, you lay back against the pillows and pulled him onto your chest. He fit there easily despite his size, cheek resting over your heart. Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, hand splayed across his back.

His fingers hooked into the chain around your neck, absentmindedly toying with it.

“You’re stronger than me,” he teased faintly, already half-asleep.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “On the ice? Not a chance.”

He shifted closer, leg tangling with yours.

“In here,” he murmured, voice fading. “You are.”

You pressed a kiss into his hair, stubble brushing his temple.

On the ice, he was grit and fire and controlled aggression.

In your arms, under your steady hands and low voice, he was just a man who liked being held by someone just as solid as he was.