“Calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Dean barks down the stairs, standing on the landing as he looks down at him. “Does it look like I give a shit?”

“Greatly.” Beau’s voice breaks, his eyebrows softening as he holds back a nervous laugh. Dean rolls his eyes and pushes his sleeves higher on his forearms, his heavy feet pounding across the floorboards.

“Party’s over,” he shouts, banging his fist against Garrett’s door, knowing there isn’t a soul behind it but keeping up the act like he doesn’t know exactly where he’s going or who he’s looking for.

He grabs the handle of the shitty bathroom door, shoulder checking it rough enough to pop the little brass lock open with barely any effort at all.

Your eyes go wide in the dark as you look back at him from your place on the bathroom counter, your lips pulling away from Peyton’s as he splits your thighs.

The light from behind Dean sends his shadow across the floor, his shoulders rising and falling with every rough breath he takes.

“Get the fuck out.”

Your heart lurches as those four words leave his lips, making your stomach fall and your hands shake with adrenaline.

“Oh, sorry, buddy.” Peyton smiles, not quite gauging the temperature in the room or realizing that Dean’s restraint is hanging by a thread. He catches on fast enough, though, the smile slipping from his face as he mutters uneasily, “Is the party over? I—”

“Get… the fuck… out,” Dean repeats, slower and meaner, whatever buddy-buddy relationship they’d built from passing each other in the gym going out the window and fucking fast.

Peyton goes to help you off the counter, the confusion painted all over his face. “Don’t.” Dean’s hand shoots out, grabbing Peyton’s and shoving it away before he can reach you.

His eyes stay locked on yours as you slip off the counter by yourself, heels clicking across the floor as you scoff, but he reaches out for you.

“What the fuck, man?” Peyton calls back when he sees Dean stop you and you yank your arm away. Dean turns toward him before he can say another word, chest to chest, his eyes tight and his jaw locked.

“Get the fuck out of my house—she’s not comin’ with you.” The words come out flat and final as you blow out a frustrated breath. Peyton’s head swerves to look past him, back at you, but you wave him away with a sigh.

“Just go, Peyton. I’ll—I’ll call you later,” you mumble.

Dean grabs Peyton’s shirt, shoving him through the door before slamming it shut hard enough for the hinges to rattle on the frame. Your heart sinks, the corners of your lips trembling as you try not to smirk.

Because maybe this is exactly what you wanted to happen.

Your thumb flicks along the screen of your phone, opening the Uber app as Dean looks down at you, and he laughs cruelly, reaching out to hook one hand around your waist, the other fisting your hair before you can get another word out.

He kisses you deep and rough, pulling you closer, stealing the breath out of your chest. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers curling into the front of his shirt until you pull away first, leaving him chasing your mouth before he finds it.

Crack. Your hand slaps him so fast and sharp his head snaps to the side. Dean’s tongue presses against his cheek because he may have liked that a little more than he thought he would—and if he were in your good graces he’d probably beg you to do it again.

Dean’s hand rubs across his sharp jaw as he chuckles, red blooming on his cheek from the slap.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, tugging it out far enough to look down. He blows out a little whistle, letting a smile tug at his lips. “That was a close one—almost came.”

“Fuck you, Dean.” You try to walk past him, but he catches you, pulling you to his lips, kissing you so hard your back bends, his biceps flexing where your nails dig into his arms.

“You done yet?” he asks against your lips, his words humming against your mouth.

“Not really,” you whisper, and he huffs out a tight breath.

“Can’t believe you fuckin’ kissed him.”

“Can’t believe you wasted my fucking time,” you challenge him, his hold tightening on your hair, his grip strong on your body. “Again.”

“This is what you wanted, huh? My attention—you fuckin’ got it.”

“You think this was about getting your attention?” You smile against his lips, giggling with your soft exhale. “Baby, look at you.”

“The fuck are you hanging out with Peyton for anyways?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur, thinking it through just enough to piss him off some more. “Kinda into Briar football these days.”

He doesn’t even have a response to that, his jaw ticking as he swallows hard. You lick your lips slowly, taunting him.

“Jealousy looks good on you, Dean. Honesty would look even better.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” He steps into you, pressing you back until your back bumps the sink.

“You sure seem to care a lot for someone who doesn’t give a shit about me,” you whisper.

“Never said that,” he murmurs.

“Figured that part out on my own,” you whisper.

“Just get on your fuckin’ knees,” he mutters as he unbuckles his belt in one swift movement. Because you’re wrong—he cares way more than he wanted to, and now he’s in trouble.

“Say please,” you whisper.

He barks out a laugh, looking away from you as you stare up at him, but the only thing standing between him and the woman he wants is the word he fuckin’ hates.

“Say… please.” Your voice is so light and condescending he loses his train of thought.

“I’m not asking you again,” he warns, his head turning back toward you.

“Funny thing about that,” you whisper.

“Neither are you,” he mumbles. “Fuckin’ brat.”

“Holy shit, Di Laurentis,” you breathe, and he holds his breath for a moment, waiting for what you’ll say next. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

“Oh my god. Please.” He presses the word out fast. “Fucking please, okay?”

You hold his stare for another second, making him wait, before slowly lowering yourself in front of him.

“Mouth open. Tongue out. C’mon.” He doesn’t break eye contact, his glare searing right through you. Every inch of your skin prickles with lust. Your pulse races, and still you lean in.

Dean holds himself just out of reach at first, savoring your momentary obedience, watching the way your mouth opens without hesitation, your breath held as you wait. His cock is heavy in his fist, precum beading at the tip, and he knows you want it. That’s half the point.

He slaps it against your outstretched tongue. “You’re so easy to read, you know that?” he lies as a soft moan escapes your throat.

His cock slides along your tongue as your lips wrap around him, his hand settling in your hair again, guiding you—using you.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice low and rough as his fingers tighten in your hair, dragging your head back just enough for him to watch your lips stretch around him before bringing you forward again.

“Couldn’t just make this easy on me,” he mutters. “Losing my shit downstairs. Is that what you wanted?”

You hum around him, lashes fluttering, spit slicking your chin as he starts to thrust deeper. You sputter but you don’t stop.

His hand pushes you down until you’re throating his dick, your jaw sore, eyes stinging, but you don’t pull back.

His other hand grips the counter, knuckles white—his hips give this messy little jerk every time you take him deeper, his breath catching.

He watches you, possessiveness thick in the air between you. “Look at you,” he mutters. “Such a fuckin’ slut for me,” he hisses, breath ragged.

You can feel how close he is—the way his thighs go tight, the way his breath snags every time your tongue catches him just right.

His head tips back as he forces your mouth down one more time, burying himself so deep you gag around him, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes.

Dean drags you off with a rough hand, groaning as he strokes himself furiously, the head of his cock flushed an angry red as he gets so close to release he can barely speak. “Keep that mouth open for me,” he pants. “Wanna see it—”

And then he shudders, thick ropes spilling hot and messy across your tongue, your lips, your chin, dripping down your throat as you hold your position, eyes glassy and wide as the last of him pulses onto your waiting tongue.

“Look at this mess, baby,” he hums. “That’s mine. All of it. Just fuckin’ mine…”

He hauls you to your feet, his mouth crashing against yours in a wet, owning kiss. He spins you toward the mirror, still holding your hair, forcing you to look.

Dean’s big hand splays flat over your stomach, pinning you tight to the cool counter, your reflection hazy in the mirror—your hair tangled, mouth parted, eyes wet as he stands behind you.

“Can’t even fight that fucking smile,” he mutters as his hand slides down your stomach and under your skirt, pawing down your panties in one harsh pull.

You bite your lip as a grin tips at the corner of your mouth, but you shake your head no. His forehead falls to your shoulder as he pushes out a sharp breath through his nose, his fingers gliding up your pussy, feeling how wet you are.

“This for me?” he asks, his voice hoarse with want and frustration.

You keep the yes to yourself, letting him suffer instead, the look on your face a subtle reminder that you didn’t come in here with him to begin with—the thought of you and Peyton locked away in his house before he stormed in nothing short of a nightmare to him.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters against your skin.

His eyes catch yours in the mirror as his lips press to your neck, trailing down. Then he bites hard, teeth sinking into you, your fingers bracing the countertop as he pushes his cock into your wet pussy in one rough thrust.

He goes completely still, his forehead dropping against you as both hands find your lower back. The breath that leaves him is long and deep, a drawn-out sigh of relief as he feels you around him, your body under his hands, your skin against his lips as he breathes in your perfume.

“Feels so—so fucking good, baby,” he mumbles against you, so fucked-out and gentle you almost don’t catch it.

He pulls back his hips, drawing out of you slowly enough that you hear it, shoving himself back in so rough you gasp, his hand reaching out to catch you as your palms slap against the bathroom counter.

He dips his head in again, his gold chain tumbling out of his shirt, the pendant with your initial landing against your shoulder—the playboy, so tremendously down bad you can’t help the teasing laugh that bubbles from your lips.

He gives you a look like he’s annoyed—like he’s tired of your shit but the feeling’s mutual.

“Tell me what you want, Dean,” you sigh.

He rolls his eyes in frustration, and a laugh slips past your lips before his hand drifts up your neck, two fingers hooking into one corner of the mouth he just claimed.

The free corner of your lips curls into a smirk, and he blows out a breath, his eyes challenging yours before he breaks.

“Only you.”

“Now,” you mumble, feeling his hard cock twitch in your hand, catching some of the precum on his tip before bringing it to your lips.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he watches your lips close around your finger. His mouth twitches, but whatever smart-ass comment he had ready dies before it makes it past his lips.

Beau plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making your head sink back into the pillow as he presses kisses across your chest and starts fucking his hand into you.

He doesn’t stay there long—his mouth trails lower and lower down your body until your heart is pounding in anticipation.

Your legs instinctively start to draw together, but Beau catches your thighs in his hands and pushes them back against his mattress, holding you open while he looks down between them.

You gasp when he spits, the wetness sliding over your pussy before he leans closer, the warmth of his breath brushing over you.

His big biceps and thick shoulders flex from the angle of his body—his hands keeping your thighs spread while his eyes stay locked on yours from between your legs as he gives you one long, teasing lick.

“Holy shit,” you moan, and Beau barely gives you time to recover before his arms wrap around your thighs and pull you closer, burying himself between your legs.

Beau kisses your clit before sucking hard, making your fingers lace into his hair and tug at the roots, guiding him closer. He moans into you at the pull, the vibration making your eyes roll back as your hips press helplessly toward his mouth.

“Ride it, baby,” he hums, his voice barely audible over your breathing as he begs you to move your hips, so you do, grinding your pussy up into his face as he groans at the taste—his hips rutting into the mattress for relief.

“Beau, fuck,” you squeal, hips bucking off the bed when he drops one arm and pushes two thick fingers back inside you without taking his mouth away.

Your heart starts to race as the pleasure builds fast—the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy filling the room while his fingers curl inside you.

“I’m close,” you whimper, and Beau groans against you.

“Fuckin’ cum around my tongue,” he mutters, voice deep and husky before his tongue slips lower and pushes through your entrance. His greedy fingers move up to your clit instead, rubbing so quickly that your hands slap against the mattress before fisting the sheets beneath you.

Beau’s name tears from your lips as you flutter around his tongue, your vision blurring at the edges while your ears start to ring.

You tremble against his hold when it becomes too much, but Beau only pulls you closer, tongue and fingers working you through every last second of your orgasm until hot tears slip from the corners of your eyes and disappear into his sheets.

“That’s my baby,” he mumbles, pressing teasing little kisses against your clit and watching your body jump with every touch.

“Beau…” you whimper, finally managing to look down at him.

He lifts his eyes to yours and smiles, lips glistening with your slick as he presses another kiss against your inner thigh. “Yeah, pretty?”

“Fucking kiss me.”

Because fuck, you were jealous. You usually rolled your eyes at half the shit that came out of his mouth, but apparently you’d decided you’d had enough of someone else touching your boyfriend and were taking him home, and the six-foot-two hockey player being dragged obediently behind you had never been happier to go.

He never fed into it—never flirted back just to get a reaction or made you wonder where his attention was. If anything, he’d pulled you closer, kissed you sweeter, and carried on with the conversation like there was never any question about who he was leaving with.

But fuck if he didn’t love you like this. Not the part where you thought another woman had a chance with him—that shit he’d happily spend the rest of the night correcting. It was the way you wanted him enough to get greedy about it, like Dean Di Laurentis belonged to you and everybody else should already know better.

Dean Di Laurentis is exactly where he wants to be.

He spends the entire ride home pretending he doesn’t notice the way you keep looking at him, knowing damn well what’s waiting underneath that pretty little attitude.

Because the woman at the bar could look at him all she wanted. You were sleeping in his bed tonight, and you sure as hell were going to wear sixty-six while doing it.

And judging by the trail of clothes leading straight to his bed, you weren’t interested in pretending anymore either.

He walks toward his bedroom, following the trail of discarded clothes—your jacket, your jeans, and that top he wanted to tear off you all night, gathering each one as he goes, your perfume still clinging to the fabric.

He presses the clothes to his nose, biting back the smile pulling at his lips because somewhere between the bottom of the stairs and his bedroom door, he has to pretend like he isn’t completely delighted by this—there are levels to it, after all.

Because how could the woman he couldn’t live without possibly think she has competition?

He chuckles sleazily when he sees your pretty red bra on his floor, Dean’s blue eyes lifting to his bed to find you sitting pretty on the edge, waiting for him.

And of course you’re swimming in his Briar jersey. And of course you look like every late-night fantasy he has when he comes back to a dark hotel room after an away game, having to settle for his fist around his dick and your voice coming through his phone instead of pressed against his ear.

Before he can even ask, you’re on your knees, crawling slowly toward him. His eyes roll back at the sight of you like this…

He tugs the buttons of his shirt away, tearing it off his shoulders as you kneel before him, pawing for his belt, tugging his pants around his ankles.

He wraps his big fist around your hair, pulling your gaze away from his thick cock to his soft blue eyes. “C’mon, pretty... Been thinkin’ about this shit all night,” he mumbles as his thumb brushes along your bottom lip.

He hums out a satisfied breath when your lips wrap around his digit, sucking and humming, and you look up at him through your lashes.

“Tongue, baby,” he mumbles, and you lay it out, the fat tip of his dick slapping shamelessly against it as he moans at the contact.

You wrap your lips around him, eyes fluttering shut like it’s all you need. The vibrations of your moan around his cock leave his thick, rough fingers tightening in your hair.

He uses his hold on your head to pull you into him, watching tears spring in the corners of your eyes as his tip kisses the back of your throat.

“Atta girl,” Dean hums, his praise only fueling your desire. You bob up and down on his long cock as he guides your strokes, spit seeping out of the corner of your lips.

“You like that shit?” he asks, breathing out a sigh of relief as he watches you work his dick in your warm, wet mouth. His head falls back because you’re sloppy with it, just like he loves, gagging on him like only you can.

“Suckin’ my dick with my name on your shoulders, princess? Fuckin’ dream girl,” he groans hazily between thrusts when he starts to use your mouth.

Dean blows out a breath as you release his cock with a pop, causing him to let out a grunt for more, almost instantly eased by your fist, jerking him off. His own possessiveness flares, his jersey big enough that he catches a tease of your tits through the little gap beneath the collar, the white gold necklace he bought you glistening against your soft skin.

You can feel your arousal pool in your panties, a rapid throb between your thighs matching your pulse. “I can’t wait to fuck you,” he presses the words out between his teeth when he feels your lips on him again.

You moan, feeling the weight of him on your tongue, Dean’s precum swirling with your saliva, making your eyes roll back in your head. You arch your back, nails running down the back of his muscular thighs, your jersey lifting slightly, giving him a glimpse of your round ass, a tiny number 66 embroidered on the back of your thong.

“Fuuuck,” he groans at the sight, tossing his head back—the salty taste of his precum intensifies as he cums in thick ropes, painting your throat. You wrap your hands around his body, nails sinking into his skin, making his muscles clench.

Dean’s cock throbs on your tongue, blood pumping in his shaft as you cup his balls in your hands, rolling slowly, not wanting him out of your mouth just yet.

“C’mere,” he breathes as he helps you to your feet, pulling you to his lips. He kisses you deeply, walking you backward toward his bed, pushing you down before mounting you fast.

“These panties… You fuckin’ kidding me?” he mutters against your lips as his thick fingers shove the satin aside, running up your soaked slit.

“Don’t,” you mumble, but the warning loses some of its bite when your hips lift instinctively into his hand.

Dean’s mouth curls against yours. “Don’t what, princess?” he asks, dragging the question out as his fingers continue their slow path between your thighs. He knows exactly what you mean. You can see it in the smug little smile he’s trying and failing to hide.

“You know what.” Your hands slide around his shoulders, nails trailing down his skin as you pull him closer, rough enough that you know it’ll leave a mark, and he knows it too.

The teasing in Dean’s expression softens as he studies you. His big hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider against his mattress. “That what tonight was about?” he asks, pinning you down.

You hesitate, your eyes dropping briefly to his mouth. “I didn’t like her touching you,” you whisper, and his tongue skims his bottom lip.

“Yeah?” The word comes out low as he dips down until his forehead presses against yours, your arms wrapping tighter around his neck, needing him close. “Don’t want her touching me either. She isn’t you.”

“Still didn’t like it,” you mumble.

That nearly gets his smile back. Fuck, he loves you. Dean catches your jaw in his hand, tipping your face toward his until there’s nowhere else for you to look. “You know who I went home with. Who’s my girl, huh?”

Your fingers slide into the hair at the back of his neck, holding him there. “Me.”

“Yeah, you.” His answer comes without a second of hesitation as his body settles heavier against yours. “Always gonna be you.”

The words barely have time to settle before you’re pulling him back into another kiss, your hips lifting into his hand as his fingers slip beneath the satin and push inside you. Dean swallows your moan, smiling against your mouth because apparently reassurance only makes you wetter.

His fingers curl inside you, the heel of his palm hitting your clit at the perfect tempo—two fingers turning into three until his name is screaming past your lips and your back is arching off the mattress into his chest.

He works you through it, kissing you softly and breathlessly as you beg for his dick. He has to bite back another smile because he was already dreaming about ruining you from the moment your fingers laced possessively through his at the bar.

He’d pictured that same hand pinned to your lower back, each rut of his hips sending the jersey he just knew you couldn’t wait to slip on higher and higher as your perfect pussy swallowed his dick whole, tears of pleasure wetting his mattress with your face pressed against the sheets.

He lifts his hand, slipping his fingers between his lips, sucking your wetness from them as that filthy, satisfied smile slowly returns. “That’s my fucking bunny.”

Damp clothes hang from cabinet handles, dining chairs, doorknobs, and the oven handle, dripping steadily into baking sheets and mismatched bowls you’d shoved underneath them to catch the water.

A pastel floral duvet is draped across the backs of two barstools, three bras spin lazily from the ceiling fan, and a string bikini is looped around the refrigerator handle.

The whole apartment smells like fresh laundry, warm vanilla, and clean cotton lingering in the air beneath the faint scent of standing water. It’s complete chaos.

“I’ve been trying,” you blurt out before he can say anything else, throwing both hands toward the disaster surrounding the two of you. “I Googled it.”

“I can tell.”

“I watched, like…” You squint toward the ceiling, trying to remember. “…Seven videos?” He nods once. “And every single one told me to do something different.”

“I believe that.”

“So then I panicked.”

His eyes drift back toward the puddles stretching across your floor before settling on you again. “…Yeah.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I can see that.”

“Come here.” You wave him toward the laundry room. “It’s worse over here.”

His head dips as a soft laugh escapes through his nose, though it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

Logan follows without a word, stepping carefully around a towel as his boots splash through the thin layer of water covering the floor.

You’ve somehow managed to get yourself almost as wet as the apartment. Damp strands of hair cling to your forehead while everything else has been shoved impatiently behind your ears, your fitted white tank hugging your frame.

That tiny jean skirt kisses your upper thighs, creeping higher every time you step over another puddle, bright yellow rain boots squeaking against the tile as you stop beside the open washing machine and look back at him with the most hopeful expression you can manage.

“There she is,” you whisper sheepishly.

Logan steps up beside you and looks into the drum. The washer isn’t full of clothes anymore because you already hauled every last piece out by hand. It’s still nearly full of cloudy blue water, soap suds floating across the top thick enough that he can’t even see the bottom.

“It won’t drain,” you explain, chewing lightly on your bottom lip.

“Alright.” He reaches for the cuffs of his flannel, rolling one sleeve up before doing the other, exposing his forearms. By the time he finishes, he can already feel your eyes on him.

Your lips part ever so slightly, your attention catching on his hands before drifting farther up his forearms, getting completely lost somewhere between the strength in his hands and the quiet concentration written across his face when he reaches in to check the depth. The water skims his flannel and it’s clear—the shirt has to go.

“This okay?” he asks, already shrugging off one shoulder. Your mouth goes a little dry, lips still parted, lashes fluttering when he asks you again. “Sweetheart?”

The pet name does nothing for your sanity, your cheeks blooming with warmth as you try to answer a question you never heard. “Hmm?”

“My shirt? Can I take it off?” he asks through a chuckle.

“Of course,” you smile. “Take anything off.”

A quiet snort slips out before he can stop it as he strips the plaid fabric off his body, showing off the white cutoff t-shirt underneath. He wraps the bigger shirt around his waist, cinching it with a knot before adjusting the bandana on his head.

“Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into, sunshine.”

His bandana keeps most of his hair pushed back, though a few stubborn pieces still fall forward across his forehead as he squints down into the machine. The cutoff shirt stretches tightly across his shoulders every time he shifts his weight, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath sun-tanned skin as he twists the center agitator back and forth.

“…C’mon,” he grunts under his breath. You watch his jaw tighten as he gives it one more firm pull.

The agitator slides free. Logan takes a careful step backward, lifting the surprisingly heavy piece out of the washer with both hands. The movement makes the muscles in his forearms tighten beneath his skin, veins standing out as he adjusts his grip to keep it from slipping.

His worn blue jeans are tucked into work boots, and for a second you’re so distracted watching him that you almost forget he’s waiting for an answer.

“You got somewhere I can set this?”

“Oh!” You blink hard, snapping back to reality. “Hang on.”

You spin toward the hallway a little too quickly, and the rain boot hits another patch of soapy water. Both feet slide out just enough to send your arms pinwheeling through the air.

“…Oh, shit,” Logan huffs, his head snapping up instinctively as you manage to catch yourself, bent over at the waist. Nothing but ass and purple lace greeting him as you struggle to find your footing.

He tears his eyes away almost immediately, clearing his throat as heat creeps into his cheeks. His shoulders shake with a quiet laugh he can’t quite hold back, his head tipping to the side as the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen somehow managed to look like she’d stepped onto the ice with her skate guards still on.

“I meant to do that,” you smile over your shoulder, scurrying into the bathroom before returning a few seconds later with a thick striped beach towel bundled in your arms.

Logan blows out a breath as he watches you move, every inch of your apartment a hazard for a slip and fall. He smiles as you lay the towel on the floor, glancing up at him safe and sound.

“Perfect,” he hums, offering you a hand, guiding you closer.

The two of you lean over the washer together, peering into the cloudy blue water that hasn’t budged an inch. Logan studies the drum a moment before nodding once.

“I think your drain’s clogged,” he mumbles, looking to his left where you stand beside him, but you’re bent over now. The white tank top clinging to your curves is translucent—the purple lace bra underneath cups your breasts so perfectly he can’t help but sigh, the low scoop and soft swell of your breasts leaving him wondering what words left his mouth last and where he was goin’ with any of this.

His heavy eyes lift and you quirk an eyebrow teasingly, your glossed lips drawn to the side.

“Somethin’,” he huffs, and you nod. “I—I think things.” Words leave his lips, but they’re not the ones he’s reaching for. Your giggle fills the little laundry room, his laugh joining it. “Sorry—”

“Don’t be,” you smile, stepping a little closer, watching the breath catch in his chest.

“I think your drain’s clogged,” he says, getting his feet under himself again. Logan reaches both hands back into the drum, feeling carefully beneath the cloudy water.

His brow furrows a little deeper, the tip of his tongue slipping out to rest lightly against his upper lip while he concentrates, fingertips searching along the bottom where he can’t see.

“Hang on,” he mutters. “I think…” He pinches onto something beneath the water, his expression shifting with recognition. “I think I got something.”

His fingers tighten around whatever he’d managed to catch beneath the hazy water before giving it the gentlest tug.

“Shit…”

“What?” you ask, your eyes widening immediately as you peer over the edge.

“I think it’s gonna rip.”

Your nose scrunches and you laugh softly. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?” he asks, looking back at you. “I don’t wanna wreck your stuff, sweetheart.”

“If it fixes my washer, it fixes my washer,” you say simply, resting your hands on your hips, and he chuckles.

Logan smiles as he gives the fabric another gentle tug, every muscle through his forearms tightening. His biceps flex with the effort, boots squeaking faintly against the damp tile as he plants himself a little wider.

“Well…” he murmurs, glancing over at you with the smallest smile. “If I break it…” Another careful pull. “…I’m replacin’ it.”

A laugh bubbles out of you almost immediately. “Logan, you’re not replacing anything.”

“We’ll negotiate later,” Logan says, his brown eyes flicking toward yours for just a second before he braces himself for another pull.

You let out a breathy little laugh, shaking your head as you fold your hands behind your back. “There is no negotiation.”

“We’ll see,” he hums, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks back into the washer.

A strip of black lace slips through the cloudy blue water first, dripping between his fingers before hanging there in complete silence.

Water drips steadily from the towels hanging around the apartment while neither of you says a single word. His eyes drop to the lace dangling from his hand before very, very slowly lifting toward you. Yours are already on him. “…Oh.”

He pulls again, and this time pale blue satin slides free beneath the black lace, a delicate strap catching somewhere inside the drain before cherry-red mesh follows behind it, tiny bows glistening with soapy water as they break the surface.

Your lips part and Logan’s lashes flutter. “I—Umm… I don’t…” He clears his throat when his voice cracks around the words. A horrified giggle escapes you before you can stop it.

“Oh my gosh.” You press both hands over your mouth, already feeling your face warming from your neck all the way to the apples of your cheeks while Logan looks very deliberately back into the washing machine, trying to focus on literally anything except the fact that he’s somehow standing in your laundry room holding what is very obviously the prettiest collection of panties he’s ever encountered.

“I don’t think I’m done,” he admits after another second.

“You’re kidding,” you sigh.

Bubblegum pink lace slips free this time. Then delicate little white florals. Another gentle pull brings soft lavender mesh knotted through the first three, followed by a ribbon of satin that disappears beneath the growing bundle collecting in his hand.

Somewhere deep inside the drain they’ve managed to twist themselves together into one impossible knot, every tiny strap looping through another until what should’ve been one pair becomes two…then four…then six, the growing chain spilling farther and farther across the striped beach towel you spread on the floor only minutes earlier until you’re in the double digits.

He lets out a slow breath through his nose, the corners of his mouth trembling as he tries not to smile.

“I am so embarrassed—”

“I’m impressed,” he mumbles.

“Stop,” you giggle, holding out a hand to block his handsome face when he catches you peering through your fingers.

“This is quite the collection,” he teases, hissing under his breath in faux pain when you shove at his shoulder.

You cross your arms over your chest, turning away slightly, rubber boots squeaking against the tile when a little whistle breezes past his lips. The culprit of it all, the white lace t-string that barely qualifies as underwear in the first place, threads through his thick, rough fingers. The final pair of panties in the makeshift line.

He looks down at you, the dimple in his cheek deepening, waiting to catch your eye again.

“C’mon, pretty. Don’t be like that,” he chuckles as he drops the panty chain to the floor in a heap, reaching for you as he straightens, his hand settling against your hip to turn you toward him.

Your heart beats a little faster when his brown eyes rest on your lips, the tension in his shoulders unwinding when your mouth tips into a smile.

“I can’t believe there were that many,” you whisper, trying not to laugh.

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” he sighs, glancing at the pile before returning his attention to you. “How do you think I feel? I told you I was replacing them.”

“Shut up,” you chuckle, feeling your stomach flutter as he wets his lip, his thumb rubbing against the wet cotton at your hip—snap!

The sudsy water gurgles, bubbles popping from the middle of the drum, as the blue soapy water twirls down the drain like a cyclone until all that’s left is a clean slate.

Your lashes lift and your gaze rests on his. A part of you knows you should be relieved that the water is gone. A smaller, far less practical part of you has been hoping the machine might remain stubborn for an extra hour if it meant Logan had to stay.

“Well, look at that.” He smiles, looking down at the drum.

“You’re amazing.” You squeal, your arms wrapping around his neck, lips pressing against his cheek before you draw away.

For one long second, Logan forgets how to act.

His eyes stay on yours, searching your face like he’s making sure you really meant to do that, the warmth of your lips still lingering against his cheek.

His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip before he lets out a slow breath through his nose, one hand tightening where it rests against your waist.

“Well,” he murmurs, his voice lower than it had been a second ago.

“What?” you ask, the smile playing in your voice.

“I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”

Your hands smooth down his chest, his hand falling away from your hips reluctantly. He looks away under the excuse of checking the washer again, dragging one hand along the back of his neck.

He’d spent plenty of time fixing things for people—broken garbage disposals, leaky faucets, doors that wouldn’t quite shut, washing machines that refused to drain just like this one.

None of those jobs had ever left him standing in a tiny laundry room with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met smiling up at him like that. For the first time, he finds himself wishing something else around the apartment were broken—not because he wants another repair, but because he isn’t anywhere near ready to leave.

“I, uh—think we’re golden,” he says, reaching down for the agitator and resting the final piece of the puzzle back in before clicking it in place like it’s nothing.

“That’s it?” you ask, glancing between him and the washer. “You’re completely finished?”

“Unless you’ve got something else hidin’ somewhere that needs me,” he answers with a chuckle, hoping there’s something around here that will give him a little more time with you and another kiss on the cheek at the very least.

You glance around the apartment, taking in the soaked towels, the mixing bowls scattered beneath dripping clothes, and the duvet still draped across two barstools in the kitchen.

There is more than enough cleanup left to keep you busy for the rest of the day, but none of it technically requires a broad-shouldered hockey player you’ve had a crush on all semester.

Your lips press together in a slight pout before you can stop them, your boot digging lightly against the wet floor as you look back into the empty drum.

Logan notices immediately. “What’s that face for?” he asks, brushing the water off his rough hands on his jeans.

“What face?” you ask, peering at him out of the corner of your eye.

Logan catches you smiling before you realize you’re doing it. “That one.” He nods toward you, amusement pulling at his mouth. “You looked happier when your washer was broken, sunshine.”

“Did I?”

“You absolutely did.”

You bite your cheek as he lowers the lid of the washer, starting an empty load just to test it out. “So did you,” you mumble, calling his bluff, and his lips fall open like that can’t be so—like you’re reading him all wrong—but the chuckle gives him away.

“You think so?” Logan asks quietly. “…Guess I wasn’t hidin’ it very well.”

“M’happy it’s fixed,” you hum. “Obviously. I just thought it might take a little longer.”

Logan rests one hip against the washer, folding his arms loosely across his chest as he studies you. “You wanted it to take longer?”

“Maybe,” you smile.

“Huh,” he huffs, one hand lifting from his side to rest on your cheek, making your pulse jump as the other slides around your waist again.

Logan brushes his thumb across your cheek, his palm settling carefully against the side of your face when you lean into the touch.

“You know,” he murmurs, “it didn’t take shit breakin’ for you to call me over.”

“No?” you ask, and his arm tightens around your waist, guiding you closer. You smile bashfully, hands wrapping around his waist as well, chest pressing against his until your soaked breasts push into his broad chest.

“Been waitin’ for a while,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow pass over your skin. “Just needed you to give me a reason.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes hold yours as the corner of his mouth lifts. “‘Course.”

The sincerity in his voice steals whatever response you were about to give him. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath the thin fabric as you tilt your chin up toward his.

“Are you going to kiss me, or did I flood my apartment for nothing?” you whisper, your lips so close to his that all you can feel is the breath of his chuckle.

“You didn’t flood your apartment for this,” he mumbles, the warmth of his words brushing over your lips as he teases you.

“You know…” he murmurs, pulling back just enough for you to chase his lips, “…you’ve been lookin’ at me all afternoon.”

“So’ve you.”

“…Yeah.” The admission comes so easily it makes your heart stumble. “I’ve been tryin’ real hard to be a gentleman.” He lets out a quiet exhale through his nose, like there wasn’t much point pretending anymore. “Been havin’ a hard time lookin’ anywhere else.”

Your mouth parts on a soft breath, and Logan’s body reacts to it instantly. His own lips part, catching your bottom lip in a gentle tug, humming out a deep sound before he murmurs, “I think you’re makin’ it pretty difficult.”

His forehead falls to yours for the briefest second, both of you smiling into the inch of space between your mouths. His thumb strokes once along your jaw before his lips press together, like he’s trying to convince himself to keep doing the gentleman thing he’d been talking about thirty seconds ago.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs.

Logan’s big arms wrap around you in one smooth motion as he lifts you clean off your feet. Your legs hook around his waist as his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath as you kiss him for the very first time.

He turns and presses your back to the wall, his body settling against yours with a heavy weight that makes your breath catch as your spine meets it.

He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, nails sliding in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a deep groan from his lips.

You giggle breathlessly, and he buries his face in your neck, his fingers flexing against your skin as he physically holds himself back. His smile pulls along your skin, the weight of his body still holding you where he wants you, and even though he’s not kissing you for the moment, you can tell that it’s killing him.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters, warm at your neck, his teeth sliding against your skin.

“John?” you answer, the sound of his first name leaving your lips doing nothing for his restraint. He glances toward the ceiling for a second before looking back at you, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a quiet sigh.

“Baby,” he mutters against your neck, his voice rough enough to send a shiver through you. His eyes squeeze shut for a second before he tips his forehead to yours with a quiet laugh. “I’m bein’ so damn good right now.”

He sets you to your feet, your body still pinned to the wall, his rough hand cupping your cheek as the other holds you close, kissing you again.

“You don’t have to be,” you whisper, and his jaw tightens, his deep, dark eyes falling to your lips again.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, smiling when the corner of your lips curls. “You are trouble, aren’t you?”

You look back at him through your lashes, shaking your head no, but everything in your body language screams yes as he stares back at you, his lips still tingling.

“Can I ask you something?” he whispers.

“Mhmm,” you hum.

“Would you let me take you out sometime?”

You bite your lip, stifling the giggle bubbling on your tongue because the answer had been sitting on the tip of it before he’d even finished asking.

“I’d really like that,” you whisper.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” you answer.

“You can keep those boots on,” he teases as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours, and it’s clear that the last thing he wants to do is wait until then.

“I have something a little cuter I can wear,” you whisper.

Logan’s eyes drift over your face before the corner of his mouth lifts again.

“Somehow…” he murmurs, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip, “…I don’t think that’s possible,” he sighs, stealing your breath when he steps back. “Pick you up around six?”

“Six sounds perfect.” You smile, fixing your skirt where it’s ridden up your thighs a little, feeling your body throb from your head to your toes.

Logan reaches for his toolbox, then the doorknob, his fingers wrapping around the brass handle before he slowly pulls it open.

He steps out before turning back toward you.

“Tomorrow.” You smile, your head resting against the doorframe—a floaty sensation coursing through your veins, the desperate need to kiss him again leaving your body trembling with adrenaline.

“Tomorrow.”

For one impossibly long second, it feels like you’re both waiting for the other person to break. Instead, Logan smiles. He gives one small nod before finally forcing himself to turn away, the old toolbox swinging lightly beside his leg as he starts down the breezeway.

You stand in the doorway long after he should’ve disappeared from sight, one hand still resting against the edge of the open door as your eyes follow him farther and farther away.

The afternoon sun catches the back of his shoulders, flannel tied around his waist shifting against his jeans. He looks over one shoulder, catching you still standing there watching him.

You lift your hand, waving with the tips of your fingers, feeling your heart race in your chest before he rounds the corner and falls out of sight.

You let out the tiniest sigh before easing the front door shut, the latch clicking softly behind you. Your back settles against the cool wood of the door, your eyes drifting shut as the biggest smile you’ve worn in weeks spreads across your face all over again.

Your shoulders slide another inch down the door until your rain boots squeak against the hardwood beneath you.

“Tomorrow,” you repeat, nodding to absolutely no one. “Not today. Tomorrow.” You press your lips together, trying very hard to look serious despite the fact that nobody is there to witness it.

“Which means…” You point one finger toward yourself in mock warning. “…You are not going to chase after him.” You nod solemnly. “You are a grown woman. You are capable of waiting…” Your eyes drift toward the front door. “…Twenty-four hours.” You pause. “…More or less.”

The washing machine sloshes cheerfully behind you as your head tips back against the door with another little groan. “Oh, he’s so handsome though,” you pout, your lips still tingling, the smell of his cologne clinging to the cotton of your tank top.

You push yourself away from the door and wander aimlessly toward the kitchen, your fingertips trailing across the backs of dining chairs draped in damp clothes.

“You’re not texting him.” You tap your cellphone as you pass it. “You’re not calling him. You’re not coming up with some household emergency because—because you can’t…”

“And besides…” Your eyes flick toward the laundry room where the machine continues humming along perfectly. “He fixed the only one you’ve got.”

A smile slips across your face before you can stop it. “He asked me on a date.” You gossip the words into the nothingness of your kitchen, your yellow puddle boots squeaking when you twirl. “He asked me.”

You stand there for a beat, the quiet hum of the washing machine filling the apartment before you let out one long sigh through your nose. “…Alright.” Reality.

The flood might be over, but your apartment still looks like a tornado spun through for fun. Towels lie scattered across the hardwood, damp clothes hang from cabinet handles and dining chairs, and somewhere beneath the floral duvet draped over your barstools is probably the mixing bowl you’d spent half an hour using to bail water out by hand.

The laundry basket waits against the wall exactly where you’d abandoned it earlier. You cross your arms over your body, peeling off the white tank top first, flicking it into the basket, shimmying the denim skirt down around your hips before lofting it into the heap as well.

You gather a handful of drip-dried clothing strewn across your place, cheeks warming all over again as flashes of the last hour replay in your mind.

The crease between his brows while he concentrated. The way he’d completely forgotten how words worked the second he’d looked over and caught sight of you. “…Poor guy.” The smile refuses to leave your face.

One by one, you begin dropping everything into the hamper, wandering back toward the scene of the crime as the water from the test-run starts to drain, the metal drum turning like a top for the final spin.

Something metallic rattles softly on the washer and your brows knit together, eyes snapping toward the appliance.

A wrench?

It sits on top of the metal lid, bouncing with the last lazy turn of the drum before settling perfectly still in the middle of the washer.

A laugh escapes before you can stop it.

“John Logan…”

He hadn’t touched a wrench all afternoon. Not once. You’d watched every second of it. He’d rolled up his sleeves, reached into the washer with those big hands of his, hauled the agitator out without so much as looking for a tool, and somehow fixed the entire thing anyway.

The wrench wasn’t forgotten… It was an excuse.

You lift it into your hand, turning it over once between your fingers as your smile grows impossibly wider.

Knock. Knock.

Your heart stumbles, a smile breaking across your face before you can stop it. You round the corner, not even glancing toward the peephole before you throw the door open.

You lean into the doorframe, smiling as the wrench hangs lazily from your fingers, giggling breathily as your heart pounds.

His eyes find yours first, his lips parting like every word he’d prepared has disappeared into thin air when he sees you in those little puddle boots and the panty set he’d spent the last few minutes fantasizing about, but it’s so, so much better.

Logan simply stares. Every coherent thought leaves him as his little plan unfolds into something more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.

The toolbox hanging from his hand suddenly feels twenty pounds heavier as his eyes fall down your body, lingering for a moment before lifting back to yours. “I—I forgot somethin’,” he manages, though it comes out rougher than he’d intended.

“Did you?”

You look down at the wrench resting in your hand before lifting it between the two of you. His eyes flick to it for all of half a second before they wander right back to your face.

He steps forward as your fingers fist in the front of his cutoff, bunching the soft cotton beneath your hand as you give him one determined tug over the threshold, and his lips find yours first.

The toolbox clatters to the floor, the front door slamming shut as every ounce of restraint he’d pretended to have around you disappears the second your lips meet.

Logan lets out one low sound against your mouth, lifting you off your feet just as effortlessly as he had before. The urgency makes your heart race, the wrench slipping harmlessly from your hand into the hamper of clothes as he presses deeper into your place, work boots pounding over the hardwood, and your fingers fist the hair at the nape of his neck.

“In there,” you mumble through a smile into your kiss, and he chuckles hungrily, his hold on you tightening.

He kicks off his boots at the threshold of your bedroom without missing a beat, setting you down just to walk you back to the mattress, his hands coming up to comb the bandana out of his hair as your fingers greedily tear at the knotted flannel around his waist.

Logan strips off his shirt as you toss his flannel aside, smiling against your lips as your fingers unfasten the hardware of his blue jeans, his voice deep and warm when he whispers, “You sure?”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your hands reaching behind your back to unfasten your bra as his jeans fall in a heap at his feet.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles, dipping down to get closer as his big, rough palms reach up, cupping your breasts in his hands, his lips sucking down on your neck. Your fingers wrap around the band of his boxers, drawing the material lower, shoving them down his thighs.

Logan kisses up your neck, lips brushing by your ear as he sighs deeply. His fingers hook around the panties on your hips—the last piece of clothing separating you from him.

“I’m still trying to be good,” he whispers against your ear, his voice honeyed and deep. You can hear the smile in his voice as he snaps the fabric against your skin, making you suck in a breath.

Your hand drifts between you, the tip of his thick cock already pressed against your thigh. He groans beside your ear when your fingernails trace softly from the base of his dick, shuddering out a breath as you work your way slowly to the tip, goosebumps spreading across his tanned skin.

“Are you?” you ask teasingly, sucking in a breath when he lifts you off your feet, taking you down to the mattress, pinning you under his weight as he steals the smile off your lips.

His tongue slides between your lips, rolling slowly with yours as your fingers thread through his hair, his hips rocking into you with a practiced sway, rutting against your clothed clit, making your thighs fall open.

“Been waitin’ for this forever,” he mutters into the kiss, his forehead dropping against yours when he breaks the kiss, looking at the space between you as his dick grinds over the purple lace between your thighs.

“Please,” you whisper, and his eyes lift to yours.

“Teasin’ me all afternoon?” he chuckles, pulling back, his body sliding lower on the mattress. “Think you don’t deserve a little teasing too?” His lips travel over your chest and stomach, pressing softly below your navel as his thumb traces over the lace panties along your slit.

He works lower, lips teasing the insides of your thighs as he kisses down your legs, stripping off your boots before he lets them fall to your bedroom floor. His biceps and shoulder muscles swell as he dips down again, the stubble on his jaw grazing your soft skin.

“Logan,” you pout, and he chuckles between your thighs, the warmth of his laugh making your legs draw in, but he spreads them apart again, those rough hands you couldn’t keep your eyes off earlier pressing your thighs into the mattress.

“Tell me you didn’t wear that little skirt just to torment me?” he hums, his mouth dipping down so his teeth can catch along the lace, dragging it down your thighs. “A wet, white tank top… How?” he asks as he tugs the lace the rest of the way down your legs before he bunches it up in his fist, tossing it to the side. “How was I not supposed to end up right… fucking… here…?” he asks, his breath blowing warm against your clit.

“I’m gonna take good care of you,” he murmurs, the words making your thighs tremble. Your hips lift off the mattress when his tongue drags up your center, a moan falling from your lips and filling your bedroom as his groan vibrates between your thighs at the taste.

Logan smiles, pressing your legs wider into the mattress, kissing your clit and making your back arch off the mattress as your hands fly to his hair, holding him close.

His rough fingers trace up your legs as his tongue circles your puffy clit, sucking against it as two thick fingers shove through your entrance.

Your eyes roll back in your head as he works his fingers in and out, curving them to hit that spot that has your thighs shaking with every push of his hand and flick of his tongue.

“C’mon, baby,” he mumbles into your pussy, adding a third finger, stretching you out as he feels you tightening around his digits, humming against your clit as he tastes your sweetness on his tongue and you break, fluttering around his fingers as his name leaves your lips in a breathy cry.

He watches you from between your thighs, working you through each wave of your orgasm until you’re gasping and whimpering in overstimulation, your hands tangling in his hair to drag him up to your lips.

“Proud of you,” he mumbles between kisses as you try desperately to catch your breath, the two of you smiling into your kiss when he rubs the thick head of his cock between your thighs, catching the wet mess he’d left pooling between your legs.

“Fuck, you drive me insane,” you whisper, feeling him rub his tip against your entrance.

“Yeah?” he asks, pressing just enough for your lips to fall open. His mouth curls against yours, feeling how desperate you are. “How was it?”

“So fucking good,” you whisper as your hands wrap around his body, nails sliding down his strong back.

“What about this?” he asks, feeling your hips lift off the mattress, making him sink deeper into your pussy as you grind up to fuck yourself on the first few inches.

“Keep teasing me, Logan. See what happens,” you smile, and he laughs.

“Still picking you up at six tomorrow,” he manages to push out, the muscle in his stomach tightening with how good you feel around him.

“Can’t wait,” you breathe, your eyes flicking up to him.

“I’ll drop you off and you can drag me back inside and we can do this shit again, huh?” he asks as you reach up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down to your lips. You catch Logan’s deep moan as he presses your hips down into the mattress, pushing in, stretching you wide.

“Yes, s-shit,” the words whimper past your lips as you cradle his sharp jaw in your hand, peering down to watch his hips draw back, the length of his cock pulling back slowly just to drive back in.

“Feels so good,” he groans against your mouth, pushing in and out. “Taking me so good,” he breathes, his forehead resting against yours to watch as his toned hips strike your skin again and again.

“Fuck, baby. That’s it,” he praises as you lift your legs, hands squeezing the back of your thighs, a loud moan falling from your mouth as his pace quickens, thrusting harder, in and out.

He leans into you a little, the position letting him fuck into you impossibly deep, his eyes rolling back into his head as your bottom lip slips between your teeth, your hands twisting the sheets below.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper, and he nods like he knows what you need, changing the angle just enough to fuck into you as his fingers rub and circle your clit.

“Fuck, John,” you whine, your back arching off the mattress as he rocks into you further, swirling his fingers over your clit when his lips find yours.

“Cum for me, baby,” he breathes. “Cum on my cock—”

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into you as your body falls apart around him, your pussy squeezing him so tight he buries himself in your neck, grinding his teeth with the effort, moaning against your skin as he fills you with his climax too, his hips stuttering as your body softens around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he sighs into the crook of your neck as you giggle blissfully, your fingers slipping and threading into his hair. He stays like that for a moment, breathing and nuzzling into your neck, taking in the scent of your sweet perfume as he presses gentle kisses up to your ear. “I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”

“Dislocated shoulder, broken clavicle, and a mild concussion. Surgery went well, though. The orthopedic surgeon’s happy with everything, so now it’s mostly just recovery.”

She flips through the chart tucked beneath her arm before adding almost as an afterthought, “He came out of surgery a little while ago, so he’s still pretty groggy. Between the anesthesia, the pain medication, and the concussion, he may not make a whole lot of sense for a little while.”

You nod absentmindedly, though you’re hardly listening anymore. Your thoughts are somewhere else entirely, drifting back over the last couple of weeks whether you want them to or not.

There hadn’t been one big betrayal. Just enough little ones that, eventually, they all started to feel like one.

A semester-long group project with a girl who never seemed to leave his side. A few too many study sessions that stretched late into the evening. A ride home after class. Friends mentioning they’d seen them grabbing coffee together.

Then there was Dean and Beau’s birthday party, where she’d shown up in bunny ears and a Briar hockey jersey Garrett had lent her.

When you cocked an eyebrow at him as she walked into the party, he’d brushed it off, saying she’d needed something for the costume, but everyone knew what it looked like when a girl walked into a party wearing a hockey player’s jersey.

It wasn’t just something she’d borrowed. It looked like a claim, and judging by the way she kept angling herself to show off the number on her back and the last name on her shoulders, you knew she knew that too.

The second you left Garrett’s side to run to the bathroom, she pulled the rest of their marketing group together and suggested a picture, leaning into Garrett with one hand against his chest while Garrett hooked an arm around her waist.

By the time you came back, the picture had already been taken, posted, and buried inside a photo dump beneath a caption about everyone’s favorite bunny. You didn’t even know it existed until your best friend sent you a screenshot twenty minutes later with one message underneath it.

Wtf? Did you and Garrett break up?

The nurse studies you for a second before offering another small smile, one that almost looks like she’s debating whether she should warn you about something. “I should probably mention…” She lets out the tiniest laugh, shaking her head. “His teammates have been here almost the entire night. They’re a lively group.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “And there’s another young woman in the room who’s been…very determined to stay by his side.”

Your chest tightens before you can stop it, though you keep your expression carefully neutral. The nurse catches it anyway. “For what it’s worth,” she says quietly as the two of you stop outside a closed hospital room door, “she wasn’t the person listed when we asked who to call.”

She eases the door open before stepping aside. The room is larger than you’d expected, though it somehow still feels crowded.

And just as the nurse mentioned, the boys are there. Logan is sitting in a chair, one ankle crossed over his knee as he works his way through a family-sized bag of Doritos.

Beside him, Tucker is completely folded over an iPad, tapping the screen with the concentration of a twelve-year-old who’d been told he had five more minutes before bedtime. He jabs Dean in the side, trying to show whatever's happening on his screen.

Dean waves him off without tearing his attention away from the stunning nurse standing beside Garrett’s bed. “So…” Dean says smoothly, tilting closer. “Hypothetically speaking, if someone wanted to thank the nurse who saved his best friend’s life…” His grin grows when she doesn’t immediately tell him to get lost. “You free for dinner next week?”

She laughs without looking up from Garrett’s hospital bracelet, giving him a fresh round of fluids and pain meds.

Your attention drifts past them before settling on the bed. Garrett Graham. His left arm is tucked securely into an immobilizer across his chest, thick white bandages disappearing beneath the collar of the pale blue hospital gown hanging loosely from his broad shoulders.

A dark bruise has already started spreading along the sharp line of his jaw, another peeking out beneath the curls flattened awkwardly against one side of his head from hours spent unconscious. His lips are dry, cheeks faintly flushed, and even from the doorway you can tell he’s struggling to stay awake.

Then your eyes slide to the other side of the bed and there she is, the girl from Garrett’s marketing class, perched on the edge of the mattress like she belongs there. Garrett, meanwhile, has somehow managed to scoot himself nearly to the opposite edge.

His body is angled as far away from her as physically possible without rolling straight onto the floor, shoulder pressed awkwardly against the raised guardrail.

His heavy eyelids lift, and when he spots you across the room, the corners of his mouth pull into the softest, dopiest smile you’ve ever seen. It isn’t forced or uncertain. If anything, it’s relief, like he’s been waiting for you to get there all night.

His shoulders loosen against the raised hospital bed, his head tipping lazily into the pillow as though the simple act of seeing you has convinced his body it can finally relax. “…There’s my wife.”

The boys start to lose it while the nurse presses her lips tightly together, lowering her clipboard as she bites the inside of her cheek, her shoulders betraying her anyway when they begin to shake with a laugh she’s very obviously trying not to let out.

“…Your wife?” Dean asks, already knowing exactly what he’s about to do.

Garrett blinks at him slowly, his eyebrows furrowing just enough to wrinkle the bandage stretched across his temple before his sleepy gaze drifts back to you again. “…Yeah?”

Garrett’s eyebrows pull together almost immediately, his sleepy smile slipping into a confused frown as he watches Dean laugh himself breathless. “No…” Garrett mumbles, shaking his head against the pillow. “Not my wife.”

“There you go, buddy,” Logan soothes, tapping his hand against the white blanket covering Garrett, leaving orange fingerprints in his wake.

Garrett nods once, satisfied again. “My girlfriend.”

Logan drops his forehead into his hand while another laugh escapes him, Tucker simply closing his eyes like he’d reached the point in the night where nothing could surprise him anymore. Even the nurse gives up trying to look professional, turning toward Garrett’s chart so she can hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“What?” Garrett asks, his words still thick with anesthesia. “She is.”

Dean winces dramatically. “Ooh, buddy…” He rubs the back of his neck before looking back at him. “I hate to be the one to tell you this…”

“Huh?” Garrett’s attention snaps right back to him.

“…She ain’t that either.”

The color drains from Garrett’s face and his mouth falls open.

“…What?”

Logan pushes himself out of the plastic chair beside the window without saying a word. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he says softly, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze as he guides you toward the empty seat. “You don’t need to stand over there.”

Garrett doesn’t look away from you as Logan helps you into the chair beside the bed, panic beginning to replace the sleepy haze clouding his expression.

“…Baby?” His voice is smaller now. “What do you mean?”

He tips his head toward Dean, clearly attempting to keep the conversation between the two of them. It would’ve worked a lot better if he wasn’t speaking at his normal volume.

“What do you mean she’s not my girlfriend?”

As far as he’s concerned, you still belong right there beside him, your hand in his. Nothing else makes sense.

“If he’s awake now,” you ask quietly, glancing toward the nurse, “am I actually needed anymore?”

“—Yes,” Garrett answers quickly.

“Technically? No,” the nurse corrects him gently. “He’s doing well. You’re more than welcome to stay if you’d like, but you’re free to head home.”

You nod once, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse.

“Don’t go,” Garrett mumbles.

His brows pull together as he slowly looks around the room, his good hand lifting off the blanket as he begins pointing from person to person. “One…” His finger lands on you. “Two…” He points toward Dean. “Three…” Tucker. “Four…” Logan. Then his finger circles back toward himself. “…Five.”

He blinks once before his gaze drifts across the bed toward Cami.

“…Six.”

His sleepy eyes settle back on the nurse. “Maximum capacity’s probably five, right?”

The nurse presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Okay.” He points toward Cami with complete sincerity. “Then she can go.”

Cami’s eyebrows shoot up, her head snapping toward the boys when she hears some snickering across the room.

“Fine. I’ll scoot over,” Garrett says, shifting the centimeter that remains between him and the guardrail. “My girl stays.”

Logan looks at the microscopic amount of space Garrett just created before looking back at you. “Enjoy your extra inch, sweetheart.”

“I can try harder,” Garrett assures.

And for the first time since you walked through the door, the laughter begins to fade. Because underneath the anesthesia, he’s completely and utterly devastated by the fact that he lost you.

A knock sounds against the side of the already open door before a man in navy scrubs steps inside, flipping through the pages of Garrett’s chart.

“Hey,” the doctor says warmly when he spots you. “She’s here. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Dr. Reynolds,” he introduces with an easy smile, completely oblivious to the fact that the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

You slip your hand back into the pocket of your sweatshirt, refusing to look anywhere near the other side of Garrett’s bed where the girl still lingers, arms folded now, her smile disappearing a little more every minute.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quietly.

Dr. Reynolds nods once before turning back toward Garrett, flipping another page in the chart.

“Well,” he says, “your surgery went exactly how we hoped. Shoulder’s stable, clavicle’s repaired, concussion symptoms are mild so far. You’re going to be sore for a while, but everything looks great.”

Garrett isn’t listening. He’s still watching you, and the doctor notices, letting out a low laugh before he sighs. “I’ve got to tell you… You must be pretty special. He has asked for you… What?” He glances over at his teammates. “…I think eleven times since he woke up.”

“Mhmm,” the nurse confirms too. “Every few minutes he’s like ‘Where’s my girl?’ ‘Did she get here yet?’ ‘Call my girl.’”

“…Garrett,” you sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he pouts. “I wanted to make you jealous. I just…” He swallows thickly. “I just wanted you to look at me again.”

Dean buries his face in his hands while Tucker bites the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh.

“I just…I just want my girlfriend back.”

Across the bed, the girl shifts uncomfortably where she’d been perched on the mattress all evening, her shoulders drawing in as she looks toward Garrett, silently willing him to stop talking.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Dean reminds him.

“…I don’t like that.”

“Garrett?” Cami’s voice comes out much smaller than it had before. His attention drifts toward her for the first time in what feels like forever, his heavy eyelids lifting just enough to acknowledge she’d spoken.

“Hi.”

“Last week, you told me you were over her,” she says. “Was that a lie?”

“For the love of god, Graham. Plead the fifth,” Logan murmurs with a mouth full of chips.

“I lied.”

The girl’s face drains of what little color it had left. His brows pinch together as his concussed, medication-clouded brain slowly catches up with the words that had just come out of his mouth.

His eyes drift toward the ceiling for a second before he lets out the tiniest, most disappointed sigh. “Probably shouldn’t’ve said that. But…” His voice is quieter now, almost sleepy. “It wasn’t gonna work anyway. That’s my wife—my girlfrie—no. Holy fuckin’ shit…” He gestures toward you helplessly. “She just…she owns me, okay? And I love it. I love that shit so much.” His eyes drift back to you, soft and unfocused. “She’s everything.”

“Dude,” Dean sighs through a chuckle, shaking his head. Tucker bites the side of his cheek to keep his laughter at bay as Logan runs a hand down his face in exhaustion.

“…Can you blame me?” Garrett gestures toward you. “Look at her. She’s… perfect.” He yawns and trails off, his lashes lowering as he drifts toward sleep. “So pretty.”

“Hey, G. We get it, buddy,” Logan says.

“Like…” He slurs, fighting sleep, “…A princess.”

Cami looks around the room like she’s waiting for someone to stop him, someone to tell everybody this is just the medication talking. Nobody does.

Garrett’s attention drifts past her, settling on you, that same tired, lovesick smile he’d been wearing since you’d walked through the door.

Cami lets out a slow breath before pushing herself off the edge of the mattress, smoothing both hands down the front of her sweater. “Well…” she says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I guess I’ll get out of everyone’s way.”

Click. Click. Click.

Her heeled boots tap against the old linoleum floor.

“Is she gone yet?” Garrett slurs, lifting one eye just enough to peek out of before slamming it shut.

“I’ll see you around,” she says to you with a careless shrug. “I’m sure it won’t be long.”

You don’t answer. You simply meet her eyes, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. She adjusts the strap of her purse higher onto her shoulder, her smile turning just a little sharper.

“So when you two break up next time, tell him not to lose my number, bitch.”

The words barely leave her mouth before Dean pushes himself out of the chair.

“Alright,” he says, his big arms folding across him as he steps between the two of you just enough to break her line of sight. “You can be upset. Nobody’s gonna blame you for that. But you don’t get to take it out on her.”

Cami scoffs and rolls her eyes, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” Tucker interrupts evenly as he locks the iPad and tucks it beneath his arm. He doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t leave any room for an argument either.

“And you’re done,” Logan pipes in fast. “Nobody talks to her like that. Leave.”

“Seriously?” she snips, looking around the room before her eyes rest on Dean’s.

Dean takes one slow step forward, his expression never changing. “You made your point. Time to go.”

“—Whatever.”

Her hand settles on the curtain, yanking it back dramatically enough that the little metal rings clatter—loud enough to startle Garrett awake, breathing sharply through his nose as he looks around the room in complete confusion.

“…What happened?” Garrett mumbles.

Dean glances over at you for a second, watching the way you sit at the edge of your chair, watching your eyes widen when he wakes up. Even though the two of you are over, the panic that catches in your chest when Garrett wakes makes it painfully clear that some part of you still belongs to him.

The nurse told you you could leave. You still hadn’t left. You hadn’t smiled much. Sure. But you’d answered the hospital’s phone call. You’d driven over. You were still sitting in his room hours later, despite every opportunity to walk back out that door.

“Alright,” Dean says casually, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “I’m gonna go find coffee before I fall asleep.” He nods to the boys to follow along. “Figured we’d give you two a little break from the crunching of chips and Fruit Ninja—”

“I’m not playing Fruit Ninja,” Tucker mutters, still looking down at the iPad. “It’s Overcooked. And, if anyone should leave, it’s you—whoring yourself out to any nurse that walks in here.”

“Rude.” Dean chuckles, even though Tucker isn’t wrong.

A quiet laugh slips through the room, the tension finally beginning to unwind. You look down at your phone for something to do, trying not to think about the fact that you’re finally alone with him, when a soft rustling sound pulls your attention back toward the bed.

Garrett’s watching you still, his good hand lazily patting the empty space beside him when he finally catches your eye. “C’mere.”

You shake your head and roll your eyes. “No.”

“Please.” Garrett’s voice cracks a little, his throat still raw from the tube they’d used during surgery.

“Garrett…”

“Baby, c’mon,” he whispers.

You shake your head, already losing the battle with yourself as you stand from the chair and make your way over to him. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” you warn, carefully settling onto the edge of the mattress without jostling his shoulder. “And it definitely doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”

Garrett nods along with every word like he agrees completely, the sleepiest smile spreading across his face. He waits until you’ve finally settled beside him before his good arm finds your waist, his fingers bunching lightly in your sweatshirt as he draws you as close as you’ll let him.

“I’m just happy you’re here.”

You glance over at him after a few minutes, watching him shift carefully against the mattress, a quiet breath hissing through his teeth as another ache settles into his shoulder, and for the first time all night he actually looks tired instead of simply high.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

Garrett nods and winces, carefully adjusting his arm in the immobilizer. “It hurts a little more now.”

“The medicine’s wearing off?” you ask, and he nods, his heavy head moving a little slower. “Let me go get your nurse to tell her, okay?”

You can see the worry gathering in his glassy eyes, his lashes lifting a little higher as panic begins to creep back into his expression. “Promise you’ll come back?”

“I promise,” you whisper, lifting a hand to push his flattened curls away from his face. “I still smell like hockey, m’sorry,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch.

You chuckle breathily, making the corners of his mouth tilt into a small smile. “It’s okay.”

“If no one's out there, just come back,” he pleads softly.

You peek around the curtain, catch the nurse’s eye, and quietly ask whether Garrett can have more pain medication.

You walk over to the hospital chair and grab your purse and he calls out for you quickly. “You said you’d stay. Don’t go—”

“Just getting you some chapstick, baby,” you sigh.

The word hangs between the two of you for a second longer than either of you expects.

Baby.

You’d said it without thinking, the pet name slipping free before you had a chance to stop it, and judging by the way Garrett’s eyes soften almost immediately, he’d caught it too.

“What?” you ask quietly, already knowing.

“Nothin’,” he hums, smiling so hard it makes his cheeks hurt. “I just…” He tilts his head into the pillow, the movement ending in a quiet wince before he looks back at you. “Missed hearin’ you call me that.”

He taps on the bed, impatiently waiting for you to come back.

You walk back to the bed and settle carefully on top of the blanket, cupping his sharp jaw in your hand. The lip balm glides across his pouty lips—his head leaning into your hand for a moment, his dark lashes skimming his cheeks.

Your body responds before you can stop yourself, your lips pressing softly against the corner of his mouth. His body melts farther into the mattress as a little sigh of relief passes his lips.

“Sorry,” he murmurs as a tear slides down his cheek. “For everything.” Your thumb brushes it away as you look back into his half-lidded eyes, more tears gathering along his lashes.

You rest the chapstick on the cool metal nightstand. Your hand rests on the bed in between you, and the second your palm hits that crisp cotton his fingers lace in yours.

“I missed you,” he admits. “I missed you every day.”

You keep your eyes on your hands, watching his rough thumb move over your knuckles.

“I’d wake up and reach for my phone without even thinking.” Garrett lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “I’d think, I gotta tell her this, and then…” His smile falters. “I’d remember I wasn’t allowed to anymore.”

He stares down at your joined hands for a long moment, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles.

“I kept hoping you’d answer one of my calls.” He shrugs carefully with his good shoulder before immediately wincing. “Or open the door when I came over. Anything.” Another quiet laugh slips out, this one sounding more defeated than amused. “I would’ve taken anything.”

He finally looks up at you. “I just wanted you to notice me—to want me in your life.” He swallows hard. “Instead, I gave you another reason to walk away.”

Another tear slips free before he can stop it, disappearing into the pillow beneath his cheek. “I’ll do anything,” he says, his voice breaking as his eyelids lift and fall against sleep. “Just give me another chance, please. I love you—”

The last word trails off as exhaustion takes over, a soft snore slipping from him when his cheek settles deeper into the pillow.

You move a little closer, sharing his pillow, brushing away a stray curl before you kiss him softly on his forehead. Your body melts into the bed next to him, and though it’s neither his bed nor yours, it feels a lot like home.

Your eyes fall closed, and every thought about what might happen when you wake drifts away.

Garrett lets out a quiet breath through his teeth as he carefully tries to adjust himself against the mattress, the movement small enough that he clearly isn’t trying to wake you, but enough that the bed shifts beneath your weight.

Your eyes blink open, taking a second to adjust to the darkness before they settle on him.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers the moment he realizes you’re awake.

“Hey.” Your voice is soft with sleep. “How’re you feeling?”

Garrett looks down at the blanket covering the two of you, clearly weighing his answer. If he admits he feels better, will you decide it’s finally safe to leave?

“A little better,” he says under his breath.

“Better?” You study him carefully.

“Just a little…not enough for you to leave,” he admits, his voice soft and sheepish.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he looks away, rubbing his thumb across the back of your hand where your fingers are still intertwined hours later.

“You remember anything?” You watch his expression change.

“I remember more than I wish I did,” he admits with a tired laugh. “I remember calling you my wife…” His gaze finds yours again. “…And I remember asking you not to leave.”

You wait patiently, giving him room to keep talking. Garrett’s smile slowly fades, replaced by something much more earnest.

“And I remember telling you I still love you.”

He doesn’t rush to explain himself or blame the medication. Instead, he simply watches you.

“I know I don’t deserve another chance just because I finally got my head out of my ass. Trust isn’t something I get back overnight.”

You look down at your joined hands for a moment before lifting your gaze back to him.

“I never cheated on you, I swear on my life. Did I let her get too comfortable around me? Yeah. I would’ve lost my shit if the roles were reversed.”

Garrett glances toward the TV glowing in the dark, his eyes shimmering again with tears. He swallows hard, trying to get on top of his emotion, but he’s in too deep.

“I texted you, I called, I brought flowers, I showed up at your apartment more than once hoping you’d answer the door.” He lets out a shaky sigh. “Every day I kept thinking maybe today’s the day she’ll finally talk to me.”

He drags the back of his hand beneath his eyes, wiping at the tears clumsily.

“When none of it worked, I got desperate. I didn’t want to hurt you—I just wanted something. Anything. I thought if I could make you mad enough, maybe you’d yell at me. Maybe you’d tell me I was an idiot. Maybe we’d finally have a conversation I could apologize in.”

You let him talk, saying nothing. Because just like the little things had slowly chipped away at your trust, the apologies, the flowers, the unanswered calls, and now the quiet honesty spilling out of him were beginning to chip away at the walls you’d spent weeks trying to build.

“I don’t deserve a second chance. The fact that you’re here… I don’t even deserve that.”

Garrett studies your face carefully, searching for something in your expression.

“You didn’t ask her to come here tonight—”

“No,” he cuts in, answering fast and certain. “I came in here a mess before they gave me anything, and when the nurse asked who they should call, I couldn’t answer fast enough. I swear, baby. I didn’t ask her to come.”

His brows pinch together. “I don’t know how she got this far—” He trails off, blinking at you. “…What are we talking about?”

“Cami.”

“Cami?” he mumbles.

“Cami,” you answer quietly. “Marketing partner Cami. The one with the high heels and bunny ears… who wore your jersey.”

His eyes squeeze shut. “…Jesus Christ.” The words leave him on a long breath as his head sinks back into the pillow. “That was so fucking bad.” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

His gaze finds yours again, hazy with exhaustion.

“We never even kissed.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay, what, baby?” he asks sweetly, his concussion doing a number on his short-term memory.

“I understand, Gare. Don’t worry,” you say through a soft laugh, his attention still fixed on you.

After another moment, the corner of his mouth lifts again.

“If I tell you that I’m still kinda fucked up…”

You already know exactly where he’s going with it, and your eyes roll away before he even finishes.

“…Will you stay?”

A quiet laugh slips past your lips as you look back at him. “Garrett Graham. It’s three in the morning.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been here since yesterday,” you answer.

“I know.”

“I fell asleep in a hospital bed that has a maximum capacity of one large hockey man because you wouldn’t stop patting the mattress.”

“You did,” he hums, glancing down the length of the cramped hospital bed toward your tangled legs.

“And you’re absolutely still fucked up.”

“You think so?” he asks, trying not to chuckle.

“I’m staying,” you whisper, your thumb lingering against his skin. “You make it really hard to stay mad at you.”

“That’s great news for me.” His arm tightens around your waist when your smile grows. “So pretty,” he whispers.

“Like a princess,” you finish for him, and he laughs.

“Don’t let me wake up,” he murmurs with a shaky laugh. “‘Cause if this is some lucid dream, I’m gonna cry like a fuckin’ baby.”

“And I love you too.” You lace your fingers more firmly through his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“You do?” he asks softly, tilting his head as close as he can get toward you.

“Mhmm,” you hum against his lips.

“Thank you, baby.”

Any broken links removed. If you don't see your n a me please lmk! ♥️

I haven’t stopped thinking about New York.

This feels different.

You’d spent years imagining what it might feel like to hear Dean Di Laurentis confess his feelings to you. You just never imagined you’d be the one he practiced them on before saying them to somebody else.

You weren’t jealous of Allie. You were jealous of the version of Dean she’d gotten to meet.

You didn’t want her life. You wanted the words he’d chosen for it.

The worst part was that the words sounded just as beautiful as you’d always imagined, but they weren’t yours. They were Allie’s.

“I get it now. You love love.” Dean smiles as he admits it, watching her closely. Allie stands almost perfectly still in front of him, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag before loosening again.

She glances up at him, biting her cheek, her eyes going wide before they dart away. He mistakes the color rising into her cheeks for something sweet—like maybe he finally understands what she’d been trying to tell him all along.

“That’s what you said you wanted, right? That night at the fire pit.”

He moves closer to her, the confidence he’d carried out of the house still holding despite his nerves. His hand rests on her hip and her shoulders turn away slightly.

“So, I came here to tell you that, uh… I didn’t complete the assignment.”

“What?” she asks, her expression changing so quickly he nearly misses it. Her lips part, but nothing comes. There aren’t any words that make this better, not when Dean matters to her and she already knows this is going to break his heart.

He sees the confusion but not the panic underneath it. Even now, with her staring at him like he’s said something impossible, he only thinks he’s caught her off guard.

“Why?” Her voice breaks around the word, her head tilting as she tries her best not to cry.

“Because I like you. I like us,” he answers surely, his thumb rubbing absently against her skin. “I know that’s not what we said, but I was hoping—”

“Hey, no, Dean. You can’t,” she blurts as he steps so close she can feel the warmth of his body, the smell of his cologne amplified with the heat of his anxiety.

Her hand comes up slightly between them, but Dean’s too caught up in the rush of finally saying it to notice how rigid her shoulders have become.

He thinks she’s scared. He is too, and somehow that only makes him more certain they’re standing in the same place. Both of them nervous. Both of them trying to figure out what comes after the agreement they’d made. His eyebrows lift as he looks down at her, the confidence returning to his voice before he says, “And yet, I am.”

Allie blinks up at him, her tears balancing on her waterline as the bar rages around them.

But she’s silent.

Dean feels a wave of unease, his eyes drifting around the bar as he realizes just how many people are there, everything closing in a little tighter.

“No, I mean, like, you have to complete the assignment,” Allie whispers, her voice barely carrying over the music. She draws in a shaky breath before finally forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Because—”

“Because why?” he asks quietly, his eyebrows pulling together.

His heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat. He’d been terrified she would laugh it off. Terrified he’d stumble over the speech he’d practiced with you. You had cried. You’d called it beautiful. You’d told him to tell her. Somehow, being here now, he realizes there had been one outcome he never once prepared himself for.

She nods once, looking sick to her stomach. “Because I did. I swear, it didn’t mean anything. I—Joanna set me up with this guy, like a total stranger at a bar.”

He stares at her, waiting for her to say there was more to it—that she hadn’t wanted to, that it didn’t matter, that she’d stopped before anything happened.

“You…” His voice comes out quieter than he means it to. “You actually did it?”

“I’m sorry.” The words barely leave her mouth before fresh tears gather in her eyes.

Nothing else comes. She doesn’t take it back. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t tell him she misspoke.

Every sound in the bar swells until it becomes one unbearable roar. Somebody bumps his shoulder walking past, muttering an apology he doesn’t hear. A loud bark of laughter cuts clean through the noise.

Dean glances over his shoulder, watching as Hunter steps through the front door, eyes drifting across the room.

Hunter finds Allie almost immediately, a smile tipping at the corner of his mouth as he nods in her direction. The look of someone who’s on the receiving end of an assignment she completed.

Hunter’s smile falters for only a second as his eyes finally land on Dean standing beside her.

They’d spent years trying to get under each other’s skin. Dean sees it the moment it clicks. Hunter understands why Dean’s standing beside her. He doesn’t know the whole story, but the smile curling on his lips tells Dean Hunter’s enjoying every second of it.

Dean turns back to Allie, meeting her gaze. He doesn’t even need to ask—but he needs to hear it.

“Him?”

“No,” she croaks, eyes pinching shut as she shakes her head. “Yes—do you know him?”

And for the first time all night, Dean takes a step back, then another. His hand reaches up, raking through his hair as every sound around him crashes together like a freight train. The rose-colored glasses he’d walked in wearing had been ripped clean off, and all he could see now was red.

His skin crawls with the thought of it, heartbreak clawing at the back of his throat as his stomach sinks. How could he be so stupid? How could he possibly think either one of them would come out unscathed?

Maybe it’s because he never thought it would end like this when he agreed…

Maybe he thought the only person she could see herself with was him. He’d never even been the only option. And it broke his heart because he’d been the only one falling in love.

I like us. Not enough…

I haven’t stopped thinking about New York. I have.

This feels different. And it still isn’t enough.

None of this mattered.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Allie whispers, taking one careful step toward him before stopping herself. “Dean…”

Dean doesn’t even look at her. His jaw flexes hard enough to ache as he turns away, forcing the people lingering nearby to shuffle out of his way.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Dean asks, grabbing onto the anger before the sadness can split him open in front of everyone as he turns to Davenport.

“I heard your team needs saving,” Hunter says, taking a beer from the bartender’s hand.

He takes a slow drink without taking his eyes off Dean, leaning his body against the edge of the bar like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Yeah?” Dean laughs bitterly. “Get the fuck out.”

Hunter huffs out a laugh, the corner of his mouth pulling higher as he sets his beer back down. Dean can see Garrett and Tucker already closing in.

“Hey,” Hunter scoffs, putting his hands up in surrender, his demeanor anything but. “Logan said this was your idea—”

Dean doesn’t answer him. His eyes drift past Hunter instead, landing on Garrett standing a few feet away, confusion written all over his face.

“You weren’t there. Logan had to make a call,” Garrett mumbles.

“I’m not skating with this prick.” Dean squares up to him, stepping closer as Hunter studies him. A crooked grin spreads across his face. Neither one of them looks away.

“Aww. What, are you scared I’m gonna dust your ass again?” Hunter closes the distance until they’re nearly chest to chest.

“You wanna try?” Dean asks, shoving Hunter backward with both hands.

Hunter plants his feet, catches himself, then steps right back into Dean’s space. “Yeah? Yeah, I do.”

Dean grabs the front of Hunter’s shirt, hauling him close enough that their foreheads nearly touch. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

“Get the fuck out of my face,” Hunter shoots back.

Dean buries both hands in Hunter’s shirt, shoving him hard enough that he crashes into a high-top table. Glasses shatter and beer spills, the crowd parting as he surges forward, driving both palms into Dean’s chest.

Dean stumbles backward into the bar rail, his lower back slamming into polished wood. His fist connects with Hunter’s jaw almost on instinct, snapping his head sideways before Hunter answers with one of his own that catches Dean beneath the eye.

The two of them crash sideways into another cluster of people, chairs scraping violently across the floor as somebody dives out of the way.

Hunter lands a punch deep into his ribs that drives the air straight out of his lungs. Dean grabs onto him as he folds, dragging Hunter down until both of them hit the sticky hardwood in a tangled heap.

Hunter’s elbow catches the corner of Dean’s mouth—his lip splitting, blood flooding his mouth.

“Dean!” Garrett shouts. “Break it up!”

People reach for both of them from every direction, but neither man lets go. Dean tears free long enough to throw another punch that lands against Hunter’s ribs before Hunter answers with one across Dean’s cheekbone, his vision blurring again as people shout over one another.

Beau finally hooks both arms around Dean from behind, hauling him backward across the beer-slick floor while Garrett and Tucker wrestle Hunter the opposite direction. Dean strains against Beau’s grip anyway, shoes scraping against the bar floor as blood drips steadily from the corner of his mouth onto the front of his shirt.

“Enough!” Garrett barks into the space between, breathing hard himself.

Dean glances back, and Allie’s standing exactly where he left her, crying hard enough she has to cover her mouth. He tears himself out of Beau’s grip and storms toward the front door without another word.

“…Hey.”

Your stomach twists. You hadn’t even considered somebody else might still be here.

Logan’s leaning against the kitchen counter, dressed for the bar, absentmindedly eating a bowl of cereal. His eyes squint, taking a better look at you through the dark house, before his expression immediately changes.

Logan lowers the spoon back into the bowl, his eyebrows pulling together as he straightens away from the counter. “Hey, sweetheart…” he says carefully, his gaze moving over your face for less than a second before all the color drains from his own. “What’s wrong?”

You pull your bag a little closer against your side as you force yourself to look anywhere but at him, swallowing hard around the lump already sitting in your throat.

You open your mouth, fully intending to tell him you’re fine, but the words refuse to come, leaving you standing there in complete silence while another tear slips free despite your best efforts.

Logan sets the bowl down without taking another bite. “Hey,” he says again, this time much softer as he walks around the counter toward you. “C’mere.”

You suck in one sharp breath, another tear sliding down your cheek before you can stop it. You shake your head, blinking hard as you try to pull yourself back together.

“I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.”

He reaches for you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as carefully as if he thinks you might fall apart in his hands, and for the first time since Dean walked out that front door, you let yourself cry.

The front of his t-shirt grows damp beneath your face while one of his hands rubs slow circles across your back, his other resting gently against the back of your head.

You don’t remember the last time someone held you while you cried. Dean never had to. He’d always made sure you laughed before it got this bad.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs quietly. “I’ve got you.”

The cool night air hits Dean like a slap the second he shoves through the front doors.

His shoes pound against the sidewalk as he puts as much distance between himself and Allie as he can, dragging the back of his hand across his split lip.

Every breath stings his ribs—his left eye’s already swelling shut—but none of it hurts as much as the pressure sitting in the middle of his chest.

“Dean!” He doesn’t look back as he hears her voice. “Dean, wait!”

Allie hurries after him, weaving around the crowd standing outside Malone’s. She reaches for his arm, fingers barely brushing the sleeve of his jacket before he jerks away so fast it startles both of them.

He shakes his head, breathing hard through his nose. “Don’t.”

Her hand falls back to her side as she searches his face, tears continuing to roll down her cheeks. If she’d reached for him five minutes earlier, he would’ve melted into it.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine. Go back inside,” he huffs, turning back around to walk away.

He only makes it a few steps before she reaches for him again, her hand wrapping around his arm. “How is this fine, Dean? You’re not okay. We’re not okay—”

“We? We’re not okay?”

“Yes we—us, Dean.”

“Why are you acting like there’s a fuckin’ we here when you clearly… you—you just. Fuck! You weren’t supposed to say that,” Dean cuts her short, the words sounding almost childlike, leaving him mortified.

“…What?” she asks breathlessly, staring up at him.

“You weren’t supposed to say that.” His voice cracks this time. “I was supposed to come here.” He gestures back toward the bar with one bloody hand before letting it fall uselessly to his side. “I was supposed to tell you how I felt.”

“Dean…”

“You were supposed to tell me you felt the same way.” His breathing grows more uneven with every word, his chest rising sharply as he struggles to keep himself together. “You were supposed to tell me I’d been an idiot for waiting this long. We were supposed to laugh about that stupid fucking assignment. We were…”

His voice disappears completely. He swallows hard, looking away for a second before forcing himself to meet her eyes again.

“How do you not feel the same way? How, Allie? I don’t get it. And that's my issue to work through, not yours—”

“I never wanted this to happen.”

“Neither did I,” Dean whispers, his eyes glassy despite how hard he’s trying to keep himself together.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are.” He presses his lips together for a second, his jaw flexing as he tries to steady his breathing. “I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this now.”

He’d spent so long wondering how good it would feel when he finally told her how he felt that he’d never once thought about what came after she said no.

Allie’s eyes drift back to the cut beneath his eye, another thin line of blood working its way down his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

Dean reaches up, touching the corner of his mouth before looking at the blood on his fingertips, completely numb.

“It’s nothing.”

“Dean, it’s not nothing.” She fumbles through her purse until she finds a bar napkin, unfolding it with shaky hands as she steps closer again. “Just… hold still for one second.”

She barely gets close enough to lift her hand before Dean takes another step backward. “Please don’t.”

Dean holds her gaze for a moment before letting out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to the cracked sidewalk.

“Forget it.”

She says something else. He sees her lips move. Another apology, maybe. Another explanation. He doesn’t hear a word of it because the thoughts in his head are so, so much louder.

She never asked him to come tonight.

…Hunter was there.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly where Allie wanted him to be. His throat burns as he swallows hard, his vision blurring again.

The front doors of the bar burst open behind them, music spilling out onto the sidewalk along with a chorus of raised voices. Allie looks back toward the entrance as tears of frustration stream down her cheeks.

“Where is he?” Beau asks, already looking past her.

Allie whips around toward where Dean had been standing, but he’s gone. “He…” Her voice catches before she manages to finish. “I don’t know.”

“You really don’t wanna tell me?” Logan asks against the rim of his beer bottle before he takes a sip.

You shake your head almost immediately, your head resting heavy on his shoulder as you look out onto the empty street.

Logan nods like he’d expected that. He glances down at the porch beneath his feet for a second, tapping the toe of his boot lightly against the wood before looking toward you. “…Alright,” he says quietly. “Then don’t.”

You let out a long breath through your nose before quietly agreeing.

“Mind if I take a guess?” he asks gently.

Your fingers tighten around your sleeve until the fabric bunches in your fist.

You keep your eyes fixed in front of you, blinking quickly as another sting builds behind them, but you can’t quite bring yourself to answer, so you nod.

“It has something to do with Dean?”

Your chin trembles as you try your hardest to stay still, telling him everything he needs to know anyway.

“Mhmm,” he hums. “…Dean and Allie?” The names hang in the cool night air swirling around you.

You draw in another shaky breath, staring out at the emptiness for another second before the words finally leave you. “I just…” You swallow hard. “I don’t want to lose my best friend.”

Logan shifts toward you, pressing a kiss against your hair before he rests his chin on the top of your head. He draws in a deep breath, letting it out nice and slow.

“That’s not gonna happen,” he whispers.

You shrug helplessly, your voice barely rising above a whisper. “Everything changes when people fall in love.”

He chuckles breathily. “Nah… It’ll change some things,” he admits honestly. “Life always does.”

He turns toward you, brushing a tear away with his thumb.

“You’re not gonna lose Dean.”

His arm tightens around your shoulder, headlights sweeping briefly over the porch, and your heart plummets—the thought of Dean and Allie stumbling out of an Uber, laughing and kissing, tearing away at your last thread of sanity. The car disappears and you blow out a breath, nodding because Logan is waiting for some kind of response.

“You can talk to me, you know? It’s me.”

“How are you so sure?” you whisper.

Logan’s lip pouts a little, so slight you barely catch it out of the corner of your eye, when he hears just how broken you are. He takes another drink from his beer. “You two have been attached at the hip since freshman year. One girl isn’t gonna change that.”

“One girl,” you breathe, the words leaving your lips like you can’t believe he could possibly think that’s all she is—but he doesn’t know Dean like you know Dean.

Like Allie’s no different from the dozens of girls that have walked in and out of that door behind you. Like she isn’t the first one who made him nervous enough to ask for your help—caring enough to ask you for the first time if what he was offering someone else was enough. If he was enough.

Another car turns into the neighborhood and chills fall down your spine. “She’s not just some girl.”

The ring on his finger clinks against the bottle before he speaks. “I just mean Dean’s had people come and go before,” he continues. “You haven’t. He trusts you more than anybody. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you manage.

“And he’s always gonna need you.” Logan dips his head, trying to catch your eyes. “That idiot barely knows what he’s feeling until he talks it through with you first. You really think he’s gonna stop calling because he has a girlfriend?”

The word settles between your ribs, sharp and heavy.

“He talks about you constantly,” he adds. “Half the time somebody asks him a question, he starts with, ‘Well, she said—’ like we don’t already know who he means.”

You shake your head quickly, trying to get Logan to stop being so kind because each comforting word he offers to “Dean’s best friend” just pulls the woman who would do anything to mean what he means to her deeper underwater.

“Besides…” Logan huffs quietly, shaking his head. “They’ve been… whatever this is… for what? Five minutes?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you press the words past your lips.

“Exactly. I mean… they literally made a deal to hook up with other people.”

“No,” you whisper. “I mean—I just,” you stumble over your words, trying to put your misery into something coherent but it’s too fucking much. “I’m being stupid.”

“No, c’mon.” His hand slips from your shoulder, lifting to cup your cheek, turning you gently so you finally have to look at him.

His expression softens, his eyebrows pulling together with worry.

“If you think Allie’s gonna have some issue with you being close to him, she won’t,” Logan says, like it should be obvious. As though the possibility is so unreasonable it doesn’t require more than a sentence to dismiss.

“Okay,” you whisper, wanting the honesty to stop, hating how small your voice sounds.

“She knows you.” He gives you a confused little smile, like he can’t figure out how you’ve managed to scare yourself this badly over something so simple. “She knows what you and Dean are like.”

And how is that?

Your breath catches in your chest and your lashes flutter anxiously. A tiny part of you waits for him to say you’ve got it all wrong.

That Dean’s just taking the long way around. That one day he’ll realize he’s been looking at you all this time and finally understand why he could never let you go.

He doesn’t.

“You’re not competition, sweetheart.”

His expression softens when he says it, like he’s finally found the sentence that should make all of this better. The tears fill your eyes, blurring him so much that you can barely see.

“Thank you,” you whimper. You turn away from his touch, face crumpling before you can stop it, wiping away your tears with the heel of your hand.

“Hey.” Logan’s voice drops. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“No.” You shake your head, drawing in a trembling breath as you stand up, crossing your arms tight over your chest. “I appreciate it.”

“She’s not gonna want to take away somebody who’s like family to him.”

“You’re right,” you whisper.

“Hell, you’re probably gonna end up with one of us anyway,” Logan laughs quietly before shaking his head. “I mean…” His cheeks redden ever so slightly as he scratches the back of his neck. “We all love you.”

You barely hear the first part. The last three words only make the ache inside your chest that much harder to bear because you know exactly what kind of love he means.

You nod, forcing the corner of your mouth upward, tight and unsteady, but Logan’s shoulders lower slightly in relief when he sees it.

“I don’t need to go to the bar,” Logan mumbles. “You wanna come back inside? Watch a movie or somethin’?”

And be here when he comes home? You try to keep your expression from changing, terrified that the question is painted all over your face anyway.

“No, you should go.” Your voice cracks at the end, so you clear your throat. His eyes search yours, moving over your tear-streaked cheeks before he finally lets out a quiet breath. “Everybody’s probably wondering where you are—”

“They’ll survive,” Logan stops you, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees as he looks up at you.

Silence stretches between the two of you.

Finally, Logan pushes himself to his feet, studying your face as he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He watches you for another long moment, and for one awful second you think he can see straight through it. You think he’s going to pull you back into his arms and keep asking questions until the truth spills out of you, but his shoulders slowly loosen.

“Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

“And if you’re still upset, call me.” He reaches up, rubbing away a tear. “Don’t care what time it is, alright?”

Logan draws you into one last hug, and you let yourself sink into it as the pressure in your chest starts building again. “You’re not gonna lose him,” he whispers once more, pressing another kiss against the top of your head before giving you a final squeeze and letting you go.

He stays near the doorway, watching while you cross the yard, so you keep your shoulders straight and your steps steady. You even lift a hand when he reminds you to text him, pretending you can hold yourself together for another ten steps.

You make it out of sight before your hand flies over your mouth, a sob breaking through as the strap of your bag slips down your shoulder and you struggle to drag air into your lungs.

You were his best friend. His safe space. His family. Close enough to stay beside him through every part of the life he was about to build with someone else.

You weren’t going to lose him.

Dean was still going to choose you.

Just never the way you’d dreamed he would.

Dean runs until his lungs start burning.

His shoes hit the pavement as his heart pounds in his chest. He stumbles off the curb at the end of the block, catching himself before he goes down completely, his hands still trembling with adrenaline.

His phone vibrates against his thigh, but he doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t want to know if it’s Allie. He doesn’t want to hear Garrett asking where he went or Beau telling him to come back. He can’t go back.

He gasps for a breath, his split lip tearing open more as the cold air bites at his skin. He’s a little drunk, and he hates to admit it. Those beers he threw back to calm his nerves are catching up with him at the worst possible time.

His shoe catches against a raised crack in the sidewalk and he stumbles forward, one palm scraping hard against the concrete. His knee drops to the wet ground, and he stays there for a moment, head hanging between his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, shoving himself upright before his body can decide to stay down.

He makes it another block before the street opens in front of him, the familiar intersection finally slowing his feet.

His hands rake through his sweaty hair. He looks to the right, then the left toward the hockey house, before he glances back to where he wants to go.

Dean’s phone vibrates angrily in his pocket. He tugs it out, seeing a string of notifications, and a list of text messages stacked on top of each other. The latest one hits him like a gut punch.

Just talk to me please. Allie Hayes.

What if she comes looking for him? He doesn’t want to fold if she tells him she regrets what she did. He knows he will.

He doesn’t want to cry in front of her. He doesn’t want her to pity him while she patches him up after this stupid fuckin’ fight with Hunter. He doesn’t want to pretend it’s not shattering him while she tries to explain how it meant nothing.

He doesn’t want to fall asleep in sheets that smell like the two of them.

“I can’t fucking do it,” he whispers, because he knows the boys aren’t far behind. He doesn’t want Garrett or Beau. He doesn’t want Allie. He just wants you.

There’s nowhere else he goes.

He hopes you’re home.

You always know how to make things better.

But it’s gonna hurt. He can already picture the look on your face when he tells you he wasn’t enough. He can already hear your voice soften when he tells you Allie chose somebody else. He can already feel the way you’ll fit in his arms when you hug him and tell him he’s gonna be okay. He just wants to be okay…

He just wants to go home.

And so do you.

You keep your head down, not trusting yourself to look up if anyone passes by. Another tear falls, disappearing against the dark concrete before the next one follows.

Your sneakers scuff quietly against the sidewalk while you try not to think about what Dean’s doing or whether he’s already made it back to the house.

And, even though you don’t wanna know, you’re hyper aware of the phone weighing heavy in your pocket. A text from Dean—a social media update from Allie. Some public display of affection that will surely ruin you. But this limbo of knowing and not knowing what happened makes your stomach twist in knots.

What if you turned around right now? What if you went to Malone’s? Would that help? Maybe seeing them together would be the push you’d need to let that want go.

What’s a little more heartbreak?

You stop walking and in that moment you hear footsteps echo behind you. At first, you don’t think much of it. Briar’s campus is never completely empty, even this late, and somebody’s probably headed home just like you are.

You glance over your shoulder, the hair on the back of your neck standing straight as you catch a man walking toward you fast, too fast, so you move.

Your feet pound against the sidewalk as you look over your shoulder just as a pair of headlights rounds the corner.

For half a second, the headlights catch the face of the man behind you, and your heart nearly stops—his split lip, cheeks stained from tears and blood, his eye already swollen beneath blonde locks plastered to his forehead. He’s breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling with every jagged breath.

Your stomach drops and your voice breaks as you call out for him.

“Dean?”

Even from where you’re standing, you watch his head lift before tipping back toward the dark sky for a second, his shoulders sagging as another broken breath escapes him and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Dean…” You try again, your voice catching as you hurry the last few steps toward him. The streetlight finally catches his face, and your chest tightens. “Dean, what the hell happened?”

He doesn’t answer. The second you’re close enough, he reaches for you. His arms wrap around you so suddenly they almost knock you off balance, pulling you against his chest with enough force that you stumble into him.

Before you can even think to hug him back, he’s buried his face against the side of your neck, another broken sob tearing through him as his whole body shakes in your arms.

“Hey… hey,” you whisper, choking back tears of your own.

Your fingers tangle through the hair at the back of his head while your other arm wraps around his waist, holding him as tightly as you can.

“I’ve got you.”

His hands bunch the back of your sweatshirt in his fists. You can feel every tremor that moves through him, his forehead pressed against your shoulder while you continue stroking his hair over and over, your own heart breaking right alongside his.

“What happened?” you whisper. He draws in a deep breath, blowing it out slow.

You pull back just enough to look at him again, your thumb brushing carefully beneath the eye that hasn’t swollen shut.

His lashes lift slowly and the tears on his bruised cheeks shimmer. And, at this moment, you can’t remember a time when you’ve ever seen him this sad… but you know the feeling. You’ve been living it all night.

For a second, all you hear is the rustle of leaves and the uneven sound of the two of you trying to hold yourselves together.

“Just give me a minute,” he whispers.

“Okay,” you nod. “Where were you going?”

His lips draw to the side, his eyebrows softening as he looks at you like you shouldn’t even have to ask. Dean’s hand slips into yours, his fingers closing tightly around your own before he begins pulling you toward your place.

The two of you walk side by side without another word, your hands still linked between you. Dean keeps his head down, staring at the sidewalk as it passes beneath his feet.

You sneak another look at him beneath the streetlights, taking in the blood drying beneath his nose and along the corner of his mouth. He lifts his free hand, wiping at his mouth, hissing in pain before he pulls away.

Dean must feel you looking because his head turns slowly toward you, his bruised eyes finally meeting yours.

And still, he can’t bring himself to speak. Not yet. Normally, he wouldn’t have let the silence last this long. He would’ve made some joke about you staring at him or squeezed your hand until you finally looked over and smiled. He would’ve told you the other guy looked worse, even if you hadn’t asked.

You wish there was something you could say that would make any of this better.

Dean lifts his eyes, staring toward your place before letting out a long, unsteady breath. You fish your keys from your sweatshirt pocket as the two of you make your way up the short walkway.

You unlock the door and pull it open, holding it for him as he steps inside ahead of you.

The apartment is almost completely dark when the two of you step inside. You quietly push the door shut behind you, the soft click of the lock sounding impossibly loud in the silence.

He starts toward the staircase without saying a word, and you follow him just as silently. The steps creak softly beneath your weight as the two of you climb toward the second floor.

You can’t stop checking on him. Every few steps your eyes drift back to his face, the physical pain and heartbreak painted so clearly across it.

And even so, you hate yourself for the relief that’s settled somewhere deep inside you, quiet enough that you tried to keep it buried.

Dean’s heart is in pieces, and somehow a part of you is grateful that he isn’t spending tonight somewhere else. Grateful that he came looking for you instead of her. Grateful that he’s here.

The realization makes you feel sick.

That’s not what best friends are supposed to think. They aren’t supposed to find comfort in someone else’s heartbreak, no matter how desperately they’ve wished for them.

You swallow hard, forcing your eyes back to the steps beneath your feet as another sting settles behind them. This isn’t about you. Whatever’s left of your own heart can wait. Right now, Dean needs someone to put him back together.

The two of you step into your place and Dean kicks off his shoes, still refusing to let go of your hand, leading you toward the bathroom at the end of the hall, nudging the door open before stepping inside.

The room stays dim, lit only by the soft amber glow from the hallway and the faint wash of moonlight filtering through the small window above the shower.

He reaches up for the collar of his jacket, and slowly eases it from his shoulders, wincing in pain as he drags it off one arm then the next.

He nods toward the shower, waiting for your answer before he reaches for the handle. “Of course,” you whisper. He twists the metal handle until hot water begins pounding against the tile, steam slowly filling the small bathroom.

“…I got blood everywhere,” he whispers, and your eyes flick up to the mirror, the corners already fogging over from the heat.

His t-shirt is stained across the collar, dried streaks trailing down the front where he’d wiped at his face over and over throughout the walk home. There are rusty fingerprints smeared across the sleeves of your sweatshirt too, little reminders of how tightly he’d held onto you in the middle of the street.

“You’re okay,” you whisper.

He reaches for the hem of his shirt first, pulling the bloodstained fabric over himself before dropping it onto the bathroom floor. You quietly do the same with your sweatshirt, leaving it beside his before slipping out of your jeans.

Neither of you says anything about it. By the time the two of you step beneath the spray, he’s wearing nothing but his boxers, and you’re standing in your panties and bra.

The hot water runs over Dean’s hair, wetting dried blood, sending it ribboning down the side of his face. The chain on his chest flickers with every shaky breath, the tanned skin on his ribs a watercolor of purple and blue bruises.

Pink water circles lazily around the drain, carrying away blood and fresh tears.

He simply stands there with his eyes closed while you carefully press the damp cloth beneath the cut at his eyebrow, your other hand resting lightly against his shoulder to steady him. Every now and then he whimpers, but he never pulls away.

You rinse the washcloth beneath the spray before pressing it against the corner of his mouth. Dean’s head tips down slightly to give you better access, his eyes staying closed while you wipe away the blood still caught along his jaw.

“Who did this to you?”

He swallows hard enough that you see the movement in his throat. For a second, you think he might avoid the question but he doesn’t.

“Hunter.”

Your brows pull together in confusion. There are probably a dozen Hunters somewhere on campus, but there’s only one who could make Dean say it like that.

“Davenport?”

He nods, and the answer only leaves you with more questions. You look over his bruised face again, the cut at his eyebrow, the swelling already darkening beneath his eye, and the fresh scrape across his cheekbone that hadn’t been there when he left the house.

Hunter and Dean had never needed much of an excuse to get under each other’s skin, but this wasn’t the aftermath of another stupid chirp taken too far. Dean hadn’t run across campus crying because Davenport made some comment about hockey.

“Why?”

His lips part, but nothing comes out. Dean blinks a few times, unable to put his disappointment into words.

“Do you want me to guess?” you whisper. The question sounds painfully familiar the moment it leaves your mouth. A few minutes earlier, Logan had offered you the same mercy while the two of you sat on the porch, quietly filling in the spaces around everything you couldn’t bring yourself to admit.

Now Dean is standing in front of you with the same helpless look you must’ve worn then, and somehow you already know where to begin.

“She did the assignment?”

Dean bites down on his split lip, turning his face away from you before he nods.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

His jaw locks so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.

And suddenly, everything starts to fall into place. Allie had completed the assignment. Dean had found out after telling her everything. Hunter had ended up with blood across his fists. But your heart still resists placing the last one where it belongs.

“With who?” you ask.

His nostrils flare and his arm circles your waist, pulling you closer beneath the water.

“No,” you breathe, but you can see Hunter stepping through the bar doors without having been there. You can see the look Dean must’ve caught between him and Allie, the one answer neither of them would’ve needed to say aloud. Your free hand rises to cover your mouth, but it does nothing to hide your emotions. “She couldn’t have known.”

“She didn’t,” he says, his voice breaking beneath the steady rush of the shower. “She had no clue.”

Dean lets out a slow breath, his forehead lowering until it rests against yours. “It…” His voice catches, forcing him to stop before he can get the rest out. “It could’ve been anybody. Would’ve hurt either way,” he whispers. He draws in another shaky breath, his lips flattening into a thin line before he finally forces himself to finish. “It just…” Another pause. “It being him fucking hurts.”

Your palm slides slowly over his shoulder before settling against the back of his neck, pulling him closer when a tremor moves through his body. “I’m sorry,” you whisper again, because there isn’t anything else you can give him.

“I really thought it was gonna go well.” Dean says it so quietly that the words almost disappear beneath the water, but you hear every one.

He had walked into that bar convinced the words he’d practiced with you would be enough to make Allie choose him. And fuck, if those same words had ever left his mouth for you, you think you could’ve lived on them for the rest of your life.

You can’t tell him that. You can’t admit that while he’s standing here broken over somebody else, not when he trusts you to be the one person who will hold him without asking for anything in return.

So you don’t.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice cracking when he speaks as your fingers continue moving gently through his hair.

“I love you too.”

Your eyes burn all over again. The last traces of blood disappear down the drain beneath your feet, but neither of you makes any move to step away.

“You’re the only person I can count on.”

“Always,” you whisper.

He steps close enough that the tip of his nose nearly brushes yours. His hands slide from your waist, lifting between you to hold your face, his bruised knuckles resting beneath your ears while his thumbs sweep over your cheeks. Your mouth trembles when you try to give him a reassuring smile.

He’d been too consumed by everything that had happened to realize you’d already been crying long before he found you.

And after he’d left you crying on his bed, you’d probably never stopped.

Dean’s thumb slides along your bottom lip, feeling it tremble under his touch. The fact that you’re holding your breath to keep from sobbing makes his heart start to race all over again.

“Babygirl,” he whispers. “Hey.” He stops you when you look away, searching your face for another long moment, looking at you like he’s only just beginning to realize that he wasn’t the only person whose heart was broken. “What’s wrong?”

You pull another card from the stack, forcing yourself to slow down. One question. That’s all.

“Okay…” you whisper.

Your eyes scan the card once more before the answer finally clicks.

“Alright.”

A win. Small, sure. But hey, it’s something. A smile tugs at your lips, real enough to crack the pressure that’s been building all night.

For a second, it feels manageable—like maybe you can actually get through this one card, then the next, then the next.

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction, tension easing as you let out another breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Your phone buzzes on the mattress, and you look down at it, a text message from Coach about ice time and a delayed start throwing you off your schedule, and off your game for the moment.

The quiet stretches for a beat, the soft rustle of paper the only sound as your fingers hover over the next card, hesitating.

You grab it and flip it over, looking down at it, letting your eyes shut when you see a word you know you know. I mean, how could you not know this shit?

The doorknob twists.

Your head snaps toward the sound, wide eyes meeting Garrett’s the second he steps inside—fresh from the shower, damp hair pushed back messily from his forehead, a few strands still clinging to his temples.

He’s in a loose gray t-shirt that hangs just right over his shoulders, dark shorts slung low on his hips. His skin still looks dewy, a little flushed, like he hasn’t been out of the locker room long.

“Baby?” he chuckles, lifting an eyebrow in your direction. “You okay?”

“Mhmm… Yeah.” You laugh weakly. “M’trying to study. I’m done. I’m just—I’m fucked.” The cards slip from your fingers, fluttering down to the comforter.

“You’re not fucked,” he sighs. “Didn’t hear my name gettin’ screamed outside your door now, did I?”

Your lips pull to the side, fighting off a smile, heat blooming in your cheeks as he crawls onto the bed.

“Plus, you’re fully clothed, pretty,” he mumbles, tilting in when he gets close enough, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Fuckin’ hate that for me.”

You giggle, turning into him a little more, feeling him smile into your skin, your body instantly sinking, hoping he’ll crawl the rest of the way on top and pin you underneath him.

“Where are you goin’, huh?” he asks, his voice deep and warm against your neck.

“I wanna be done,” you whisper, tugging at the front of his shirt, seeing the space between you. A dark trail of hair and deep v-lines disappear below his shorts, his skin tanned and tight.

“Don’t wanna work anymore, huh? Why are you bein’ such a baby?” he teases.

“Am not.”

“Are too,” he snickers. As you continue your childish back-and-forth, the stubble on his cheek scrapes lightly over your soft skin. “Let me help you.”

“Not with this,” you pout. Studying isn’t what you want from him. Right now, you just want him.

“Think I can help you with somethin’ else?” He grabs your face, squishing your cheeks, kissing you tenderly.

“I know you can,” you whisper.

“You using me for my body right now?” he teases, and you nod. “Thank you.” You giggle at his response, nails slipping around to rake up the broad expanse of his back. “But it’s not gonna work.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause we have a test tomorrow.”

“Forgive me for wanting my boyfriend.”

“Stop,” he rasps with a warm laugh, letting his head fall heavy against your shoulder. “You’re just bein’ a brat. Shit’s not gonna work with me.”

“Whatever,” you mumble.

“Whatever, huh?” he asks as his rough finger slides a little further up your thigh, tracing under the hem of your shorts, making your hips shift. “So sensitive, baby.”

“Garrett…”

“Just sayin’,” he whispers.

You slap your hands against the bed as he crashes down beside you. He scoops up a few neon cards, his grin widening as his big arm wraps behind your back, palm settling beside your hip.

He kisses your cheek, and you roll your eyes, rearranging the little stack in your hands.

“For the record, Graham. A distraction would have been preferred,” you whisper, leaning into him, that scowl playing on your lips, jerking away when he tickles you. “Enough,” you scold, grabbing his wrist.

“Just gotta get you out of your head, baby,” he hums before his attention gets pulled away.

Your phone vibrates on the mattress—a notification from a freshman player he recognizes flashes across the screen. Garrett grabs it off the bed, setting it aside before you can check it.

“I need to answer that.”

“Bullshit, you don’t.” He gives you a side eye. “See how attentive you were a minute ago? You got this. Just gotta focus on what’s happening right here.”

“Mhmm,” you hum bitterly. He reaches out, fingers wrapping around your jaw to turn you toward him.

“Studying isn’t half-bad with me, I promise.” His plush lips meet yours, kissing you deeply, chuckling into the kiss when you chase his lips, not wanting to stop. "Ready?"

“No,” you whisper, sucking in a breath when his hand comes and rests on your upper thigh, squeezing down, making your thigh draw in, chills crawling up your spine. “Don’t you have class?”

“Not for a bit,” he answers. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”

Garrett’s arm hooks around your waist, drawing you closer in his lap as you split his legs. You lean back into his broad chest, and he snuggles close, breathing you in for a moment.

“How hard can this class be, baby? We got this,” he mumbles against your skin, foregoing the annoying reality that most things come naturally to him. But he means it, the words sounding so earnest you can’t help but sigh.

“Alright,” you whisper, flipping the first card in the deck.

He peers over your shoulder, lips resting on your skin, thumbs tracing along your bare thighs as you think. Your phone vibrates again, and his big arms wrap around your waist, fast holding you in place.

“Don’t,” he stops you before you can start.

His arms soften when he feels you do the same, a hand coming up to draw you in, kissing you, soft and slow.

You relax, concentrating on his lips—how they feel against yours, soft and sweet. The warmth of his body surrounds you, guiding you to relax a little more against him.

“Focus, baby.”

You shut your eyes, trying your best to clear your mind and settle into the task.

“Opsimath,” you whisper.

“Mhmm,” he hums, the utterance buzzing against your skin. “Remember in class last week… Opsē sounds like…”

You think for a beat, recalling that term from the week prior, the scratchy chalk scraping against the board as he broke down the term, Garrett sneaking into the class late with two coffees in hand while the professor had his back turned. He smiled at you, handing you the drink, asking you what he missed.

“Sounds like ‘oopsie,’” you whisper. “You say that when you’re late.”

“And, manthanein, means…” he asks.

“To learn—because you learn in math class.” He growls with delight, making you smile. “Someone who starts learning late in life.” The words breathe out of you, and the tension you were holding in your shoulders falls.

“Exactly.” Garrett slides the next card to the front of the stack, holding it out in front of the two of you. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your shoulder as you settle against him again.

You study it for a second, your eyebrows pinching together before the answer slowly starts piecing itself together in your head.

“Metacognition,” you whisper. “Thinking about your own thinking.”

“There it is,” he smiles warmly.

You feel his hand squeeze your thigh, your body melting back against his chest before he reaches for another card.

The next one comes quicker. Then the next. Then the next. By the fourth, you’re answering before he can even finish reading the definition, your confidence building a little more every time he smiles.

“Told you,” he chuckles. “You know more than you think you do.”

You grin to yourself, a little proud now. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe,” he assures, thumb tracing another lazy path across your thigh while you search through the stack. Your eyes flick toward the nightstand when your phone chirps.

The rough pad of his thumb drifts just high enough to make your leg twitch beneath his hand. “Garrett,” you laugh, your body drawing in, before you wiggle away.

“What?” he asks, looking back at you like he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. “Just gettin’ my girl back on track.”

“Well, knock it off,” you grumble, snuggling back into him a little more.

“Stop bein’ bad, and I’ll think about it.”

“I’m not being bad.”

“I mean, you got this shit in the bag,” he gestures lazily to the cards. “Focus game needs a little work.” A crooked smile pulls at his lips as he presses another kiss just below your ear. “And, you’re cute when you’re all jumpy.”

“I’m trying to study.”

“And you’re doin’ a damn good job, aren’t you?” he praises, and the knot that’s been sitting in your chest all evening doesn’t feel nearly as tight anymore.

You’re still nervous about tomorrow, but the words aren’t swimming together anymore. They’re actually sticking.

Garrett hands you another card, and you answer it almost immediately.

“Atta baby,” he praises.

“Rewards?” you ask, turning just enough to catch the sparkle in his eye. “Do I get a reward for that one?”

His eyebrows lift and a smirk curls on his lips. “A reward?”

“Mhmm,” you hum.

“What kinda reward are we negotiatin’ for here?”

You pretend to think about it for a second, tapping the corner of the flashcard against your chin while your eyes drift over him. A little smile pulls at your lips before you look back at him.

“Maybe, just maybe… I already know what I want. And so do you.”

Garrett lets out a quiet laugh, already shaking his head. “You are such a slut for me.”

“You thanked me for using you for your body, Garrett Graham. I think we both know who the slut is.”

“Valid.”

“I’ve had a stressful day, baby,” you sigh. “A stressful week.”

He smiles, softer this time. “I know.” His fingers brush over your hip before nudging the next flashcard toward you. “You’ve got eight cards left, baby.”

“That’s too many.”

“So needy,” he chuckles, settling another flashcard into your hand. “C’mon, pretty. Eight more.”

You study it for a second, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek before the answer comes to you with more confidence than the last one.

“Schema,” you answer quietly. “Mental framework that helps organize information.”

Garrett glances down at the back of the card before a smile spreads across his face.

“See?” he hums, giving your hip a proud little squeeze. “All in your head for what?”

“Thank you,” you whisper, tilting toward him as he moves closer, kissing you softly. His nose brushes against yours, breathing softly with you.

“Take off your shirt.”

"Huh?" you ask as your cheeks warm up—heart working a little faster. It's a request you've heard from him a million times, unexpected at this moment.

“You heard me,” he mumbles, warm and deep. “Take. It. Off.”

You reach for the bottom of your top, pulling it over your head, tossing it to the side.

Garrett looks over your shoulder, his hold around you tightening as his lips press against your bare shoulder, a quiet hum of approval vibrating against your skin.

“Fuck me,” he sighs, taking you in for a second, pushing out a deep breath behind you. “Baby.” His voice comes out needy, that strict program he was running since you tried to slip underneath him the first time seemingly crumbling away.

He strips off his shirt as well, big hands landing heavy on your legs with a playful clap, making your thighs draw together, but he pulls you open, smiling against your skin.

His palms rub and squeeze the inside of your thighs, your bare back pressing against his chest when you tilt closer. He breathes you in again, your soft body and sweet perfume smelling like heaven compared to the locker room he’d left before he got to your place.

The heat of his body wraps around you, the chill of his chain pressing against your spine. Garrett’s fingers drift higher, teasing the sensitive skin between your thigh and your panties with one hand, taking that top card off the stack with the other.

“Keep going,” he mumbles. “Doing so fuckin’ good for me.”

The next one doesn’t come quite as easily. Your eyebrows knit together while your eyes move over the word again, trying to pin it to a memory or a moment from class.

Garrett stays quiet, letting you work through it before he finally tips his head against yours.

“What do I tell you when I’m coming over?” he breathes, turning into you, making your chest tighten when his thumb moves higher, tracing over the lace between your thighs before he continues. “And I’m runnin’ late, but I fucking need you.” The words scrape past his lips, making your body tingle.

“You tell me you’re gonna take a shortcut.”

“Mhmm,” he hums, chuckling when he feels how wet you are—the subtle rock of your hips when he presses a little harder.

“A mental shortcut,” you whisper, turning your chin toward him, his gaze falling to your lips as he waits for the rest. “That helps you make decisions.”

“Heuristic,” he whispers, the corners of his lips tipping upward. “You didn’t need me. You got this shit.”

His hands slide to the band of your shorts, easing them down, nodding toward you to keep going. He groans as the material works down your thighs, leaving you in nothing but a bra and panties.

You shift over onto your hands and knees, already expecting him to take off his shorts too, and he chuckles, eyes locked on you as he tugs them over his hips, watching with a smile as you drag them down the rest of his strong thighs.

He adjusts slightly on your bed, looking back at you on your hands and knees. “Co’mere, baby,” he murmurs, and you settle on top of his lap, resting your body on top of him.

His long, thick cock is trapped in cotton still, the swell of it stretching the material. He presses the stack of cards into your hand. His palms instantly find their place on your ass, grabbing two fistfuls of skin.

"Six more cards and not a lot of clothes left, baby? What are we gonna do about that?" he asks.

“I’m sure you can think of other rewards, Garrett Graham,” you whisper. He reaches up, fingers tangling in your hair to pull you to his mouth.

He kisses you deeply, tongue sliding between your lips instantly—hips rocking with the tempo of your kiss. “Got a few ideas,” he murmurs. “Think you can get them all right for me?”

His smile pulls along your lips when you whisper yes, his hand still gripping your hair, the other kneading your ass, coaching each drag of your hips on top.

He pulls back from the kiss reluctantly, tapping against the bed for a flashcard. “Neuroplasticity,” he mumbles, licking his lips as his eyes fall to your lace-covered tits, knowing exactly where he’s going next.

“Hockey rink in my mind,” you whisper. “This is the one I had locked in.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his hands drifting up your spine. “Tell me more.”

“Every time I step on the ice, I’m running drills, skatin’ the same route; it gets easier.”

“Mhmm,” he hums, his head tipping back against the headboard as his fingers pinch the clasp of your bra, waiting for the term.

“Neuroplasticity… your brain adapts because you keep practicing.”

Your bra falls away as he chuckles proudly, pulling you in as he lowers his lips, mouth wrapping around your nipple as his hand squeezes your breast in his big palm, the other slapping your ass.

Your head lulls back and his tongue flicks across your bud, letting you go with a pop, kissing up the curve of your breast, along your collarbone.

His tongue slides along your skin, making you shiver and throb, the man catching the necklace at your neck, snagging the metal between his teeth, the white gold chain connecting the two of you.

The dainty G charm slips from between his teeth, glinting as it falls back against your skin before he speaks. “How come you never take this off, pretty?”

You look down at it, smiling to yourself, remembering that night. “Because you gave it to me.”

“If some other guy got you this, it’d just be another necklace.” You nod slowly as he scowls playfully at the mere suggestion of it—the scenario that he painted for you. “It means somethin’. That’s why your brain remembers it.”

“Semantic encoding,” you say. “I remember it by what it means, not just what it looks like.”

His big arm wraps tight around you, hugging you close, as he lets out a deep breath. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, his strong, bare chest pushing flush to yours. “Knew you could do it.”

He grabs your waist, lifting you until you're standing on top of your bed. His hands settle behind your thighs, drawing you closer, peeling the panties down your skin as you look back at him.

Garrett wraps his fingers around the band of his boxer briefs, tugging them down his thighs, his cock swinging free, slapping against his tanned skin as he pushes out a breath.

He wraps his fist around his dick, stroking slowly before looking up at you. “Next one?”

His hold on the back of your thigh keeps you close, the other one working itself at a steady pace. He’s got the next vocab word memorized—held on the tip of his tongue.

His palm runs up the back of your leg, breath catching in his chest. Your hand rests on the wall above your headboard, keeping you balanced.

“Mine disappears when I’m around you,” he mumbles, dipping in to press a kiss against your thigh, lips lingering, the warmth of his breathing against your skin making your pussy throb.

“Self-control?” you whisper.

“Exactly.”

“Executive function,” you answer. “Planning, focus, and self-control.” He smiles and nods, humming out praise as he lifts your leg, foot resting on the wooden frame.

You gasp, a hand flying down to grab him, twisting in his curls as he kisses your clit. Your hips jostle, but his arms flex, forcing you to stay right where he wants you, moaning when you tug at his strands in sensitivity.

He laps at your slit like he’s starved, hand jerking his dick, getting off on the taste and the pathetic sounds that cry past your lips with each drag and twirl of his tongue.

“Baby, fuck,” he hums into your pussy, the wet sounds of his working you over filling the room as the band in your belly tightens, your leg keeping you standing on the mattress, muscles trembling.

Your knees buckle as his lips lock down on your clit, sucking hard, making your eyes screw shut. “Garrett—Garrett, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper breathlessly, and he slaps your ass in response, drawing you as close as he can get you.

“Fuck!” You squeal when he dips his tongue in your entrance, the sensation sending you tumbling over the edge, your body fluttering around him as he works you through each wave of your orgasm, tongue-fucking you with no plans to stop until you soften completely.

Your body practically melts into his lap—his lips quickly finding yours. He grabs your hand, guiding you to his stiff cock between you, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking with you for a moment.

“How was that?” he asks softly, handing over control.

“So fucking good,” you whisper, feeling his lips curl into a smile at your words.

“Don’t peek,” he chuckles breathily against your mouth, peering away just enough to check the last three cards. “Fuck, baby. These are easy.”

“Are they?” you ask, running a line of spit down to the head of his cock, your fist moving easily through the wet, making his eyebrows tug together.

“Better get ‘em right,” he smiles, his eyes falling a little hazier.

“I will,” you whisper, feeling a little more confident now.

“Next one. Studying with me is way, way better,” he mumbles as his hands rest on your hips. “And you sure as hell aren’t doin’ this.”

“Transfer-appropriate…” Your words trail away a little bit when you see his breathing getting a little quicker, your touch on his dick feeling a little too good.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, nodding to you, his jaw clenching a little tighter. “Wanna cum inside you but you gotta get it right.”

“…Processing?” you whisper, and he stops your hand, the other coming up to grip your cheeks between his fingers, kissing you deeply. “Practicing it the way I'll actually have to use it.”

“I’m so fucking proud of you, you know that?” he sighs.

“Yeah?” you ask as you rise on your knees.

“Mhmm,” he breathes, holding his dick straight, tracing it along your soaked slit as you hover over him.

Your lips fall open when he pulls you down, the thick head of his cock stretching you wide, soothing the ache. He pulls you lower, your wet pussy sliding down each stiff inch until there’s no space left between you.

He looks back at you, sitting with it for a moment, feeling the wet mess he made squeeze around him—how perfect his hands fit, gripping your curves to keep you sat.

Garrett draws in a heavy breath before he speaks. “Two more, baby.”

“Fucking finally,” you mutter, and he snickers.

“What, you’re not enjoying this?” he asks smugly, your wetness dripping down him.

“Of course I am,” you whisper.

“Remember that away game I had last weekend? I got back to the hotel, and it was dark and quiet. All I could think about was this… and I texted you and told you. And what did you say to me?”

“…I want you so bad.”

“And?” he mumbles.

“I’m wet,” you sigh, the corners of his mouth tilting into a smirk as his cock moves inside you, just enough for you to feel it.

“And what did I say?”

“Show me,” you answer, remembering the picture you sent him seconds later.

“Of course I did,” he mumbles, and your eyes fall, your brain going a little fuzzy when he starts rubbing slow circles on your clit with his thumb.

“Dual coding theory,” you smile with him as his touch on you grows quicker.

Your heart rate starts to climb, that orgasm that just claimed you minutes ago still simmering.

“Elaborative rehearsal,” the last card in the stack leaves your lips without being prompted at all, the only one you didn’t discuss—the definition literally all encompassed in this moment. Garrett’s forehead falls against yours, waiting for you to finish, just as desperate as you. “Connecting new things to what I already know—”

You gasp and squeal out his name, your body flung to your back, Garrett pinning you underneath him before you can even ask if you’re right.

Your eyes go wide, and your jaw drops as he slams into you in one hard thrust, your hands wrapping around him, nails sinking into his back.

He lets out a deep, drawn-out groan, pulling out just enough to see the wetness slicked all over his length, the thick tip of his dick making you gasp when he pushes in again.

“Yes, baby,” Garrett growls against your lips, feeling your body squeeze around him, fucking into you at a punishing pace, your pussy gripping him with each filthy stroke.

You tremble beneath him, sliding higher up the mattress with each rough snap of his hips, the headboard thumping against the wall as the bed creaks below.

The room fills with the sounds of pleasure—the wet slap of skin against yours, his name leaving your lips in a choked cry, quiet praise humming past his lips into yours.

His hand slides down to grab your hip, hard enough to leave a bruise, his other palm resting by your head, gripping the sheet.

You pull him closer, locking your legs around his hips, forcing him deeper. Your eyes roll back in your head as he hits the perfect spot inside you.

“Feels too fuckin’ good,” he mutters, his forehead falling to yours as his hips stutter.

Your walls clench around him, and he gasps against your lips, his pace quickening until your back lifts off the bed.

“Yes—yes,” you cry out, and he buries his face in your neck, teeth gritted as he cums with you, burying himself deep inside you with a strangled moan, thick ropes of his climax filling you as your name drips from his mouth in a fucked-out sigh.

He collapses on top, snuggling into you, the air around you hot and sticky. Both of you are laughing dizzily, his lips moving against yours in soft, breathless kisses.

“We’re celebrating when you ace this shit tomorrow,” he smiles against the corner of your mouth.

“Pretty confident in me, Garrett Graham,” you whisper.

“Of course I am,” he whispers.

“What if I get an A?”

“You know you will,” he hums into a kiss, sucking off your bottom lip. “You gonna ask about another reward?”

You giggle below him, and he laughs, pushing out a satisfied sound when your nails slide down his strong back.

“Well, shit.” He lets out a soft sigh. “It’s gonna need to be pretty good, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you mumble.

He smiles against your mouth, chuckling like the plan just clicked. “Guess you’re gonna have to ace it and find out, huh?”

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“Woah—Hey. Hey, now,” he stops you, looking back at you like you weren’t actively reading the situation. “Just. Don’t go. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry. I’m not going to beg for your help, Garrett.”

“You are not begging me for anything,” he panics, a desperate laugh clinging to his words as his hands go tighter on your hips. “I just—why?” he asks almost bashfully, licking his lips to fight back a smile as his gaze falls to yours.

“Same reason you wanted me to tutor you. I don’t know how to do it. I want to. You’re a guy…”

“I am,” he chuckles, stepping a little closer.

“You can teach me,” your voice softens, the heat of his body radiating onto your bare skin.

“Who?” he asks, his attention falling to your lips. “You learnin’ to give head just ‘cause?”

“I’m going to a party this weekend.”

“…Yeah?” he asks as he shifts his weight, his eyebrows drawing in ever so slightly as his gaze lifts to yours.

“I tutor, you know—”

“Some of the football guys, yeah,” he tracks, answering for you, getting a little impatient about who this is all for.

“Just getting this vibe from Beau. I don’t know. He’s sweet.”

“Beau Maxwell?” Garrett asks, arms pulling away from you to cross over his chest, biceps pulling the arms of his t-shirt taut. “Is he just bein’ nice? Or…”

You scrunch your nose in annoyance, scoffing before you turn around. “Whatever, Garrett.” You chuckle weakly, bending over to grab your skirt and your sweater, but he’s scrambling again.

“Stop. Just, don’t—calm down,” he grabs the clothes off your hands, tossing them back to the floor. He lifts both hands, lashes fluttering as he rakes his fingers through his curls.

“He’s not just being nice. He’s not pitying me—”

“Well, that last part didn’t leave my mouth,” he chuckles tiredly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze travels down your body. He hangs his head for a moment, lost in thought.

“And, I know I’m just your Ancient Lit tutor, but don’t tell women to calm down—”

“You’re right. You’re right about everything, actually.”

You blow out a breath, rolling your eyes. “Well, as fun as it’s been standing in front of you for the last fifteen minutes in my bra and panties begging you to teach me—”

“You didn’t beg,” he answers, cutting you off as you spin out, his hand reaching out to grab your hand, fingers tracing down your arm to find yours, urging you closer. “You asked me once. You said please. That’s not begging.”

His thumb rubs along your knuckles, his lips tugging to the side as he thinks a little more.

“Beau’s my friend. That’s why I asked if he was being nice.”

“Okay?”

“He was supposed to be in the class with me across the hall, then I saw you walk into Ancient Lit—”

“Mhmm…”

“And I switched classes,” he continues, the corner of his mouth tipping up like he’s playing it back.

You nod, your eyes following the chain on his chest as it flickers with his quicker breathing before he speaks again.

“Already felt like I was doin’ something wrong asking you for help on day one before we even got our first assignment… Seems like a conflict of interest if I teach you how to do that, feeling like I feel. Do you know what I mean?”

The question breathes past his lips and, just like Garrett, your heart starts to race a little faster. “I think so.”

“Yeah, I like you,” he answers honestly, the words cracking a little at the end with nerves. Your cheeks swell with warmth, the little tingles in your body getting stronger.

“Were you gonna tell me?” you ask.

“Eventually… Just didn’t feel right letting you do that without knowing—” You steal the words off his lips with a kiss and he deepens it instantly, arms wrapping around your body, fingers sliding into your hair. He kisses you so deep your back bows, but he has you, holding you in his big arms, his soft lips pressing against yours.

He kisses you again, softer this time, then one more, smiling into your kiss.

“I can still teach you,” he whispers, taking off his shirt.

“Yeah?” you ask.

“If you want me,” he sighs when your palms rest on his strong chest.

“Beg,” you breathe, and he laughs against your mouth, liking how that word sounds leaving your lips.

“You want me to beg?” he asks, feeling as you hum a mhmm against his mouth. “I want you.” His rough palm falls with those words, slipping under the lace of your thong, squeezing your ass. “You have no idea what I’ve been dreaming about doing to you. This… This is exactly what I need. So, please, baby.”

“Baby?” you hum.

“You’ll call me that one day,” he says confidently, feeling your soft giggle against his lips. “Got a good feeling about us.”

“Teach me,” you smile, and he sighs, the muscles in his shoulders softening.

He looks at you for a second before he says anything, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he still can’t believe you chose him in the first place.

“You gonna let me teach you anything else?” he says quietly against your lips, stealing a kiss.

“Maybe,” you tease, fingers falling down his stomach, tracing over his abs, feeling them flex tighter under your touch. “Second session.”

“Seriously?” he asks breathlessly, following your gaze as your nails trace along the top of his sweats. “Sounds perfect.”

“So, what do I do now?” you whisper, fingers looping under the band of his pants.

“We’re startin’ the lesson from up here?” he asks, chuckling warmly when you mumble yes. “Kisses. Just like you are now. S’perfect.”

“Okay,” you hum.

“Move to my neck, and your hand.” The words leave him slowly as he grabs yours, lifting and placing you on top of that thick bulge between his thighs. “Right here.”

His breathing changes and his voice dips lower as he guides you to rub your hand on top. “Gotta tease me a little. I want this too fuckin’ bad, okay? Make me sweat a little. Don’t let me have it yet.”

You hum out a yes, kissing your way along his sharp jaw as your hand strokes his long, hard cock over the cotton. You can feel him tilt into you a little, pushing himself into your hand.

His face turns into you a little when you get to his ear, hands resting on your body still. “Tighter,” he mutters and you can hear the smile in his voice as your hand squeezes around him.

“Like that?”

“Just like that.”

You kiss under his ear and his head falls to the side, your lips working down the column of his neck, feeling his pulse hammer against your lips.

“Lick,” he murmurs, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck to keep you close, your tongue tracing up the trail of kisses you just left. Garrett shudders out a breath, goosebumps fanning across his tan skin.

“Talk to me,” he rasps, turning his face slightly to look you in the eyes, the tension between you thick. “You want it? Let me know.”

“What I want to do to you?”

“You can lie,” he answers softly, tipping your lips toward him when his fingers hook under your chin.

“I don’t wanna lie.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you answer as he draws you in for a kiss.

“Tell me.”

“I want you to teach me—”

“No,” he stops you, his brows furrowing when it sounds like less than he was hoping for—like you’re using him instead of wanting this too.

“Listen,” you breathe.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, through a soft smile.

“I want you,” you whisper, tilting closer with each word. “To teach me what you like. So, I can do it again. And, again. I want to get so good at it, that it’s all you can think about.”

“Fuck, baby,” he huffs, gaze lingering as you drop down on your knees in front of him, pressing kisses as you go, his cock painfully hard. “How are you—you sound like you know what you’re doing.”

“In theory,” you answer, wrapping your fingers around the gray material at his hips. “Not in practice.”

“That book you have, huh?” he asks as his fingers find their way into your hair, guiding you to look back at him from where you sit on your knees.

“Mhmm,” you answer, dragging the cozy material down his legs, watching his thigh muscles tense and soften.

“Looked it up. Had to figure out why you were blushin’ like that yesterday before class,” he drawls, cupping your chin in his hand, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Look so fuckin’ good on your knees, you know that?”

“Thank you,” you whisper, his smile spreading with yours. Your hands work up his thighs, resting on his boxers, tracing along the length of his thick dick, straining the material, his tip leaking through the fabric.

“Suck that. It’ll fuckin’ kill me,” he sighs as your focus stays fixed on the dark spot.

“Over your boxers?” you ask, already leaning in, your gaze flicking up to him. “You don’t want my mouth?” The question leaving your lips a hell of a lot more like taunting than asking, making him chuckle.

“You have no idea,” the words barely leave his lips when your mouth wraps around him, the fabric resting against your tongue. The taste comes second, his tip warm and throbbing—his hold on your hair tightening the wetter it gets.

You can feel the arousal soak the lace between your thighs, a steady pulse thumping, your body aching for contact—especially when that first sound of pleasure falls from his lips.

“Goddamn,” he groans, his jaw locking. You reach up without being told and he sucks a sharp breath through his nose when you cup his heavy balls in your hand. “Mhmm…” the praise breathes through a pleasured hum, nodding as you roll them in your hand, still sucking him through the cotton.

“More?” you ask, your breath hitting the place you mouthed, air filling his lungs at the sensation.

“Shit, pretty—yeah,” he slurs, drinking you in with his heavy stare as your hands follow the band of his boxers, tracing his sharp v-lines. You lean in, pressing a kiss on the soft skin below his bellybutton, just above the elastic.

He tips his chin toward you, shaking his head.

“You’re gonna be so good at this, baby,” his voice softens. “So fuckin’ perfect at everything. Why wouldn’t you be?”

His praise goes straight through you, your body drawing closer, settling a little more. He shifts his stance ever so slightly, his jaw tightening as he feels how wet your pussy is when your weight lands on top of his foot.

Your body moves instinctually, rocking your hips a little, feeling some relief you hadn’t known was building. “Feels good?” he asks, already seeing it in your body language. “Teach you how to ride my thigh. You’ll love it.” His words come out a little distracted as he watches your hands disappear behind your back.

“Next lesson?” you ask through a little smile.

“Don’t know if I can wait,” he confesses. “Take it off,” his voice dips, and you unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. He pushes out a breath, looking down at you, feeling that desperation he told you would come if you teased him—and you are.

You lift your hands, pinching the cotton, pulling down his boxers too. His cock strains—long and weighed down—that heavy walk he carries around campus clearly needed.

Your mouth starts to water, the blushed tip of his dick leaking with wet. “Kiss it off, baby,” he hums and you nod. Your lips press against the warm head of his dick, kissing it off just like he asked. “Just toy with me, yeah?”

Garrett’s words come out a little tighter and breathless. His eyes roll back in his head when your tongue curls around his tip, dipping in the slit, your other hand stroking slowly.

“Tongue out,” he tells you, wrapping his big fist around his dick, slapping the tip against your tongue. “Beautiful,” the word comes out quiet. “Kiss again,” he guides you. You press your lips into a pout, slick from spit, and he rubs his head against them messily.

He hums out a sound of approval, nodding down to his dick. Your hand circles him again, tongue dragging up the side of him as well, following a vein that maps all the way from base to top, your name dripping past his lips as his head hangs between his shoulders, chain swaying off his neck.

“Take as much as you want. You’re doing so fucking good—so, so good,” he sighs. “You can’t fit it all. That’s okay, baby. Just use your hand for the rest. Get me good and wet.”

You spit on his tip and his eye rolls back like there were two options to get him slicked up and you chose the best fucking one. Your hand circles around his thickness, stroking at the base a few times.

“Please,” he exhales, and your lips tilt into a smile before your lips wrap around him fully, taking him deep in your mouth.

You moan around him, discouraged for a moment about how much of him is left and how little you’ve taken in. Your mouth is stuffed, the look on his face letting you know that it’s more than enough for him.

“Holy shit,” he gasps. “Fuck, you feel so good.” When your hand wraps around him again, his eyebrows knitting tight.

You can feel his blood pumping through his cock, his hold on your head careful, like he wants you to guide the pace and not the other way around. For a moment he seemingly forgets about the task at hand as you work him with your mouth and your fist.

“Like—fuck me…” he sighs, losing his train of thought, the muscles in his thighs trembling. “Like this, baby.” He wraps his hand around yours at the thick base of his cock, twisting it slightly instead of jerking it back and forth.

“Yeah. That’s it,” he breathes, smiling as you start to bob around his length, rutting your pussy on top of him with the tempo of your mouth.

“Gonna use you a little,” he pants, resting his hands on your cheeks. “Tap out if it’s too much, alright? Breathe through your nose.”

He gives you a few shallow thrusts, melting like putty in your hand when you gag around him, smiling when you don’t push him away, resting your hands on the back of his thighs instead to keep you right where you’re at.

“Good girl,” he hums, making you choke on his cock again and again. Your vision starts to swim with it, tears pooling along your lashes. Your eyes flutter shut and the wet rolls down your cheeks.

“Goddamn,” he mumbles as he reaches his thumb out, tracing it under your eye, catching some tears as they fall.

“You’re a natural, baby,” he hums, sucking the tears off his thumb, handing back control, looking down at you like he’s proud.

“Let me thank you after this.” The words breathe past his lips as you suck and stroke, jaw aching from the stretch, moaning around his dick, the vibrations making his jaw tighten as he realizes just how much pleasure you’re getting from having his heavy cock in your mouth.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet… Fuck my thigh. Let me clean that up for you—teach you how to ride my face instead.”

His breathing changes and the grip on the back of your head suddenly tightens. The wet sounds fill the room around you, cock slipping through your spit, moans and grunts breaking past his lips getting closer and closer by the second.

“Gonna—I’m gonna cum, baby. You don’t have to swallow it,” he breathes, but you know he wants to finish deep in your throat.

Your hands move a little higher, nails sliding down the back of his ass and thighs and he loses it completely, climaxing with a deep moan, ropes and ropes of cum slipping down the back of your throat.

Your eyes slam shut and you swallow hard, sucking through it until he’s holding you in place, panting in overstimulation, each slide of your tongue making him flinch.

He smiles as he pulls you off him nice and slow, his breath leaving him shakily.

“Fuck, baby,” he hums. “Lemme see.”

You giggle breathily, holding out your clean tongue for him. He shakes his head and smiles, helping you up to your feet. His hand cradles your cheek, the other wrapping around your waist as he reaches for a breath.

“How was that, baby?” you ask.

His forehead tilts to rest against yours, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. “Baby?” he breathes, kissing you gently.

You tilt your head, lips drawing to the side. “I have a good feeling about us too?”

“You do?”

“I do.”

He kisses you again, deep and claiming. “That was perfect.”

“Yeah?” you ask sweetly, feeling his hands wrap around your body, dropping low, rough thumbs slipping under your lace thong, pulling it down this time instead, humming against your lips as your breasts press against his bare chest, your panties tumbling down your thighs.

He lifts you effortlessly off your feet into his strong arms, walking with you to his bed, resting you down on top before mounting it fast, caging you under his weight.

You suck in a sharp breath as he rolls you on top of him, your knees sinking into the mattress. His hands drag up your thighs, resting on your ass, pulling you closer to his lips. The warmth of his breath hits your wet pussy and your head falls back.

“Ready for your second lesson, baby?”

“What? You wanna try mine?” you ask, lifting your spoon to his lips but he pushes it away with two fingers.

“I still can’t believe you.”

“Seriously?” you giggle.

“Yes, seriously!” he insists as you take the bite yourself. “The audacity.”

Your shoulders bounce as you fight off the laugh threatening to break past your lips.

“I’m being so serious right now, baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, the words barely breathing past your lips as you try not to crack.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You absolutely do not,” he counters.

He looks down at you, waiting for your undivided attention. You turn your head, looking up at him, watching the forgotten ice cream on his spoon drip off onto his bare chest.

You lean in, grinning, running your tongue up his warm, tight skin and he scoffs again, pushing your head away.

“Knock that shit off,” he scolds you through a half-laugh. “You don't get to lick me.”

His arm slips away, shifting from you completely, putting space between the two of you. He fixes his hat, muscles flexing with it, the gold chain around his neck flickering in the low light, just a pair of grey Briar sweats and cozy socks on his body.

Your cheeks puff as you trap another laugh behind them when he gives you a jaded look for checking him out after all that.

“What?” His eyes narrow at you, voice still dancing between irate and amused. “You’re laughin’.”

“M’not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally eating dessert, Graham.”

“You can do both,” he mutters through a mouthful of ice cream himself.

“I don’t think I can.”

“You absolutely can because you’re doing it right fucking now—”

“Calm down,” you laugh when his voice cracks as it tumbles from his lips.

He thumps you on your head with his spoon and you push him away. Garrett leans a little closer, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

“I’m not mocking you, baby.”

“Yes, you are,” he snips. “You're extremely easy to read.”

“Can't a girl ask questions?” you ask, looking back toward the movie.

He mutters under his breath, sliding a rough finger under the strap of your tank top, lifting it, letting it fall with a little snap, stinging comedically versus ever-so-slightly like he hoped it would.

“I have never been so disrespected in my own home,” he mumbles like a tired father.

The laugh slips free before you can stop it. “You’re so dramatic.”

“So dramatic?” he asks, turning his body toward you, sitting up straighter. “So dramatic?”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurts just to keep yourself from laughing again. “I just asked what sport would you play if you were more athletic? I didn't mean to make you emotional.”

He pivots toward you slowly, eyebrow cocked, begging the silent question. Emotional… Are you fuckin’ kidding me?

You keep your eyes on the movie for another second before finally glancing over, and he's there for a question you'll hear loud and clear.

“What did you call me now?”

“…Unathletic?”

“No. Emotional.” He chuckles, letting out a long breath through his nose, shaking his head like he’s trying very hard to stay calm as a smile threatens at the corner of his mouth. “You know hockey is like the most athletic sport.”

“Mhmm?” you hum.

“We average like five miles a game.”

“Wowzers,” you giggle.

“My slapshots are over a hundred miles an hour, princess. You can't even drive that fast. And you're gonna sit there and act like that shit isn't athletic?”

Garrett lets out another long groan, dragging a hand over his face before pointing the spoon at you.

“You know what?” He sits forward. “I’m not done.”

You angle toward him, already trying not to smile. “You’re not?”

“I bench three-fifteen.”

“Hot damn.”

“Three-thirty-five on a good day.”

“Oh, thank god—”

“I squat four-fifty.”

“Sensational,” you answer, watching his nostrils flare.

“I’m givin’ you actual stats and you don’t give a fuck—look at this shit, baby,” he huffs, flexing for you, trembling with the effort. He rolls his shoulder, showing off his triceps too.

“Wow…” you murmur, letting your eyes wander over his broad body. “…Big boi.”

“…Did you just call me big boi?” he asks, staring at you another second before his eyebrows lift.

“Good boy?”

Garrett’s lips fall open like that title might have very well crossed the line “…I hate that,” he admits.

“Huh?”

“I hate that I liked that. Stop sweet talkin’ me when I’m pissed at you.”

You blink at him, all innocence again. “…Why are you pissed?”

“Shut up… Fuckin’ brat.”

Your head snaps toward him, acting offended yourself. “Garrett Graham.”

“Garrett Graham,” he mocks you, lifting his voice to a higher octave.

“Don’t be a bitch about it. It was just a question.”

His eyebrows shoot up so fast they practically disappear beneath his curls. “Thin ice.”

“What?”

“That's what you're skatin’ on,” he mutters, his abs tightening with his laugh, the ice cream-slicked spoon gliding along his tongue, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

Garrett drops his spoon back into the bowl with a dramatic sigh, settling his big body into the couch a little more before he looks over at you.

“Can't even enjoy my sweet treat right now.” He points at you again. “Fuck you.”

“Ughhh,” you scoff, “I’m just messin’ with you, baby.” You reach forward, plucking your phone out of the place you had it resting, thumb tapping with a beep before you toss it to the side.

"…You're joking?"

“‘Bout what?” you ask, your lips curling into a smile.

“‘Bout what, my ass,” he scolds. “You were recording that shit.”

“Well…” You tilt your head, scraping the last bit out of your bowl. “I could lie—” You gasp as his hand closes around your wrist, eating your last bite of ice cream before you can react. “RUDE!”

“ME?” he fires back with the same offense. “You’re rude. And wrong. I’m athletic as fuck. Take it back.”

“I know, baby. I know,” your voice turns impossibly sweet, more sympathetic than not, like you’re trying really hard to believe that just as much as he does, which only fires him up more.

He lets your wrist go and you lean across the little space between you, cupping both of his cheeks in your hands and squishing his face until his lips pucker into an unwilling pout before you kiss him.

He lets you do it too, chuckling through it as you rub your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks.

“I believe you,” you breathe. “So fast.” Your lips pushing against his again. “So talented.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles.

“Six miles a game is so damn impressive, baby.”

“I said five.”

“You’ll get there,” you breathe as his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you into his lap, his other arm hooking tight around your waist.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters.

He kisses you deep, sugar lingering on his soft lips before his tongue slips in. Garrett’s hand drifts lower, dipping between the waistband of your leggings, squeezing the supple flesh underneath in his big palm.

“Should make you suck my cock right here for teasin’ me, pretty,” he mumbles into your kiss. His hand reaches farther, your panties already soaked when his finger traces along the fabric. “You get wet off tormenting me, or what?”

“Maybe,” you breathe.

“Hmm… I got a question for you, baby,” he mutters, letting the tip of his thick finger dip in your wet hole. He pushes in and out slowly, letting that comment dangle in the air for a moment.

“What?” you ask impatiently.

“You athletic, bunny?”

You chuckle against his lips, your chest pushing a little tighter to his. “Maybe,” you whisper, and a crooked smile slides across his lips.

“Run.”

“…What?” you laugh breathlessly, the man still teasing your pussy with his fingers even after the threat.

“You heard me… You. Better. Run,” the words drip past his lips into yours.

“Garrett.”

“I’ll even give you a ten-second head start, baby.”

“You’re kidding—”

“One.”

“…Garrett.”

“Two.”

You scramble over his lap so fast you stumble a little, feet finally finding the hardwood with a slap, fixing your tank top, tugging up the back of your pants as you scurry toward the steps, but he’s already to seven.

“Eight… Nine…”

Behind you, Garrett’s voice follows at the exact same steady pace, his spoon scraping up the last bit of his ice cream, completely unconcerned by your growing panic as your foot hits the first step.

“Ten…”

You squeal, grabbing the banister to keep yourself from slipping as your socks slide against the polished wood.

By the time you hit the middle of the staircase, you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, glancing over your shoulder, your eyes matching his.

Garrett’s long legs eat up the distance, moving like the captain of Briar’s hockey team—fast, ridiculously athletic, and somehow already much closer than you could ever imagine.

Your scream echoes through the stairwell, bouncing off the high ceilings while Garrett’s laugh follows right behind it.

It isn’t even a normal laugh anymore. It’s loud and completely unhinged. Your heart pounds against your ribs, feet scrambling for any extra bit of traction while you practically throw yourself up the stairs two at a time.

You make it maybe three more steps before a pair of strong arms wraps around your waist, tossing you over his shoulder. Your entire world flips upside down, your eyes landing somewhere around the back of his gray sweats.

“Garrett!” you squeal—Crack! His hand lands against your ass with a playful smack.

“You’ve been runnin’ that mouth for thirty minutes,” he pants. “We threw gloves. I caught ya. Not my fault you’re slow as shit.”

He turns his head, chuckling against your skin before he bites teasingly. He isn’t actually angry—you know that much—but he’s absolutely decided you’re not getting away with tormenting him for the better part of half an hour without paying for it somehow.

“You’re in trouble,” he informs you matter-of-factly as he clears the last few stairs. You groan dramatically, going limp over his shoulder.

Your heart races wildly, every laugh stealing what little air you have left as you throw yourself farther up the staircase.

Garrett’s breathing barely changes. His footsteps never slow, never stumble, his strong legs carrying him up the stairs with the same effortless burst that gets him to loose pucks before anybody else on the ice.

And somewhere in between the first step and the last, you realize you probably should’ve picked a less athletic man to bully for the last thirty minutes.

“I’m sorry. Okay?” you giggle.

“Nah,” he chuckles, shouldering his bedroom door open, kicking it shut behind him with the heel of his foot. “Told you to run,” he reminds you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Gave you a ten-second head start like a gentleman.”

You smack his ass in mock protest, still breathless from laughing all the way up the stairs but before you can say anything he’s flipping you back over.

Your body lands on the comforter, a surprised gasp tripping past your lips as you press yourself up on your elbows to get a better look, but he’s already climbing over you.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he catches your face with a single hand, smiling so hard he can barely keep a straight face.

The two of you end up rolling sideways, tangled together in a mess of limbs and discarded clothes.

“Fuck, baby,” he teases, cupping your cheek in his hand as his body presses down on top of yours, watching you struggle to catch your breath. “Breathin’ hard and I don’t even have my fingers in you yet.”

“—You should though,” you whisper, the sweetness in your voice almost breaking him. “Felt so good downstairs.”

“Is that so? Glad you were enjoying yourself, pretty,” he mumbles, and you can just hear the “but” waiting to leave his lips after all of that bullying. “You’re not gettin’ off that easy.”

His mouth parts against yours, tongue sweeping slow and hungry, tasting you as his hand moves away. You moan into him as your hands slide up his chest, finger twisting into his curls, dragging him closer.

Garrett’s hips press forward, grinding slow and heavy between your legs, gold chain swinging at his collarbone, dragging cool against your skin.

His hand slides up your body as his lips toy with your breast, biceps swelling when he tilts down, mouthing at your chest and sucking at the gentle skin of your cleavage. He moans around you when you bring his fingers to your lips.

His eyes flick up to yours—dark and heavy as you slide two into your mouth. The tips press against your tongue and your lips seal tight, cheeks hollowing.

He lets out the filthiest groan as you swirl your tongue—just like you would if it were his cock in your mouth—and you know from the look on his face that he’s remembering that little threat he made downstairs.

“You want it, huh?” he asks as you whimper a soft ‘yes’. “Suck it. Maybe I’ll forgive you.”

“Baby,” you sigh, your lips trembling at the corners when you fight back a smile, forcing your lips into a pout.

“You want me to feel bad for you?” he chuckles, rolling you effortlessly on top. You giggle with delight, your hand slapping against his muscular chest as you steady yourself.

His hand tangles in the back of your hair, pulling you down to his mouth. His lips brush against yours, humming out a pleased sound having you on top like this. “Got twenty more minutes of teasin’ you. Do a good enough job and I’ll make it ten—”

“Football,” you grin.

“What?”

“I would have said football.”

“Keep talkin’,” he warns, his palm reaching up, resting on the top of your head, guiding you down. You laugh breathily, dragging your tongue along the deep ridges of his stomach, pressing kisses as you work lower and lower.

He sinks a little deeper into the pillow, lashes lowering as your fingers wrap around his thick dick, pumping as a line of spit falls from your lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “That’s it.” The praise falls from his lips as his hand rests behind his head, propping himself up for a better look as you tap his swollen tip against your tongue.

The thick muscles in his thighs clench with each slap, jaw dropping as your lips wrap around him tight, one hand slipping into your hair.

You moan around his length, taking him deep, watching his eyes roll back. “Christ… Just—Just like that, baby,” he pants, guiding your head, using your mouth to stroke him.

You let him use you—let him fuck your throat—spit slicking your chin as your eyes water and your hands grip his thighs for balance.

The wet sounds fill his room—every moan, every gag, every obscene sound making you more and more desperate.

His big hands rest on the back of your head, eyes pinching shut, fucking up into your mouth from the bottom. Your nails drive into his thighs, throat hot with the effort as his dick swells on your tongue.

You can tell he’s close, his breathing quickening with each passing second—that praise leaving his lips coming out a little more slurred as your soft lips glide up and down his dick.

“Thinkin’ about cummin’ just like this, pretty. What do you think?” he grits through his teeth—a smug smile painting his features.

You mumble around his dick and he grins, pulling you off him, leaving you reaching for air.

He rolls you again, spreading you open, a scream leaving your lips when he slaps your pussy. Your legs clamp together and all he does is shake his head with a grin, clicking his tongue, gripping your thigh to pin it down again.

He drives into you, burying himself to the hilt, your hands finding his hips, trembling at how deep he is.

Your gasp snaps into a moan, back arching off the mattress, when he draws his hips back, the muscles in his chest and stomach flexing tighter when he drags his body. His eyes fall, eyeing his wet cock, the head dropping between his shoulders as he blows out a deep breath.

“Wanted you so bad I barely made you beg,” his words grumble past his lips as his chain swings in your face.

You pull him down by his necklace, crashing your lips to his again. Your teeth scrape his lip, his tongue licking into your mouth. You’re so wet he slides in and out of you with ease, slick sounds echoing between your bodies.

He grinds down, hips circling, making your breath catch. “Yes,” you cry, clenching around him, and he groans—loud and filthy.

“Look at you. Crying on my cock—” he grunts, slamming his hips forward so hard your body jolts, skin smacking against his. “Fuck, pretty girl. You made a goddamn mess for me, huh?”

Sweat drips off his brow, biceps flexing as he squeezes your hip, keeping you flush to him, using the leverage to slam into you harder.

His hands hook behind your thighs, folding you in half, pinning you to the bed as he drives into you. Your nails claw at the sheets, then at his back, then into his hair, pulling at the roots.

“Garrett—Garrett, holy shit—” he dips down to kiss you—his cock sinking impossibly deep.

“You’re right there. C’mon, pretty girl. Stop bein’ a brat and fuckin’ give it to me.”

Your head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry as your body tightens, every muscle trembling as he keeps hitting that exact spot.

“C’mon, baby. Let him hear who makes you cum.”

Your orgasm rips through you hard, a choked sob escaping your lips as you clamp around him, shaking under his weight.

“That’s it,” he whispers against your mouth, still thrusting through the aftershocks. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You’re soaking him, dripping down your thighs, pulsing around him as he keeps fucking you through it, working you toward another.

“Feel that mess you made?” he asks, smugness laced in every word. “Proud of you, baby. So filthy for me. Need you on top.”

He pulls out fast, making you whine at the loss of him. Garrett wraps his hand around his dick, pumping as he watches you climb on top, hovering over him, delicate fingers circling your clit as he licks his bottom lip.

You spread your thighs, sinking on his tip, taking the first few inches, moving up and down teasingly before you take the rest—eyes locked on his, nails digging into his chest.

You ride him hard, your bodies colliding in messy, rhythmic slaps, the sounds of your pleasure filling the room.

Garrett grabs your waist, lifting you just enough to slam back up into you. “You’re gonna cum for me again,” he rasps. “Right fucking now.”

And you do—your belly tightens, the band snaps, and his name tumbles past your lips as your head falls back. Your throat’s ragged from sobbing his name, thighs drenched in sweat and slick, shining under the low light.

“Goddamn, baby… I’m almost there,” he mutters, reaching up to hook a hand around the back of your neck and kiss you, his hips stalling out as a whimper slips from his lips when he sighs that he’s cumming, filling you with his heavy load.

You shut your eyes in exhaustion, his smile sliding against yours as his nose nuzzles yours. His cock throbs inside you still, his heartbeat thudding against yours.

He kisses you again anyway, both of you still breathing hard, forehead resting against yours. His smile lingers, lazy and completely satisfied at how exhausted and fucked-out you look.

“You know…” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “You still haven’t apologized.”

“Yes, I did,” you laugh.

“Mm-mm,” he grunts, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“Literally said I was sorry,” you pant, drawing in a breath as he waits for you to finish your sentence, not even trying to hide the teasing look on his face.

“For ruinin’ my sweet treat?” he lifts an eyebrow. “No, you fuckin’ didn’t.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

“This?” he asks, tipping his chin toward your body. “This reaction’s apology enough for callin’ me unathletic, baby.”

His eyes drift over your face, taking in your damp skin, the little wisps of hair stuck to your forehead, the way you’re still trying to catch your breath.

“Stop,” you chuckle, turning your face away a little as he looks up at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

“Look at you… So sweaty,” he teases softly, his voice losing most of its bite as his fingertips tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Heat climbs into your cheeks, your lip bitten to hold back your smile. “Stop teasing me, Garrett Graham.”

“Coming from you?” he smiles, grabbing your cheeks between his fingers before stealing another slow kiss. “That more than made up for you fuckin’ with me,” he whispers, the words deep—vibrating against your mouth. “…Now delete that fuckin’ video.”

“Absolutely not.”

Garrett’s smile spreads against your lips before he lets out a quiet, defeated chuckle, already knowing exactly what your answer would be. He gives your hip a playful squeeze and shakes his head once.

“Well, fuck,” he sighs. “Round two, princess.”

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His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?

He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.

Dean dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.

Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.

Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.

He closed the app and opened it again.

Nothing.

His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.

You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.

You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.

Three minutes later it buzzed again.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.

This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”

You opened your settings again. Your blocked list was empty.

You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.

Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.

Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.

Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”

You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.

Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜

You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.

“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”

You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.

“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.

You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Dean let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.

“Babydoll?”

Silence.

“Honey?”

Still nothing.

“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”

You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.

“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone—Garrett and Tucker walking through the kitchen, talking about something he couldn’t even make out, Logan yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.

Dean clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Garrett or Tucker can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.

You always come.

So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.

You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.

Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.

“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? Left you some tickets at will-call like always. Just—wish me luck. Something?” Click.

You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.

The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.

The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.

He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.

His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Garrett finally nudges him. Dean ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.

“You good?” Garrett asks through a weak laugh, searching for Dean’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he hums.

“Everything alright?”

“Great.”

Garrett snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”

The words hit harder than Dean expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.

That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.

“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Dean shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”

“Yeah?” Garrett tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”

No, it doesn’t.

Dean can’t even come up with something in reply.

“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”

Garrett nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.

The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.

Dean skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.

Your seat is empty.

His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Dean catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.

The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.

Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’s taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.

The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.

The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving Briar with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.

Dean drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.

He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Graham said it best. “This isn’t like you.”

His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.

Straight to voicemail.

His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.

Another call. Another voicemail.

The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Dean fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.

“Rough one tonight, Di Laurentis,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.

Dean ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Garrett yells something back in Dean’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.

“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”

“Fuck you,” Dean barks and Garrett grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.

“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”

The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Garrett nods Tucker and Logan toward his Jeep. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.

He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.

“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.

He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”

His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.

“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.

The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.

The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.

You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.

And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.

His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.

“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.

“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”

He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.

“That game, baby. That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been at Briar. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those pricks from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”

The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.

And he still doesn’t have an answer.

He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.

He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.

And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.

He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.

Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.

It means admitting he might actually be losing you.

If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.

His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”

His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.

And still, nothing.

What the fuck did I do, baby?

His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.

For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.

“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.

He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.

By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.

Dean waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.

His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.

Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.

He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.

“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.

Nothing.

He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.

His eyes stay fixed on the window.

The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.

What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.

His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.

You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.

The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.

He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.

He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.

Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.

He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.

The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.

By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.

Dean steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.

His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.

You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.

You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Dean’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.

You were supposed to be at the game.

You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.

His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.

Dean doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.

“…Don’t you fucking dare, Dean.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.

“Just leave.”

“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why would I leave?”

Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”

Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Dean lets go of the window frame completely.

Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.

He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.

He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.

Dean finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby.”

The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.

“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you. I...” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better, but I will.”

He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.

“You’re killin’ me.”

Dean blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.

“Baby—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.

“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”

“Fucking finally, Dean.”

“What am I missing, baby? Holy shit,” his voice breaks.

“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”

“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”

“Why do you suddenly care?”

“I've always cared about you—”

“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.

“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”

“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”

“I—”

“You forgot. So I made them.”

“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “I just… I didn’t. I don’t know. I'm sorry—”

“I'm not done.”

His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.

“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”

Dean’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.

“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”

“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.

“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”

“I remember,” he breathes.

“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”

He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.

“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”

“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.

“What did you eat?” he asks softly.

“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”

His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C'mon," he panics. “That’s not what this is—”

“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”

“You know I wasn’t trying to—”

“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”

He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.

“I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I ask you to come with me. I didn’t know that’s how you were feeling.”

“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”

Dean lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.

“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”

He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”

Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.

“And look,” you sigh, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get your attention. I didn’t know how to handle this, okay? I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”

“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.

“What?” he asks.

“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Dean. $2.99? Really?”

He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.

“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”

Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.

“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”

He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.

“That’s why you’re here, Dean,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”

“Sweetheart…” he starts carefully, his voice softer than it’s been all night. “We’re halfway through the season. It’s been a lot. I know that.” He nods to himself like he’s finally found the answer. “But it’s not forever. Think about this summer.”

A tired smile tries to find its way onto his face. “We practically lived together. We stayed up ’til three in the morning watching shitty movies. We took road trips because we could. Dates all the time. We were good.” His eyes lock onto yours. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Dean knows it’s the wrong answer.

You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”

“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”

“We’re still together.”

He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”

“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”

He nods in agreement, waiting for more.

“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Dean.”

“Of course, honey.”

“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”

“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.

“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”

“Of course.”

“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”

Dean bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.

“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”

“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.

“Obviously.”

“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.

“I know who you are, Dean. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”

His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.

“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. I need that… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”

He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.

His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to Malone’s instead.

His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.

And now, he knows you were all alone.

And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.

His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.

“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”

He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.

“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”

He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”

Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.

“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I loved you less. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted.”

You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.

He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.

“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”

“Dean—”

“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.

“Go ahead,” you whisper.

“I don’t want someone easier. I don’t want somebody who expects less from me. I don’t want any girl. I want you. I can handle you.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.”

His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”

You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.

“You fucking hate this color. I’m sorry,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”

He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently against your knuckles.

“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”

“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”

“I’m tailgating in your front yard. I’m so serious. I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.

He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.

“I want you here.”

“Let me in? Please,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.

“You can ask me sweeter than that, Dean Di Laurentis.”

“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be so fuckin’ good for you. I missed you so much.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

Dean’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.

“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.

You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.

“Okay,” you breathe.

“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”

“Promise,” you whisper.

“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.

“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.

“Unblock me.”

“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.

“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”

“I promise,” you whisper.

“Thank you, baby.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know. I hear you,” he says quietly. “I heard every word you said out there.”

He shakes his head once before speaking again.

“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You deserve to know how important you are to me. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”

“I love you,” you murmur.

His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.”

He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.

“Stay?” you ask as he tilts closer, your fingers popping open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”

He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.

“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough. “If that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.

You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.

He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.

You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.

You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back to the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.

He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.

You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.

“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.

Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.

“Been so lonely,” he whispers, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”

“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.

“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.

“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.

“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.

“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.

Dean’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.

You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.

You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.

Dean kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.

His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.

Dean trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.

He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.

“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.

He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.

Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.

He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.

He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.

“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.

“Dean…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”

Dean’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.

He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.

Dean wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.

Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.

Dean pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.

“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.

You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”

“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, babydoll?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Di Laurentis is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”

“Yes.”

“Made for me, weren’t you?”

“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.

Dean moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.

“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Dean picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”

“Harder,” you whimper.

“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.

Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.

“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.

Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.

“Dean—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.

“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.

Dean pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.

“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.

“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.

“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”

Your eyes roll back as you climax, Dean moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.

Dean moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.

You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Dean back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.

“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.

You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”

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Music pounds through the speakers overhead while people fill the downstairs area. Love Island is still playing somewhere in the background on the flatscreen TV, reruns of the Heart Rate challenge episodes running on a loop while the real one plays out between the people packed into the living room.

Dean sits forward. Hunter starts gossiping before anybody can see who’s coming. Because after nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, it’s finally your turn, and every guy on that couch had been counting down to it.

The last time they’d all seen you, you were at the rink screaming at an official over a bullshit interference call before burying a shorthanded overtime winner.

Most of the guys in the room had only ever seen you in Briar hoodies and workout gear, hair shoved underneath a baseball cap, showing up at the rink for morning skate. None of them were mentally prepared for this.

And neither was he. Garrett knew you better than anybody else in the room. You didn’t know how to half-ass anything ever. The second you’d agreed to this challenge, Garrett should’ve known you were going to play to win.

Garrett knew exactly what was about to happen. You’re going to work your way down that couch. That’s literally the point of the game.

He knows they’re going to enjoy every second of it.

His hand freezes halfway to his beer as you step into the doorway wearing a fitted button-down tucked into a plaid skirt.

The sleeves are rolled neatly to your elbows, top few buttons undone just enough to show off the lace bra underneath. A pair of black-framed glasses sit on your nose. Your stockings squeeze your thighs, the little lace detail making him physically weak. High heels. A wooden ruler tapping against your palm as you survey the room—Garrett Graham was absolutely fucked.

You’re dressed like every college fantasy Dean has ever had in his entire life, and Garrett can already hear him giggling into his cup beside him.

He drags a hand across his mouth and manages to look away for approximately half a second before his eyes drift right back.

You adjust your glasses and smile sweetly at the room. “Alright, boys,” you announce, pointing the ruler toward the crowd. “Class is in session.”

Garrett’s eyes stay locked on the screen in front of him, shutting out the first two dances with some assholes from the basketball team completely. He tries to focus on seeming unaffected, like you weren’t moving exactly how he’d hope someone would given your little arrangement.

Casual, unattached, free to have fun with other people. And in those times when you were seeking something more reliable, more familiar, you’d link up. The issue is, Garrett wasn’t doing that. And he hadn’t for a while, and sitting here in this moment, he realized just how long it’s been since he broke that agreement completely.

You walk over to Tucker and he sinks farther back into the couch cushions, looking up at you. The gladiator costume suddenly looks a lot less intimidating when he’s staring at you with the same expression a golden retriever gets when somebody opens a bag of treats.

You slap the ruler against your palm as a slow smile pulls at your mouth.

“Well, Mr. Tucker,” you say, adjusting your glasses. “I reviewed your grades before class tonight.”

You take a step closer, resting the ruler beneath Tucker’s chin before lifting it lightly.

“Questionable,” you decide.

Tucker’s eyes go wide before he plays along immediately. “Professor, I can explain.”

“Can you?”

“No.”

The answer comes so fast that even you start laughing.

You sway your hips with the music, one hand settling on Tucker’s shoulder while you continue your little routine. Your lips find his skin, your fingers drifting around the back of his neck as he tilts for you, a grin spreading across his face as you dance.

The room breaks in applause as Tucker helps you off his lap, the look on his face begging you to stay as a soft “wait” falls from his lips, making everyone laugh.

You make it three steps before stopping in front of Beau. The pirate hat is already halfway off his, his button down shirt opened wide. You look him up and down thoughtfully.

“Hmm,” you hum and he straightens up and you tap your chin with your finger. “You’ve actually been doing really good lately.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?” He asks hopefully.

The smile tugging at your mouth gets bigger.

“Mhmm,” you smile, opening your shirt, one more button, reaching into the top of your lace bra, pulling the sparkle star sticker out.

“Wooooah,” he slurs and the room hoots and hollers as you peel the sticker off the sheet, opening his shirt a little more to press it against his skin.

Beau’s mouth falls open as the sticker sparkles on his chest, looking down at it like he actually earned this shit.

“Proud of you,” you whisper as you tilt in, smiling against his lips, feeling him sink into the couch before you kiss him softly.

“Thank you, baby.”

The words mumbled past Beau’s lips and hit Garrett like a punch to the chest. The knife twists when he chases your lips as you tease him, rewarding him with a kiss.

Hunter sits sprawled next to him, beer balanced casually against his knee while his other foot bounces impatiently.

Garrett drops his head into his hand, rubbing at his forehead like maybe if he covered his eyes this would all stop happening as you stand up.

Hunter’s hands open subtly in anticipation, ready to take you into his arms when you settle on top.

“Look at this asshole,” Dean chuckles against the rim of his drink and Davenport turns his head, smiling in agreement. Hunter doesn’t even deny it.

You stop directly in front of him, and Hunter’s eyebrows lift as you slide your glasses off.

You climb onto Hunter’s lap, your knees pressing into the old couch cushions. Hunter lets out a rich laugh that makes Garrett want to throw his drink at the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” the words leave Garrett before he can stop them, but nobody can hear it over the music.

You turn the glasses and place them directly on his face, tilting in slowly, letting the tension build between the two of you until the corners of his lips curl in a smirk.

“Such a fucking nerd, Davenport,” you whisper and he throws his head back against the couch before looking at you again.

You grab his face between both hands, squishing his cheeks together, kissing his pouted lips before your fingers thread into his hair.

You draw back, tilting away slightly, his gaze catching on the lowest button of your shirt before drifting higher as you grind on top of him. He grins smugly, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

The worst part was that Garrett had already had his chance. Last week the two of you had ended up alone after everybody else left, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder while the party died around you.

The conversation had shifted for a second. Not long, but long enough for him to realize you were giving him an opening, and long enough for him to panic and do what he always did when something started feeling a little too real.

He’d laughed, made some stupid joke, changed the subject, and spent the rest of the night pretending he hadn’t noticed it happen.

Garrett drags the cold bottle across his mouth and looks down before he does something stupid.

“Can you believe this shit?” Logan sighs through a smile.

“I am having a terrible, terrible time,” Dean lies, the widest smile stretching across his face as you walk toward Logan.

Garrett watches Hunter watch you walk away.

One of Hunter’s hands rests along the back of the couch while the other comes down to adjust the shorts of his officer costume because they’re suddenly too tight. Hunter licks his lips, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the brush of your skirt on your upper thighs.

The room feels ten degrees hotter. Garrett shifts in his seat and drags a hand across the back of his neck, trying and failing to ignore the nervous sweat gathering there.

You twirl the ruler once between your fingers as you approach Logan, dragging the end of it slowly across the front of his chest, over the referee jersey.

Logan follows the ruler with his eyes.

“Talking in class?”

Logan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“No shame!” Dean adds, tossing up his hands, playing along.

You click your tongue and shake your head.

“That’s disappointing.”

“I’m sorry, professor,” he answers eagerly.

“Turn around,” you breathe, and Logan scrambles to do just that, and whack! The party breaks out in laughter as you smack him playfully on the ass. “One,” you call and the party screams out three more along with you.

Logan spins back around laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath, your hands twist into his shirt, pulling him to your lips, and without warning he lifts you off your feet.

And Logan’s still grinning when you lean down and kiss him, your hands moving from his shirt to his hair, tugging enough to pull a groan from his lips as his head tilts back.

He sets you down on your feet and you smile, reaching for a breath, your eyes still locked on Logan’s as you walk away. Garrett tears his eyes away, his heartbeat pounding in his ears because the touching and kissing was bad enough, but that look—that smile. That’s his.

And he did this all to himself. You hadn’t even wanted to do this.

He remembers standing in the rink two weeks ago while they tried to recruit. You’d laughed, called the whole thing silly, and said you’d cheer them on. Garrett had been the one telling you to do it. Told you it’d be fun. Told you people would love you. ‘Just don’t overthink it, baby.’

Now he’s the fuckin’ baby overthinking everything.

“Mr. Di Laurentis,” the words drip honeyed past your lips, and the second they do, Dean cups a hand beside his ear, asking to run that back.

Dean sinks his head back against the couch as he looks back up at you. “Say it again.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, placing your hands on your hips. “Mr. Di Laurentis.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a second, nodding like that scratched an itch he’s had for a while. “Yes, professor.”

Then the second you’re within reach, he grabs your waist and pulls you straight down into his lap. The crowd roars.

Your back lands against his broad chest and Dean drops a quick kiss against the crook of your neck like he just can’t help himself.

“What did I say about phones in class?” You ask as you take his phone off the couch from beside him, flicking a finger to pull up the camera.

Dean’s arms tighten around your waist as the picture snaps. His laughter vibrates against your skin, more than happy to have that saved in his phone while his best friend struggles beside him.

You start to grind on his lap where you sit, his blue eyes tracing over your body. The view is almost too much. That little bra somehow even more distracting than before. His big hands find your thighs, thumbs tracing under the hem of your skirt.

You’re thrown off balance for half a second, reaching out instinctively to catch yourself, resting on the nearest thing, which happens to be Garrett’s thigh.

The contact lasts barely a second.

But Garrett still feels it.

That same hand slides away from Garrett, hooking loosely around Dean’s neck instead. You let the ruler hang loosely at your side before tilting your head.

“Aww…” You coo as you slip off Di Laurentis’s lap, smoothing out your skirt, glancing down at Garrett. “It’s the class pet.”

The entire room erupts. You take another step forward and Garrett’s hands find your waist, pulling you down to him, not waiting for you to settle yourself.

Your nose brushes against his, your fingers drifting up his neck into his hair just like they do when you’re alone. The noise around you fades until all that’s left is the way Garrett is looking at you.

Your lips brush against his as his hands steady you, gripping your ass in his big palms.

“My favorite student.” The words barely leave your mouth.

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “You rehearsing these lines?”

“Maybe,” you smile. “I like to win.”

“Holy shit,” he sighs, because that’s just another thing he loves about you. Cheering swells around you when your lips part and his tongue finds yours, guiding you to rock on top of him to the music.

You pull away and his lips chase after yours, leaving Dean and Logan snickering beside him, Di Laurentis shoving at Garrett’s shoulder because he’s so far gone and everyone can see it.

But, that was way too fucking short for his liking.

Now he’s sitting here thinking about Dean’s picture, Logan’s kiss, Hunter’s dance, even that stupid fucking sticker on Beau’s chest, somehow convincing himself everybody else got more than he did. He knows it doesn’t even make sense, but he can’t stop keeping score like some petulant little kid.

He’s spiraling.

“You’re up, Graham,” you whisper against his lips.

Garrett’s eyebrows pull together, his expression saying he’d completely forgotten there was a challenge.

“M’pretty comfortable where I am,” he answers, his rough thumbs catching on the soft lace on your thighs.

“We’re playing a game,” you giggle, stepping off his lap, but he’s quick to stand.

“Are we?” He hums as his face turns in closer to your ear, his hand resting on your waist to keep you close as the other boys move toward the kitchen without him.

He pinches your chin between his fingers and steals another kiss. Your hands land on his stomach, his skin warm and tight underneath your hands before he pulls back, adjusting the cowboy hat on his head.

You watch him disappear into the crowd, settling behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys as the music pounds through the speakers.

The challenge keeps moving as Garrett stands behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys, a fresh beer in his hand and absolutely no peace left in his body.

Empty cans and cups cover every available surface. Every set of eyes in the room is fixed on the challenge. Especially Garrett’s.

The first guy goes, and Garrett can’t even bring himself to watch, scrolling through his phone trying to look busy—pulling up the weather app to pretend he’s doing something.

The captain of the Briar basketball team, Cash Suzuki, drags his attention right back anyway. His name leaves your lips, the familiarity in your voice making Garrett sick.

He leans down and steals the smile off your lips with a kiss and Garrett’s throat tightens, his chest aching as your fingers twist into the front of the construction vest.

He flips you on the couch and you gasp, straddling his waist, his hands resting on your lower back.

Garrett bites his lip nervously, nodding like he’s physically trying to tell himself he’s okay. That he can have fun like this.

The crowd starts screaming when Tucker pulls the armor over his head. The movement is awkward enough to make you laugh, the plastic getting stuck on one arm before he finally yanks it free.

The grin on his face only gets bigger when you clap for him. By the time he flexes one arm dramatically and kisses his bicep through his laughter, half is chanting his name.

Hunter takes a page out of Tucker’s book, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one as the crowd completely loses its mind around him. The second it comes off, he spins it once above his head like a helicopter before tossing it somewhere into the party. He goes for his handcuffs next, binding your wrist before he kisses you deep.

Beau announces that he’s on the lookout for buried treasure, which can only be found by kissing along your foot and working up your thigh.

Logan’s referee jersey is two sizes too small, riding up enough to expose the hard lines of his stomach when he throws a flag in the air. He stands in front of you, towering over you, dipping down just enough so the whistle dangles in front of your lips, trying to sound sexy, but it comes out through a half-laugh when he tells you to “blow it.” You bury your head in your hands, hiding your smile, your cheeks hot and burning from your grin as you do just that.

Garrett drops his focus to the counter, ring tapping against the surface anxiously. Dean’s phone starts vibrating on the kitchen island, completely unattended.

Garrett reaches for it without thinking it through, Dean’s hockey number on repeat unlocks the phone on the first try.

The camera roll pops open. He finds the picture. The one Dean took while you were sitting in his lap. The one Garrett has been trying not to think about for the last fifteen minutes. He deletes it, opens the recently deleted folder, and does it again so it sticks. Permanent delete.

Not because he doesn’t trust Dean to do it himself. He doesn’t even think that far. His thumb moves before his brain catches up, erasing the only thing anybody could point at and get the wrong idea from.

The moment it’s gone, Garrett just stares at the screen.

“…She ruined me,” he mutters under his breath.

He locks the phone, sets it right back where he found it, and drops his head into his hand with a quiet sigh.

He really has lost his fucking mind.

“Abs!” The crowd screams and your hands rest on Dean’s stomach, tracing down each one as his hips sway. You gasp when he grabs you, flinging you over his shoulder like a firefighter mid-rescue. Your skirt flips forward, doing nothing to hide your little booty shorts underneath—Garrett’s hand tightening around the bottle as his possessiveness flares.

Logan claps him on the back, snapping him out of it. “G, you’re up,” he smiles but Garrett’s already pushing off the kitchen island.

He breaks through the crowd. His eyes find yours and the corners of your mouth lift. He takes a breath, focusing on the task at hand, ‘cause he’s got this, right? This is what he wanted.

The first girl smiles up when he approaches, and Garrett can’t help but smile back as he throws an invisible lasso, giving her a wink.

She waits for what comes next—the contact, the kisses. Instead, she gets little more than a bit of movement before he heads to the next one.

He just stands there for a second, completely blanking on what to do next. Her hands reach for his stomach instantly and Garrett’s abs flex as his breath catches, the whistle of approval that slips past your lips, pulling his attention right back to you.

By the time he reaches the third girl, the crowd starts to die down because it’s painfully obvious that Garrett Graham is not participating in the challenge. He’s cutting through it.

He looks down at the third girl and can’t make himself do it. Not that she isn’t stunning—she is. Her little halo sits lopsided on her head, her corset practically defying gravity.

Garrett glances over at you, and one eyebrow arches in his direction because this is not the Garrett Graham you know. This is not the Garrett Graham who can’t keep his hands to himself or his lips off anything. He’s completely lost in thought.

“There we go, buddy,” the boys cheer him on from the kitchen as he helps the next girl to her feet, the crowd going crazy for something—anything.

“Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.” The room breaks out in a chant.

Garrett looks down at her with a polite smile, spinning her under his finger. Her hands wrap around his waist when she gets the opportunity, her chin tilting up for a kiss. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to her forehead and a few people giggle around him.

And by that point he’s over it. He holds out his hand for the fourth, giving her a high five.

“G, this is Love Island, buddy. You’re givin’ the boys a bad name. Shake some ass or somethin’,” Logan shouts.

Garrett doesn’t even acknowledge it, giving the same treatment to the fifth and sixth girls down the line, all “good game” high fives as they look back at him baffled.

“Here we fuckin’ go,” Tucker and the guys cheer from behind the counter and, for the first time all round, the room actually starts paying attention again.

Garrett stops in front of the seventh girl and reaches for the leather vest hanging open on his broad shoulders. People whistle as he strips it down one big arm, then the other, biceps flexing as he slides the vest off nice and slow, tossing it in her direction.

The crowd erupts and Garrett winks, tossing her a set of finger guns. The cheering dies almost instantly when he steps away.

“What the hell was that?” Dean shouts over the music.

“What?” Garrett laughs, throwing both hands up. “I’m participating.”

“You’re not!” Logan yells from the kitchen.

“Virgin Mary over here.” Dean barks. “Graham, are you Catholic?”

“Fuck off,” Garrett chuckles, taking off his hat with one hand, carding his fingers with the other, blowing out a sigh of relief as he makes his way over to you.

You tip your chin up toward him and smile, so genuinely happy to see him that even he gets a little bashful, especially with you sitting there looking like that. He bites his lip as he leans down, his big hand resting on the back of the couch. “You look so fuckin’ good,” he hums against your lips.

For the first time all night, there’s no one between you and him, no one blocking his view, no one fighting for your attention, and no one making him sit there pretending this doesn’t bother him.

You’re right in front of him now, looking back at him in that little skirt and those cute glasses, your glossy lips tugging into a smile, and Garrett finally feels like he can breathe.

“Babydoll?” He drawls, settling his hat onto your head, the room responding with catcalls and whistles of approval. He draws back, grabbing your hands, running them down his strong chest, over the ridges of his abs, straight to the top of his shorts.

“Garrett,” you breathe, tilting your head slightly.

“Legs in the air,” he tells you and your heart starts to race, one of your teammates reaches over, grabbing your arm with secondhand fluster. “What did I say, huh?” He asks with a smile, and a sparkle in his eye as he grabs your bare thighs. “Legs in the air.”

You scoot down the couch and the second you do he dives in, hooking his strong arms under your thighs, practically folding you in half as he wraps them tight. You gasp and the crowd roars as he lifts you off your feet, the man bouncing you along with the beat of the song, rutting so hard you have to catch your hat to keep it on your head as you laugh.

He sets you back down on the couch, pawing off the handkerchief around his neck, taking it between his hands. You’re breathing heavily now, smiling ear-to-ear.

“Hands,” he mumbles, and you bind your wrists for him, the man tying the red fabric in a knot around your wrists, binding them together.

He grabs your arms and leads it over your head, pinning it to the back of the couch, pressing his lips against yours in a deep kiss.

“Keep this, yeah? No more touchin’ anyone else, understand? You can take it off when I tell you.”

“Okay,” you whisper through a giddy little laugh and he tugs at the handkerchief for emphasis.

Garrett pushes off the couch, pumping his fist as the crowd cheers. Your hands fall to your lap, heart racing in your chest.

Garrett ends up back behind the kitchen island with the rest of the guys while the judges argue over scores near the living room, half the room shouting over them like their opinions matter any more than the crumpled bills stuffed into the betting jars.

The challenge is technically over, but the party hasn’t settled down at all. Garrett stands with a beer hanging loosely from his fingers, pretending to listen to the guys around him when every bit of his attention keeps drifting back across the room to you.

You’re exactly where he left you, sitting on the couch with his cowboy hat still tilted over your hair and the red handkerchief tied around your wrists in your lap. Garrett keeps trying to look away first and keeps failing almost immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting every time yours does.

“I thought we lost you for a second there,” Logan says from beside him, leaning back against the counter with his cup lifted halfway to his mouth. Garrett barely looks over, only dragging his eyes off you long enough to shoot Logan a look before immediately finding you again across the room.

“You did,” he says, and Dean laughs into his beer.

“Yeah, no shit,” Dean mutters, following Garrett’s line of sight toward the couch before shaking his head.

He forces himself to stay where he is anyway, tapping the bottom of his beer against the counter while an underclassman with a clipboard tries to get everyone’s attention over the music.

Someone needs to pick a winner already. Someone needs to count whatever money they’re counting, read whatever dramatic announcement they’re planning, and end this thing before Garrett loses his patience completely.

You finally push yourself up from the couch before they announce anything, and Garrett straightens before he even realizes he’s doing it.

You make it a step before the captain of the basketball team walks in your path. You glance up with a polite smile already forming, and Garrett’s jaw tightens before the guy even finishes whatever opening line he decided was worth trying.

Cash gestures toward the hat on your head before stepping closer. Apparently whatever he’s saying requires him to lean in, too.

“Nope,” Garrett sighs, already pushing away from the island while Logan turns his head toward him.

“Go easy on him, G. He’s got his whole life ahead of him,” Logan taunts at the flagrant display of jealousy.

Garrett doesn’t answer because Suzuki made you laugh again, and that’s more than enough information for him.

“Hey, baby,” Garrett breathes, reaching out to fix your skirt where it’d ridden up on your hip before wrapping his arm around your shoulders, lips pressing against your temple.

Garrett taps Cash on the arm, a little rougher than necessary. “Hey, buddy.”

“You need somethin’, Graham?” Cash asks with an annoyed laugh.

“Need her, yeah,” he answers, his hold around you tightening. “Unfinished business,” he chuckles, tugging the fabric a little between his two fingers.

“Sure,” Cash scoffs in reply.

“Have a great night, yeah?” Garrett smiles, clapping him on the chest this time, using the contact to push him away, ever so slightly. You give him a look and he looks right back down at you—shrugging like the reaction was restraint.

Garrett’s hand traces down to your wrists, grabbing the bandana, tugging it loose.

“Still had it on,” he hums.

“I’m a good listener,” you breathe as he tilts in for a few soft kisses. Your heart is racing in your chest, everything up until this moment taken between closed doors, no public claims to speak of and now you’re in the middle of the hockey house all wrapped up in his arms.

“Had you all tied up for me and they still didn’t put it together,” he sighs, your hands finding their way around the back of his neck, nails sliding into his hair. “You wanna go upstairs?” He asks, his voice deep and desperate.

“We don’t know who won,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance with how long this is taking—especially now that he’s got you like this.

“Hey, winners? Who are they?” Garrett’s voice barks across the party impatiently.

“You got places to be, Graham?” Dean asks teasingly against the rim of his beer bottle, and Garrett’s arm tightens around you, wordlessly sharing the answer with you—absolutely I do.

The underclassmen huddle around the board of tallied tickets while everyone waits. They point at you and Hunter and the crowd cheers. You throw your hands in the air and smile, and Hunter’s quick to swoop in, celebrating the moment with you.

“So Davenport and my girlfriend. We done here?”

Logan’s head snaps toward Garrett so fast. “His what?” He mouths to Dean whose eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. Beau physically chokes on his drink. Even Hunter’s celebration slows for a second as he sets you back on your feet. But Garrett doesn’t seem to notice a thing when his hand finds your back again.

Around them, Garrett’s reaction to the challenge suddenly makes sense—the jealousy, the focus, and the complete lack of interest in anyone who wasn’t you.

The corner of Logan’s mouth twitches as he tips his beer in Garrett’s direction. “Could’ve fuckin’ told us,” he mutters, and Dean snorts into his drink.

“A heads up would’ve been nice,” Dean hollers.

Logan lets out a laugh, but Dean’s already reaching into his pocket for his phone, the picture clearly hitting him at the same time. “Might as well get rid of that picture now,” he says absentmindedly, unlocking it with one hand as he leans into the kitchen island. “…The fuck?”

“What?” Logan asks, leaning over far enough to look at the screen.

Dean stares at it for another second before a laugh escapes, shaking his head as he locks the phone again. “He already did it.”

“Oh? It’s gone? Garrett? Our Garrett?” Logan asks, clutching his metaphorical pearls like he’s surprised in the slightest.

Dean slips the phone back into his pocket, still chuckling to himself. “That tracks.”

Garrett’s hand stays locked with yours as he leads you through the crowd, weaving around people. The noise of the party grows quieter the farther you get from the living room, just the sound of your heels clicking against the hardwood and your heart thumping in your chest.

He’s quiet, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking, his mind swirling with images of you with other guys. Good guys who’d make you happy too, and if he didn’t step up, they were gonna step in. He’s never been casual about you anyway.

Garrett glances over, catching the smile on your lips.

“What are you smilin’ about?” He asks through a chuckle as you clear the last step, moving upstairs. He uses the momentum to twirl you under his finger, that little skirt about your hips kicking up, the pleats fluttering.

“Nothing,” you answer. “I’m not—”

“Smile’s too pretty not to notice,” he hums as he pushes through his bedroom door. “Seriously?”

Your lips pull to the side as warmth creeps into your cheeks. He walks around you, unable to keep his eyes off you. His gaze works its way up your body before meeting yours.

“You have a girlfriend now?” You ask curiously and Garrett freezes. And for a second, the realization hits him, replaying the moment downstairs when he spoke those words without another thought.

“Oh, shit.” He drags a hand through his hair, standing across from you. “I said that, didn’t I?”

“You did,” you answer, tossing the cowboy hat to the side.

“I didn’t mean to just throw that out there like that,” he says. “M’sorry—”

Whatever he was about to say dies instantly when you kiss him, his hands catching your waist. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pushing your body closer as he takes two steps, crowding you into his door.

The wood rattles on the hinges and your tongue slips between his lips. His hand falls to grip your thigh, lifting it higher as he presses his hips forward, pushing against you just right.

You whimper against his lips and he smiles against your mouth, kissing along your jaw to your ear.

“Gotta ask you somethin’,” he mumbles, the heat and pressure between the two of you thick when he looks you in the eye. His forehead rests against yours.

He takes a deep breath anyway, smiling despite how badly he wants you, and how nervous he is.

And, even though it’s been weeks of nights just like this, they’ve never ended just like this.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” He asks.

Your nose scrunches and you smile, feeling him move a little closer when he sees your reaction. His other hand drops to your other thigh, pulling you into his arms, your legs hooking around his waist.

“Of course, I will.”

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Took you long enough,” you laugh softly.

“I know,” he sighs, pulling you off the door, not letting you go. “I’m an idiot. Made me sweat it out for a few seconds there.”

“Well, I mean I don’t do boyfriends,” you answer with a sarcastic bite, playful nonetheless, leaving him laughing and tossing you down on the bed.

“That was a lie,” he mumbles as he crawls onto the bed, pushing his weight and his lips against yours. “I was fucked up all night.”

“You weren’t having fun?” You whisper between kisses.

“No.”

You laugh at his reaction, the word tight and short, feeling his big hand grip your thigh, spreading you wide underneath him.

“Hardest shit I ever had to watch,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?” You ask and he chuckles when he feels your lips tilt into a smile.

“Watching my girlfriend dance on other guys? Kiss other people? Fucking nightmare.”

“I wasn’t your girlfriend yet.”

“You are now,” he hums and you gasp when he rolls you on top.

You giggle as you dip in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I am.”

“You look so good,” he mumbles as his tongue slips between your lips, sliding against yours, one hand working up the back of your button-up shirt while the other squeezes your ass. “I know I already told you that, but fuck. Couldn’t even tell you. First time I saw you like this and you were climbing into someone else’s lap.”

You gasp when his big hand pushes under your skirt, fingers tracing up the inside of your thigh when he whispers, “You know how insane that made me?”

“You’re the one who told me to do this?” You giggle as he peels off the shorts underneath your skirt.

“Had no idea it was gonna be that hard,” he mumbles with a deep tone that rumbles against your soft lips. You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips to tease before you push off his chest. His jaw tightens as you pinch the top button of your shirt. He pitches his hips fast, fighting his shorts and boxers down his strong thighs, his heavy cock hitting his skin with a slap when he sees more and more skin.

“You look good, Garrett,” you whisper and he chuckles under his breath hearing that come from you.

“You…” He mumbles, getting distracted when the shirt falls off your shoulders and flicks to the side, leaving you in nothing but heels, stockings, a bra, and that little plaid skirt that’s been tormenting him all damn night. “Fuck, you look so beautiful, baby.”

He wraps his hand around his dick, stroking himself as he looks up at you, lip tucked with his teeth, the muscles in his chest and arms swelling with each stroke as you take off your bra too.

“Oh, shit,” he moans, his eyes rolling back, head pressing into his pillow, before he slides up on the bed, his bare chest pressing against yours.

Your nails work through his dark hair as his mouth wraps around your nipple, sucking and kissing while his fingers press against your pussy.

He moans into your tits and you whimper as his fingers push inside, your hips rocking back and forth.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “My baby’s wet, huh?” You can hear the smile in his voice as his fingers curl inside you. “All mine… All fuckin’ mine, huh?” His words come out tight and impatient.

“All yours,” you whisper.

“On your knees for me,” he hums, his words buzzing against your lips before he flips, leaving you gasping and clawing for the comforter, not even letting a second pass before he takes what he wants.

“This body,” he groans as his hands grab your hips, palming your ass, spreading you open with a low sound.

You shiver when his spit hits your hot skin, the wet rolling between your ass, catching at your entrance before he stuffs it inside with two thick fingers.

He works his hand fast, palm slapping against your skin, your pussy sounding like water. Your back arches and your muscles tighten, bunching up his blankets in your hands as the pleasure in your body swells.

“Garrett,” you squeal, your words muffled into the bed.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Cum on my hand, baby. Let me have it.”

“Fuck,” you cry out, pussy fluttering around his fingers as they dart in and out, only stopping when you soften around him. Tears spill onto the bed when he leans in, sliding his tongue along your slit, moaning like a slut at the taste.

“Oh my god,” he sighs like he was starving for it, pussy-drunk already when he bunches up your skirt in his big fist, the other wrapped around his dick.

Garrett’s hand finds your neck, pulling you back, pressing his lips against yours as he squeezes. He pushes in slow, moaning against your mouth until his body presses tight against yours. “How could you belong to anyone else, huh?” He asks when he feels your breath catch against his lips. “Fit so fuckin’ good inside you. Wish you could feel how you feel around me. You’d be losing your mind too.”

Your lips tremble against his, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as he lets you sit with it for a moment before pushing you back down.

He thrusts in rough and hard, making the fat of your ass bounce, his rough hands gripping your waist tight, eyes set on the wet place the two of you connect.

Your body falls forward into the mattress, face mashed to the sheet as he drills into you from behind, using the hold on your skirt and your hip to work you over.

Your thighs start to shake uncontrollably, each sound from your lips more pathetic than the last.

“Need you to cum again, okay?” He asks as his arm slides around your waist, pulling you back against him.

His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight little circles that have your hands flying to his forearm and thigh for balance, nails clawing into his flesh as you whimper you’re cumming, squirting around him with a hoarse sob.

“There she is,” he groans, his fingers working through the wet spurts, thighs losing their rhythm, cum spilling inside you as he curses against your shoulder.

His breath comes out hard and fast against your throat, your thighs soaked and sticky as he chuckles softly into your neck, nuzzling closer.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, his smile curling against your skin. “You fuckin’ own me, you know that?”

“What was that?” You ask, needing to hear it again. He rests his chin against your shoulder, holding you a little closer.

“M’yours,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper, and he wraps his arm a little tighter, lips grazing yours.

“That’s my girl.”

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Your words die on your lips when Garrett and Wellsy crash down into the booth as well, Tucker and Logan scooting closer, none the wiser.

Dean glances down at the app on his phone before lifting his eyes back to you. “Nobody knows,” he chuckles, relaxing back into the booth and throwing an arm around your shoulder, his mouth brushing your temple. “Trust me—” Buzz!

You press your body back into the seat, eyes pinching shut as you ride out the next wave of vibrations coming from the toy in your panties.

“You doin’ okay, babe?” Hannah asks from across the table and your eyes flash open immediately. Your thighs are already slick when Dean’s hand traces through it. Your legs quake and your hand comes up from its wicked grip on the leather, squeezing his wrist like a warning.

“M’perfect, Han. Just a little hot. Is it hot in here?” You ramble.

Dean’s arm wraps a little tighter around your shoulder. The other hand settles back against your thigh and he has the decency to look pleased with himself.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs under his breath. “Who do you think bought this for me, huh? Hell of a gift, by the way.”

Your glare sharpens and he tips his drink toward you like he’s proving a point.

Dean is having way too much fun at Malone’s—drink in his hand, shirt half-unbuttoned, chain glinting against his chest every time a laugh works loose.

And even though he’s supposedly lost in a conversation about summer plans, he’s watching. Watching every breath you take. Every little tremble. Every pause while you try to keep up a conversation with Logan and Tucker without coming undone.

“You need another drink, pretty,” he drawls when you go to take a sip.

You gasp, missing the straw completely as another round of vibrations catches you off guard. A little bit of liquid sloshes over the rim of the cup—not much, just enough for Dean’s eyes to drop to it. You quickly lift it to your lips, sucking the rest down.

“Shaky tonight,” he chuckles, putting it on a low, steady vibration.

Dean smiles at you like a bully when he sees you struggling to compose yourself, leaning over to press a kiss against your temple.

“I’m serious, you want anything?” His fingers tap against the glass before he reaches for it like a gentleman—but his eyes are anything but polite, glittering with wickedness as he watches you struggle.

He wraps his hand around the cup too, trying to pull it away, but the death grip you have on it to keep yourself from cracking leaves him chuckling under his breath.

“Dean, please,” you whisper.

“What?” He blinks at you innocently. “You wanna come with me to the bar or somethin’?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

“Me?” He presses his hand to his chest, feigning surprise. “Not like I’m waiting for you to beg or anything.”

You look toward your friends, still deep in conversations around you. “I’m not gonna beg,” you whisper.

“Yet,” his lips twitch against the rim of his glass, winking before he tosses the rest back.

You laugh weakly, shoving him out of the booth.

“Where are we goin’?” His hand reaches for yours.

“Anywhere but here,” you press the words through your teeth as you fake a smile, pulling him through the crowd toward the door and he follows.

A long, cruel vibration punches a gasp from your chest as your thighs clamp together, stopping you in your tracks. You whip around, fury and need burning through you all at once. “I swear to God, Dean—”

“What? Did I do somethin’?” He takes a step closer, his voice calm and daring.

“God, I hate you right now,” you whisper-laugh as you glare at him, chest heaving.

“Yeah?” He tilts his head, smile deepening, eyes soft and sharp at the same time. “You don’t mean that, pretty.” He reaches a hand to cradle your face as you look up at him, his thumb rubbing along your trembling lip.

“Stop teasing me, Di Laurentis.”

“Or what?” He asks, condescending. “What are you gonna do, bun? You dragged me over here. Seems like you’re the one without a plan.”

You chuckle helplessly, completely at his mercy while he just stands there enjoying every second of it.

“I want you to stop teasing me.”

“Baby, you don’t even sound convincing.”

“Can you just stop,” you groan through a flustered laugh.

“That’s funny,” he scoffs. “You don’t look like you want me to stop—that’s not what your face is tellin’ me. You are doin’ a hell of a lot of yappin’ I’ll give you that.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe as he dips down for a kiss.

“Fuck me? Now we’re gettin’ somewhere… That sounds like a perfect idea, baby,” he hums. “We can get outta here. Or we can stay right where we are. I’m havin’ a pretty good time either way.”

“I’m aware.”

“Oh, shit… Is it that obvious?” He asks, dimple deepening in his cheeks as he looks down at you. “I know what you want.”

“I’ve said it ten times.”

“You said that twice… ‘Stop teasin’ me, Dean’,” he tries on your voice just to piss you off, dragging you toward his mouth to whisper, “Tell me what you need from me.”

The tension builds between the two of you, thick and heavy with the words you know he wants to hear.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He chuckles, his laugh deep and syrupy, like the night finally went his way.

“There’s my girl,” he mumbles, the words brushing your mouth before he draws back, looking toward the bathrooms, catching the little line of people waiting, backed against the wall. He looks to his left, catching the photo booth, the corner of his lips twitching.

“Dean…”

“Bunny.”

“Dean Di Laurentis.”

“Baby doll.”

“We’re gonna get kicked out,” you giggle, resting your hands on his chest. “Again.”

“And yet,” he hums as he closes the space between you. “They keep lettin’ us back in.” Buzz.

The sharp vibrations nearly buckle your knees and you shove him hard enough to send him stumbling back a step. He catches your wrist immediately, laughing as he pulls you with him.

His eyes flick one way, then the other, checking the crowd before he reaches for the little sign hanging outside the booth. You already know exactly what he’s thinking. The sign spins between his big fingers from Open to Out of Service.

You’re still laughing when he tugs you inside, the curtain swinging shut behind you. His grin matches yours as your hands find his belt. Dean's fingers disappear into your hair. His mouth crashes into yours before either of you can say another word, his body pressing tight against yours.

“How am I supposed to help myself when you’re so fun to tease, baby?” He asks quietly, dragging his lips against yours.

“Enough,” you breathe, your voice shaky and thin as the constant vibration keeps you on edge. You feel him smile against the kiss. “I told you what I need, alright, I—”

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, huffing a quiet laugh when you grab another fistful of his shirt. “You’re alright. M’just messin’ with you.”

“Really?” You chuckle against his lips as his big hands drag up your thighs, lifting your skirt up with it. “Who woulda thought?”

“I know,” he mutters, his words ghosting across your lips. “I almost never fuck with you. I should do this more, huh?”

He hooks his thumbs around the lace of your panties, tugging them higher, pressing them harder against your clit as you try to maintain your composure, leaving you twisting his shirt in your fingers for balance.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you hum.

“Been enjoying myself all fuckin’ night. Can you blame me?” He buries his face in your neck, hand diving between your thighs.

“Shit!” You gasp.

“Fuck me.” The words drag out of him against your skin as he feels the vibrations hum against his palm, pressing it higher, your hips answering with a slight buck.

The music from the bar pulses around you, his big body taking up most of the little booth leaving the air around you hot and thick. His zipper slides down, and he bends you over just enough, not letting you get far.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice roughening as he kisses down your neck, feeling how wet the panties are. “Made a mess of these, huh?”

A couple people pass by, leaving the curtain swaying slightly in the breeze. His head snaps toward it and he draws back the curtain just enough to check, the other hand shoving his jeans down just enough.

You bite your lip, gasping as you feel him, hard and thick, dragging against your thigh, the press of his thick tip maddening. “I can feel your legs shaking, baby.”

“Dean, please…” You breathe, hand flying back to claw at his hip as the other hits the booth’s wall.

Dean breathes out a laugh, nuzzling into your hair, his fingers hooking into your panties to tug them just aside.

His hand curls over your mouth, sealing off the sound as he sinks into you. It’s slow and deep, your moan trembling against his palm while his catches tight through his teeth. His strong arms tighten around you, holding you steady to his chest as he moves.

“Squeezing me,” Dean grunts as his hips snap forward again, rougher this time. His belt clinks at his hips, jeans shoved just low enough, the cold buckle grazing your thigh with every deep, hungry thrust. He buries his face into your neck—groaning against your skin.

You answer with nothing but a whimper, legs trembling, the slap of skin loud in the booth, the bar music louder overhead.

“So good,” he grits out, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, fingers digging in—cruel and punishing, needy and greedy, desperate to have every part of you.

Your skin claps against his, the sweat and slick between your bodies making each motion obscene. You look back over your shoulder, catching him in the dim light, his shirt caught between his teeth so he can watch the way he slides in and out, his eyes rolling back before his head lulls to the ceiling.

The knot in your stomach tightens, the pleasure that has been building inside you coming to a head. Your thighs tremble beyond belief, Dean’s muscles swelling as he keeps you in place, biceps tugging the sleeves of his shirt taut.

His hips snap forward and you stumble slightly, hands reaching out to catch yourself, the two of you laughing and breathless—Ding. Ding. Ding. Pop!

The photobooth goes off and your stomach sinks as it captures a picture. Dean’s grip locks around your hips with no plans to stop, your body teetering at the edge of ecstasy anyway.

“It’s fine. It’s fine,” he mutters. Ding. Ding. Ding. Pop!

A second photo snaps as you throw your head back, hips tilting, grinding into him as you gasp.

“Fuck, Dean,” you moan as he picks up the pace.

The third and final flash bulb cracks as you shudder, your orgasm breaks and he lets out a guttural groan, almost losing his balance as he fucks into you, spilling deep, clutching you so tight as his head falls between his shoulders.

“Oh my god,” you mumble, forehead pressed to your forearm as you try to get some air through the heat, your body trembling as you fight the panties off your clit, pushing them down your thighs just enough to escape the vibrations, your body still warm and sensitive everywhere Dean touched.

“Fuck, that was good, huh?” He asks, grin spreading as his hand reaches around, hooking under your chin, pulling you back to his chest, pressing his lips to yours. “So beautiful when you cum. You know that?”

His blonde fringe is wet, hanging in his eyes, his shirt opened just a few more buttons, showing off the slick of sweat on his chest.

His laugh melts right into your skin as he kisses his way to your jaw, lips resting on your shoulder, thumb rubbing on your bare hip as he pulls out.

“Absolutely not,” he tuts, smiling against your skin as he pulls the panties back in place, the hum of the toy, so soft you can barely feel it, but it’s there before he smoothes your skirt back down.

“Dean—”

“You complainin’, pretty?” He taunts and chuckles. “What? You want it higher?”

“You’re such a bully,” you whisper as he turns you around, taking two steps back with you, sitting down on the photo booth bench, guiding you to climb on his lap.

He reaches down to his phone, shutting the vibrations off completely, before setting it to the side.

“You turned it off?” You hum.

“M’done messin’ with you, bunny,” he chuckles as you straddle him.

“Why?” You ask like there has to be a catch.

“Just wanted to kiss my girl for a minute,” he mumbles, reaching for you when your body settles, kissing you slow and lazy, so tender it makes you lightheaded. His tongue drags along yours, his other arm binding around your waist with a heavy hand.

“This thing’s always broken?” Someone bitches from outside the curtain and you and Dean freeze, the two of you collectively holding your breaths, while the people stand right outside the curtain.

Dean watches you through half-lidded eyes as you pinch the zipper of his jeans between your fingers, gliding it up slow.

They disappear and Dean pulls back with a laugh, pressing his lips against yours while the two of you try to catch your breath.

“The pictures,” you whisper.

“If they took ‘em I’m gonna lose my shit.”

“Yeah?” You giggle, smiling against his lips.

“Mhmm,” Dean hums as his hand slides up your back, settling between your shoulder blades before he pulls you a little closer. The photo booth suddenly feels too small for him. “Those are mine,” he mumbles as he reaches out, pressing the button.

“They are,” you smile.

“Hell, yeah they are. So are these.”

The camera flashes and neither of you look at it. His hand settles against your cheek, thumb dragging softly against your skin as his gaze settles on you—another flash lights up the booth.

“Just like that,” he hums, shifting for the next shot, smiling when you climb closer.

The next kiss is slower, the corner of his lips curling into a smile as his eyes flash toward the lens as the camera flashes again.

“You’re so beautiful. You know that?”

Your smile tugs against his mouth. “You tell me that every day.”

“Yeah, well.” He looks at you for a second before his thumb drags across your cheek again. “M’gonna keep tellin’ you.”

“Dean.”

“Baby?” His forehead falls against yours as the final picture snaps.

“We should probably get outta here.”

“Probably…” He sighs, arms tightening around your waist. “Couple more minutes.”

“Hi.”

Garrett’s eyes drift immediately toward whatever she’s carrying before returning to her face again. The foil is folded neatly around the edges and tied with a ribbon. He studies it for another second before lifting an eyebrow.

“Uh… What are you doin’ here?”

A nervous laugh escapes her. “I brought you something.”

He looks down at the pan again, then back at her.

“What is it?”

“Banana bread.”

For a moment he genuinely thinks there has to be another part of the explanation coming. Instead she just keeps smiling at him from the porch while he stands there holding the door open.

The silence stretches long enough that Garrett finally reaches forward and accepts it out of pure awkwardness, adjusting it in his hands while trying to fix his expression because he knows his face is already asking the question for him, why did you randomly show up and give me bread?

“Thanks.”

She nods ever so slightly, glancing over his shoulder, begging a silent question of her own. May I come inside?

“Was there something else?” He asks, stepping in her line of sight. Her expression falls just enough for him to notice.

“I just thought maybe we could hang out.”

Garrett blinks a few times, staring at the loaf pan in his hands before meeting her eyes again.

“I’ve,” he mumbles, clearing his throat uneasily. “I got a study session in a few hours.”

“—That’s not for awhile,” she jumps in eagerly, and his jaw tightens.

“Yeah,” Garrett says slowly. “I should probably get ready for it.”

“For a study session?” She chuckles, but it’s paper thin. Garrett can practically see the comparison happening in real time. All those nights she’d shown up at one in the morning and he’d answered the door with untamed curls, post-bar pizza stained shirts, and liquor lingering on his lips, not helping his case.

Garrett finally catches the look on Chelsea’s face and immediately realizes he’s probably being shorter than he means to be.

His free hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck while he searches for something nicer to say. The problem is that he really isn’t busy, and the problem underneath that is that he doesn’t particularly want to hang out with her even if he wasn’t.

“Hey,” he says more gently. “Thank you. Seriously. I’ve just got a lot goin’ on tonight.”

Her smile wavers, but she nods. “Another time?”

He gives her a polite nod. A few moments later she’s heading back down the front steps while he closes the door behind her, the latch clicking softly.

His phone buzzes again before he can think about it any longer. Garrett unlocks the screen immediately, his attention shifting right back where it had been before the doorbell interrupted him. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he reads through the newest message, already typing out a response while he walks toward the kitchen.

The loaf pan lands on the counter with a heavy thud. He crosses the rest of the kitchen and drops back against the opposite counter, one ankle crossing over the other while his thumbs move across the screen.

Across the room, Logan lifts his head. His eyes move from Garrett to the loaf pan as a smirk plays on his lips. “Who the hell is that from?”

Garrett doesn’t look up, chewing on the inside of his cheek distractedly. Logan waits, leaning into a counter a little as he looks for a sign of life. Nothing.

“Earth to G,” he says, louder this time. “Who is that from?”

Garrett’s thumbs finally stop moving and he looks up at Logan before looking down at the pan. He shrugs lazily. “Chelsea.”

Logan’s eyes immediately narrow and Garrett tosses his gaze to his phone fast as another notification rolls in.

“Chelsea Reed?” Logan asks, reaching a hand out, dragging the bread in front of him as he pulls at the little pink bow on top.

Garrett nods, completely unaware of the grin spreading across Logan’s face. “Damn, dude.”

That finally gets Garrett’s attention, he cocks an eyebrow at him, adjusting his stance a little. “Am I missing something?”

Logan pulls off the tin foil, leaning down to give it a deep sniff. “Fuck… That smells good, bud. You didn’t invite her inside or anything?”

Garrett's nose scrunches a little, brows furrowing. “No.”

“Seriously?”

“Why would I?”

A laugh escapes Logan before he can stop it. “Why are you acting like that’s not a thing? She’s hot. She’s obviously into you. You two still got somethin’ goin’ on?”

“—No,” Garrett steps in fast, shaking his head. “Not for a couple weeks now.”

“Well,” Logan murmurs, grabbing a fork, digging in. “Guess the theory didn’t work.”

“Theory?” Garrett asks, his interest piqued for the moment.

Logan closes his eyes, nodding at the taste. “The theory,” he mutters through a mouthful of food.

Garrett’s brows pull together. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Logan digs in for another bite, eyes rolling back in his head. “This shit’s fantastic—”

“Dude what theory?” Garrett asks again, his arms crossing over his chest, finally giving him his full attention.

“Internet says banana bread is basically the fastest way to make a guy fall in love with you—S’workin’ on me.”

Garrett lets out a short laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “You shittin’ me?”

“I shit you not,” Logan sighs, taking down another slice in seconds. “It’s thoughtful. Romantic. Delicious. It says I was thinking about you. Here’s some sugar and some old bananas.”

“That’s dumb,” Garrett mumbles.

“Is it?” Logan asks.

“You know how chronically online you sound?” Garrett chuckles under his breath, pushing away from the counter.

Garrett wanders closer, resting both palms against the top while he studies what remains of the loaf, nearly half of it already gone.

The banana bread sits between them, seemingly working its magic on a man with absolutely no emotional attachment to the person who made it.

Garrett squints at it for a second as the wheels start to turn.

What would it do for somebody like him?

𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓮𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼 𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻…

John Tucker barely makes it two steps inside before he stops completely. Something smells wrong. There is definitely banana somewhere in the mix, but whatever else is happening underneath it has gone horribly off the rails.

The air carries a strange combination of burnt sugar, something vaguely chemical, enough smoke to make him wonder if he should already be dialing 911.

His eyes lift slowly to the ceiling, catching the gray haze hanging over the entire first floor. Smoke has gathered along the ceiling in lazy clouds, drifting from the kitchen into the living room like a weather system settling over the house.

The shrill scream of the smoke detector cuts through the house. Tuck rounds the corner into the kitchen and immediately freezes.

Garrett’s standing underneath the alarm waving a bright pink oven mitt over his head. Sweat drips down his chest and disappears into the waistband of a pair of gray sweatpants. His curls are damp and sticking in every direction, shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths like he just finished killing a penalty in overtime.

Across the room, Logan is sitting on top of the kitchen island with his phone in one hand and a slice of banana bread in the other.

The alarm finally cuts off and Garrett lowers the oven mitt slowly before dropping his head, blowing out a long breath.

One hand settles on his hip while the other braces against the counter beside him. Sweat glistens across his chest and shoulders, a rough cough choking past his lips.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Garrett mumbles before Tucker can even ask him what happened.

The pink oven mitt hangs loosely from one hand, the heel of his sneakers digging into the kitchen floor like a kicked puppy.

“You good, bud?” Tuck asks as he steps closer, assessing the scene, his backpack dropping to the floor.

“I need your help.”

Tucker glances around the kitchen once more before rolling up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “What are we workin’ with here?”

Garrett gestures vaguely toward the counter—toward the mess. “I’m trying to make banana bread.”

“You’re trying to make banana bread?” Tucker asks like he never thought those words would leave Garrett Graham’s lips and honestly, neither did Garrett Graham.

“Mhmm.”

“—You burned chicken nuggets last night.”

“I know.”

“You asked me how to scramble eggs.”

“Tuck, c’mon,” Garrett mumbles weakly, his shoulders slumping heavily.

He takes the oven mitt off Garrett’s hand and opens the oven door, a thick plume of black smoke billowing out. All three boys cough up a lung, wafting the smoke away, revealing what lies inside.

The inside looks like soup, the outside resembling something that had fallen to earth from space.

“Holy shit,” Tucker chuckles, his fist half-covering his smile when he sees how wounded Garrett looks at his first attempt.

“It’s better than I thought it’d look,” Garrett breathes.

“—Nothing about this makes any sense,” Tuck whispers as Logan snickers in the back.

“You think it’s salvageable?” He asks, running his hand through his hair anxiously.

“Absolutely not,” Tucker answers as he pulls it out, the liquid in the middle jiggling like molten Jello. He rests it on the counter, grabbing a fork, dipping in the middle. “I mean, maybe we could pour it into something smaller and pray.”

“Yeah?” Garrett asks hopefully, watching Tuck dip the tip of a spoon into the center.

“Sure—Holy fuckin’ shit,” Tucker dives for a water bottle as soon as the liquid hits his tongue and Logan folds over laughing.

“It can’t be that bad.” Garrett rolls his eyes and takes a bite himself. His face twists and his jaw locks. “Terrible, holy hell,” Garrett spats, rubbing the food and the taste off his tongue with a kitchen towel, the man still sweating profusely, his heart rate far too high for bread making.

“What did you put in there?” Tucker asks curiously.

Garrett gestures to the counter, pointing as he goes. “Sugar. Flour. Bananas. Eggs—”

“So, salt, flour, bananas, and eggs, bro. That’s salt.”

“Nah.”

“Yah,” Tucker breathes as Garrett tests a little for himself from the jar and sure as shit it’s salt.

Garrett closes his eyes and drags both hands down his face. “I’m trying my best.” Tucker rests a hand on Garrett's sweaty shoulder, patting him supportively.

“I know you are, buddy. How much time do you have left?” He asks as Garrett glances toward the clock on the microwave.

“An hour and a half—”

“Perfect,” Tucker says immediately. “I only need an hour.”

Relief flashes across Garrett’s face for a second before something changes behind his eyes. He straightens up a little, hand resting low on his hip while the other points to the bowl.

“You can’t touch it.”

Logan snorts out a little laugh and hangs his head. “You cannot be serious.”

“M’serious,” he answers. “I gotta make it myself.”

“—Why?” Tucker asks, pulling the dry ingredients out of the cupboard.

“Our boy is suspicious,” Logan answers. “G’s about to pull some Etsy witch shit and make his tutor fall in love.”

“Ohhhh,” Tucker smiles, pointing at Logan from across the table like the pieces finally clicked. “Banana Bread Theory.”

“Mhmm,” Logan mumbles as he takes the last slice out of the loaf pan.

“Just help me,” Garrett pleads. “Please.”

𝓐𝓷 𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪 𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓯 𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻…

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙻𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙰𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚃𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚃𝚞𝚌𝚔. 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 😭

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙻𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙻𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚢.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍?

The loaf of banana bread sits tucked beneath one arm while his backpack hangs from one shoulder. He adjusts his grip on the container, checking the lid before he checks it again, three hours of baking disasters and near house fires doing jack-shit for his confidence.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚃𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛: 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙻𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗: 🕯️𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 🕯️𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢 🕯️𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 🕯️𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚊 🕯️𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌 🕯️𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 🕯️🕯️🕯️ 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚆 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚜 🕯️🕯️🍌

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙻𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗: 𝙶 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙽𝙾𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝙰𝚂𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙻𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗: 𝙸𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚢.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚃𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛: 𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛? 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙻𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗: 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖… 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚏𝚞. 𝚖𝚔𝚊𝚢? 🫶🏼

Garrett shakes his head and slips his phone into his pocket. His hand disappears into his dark curls again as he reaches the top of the stairs.

He looks to the left and there you are, his stomach twisting into nervous knots. Which is insane. He’s walked into championship games with less anxiety than he feels carrying a loaf of banana bread through Briar University’s library.

Your legs are crossed, head cradled in your hand as you run your highlighter across the page. The iced coffee he knows you probably snagged hours ago sits sweaty and completely melted on top of a pile of old notes. Your foot bobs along with the music in your earbuds and he can’t help but wonder what you’re listening to.

You bite your lip in concentration, tapping the page as you read, and even though you’re doing something so simple, he can’t take his eye off of you.

You never seem aware of the effect you have on people—on him. You talk about exams, research papers, and internship opportunities with the same excitement he reserves for a big game. You are brilliant in a way that makes everybody else seem lazy. Including him. Especially him.

And, it isn’t the fact that you’re the smartest person he’s ever met. It isn’t only your smile, or your eyes he gets lost in if he looks too long. It’s not just one thing. It’s all of it.

A collection of moments shared between him and the girl who’s seemingly too busy for anyone else. But somehow, you share your time with him.

The worst part is that none of this is usually hard for him. Garrett Graham has never spent three hours making banana bread for a girl before. He’s never stood in a library trying to calm his heart rate before walking over to a table.

And he definitely has never imagined himself working this hard for something this silly to work out in his favor.

He drags a hand through his hair one more time before walking over, immediately annoyed with himself for doing it, his fingers tightening around the container instead. A smile starts pulling at the corner of his mouth when he steps closer to the table.

“Hey.”

Your head lifts from your notes the second his shadow falls across the table.

“Hey, you.” The greeting lands exactly the way it always does. Garrett tries to hide it, ducking his head a little as he drops into the chair beside you.

His backpack slides from one shoulder, to the floor while he settles into the seat, nodding over to your drink, catching the way the cup has essentially waterlogged a pile of old notes. “Coffee flavored water?”

“Ugh,” you grumble, rolling your eyes with a smile. “Got a little lost in everything today.”

“I can see that,” he smiles, scooting a little closer.

Your eyes drift toward the container sitting beside his things. Something is wrapped around it, holding the lid in place, and it takes you a second to realize what you’re looking at. The white lace is tied into an admittedly lopsided bow across the top.

“You brought a snack?” You ask, taking a sip of your drink.

“Nah,” Garrett answers, glancing down at it before sliding the container across the table. “For you.”

“Seriously?”

“The lace is clean. Promise.”

“A little secure for baked goods, Graham,” you tease as you dig at the knot a little with your nail, loosening it. “You tied a double knot.”

“Habit.” Garrett glances away the second his voice cracks. “I was a little nervous, I guess.”

Your eyes flick up to his, wondering if you caught those seven words just right—and you did.

“Didn’t have a bow layin’ around the house.”

“It’s perfect,” you smile, tugging the lace free. “Very Garrett Graham. I love it.”

You glance down at the container again before looking back up. “Thank you.”

“‘Course.”

“It isn’t my birthday,” you whisper, saving him the embarrassment.

He chuckles and nods, drumming his fingers against the table. “I know.”

“So what am I missing?”

“Nothing.” The smile never leaves his face, instead it gets a little bigger. “I just wanted to make it for you.”

The words settle, breathing through the library while a hundred tiny moments suddenly start rearranging themselves in your memory. The way he always shows up early. The way he remembers things you’ve mentioned once and never brought up again. The way he somehow finds reasons to stay after your study sessions end. The way he looks at you sometimes when he thinks you’re focused on your notes instead.

Your hands come up and cover part of your smile.

“Did Tucker help you make this?” You ask.

“I made it.” Garrett points at his chest. “He supervised… aggressively.”

You bite your cheek, holding back a smile but the thought of him taking time out of his day, asking his friend for help to make something, the hockey lace bow, the little nervous way the corner of his mouth trembles each time he smiles, it’s sweet.

“This smells amazing,” you praise, pulling back the top, and the relief that crosses over his face has you holding back a nervous laugh yourself.

You break off a piece and take a bite as Garrett holds his breath, waiting for your verdict.

“Hmm?” He asks before you can even assure him.

“This is incredible.”

You take another bite and Garrett watches you chew. His brown eyes drop toward your mouth, lingering for a moment before they veer away, like he caught himself doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing.

The moment lasts less than a second but it still makes your pulse stumble.

He looks back at you like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.

“What?” You ask.

“Uh… You—Umm… You got a crumb.”

Your hand immediately lifts, brushing at your lips.

“Nope,” he chuckles, leaning in a little more, cupping your cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth. “There you go.”

His hands fall away and your heart skitters and all you can think about is the contact, and how you can get that again. You stare at him for another second before breaking off a piece and holding it toward him. “You want some?”

His attention flicks to the piece in your hand, then back to your face, nodding yes. The proximity is close enough that the only option is to eat it off your fingers.

For a second he looks almost surprised that you’re serious. Then he leans forward and takes the bite directly from you.

Garrett sits back slowly, chewing once before dropping his gaze to the table. Like he suddenly isn’t sure what to do with himself.

“Good?” You ask quietly.

Garrett finishes chewing before a grin starts pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Definitely worth three hours.”

You gasp, half-teasing half-genuinely surprised. “You’re joking,”

“Forget I said that.”

“I can’t,” you giggle, tilting your head a little, watching him melt into his palm as he relaxes a little more.

“Almost burned the house down,” he chuckles.

“Oh my god.”

“Worth it,” he breathes. “Your smile’s incredible by the way.” Your cheeks warm up instantly, your lips tilting, finding yourself having to turn away for a moment. “Stunning.”

“You’re sweet. This… This is seriously so thoughtful,” you whisper, playing nervously with the lace between your fingers. “Thank you.”

And for a moment the library fades into the background, and for the first time in a long time, none of it feels particularly important.

Garrett’s still leaning toward you from where he took the bite, his elbow resting on the edge of the table. And just like before, his eyes drift down for a second before lifting back to yours again, and this time neither of you looks away.

And, in the back of his mind he can’t help but wonder how sweet your lips would taste.

He smiles softly to himself. One thing at a time.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Anything for you.” His hands squeeze your hips. “Your week sucked. Glad you finally got to relax.”

“How was morning skate?” You ask curiously, and like clockwork, he starts rolling out his neck and his shoulders, wincing in pain. You raise your brow at him, trying not to laugh at his predictability.

Your nails drag, just a tease, tracing the line of his necklace until your fingers find the clasp, nudging it back to center. And, with that little touch, the man practically purrs, rocking ever so slightly with you like he just got exactly what he wanted. Or at least a tiny taste.

Garrett just shrugs, feigning innocence. “You know how it goes,” he says through a boyish smile.

“Mhmm…” You reach for the hem of his shirt, helping him out of it as always.

Garrett’s skin is still warm from the shower, his tight muscles melting already beneath the slightest touch from you.

As soon as he hits his bed he lets out a deep, contented sigh, lazily sprawling out on his stomach. His curls are still damp from the shower, flattened slightly on one side where his head disappears into the comforter. His chain hangs loose against the back of his neck, glinting every time he shifts.

His brown eyes follow you as you crawl onto the bed; his smile spreads wider as he glances at you over his shoulder. You straddle him, running your fingers down his strong back, watching as goosebumps spread across his dewy skin.

“Oh my god.” His voice comes out low and rough.

“You’re so easy,” you tease, dragging your nails over his broad shoulders before pressing them into the tight knots you knew you’d find.

“Shittt,” he huffs, exhaling sharply as you nail that perfect spot, working out the tension. “Feels so fucking good, pretty.” His face presses deeper into the bed, big body softening with it.

You let your fingers drift into his damp hair, scratching your manicured fingers against his scalp. “Mpfhh…” He turns his heavy head slightly, eyes half-lidded. “I love when you get your nails done,” he murmurs, utterly relaxed beneath your touch as he lets out a little yawn.

You smile, winding one of his curls around your finger. “Yeah?”

“Oh fuck.” One of his legs kicks lazily against the mattress. “Damn, princess, they’re kinda sharp. You should keep ‘em like this forever.”

Leaning down to press a kiss to the side of his neck, feeling his slow, leveled pulse thump under your lips. “I’ll think about it.”

Garrett settles deeper into the mattress, already halfway asleep, completely at peace. “Gotta keep me up,” he huffs. “I’m gonna pass the fuck out.”

You press your nails a little harder into his back, making his muscles tense for a second before he softens into the mattress. “Too much?” You ask, pausing slightly.

“No—No, keep goin’.” His fingers flex against the comforter. “S’perfect.”

You smile as you watch the faint red marks appear where your nails dragged down, bright against his skin.

“Fuck,” Garrett hisses as you find yourself so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t realize how hard you had dug into his skin until it had already happened.

“Oh, shit—” You gasp, but Garrett just laughs, shifting slightly underneath you as he looks back at you.

“Don’t stop. C’mon,” he whines, wiggling his shoulders impatiently beneath you.

“I created a diva,” you whisper, and he sighs blissfully.

“Don’t even recognize myself anymore. You ruined me.”

You chuckle and shake your head, letting your nails trail more deliberately over his tight skin. Your fingers trace from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, following the line of his tattoo.

“Y’know,” he murmurs against your knuckles, smiling to himself. “I don’t think anybody’s ever been this excited to put scratches on me.”

You chuckle and his shoulders flex beneath your hands. Your thumbs press into a particularly stubborn knot, making him wince before a low moan follows, a weak laugh slipping out because it hurts so good.

You tilt down, lips brushing against the shell of his ear, tits pushed against his back, and he angles his neck to get a little closer.

“What did you say?” You ask sweetly.

“I—” He clears his throat, swallowing hard. “I said I don’t think anybody’s ever been this excited to put scratches on me—”

“Which is odd.” You cut him off, your voice soft and distracted, scratching your initials in, watching as they shift red. “‘Cause it sounds like you’re talking about other women right now. Couldn’t possibly be.”

“Just talkin’ out of my ass,” he mumbles. “No one but you. Only you.”

“Mhmm…” You giggle, nails running in a little heart over the expanse of his back. Your fingernail swirls and swoops, drawing a lazy little “mine”.

Garrett buries his face in the mattress. “I know what you’re doing, baby.”

You giggle breathily, rubbing out a little more tension when he catches you in the shameless act.

“Yeah,” you whisper, dipping down again, trailing soft kisses down his neck. You pause when you find the perfect spot, just above where the collar of his jersey will sit.

“That’s my girl.” He doesn’t stop you, instead slithering his hand behind his back, slipping under the band of your shorts and panties.

You suck down on his neck as he rolls his fingers on top of your pussy, groaning when he feels just how wet you are; knowing this close to the game time, he’ll have to wait to sink his thick dick deep, but he loves to tease just as much as you do.

“On your back,” you whisper, watching as Garrett obeys without hesitation, stuffing a pillow under his head. His fingers find you fast, slipping your little shorts to the side this time. Garrett dips the tip of his thick finger in your soaked hole, his eyes rolling back at how warm and wet you are.

You tilt in, pressing your lips to his, lingering there for a second before he pulls you closer, his other hand slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, gripping your ass.

“Baby,” he mumbles. “You gotta keep these on.”

“Okay.”

“I’m already losin’ this fight,” he breathes, pulling them down despite what he’s saying, chuckling against his mouth as you help him do it.

“You’re doing great, Gar—” His name trips up in a gasp as he presses his hand against your pussy, his middle and ring fingers thrusting deep.

“So jealous of my fuckin’ hand right now,” he grumbles, laughing at how pathetic he sounds as he pumps them in and out.

You grind into him, fucking yourself on his hand. The movement makes the muscles in his stomach tighten. His hair is already drying in messy curls around his forehead, one falling into his eyes before he blows it away with an impatient breath.

“You better keep this fuckin’ top on, alright?” He whispers when a soft satin strap falls. He lifts his hand to cup your cheek, brushing the other off your shoulder, sending the material sliding to your waist. “My mistake,” he whispers.

Your forehead falls against his and he sinks his fingers deeper, groaning at the feeling of your slickness dripping down to his wrist.

“I don’t know why I do this to myself,” he drags a hand down his face as he continues to torment himself with the thought of ruining you before his game, reluctantly pulling his hand away for the moment. “I gotta focus. Just make it so hard on me,” he smiles.

“Oh?”

“Baby,” he mumbles.

“Mhmm,” you hum, rocking against the stiff bulge between his thighs instead.

You whisper his name as you roll your hips. Your head falls back, hands sliding over your chest, and Garrett shuts his eyes for a second like he’s trying to remember every reason he wasn’t supposed to be doing this.

“Just—Fuck. Just the tip, okay?” He mumbles sheepishly.

“What?” You ask teasingly, looking down at him. He’s so gone he’s practically begging with his eyes.

“Just a little,” he breathes needily, hooking a hand around your neck, pulling you down to his lips.

“Garrett Graham,” you whisper. “You said no sex before games.”

Garrett’s head presses deeper into the pillow, his hips shifting beneath you as you grind against him.

“I say a lot of stupid shit,” he mumbles under his breath. “I don’t know what you thought was gonna happen,” he rambles and he tugs his clothes down, his cock hitting his bare skin with a slap.

"Only the tip," you breathe as you thrust your hand between the two of you, taking hold of his cock.

"I'll take it," Garrett whispers as his head meets your pussy. A rough sound rumbles through his chest as he looks up at you again. "This is for me?" He asks shakily.

"Yes, daddy."

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, huffing out a breath, palms slapping over his eyes. “Don’t say that unless you’re tryin’ to start shit, alright?”

He takes control, gripping his dick in his fist, running his fat tip through your slick folds, swirling softly on your clit.

He slows down slightly, a smile spreading on his lips as he glides lower.

"Mmm... Right there," you whisper against his mouth as his head toys with your entrance. His lips press against yours as you widen your thighs, dropping down on his tip, feeling a big stretch.

"Fuck me," he pants.

"Feels so good, Garrett," you whimper. His hold on your hips tightens, muscles trembling like he’s fighting against himself. His heels sink deep into the mattress, press up just enough to stroke just a little.

“So damn good. It’s not fair.” His eyelids fall and his jaw locks tight.

His blunt fingernails dig into your flesh, his gaze dropping to the place where you barely connect, his long thick dick throbbing, your slickness rolling in a tear down the side of his cock.

He pulls you down a little farther on his length and your gaze snaps to him.

“Shhhh—Shh,” he whispers, pulling you down to his lips. “Let me—Just fucking take it, alright?”

Garrett squeezes his eyes shut for a second before finding your mouth again, gripping your hips when you’re all the way down.

He pushes you down a little more, making your eyes roll back in your skull, filled to the brim with him. The sight of your pleasure is almost too much to take.

“Ride me,” he mumbles, lips dragging against yours.

You sit up, knees sunk into the mattress, nails dragging down his strong chest as he draws a heavy breath. The gold chain around his neck slides across his skin as his head tips back into the pillows. His throat works around a swallow before his eyes find you again.

You start to ride him, grinding slowly, like the pace alone will make up for his lack of self-control when it comes to his little pregame rule.

Garrett drags a breath through his nose, his voice rough when he whispers, “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head once. “My willpower’s fuckin’ shot when it comes to you.”

You shift your weight and he groans low in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as you circle them.

“That’s it.” His thumbs drag over your hips. "Easy, baby. Just like that."

Your nails dig into his chest as you begin to move, slow and steady at first, your body finding its rhythm while his muscles tense beneath your palms, his mouth falling open.

“Call me that shit again.” His eyes squeeze shut for a second. "Wanna hear it."

Your hands drift a little higher, thumb resting the hollow of his throat with your hands wrapping and squeezing.

“Daddy.”

"Christ. Yeah. Fuck yeah. Tight... Tighter," he moans as you ride him, your hips finding a deeper rhythm as your hands tighten around his neck, his eyes fluttering open just enough to find yours, fighting to stay open like he doesn't want to miss a second of it.

You lean back slightly, hands braced on his strong thighs as he fills you over and over again. His praise slips from his lips between gritted teeth.

You feel your orgasm building, sharp and fast, the pressure coiling in your stomach, and he feels it, too. Garrett sits up, wrapping his arm tight around your waist, the other twisting in your hair again as your body trembles uncontrollably. You gasp, swiveling your hips, grinding down as he presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing heavy.

"Cum for me, baby. Let go. Show me how perfect you are, huh?”

Your whole body clenches, back arching as you cry out, pulsing hard around him, your orgasm triggering his own. Your name falls from his lips, hips jerking as he buries himself deep, cumming hard, holding you so close.

Garrett melts back into the mattress, pulling you with him, finding his lips for a tender kiss.

"Christ, baby," he breathes. "You’re so good to me, baby. You know that?" He whispers as his hands hold your cheeks, forehead resting against yours.

“Mmm—You are so, so good to me,” you whisper, feeling him smile into your kiss.

You pull back ever slightly, eyes falling enough to see the dark mark blooming where your lips had been, the soft red hue of where your hands were wrapped blushing on his skin as well. You rub your thumb across it, trying your best to catch your breath.

“You know,” he starts, his voice low and rough, “you always tease me for liking to mark you up…”

“Because you do.”

A smirk spreads on his kiss-swollen lips as he studies you a little. “Yeah, I do—” Knock. Knock.

“G, you alive?” Logan calls from the other side of the door. Garrett groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“No,” he mumbles and you giggle, tilting your head to rest it against his. Knock! Knock!

“C’mon, Romeo. Car leaves in five,” Logan tries again.

“Leave without me.”

“Can’t,” he laughs, “Coach likes goals. Get your ass movin’.”

He blows out a breath as you lift off him nice and slow, thighs trembling, making him chuckle breathily. You roll your eyes and drop to the mattress, wrapping yourself up in his blanket.

You watch him step into his dark slacks, tugging them up his thighs before fastening the button. Your gaze drifts higher, catching on the sharp lines of his waist disappearing beneath the waistband of his slacks, the chain hanging against his chest, the way the damp ends of his curls are already starting to dry around his ears.

A smile starts pulling at one corner of his mouth when he catches you staring.

He gives you a quick wink.

“Stop,” you mumble, fighting your own smile.

Garrett shakes his head to himself before turning slightly, checking the fit of his pants. His attention catches on the scratches.

It’s impossible not to look.

His hands slide into his front pockets, broad back tightening as he shifts, the scratches standing out even more against his skin.

“Garrett.”

“Hmm?” He asks, still looking, fully distracted.

“Garrett Graham?”

“Pretty girl?” His jaw tilts slightly, laughing through his nose when he sees the little mark on his neck, fussing with his chain.

“You love it.”

His bottom lip tucks between his teeth as he’s caught in the act, reaching for his black dress shirt hanging nearby.

“M’not gonna sit here and pretend this shit doesn’t look good, baby,” he mumbles.

The shirt slides over his biceps, draping over his shoulders. His chain catches the light against his chest as he fastens each button, chuckling under his breath like he’s tucking away a secret.

He reaches for the tie draped over the back of the chair, looping it around his neck, turning on his heels.

You crawl on the bed as he walks toward you, making your way to the edge. You rise up on your knees and his hands find your hips.

You fasten a knot in his tie, a little smile playing on your lips.

“Wait for me outside the locker room, yeah?” He asks.

“Garrett,” you sigh.

“What?”

“I’ve been waiting outside that locker room after every home game all season.”

“True,” he hums proudly. “Very true.”

“You really asking?” You chuckle and he smiles when the knot presses up to his throat.

“Just like hearin’ you say it, pretty.”

Your hands smooth the tie flat against his chest before brushing down the front of his shirt.

“Of course I’ll be there.”

“That’s my girl.”

Garrett reaches his stall and pulls off his jersey, dragging it over his head slowly, pulling himself out of his shoulder pads next. The scratches down his back earn about half a second of silence before the chirping starts.

“Jesus, G,” Logan laughs. “You get in a fight we didn’t see?”

Garrett looks over his shoulder like it’s news to him, which only riles the guys up even more.

“Nah, those aren’t from the game, boys,” Dean smiles, stating the obvious as Garrett rolls his eyes, reaching for a towel as another teammate whistles low.

“Weren’t there yesterday,” another teases, and heat climbs up Garrett’s neck.

“My girl got her nails done, alright?” He mutters, staring into his stall instead of turning around to hide the fact that he loves this shit.

“You better have paid for them, buddy. That’s how we’re doin’ it,” Dean laughs.

“Maybe I did.”

“Daddy,” Tucker adds, pointing toward Garrett when he finally turns around. “Addin’ that one to the playbook—”

“Enough,” Garrett mumbles smugly.

“She’s got Garrett Graham breaking all his rules.”

“A couple back scratches never hurt anybody,” Garrett breathes.

“Mhmm… That’s all that happened. We all believe you, G. You can stop gettin’ all red.”

“That hickey appeared on its own too, by the way,” Tucker piles on.

“Blushing like a slut, Graham,” Dean snickers, and that finally sends the room over the edge.

“No I’m not.” Garrett drags a towel over his face, trying to hide the grin that won’t leave his lips.

“He fuckin’ loves it—”

“Maybe I do. Now what?” Garrett mutters, back to the boys. He doesn’t even bother arguing because they’re right.

He fuckin’ loves it.

Garrett drops onto the bench, still shaking his head as the chirping starts to die down.

He reaches for his phone, trying to settle into a normal rhythm.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝.

He bites the inside of his cheek as the text bubbles come in fast.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚖.

Garrett groans, dropping his head into one hand, the other resting on his knee. He chuckles under his breath, rolling his eyes when he catches Dean smirking from the corner of his eye.

“Don’t,” Garrett grunts.

Dean just smiles, wrapping a fresh towel around his waist as he heads toward the showers.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚂𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚎.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙷𝚖𝚖𝚖.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝 “𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢” 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚖.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙱𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝 “𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚙” 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚖.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚢.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝 “𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝” 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚖.

For a second he just sits there with his head hanging, laughing to himself. Of course you remembered that. Jesus Christ.

Garrett rubs a hand across his jaw, biting back a shit-eating grin he still can’t get rid of.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗’ 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

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