bri the bee

All three of them look up when Garrett reaches the floor. Nobody says anything at first.

It’s worse than if they had. This house is never quiet unless someone is sleeping, bleeding, or about to confess to property damage. The silence sits there under the yellow kitchen light, thick with the smell of cold pizza and damp winter jackets and the antiseptic sting still caught in Garrett’s hands from cleaning blood off her face.

Dean’s the first to break. Obviously. “So, ethically,” he says, voice low and deadly calm in a way Garrett hates on him, “what are the rules on me beating the shit out of a patient?”

Tucker closes the drawer too hard. “Dean.”

“I’m just asking.”

“You’re not.”

Logan rubs both hands over his face, dragging his palms down until his mouth pulls weird. “A patient did that to her face,” he says, not really asking, not really saying it to anyone either. “Like, at work. While she was helping him.”

Garrett’s stomach twists so hard he has to look away, toward the stairs, toward the room above them where she’s asleep and not asleep enough for his liking, where every creak of the house could wake her, where she had caught his shirt when he stepped into the hallway like six feet of distance was more than her body could take tonight.

He clears his throat. It doesn’t help. “I’m just getting her some water,” he says, because if he says anything else there’s a chance his voice does something embarrassing and then they’ll all have to stand here pretending they didn’t hear it. “And her meds. She’s due in–” He looks at Logan.

“Forty-two minutes,” Logan says immediately.

“Right.” Garrett nods once. Too hard. He stops, because even remembering her wince at tiny movements makes him want to put his fist through drywall and then apologise to the drywall because Tucker will get that disappointed crease between his eyebrows. “I don’t… uh. I don’t want her to wake up and I’m not there.”

Dean’s anger doesn’t leave, but it loses its easiest target. Tucker stops pretending the drawer matters. Logan’s eyes flick up from the paperwork, brows pulling together, like he’s trying to understand something that already hurts.

Garrett scrubs both hands over his face, presses the heels into his eyes until sparks pop behind them. “She barely let me leave to go into the bathroom,” he says. “To get a washcloth. To wipe her…” The word gets stuck. His mouth fills with the image instead: mascara blurred under bruised eyes, blood dried tight beneath her nose, the way she kept apologising like being hurt was rude of her. “Wipe the– uh. The blood. On her nose.”

Nobody jokes. That might be the worst part.

Dean looks down at his hands. Tucker turns toward the sink and picks up the clean glass waiting by the tap. Logan folds the discharge papers along their original creases with unnatural care, like making the edges line up can fix anything about the night.

“Right,” Tucker says softly, and fills the glass.

Dean drags in a breath through his nose. “I hate this.”

Garrett lets out a laugh with no humour in it. “Yeah, man. Me too.”

“She looked tiny,” Dean says, then immediately looks pissed at himself for saying it that way. “Not tiny. You know what I mean. She’s usually bossing all of us around like we’re one missed ibuprofen away from organ failure, and she was just…” He gestures uselessly, fingers flexing. “Sitting there.”

“She’s concussed,” Logan says, because he has the paper and apparently that makes him head-trauma supervisor.

“I know she’s concussed, dumbass.”

“Don’t call me dumbass while I’m managing her neurological monitoring.”

“Her what?”

“Neurological monitoring.”

Dean stares at him. “You say that again and I’m beating you up instead.”

Tucker sets the water on the counter and gives Dean a look. “Can we keep the threatened violence below two incidents per evening?”

“Not if people keep deserving it.”

Garrett almost smiles. Almost. It gets halfway there and dies because upstairs his girl – his not-girl, his girl, whatever stupid technicality they’re all still politely stepping around – has a split lip because she cried out when pain surprised her, and then apologised to him for needing help.

He moves into the kitchen, grabs the water, then the little packet of painkillers Tucker’s already set beside it with the label facing up. Tucker has been taking care of everyone in this house for years and still acts surprised when people notice.

“Thanks,” Garrett says, voice rough.

Tucker only nods. “There’s more ice ready. Wrapped in the soft towel, not the scratchy one.”

Garrett looks at him.

Tucker shrugs, uncomfortable. “She likes the soft one.”

Dean makes a small sound from the couch, half laugh, half something worse. “Jesus Christ, Tuck.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Dean leans back, staring at the ceiling now. “We are so fucked.”

Logan picks up his phone when the first alarm test chirps too brightly through the kitchen. He silences it fast, glancing toward the stairs like the sound might have climbed up and shaken her awake. “I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

Garrett shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”

“We know,” Logan says, quieter. “But we’ve got it too.”

Garrett stands there with the glass in one hand and the meds in the other, throat tight, the house too warm around him. Dean doesn’t look at him. Tucker wipes an already clean counter. Logan keeps one hand over the discharge papers like they’re something sacred and annoying.

And for once, Garrett doesn’t make the joke. Doesn’t tell them to stop being weird. Doesn’t pretend the tenderness in the room isn’t there because naming it would make everyone itch.

He only nods once, careful this time. Then he goes back upstairs before she can wake up without him.

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For a moment, neither of you moved, not wanting the night to end. You almost jumped when Beau cleared his throat. “Let me get your door.”

He jumped out of the car before you could say anything, running to the passenger’s side to open the door for you.

The walk up the front steps of your porch was slow, both of you trying to stretch out the final few minutes together. It really had been the perfect date, filled with easy laughter, playful teasing, and the kind of effortless conversation that only happened when you were with Beau.

You turned around to face him when you reached the front door, clutching your keys in your hand nervously. Beau stepped up to the top landing, intentionally crowding your space.

“I had a really great time tonight, Beau,” you said, looking up at him.

“Me too,” he sighed, looking down at you with adoration in his eyes, “honestly, the best night I’ve had in a long time.”

This was the part where you thanked him, went into your dorm, and then screamed down the phone to your friends about how good the date was. But your feet were firmly stuck to the floor; you couldn’t move when he was staring down at you like that.

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

You let out a soft laugh, heat hitting your cheeks despite the cool night air. “Thank you... again.”

You’ve lost count at the amount of times Beau’s complimented you tonight.

He didn't answer you right away. His gaze dropped deliberately down to your lips, watching as your lips slightly parted before slowly rising back to meet your eyes.

Slowly, his hand reached across the space between you. the rest of the campus faded away as his fingers brushed against your jawline with a tenderness that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

Your fingers gripped the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer, the distance between you too much. You instinctively tilted your chin up, your eyes fluttering shut as you anticipated the touch of his lips.

He was close enough that you could feel the warm puff of his breath against your mouth, just a mere fraction of an inch away.

Bam

You both jumped, and then laughed, as the front door swung open, interupting the moment.

💭: first beau fic let's goooooo!! ... if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx

Requested By: 👤

Garrett did not text you the night he kissed you.

That was probably the only reason he survived until morning.

You told yourself this like it was a moral victory, like the restraint had been yours rather than his, like you had not walked back to your room with your mouth still swollen, your knee still bleeding, and the ghost of his hand burned into the hinge of your jaw. You showered too hot, scrubbed too hard over skin that did not need cleaning, and stared at yourself in the fogged bathroom mirror with the kind of clinical detachment usually reserved for post-fall injury checks.

Lip: tender.

Jaw: faintly red where his fingers had held you.

Knee: superficial scrape.

Hip: worsening.

Pride: catastrophic internal haemorrhage.

You had kissed Garrett Graham.

No. Worse.

You had kissed Garrett Graham and then gone back onto the ice.

Even worse than that, you had landed the jump.

That detail, privately, was what made you angriest. If you had fallen afterwards, if you had ruined the landing, if your body had proven that the kiss had knocked you off axis in a measurable, useful, punishable way, you could have filed the whole thing under mistake and moved on. But no. Your body, traitorous and apparently suicidal, had taken all that rage and heat and humiliating want and turned it into height. Rotation. Clean edge. A landing so sharp you had felt it through your teeth.

You hated him for that.

You hated him because he had been right there behind the boards while it happened, silent for once, watching you skate away like he had put something inside your body and was waiting to see what it did.

You hated him because you had wanted to look back.

You did not. That, at least, you kept.

The next morning, you arrived at the rink with your hair scraped tight enough to hurt and your expression arranged into something that discouraged conversation from three hallways away. Your coach took one look at you and narrowed her eyes.

“You’re favouring the right side.” “No, I’m not.” “You are.” “I slept badly.” “You always sleep badly.” “Then maybe I’m consistent.”

She gave you the look. The one over the clipboard, a neat little slash of disappointment wrapped in professionalism.

“Warm up properly,” she said, “No triples for the first fifteen.”

You wanted to argue; but you bit your tongue.

That was the difference between your coach and Garrett Graham. With your coach, obedience could be disguised as discipline. With Garrett, everything felt like losing.

You were halfway through edge drills when the hockey team came in.

They were not on the ice yet. Not supposed to be, anyway. Their practice started after your session, but hockey players made it a habit of arriving early and making that fact everyone else’s problem. You heard them before you saw them, the thud of bags, the rolling laughter, the clatter of sticks against the boards as they filtered into the bench area like a badly supervised storm.

Usually, you could ignore background noise. You had trained through worse than laughter. You had trained through your mother taking phone calls at the boards about competitions you had not yet qualified for, through your father dissecting video playback in your peripheral vision, through another girl your age crying quietly in the hallway because she had lost a point on an under-rotation no one in her family would stop talking about.

But this noise had a centre now. You felt Garrett before you saw him.

You were gliding backward along the blue line, arms extended, working the edge deep enough that your blade made that satisfying, controlled bite into the ice, when his voice carried across the rink.

“Morning, princess.”

You did not look at him. You changed edge. Clean. Controlled. Indifferent.

Behind the boards, someone sucked in a breath like they were watching a loaded gun roll across the floor.

Garrett spoke again, “Knee still attached?”

You slowed, only slightly, leg extending so the swift glide turned into a natural slide.

Your coach’s head lifted and it became miniscule harder to feign indifference. Despite that, your eyes remind you, “Unfortunately, so is your mouth.”

The hockey bench went silent.

Then Dean said,  “Annnnd- we’re back.”

Your coach looked from you to Garrett and back again with the exhausted calm of a woman who had worked in elite sport long enough to recognise both talent and deeply inconvenient sexual tension when it threatened her schedule.

“Do I need to ask?” she said. “No,” you replied. Garrett, at the exact same time, said, “Probably.”

You turned your head.

He was leaning against the boards in a Briar hoodie, hair still damp from whatever pre-practice shower or careless morning ritual had produced him looking like that. His mouth looked normal. Annoyingly normal. Not bruised or wrecked. If you had not felt it against yours, if your own body were not still hoarding the memory like contraband, you might have believed the whole thing had happened to someone else.

His eyes, however, were not normal. His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second.

You smiled, “Careful, Graham,” you said. “Your team might start thinking you’re easy.” Garrett’s jaw shifted once, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “You’d know, huh?” “About standards? Yes. I imagine that’s a foreign concept for you.”

Dean made a choking noise. Logan rubbed a hand over his face. Tucker turned to the ceiling like he was asking God for patience and finding the line busy.

Your coach blew her whistle so sharply everyone flinched, “If the hockey team is finished auditioning for a campus harassment seminar,” she said, voice flat, “my skater is working.” That should have ended it. But Garrett’s smile did not move off you as you reset your starting position, “Wouldn’t dream of interrupting greatness.”

You pushed off before you could answer. That seemed safer. Also cheaper than hiring a lawyer.

For the next forty minutes, you skated like precision could become violence if sharpened properly. Garrett and his team warmed up off-ice behind the glass, stretching, taping sticks, making themselves unavoidable in the way only large groups of young men could manage. You did not look at them. You did not look at him. You could feel him anyway, which was both humiliating and inconvenient. Your body had developed a Garrett-shaped awareness overnight and now insisted on updating you whenever he shifted, laughed, moved closer to the boards, or said anything in that voice that made irritation crawl under your skin.

When your session ended, you came off the ice flushed and furious for reasons that had almost nothing to do with your skating.

Garrett was waiting near the tunnel.

“Subtle,” you said, snapping your guards over your blades. “I’m literally standing here.” “Yes. That’s the issue.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall, “You always this warm after a shared traumatic event?” You stood, “Nothing was shared.” “No?” “No.” “Huh,” His eyes went to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberately enough that heat climbed your neck, “That’s weird.” Your fingers tightened around your blade towel. “What is?” “I remember sharing.” You stepped closer so quickly his smile sharpened, like he had been waiting to see whether you would, “You remember wrong.” “I remember you pretty well.” “You remember me kissing you because head injuries cause confusion.” “You shoved me against the boards first.” “You should have moved.” “You should have stopped.”

Your mouth opened, nothing came out.

Garrett’s smile changed. It went smaller and more intimate which made something low in your stomach tighten, “That’s what I thought.”

You threw the towel at his chest.

It hit him with a soft, pathetic little slap that ruined any hope of dignity. He caught it before it fell, laughing now, actually laughing, and the sound was so unbearable you nearly lunged for it.

“Give it back.” “Ask nicely.” “Get sepsis.” “Needs work.”

You grabbed for the towel. He lifted it out of reach with insulting ease.

You hated tall men. You hated hockey players. You hated Garrett Graham specifically with the full focus of an Olympic training cycle.

“Graham,” you said, voice deadly calm. He looked delighted, “That almost sounded like begging.”

You stepped into his space.

The hallway seemed to notice since somewhere behind Garrett, a door cracked open and then immediately shut again.

“You are going to give me my towel,” you said softly, “or I am going to remove one of your fingers with my skate guard.” His eyes flicked down your face, “Which finger?” “Whichever one you’re most attached to.” “Romantic.” He lowered the towel slowly.

You snatched it from him and for one second, your fingers brushed his.

Tiny contact. Stupid contact. Nothing.

Your pulse jumped anyway.

Garrett felt it. Or at least he saw something, because the laughter left his face by degrees. The hallway narrowed again in a terrible way because the two of you stopped performing hatred for too many seconds.

He said, quieter, “You okay?”

This was the one thing you hated more than the insults.

You shoved the towel into your bag, “You ruin everything when you try to be human.”

The softness vanished from his face, “Right,” he said. “My bad.” “It usually is.” “Careful, princess.” You smiled like a wound, “Still waiting for the consequence.”

His gaze dropped, and this time it did not go to your mouth.

It went to your throat. Then back up.

Your breath caught so lightly you could pretend it had not.

“You sure about that?” he asked. The door behind him opened again. Logan appeared, took one look at the two of you standing too close in the hallway, and said, “Nope.”

He shut the door.

The moment snapped and you stepped back first.

“This is why no one likes hockey,” you said, because retreat required smoke. “Pretty sure people like hockey.” “People also like food poisoning if you put it in a jersey.” “Was that supposed to make sense?” “To people with literacy, yes.” He laughed again, but it was rougher now, “You’re exhausting.” “You’re still here.” “So are you.” “I work here.” “You pay to be here.”

You turned to leave, because if you stayed one second longer, you were either going to scream at him or kiss him again, and only one of those was allowed in hallways with security cameras.

Garrett called after you, “Hey, princess.” You kept walking. “Your number.” You stopped. Slowly, you looked back, “Excuse me?”

He held up your towel. Your towel. Again. Apparently, in the process of dramatic exit number six thousand, it had fallen out of your half-zipped bag and into the hands of the worst man alive.

Garrett looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“In case you want your stuff returned before next winter.” “You can hand it to me now.” “I could.” “Graham.” “Number.” “You are deranged.” “You dropped it twice in three minutes. I’m starting a lost-and-found service.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, waiting.

It was stupid to give him your number. Objectively stupid. Emotionally catastrophic. Practically unnecessary. You could cross the hallway, retrieve your towel, and walk away. You could leave it. You owned other towels. Many towels. Better towels. Towels that had never been touched by Garrett Graham.

He extended his phone toward you.

The screen was open to a blank contact. His mouth twitched as your confidence wavered, you hated being dared.

You crossed the hall, took the phone, and typed in your number with punishing force. Under the contact name, you wrote:

Do Not Text

Then you handed it back.

Garrett looked down at the screen and smiled, “Accurate,” he said.

“Instructional.” “If I text you, you’ll block me?” “If you text me, I’ll block you happily.”

He held your towel out, the fluffy material was slack and damp in his hands- pathetically making fun of you for being the reason that you had just given Garrett Graham your number. 

You took it.

This time, your fingers did not touch.

He texted you six hours later.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

knee still attached?

You were at your desk with one leg folded beneath you, hair still damp from your second shower of the day, laptop open to a video of your program paused at the exact frame where your shoulder angle began to betray you. Your phone lit up beside a pile of annotated notes. You looked at the message. Then at the timestamp. Then back at the message.

You should have blocked him.

Instead, you typed.

YOU

tragic that yours is still talking.

You stared at the screen, and in the time it took for the three dots to turn into a message you changed his contact name. 

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

you free tonight?

Your body reacted before your brain did.Not in some sweeping, romantic, humiliating way but a small tightening somewhere beneath your ribs, a tiny failure of indifference.

YOU

no.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

didn’t ask if you were emotionally available

You deleted three separate replies before settling on,

YOU

die.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

rink. ten minutes.

You stared at it.

Then you turned your phone face down.

You lasted four minutes.

The rink after dark was not empty this time. That was your first mistake, assuming it would be. The building was quieter, yes, reduced to maintenance staff, late-night athletes, a couple of student workers behind the front desk, but not deserted. Not enough for whatever bad idea had brought you there in sweatpants, an oversized knit sweater, and shoes you had not taken the time to tie properly.

Your second mistake was pretending you had not known exactly where Garrett would be.

The storage corridor behind the rink was narrow and badly lit, a place of stacked cones, spare nets, old training equipment, cleaning supplies, and the heavy institutional smell of rubber mats and cold air. It was not sexy nor romantic. It was barely sanitary.

It was, however, private enough to ruin your life.

Garrett was waiting near the equipment room door.

He looked you up and down as you turned the corner, and the air shifted so violently between you that you almost stopped.

Almost.

“Ten minutes,” you said, “Do hockey players not understand time?” “You came in eight.” “I walk fast.” “You missed me.” You made a noise of such sincere disgust it should have required medical documentation, “I came because I wanted to confirm whether you were always this pathetic or just over text.” His smile cut through the dim light, “And?” “Still collecting evidence.”

You turned as if to leave.

Garrett’s hand closed around your wrist. Loose. Easy to break. A question disguised as contact.

You looked down at his hand. Then up at him, “Careful,” you said. His thumb moved once against your pulse. “Stealing my line now?” “You can sue for theft.” “I’ll definitely try.” “I’m warning you now, I usually win.” “Yeah?” He stepped closer, “That why you look pissed all the time?”

You leaned in slowly, close enough that his eyes dropped to your mouth before you spoke,“I look pissed because you keep surviving.”

His gaze snapped back to yours.

There it was again. The match. The scrape. The little flare of awful, inevitable heat.

“You could leave,” he said. “You could stop texting.” “You answered.” “You begged.” “I invited.” “You’re delusional.” “You’re here.”

You kissed him because the alternative was agreeing.

Garrett was ready for it this time. His hand let go of your wrist only to catch your waist, hauling you into him with a force that knocked the breath out of your throat and turned it into something humiliating against his mouth. You shoved at his chest on instinct, but the movement only pressed your body harder against his, your fingers twisting in the front of his hoodie while his palm spread low over your back, dragging you close enough that every breath pulled your chest against his.

He laughed into your mouth. You bit his lower lip.

That shut him up only for half a second.

Then Garrett’s grip tightened at your waist and he turned you, walking you backward with his mouth still on yours until your back hit the equipment room door hard enough to rattle the handle. The sound cracked through the corridor.

You both froze.

Your breathing was already uneven. His was too.

Garrett’s forehead hovered close to yours, his mouth red from yours, eyes dark and fixed on your face.

“Door?” he asked.

You hated that he asked. You hated more that your answer came immediately.

“Open it.”

The equipment room was dark, colder than the corridor, the air packed with the smell of rubber and dust and sharpened metal. Garrett backed you inside without turning on the light, one hand catching the door before it could slam. It shut with a click that sounded obscene in the quiet.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then your hands were on each other again.

It was uglier in the dark. Less controlled. Your fingers dragged at his hoodie, shoved it up enough to get your hands beneath it, your palms finding the hard warmth of his stomach and the little breath he tried to hide when your nails skimmed there. His hands slid under your sweatshirt and found bare skin at your waist, hot palms against you, thumbs pressing into the soft spaces under your ribs like he was trying to memorise the shape of you while still pretending this was only about proving a point.

You made the mistake of gasping when his mouth left yours and moved down your jaw.

He heard it, his mouth paused against your skin

You shoved his shoulder, “Don’t.” His lips brushed the edge of your jaw when he spoke, “Don’t what?” “Look pleased with yourself.” “I am pleased with myself.” “I can change that.” He laughed, low and close, and the sound moved through you before you had time to hate it, “You’re welcome to try.”

You grabbed his face and kissed him again, harder this time, but he did not let you keep control for long. He crowded you back against a stack of folded mats, one hand braced beside your head, the other under your sweatshirt, fingers spread over your ribs like he could feel every breath you were trying to hide from him. The mats gave slightly under your shoulder blades. His body did not. He was heat and muscle and infuriating certainty, thigh nudging between yours, the rough seam of his jeans dragging against your leggings until your hips shifted before you could stop them.

Garrett felt it.

His mouth curved against yours.

You pulled back just enough to glare, “Say anything and I’ll leave.” His hand slid lower, palm firm over your hip, thumb stroking once along the waistband of your leggings, “You won’t.” “Try me.” “I am.”

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband.

Your breath caught.

His eyes did not leave yours, “Tell me to stop,” he said.

You hated him. You hated the steadiness in his voice. The control. The fact that he was still asking even while his mouth was red from yours and his hand was under your clothes and your own fingers were tangled so tightly in his hoodie that you might have stretched the fabric. You hated the space he gave you to say no.

You hated that you did not want to.

“If I wanted you to stop,” you said, voice low, “you would know.”

Garrett’s jaw flexed.

Then he kissed you again, and his hand slid lower.

You jerked against him before you could stop yourself, the heel of his palm pressing through fabric at exactly the wrong place, or the right one, depending on whether you asked your pride or your body. Your head hit the mats behind you with a soft thud. Garrett’s other hand shot up to cradle the back of your skull before you could hit again.

The tenderness of the gesture made you furious. So you shoved your hand down between your bodies and cupped him through his jeans.

Garrett’s entire body went still.

“Oh,” you whispered, mean and breathless, “I got you.” His laugh came out rough, “Don’t get smug, princess.” “You’re hard in a storage room after one kiss. I think I’m allowed.”

His fingers pressed harder between your thighs.

Your sentence snapped in the middle.

Garrett’s smile returned, “There she is.” “Fuck you.” “That the plan?”

You looked at him.

The words hung there too heavily for what this was. This was supposed to be anger. A repeated mistake. A consequence of adrenaline, bad impulse control, and the unfortunate fact that Garrett Graham had a mouth that made you briefly sympathise with people who ruined their lives.

You tightened your hand over him instead of answering.

His eyes fluttered for half a second before he forced them open, as if he refused to give you even the satisfaction of looking away. His hand worked under your leggings with infuriating patience, fingers dragging over you through thin fabric first, not quite enough, just enough to make your stomach pull tight. You moved your hand in answer, slow at first, then firmer when his breath hitched and his forehead dipped toward yours.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you said. “Been enjoying myself all day.”

His words brushed your lips. His fingers shifted, finding heat, slickness, the place where your body had apparently decided to humiliate you with enthusiasm. Garrett’s grip on the back of your head tightened, holding you still enough that he could watch your face when he touched you.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. You smiled despite the heat crawling up your neck, “I thought that was the plan.”

His fingers slid inside you.

Your hand jerked on him.

Both of you stopped breathing.

The room felt suddenly too small, too dark, too airless. The metal shelf pressed cold against your shoulder. His body crowded every other inch of you, his chest rising hard against yours, his mouth open but not quite touching your lips. His fingers moved once, testing, and the sound you made was swallowed by his kiss before it could leave the room.

Garrett groaned against your mouth when your hand found the button of his jeans.

“Door locked?” you breathed. “No.”

You froze.

His hand immediately stopped. Then he added, with the kind of grin you could feel against your cheek, “But no one comes back here after seven.” “You’re unbelievable.” “You’re still touching me.” “You’re inside me.” His smile widened, “So we’re both making choices.”

You tugged sharply at his zipper.

His hips bucked once into your palm, and there was something so satisfying about catching him off guard that you almost forgot to be furious. Almost. You pushed your hand beneath the open waistband of his jeans, wrapping your fingers around him properly, and Garrett’s head dropped to your shoulder with a curse that sounded like it had been dragged out of him by force.

“Oh, Graham,” you murmured, your other hand sliding into his hair and pulling his head back enough to make him look at you, “You’re not very quiet.”

His eyes flashed.

His fingers curled inside you.

Your knees actually buckled.

He caught you, because of course he did, arm locking around your waist and lifting you back against the mats like your body weighed nothing. Your grip tightened around him in retaliation, thumb dragging over the sensitive head until his jaw went slack.

“Careful,” he gritted out. You smiled, “I thought it was my line now?”

He kissed you so hard your teeth clicked.

After that, everything became hands and breath and the wet, obscene rhythm of touch hidden badly under the rustle of clothes. His fingers worked you open while his palm ground against your clit, and your hand moved over him in tight, slick pulls that made his shoulders lock and his breathing go ragged against your neck. Neither of you undressed. That made it worse somehow. Clothes shoved aside, buttons open, your sweatshirt bunched up under his forearm, his jeans barely low enough, both of you too desperate and too angry and too stubborn to admit this had been inevitable from the second he texted you.

“You close?” he asked, voice rough. “No.” He laughed once, “Liar.”

You tightened your grip.

His laugh broke into a curse.

“You first,” you snapped. He kissed down your neck, teeth scraping lightly under your jaw, fingers pushing deeper, “Competitive even now?” “Especially now.”

Garrett’s thumb pressed harder.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“No,” he said, catching your jaw with his free hand, “Look at me.”

You wanted to hit him.

You looked.

That was your mistake.

Because Garrett looked ruined. Hair falling into his eyes, mouth swollen, cheeks flushed with heat, focus locked on your face like he wanted the exact second you lost control more than he wanted his own release. It should have made him look smug. It should have made him easy to hate.

It did not. It made your body go liquid around his fingers.

He felt it and the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Good girl.” “Don’t-”

Your orgasm cut the word clean in half.

You came silently because you would rather die than make noise where someone might hear, teeth sunk into your lower lip, hand still moving on him out of spite more than coordination as pleasure tore through you in hot, shaking waves. Garrett watched the whole thing, jaw clenched, his fingers slowing only when your hips jerked away from the sensitivity. His hand at your jaw softened for half a second, thumb brushing near your mouth like he was about to say something dangerous.

You pulled harder.

His face went slack.

“There,” you whispered, still breathless, “Less talking.”

Garrett came with his forehead pressed to your shoulder and your name strangled so low into your sweatshirt that you almost missed it.

You both stayed like that for two seconds too long.

Then you shoved him back. The room rushed back in- the smell of rubber, the hum of the overhead light outside the door, the distant slam of a locker somewhere in the building. Garrett stepped away, breathing hard, hands moving to fix his jeans. You tugged your leggings back into place with fingers that only trembled once. The mark on your lower lip stung where you had bitten it. Your wrist ached faintly from the angle.

Garrett looked at you.

You looked at the door, “That was disgusting,” you said. His laugh came out low and slightly wrecked, “You started it.” “You texted me.” “You answered.”

There it was. The phrase landed between you like a new rule.

You lifted your chin, “Don’t do it again.”

Garrett smiled.

You hated him for knowing you were lying.

He did it again two nights later.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

you awake?

You were not.

Or you had not meant to be.

You were in bed with one leg propped on a pillow because your hip had started to ache in a way you did not enjoy thinking about, your laptop open beside you, video paused on the same jump entry you had been analysing for twenty-three minutes without absorbing a single useful thing. Your phone buzzed once against your comforter.

You looked at the message.

Then at the time.

12:41 a.m.

YOU

no.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

typing while asleep. impressive.

YOU

some of us have talents beyond getting shoved into plexiglass.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

come over.

You stared at the screen. Then you stared at the wall. Then at the ceiling.

Then back at the screen. Absolutely not. Not again.

You were not becoming the kind of person who went to a man’s room because he texted two words and your body remembered the storage room before your brain had time to intervene. You were disciplined. Focused. In control. You had early ice tomorrow. You had a body that required sleep, hydration, stretching, and far fewer encounters with six-foot-something hockey players who thought come over counted as communication.

YOU

desperate.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

you coming?

You set the phone down. Picked it back up.

YOU

I have ice in ten hours.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

plenty of time.

That was how you ended up outside Garrett Graham’s door at 1:07 a.m, wearing the clothes you were going to sleep in and enough makeup for you to feel rational along with the  expression of a woman arriving at a crime scene she had scheduled.

Garrett opened the door before you knocked.

His eyes moved over you once.

“You look cold.” “You look stupid.” “Missed you too.” “I didn’t miss you.” “You came to my room at one in the morning.” “You sent me come over with a full stop like a serial killer. I came to correct your tone.” He shut the door behind you, “Grammar emergency.” “Public service.” “You always this generous?” “Only with the needy.”

He was on you before the sentence fully finished.

Good.

That was what you needed from him then. No questions, no comments about your hip, no eyes going too observant when you took too long to sit down. Just heat, pressure, the door at your back, his mouth on yours, his hands under your sweater, your fingers dragging through his hair while he made that rough sound against your lips that you had started to think about in places you had no business thinking about Garrett Graham.

His room was exactly what you expected and therefore irritating. Cleaner than it should have been. Hockey gear contained in one corner. Textbooks stacked on the desk. A few photos pinned crookedly near the wall: team pictures, friends, a life arranged around noise and loyalty and casual affection in a way that made your chest feel strange if you looked too long.

So you did not look.

You dragged Garrett’s mouth back to yours and let him walk you toward the bed.

“This is the last time,” you said.

Garrett’s hands were already at your waist, shoving your sweater higher with none of the patience he had pretended to possess in the storage room. His palms skimmed bare skin, fingers pressing into your sides, thumbs dragging up under your ribs until you sucked in a breath against his mouth.

“You said that last time.” “And I meant it last time.” “Yeah?” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you between his knees, looking up at you with his mouth swollen and his hands sliding down to the backs of your thighs, “You always this bad at commitment?” “You always this bad at shutting up?” Garrett smiled, “Make me.”

You did.

Your hands found his shoulders, pushing him backward onto the mattress, and Garrett went with a laugh that died the second you climbed over him. The laugh turned into a low groan when you settled over his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, the hard length of him pressing up between your thighs through too many layers of fabric. His hands gripped your hips immediately, fingers digging hard enough to anchor you, and you rolled down once just to watch his face change.

“Oh,” you said softly, “There’s the captain.” His eyes opened slowly, “You’re getting really attached to that joke.” “You keep proving it funny.”

He sat up with a quickness that made you gasp, one arm banding around your back, the other hand catching your jaw as he kissed you. A bite of a kiss, all teeth and pressure, his hand sliding into your hair and tightening just enough to tilt your head back when your mouth tried to outpace his.

You ground down again.

Garrett cursed into your mouth.

“Not so chatty now,” you whispered.

His hand slid from your hip to your ass, gripping hard, dragging you against him in a slow, dirty roll that made the seam of your leggings press exactly where it shouldn’t. Your words dissolved into a breath before you could stop them. Garrett felt it and did it again, rougher, his own hips lifting to meet you.

“Careful,” he murmured, lips moving along your jaw, “You almost sounded like you wanted something.” “I want you to develop a personality.” “I have one. You hate it.” “I hate many things.” “Still in my lap.”

You bit his neck.

He made a sound that went straight through you.

“Jesus.” His hand tightened in your hair, “You always use your mouth as a weapon?” “Only when men deserve it.” “And do I?” “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Garrett laughed once, rough and breathless, then flipped you.

The motion knocked the air from your lungs. One second you were above him; the next, your back was against his mattress, his body between your thighs, your hands pinned loosely above your head by one of his.

Your heart slammed.

Garrett went still for half a second, “Okay?”

The question, quiet and rough, should not have turned you on as much as it did.

You lifted your chin, “You stopped to ask me that?” His smile came back slowly, “Answer me.”

You pulled once against his grip.

He did not let go.

Your body betrayed you with a shiver making Garrett’s eyes darkened.

“Yes,” you said, “Obviously.” “Obviously,” he repeated, like he hated you a little.

Then he kissed you down into the mattress.

It should have stayed rough. You wanted it rough. Rough was easier to file away. Rough meant no one had to talk about the photos on his wall or the way his sheets smelled like detergent and him, or the fact that his thumb stroked once over the inside of your wrist before he released your hands.

But Garrett had time here.

That was the problem.

No rink session. No coach. No watch beeping against your wrist, telling you to get up, get dressed, get back to being the person you knew how to be. In his room, he could take your long sleeve off slowly enough that your annoyance started to curdle into something else. He could kiss the bare skin under your collarbone and feel your breath stutter. He could hook his fingers into your waistband and pull your sleep boxers down with a kind of concentrated patience that made you want to kick him.

You did, lightly, catching his hip with your heel.

He looked up from where he had been kissing down your stomach, “Problem?” “You’re slow.” “You came here.” “You texted.” “You only have three lines?” His mouth curved against the skin above your hip, “They keep working.”

You started to sit up.

Garrett’s palm flattened over your stomach, pushing you back down. Heat shot through you so fast you hated him for it.

His eyes flicked to yours, “Still okay?” “Ask me that again and I’m leaving.” “No, you’re not.”

You glared.

He pressed one kiss to the soft skin beneath your navel, low enough that your stomach tightened, “You’re going to stay,” he said, “because you want to see if I’m better with my mouth than I am with my words.” “You set the bar in hell.” “Then I’ll exceed expectations.”

He dragged your leggings down your thighs, then your underwear, not with the frantic impatience you expected from him, but slowly, hands smoothing along the backs of your legs, thumbs pressing into muscle like he was taking inventory. You hated how good his hands felt. Hated the way your body sank into the mattress under the heat of them, the way your hip forgot to ache for half a second when his palm curved over it, steady and warm.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you said. Garrett glanced up from between your thighs, “Like what?” “Like you’re thinking.” His mouth twitched, “I know that’s new for you.”

Relief hit so sharply you almost laughed.

There he was.

Thank God.

You shoved at his shoulder with your knee, “Fuck you.” “That the plan?” he asked, then lowered his mouth before you could answer.

Your head tipped back against the pillow.

He was smug about it. You could feel it in every touch. In the press of his mouth, in the way his fingers dug into your thighs when you tried to close them, in the little laugh he gave when your hand shot into his hair and gripped hard enough that he hissed against you.

But he was also good.

Good in the worst possible way - observant, adaptive, listening to every shift of your hips, every breath you tried to trap behind your teeth, every moment your body lost the argument before your mouth did.

“Garrett,” you snapped, though it came out embarrassingly close to a gasp.

His eyes lifted. You saw the victory on his face and almost sat up out of spite.

He caught your hip with one hand, pressing you down, “What?” “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Don’t look at me.” “Then stop making it interesting.” “You are insufferable.”

His tongue moved in answer.

Your insult became a broken sound.

His hand slid up your stomach, palm flattening over your ribs, holding you down more through pressure than force. You grabbed his wrist, meaning to push him away, but your fingers only wrapped around him while your hips lifted into his mouth. The room was too quiet. Too private. Every sound felt magnified- your breath, his, the wet heat of his mouth, the sheets twisting under your heels, the low groan he made when your thighs tightened around his head.

“Quiet,” you whispered, though you had no idea whether you meant him or yourself. Garrett laughed against you. You nearly cursed loud enough for the entire house to hear, “Graham,” you warned. He stopped. The loss of his mouth was so offensive you almost yanked him back by the hair. He looked up, lips shiny, eyes dark, “You say my name like you’re mad at it.” “I am.” “You always this angry when someone makes you feel good?” “Yes.” “Liar.”

He slid two fingers into you while he said it.

Your back arched off the bed.

Garrett’s hand on your ribs shifted, holding you through the movement as his fingers curled. Your eyes shut, and this time he let them. He kissed the inside of your thigh, softer than anything else he had done, and you hated it so much you could have cried from frustration if your body had not been busy trying to melt around his hand.

“You’re doing it again,” he murmured. You could barely breathe, “Doing what?” “Trying not to make noise.” “I’m considerate.” “You’re stubborn.” “You’re annoying.” “You’re wet.”

Your eyes snapped open. Garrett smiled like he had won the lottery and planned to be awful with the money.

“I hate you,” you said. “I know.”

Then his mouth was back on you and his fingers were still inside you and you were suddenly not nearly as invested in the argument as you had planned to be.

You came with one hand in his hair and the other twisted in his sheet, jaw clenched hard enough to ache, entire body locking around the rush of it. Garrett worked you through it like he had a point to prove, and by the time the pleasure finally released you, your legs felt boneless and your lungs seemed to have forgotten the order of operations.

He crawled back up your body with an expression you did not care for at all.

You grabbed his face before he could speak and kissed him.

He groaned when your tongue slid against his, tasting yourself on him, and the sound turned something inside you vicious again. Good. Better. You needed vicious. You could work with that.

You pushed at his chest until he rolled onto his back, and this time he let you.

“Generous,” he said, breathless. “Temporary.”

You straddled his thighs, hands already at his waistband. Garrett watched you with heavy-lidded focus, one arm thrown above his head, the other hand resting on your thigh like he physically could not stop touching you. His thumb moved back and forth against your skin, slow and absent.

The softness of it annoyed you.

So you tugged his sweatpants down. His hand stopped moving.

Your smile came back, “There he is.” Garrett exhaled sharply, head tipping back when your fingers wrapped around him, “You’re going to run that into the ground.” “You’re the one making it relevant.”

He tried to laugh, but your hand moved and the sound fell apart.

That, you liked. A lot.

You liked the way Garrett looked with his mouth parted and his throat exposed, his arrogance knocked sideways but not gone, never gone, because even half-ruined he still watched you like he intended to win eventually. You liked the weight of him in your palm, the heat, the way his hips tried to move and then stopped because he was forcing himself to let you set the pace. You liked that when you leaned down and pressed your mouth to the corner of his jaw, his hand flew to your waist like he needed somewhere to put all that control.

“Not so loud, Graham,” you murmured. His laugh sounded punched out, “You’re unbearable.” “You invited me.” “You begged.”

He lifted his head enough to glare.

You dragged your thumb over the tip of him.

His glare vanished.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” you said. Garrett’s grip on your waist tightened, “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Talk like that.” “Like what?” “Like you found a weakness.” Your smile widened, “Did I?”

Garrett sat up so fast you barely had time to react, hand catching the back of your neck and pulling you into a kiss that was all heat and teeth and bruised pride. Your hand stayed between your bodies, still moving, and you felt the moment his concentration fractured. His mouth stuttered against yours. His fingers dug into your waist. His hips lifted once into your touch.

You laughed softly.

Garrett bit your lower lip, “Careful,” he said. “Threatening me from underneath me?” “Warning you.” “About what?” He looked at you, eyes dark and mouth flushed, “Payback.”

The word landed low in your stomach.

You hated that you were looking forward to it.

By the time he came, you had your mouth near his ear and your hand working him through the last of it, murmuring things you refused to remember in the morning. Garrett broke beautifully. That was the only word for it. Head falling back, jaw slack, your name slipping out of him once in a rough, unguarded sound that made your hand falter.

Only for a second.

But he noticed. Afterward, you both lay there breathing too hard.

The room was warm. His sheets were tangled under your thighs. Your shirt was somewhere on the floor with your shorts, and Garrett’s hand was still resting against your bare waist like he had forgotten to remove it.

For a minute, neither of you spoke.

Then he said, “Stay.”

You froze.

One word.

That was all it took to ruin the room.

You sat up immediately, reaching for your clothes, “Absolutely not.” Garrett’s hand fell away, “It’s two in the morning.” “Then I’m already behind schedule.” “You have ice in ten hours.” His eyebrows had furrowed and you despised the guilt that burned in your throat. “Now its...” you checked your watch, platinum glinting in the sliver of moonlight that shot through the gaps in his curtains, “8 hours” “That’s not what I meant.” “I know.”

The words came out too sharp.

Garrett’s jaw tightened.

You dragged your shirt on, ignoring the way your body still felt soft and used and warm, ignoring the way his bed looked too easy to crawl back into. Ignoring, most of all, the fact that he had not sounded smug when he said stay.

He had sounded like he meant it.

You stood.

Garrett watched from the bed, hair destroyed, mouth red, expression turning colder by the second, “You always run this fast?” You smiled because it was easier than whatever else was trying to happen, “From you?”

His face closed.

Good.

Please.

“You’re not that memorable,” you said.

Lie.

Large lie.

Ridiculous lie.

He laughed once, flat and ugly, “Sure, princess.”

There it was.

The word back in its old shape.

You grabbed your coat. At the door, his voice caught you again, “Text me when you get back.” You looked over your shoulder, “So you can track whether your hookup made it home alive?” “So I know you did.”

There it was again.

Humanity. Ruining everything.

You opened the door, “I’m blocking you.” “You won’t.”

You left.

You did not text him when you got back.

You made it eleven minutes.

Then your phone lit up.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGSif you’re dead I’m keeping your scarf

You stared at it from your bed, makeup half removed, hair a disaster around your face.

YOU

vultures have more class.

His reply came immediately.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGSthere she is

You did not smile.

Absolutely not. You threw your phone onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling until the room stopped feeling like his hands.

By Friday, you were both unbearable.

The rink had started to organise itself around you with military precision. The figure skating girls whispered when Garrett passed. The hockey boys went abruptly silent whenever you entered. The assistant rink manager, a tired grad student named Miles who had once watched you tell Garrett that his skating stride looked like “a lawsuit waiting to happen,” began muttering prayers under his breath whenever the schedule overlapped.

Publicly, Garrett was still your least favourite person.

Privately, he had learned the exact pressure of his thumb against your hip that made your mouth go useless. You had learned that if you kissed the underside of his jaw while your hand was in his hair, he forgot whatever insult he had been about to make. He had learned that you hated being told what to do unless his voice was low and close enough to feel. You had learned that he became dangerously quiet when he was close, like even his arrogance needed a second to kneel.

None of this made you like him.

Liking was too soft a word for the way he had invaded the margins of your life.

You wanted him with the same viciousness that made you repeat a jump until your legs shook. You wanted him resentfully, inconveniently, in fragments of the day where you were supposed to be thinking about competition entries and strength training and whether your right hip was going to become a real problem if you did not start behaving like someone who cared about having a long career.

You wanted him most when he made you angry.

Which was unfortunate, because Garrett Graham seemed determined to make you angry as often as possible.

It happened again before your late afternoon session.

You were early. He was late leaving practice. A predictable disaster.

The team was coming off the ice in a sweaty, loud stream while you waited near the boards, arms folded, dressed for practice with your jacket zipped and your skates unlaced but ready. Garrett was the last one off, still arguing lightly with Coach Jensen about a play, helmet pushed back, hair damp, cheeks flushed. He looked alive in a way that irritated you. Hockey made him brighter. It brought out every awful, competitive, magnetic thing about him and arranged it on his face like proof.

He caught you watching.

His smile started, unfortunately, you looked away too late.

“Princess,” he called. You kept your voice flat, “Graham.” “Miss me?” “Like a stress fracture.” “Ouch.” “One can hope.”

He stepped off the ice, removed his helmet, and came closer. Too close, given the number of people around. You could feel the team slowing behind him, watching with the cautious interest of men who had learned to fear shrapnel but still loved explosions.

Garrett lowered his voice, “You free later?”

You stared at him. He had the audacity to look innocent.

You looked past him at the team, then back at him, “Are you asking me that here because your brain fell out during practice, or was that earlier?” His mouth twitched, “So that’s a yes.” “That’s a restraining order.” “Sounds intimate.” “Sounds legally enforceable.” Dean groaned behind him, “God, it’s like watching two porcupines flirt.”

You turned your head slowly.

Dean physically hid behind Tucker.

Garrett glanced back, “You people are cowards.” Tucker pointed at you, “She threatened to castrate you with a skate guard.” “And yet I’m still here.” “Yeah,” Logan muttered, “That’s what worries us.” Your eyes returned to Garrett, “Some of us have actual work to do.” “Right,” he said, “The sacred art of spinning in circles.” “The sacred art of not being dragged around on knives by gravity and poor impulse control.” “You think about me on knives?” “I think about you near medical bills.”

His grin widened.

You hated him. You hated him so much you let him corner you in the storage corridor eight minutes later.

“Absolutely not,” you said as his mouth found the side of your neck. “You followed me.” “You walked in front of me suspiciously.” “You said, and I quote, move, you oversized traffic cone, and came this way.” “Exactly. Suspiciously.”

He laughed against your skin, and you had to bite your lower lip so you did not react. Your session started in nine minutes. Nine. You had warm-up to consider. You had a coach who would notice if your mouth looked ruined. You had common sense somewhere, presumably, though it had not checked in recently.

Garrett’s hands slid to your waist.

You shoved his chest, “No.”

He stopped immediately.

That, annoyingly, made you want him more.

His eyes searched yours, “No?” “No mouth on my neck. I have practice.” The corner of his mouth lifted, “Specific.” “Necessary.” “So where can I put my mouth?”

Your pulse jumped. You hated him.

You looked at your watch, “Seven minutes.”

His expression changed.

There was a particular look Garrett got when presented with a challenge. You had seen it on the ice. At the boards. Across hallways. Under you in his bed. It was focus and arrogance and hunger braided together, bright enough to be dangerous.

“Seven?” he asked. “Now six.” He dropped to his knees. You grabbed his shoulder, “You are such a cliché.” He looked up, smiling, hands already at your thighs, “And yet.” “And yet what?” “You’re still here.”

You were. You stayed with one hand braced on the metal shelving, the other tangled in his hair, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you almost tasted blood while Garrett ruined your life with the kind of efficiency that made your time limit feel like encouragement rather than deterrent. He knew better now. Knew where you were sensitive, knew when to slow down just to make you hate him, knew that if he looked up at you at the wrong moment, you had to turn your face away because something in his attention made the whole thing feel too exposed.

You hated that he knew.

You hated that he learned.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to shift you higher against the shelf, one thumb dragging under the edge of your practice skirt, the other pressing into the muscle above your knee like he could keep your whole body exactly where he wanted it. The metal rack bit cold through the thin fabric at your back. His mouth was hot everywhere else. Too hot. Messy in a way he usually wasn’t, lips dragging against you, his breath harsh each time your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Quiet,” he said against you. “You’re the one talking.”

His laugh vibrated through you.

Your knees nearly went, instinctively you slapped your free hand over your mouth.

Garrett looked up immediately, eyes bright, “Oh, that’s cute.” You glared over your fingers, “I’m going to kill you.” “After?” “During.” He kissed your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, never exactly where you wanted, close enough to make your hips twitch, “Liar,” he murmured.

Your watch beeped.

You looked down at it, frantic, “Five minutes.” Garrett’s grip tightened, “Plenty.” “It is not plenty.” “For me?” He smiled against your skin, “It is.”

You would have insulted him if his mouth had not moved exactly then.

Your head hit the shelf.

He did not give you time to recover. His mouth worked you like he had a vendetta against your punctuality, his hands dragging your hips closer each time you tried to squirm away from the intensity. You felt obscene. Exposed. Ridiculous. One hand clamped over your own mouth, the other in his hair, jacket half-unzipped, practice skirt shoved up around his wrists while he knelt on the rubber floor in front of you like winning this particular fight required devotion.

“Garrett,” you hissed into your palm.

His eyes lifted.

That was the first mistake.

The second was saying his name at all.

He stilled just enough for you both to hear it echo.

Not Graham.

Not brute.

Not you absolute nightmare.

Garrett.

His fingers flexed against your thighs. You pulled his hair in warning, “Don’t.” His voice was rough when he answered, “Don’t what?” “Make a thing of it.”

For a second, his face did something strange.

Then he smiled, but it was different. Meaner because it had to be, “Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”

You hated the relief.

You hated that the word helped.

Then his mouth was on you again, and there was no space left for thinking.

You came with your teeth pressed into the heel of your palm, your hips rocking into his grip despite every remaining scrap of dignity trying to evacuate your body. Garrett held you through the tremor, mouth still working slow enough to make you bite back a whine. By the time he stood, your legs felt unreliable and your face was hot with the effort of pretending otherwise.

He looked far too pleased with himself, hair destroyed by your hands, mouth flushed, eyes bright with that terrible winner’s glow.

You shoved at his chest.

He stepped back, laughing under his breath.

“I have three minutes,” you snapped, fixing your skirt with hands that were not entirely steady. “Need help?” “I need bleach.” “For your personality?” “For the memory of this room.” “You came here.” “You texted.”

His eyes dropped deliberately. You followed his gaze.

The front of his sweatpants did absolutely nothing to hide what he wanted.

Oh.

You looked back up slowly, “Oh,” you said, soft and cruel. “Poor thing.” His jaw flexed, “Don’t start something you don’t have time to finish.” You stepped closer, your fingers sliding over his waistband, “I always finish.”

His breath caught.

Good.

You pushed him back until he hit the metal shelving with a dull clang, and for once Garrett Graham did not make a single clever comment. He only watched you sink to your knees with the kind of stunned, dark focus that made the whole room feel smaller.

You looked up at him, “Quiet,” you said.

His throat moved.

Then he smiled, wrecked already, “Yes, ma’am.”

You should not have liked that.

You did.

You had three minutes and absolutely no intention of letting him forget a single second of them. Your fingers tugged his waistband low, just enough, because neither of you had the time or sanity for anything else. Garrett’s hand braced on the shelf above him, his other hand hovering near your face like he did not know whether he was allowed to touch you here.

You caught his wrist and put it in your hair.

His fingers tightened instantly.

The first sound he made was too loud.

You pulled back and looked up at him.

Garrett swallowed, “Right. Quiet.” “Use your captain voice on yourself.” He huffed a broken laugh, “Fuck you.” “Not today.”

Then you took him in your mouth and watched his entire personality leave his body.

There was power in it, which you liked. Probably too much. The way his head tipped back, the way his arm flexed above him, biceps straining against the sleeve of his hoodie as his hand tightened on the shelving hard enough to make it creak. The way he tried to keep his hips still and mostly failed. The way his mouth parted, curses trapped behind his teeth because you had told him to be quiet and Garrett Graham, apparently, had a competitive enough streak to treat even that as a challenge.

You moved fast because you meant what you said.

Punctuality was not optional.

Generosity, however, could be efficient.

Garrett’s hand in your hair shook. His fingers were firm, curled near your scalp, careful even when his breathing started to fall apart. It was the restraint that got under your skin. The way he held on without forcing, the way he let you set the pace even though every line of his body looked like control was costing him actual money.

You pulled back once, just enough to breathe.“Still hate me?” you murmured. His laugh came out shattered, “So much.” “Good.”

You finished him with the same vicious focus you brought to competition. Fast, clean, precise enough that when he finally broke, he did it with his head tipped back against the shelving and your name caught low in his throat like he had not meant to give you anything that real.

The sound of it hit you somewhere dangerous.

So you did not let yourself think about it. You swallowed, wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, and stood.

Garrett stared at you, for once, he had nothing to say.

That almost made the whole terrible idea worth it.

You checked your watch, “Forty seconds,” you said.

He blinked, still dazed.

Then, because he was still Garrett Graham even after having his entire personality temporarily rearranged, he laughed.

“You’re insane.” “You texted me.” “You keep saying that like you didn’t sprint here.” “I walk fast.” “Sure, princess.”

You stepped in close enough that he shut up.

His mouth was still red. His eyes were still blown dark. Your body still felt loose and hot and stupidly alive. You kissed him once, quick and hard, enough to taste yourself on him and make him follow your mouth when you pulled away.

Then you smiled, “Fix yourself before you traumatise a freshman.”

You left him there.

At your session, you landed everything.

You refused to examine why.

After that, it became a habit.

Not a relationship.

Never that.

Not even an arrangement, because arrangements required acknowledgement and neither of you was interested in naming something that had teeth. It was not dating. It was not seeing each other. It was not any phrase that could be spoken aloud in the presence of rational people.

It was simply this- Garrett Graham kept appearing where he should not be. You kept failing to leave.

In public, nothing changed.

If anything, you got worse.

At the rink, you still insulted him so sharply that his teammates started physically leaving rooms whenever both of you entered them. He still called you princess like he had invented the word to damage your blood pressure. You still told him to eat shit with enough calm that one of the assistant coaches once dropped his clipboard. He still smiled like every insult was a hand on his throat.

The team, collectively, lost their minds.

“You know,” Dean said one afternoon, standing behind Garrett near the vending machine while you tightened your laces on the bench, “I used to think sexual tension was fun.” You did not look up, “You also think jorts are acceptable in public.” Dean looked down at his shorts, offended, “These are practical.” “They are birth control.”

Logan made a sound that could only be described as internal collapse.

Garrett leaned against the vending machine beside Dean, arms folded, watching you with that familiar little edge at his mouth, “You spend a lot of time thinking about Dean’s sex life?” “I spend as little time as biologically possible thinking about all of yours.” “That why you’re blushing?”

You looked up.

You were not blushing. You refused to be blushing.

“Heat response,” you said, “The body reacts poorly to contaminants.” Dean’s gaze bounced between you and Garrett, then narrowed. “Oh my God,” he said slowly. Garrett did not look at him, ”No.” “You-” “No.” “You two have either finally murdered each other or-” Garrett turned his head, “Finish that sentence and I’ll make you skate suicides until you see your ancestors.”

Dean’s mouth snapped shut.

You smiled down at your laces.

Tucker, passing with a protein shake, muttered, “I’m too pretty to die in whatever this is.”

You still hated Garrett in hallways.

You simply also let him put his mouth on you in locked rooms.

Tuesday night was his dorm again.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

still hate me?

You stared at it for nearly a full minute.

YOU

more every day.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

prove it.

Arrogant.

Unbearable.

Predictable.

You changed your bra before you left. You hated yourself for that.

Garrett opened the door with a grin already on his face, like he knew. Like he could see the lace through your sweater by sheer audacity.

“Really?” he said. You stepped inside and shoved him back by the chest before he could say anything else, “You sent prove it like a man who’s never experienced consequences.” His hands landed at your waist automatically, big and warm through your sweater, “And here you are. Consequence-shaped.” “I’m here to humble you.” “Yeah?” His eyes dropped to your mouth, “Been waiting for that.”

You kissed him before he could smile.

Garrett’s hands tightened, dragging you further into the room while his foot kicked the door shut behind you. The room spun in fragments - desk, bed, the soft glow of his lamp, the dark shape of his hockey bag near the closet - then his mouth was on yours and his hands were pushing your coat off your shoulders, and everything else blurred into heat.

You shoved his zip-up off. He tugged your sweater up. You both got stuck for one humiliating second with your elbow caught in the sleeve and your mouth still trying to stay attached to his, which made Garrett laugh and you bite his lip hard enough that his laugh turned into a curse.

“You are so fucking mean,” he muttered. “You invited me.” “You begged.” “You changed clothes.” Your whole body went still. Garrett’s grin was immediate. You narrowed your eyes, “Careful.”

His gaze dropped to the bra he had only half-exposed by pushing your sweater up, the lace visible under the fabric, your skin warming beneath the weight of his attention.

“Oh, princess,” he said, voice going lower,“You did.” “I own clothes.” “You chose those.” “You’re delusional.” “You wanted me to see.” You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close, “I wanted you to shut up.” His mouth brushed yours, “Then make me.”

You did.

For a while, that was all the room was, your mouth on his, his hands dragging your sweater over your head properly this time, the fabric hitting the floor somewhere near his desk while Garrett made a sound through his teeth at the sight of you.

“Jesus.” You smiled despite yourself, “Tragic. I was hoping for literacy.” His hand slid around your back, fingers finding the clasp with disgusting competence,“I can multitask.” “You can barely speak.” “Your fault.” “Take accountability.” Garrett’s lips moved down your throat, “Make me.”

There it was again.

The stupid phrase.

The one that had become less of a dare and more of a door.

You pushed him toward the bed.

He sat when the backs of his knees hit the mattress, looking up at you with flushed cheeks and hungry eyes, his hands closing around the backs of your thighs as you stepped between his knees. His palms dragged slowly up, lifting the hem of your little shorts with them, fingers pressing into the skin beneath like he liked the proof that you were solid.

“Who would’ve thought?” you murmured, tracing your thumb over his lower lip, “Garrett Graham, quiet for once.”

His teeth caught your thumb lightly.

Your stomach flipped.

“I’m thinking.” “Dangerous.” “About how many times you pretended to hate me while wearing this under your clothes.” You huffed a laugh against his mouth as his hands moved higher, “Who says I’m pretending?”

“I do.” His thumbs dipped under your shorts and hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging the lace slightly higher, pressing it against you just enough to make your grip tighten in his hair, “Because your body keeps snitching.”

You tried to maintain your composure.

It was difficult with his hands under your shorts and his mouth hovering at your stomach, lips brushing the soft skin above your waistband while he looked up at you from beneath his lashes like he knew exactly how annoying he was.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you said. “Been enjoying myself all fuckin’ week.” His fingers tightened on the lace, “Can you blame me?” “Yes.”

His mouth pressed over your hip through the thin fabric, and your breath caught despite every effort to strangle it. Garrett smiled against you.

You pushed at his shoulder, “Don’t look smug when you’re literally sitting below me.” He tilted his head back, eyes bright, “You like me below you?”

The words hit.

You hated that they did.

You sank one hand into his hair and pulled, “I like you quiet.” His eyes darkened, “Then use my mouth.”

The room went hot.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then you shoved him backward onto the bed and crawled over him, and Garrett laughed like you had made his entire night before your mouth met his again and shut him up properly. The kiss was filthy from the start, no warm-up, no careful descent, tongues and teeth and hands that could not decide whether they wanted to grip or shove or hold. Your shorts stayed bunched together. His hand slid, palm hot over your ass, dragging you down against him until you felt exactly how much he had been enjoying himself.

You ground down once.

Garrett’s head tipped back.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Oh,” you whispered, “So there is a mute button.”

His eyes snapped open. You smiled.

Then his hand slid sharply between your thighs.

Your smile vanished. “Interesting,” he said. “Don’t.” “What? Point out that you’re soaked?”

You slapped a hand over his mouth.

Garrett’s eyes lit up. The bastard looked delighted.

His fingers moved beneath you, knuckles dragging against the damp fabric of your underwear, pressing exactly where the lace had already been pulled tight. Your hips twitched against his hand. You hated that you were straddling him because it meant he felt it happen. Felt the tiny involuntary movement, the heat, the way your thighs tensed around his hips.

His tongue touched your palm.

You yanked your hand away, “Are you twelve?” He grinned, “You put it there.” “You’re disgusting.” “You’re wet.” “You’re annoying.” “You’re grinding on my hand.”

You looked down.

Horrifying.

You stopped immediately.

Garrett laughed and sat up, arm wrapping around your back to keep you in his lap. His mouth found your neck, kissing just under your jaw, careful not to mark because you had already threatened his life about it, but not careful enough to be merciful. His fingers slipped past the lace at last, and the first direct touch made you gasp against his hair.

“There she is,” he murmured. “I hate that.” “You hate a lot of things.” “You’re top of the list.” “Flattered.”

His fingers circled slowly, learning nothing because he had already learned too much, and you dropped your forehead against his shoulder with a sound that should have been swallowed more successfully. Garrett’s other hand moved up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, holding you to him while he touched you with that unbearable mix of patience and arrogance.

You reached between you, because if he was going to make you fall apart on his lap, he was not doing it alone. Garrett’s breath caught when your hand slid over him through his sweatpants.

The sound felt better than it should have.

You smiled against his neck, “Careful. You almost sounded like you wanted something.”

His fingers pressed harder and your smile snapped apart.

“I do,” he said, voice rough.

Your hand stilled for half a second.

His head lifted, making the room shift into something too sincere, too dangerous for the fact your heart was beating against your chest hard enough for you to hear it in your ears.

You shoved him back against the pillows and tugged at his waistband, “Then be useful.”

Something in his face closed and opened again, so fast you might have missed it if you were not already watching him too closely.

Then he smiled, “Bossy.” “Observant.”

He lifted his hips to help you pull his sweatpants down, and the shift made his fingers drag inside you, sudden and precise, enough to make your hand fly out to brace against his chest.

“Garrett.”

His name left your mouth before you could stop it.

He went very still. So did you.

For a second, the only sound in the room was both of you breathing.

His eyes moved over your face, “Say it again,” he said. You swallowed, “No.” His smile was slow and dark, “No?” “I said no, Graham.” His fingers started moving again. Your nails dug into his chest. “Say it again,” he repeated, softer this time, which was worse.

You leaned down and kissed him instead, because kissing him was easier than giving him things. Your hand wrapped around him properly, and Garrett’s demand dissolved into a groan against your mouth. Good. Better. That you could handle. His fingers moved inside you while your hand worked him in the tight space between your bodies, and the whole thing became desperate too quickly, both of you half-dressed and pressed together on his bed, your shorts wrung into one tightly around your hips, his sweatpants barely low enough, his free hand gripping your waist hard enough to steady you as you rocked into his touch.

“You’re shaking,” he breathed. “From rage.” He laughed, but it broke when your thumb moved over him, “Still?” “Always.” “Good.”

He kissed you harder, fingers curling, palm grinding against your clit with each push until the room thinned down to the rhythm of your hand and his, your bodies moving like an argument both of you kept losing. He dragged his mouth down to your chest, kissing over the lace still covering you, teeth catching lightly over one nipple through the fabric. Your grip tightened around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re loud.” “You’re impossible.” “You invited me.”

“You begged.” You both said it at the same time.

Then both stopped. Garrett laughed, breathless and stunned, and you hated that your mouth curved against his before you could stop it.

That was the problem, really. Not the sex. Not the hatred. Not even the fact that he touched you like he was actively trying to win a war. The problem was that he could make you almost laugh while doing it.

Absolutely unacceptable.

You tightened your hand, and Garrett’s laugh snapped into a curse.

Much better.

By the time you came, your face was buried in his neck and Garrett’s hand was firm between your shoulder blades, holding you there like he could keep the sound of you close to his skin. He followed a minute later, hips lifting into your palm, his hand tightening on your waist as he murmured your name like a secret he did not mean to tell.

Afterward, you stayed in his lap for exactly three seconds too long.

Then you moved. Garrett let you.

You fixed your underwear. He fixed his sweatpants. You found your sweater on the floor. He sat on the bed with his elbows on his knees, hair wrecked, eyes on you.

“You’re leaving,” he said. “Observation skills. Very good.” “It wasn’t a question.” “Then stop using question tone.”

His mouth twitched, but it did not become a smile, “You could stay.”

There it was again.

The word.

Stay.

You pulled your sweater over your head, “You could learn to count. We’re all full of potential.”

Garrett looked down, laughing once without humour.

You hated that.

You hated that the sound made something in your stomach twist, because you had done it on purpose. You had made the softness go away and then disliked the absence.

A deeply inconvenient development.

“Text me when you’re back,” he said. “Stop saying that.” “Stop making me need to.” Your throat tightened, and to ignore it- you grabbed your coat, “Goodnight, Graham.” “Goodnight, princess.”

It sounded mean again.

You told yourself that was better.

The first time you had sex with him, properly, you almost convinced yourself it would fix things.

That was stupid.

Sex almost never fixed anything. You knew that in the same way you knew most obvious truths- theoretically, academically, with the irritated detachment of someone who had not expected to need the information personally.

Sex did not make people less complicated. It did not strip attraction down into something cleaner. It did not turn Garrett Graham back into an irritant you could manage with eye rolls and insults.

If anything, sex made it worse.

He texted you after a game.

Not immediately. Garrett, despite being the most irritating person you had ever met, seemed to understand timing when it came to making you insane. You knew Briar had won because everyone knew when Briar won. The hockey team made joy everyone else’s problem. You had left the rink before the game ended, pretending you had no interest in whether Garrett’s line performed well, then checked the score on your phone three times like a woman suffering an unexplained neurological episode.

At 11:38, your phone lit up.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

still hate me?

You stared at the message.

YOU

did you win?

The reply took longer than usual.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

you checked.

You considered throwing your phone into traffic.

YOU

I checked whether campus would be unbearable tomorrow.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

we won.

YOU

unfortunate.

CONCUSSION WITH LEGS

come say that to my face.

You did.

This time, he was still riding the game.

You could feel it the second he opened his door. There was a different energy in him after winning, something electric and loose under his skin. His hair was damp from the shower, face still flushed, a fading scrape near his jaw, a bruise blooming along one cheekbone like proof that pain looked good on some people in ways nature should have banned.

He looked at you.

You looked at the bruise, “Someone hit you.”

“Astute.” “Did you deserve it?” “Probably.”

You stepped closer, eyes still on his face, “Did it hurt?” His mouth twitched, “You worried?” “No. I’m curious about whether they did it correctly.” Garrett’s hand caught your waist and pulled you inside, “You want to check?” “Do I look like your sports med?” “You look like trouble.” “Derivative.” “Accurate.”

The door shut behind you.

This kiss was different.

Not softer.But faster. Hungrier. Garrett’s win was still in his body, and your irritation at caring about it was still in yours. He kissed you against the door with his hands on your hips, lifting you slightly so you had to go onto your toes, his mouth rough enough to make the bruise on his cheek brush yours. You hissed when your teeth caught his cut lip.

Garrett laughed, “Careful.” “You’re bleeding.” “So?” “So don’t get it on me.” His smile was sharp, “Worried I’ll leave evidence?” “I’m worried it’s contagious.” “Winning?” “Stupidity.”

He kissed you again before you could say anything else, and this time you tasted blood, faint and metallic, under the heat of him. It should not have made your knees weak. It did.

Garrett’s hands dragged down to your thighs, lifting. You hated that you jumped when he guided you, hated that your legs wrapped around his waist like they had been waiting for instruction. He walked you to the bed without breaking the kiss, your back hitting the mattress with enough force to bounce, his body following yours down, one knee braced between your legs, one hand already pushing your shirt up.

“You’re impossible,” he said against your mouth. “You invited me.” “You keep doing that.” “What?” “Coming when I ask.”

You dragged your nails down his back hard enough that his hips dropped into yours. He groaned.

“There,” you whispered, “Now we’re both embarrassed.”

Garrett lifted his head, his eyes were dark.

You had exactly one second to enjoy the reaction before he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head. Your body went still. His did too. There was the pause again. The check. The question in his eyes before it could become one in his mouth. You pulled once against his grip. He held. Heat went through you so fast your stomach tightened.

“Still okay?” he asked. You swallowed, “If you say that every time, I’m billing you for emotional labour.” His mouth twitched, “Answer me.” “Yes.” His grip tightened slightly, “Yes what?” “Yes, I’m okay.” “Good.”

Then his mouth was back on yours, and the rest of the night lost its edges.

Garrett took your clothes off with none of the rushed desperation from the storage room. That should have made it easier. It did not. He peeled your shirt over your head, kissed the skin it uncovered, dragged your leggings down your legs with his mouth following the path of his hands. When his palm passed over your sore hip, he slowed.

Barely.

But enough that you noticed.

“Don’t,” you said. His eyes lifted, “I didn’t say anything.” “You were going to.” “I was going to be careful.” “That’s worse.”

Something flickered in his face, then his mouth twisted into the shape you understood, “Right. I’ll be reckless with the injured athlete. Great plan.”

You kicked lightly at his shoulder, “You’re learning.” “From the best.”

He dragged his mouth up the inside of your thigh before you could decide whether to be offended.

He got you open with his tongue first, because apparently Garrett Graham had decided confidence was not enough and competence was necessary too. He ate you out with the same focused arrogance he brought to a power play- watching, adjusting, learning the quickest route to your surrender and then taking it apart slowly just to prove he could. You tried to hold still. Failed. Tried to stay quiet. Failed worse. His hands held your thighs open, thumbs pressed firm into muscle, and every time you tugged his hair, he groaned against you like it did as much to him as it did to you.

“Garrett,” you gasped. His eyes lifted. “No,” you warned, already too close, “Don’t look at me like that.” He pulled back just enough to speak, mouth wet, voice rough, “Then stop making it hard.” “Your concentration is lacking.”

He smiled. Then slid two fingers into you and curled them exactly right. Your head dropped back against the pillow.

“Seems fine to me,” he said.

You came on his mouth with a hand clamped over your own lips, hips rocking into his grip, the pleasure hitting so hard it left your body loose and furious beneath him. Garrett did not stop until you pushed at his forehead and called him a narcissistic public health risk.

He laughed into your thigh.

Then crawled back up your body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at you like he had won something he wanted to keep.

You hated that look. You wanted it closer. So you pulled him down and kissed him.

He tasted like you. Your stomach twisted.

Garrett groaned when your hand slid down his stomach, into the loose waistband of his sweatpants. He was hard, hot, heavy in your palm, and the sound he made when you wrapped your fingers around him was so unguarded that your chest did something you refused to name.

“Still cocky?” you whispered. His mouth brushed yours, “Always.”

You stroked him once.

His forehead dropped to yours, “Mostly,” he amended.

That almost made you laugh. He caught your wrist before you could make him come like that.

“No.” “No?” “If I’m fucking you tonight,” he said, voice low, “I’m not wasting it in your hand.”

The words hit so low you forgot to breathe. His expression shifted, “Unless that’s not what you want.”

You stared at him.

The room was warm. His sheets were tangled under your body. His mouth was red from you, his bruise darkening along his cheekbone, his body above yours and still, somehow, giving you space to back out.

You hated him for being decent. You hated him more for being patient.

“I want it,” you said. His jaw flexed, “Say it properly.” You lifted your chin, “I want you to fuck me.” Garrett’s eyes went dark, “Jesus Christ.”

He moved fast after that. Condom from the drawer. Sweatpants shoved down. Your legs guided around his waist with hands that were firm but not careless. He paused when he lined himself up, eyes returning to yours one last time.

You nearly snapped at him not to ask. He did not, just looked.

You nodded once, and he pushed in slowly. With each inch both of you held more and more of your breath. It was not the first time you had done this. It was not even your first time with him, not really, not after the storage room and his bed and every awful, hungry thing you had already let happen.

But it felt like a line anyway.

The stretch was slow, deep, your body still sensitive from his mouth, your hands digging into his shoulders as he gave you inch after inch until there was nowhere left for either of you to pretend this had not become something with weight.

Garrett’s forehead dropped to yours. “Fuck,” he whispered. You closed your eyes. “No,” he said, voice tight. “Look at me.”

You did. That was another mistake. He looked wrecked. Jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed on yours with a focus so complete it felt like exposure.

“You good?” he asked. You swallowed, “Yes.”

His hips pulled back. Then rolled forward. Your grip tightened. He did it again, slower, deeper, watching your face like he could read the whole answer there, “Still hate me?” he murmured.

“Yes.” His mouth curved, “Liar.”

You clenched around him.

His smile vanished, “Oh, fuck,” hips snapping forward harder.

Your breath broke.

The rhythm turned ugly after that. Harder, deeper, the kind that made insults dissolve into breath. He fucked you like he was still riding the game, like every hit he had taken on the ice had become something he needed to put somewhere, like your body was the only place dangerous enough to hold him. You dragged your nails down his back, and he groaned into your mouth, hips driving into yours until the bed knocked softly against the wall.

“Quiet,” he rasped. “You’re the one-”

Your words collapsed when he thrust deeper, “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I thought.”

You hated him. You loved it.

No.

No.

You did not think that word. You could not think of that word. In an attempt to smother the mis-step, you grabbed his jaw and kissed him hard enough to make his cut lip split again. Garrett hissed, then laughed, the sound breaking when you tightened your legs around him.

“You like me bleeding?” “I like you silent.” “Then you’re doing a terrible job.”

He slid one hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy. Your head fell back. Garrett followed, mouth at your throat, but did not mark you. He remembered. Of course he did. That made you angrier than if he had forgotten.

“Garrett.”

His hips faltered at his name.

You felt it. You heard it too, the rough little sound he made against your skin.

Dangerous.

So you said, “Don’t get sentimental.” He lifted his head, eyes hard, “Don’t give me anything to be sentimental about.” “Then stop asking for it.” “I’m not asking.” “No?” Your voice shook despite you, “What do you call this?”

He slowed, hips moving deep and steady now, every thrust dragging through you with enough precision to make your thoughts scatter and enough tenderness to make you furious.

“I call this you being scared,” he said.

Your chest tightened.

You hated him.

You hated that he had found the right nerve without even meaning to.

You kissed him so he would stop talking. For once, he let you.

For a few minutes, there was nothing but heat. The slide of skin, the twist of sheets beneath your shoulders, his breath rough in your ear, your fingers in his hair, his hand working between your thighs until your body began tightening around him again.

“You’re close,” he said. “No.” “Still a bad liar.”

You dug your nails into his back.

He hissed, then pressed his forehead to yours, “Come for me,” he said, “Come on. I’ve got you.”

That did it.

I’ve got you.

You came with your mouth open against his, body locking around him, pleasure breaking through you in waves so hot and sharp your vision went white at the edges. Garrett groaned, hips losing rhythm as he fucked you through it, his hand leaving your clit to grip your hip like he needed the anchor.

“Fuck,” he gasped, “Fuck, princess-”

You clenched again. His control broke.

He buried himself deep and came with his face pressed into your neck, a rough, almost helpless sound dragged out of him as his body tensed over yours. Afterward, neither of you moved. His weight was over you, carefully held back enough not to crush you. His breath warm against your skin.

Your hand still resting in his hair. His thumb moving once over your hip. Gentle and unthinking. You hated unthinking softness it was harder to defend against.

Garrett lifted his head eventually, eyes softer than they should have been, “You okay?”

You nodded. He did not move away but you should have told him to.

Instead, you said, “Your face is bruised.” His mouth twitched, “Astute.” “It’s ugly.” “You’re lying.” “I’m generous.” “You checked the score.” You looked away, his fingers touched your chin, turning you back, “Hey.”

There it was again. Humanity. The thing that ruined everything.

You sat up too fast. Garrett pulled back immediately, giving you room. That somehow made it worse.

“I have to go,” you said. His face changed. The softness did not vanish this time, it curdled, “You always do.” You reached for your clothes. “Yes. I’m very busy.” “At midnight?” “I have training.” “You have avoidance issues.” You stopped with your shirt in your hands. Slowly, you looked at him, “Careful.” He laughed once, not kindly, “That's your line now?” “It has always been my line.” “No,” Garrett said, sitting up, “Your line is leaving before anything can touch you.” Your face went cold, “There is no anything.” He watched you, then said, quietly, “Sure.” “You wanted sex. You got it.”

The second you said it, you knew it landed.

Not visibly, not in any grand way. Garrett did not flinch. He did not raise his voice. He did not give you the satisfaction of a reaction large enough to turn into a fight. He just went very still, and for reasons you did not care to examine, that was worse.

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess I did.”

You should have taken it back. You did not know how.

You put your clothes on in sharp, efficient movements. Garrett stayed on the bed, sheets low around his waist, mouth bruised from yours, eyes unreadable. At the door, you paused, hand on the knob, waiting for him to say something cruel enough to make this easy.

He did not.

So you said it for him, “Don’t text me tomorrow.” Garrett looked at you from the bed, “Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”

It hurt, which was infuriating because you had been the one to sharpen it. You left anyway.

That night, you dreamed about landing wrong. The dream was old. Familiar. One you had been having since you were twelve and learned that the body could be both instrument and enemy. In the dream, you were always in the air too long. Too high, too slow, suspended in that impossible second where you knew the rotation had failed but gravity had not punished you yet.

Then the impact came.

You woke before it, heart slamming, sheets twisted around your legs.

The next morning, your phone stayed silent.

So did his.

At the rink, Garrett passed you in the corridor with the team, bag over his shoulder, face unreadable. He did not slow. Did not smile. Did not call you princess. His eyes did not drop to your mouth, your throat, your hip, any of the places he had learned too well.

Nothing.

You had asked for nothing.

He gave it to you. It should have been a relief. Dean, trailing behind him, took one look at your face and physically moved to the other side of Logan.

Coward.

Garrett was almost past when you looked at him and said, “Lose a fight with a dictionary, Graham?”

He stopped.

Slowly, he turned. The whole hallway held its breath. His eyes met yours. For one second, there was nothing public about it. No audience. No joke. No easy heat. Just the two of you standing in the wreckage of a night neither of you wanted to name.

Then his mouth curved, there was no warmth in it.

“Careful,” he said, “You almost sounded like you missed me.”

Something inside you unclenched so violently it almost hurt.

Relief.

God.

You were relieved he was cruel again.

You lifted your chin, “I missed the peace.”

“You texted me at three in the morning.”

“Medical research.”

“On what?”

“How low my standards can go under sleep deprivation.”

His smile sharpened. The team, collectively, began breathing again.

Dean whispered, “Thank God. The divorce was scaring me.”

Garrett did not look away from you, “You busy tonight?”

You should have said yes.

You should have said no.

You should have said literally anything that would have made you sound like someone in control of her own life.

Instead, you smiled, “Depends,” you said. “Are you going to be less boring?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “I can try,” he said.

You walked past him, shoulder brushing his arm like the first day in the hallway, like the first contact had started a chain reaction neither of you had been smart enough to stop.

“Try harder,” you said.

And when his phone lit up that night at 12:43 a.m. with a message from you that said rink, no punctuation, no softness, no apology, Garrett Graham smiled at the screen like a man receiving a threat he had every intention of answering.

By the time he arrived, you were already waiting in the darkened corridor behind the storage room, arms folded, hair loose, mouth unsmiling.

He stopped in front of you. Neither of you spoke. You looked at his mouth, he looked at yours.

Then he said, “Still hate me?”

You smiled, “More every day.”

The movie had lost you twenty minutes ago.

Technically, that wasn’t Beau’s fault.

He’d picked the movie because you said you wanted something easy, the kind neither of you had to think too hard about. Something that could play in the background while you curled up together on his couch and pretended every small touch didn’t feel like it might turn into something else.

Three months in, and it still didn’t take much for things to get out of hand.

It was his hand on your thigh, his mouth brushing your temple, the low warmth of his body behind yours as he pulled you closer under the blanket because you’d claimed you were cold.

You weren’t cold, not really.

But your sleep shorts were tiny, Beau’s apartment was dim, and the movie had been playing for almost forty minutes while Beau kissed your temple, held you close, and acted like being sweet all night was a reasonable thing to do.

Which was nice.

It was.

Beau was good at being nice, too good sometimes. He had a way of making you feel taken care of without making a whole thing out of it — quiet touches, easy patience, his thumb moving lazily over your hip while the television flickered across the room.

The problem was that his version of nice had started to feel like a challenge, so you shifted against him.

At first, it was subtle, just a small shift under the blanket as your hips settled back against his and your thigh slid over his. Beau gave you nothing, except for the way his arm tightened around your waist.

A few minutes later, you did it again, slower this time, a little less like an accident and a little more like a question.

His hand stilled on your hip, and you kept your eyes on the screen like you hadn’t done anything at all.

Behind you, Beau took a slow breath, his chest rising against your back.

“You good?” His voice was low.

“Mhm,” you hummed, still watching the movie.

“You sure?”

“You sure?”

“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you said, still not looking at him.

His thumb started moving again, slower this time.

You hid your smile against the blanket.

For a little while, Beau let you pretend you were getting away with it.

That was the part that got under your skin.

Beau stayed quiet behind you, warm and solid, one hand resting low on your stomach while his breath brushed the back of your neck. He let you shift, let you press back, let your fingers trail along his forearm like you weren’t very obviously testing him.

One more shift of your hips, and you felt him getting hard behind you.

Beau’s hand tightened low on your stomach while the movie kept playing like either of you still cared.

Neither of you moved until the screen froze, and you blinked at it before realizing Beau had paused the movie.

The silence that followed was awful in a way that made your whole body go hot, especially when his mouth brushed the shell of your ear.

“You’re either going to sit still,” Beau murmured, his voice calm against your ear, “or you’re going to tell me why you keep pressing back against me.”

You kept your eyes on the frozen screen. “Maybe you’re just too close.”

“No?” His hand tightened low on your stomach. “You want me to move?”

“I told you,” you murmured. “I’m cold.”

Beau’s hand slipped from your stomach to your thigh, fingers spreading slowly over the bare skin your shorts didn’t cover.

“Funny.” His voice was low against your ear. “You keep saying cold, but you feel pretty warm to me.”

“What, I can’t cuddle with my boyfriend?”

“You can.” His hand moved higher. “But if you keep rubbing against me like that, I’m going to stop letting you act innocent.”

You swallowed hard.

The change in his voice made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau noticed that too.

A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh, before he pulled you fully into his lap. Not rough, not yet — just firm enough that your body went where he wanted it, your back against his chest and your legs tucked over one of his thighs beneath the blanket.

“There,” he said. “If you want to move so badly, use my thigh.”

Your breath caught around his name. “Beau.”

“No, don’t get shy now.” His mouth brushed the side of your neck. “You were brave enough when you thought I wasn’t going to do anything about it.”

The words went straight between your thighs.

You tried to turn your face away, but his hand came up to your jaw, gentle and firm at once, guiding you back just enough for him to watch what his words did to you.

“You wanted my attention.” His voice stayed low. “Now you have it.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

His thigh shifted beneath you, just enough to make the rest of your sentence disappear.

Beau’s hand left your jaw and trailed back down, over your stomach, until his fingers reached the waistband of your shorts.

“No?” His voice stayed low. “You didn’t want to feel me getting hard against you?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His fingers slipped just beneath the elastic, close enough to make your whole body tense, but still not where you needed him.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You hated how quickly those words undid you.

“Maybe,” you got out. “A little.”

“A little?” His voice stayed low. “Sweetheart, that didn’t feel like a little.”

You moved before you could stop yourself, grinding down against his thigh as Beau’s fingers flexed at your waist. The pressure hit immediately, dirty and unfairly good for how little Beau was actually doing. You could feel him behind you, hard against your ass, his breathing low and controlled at your ear, letting you use his thigh because you were the one who had started this.

“That’s it.” His voice was low against your ear. “You wanted to move so badly, sweetheart. Don’t stop now.”

The blanket was still pulled over both of you, the paused movie casting pale flashes across the room, and from the outside, it might have looked almost innocent.

It wasn’t. Not with your shorts riding up your thighs, Beau’s mouth against your neck, and his voice dropping lower every time your hips dragged over him.

“Good girl,” he said. “Look at you, acting innocent while you grind against my thigh.”

You made a small, helpless sound.

His hand slipped beneath your shorts, and every part of you went still.

Beau pressed his mouth to your shoulder. “Still cold?”

“You’re mean,” you said.

“Not yet.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and pressed against you through your panties first.

You were already wet enough that there was no pretending otherwise, and the second he felt it, Beau’s breathing changed.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice went rough against your ear. “You were this wet the whole time?”

Your eyes fluttered, and the truth slipped out before you could make it smaller. “I wanted you to touch me.”

“I know.” His fingers dragged slowly over the damp fabric. “You just wanted me to notice first.”

“You were supposed to be watching the movie.”

“I was trying to.” His fingers moved again. “You made that difficult.”

You laughed, but it broke into a gasp when he pushed the fabric aside and slid his fingers through your wetness.

His other hand settled low on your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.

“That’s it.” His voice had gone rough in your ear. “Don’t hide from me now.”

You weren’t sure you could, not with his fingers circling your clit beneath the blanket and your hips moving helplessly against his hand, the frozen movie still lighting the room like proof of how quickly he’d stopped caring about it.

“You like my fingers here?” His voice stayed rough in your ear. “Touching you under these little shorts?”

“Beau,” you breathed.

“No, answer me.” His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance. “You wanted me to feel what you were doing to yourself, didn’t you?”

Your breath came out shakily. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He pushed one finger inside you, then another, slow enough that you felt the stretch, deep enough that your head fell back against his shoulder. His mouth moved along your neck while his fingers curled inside you beneath the blanket, slow and deliberate, until your whole body jolted.

“There.” His voice stayed low in your ear. “That’s what you needed, wasn’t it?”

Your fingers closed around his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold on.

Beau knew the difference.

“Next time, tell me you want my fingers.” His mouth pressed to the side of your neck. “Would’ve saved you all that pretending.”

You tried to answer, but his thumb circled your clit again, and the words disappeared.

He touched you until your legs trembled over his thigh, until the blanket was too warm, your breathing too loud, and the hand at your waist the only thing keeping you from squirming out of his lap.

Beau felt it the second you got close, and his fingers slowed.

A frustrated sound slipped out of you, and Beau’s laugh brushed against your skin.

“Needy girl.” His mouth stayed against your skin.

“Don’t stop.”

“Then say please, sweetheart.”

You turned your face into his neck, too embarrassed to look at him. “Please.”

“Please, what, sweetheart?”

“Please,” you breathed. “Make me come.”

Beau’s control slipped just enough for his hand to tighten at your waist.

His fingers moved faster, firmer, his thumb working your clit while he curled inside you, and you came with your face buried in his neck.

“Good girl,” Beau said, his hand tightening at your waist. “Just like that. Keep grinding against my hand. I want to feel you come.”

Your body shuddered against his, the orgasm hitting hard enough that your thighs clamped around his hand.

He slowed, but his hand stayed between your thighs.

You were still breathing hard when Beau moved beneath you and pulled the blanket away.

Cool air hit your skin as he turned you carefully, laying you back across the couch cushions as he’d finally decided to stop being soft.

Your shorts were crooked, your shirt had ridden up, and your hair was messy against the armrest.

Beau looked down at you, and something in his expression went dark.

“You wanted me to stop being nice,” Beau said, his hand pressing against your thigh. “Spread your legs.”

You did.

His gaze dropped, slow enough to make your skin heat, before lifting back to your face. “Pretty girl.”

The praise hit low, making your whole body go hot.

He pulled your shorts down your legs, your panties sliding down with them, and tossed both somewhere near the coffee table. You should’ve felt exposed, but Beau’s hands were on your thighs before the feeling could settle, pushing them apart as he lowered himself between them.

“You were acting like such a brat five minutes ago,” he said, kissing the inside of your knee. “Now you can’t even look at me.”

“Beau,” you breathed. “Please.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “What do you want?”

You hated that he was going to make you say it, and loved even more that he already knew.

“Your mouth.”

His mouth curved, slow and pleased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The moment Beau put his mouth on you, your head fell back against the couch.

Beau ate you out like he’d been waiting for the chance, one arm hooked around your thigh to keep you spread while his other hand pressed your hips back down every time you tried to move. He stayed controlled at first, slow and deliberate, licking into you before dragging his tongue back to your clit until every wet stroke made your thighs shake.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and Beau groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

“Oh my God,” you breathed.

You felt his mouth curve against you, right before he sucked your clit hard enough to make you cry out.

Somewhere above you, the movie started playing again.

Neither of you’d touched the remote, but the pause must have timed out, because the movie suddenly filled the room again with some dramatic line from a character you had completely forgotten existed.

Beau didn’t stop.

If anything, his grip tightened, holding you down harder.

“You wanted something easy to watch, right?” His mouth dragged over your inner thigh. “So watch it.”

You tried to cover your face, but Beau caught your wrist and pulled it gently back down.

“No hiding, sweetheart.”

His tongue pushed back into you, and your back arched off the couch.

“You wanted my attention.” His mouth moved against you. “Now come for it.”

The second one hit faster than the first, sharpened by how sensitive you still were from his fingers. You came on his mouth with your hands twisted in his hair, your thighs trembling around his shoulders while Beau held you there through every second of it.

He only eased off when you pushed weakly at his head.

He pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body.

His mouth was wet.

His eyes were worse.

You pulled him down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Beau groaned into your mouth, and it sounded like the last of his patience was finally snapping.

Your hands found the waistband of his sweatpants, and Beau let you push them down just enough before you slipped off the couch onto your knees between his legs.

Beau’s hand slid into your hair immediately, not forcing, just resting there.

His thumb brushed your cheek as your hand closed around him. He was hard and heavy in your hand, and the second his jaw tightened, you wanted to hear what it would take to make him lose control.

You looked up at him, your hand still wrapped around him. “Use your words.”

His gaze held yours. “Open your mouth.”

You did.

Beau’s hand tightened in your hair the second you took him, his head tipping back on a rough breath. For once, Beau looked less controlled, less patient, and when you hollowed your mouth around him, his thighs tensed on either side of you, his fingers flexing against your scalp.

“Fuck.” His voice broke roughly around the word. “Good girl. Just like that.”

The praise made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau’s attention dropped there immediately.

“You like this too?” The words came out rough. “Looking up at me with my cock in your mouth?”

You moaned around him, and Beau’s breath left him in a rough rush.

“Careful, needy girl. Keep making those sounds, and I’m not going to last.”

So you did it again.

He guided you a little more firmly, just enough to make heat spread through your whole body. He didn’t push too far or take more than you gave him, but you could feel his control thinning with every pass of your mouth.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You looked up at him, and Beau’s breath caught.

For a second, you thought he might let himself finish like that.

But Beau pulled you off him with a rough breath, kissed you hard, and dragged you back onto the couch.

“I need to fuck you.” The words dragged roughly against your mouth.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Beau went still, forehead resting against yours. “I don’t have a condom out here.”

“I’m on birth control,” you rushed out. “I’m clean too. Tested last month.”

His breathing was rough, but his eyes stayed on yours. “Me too. Tested last month. All clear.”

His thumb brushed your jaw, careful even now. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” you said, and this time your voice didn’t shake.

“Words.”

“I want you inside me.”

His control slipped for half a second. “Fuck.”

He laid you back across the cushions and pushed your thighs open again, settling between them. The couch was too narrow and too soft, leaving you tangled together with your leg hooked around his hip, one of his hands braced near your head and the other holding your thigh open.

When he pushed into you, both of you went quiet, and the stretch stole your breath.

Beau sank into you slowly, control pulled tight in every line of him, his eyes locked on your face like he wanted to watch every second of you taking him. You clung to his shoulders, your nails catching against warm skin beneath his shirt.

“You feel so good.” he got out. “Fuck, sweetheart.”

You tried to move your hips, but Beau kept your thigh pinned open.

“Slow.”

“You’re the one who said you needed to fuck me,” you managed.

Beau’s gaze sharpened. “And you’re the one who started this.”

He pushed deeper, and whatever you were about to say disappeared.

He fucked you slowly at first, controlled and heavy, making you feel every inch of him. He kept you spread open across the couch, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your throat, fucking you slow enough to make every inch feel deliberate.

“You’re so wet,” he said against your skin. “Taking me so well.”

Your nails twisted in his shirt.

“So pretty when you stop pretending to be innocent,” he said against your throat. “This is what you wanted? Me fucking you because you couldn’t sit still?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“No.” His fingers found your jaw, turning your face back to his. “Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, and Beau’s hand slid up to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, warm and steady.

“There you go.” His thumb brushed once along your throat. “Take it.”

His rhythm turned harder, heavier.

The couch creaked beneath you, and the movie kept playing, voices and music meaningless in the background while Beau fucked you into the cushions.

One hand stayed warm at your throat. The other held your hip hard enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

You were close again too soon, and of course Beau felt it; he slowed just enough to make you whine.

“Already?”

“I’m still sensitive.”

“I know.” His mouth brushed over yours. “Come for me one more time.”

“Beau—”

“Turn over.” His hands found your hips. “I want you on your knees.”

Your knees sank into the couch cushion, your hands catching on the backrest. Beau stood behind you, one hand at your hip, the other pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you bent over the couch.

The first spank landed hard enough to make you gasp, your body jolting forward into the couch.

Beau’s palm followed it, smoothing once over the sting.

“You okay?”

Your breath shook, but your answer was clear. “Yes.”

“Good.” His hand stayed there for one more second before he pushed back into you from behind.

The sound you made was almost embarrassing.

Beau’s hand settled at the back of your neck, firm enough to make your back arch. The angle was deeper this way, rougher, and when his hips snapped into yours, your fingers curled into the couch fabric.

“You were so confident when you were teasing me.” His hips drove into yours again. “What happened?”

You couldn’t answer, and another hard slap landed before you could even pretend to.

“Use your words.”

“I wanted this,” you said, getting out.

“What did you want?”

“I wanted you to be rough with me.”

The sound he made was rough, almost unsteady. “There’s my good girl.”

He fucked you harder after that, rough but controlled, each thrust pressing you deeper into the couch while every filthy word he gave you made your body clench around him.

“You like it when I fuck you like this?”

“Yes.”

“I know.” His rhythm turned sharper. “I can feel how tight you get when I talk to you like this.”

The orgasm built too fast, too sharp, your body still oversensitive from his mouth and fingers. You tried to push back into him, tried to meet every thrust, but by the end, Beau was the only thing keeping you upright, his arm locked around your waist as he fucked you through it.

“Come on, sweetheart.” His arm held you tight against him. “Give me another.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” His arm held you steady. “I’ve got you.”

His hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers settling over your clit, and your knees nearly gave out.

“Beau,” you gasped.

His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Come for me.”

You did, hard enough that your whole body shook around him while Beau held you against the back of the couch and kept fucking you, rough praise pressed against your skin: how good you were, how pretty, how well you took him even when you were sensitive and shaking.

His rhythm broke after that, his arm tightening around your waist as he pulled you back into him.

“Inside?” he asked, his control hanging by a thread.

Your breath caught, and you nodded before the word caught up. “Yes.”

“Say it for me.”

“Come inside me,” you breathed.

Beau groaned, low and wrecked, and pushed in as deep as he could when he came, holding you there while his body shuddered behind yours. The heat of it made your knees go weak beneath you once more.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The movie kept playing in the background, someone on screen shouting dramatically about something neither of you had any chance of understanding anymore.

Beau exhaled first, his mouth pressing softly to your shoulder.

“You okay?”

You laughed weakly. “You’re asking that like you didn’t just fuck me on your couch.”

“I did.” He pressed another kiss to the side of your neck. “Still asking.”

Your chest went warm. “I’m okay.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

His arms tightened around you for one more second before he eased out carefully and helped you sit. Your legs felt useless. Beau’s mouth curved like he knew exactly why, but he disappeared into the bathroom before you could accuse him of looking smug.

When Beau came back, he had a damp washcloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“Drink,” he said.

You took the glass from him, still boneless against the couch. “You’re bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

Beau smiled like he was going to let you have that one and cleaned you up carefully, his touch gentle now in a way that made the roughness from minutes ago feel even hotter instead of less. When he was done, he found your shorts on the floor, looked at them for half a second, then apparently decided against it and handed you one of his shirts instead.

You pulled it on while he settled back onto the couch, and the second you were close enough, he drew you into his side like that was where you’d been meant to end up.

The movie was still going.

You stared at the screen for a few seconds, trying to make sense of the scene playing out in front of you.

“Do you have any idea what’s happening?”

“No.”

“Great.”

Beau kissed the top of your head, his hand resting warm on your bare thigh beneath the hem of his shirt. For a moment, the room went quiet except for the movie and the sound of both of you breathing your way back to normal.

A few seconds later, his thumb moved lazily over your skin.

“Next time you want attention,” he said, low and close, “just ask.”

Your face heated.

You turned your head to look at him. “Maybe I like teasing you.”

Something in his expression shifted, subtle but immediate, enough to make your stomach flip despite the soreness in your body.

“Careful,” he said.

You smiled.

The movie kept playing, but neither of you reached for the remote.

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So, now, whenever your phone lit up with another 911, every horrifying possibility imaginable crashed into your mind. You didn't remember grabbing your keys. You barely remembered sprinting out of your dorm. The drive to the Briar hockey house became a blur of red lights you definitely should've stopped for and speed limits you absolutely ignored. Your pulse pounded so violently against your ribs that it drowned out the music blasting through your speakers.

Please be okay.

Please let everyone be okay.

By some miracle, or sheer reckless determination, your Jeep screeched into the hockey house driveway in under five minutes. The engine hadn't even finished rumbling before you were out of the car. You bounded up the porch steps two at a time, shoved the front door open without knocking. Your breathing came in short, uneven bursts as your eyes swept frantically across the first floor, searching for blood, paramedics... anything.

Instead you were met with silence. Garrett, Beau, Logan, and Tucker stood shoulder to shoulder around the kitchen island, all four wearing expressions that ranged from concerned to thoroughly exasperated. Not a single one of them looked injured. They all looked far too relaxed. What the hell was happening? "Oh, thank God, she's here." Logan dragged a hand down his face, relief washing over his features.

Before you could demand an explanation, Garrett and Beau crossed the room. You reached your brother first, immediately grabbing both of his forearms. "I got your text," Your voice came out higher than you intended, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as your gaze traveled from his face to his shoulders, down his arms and legs, cataloging every inch of him for any kind of injuries. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" He shook his head, making you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"I'm fine," Garrett assured gently, giving your elbows a reassuring squeeze to still your frantic inspection. "Promise." Releasing your wrists he gestured toward the staircase with the exhausted resignation of a man who'd reached his breaking point. "It's your knucklehead boyfriend." That alone was enough to make you wary. Ever since Garrett had become captain of the Briar hockey team, he'd made one rule abundantly clear, none of his teammates were to date his little sister.

He'd delivered the threat with the same intensity he reserved for playoff games, and every guy in the locker room had been smart enough not to test him. Well, everyone except Dean Di Laurentis. By the time the two of you had finally stopped pretending the feelings between you didn't exist, Garrett had nearly blown a gasket. It had taken months of Dean shamelessly kissing his ass, both on and off the ice, before Garrett reluctantly accepted that this wasn't another one of Dean's flings.

Dean had retired his infamous manwhore reputation without a second thought the moment you'd become his girlfriend, and somehow he'd managed to do the impossible: convincing your overprotective brother that he genuinely loved you. That however, still hadn't stopped him from finding new and creative ways to irritate Garrett. Nearly two years later, Dean could still get under Garrett's skin without even trying, especially if it involved anything to do with you.

"Is he hurt?"

"No."

"Did he get into a fight?"

"No."

"Did he piss you off?"

"Yes!"

All four guys answered in perfect unison which made a laugh escape you before you could stop it. Then a raspy coughing fit echoed from upstairs, followed by an aggressively dramatic sniffle that was somehow even louder than the coughing. Garrett squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle in his jaw flexing. "Dean has a cold." Silence settled over the room. After a few moments, you looked from Garrett to Logan. Then Tucker. Then Beau. None of them looked like they were joking.

"You texted me 911 because Dean has a cold?" Beau let out a sharp bark of laughter at your words before scrubbing a hand down his face, frustration evident in his features. "Normally I'd think it's adorable. You know I love you two together, but, Christ…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking every bit as exhausted as Garrett. "He's being so fucking stubborn."

Logan nodded before jumping in. "He won't take his medicine unless you're the one handing it to him. Barely touched any food because apparently it doesn't count unless you bring it to him." You had to practically bite your lip in order to stop another laugh that threatened to escape. "He has been like this all day," Garrett grumbled, you could have sworn you saw his eye twitch. "Every five minutes it's 'Where's my girlfriend?' 'Can someone call my girlfriend?' 'I think I'm dying. My girlfriend should know.'"

"I never realized someone could weaponize the common cold." Tucker admitted shaking his head as he stirred what you assumed was chicken noddle soup from the delicious smell. "You should've heard him this morning," Beau added with a dramatic sigh. "'Beau, if I don't make it, tell her I loved her.'" Your heart, traitor that it was, performed a full somersault inside your chest. Even stuffed up, feverish, and completely delirious, Dean still wanted you. Only you.

Garrett pointed toward the stairs. "Please, go deal with your idiot boyfriend." You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing outright knowing it would infuriate Garrett even more. Without another thought, you headed for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. As you reached Dean's bedroom, you knocked gently with the back of your knuckles. "Go away, G!" His voice carried through the wood, deep and rough from congestion, ending in a wet cough that sounded painful enough to make you wince.

A teasing smile tugged at your lips as you eased the door open, peeking your head inside. "I sure hope you mean my brother and not me," You teased softly. "I'd hate to have come all this way for nothing." Dean, who'd been curled into an impressive mound of blankets, turned sluggishly toward the sound of your voice. The transformation was immediate. His glassy, fever-heavy eyes widened before melting with unmistakable relief, exhaustion giving way to pure adoration.

"Babydoll." The nickname came out as little more than a dreamy sigh. Every ounce of misery on his face seemed to disappear the second he saw you. Well, almost every ounce. Your heart clenched painfully as you stepped fully into the room. Dean looked awful. His usually perfectly styled hair stuck out in every direction, flattened with sweat where it clung to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink from the fever, while the tip of his nose had been rubbed so raw it was nearly the same shade.

Dark circles rested beneath bloodshot hazel eyes that struggled to stay open. He was shirtless despite being cocooned beneath two comforters, a sheen of sweat covering the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. A half-empty bottle of water, several packets of cough drops, a digital thermometer cluttered his nightstand. Used tissues surrounded the bed in messy little piles, some tossed toward the trash can with embarrassingly poor aim, others simply abandoned wherever they'd landed.

"Oh baby, you look absolutely miserable." You coaxed, gently shutting the door behind you. "I am miserable." His lower lip actually jutted out. Then, without the slightest hint of shame, he lifted both arms toward you. "Come here." Not a request, a demand. Or perhaps even a plea. Grabby hands opened and closed impatiently in your direction and your smile grew despite yourself. "Big, tough, hockey player, yet here you are being a big baby."

"Don't be mean, I have the plague."

"You have a cold."

A cough interrupted whatever dramatic speech he'd been preparing, forcing him to curl forward and cough into the crook of his elbow. By the time it subsided, he looked even more exhausted. You kicked off your shoes before crossing the room. The instant you were within reach, Dean's hands found your waist. With surprising strength for someone who'd apparently been on death's doorstep all day, he tugged you forward until you stumbled against the side of the mattress.

"There you are, missed you so much." He mumbled, sounding infinitely more content as he placed a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder. Your chest warmed at the affection, as he buried his face against your stomach with a relieved sigh, wrapping both arms around your waist like he was afraid someone might steal you away. His warm cheek pressed against your shirt, and despite the fever radiating from him, he melted into your touch the moment your fingers threaded through his damp hair.

"Everything already feels better." He whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "You've been giving the guys a hard time, haven't you?" You felt him shrug against you, his face showcasing the perfect picture of innocence. "I've been perfectly pleasant." A loud, disbelieving snort drifted up from downstairs, followed immediately by Garrett's voice. "FUCKING LIAR!" Dean didn't even bother lifting his head. "They're exaggerating." You laughed so hard you had to bite your lip.

"Beau told me you refused your medicine."

"I was waiting for you."

"Logan offered you soup."

"It wasn't your soup."

"Tucker made grilled cheese."

"Grilled cheese isn't Tuck's strong suit."

That was a complete and total lie and you knew he knew it.

"You are unbelievable."

"So I've been told."

His arms tightened around your waist, followed by another sleepy sigh that sounded almost blissful.

"I missed you, babydoll."

"I've only been gone since this morning."

"Longest day of my life."

His voice had gone quieter now, rough with exhaustion rather than theatrics. "I just wanted my girl." The confession, so simple and so genuinely vulnerable, melted of whatever amusement remained. You leaned down to press a lingering kiss against his warm forehead before brushing another across the bridge of his reddened nose. "I'm here now." Dean hummed happily, his entire body relaxing. "Yeah, you are." He murmured, already sounding sleepier than before.

Allie was pinned against a brick wall by a sophomore journalist with an aggressive microphone. Even from your distance, you could tell that she was absolutely miserable. Her dark curls were perfectly styled, and she looked breathtaking in her stage makeup, but her usual bright and expressive smile was now tight and forced. Allie hated the stiff, corporate side of the press even if she understood why she had to participate.

You caught her eye from across the crowded room, offering her a small wave.

Instantly, the tension in her shoulders vanished. The artificial smile turned into a genuine grin that lit up the hallway. She didn’t even wait for the reporter to finish his long-winded question.

“Excuse me for just a second,” Allie interrupted smoothly, making a direct line for you.

The crowd of theatre student parted as she strode over, her costume rustling softly. When she reached you, she pulled you into a hug before pressing a careful kiss to your lips, conscious of her makeup getting smudged.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Allie breathed. “If I had to listen to one more question from a guy who hasn’t even read the script, I am going to lose my mind.”

You laughed softly, “well, I’m here for you now.”

Your hands ached to run through her hair, to wrap her up properly and give her a real kiss, but you knew you couldn’t.

“The part that gets to me is that it’s all just generic questions,” she ranted on, though her voice was quiet. “They could at least try.”

“Hey,” you murmured softly, reaching up to cup her jaw. Your thumb gently brushed against the edge of her lower lip, smoothing out a tiny speck of red lipstick that had smudged when she kissed you. “It’s because you’re on another level, love, they can’t keep up. Plus, they’re intimidated by you and your talent.”

Allie’s eyes softened, her posture relaxing as she leant her cheek into your warm palm. She reached up, placing her hand over yours and squeezing your fingers. “You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

“It’s my job as your number one fan,” you said solemnly.

She smiled, “come and stand by the camera with me? If you’re in my line of sight, I promise I won’t roll my eyes at the next interviewer.”

💭: urghhhh to be the one to support allie sighh! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx

Requested By: @wolfiie10