obvious¡reader who.. has been a constant presence in the codys lives since she was five years old

obvious¡reader who.. earned her nickname ‘crash’ after she rode her bike straight into derans on her first bike lesson when she was five

obvious¡reader who.. is clumsy, so the nickname ‘crash’ stuck. through her childhood, and even as a teenager when she would punch deran every time he called her it, it stayed. she eventually grew to love it. (definitely not when pope started using it..) 

obvious¡reader whos.. best friend always has been and always will be deran. someone bothers her? they walk away with a black eye. if she was getting into trouble, deran was probably in trouble too. they were two peas in a pod. as teenagers he started introducing her to the family business, he never wanted her in danger, but she became a vital part of jobs.

obvious¡reader who.. always tolerated craig. as kids, they were friends. but when craig started to grow up, he became less of a friend and more of a nuisance. he teased her constantly, wound her up daily, but despite all of that, he was still like an older brother to her. teasing her was his job, nobody else was allowed to.

obvious¡reader who.. never really had any kind of relationship with baz. she was always at the house. he was always at the house. smurf adopted him. smurf didnt adopt her. obvious¡reader was always grateful for that. she never bonded with baz, but he always made sure she would get home safe, he always checked on her after a fight with her parents because he knew what it was like to have parents who dont love you.

obvious¡reader who.. at first, was scared of pope. he was derans older brother. he was quiet, didnt speak to her, he just stood around watching her. when she was a kid she never understood how pope knew things about her even deran didnt know. her go to snack when shes had a fight with her parents, how shes always cold but never admits it, how he remembered almost everything about her. 

obvious¡reader who.. grew up and realised that she was actually friends with pope, tried to explain that to him as he stared blankely. ‘of course we are’ he had said. 

obvious¡reader who.. not long after realised she really didnt want to just be friends with pope and very quickly realised he felt the same, even if he didnt know it yet.

obvious¡reader who.. was never scared of smurf. she could stand her ground from a young age, and she would never shy away from her love of the cody boys. smurf both loved and hated it. as a kid, she didnt really understand. she had asked deran one evening why his mom didnt like her. he had claimed it was because she was new to the family and smurf didnt trust easy. she didnt question again.

obvious¡reader who.. clashed with smurf all throughout her teen years. they fought constantly, smurf would ban her from the house but she would come back anyways. smurf knew her sons loved her from early on, maybe thats why she hated her so much. obvious¡reader understood that, she knew smurf didnt want anyone ‘stealing’ her sons. unfortunately for her, she had already done. years ago.

obvious¡reader who.. keeps every small thing people give her. old birthday cards, notes, little gifts - she never throws them away. theyre all tucked safely in a drawer in her home, apart from everything pope ever gave her. thats kept in a small box under her bed. pope cody doesnt give gifts, not to anyone. she very quickly became the exception.

obvious¡reader who.. is very good at reading people. growing up around the codys, you have to be like that.

obvious¡reader who.. can not surf for the life of her, but likes to try. she will spend hours on the beach, drawing or just watching the boys surf. she likes to swim beside them during sunsets, laying on her back as they lay on their boards, planning the next heist or just shit talking smurf.

obvious¡reader who.. has always worn her feelings on her sleeve. one look at her with pope and everyone can tell, the love radiates off her. shes never been shy about showing that.

obvious¡reader who.. is the only girl pope cody has ever loved, and will ever love. he just needs to work up the courage to tell her

thank you for reading!! likes and reblogs are very welcome <333 im going to start posting for this series as soon as possible because i am overflowinggg with ideas for them

* * April 11, 2009 * *

Y/N knocks for what feels like the 100th time. The early morning air is crisp as she stands outside the dingy apartment door, waiting and hoping. It’s not a holiday, not a birthday, but she hopes she can still just drop by.

The door soon cracks open, and the smell hits her before the sight does. It’s something stale, sour, and almost chemically sweet. Then the sight fully registers. The entire apartment is pitch black, but it makes the woman stand out sharper.

Julia's eyes are glassy. Her hair is messy, some strands stuck to her sweaty cheek. She blinks at you like she's not entirely sure who she’s looking at right now. It doesn’t help that her eyes are squinting like she hasn’t seen the sun in days. She sways slightly in the doorway, and Y/N’s whole body goes cold.

She’s using again..

"Julia." Y/N’s voice comes out sharp. "Where's J?"

Julia blinks again, slower this time. It’s like the question has to travel a long distance to fully reach her. "J?” She asks, voice weak and raspy like she just woke up. “He.. He’s in his room. I think." She gestures vaguely behind her, the motion loose and uncoordinated. "We were watching a movie and I-" Y/N impatiently pushes past her before she can finish her slow and slurred speaking. The apartment is worse than she imagined. Dishes piled in the sink, mail scattered on the coffee table, a needle on the couch in plain sight. Y/N’s heart is hammering as she crosses the living room and kitchen, going straight to the end hallway. She throws open the door to J’s room.

Empty.

Bed unmade. A half-finished drawing of a rocket ship on the floor with crayons all around.

J's not there..

J’s not there!

"Julia." Y/N turns around, her voice is shaking. "Where is he?" She demands.

Julia is leaning against the hallway wall somewhat behind her. Her eyes are half closed, and something on her face flickers for a moment. Confusion. Which then turns into a silent dread. As if realizing she’s alone in this oven of an apartment.

“He was just.. He was right here..” She says weakly, like the chemical in her system is holding her down from showing anything more.

“Julia, where the fuck is the kid?!” Y/N snaps, having no time for this. She pushes past her, running out of the apartment only to see from over the railing a young J walking back through the apartment parking lot.

There’s a shaky sigh of relief that leaves her mouth as she touches her chest before she runs to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Her heart slams against her chest as she gets to the parking lot to really take him in.

J.

Ten year old J.

Holding a plastic grocery bag in one small fist. The plastic to thin enough for Y/N to see inside is just a loaf of bread and a carton of milk. He's wearing a red t-shirt and some black shorts, looking down at his sneakers as he walks, kicking a pebble.

The words rush out as she moves closer. "Oh, baby. Hey.." Y/N breathes, dropping to her knees on the graveled parking lot without a care. Her hands take his face in. Small and warm from the sun. He looks up at you with those dark eyes, Julia's eyes, Pope's eyes, and smiles brightly as he takes you in.

"Hi, Aunt Y/N." He holds up the bag. "Look! I got bread and milk. Momma and I ran out." He says, shoulders straightening as if he’s proud to be helping.

She wants to cry.

She wants to scream.

She wants to shake someone.

Instead, she gently pulls him into her arms and holds him tight. He lets her, his free hand moving to rest against her back as he rests his head on her shoulder. She pulls away fast, fixing her hair as she eyes him closer to make sure there’s no bruises or bumps.

He seems okay..

"Did you walk?" Her voice is thicker than she’d want it to be. Rougher. She clears it slightly in order to get herself together. "All by yourself?" She clarifies as J nods fast.

"Just to the corner store. It's not far." He says, voice soft as he turns to look back at the distance covered. "Momma was sleeping. I didn't wanna wake her up. I found money in the couch." He continues sweetly.

“Sleeping. Right.” Y/N sighs, letting the remainder of her anxiety out with that last breath before she stands back up.

Taking the bag from him, Y/N looks back at the building’s second floor balcony only to find that Julia is now standing there, leaning against the railing to watch them. Y/N’s chest is a knot of fury, but underneath that burn is.. Grief. Staring at each other are two women Pope Cody swore he loved.

But only one of them was still apart of his life..

"I wanna take you out today, J..” Y/N finally says, keeping her voice soft for him, even though her eyes don’t leave Julia. Not until the woman finally turns and walks back into the apartment.

“Let's drop this off inside, and then you and me are gonna get something to eat. Hm? That sound good? Burgers, fries. The works." She offers as she finally looks at the ten year old.

J considers the offer silently, then nods once, as serious as a little old man can be. He leads the way back up the stairs, his hand in Y/N’s.

When they enter the apartment, Y/N nods at him to go change into some swim trunks just incase. He eagerly rushes to do so and Y/N waits for him to disappear into his room before she drops the smile. She sets the grocery bag on the living room coffee table, turning to Julia.

"Are you insane?!" She hisses, quiet enough so J won't hear. "He walked to a corner store alone, Jules. Alone. He just turned ten, and he’s buying groceries with money he finds in the couch because his goddamn mother is too high to do it!”

Julia shakes her head. Her eyes try to focus on anything else, hands on her hips as she stands in the living room, fixing her jaw tensely. Something ugly crosses her face as she keeps her eyes beyond her old tenth grade science partner.

It’s shame that is quickly overshadowed by a defensive tension. "Don’t talk to me like I’m some piece of shit, okay?! I just.. I took something to sleep. I've been tired lately.” She says. Y/N’s eyes narrow, not buying it as her arms cross. Julia continues. “He knows the way, Y/N, he's done it before, he's a smart kid.” She states.

"Oh, spare me, Julia." Y/N huffs. "Don't tell me ‘he's a smart kid’ like that makes it any better. He's a smart kid because he has to be. Because you leave him to raise himself!” Y/N snaps quietly without thinking.

Julia's mouth opens slowly, as if in shock. It quickly shifts to anger though. "And who the hell are you to judge me, Y/N?!” She finally says. “You're not his mother. You're not here every day. You come by on birthdays and holidays and play ‘fun Aunt Y/N’ for what? A few hours? And then you go right back to your life in that goddamn house!” Julia snaps, voice getting slightly louder as she seems to strike her own nerve with that, eyes instantly watering as Y/N watches her cover her mouth in order to stiffen a sob. Silently, and at a loss for what to really say, Y/N looks away and towards the bedroom at the end of the dark hallway instead..

"J!" She calls out. "You ready to go, bud?" His bedroom door opens in that moment, and Julia looks away as he comes running over wearing a clean green t-shirt and red swim trunks.

"All ready, Aunt Y/N. Come on, I'm hungry." He takes your hand before stopping, as if realizing something. Y/N watches as J quickly moves to hug Julia. “We’ll be right back..” He whispers assuringly to her. Y/N can’t look at Julia as J kisses her cheek before moving back over to grab Y/N’s hand.

The two leave without looking back at Julia.

*

*

*

The diner is a greasy little place by the water. The kind with red and green vinyl booths and a jukebox that's been playing the same songs since before J was even born. But damn, does the food smell good.

J slides into the booth across from Y/N, his small hands instantly grabbing the menu with the concentration of a man reading the newspaper. Y/N can tell he’s mostly just making his choice based on the pictures..

"I want the burger..” He says as he points to the very much outdated picture. Y/N smiles.

“That all?” She asks.

J pauses to think. "With everything. And a chocolate shake." He finally says with a nod to fully confirm his decision.

"Everything? Even the pickles?" Y/N teases gently.

"Especially the pickles." J says as if it is that serious. Y/N smiles softly just as a lady comes to the table.

Y/N orders his food and just a coffee for her. The fight had completely soured her appetite..

When the food comes, J practically attacks his burger like it's the best thing he's ever eaten, ketchup smearing across his cheek. He talks between bites. About a show he's been watching, about a kid at school who can jump off the swing, about the drawing of the rocket ship he's been working on. Y/N seems to calm herself as she watches him indulge in being a kid..

After his food is gone, Y/N sets down some money and stands up. “I was thinking… We should check out the beach right now.” She points out, voice seemingly casual, but she knows J’s buzzing at the idea.

His entire face lights up when she suggests it, ketchup still smeared on his cheek as Y/N goes to wipe it off. “The beach? Like, the big beach?" He asks to clarify, scrunching his nose a bit but letting Y/N clean him.

"The big, big beach." She nods slowly as she finishes up and tosses the napkin on the table top too. "I know a spot. Quiet. No crowds and lots of ocean..” She smiles softly. J nods fast, eager to go.

The drive is short, the windows are down, the salt air fills the car, and J hangs his hand out the window, fingers catching the wind. Y/N catches herself smiling in the rearview mirror as she watches him.

The beach is empty when the two get there. Just a stretch of sand and rolling waves under the late afternoon sun. J hurriedly takes off his sneakers before Y/N can even fully park.

Once the car is parked and his door is opened, J hops out and runs as fast as his little feet can take him, sprinting towards the water like it's home.

He stops at the edge where the foam washes up, letting the waves chase his toes, then runs away, letting the water chase him before he then chases it.

Y/N sits on the sand, arms wrapped around her knees, just watching him. The sun catches his dark hair. His shadow stretches long across the wet sand. He finds a shell, examines it with serious concentration, and then runs back to show her. It’s just a broken seashell, black and grey lines along its pattern. But his eyes are bright as he puts it in her palm.

"Look, Aunt Y/N. It's treasure." He says.

"Whoa. Look at that. It is..” She agrees with no hesitation. “Real beauty, J. Good find..” She compliments.

“It’s for you..” He smiles softly at her. Y/N looks up at him before gently placing the shell to her heart, as if adoring it.

“I’m gonna keep it safe..” She assures gently before tucking it into her back pocket of her shorts, like it's the most valuable thing in the world. Because to her, it is.

She stays until the sun starts to drop, painting the water a hue of shimmer gold. By then, J's cheeks are pink, his hair is a mess, and he's no longer running around the shallow water. He’s quietly sat next to her, head resting against her as he lets the sound of waves and the warm sun lull him.

Silently, Y/N gets up and helps J walk to the car. She gets him in, noting how his head leans back against the headrest of the chair, half-asleep.

She drives back to his place slowly..

*

*

*

She looks better. Maybe it’s a trick of the light. Maybe it’s Y/N tricking herself.

Julia slowly steps out of J’s room. “All tucked in.” She mutters. The silence is so thick that it even squeezes around those three words. It refuses to be broken..

Y/N shifts a bit as she stands in the living room, the takeout from Joey’s Pizzeria is sat on the coffee table, the apartment a bit more clean now after a few hours away. No matter what, Y/N wanted to make sure Julia ate too..

She takes a deep breath and looks down, a glint catching her eye. It reminds her why she’d even come knocking on the door in the first place this morning.

"I wanted to tell you..." She trails off, as she holds up her left hand, letting the simple gold band catch Julia’s attention.

Julia's eyes… Go right to it.

And for a while, she’s just very still. For a long while actually. She doesn't say anything as her jaw works. Y/N can see it move through her head though. All of it.

This is what she’d fought for. This is what she had hoped for the day she called Y/N over while at the skate park with Pope all those years ago.

All those choices ago..

When she finally does speak, her voice is a bit emotional. "He asked you." It’s not a question. "Andrew actually asked you." She sounds proud. Like she didn’t know her brother had it in him.

“Yeah..” Y/N smiles a bit. Small and helplessly in love. "He did." She nods.

Julia walks closer, taking Y/N’s hand in order to actually examine it. Real gold. Real expensive. Yet it looks simple enough.

“You know what’s funny?” She asks quietly. “When you two first went out. On like.. Your first date? I watched him drive off to go pick you up, and.. A small part of me just thought.. ‘He's gonna ruin this’.." She mutters quietly. Y/N frowns at the confession. She opens her mouth, but Julia continues to talk.

"I thought.. He's gonna ruin her. That poor, sweet, girl.” Julia shakes her head. “He's got Smurf in his ear and blood on his hands and he doesn't know how to be anything else." She whispers, voice raw and honest as Y/N instantly feels sickened by the words.

Julia’s eyes lift to meet hers though, glossy with unshed tears. "But you..” She shakes her head. “You stood your own. You might just be.. The only good thing he's ever had. The only thing that can stand against Smurf. Maybe even stand against himself..” She notes.

A tear drops from Y/N’s eye as it clicks that she’d begun tearing up at Julia’s little speech.

Julia lets go of her hand. The kitchen clock ticks in the slight beat of silence before she starts back up again.

"Congratulations.." Julia says. And from the soft look on her face, she means it.

There’s more silence between the two women as Julia turns to go to the kitchen. Y/N shifts on her footing. "I want you there. And J." She finally says. The words come out before she can really second-guess them…

"Y/N.." Julia’s voice is careful now. "Smurf will be there. You know damn well-"

"I know." Y/N sighs. "But you shouldn’t care. You’re my guest. I want you there. Tomorrow..” She tries as Julia just shakes her head, turning back to the fridge..

“You're his twin, Julia. And.. You're my family too.” Y/N defends. It’s true. Y/N had no family. Not besides the Codys..

“And… J deserves to see his uncles. And watch his aunt get married." She continues, voice a bit quieter now as Julia turns to face her again.

"I want you there, Jules. Both of you.” She whispers. Julia’s eyes narrow slightly as she fusses with the water bottle cap absentmindedly. “That's a request from the bride. You have to follow it.." Y/N adds quietly afterwards, as if there’s no room to argue after that.

Julia looks at her for a long moment. Something behind her dark eyes softens as she chuckles. Like she can’t help herself. "You're insane, you know that? You've always been insane.." She mutters, half joking as she shakes her head.

"Have not..” Y/N argues shamelessly, smiling as Julia snorts.

“Marrying into this family? Yeah, you are..”She says bluntly as Y/N bites her lip. She couldn’t argue that. Julia notices and sighs deeply. “Can I just.. Think about it?" she finally decides, making Y/N nod fast. It wasn’t promising, but.. She’d take it.

*

*

*

* * April 12, 2009 * *

“Pregnant?” Pope asks the second Baz’s plus one leaves the space so Baz can take some shots with just Pope and Y/N.

The wedding had been a real simple courthouse ceremony. It wasn’t the kind of nuptial 9 year old Y/N had dreamt about, but Pope was there.

And that made it the one 17 year old Y/N had dreamt about.

The after party was being held in the backyard of the Cody Residence, and right now, Y/N stood between both men in a silk gown with spaghetti straps and her hair pinned perfectly. Pope’s hand stays on the small of her back as they all stand behind the table holding the wedding cake. The photographer assures them that it’s just a few more pictures and then Baz can go back to his ‘date’..

“I’m pissed, man.” Baz sighs through a toothy grin, eyes forward. “She said she was on the pill..” He mutters as Y/N fixes her jaw a bit as to not freak out on him. Pope only shakes his head a bit.

“I mean.. Y/N’s never lied to you about that type of stuff, right?” He continues as Y/N sighs deeply through her nose, moving her head a bit closer to Pope’s chest. Mostly just to put distance between her and Baz..

“Can’t say she has..” Pope mutters flatly, focusing on the camera instead of his brother.

“No. Because she’s a good girl.” Baz says through his false smile.

“Awe. I’m flattered.” Y/N says, making a show of giggling for the final few shots. “Now get away..” She says, scrunching her nose in delight at the camera before turning to Baz. “You disgust me.” She states, act dropped. He rolls his eyes at her before walking away from the table.

“You okay?” Pope asks, voice soft now that they’re alone. Y/N looks over at him and instantly, her mood is lifted.

“So much better now..” She says quietly as she wraps her arms around his neck. He instantly grabs her waist, yanking her closer with a sheepish smile.

“Hi..” He whispers the second their faces are close. It makes Y/N giggle.

“Hi..” She says sweetly as she uses one hand to absentmindedly play with his curls. He leans in to kiss her just as she sees Julia stand close to the glass doors that look out into the backyard.

Y/N smiles wide, pulling back eagerly. “Julia’s here..” She says. Pope stiffens a bit and turns to follow Y/N’s gaze. Julia is scanning the party before she finds Y/N’s eyes. In that split second, her shoulders slump and she gives a small smile before turning to leave.

Y/N pauses at that. “Where is she..” She trails off, moving away from Pope fast to go follow her.

“Y/N..” Pope tries but she walks inside and finds Julia walking out the front door.

“Jules!” She says as she chases after her. Julia turns to face her. A cab is already waiting out front. “Where’s J? What’s going on?” She asks, smiling a bit nervously.

“I came alone. Just in case. I.. I just wanted to see you in the dress.” Julia explains, voice getting a bit soft at the end. “I left a card already. It’s in your bedroom.” She assures.

“I don’t care about that. Stay..” Y/N tries.

“I really shouldn’t..” Julia whispers. Her tone lets it be known that even just this had been a lot for her. Y/N frowns at that, watching as she turns to walk away.

She stops though, looking back at Y/N. “I don’t blame you. Or Pope. Smurf wanted me gone, and she got what she wanted. She knew he’d never let go of you. That even with the world on fire.. He’d choose you.” She explains softly. Y/N shifts a bit on her own two feet. She knew that was true. And sometimes it scared her. Because she felt the same way..

“Would you do the same for my brother? If it ever comes down to him and another person?” Julia asks, curious now.

Y/N doesn’t even have to think about it. But she does hesitate at how fast the answer came to her.

“Without any doubt..” She admits finally. Julia eyes her closely and hums.

“God help whoever the other choice is..” She says before walking away. Y/N frowns deeply, watching Julia get into the cab and disappear down the road. Leaving her standing in the front yard, in a silk gown, all alone. Sheepishly, Y/N sits on one of the big rocks that outline the garden of the front lawn. She’d not ready to go back in there. To face everyone..

“You okay?”

Y/N turns to face Baz’s date. She’s sheepishly holding something behind her back, giving a little smile to show she means no harm and doesn’t want to pry, but she’s also not gonna go away.

“Yeah. Yeah, all good.” Y/N says as she quickly sits up more. “You having fun?” she asks, wanting to switch subjects.

“Look.” The girl begins, not one to beat around the bush. “I don’t know what’s going on, or who that girl was, or.. Why you’re sitting out here on the dirty ground in your beautiful dress..” She pouts a bit before continuing. “I don’t know.. Anything. But I do know.. That you need a friend..” She states simply before slowly lifting a bottle from behind her back. “And a shit tone of wine..” She adds quietly, smiling a bit giddily at her. Y/N can’t help but chuckle as she finally gives in, nodding for her to sit next to her.

“You’re too kind.” Y/N sighs as the girl pops open the bottle.

“Someone should enjoy drinking tonight..” The girl jokes as she nods to her still flat stomach. Y/N eyes her as she drinks from the bottle. She hums softly, swallowing the sweet wine before speaking once more.

“I don’t… Remember your name..” She mumbles sheepishly after a moment of just watching her.

“Oh! It’s Catherine. Catherine Belen..” She smiles as she holds out her hand to shake. Silently, the two women shake hands before settling into this… New life around them..

*

*

*

* * August 2, 2016 * *

The rain is light tonight.

It hits the windshield as Y/N watches from the driver’s side. She can’t wrap her head around all of this. This week along has been so much.

Her thumb brushes over the seashell lazily, the one that’s been in her car for seven years and still as warm as the day it was put into her hand. By the boy who’s now running around with the Cody men. As if he’s built for this life. Then again.. Y/N never thought she’d be built for this life.

Yet here she was.

“There’s something you’re not telling me..”

Y/N shakes the memory from her head as she gets out of the car and rushes to the motel room door. She knocks hurriedly on it. “Cathy! Cathy!” She calls out. “I know you’re in there. I’m not leaving until you-“ Y/N stops her threat the second the door opens. The chain keeps it from opening fully as Catherine stares at her, nose a bright red and cheeks tear stained.

“You know you got the whole family going nuts?” Y/N whispers as Cathy eyes her wordlessly. Suspiciously.

“What?” Y/N whispers.

“Did you know?” She asks finally, voice so quiet that Y/N can barely hear her over the soft rain of tonight.

“Know what? Cathy, you’re.. You’ve got Baz worried. Normally, I’d say screw him, but.. Where’s Lena? Is she okay?” She asks slowly.

“Y/N did you know what they did!” Cathy fusses more, making her jump a bit at the desperate and broken tone of her good friend.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about..” Y/N says as Cathy softly cries again.

“They killed my..” Cathy’s voice breaks a bit as she breathes shakily, fanning herself. Y/N frowns deeply.

“Can’t you talk to her?”

Y/N looks down, pushing the quick flashes of her earlier conversation to the back burner. She has to focus. “Cat. I don’t know.. Anything.” She whispers as she watches her. “But I do know.. That you need a friend..” She states before slowly lifting a bottle of wine into Cathy’s view. “And a shit tone of wine..” She whispers quietly.

Cathy watches her closely before slowly sniffling and nodding. The door shuts before opening wider.

Y/N slips inside the motel room, looking around. “Where is Lena?” She asks again, voice quiet.

“Bathtub. Only way to distract her was to.. Build her a pillow fort in there.” Cathy sighs, rubbing her hands on her jeans as Y/N nods slowly.

“You wanna tell me why you’re in a motel outside of town?” She asks gently as she walks over to the motel dining table that has packaged paper cups on it.

“I’m tired. Lena is going to be seven, and.. I have her around people who.. I don’t even know..” Cathy whispers as Y/N pours the wine silently. She then hands Cathy the bottle with a soft smile on her lips. Cathy snorts humorlessly but takes it.

Y/N sits on the bed next to her as she drinks straight from the bottle. “You know Baz.” She tries as she eyes her cup before looking back at Cathy.

The older woman laughs bitterly. “Do I?” She whispers, hurt in her voice before she shakes her head, eyeing the bottle. “I don’t know how you do it.” Cathy sighs. “How you can.. Stay. Around those people. I..” She breathes shakily through her mouth in order to keep herself from full on sobbing.

“Y/N, they killed my parents..” She finally whispers. Y/N is silent for a moment as she lets that sink in.

“I..” Cathy pauses to chug more wine. “Ugh..” She breathes shakily as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I want nothing to do with any of them..” She mumbles, feeling a twist to her stomach that she soothes with more wine.

“I can’t make you go back.” Y/N finally whispers.

“I.. This family..” Y/N begins. “It’s not for everyone..” She sighs.

“There’s something you’re not telling me..”

Cathy opens her mouth to speak, but the twisting in the pit of her stomach has grown to an obvious nauseous feeling. She slowly sets the bottle down on the nightstand beside her.

“I met Andrew at 17. And I knew from our first date… That I wanted him. Forever. The good, the bad, the ugly. And trust me, there’s been a lot of ugly..” Y/N sighs as Cathy hums quietly, feeling the discomfort grow.

“But I chose him. Because.. Women are strong creatures. Everything they do.. Has a reason. So even when the world’s on fire…” Y/N trails off.

“Word around town is Cathy’s workin with the cops..”

“I’ll always choose him.” She sighs, as if a choice has been made. A choice she never wanted to make. Cathy opens her mouth but a sharp pain shoots through her left arm in that same moment..

“Smurf. There’s something you’re not telling me..” Y/N says, tone hard as both women watch Baz pace the driveway, trying Catherine’s number for the 50th time in a row. Smurf watches her son silently before turning back to Y/N.

“No more swim time for you?” She asks, corking her head to the side as Y/N glares at her. She’d been enjoying some alone time with her husband in the backyard pool when Baz came storming out there asking her if she’d heard from Cathy yet.

‘Fuckin clothes are gone! Her and Lena’s..’ He’d said before storming back into the house to try the phone again. The look on Smurf’s face had said everything Y/N had feared. Silently, she slipped out of the pool to follow her inside the house.

“What’s going on?” Y/N asks. Smurf gives her a false smile.

“Word around town is Cathy’s workin with the cops..” She says simply, as if it’s as right as rain, as obvious as the blue sky. Y/N feels her heart sink.

“No. No, she.. She does that and we all go down.” Y/N tries quietly.

Sure, she and Baz weren’t on good terms right now, but.. Turning in the whole Cody family.. She’d be risking everyone. J, herself, Lena..

Pope.

“Are you feeling it yet?” Y/N asks, voice soft and calm as Cathy looks at her, tears in her eyes as she slowly shakes her head, feeling sick.

“It’s Digitalis. Synthesized from Foxglove flowers. Infused in the wine..” Y/N confesses quietly as Cathy tearfully looks towards the wine. The wine only she’s been drinking.

“What you are feeling… Is a cardiac arrhythmias in your heart..” Y/N continues slowly with an apologetic look as Cathy goes to get up but instantly falls back down on to her knees, breathing hard into the motel carpet and gripping at her chest and left arm while wincing at the pain.

Y/N can’t look away. She owes it to Cathy to watch her. Watch her as she struggles to crawl towards the bathroom. “No..” Y/N says as she gets up fast and grabs Cathy by the ankles, yanking her back. “Let her sleep.” She orders. Cathy tries fighting against her, but the pain is too much.

“It’s okay. The cause of death will look like a heart attack..” Y/N whispers as she strokes Cathy’s hair. “And digitalis is very hard or even impossible to test for. So Lena won’t ever have to know. No one will..” She assures her as Cathy makes a quiet moan sound.

Y/N sits back to watch her. “I know this doesn’t give you much assurance. But.. Andy and I are gonna take real good care of Lena. Die knowing that..” She whispers as Cathy struggles to take her final breath..

“Can’t you talk to her?” Y/N asks. Smurf snorts at that.

“There’s no reasoning with her.” She shrugs simply. “I guess we can just wait and see what she does.” She continues softly as she watches Y/N closely who is already lost in her own thoughts.

“You know.” Smurf begins. “Women are strong creatures. Everything they do.. Has a reason. Men kill for less. Men would kill for a sandwich..” She chuckles quietly as she shakes her head before walking towards the kitchen to get started on dinner. “But women?” She turns back to face Y/N once more. “They’re the real protectors..” She says simply before fully walking away.

*

*

*

* * August 3rd, 2016 * *

“You got Lena back..”

Smurf sounds earnestly joyous at the sight that Y/N has also been tenderly watching from beyond her coffee cup.

Pope continues swimming with Lena, letting her crawl on to his shoulders before squealing when he falls back into the pool with her clinging to him. Craig is eager to show off a backflip in the pool and J is smiling a bit from his chair, watching how crazy his family is.

“I paid Cathy a visit last night. Talked her into letting me take Lena while she figured herself out..” Y/N says, voice calm as Smurf watches her closely, smirking a bit.

“Oh?” She asks, slight humor to her tone.

Honestly? Y/N couldn’t get clean last night. No matter how much she scrubbed. How hot the water. But she was learning to live in this new skin now. Pope had kissed it this morning, so maybe that was all the cleansing she needed..

“Yeah.” Y/N mutters before fully turning to face Smurf now as she holds her mug with both hands. “And I uh.. made sure to slip something into her pocket..” She continues. Smurf slows her movements at that. “You know, in case she’s ever found.” She adds calmly.

Smurf’s eyes narrow at that. “What?” She asks.

“What?” Y/N mocks her question. “Do you wanna know what it is?” She asks before eyeing Smurf closely. “Wanna know if it’s… Your other earring? Or.. Your hair tie? Maybe even some DNA?” She continues, voice calm and feigning curiosity.

Smurf is silent for a bit before quietly laughing as she shakes her head. “You don’t wanna blackmail me..” She says slowly, glaring up at Y/N now.

The kitchen is empty and quiet besides the two ladies. The Cody family is outside, none the wiser to the tension building between them.

“Why, Smurf? Because I’ll end up next to Cathy?” Y/N asks, completely unfazed. Maybe that’s what happens when you take a life..

“I talk back to you and I’ll end up like Julia?” She continues, angry tears almost springing to the surface, but she holds them down. Smurf stares at her for a long moment before smiling as if amused. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating..” She whispers, looking her directly in the eyes. A small part of Y/N wants to learn how to lie like that.

She watches Smurf for a moment before she nods slowly. “Okay.” She takes a deep breath through the nose as she turns back around to open a random kitchen drawer. “Whatever you choose to do with me.. You just make sure you get a higher prescription first..” She whispers as she turns back around to face Smurf and set down the empty pill bottle in front of her. The older woman freezes a bit, keeping her poker face on even as she realizes Y/N had found her stash and flushed it, given how the bottle is empty..

“Because if he finds out you did anything to me..” Y/N shakes her head slowly. “It’s gonna take more than those to keep him from ripping you apart..” She whispers simply, voice so quiet, it’s almost like she’s mouthing to Smurf.

“You think he’ll touch me?” Smurf challenges. But that tone doesn’t match her eyes.

“I don’t know. He chose me over his twin once. You really think he’ll choose you over me?” Y/N scrunches her nose at the thought. “Do you like those odds?” She asks as Smurf looks at her, unamused.

“Those pills never touched him. Did they..” She says calmly, nodding to the empty bottle. They weren’t always empty. In fact, at one point, Smurf was hoping slipping them into Pope’s food could make him disoriented and.. Maybe even a bit more dependent on her. Unable to move out, unable to try for a damn kid. Unable to be Y/N’s..

“You randomly becoming okay with the idea of Pope and I moving out? I knew something was going on. So hell no, those pills never touched him.” Y/N admits. This has been almost two weeks of knowing, of switching his plates with Craig when no one was looking.

Smurf slowly nods, letting her fascination show. This is what happens when you survive long enough in this family.

“Okay.” Smurf finally says, voice light and pleased. As if Y/N had just won a game.

“What do you want?” She asks patiently..

* * May 12, 1995 * *

The beat up black pick up slows to a halt, overlooking the vast beach. The engine along with the old rock song fuzzily playing over the radio gets cut short as Pope settles back in the driver’s seat, smiling a bit at the view in front of him, keys hanging in the ignition but turned off.

They’d made it just in time to catch the sunset.

In the passenger seat sat a girl he never in a million years thought would agree to be his. But here they were, two months into dating, and his hands would still get sweaty when near her.

Y/N Y/L/N.

The smartest girl in all of Oceanside Viking’s High School. The girl who was going places.

Pope was honored just being a pitstop in her life..

“Andy. You weren’t joking. It’s so pretty up here..” Y/N gushes as she sits up more, her bare feet still tossed happily across his lap, nails painted his favorite shade of blue. A symbol of her love for him, honestly.

“You like it?” Pope asks to make sure, heart skipping a beat at the idea of doing good by her.

That’s all he really wanted.

She smiles warmly, nodding as she settles in to watch the sunset before remembering. "Oh! I actually wanted to tell you." She begins as she plays a bit with her thumbs, barely able to contain herself the longer he watches her with those beautiful brown orbs of his, the sun hitting them just right to make them gold..

"I got in!” She blurts out while giggling. Pope is shocked for only a second before letting out a breath of pure pride for his girl. “You're looking at a future doctor of Oceanside, baby!" She playfully jokes as she leans forward more to touch his cheek.

"No shit..” He laughs, actually laughs, and it makes Y/N smile wider. It’s rare when he does laugh out loud, so each crack of that is joyous for the young girl.

“Holy shit, Y/N. I told you that you’d get in..” He states, having never doubted his girl. She’s always been smart. Hell, she was class president from ninth grade all the way to eleventh. This year, she’s vice president.

She tells Pope it’s cause she wants to ‘cut back’ and enjoy her senior year, but.. Pope knows his overachiever has no real plan of that..

"I got in..” Y/N repeats, breathing out like she can finally settle, grinning so wide her cheeks might actually start hurting.

Pope finally reaches over, cupping her face tenderly. His thumbs brush along her cheekbones, brown eyes searching hers like he's trying to hold onto this moment forever. He’s always trying to hold on..

"I knew you would. I told you that you would." He can’t help but repeat. It’s true though.

He never doubted her for a second.

Pope dropped out of school in the ninth grade, but Julia was constantly trying to share new things with him whenever she could, just to keep him sharp. He had met Y/N when she was Julia’s tenth grade science partner.

He was stunned by her from that moment on, but he never had the courage to talk to her till two months ago when he saw her at the skatepark he frequents.

She’d been there with her after-school environmental group, planting a tree. Julia had called her over, much to Pope’s panic. She had made a joke about Pope itching to teach someone how to skate a half-pipe, but that she was too scared. She encouraged Y/N to be his ‘student’. Pope couldn’t walk away because Baz held him in place.

That was the beginning of the end, really.

While Julia and Baz snuck away, Pope and Y/N spent almost all night at the skatepark together, actually getting to talk more than when Pope would stare at the back of her head in fourth period history..

Y/N giggles softly, resting her forehead against her boyfriends to truly enjoy this moment. "I haven't even told my mom yet.” She notes gently, voice softer now that their lips are so close.

Y/N’s parents were never really home. As much as Pope hated it, that’s kind of why Y/N enjoyed going to his place everyday. Smurf was a.. Colorful character, sure, but at least she was around.

That was Y/N’s logic at least..

“Congratulations on being the first person to know..” She continues, a slight tease to her voice as Pope smiles more, pulling her into a soft kiss that’s more like a tender peck.

When he pulls back, he’s smiling just as big as before. "A fucking doctor..” He says it like it’s already happened.

Pope saw bright things for Y/N. She just wishes he saw the same for himself..

She sighs, excitement buzzing through her. It was the perfect set up. The college was real close to town, a 45-minute drive to campus, so she didn’t have to leave Pope, and it was her first choice anyways.

“It’s gonna be great. Especially because then I can help your..." Y/N pauses a bit, realizing something was about to leave her mouth that really shouldn’t. Pope catches on quickly though, eyeing her.

“Help… Who?” He asks slowly. She shifts a bit in her seat.

“Y/N. Help who?” Pope asks again to clarify, making her sigh softly.

“Help… You and your family.” She tries to keep it at that, but he stares her down. “On your… Jobs.” She clarifies only then, voice low and soft as she watches him carefully.

Not because she’s scared he’ll lash out and hurt her, but because they’ve talked about this before.

And Pope has stated firmly that coming over for spaghetti on a random Thursday night is one thing, but actually hanging around his family? That’s a big no.

But it’s too late to go back on the admission. The words hang in the air as the sun fully sinks below the horizon.

Y/N can feel the shift before she sees it clearly on his face. The smile has fully faded without a trace, replaced with a look of… Well, the best word to describe it is.. Lost.

Pope’s hand moves from her face now as he finds his spot in the driver side only, her feet still on his lap as he stares at the steering wheel.

"Y/N..." He begins finally, breaking the thick silence after what feels like minutes.

His voice is quiet. Controlled. Pope never wanted to scare Y/N. Even when angry or overwhelmed, he’d rather draw blood from biting down on his tongue than have her see him like everyone else does..

The truck feels smaller suddenly, the moonlight shimmering over the vast ocean that can be seen from over the pier.

“Andy..” Y/N sighs softly.

“We talked about this…” He continues over her soft voice. He doesn't look at her. His jaw works, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he has a staring contest with the steering wheel.

“Can you just.. Look at me, Andy. Don’t.. Freak out on me." She tries again as she reaches over to grab his hand that’s lulled at his side.

Pope doesn't move. He didn’t react. For the longest time, he sits there, trying to let it all wash through him. Finally, he shakes his head. "Don't freak out..” He repeats her words with a low, humorless chuckle.

Finally, he turns to look at her. His eyes unreadable, that damn wall firmly in place now.

He can practically see it. See her slipping away. He just wanted these two things separate. He wanted his family on one side and Y/N on the other.

But Pope can never get what he wants..

“What do you mean by.. Jobs?" He asks quietly, bracing himself.

"Your..” Y/N sighs. “Your mom told me. Everything. The jobs you guys do. All the heists.” She admits softly. Pope would be vague about so much of his life that when Smurf came to get Y/N from his bedroom during a sleepover at around 2am, it.. Well, it was like when the devil held out that apple for Eve…

Pope shakes his head in silent disbelief. Months of being vague, of telling half truths, of sneaking around. Of trying to shield Y/N from seeing who he truly was. All of it went down the drain as he slept. As he let his guard down.

“Baby..” Y/N whispers, moving her hands up a bit to his bicep, just in hopes of pulling him back. “She said it can be dangerous, Andrew. And… That it'd be good having a doctor on call for some under the table stuff." She explains the gist of their conversation that night just last week.

Y/N had let it all sink in right there at the kitchen table. Smurf was holding gold in front of her. Gold in the shape of a spot in this family. A spot next to Pope.

Forever.

It’s silent once more as Pope turns his head, his free hand reaching up to rub at his bare chin, eyes quickly glancing along the starry sky as he tries to wrap his head around his mother’s game.

She always had a game..

"She told you." He whispers, mind racing. Why? Why do that?

"She said it'd be good having someone you all can trust. For when things go wrong. And I.. I agree.." Y/N defends softly, watching Pope closely as she rests her chin on his shoulder now, fully watching the tense jaw of her lover.

“When things go wrong." He repeats it like he's finding a bitter humor in the words. Always with the dramatics, his mother. He laughs a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Fucking Smurf." He mutters, his thumb pressing against his own lips as a way to possibly self-soothe.

It works better when it’s Y/N’s thumb on his lips though…

“Baby. Look at me..” Y/N whispers, trying to reach for his chin and physically turn his face only for him to quickly push open the truck door and get out.

Y/N watches with a frown as he walks to the end of the wooden pier they were parked on for this view. It had been abandoned a while ago, and Pope has been using it as a lookout for almost a year now.

His back is to her as he leans against the wooden railing. The nighttime ocean breeze catches his curls making him pull up his hoodie.

After slipping on her flats, Y/N gets out of the car as well. The salt air hits her nose, a sharp and cold reminder that this should be a fun night. It’s their anniversary today for crying out loud. Two months down to the hour..

She approaches him carefully, stopping a few inches away just to watch him.

"She's been planning this.” He says. He can’t prove it, but he knows. "Since you came to the house. Since I first showed that I liked you. She saw you and she started figuring out how to use you." His hands grip the railing tighter. The feeling of guilt is heavy on his shoulders as Y/N frowns, moving a bit closer now.

"And I don’t care if she is..” Y/N tries.

“I do!” Pope snaps, turning to face Y/N now. “I told her to leave you alone.” He states as Y/N tries talking over him only to be crumbled by the boom of his agitated tone. “I told her that you were off limits." He ignores her words until she finally yells.

“I want to help, Andrew!” She stomps her foot, growing mad herself at his tunnel vision. He can’t see the bigger picture.

“It’s hell, Y/N!” Pope shouts right back, letting go of any self control in this moment. Y/N stiffens a bit at his tone, but she doesn’t back away. “You wanna be in hell?!” He continues, tone raw and wall down. This is the real him. How he really feels.

“If I’m with you? Then yes!” She argues back, unapologetically as she basically gets in his face, no care over their height difference or the fact that his eyes look as dark as the ocean behind him.

The silence settles, only kept from feeling too heavy by the constant crash of the waves below them.

Pope’s shoulders settle finally, his face breaking from his stone cold expression to… His fear.

“You don't get it." His voice drops, quiet and hoarse. "You don't get what you're saying. You're..” He can’t speak when her hands find his face. He looks at her with a mix of guilt and worry.

"You're good, Y/N. You're good. And this life..” He shakes his head, eyes turning a bit glossy at the mere thought. "It eats people like you." He whispers, wanting to stay strong, but his hands find her waist when she presses against him.

"Then don't let it get me..” She says as if it’s that easy.

“Don’t give it the chance, Andrew.” She continues, holding his gaze as she moves on her tiptoes, forehead finding his as her arms wrap around his neck. "Stay with me." She whispers against his lips.

His lips.. That tremble only a bit as his grip on her tightens.

"I can't lose you..” He whispers. "You're the only good thing I've got."

Y/N hums as she pulls back only slightly to really look him in the eyes. “Then be with me. Stay with me. And I’ll always patch you up.” She whispers. “I don’t care about anything besides you.. And me. That’s all I want.” She states.

*

*

*

* * June 14, 2016 * *

“Ma’am, this is an active crime scene..”

“My nephew is in there!”

J looks up from his staring contest with the couch when he hears the voice he’s only ever known for birthdays and holidays.

Aunt Y/N

This morning was already morphing into a blur. One he hoped would soon go pitch black. One he hoped he’d never remember fully again. The cops step aside and in the doorway she appears.

When he called, he was only 50% sure she’d show up. It was rare when he saw her outside of those brief moments.

“J..” Y/N breathes, letting the teenager rush into her arms like he used to when she’d show up at the door with presents before leaving after hushed and somber words with his mother.

She holds him close, gripping him tight as he hugs back. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. We’ve got you..” Y/N sighs as she braces herself for what is to come..

The ride back to the house is silent. Walking into the house… That is a complete 180. Y/N leads J through the chaos of the home and to a room at the very end of the hallway. “I had 16 hour shift yesterday, so.. I’m sorry about the mess..” She mutters as they get into the bedroom that is completely clean. Almost.. Untouched.

“Is this… Your room? I don’t wanna put you out..” J begins quietly, looking around only to find a few things that show she shares this room. The man in the wedding photo that’s framed on their nightstand looks… A little familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it.

“Trust me. You’d be bringing some life into it. I take the couch every night..” Y/N mutters, voice soft. What’s the point of a marriage bed if her husband isn’t here to share it with her?

“Get settled in. I uh.. I’m gonna tell everyone you’re here..” Y/N says after a moment in order to change the subject a bit. She steps out of the room and covers her mouth to keep from getting physically ill. She’d spent so much energy on trying to get Pope and Julia back on speaking terms.

It had been an average night in the Cody residence. Y/N had been showing off the dress she’d wear for graduation, practicing her speech when Smurf walked in. She called a family meeting, and right in that living room, she said that money had gone missing. She’d made it very clear who she assumed it was.

She had looked Pope in the eye. “Either Y/N.. Or Julia.” She had made the choice sound so simple. And without saying words.. Pope’s eyes had drifted to Julia. The fight had lasted all night. Not between Pope and Julia or even Smurf and Julia. No. After Julia was physically kicked out, Y/N and Pope fought all night. But he was stone on his decision. Smurf felt someone had to go.. And he’d never pick Y/N.

And Smurf knew that..

After that, the guilt kept Pope back from ever reaching out. The hurt kept Julia from doing the same. But Y/N refused to let it go, going to visit during any birthday or holiday she could, and always making sure J and Julia stayed in the loop anytime her number changed. In case they needed anything.

Walking to the kitchen, Y/N finds her balance against the dining table. She knew tomorrow she’d have to visit Pope. She’d have to tell him. She just didn’t know how. Outside she can hear the rowdiness of a pool party and rock music on the stereo. Rolling her shoulders, she stands up straighter just as Baz walks into the kitchen with a happily buzzed Craig.

Y/N averts her eyes from Baz, moving to the fridge for some water. “Can I get?” He asks, always finding an excuse to make conversation. Y/N makes a show of slamming the fridge shut, walking away from it with her own bottle. He sighs as Craig snickers.

“You gonna keep this up for how long?” Baz asks finally.

“Until you realize you’re a piece of shit.” Y/N states simply as she stares him down.

“Cops were coming, someone had to leave-“ Y/N cuts Baz off from the same story.

“No one believes that story but you!” She snaps as Craig shakes his head in slight amusement while slipping past the tense showdown to get another beer. “And anyone who does believe it is just as fucking stupid as you.” She finishes sharply.

Before Baz can fully argue back, his eyes drift to just behind Y/N, lips pressing together in slight surprise. Y/N looks over too, sighing as she sees J standing there. “It’s okay. Come here..” She assures. He slowly walks over to her.

“You remember your uncles? Craig, Baz. Deran is outside. Uh.. And.. Grandma Smurf is-“ Y/N is cut off by Smurf.

“Right here.” She says, smiling warm as she walks right over to J to fully embrace him.

Y/N stays close..

*

*

*

“What are you doing in my room?”

The question was fair enough. Three years in prison had resulted in Pope wanting only two things the minute he stepped into the loud Cody home.

A shower being one.

And Y/N being two.

And yet, as he entered his bedroom at the end of the hallway, what stood amongst the bittersweet memories but a teenager in swim trunks. The young boy stammered and barely managed to get a word out when arms wrapped around Pope from behind.

“Baby!” Y/N gasped, jumping on her husband in astonishment. Either she’d finally lost her mind from lack of sleep, or the Andrew Pope Cody was in her grasp once more. If it was the former, no one better pinch her.

Hoisting up his wife, his head nuzzles into her neck before he can help it. All he needs in this moment is her scent, and from the way she’s clawing at his shoulders to stay attached to him, he definitely doesn’t need to worry about that shower. She doesn’t seem to care.

J watches, a bit thrown off over his sweet aunt being the wife to… A man who looks like he could kill him and then eat a sandwich afterwards..

As if realizing his slight alarm, Y/N finally settles herself a bit to look at J. “This is your uncle Pope, J. I-I’m sorry. He.. I guess he just got out today..” Y/N mutters, quickly trying to wipe away tears as Pope looks over at J.

“You just ruined my surprise..” He mutters, staring J down as Y/N goes back to hugging him.

Pope had no intention of mingling after that. In fact, he wanted everyone besides Y/N out of the room immediately. Craig joked loudly about them needing time to catch up, but.. They really did just need time to catch up.

And by ‘catch up’, they meant laying on their sides and facing one another like they used to do when they were teenagers.

His eyes are shut and for the first time in three years, he has no urgency to open them again. To be aware if his surroundings. He knows where he is because he knows who he’s with. Chest to chest, Y/N moves her thumbs over his forehead and temples before slipping them lower to his cheekbones.

Tracing his face. It always worked to soothe him. And now more than ever, he needed this. Smurf had told him yesterday over the phone.

Y/N could try to understand what the hell was wrong with that woman, but she was an ED attending. Not a psychologist.

Pope had roughly kicked out the rest of the world, slammed the door, and then laid like this with her as he let it all out. After a few run-ins with the law and seven years of marriage, he knew in front of him was a woman who’d rather cut out her own tongue before she ever told any of his secrets.

“Baz been enjoying being second in command?” He mutters after a long moment of silence between the two. He had no more tears left to shed for Julia. It’s clear he could use the change of subjects right now as his wife snorts humorously.

“Focus on settling in right now, Andy. You can see the mess tomorrow..” She mutters as he finally looks at her. Really looks at her. A soft frown plays on his lips.

“You been sleeping? I told Deran, I.. I told him to watch you-“ She cuts him off, a gently hand moving to rub his chest.

“I’m a grown woman, Andrew..” She reminds, wanting to leave it there. In reality, sleep had been the last thing on her mind. She watches the guilt seep back into his eyes though.

“I got sloppy..” He finally says.

“Andrew..” Y/N mutters, not wanting to talk about it.

“I just.. We couldn’t have both gotten caught-“ Y/N cuts him off sharply.

“Yeah!” She huffs. “That’s why I spent three anniversaries with you in a spare prison room for two hours only.” She finally lets some of the anger slip. She sighs, realizing it’s all still just under the surface..

All the pain, frustration. Laying below her skin was all the lost time of those three years, the family they were supposed to start, the house they were supposed to buy. All of it, frozen in her veins..

She gets up from the bed to sit on the edge of it and Pope frowns a bit deeper, slowly sitting up as well. “Y/N-“ She cuts him off again.

“You know what, Andy?” She whispers as she turns to look at him. “The next time a job starts going south?” She grabs his chin. “You make it home to me.” She says bluntly as she looks him in the eyes, not kidding around. “You already did your time.” She mutters.

Pope presses his lips together at the implication. What making it home would consist of. He wasn’t a selfish person. But Y/N was. This life had set that up on her shoulders. Selfish got you what you wanted, and all she wanted.. All she was promised if she stepped into this world.. Was Andrew Cody.

He watches her for a moment before giving a singular nod that’s extremely slight. He’s given his word. And somehow, even in this life, his word meant something.

Slowly, both lay back down in the bed, deciding to leave the stresses of yesterday on the bedroom floor. Snuggling against his chest as he lays on his side, arms around her head, she’s enclosed around just his scent. His heartbeat. His lips find the top of her head as she sighs, finally enjoying her space in this home.

“You still like it in hell?” Pope mutters against her hair, voice quiet as he recalls a conversation had two months into their relationship. One that confirmed Y/N was willingly stepping into his world. Her hand finds his shirt, absentmindedly playing with a button as she looks up at him.

“Are you still with me?” She lets the question speak for itself as she looks him in the eyes. No answer is given. It’s not needed. His lips find hers in the very next second. A silent confirmation that the clock is officially ticking again. The house, the family, the memories. All of it is in reach once more as she blindly unbuttons his shirt..

The team was on about day seven of their most recent murder investigation, the case wasn’t anything crazy but the victim was someone of somewhat high status making the paper work hell on earth.

Rigsby and Cho had taken to an office room so they could work on their joined paper work in peace which was of course broken when a certain consultant that felt left out. Cho didn’t mind too much considering he was quite good at tuning Patrick out, poor Rigsby though.

“So how is it going with Vanpelt?” Patrick asked his coworker absent minded as he played with a quarter, flipping it through his fingers with ease. The tired agent just sighed.

“There’s nothing going on we are just coworkers-” The agent started but was cut off by the other men letting out their respective scoffs and a “bullshit.”

“Ok ok so I haven’t asked her out so what?” Rigsby was starting to get frustrated with all this big talk from Patrick he was hearing recently.

“So what? It’s been forever Rigsby you’ve gotta ask her eventually that’s what. I don’t know why you’ve even waited this long.” Patrick shook his head in thought as he teased his friend and colleague. “And after all that advice I’ve given you.” Rigsby shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“How good is your advice anyway? I haven’t seen you with a woman like ever, sure you can flirt but where’s that gotten you recently huh genius?” Rigsby exclaimed clearly annoyed from both the paper work kicking his butt and his selectively annoying friend.

Cho looked up from his papers to glance in between the agent and consultant. Patrick grasped the quarter in his hand and sat more upright in his chair.

“I’ll have you know that it’s gotten me a-” Patrick stopped himself. Trying to act nonchalant - and like he didn’t almost spill something he shouldn’t- the man laid back in his seat. “It’s gotten me many things Rigsby.” Patrick said with an innocent shrug of his shoulders.

“Wait a minute Jane, what was that?” Rigsby asks, his focus completely abandoning his paper work in turn shifting it to Patrick. Even Cho was perking his head up.

“What was what?” The blond asked and damn was he good at lying, but Rigsby was an alright detective and has known Jane for years so he kept pushing.

“You were about to say something but you didn’t.” The agent points a finger at the consultant as if he’s accusing him of an evil crime.

“What would I have even said Rigsby? You’re being foolish.” Patrick says in defense and before Rigsby can retaliate Cho cuts interrupting the conversation.

“he was about to reveal his girlfriend.” Is all the agent says like he didn’t just drop a bomb shell onto his friends. Rigsby’s face drops in shock.

“What? Jane you have a girlfriend?” The man asks in disbelief looking between an indifferent Cho and a bashful Jane. “And Cho knows about her?” Rigsby furrows his brows at the last question.

“I found out, I’m not an idiot.” Cho says, his focus already back to the papers in front of him. Rigsby on the other hand has his full body turned to the accused man.

“So who is she? And how long has this been going on? And- hey wait a minute Cho are you calling me an idiot?” Jane can’t even get a word in and hasn’t since his secret has been aired out. While the two agents bicker Jane collects himself. His team knowing isn’t a bad thing per say but he had hoped he could reveal it under different circumstances.

Jane’s voice too Rigsby’s attention away from his bickering with Cho. “Her name is Y/n I met her when we were working a case - remember that small town we had to go too a while back for the triple serial case? So I guess it’s been going on since then.” Jane wasn’t ashamed about it at all, in fact he was very proud and happy about his relationship with you. He simply wished to keep you away from this life he led at the CBI as separate from you as he could.

“Wow, really?” Rigsby asks the disbelief evident. When Jane nodded his head with a genuine smile on his face Rigsby just shook his head. “Hey I mean good for you, wait who else knows?” The agent asks his coworker. Jane just shrugged his shoulders and began playing with his coin again.

Rigsby stood up and made his way to the office door to which Cho tried calling him back considering the fact they still had work to be done. The man just waved him off making the annoyed agent turn to Jane.

“Look what you started.” Cho deadpanned making Jane chuckle a little and innocently shrug his shoulders as he too stood up to follow Rigsby. The man had found both Vanpelt and Lisbon in the main office area looking over a computer.

“Guys you’ll never believe this.” He started to which an irritated Lisbon and an interested Vanpelt look up from their work. “Jane has a girlfriend!” Rigsby exclaimed after leaving enough time for dramatic build up. The man of interest walked in right as Rigsby revealed the news.

Vanpelt smiled and looked over at Jane happily while Lisbon just looked at Rigsby as if to say “really? This is what you’re off task for?” Jane just smiled and waved Rigsby off with a bashful look on his face.

“So what?” Lisbon asks, slowly getting more and more annoyed. The other agents just ignore her in turn to focus on Jane.

“Jane really? That’s so great!” Vanpelt exclaimed happily, she was glad Jane was finding some love and friendship in his life. She worried about him sometimes. Suddenly Vanpelt let out a gasp at a good idea she just thought up.

“We have to meet her Jane!” The red head agent exclaimed happily to which Rigsby made a wide eyed look with a wicked grin and their superior just sighed while slightly shaking her head.

“You know we should, see what this is all about.” The trio watched Lisbon pick up her things and go to the office room where Cho remained. In turn Rigsby took the open spot next to Vanpelt. Jane had an unsure thinking look on his face as he shook his head.

“I don’t know,” The consultant said then hesitated, “she has been wanting to meet all of you for quite some time,” Jane was mostly thinking aloud at this point but the two agents nodded along as he spoke anyway.

“Then lets do it!” Vanpelt exclaimed, always happy to meet new people. Rigsby threw his hands up with an idea.

“How bout when we all go to dinner together after this case is done you can bring her.” The man suggested and Vanpelt made a sound of agreement. Jane, with the same sense of uncertainty as before just shrugged his shoulders as he turned towards his couch that was on the other side of the room.

“Maybe,” he said, “probably not,” Jane was walking towards his his couch now and spoke with a ‘maybe-maybe-not’ tone. “But maybe! We’ll see.” And with that the consultant plopped down on his couch happily taking in the coziness of the plush leather.

The two agents just looked at each other with the same annoyed expression but took that as their sign to get back to work. Vanpelt put her focus back on her computer and the paper work Lisbon had left behind. Rigsby begrudgingly dragged his feet back to the office where Cho and his boss worked.

A well timed buzzing caught Jane’s attention right as he was getting comfy. Pulling out his phone to check the caller ID he recognized it as you. A small smile reached the man’s face as he lazily brought his hand up to his ear, pressing answer.

“Hello dear, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Jane’s sleepy voice was static-y through the phone but you grin either way.

“Well hello to you too Patrick, I was just thinking and there’s a city band thing happening a little ways away tonight. Would you like to come with me?” You ask your boyfriend cautiously trying to hide the excitement in your voice. The date would be amazing but you didn’t want your boyfriend to feel bad in the case he couldn’t make it. Of course even if he couldn’t, he’d still go.

“That sounds amazing y/n I’d love too,” Jane spoke through a sigh, imaging how nice the date sounded. “I’m free to come home soon, boring paper work and all that needs to be done.” You chuckle and the sound makes Jane smile.

“Well then fill out the paper work faster I was hoping to maybe go somewhere for dinner too,” You teased your boyfriend, on the other line you heard him shuffle around on what you assumed was the couch he has told you about.

“Yes of course dear that sounds lovely,” Jane responded with genuine fondness in his voice. Thinking for a moment he spoke up again, “oh and uh I have some,“ he hesitated, “news.” You hum in response, urging him to go on.

“The team found out about you,” he paused, “and us.” Again, Jane wasn’t ashamed of his relationship with you at all. Under any other circumstances he’d have told his team, his family, way sooner.

But there was a fear that suffocated him every time he tried to talk about you, bring you up, or anything of the sort. But Jane loved you and needed to conjoin the two parts of his life eventually. The man could almost hear the happiness that enveloped you at his words.

“Really? That’s great!” You thought for a moment before speaking again. This time more reserved. “Isn’t it?” Jane’s heart ached a little bit, you were so interested in his team and wanted to meet them since you and him started this whole affair.

Jane nodded even though you couldn’t see him, “Yes it is a good thing.” Your boyfriend assured you and even though you could hear the reservations in his voice you knew he meant it.

“Well than when do I get to meet them?” You asked excitedly to which Patrick chuckled.

“Soon soon, never fear. After every case we have a celebratory dinner of sorts.” Jane explained. “And you have been invited to come along.” You boyfriend finished to which you gasp a little with happiness.

“That sounds great Patrick!” You exclaim, the joy bubbling up inside of you. Just then Lisbon walked into the large office room Jane was currently attempting to take a nap in.

“Hey Jane, get off your ass we need you for something.” She commanded and waved in the direction she came from with a nod of her head. Jane just sighed and groaned as he pushed himself up to instead be sitting on the couch.

“Well dear duty calls,” the man says into his phone making you pout a little.

“Aw all right if you have to go.” You voice is slow and sad as you speak which makes Jane’s heart swell two sizes bigger. “I’ll see you tonight though for dinner and the band right?” You ask before you say your goodbyes.

“Yes of course,” Jane says with a smile, “I sadly have to go now. See you tonight. I love you y/n,'“ Jane’s voice is smooth and reminds you why you swooned for him in the first place.

“Ok ok don’t let me keep you. I love you too Patrick, see you tonight!” And with that the lines dies and Jane is left to go do more soul sucking paper work that he’d trick Rigsby into doing later. The warm thought of getting to see you tonight kept him going and gave him the energy to stand up from his couch.

“Common Jane,” Lisbon says impatiently as she walks back to the office room that the rest of the team resided.

By the time you left Zara Home, Pope had six bags hanging from his hands and the receipt folded into the pocket of his jeans. You had offered to carry something twice. Both times he had moved the bags before you could reach them, so now you walked with your arm linked through his, pressed comfortably against his side while he checked the list you had written together that morning.

“Sheets, towels, bath mat,” he read, dragging his thumb down the paper while the shopping bags rustled around his wrists. “We got everything.”

You leaned closer to look at the list, although you already knew exactly what was written on it. “We got more than everything. We have four sets of sheets because somebody decided two wasn’t enough.”

“One’ll be in the wash.” Pope tapped the folded edge of the paper against his palm, as though that settled the matter.

“We only have one bed, baby.”

“Yeah, and we’re gonna use it every night.”

He folded the list before he could see what that answer did to your face and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. You tightened your arm around his and kissed his shoulder.

“You liked choosing them,” you said, staying tucked against his side when he began walking again.

Pope shifted the bags higher on his hands. “They’re good sheets.”

“But you checked the stitching on every set.” You ran one finger along the seam of his sleeve, imitating the way he had examined the fabric inside the store.

“Because one of them was coming apart.”

“And then you spent ten minutes touching towels.”

“I wanted the soft ones.”

You slowed, making him stop with you. “For me?”

“For us.”

The answer came easily. There was none of the hesitation that usually appeared when Pope had to talk about something belonging to both of you, no brief tightening of his mouth while he decided whether he was allowed to claim it too. He simply looked at you as though us had been the obvious answer.

Your smile softened. You stepped in front of him and slid your arms around his waist, catching him by surprise. Pope hurriedly gathered the handles into one hand and lifted the bags away from your body before they could knock against you.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, looking down at your face.

“Hugging my boyfriend because he spent ten minutes choosing the softest towels in the store.”

“They had to be soft, sweetheart.” His newly freed hand hovered beside you for a moment before settling against your back.

You leaned away just enough to see him properly, leaving your arms around his waist. “That so?”

His brow furrowed slightly, as if he did not understand why you needed an explanation.

“You use all those oils and creams every night to keep your skin soft,” he said. “Wasn’t gonna buy towels that’d scratch you up.”

Your arms tightened around him. “You thought about that?”

“Yeah.” His hand moved once along your back. “Course I did.”

“You’re soooo sweet.”

“They’re just towels, baby.” Pope glanced past you, discomfort creeping into his face now that you were looking at him as though he had done something extraordinary.

“No.” You rose onto your toes, your arms slipping higher around him. “They’re our towels.”

Pope bent to meet you. His hand pressed more securely against your lower back as his mouth softened beneath yours, holding you close while the bags swayed forgotten beside his leg.

“Yeah,” he said when you pulled away. His eyes remained on yours, his thumb moving slowly over your back. “They are.”

The mall had grown busier while you were inside, pop music spilled from the open stores and people kept cutting across your path without looking. Pope’s shoulders tensed, his hand settling more firmly against you to keep you close. When you slowed in front of another window, however, he stopped beside you and followed your gaze, content to wait while you looked.

“We need to stop at Sephora,” you said, slipping your hand into his and steering him toward the entrance. “I’m out of my lip mask, I need a new blush, and there’s a lip balm I saw on TikTok that I want to try.”

Pope followed without resistance. “The little pink jar?”

“The berry one, yes.” You glanced up at him. “I’ve been scraping the sides for three nights.”

“Get two, then.” He said it immediately.

Your pace slowed. Pope took another step before the pull of your joined hands made him stop and look back at you.

“You like it.”

His eyes moved briefly to your mouth. “Tastes good.”

“Is that why you always kiss me right after I put it on?” You stepped closer, running your thumb across the back of his hand.

“I kiss you every night, baby.” Pope turned toward the store again, but you caught the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth before he could hide it.

You let him guide you forward for another few steps before leaning into his arm. “But you always kiss me twice when I’m wearing that.”

Pope did not answer, but you squeezed his hand as though you already had one. 

He had never told you what happened after those goodnight kisses, on the nights when sleep refused to come no matter how tired he was. He would lie beside you for hours with his body held rigid beneath the sheets, listening to the house settle around him while his mind returned to places he had spent the day trying to avoid. 

Every car slowing outside made him look toward the window. Every change in your breathing had him checking that you were still asleep, still safe, still there.

Some of the lip mask always transferred to his mouth when he kissed you, and hours later, when the rest of the sweetness should have disappeared, Pope could sometimes find a trace of it by running his tongue over his lower lip. 

He did not understand how something made for chapped lips could feel like a balm pressed over whatever bruised part of him people meant when they spoke about the soul. It gave him something gentle to concentrate on when his memories would not leave him alone. 

Like as long as he could still taste you, some small part of you seemed to remain awake with him, and the darkness became a little easier to endure.

“I’ll be quick,” you promised.

“You don’t have to be.” Pope adjusted the bags before brushing his thumb across your hand. “Take your time. Look at whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your previous boyfriend had never allowed you that freedom. He claimed you only wore makeup to attract other men, forcing you to order everything online and hide the packages because even entering a store like this could start an argument. The excuse had never made sense to Pope. He could not understand seeing you happy and wanting to take it away. He loved watching you get ready and slowly became more comfortable in your own skin. Makeup did not make you more beautiful to him. He simply liked the way you smiled when you felt beautiful.

Your smile softened. You lifted his hand to kiss his knuckles before leading him inside. “Then you can help me find everything.”

Pope followed you inside. “That’s why I’m here, baby.”

Inside, you headed for the Laneige display while Pope stopped beside a Benefit stand. Several testers had been abandoned along the shelf, some without their caps and others returned to the wrong slots. By the time you came back, he had already matched two lip tints to their labels and was turning each tube so the name faced forward.

“Found them.” You held up the two jars of Laneige Berry Lip Sleeping Mask before placing them in the basket. “One for the bathroom and one for my nightstand.”

Pope glanced down to make sure they were both there. “Good.”

His attention had already returned to the Benefit stand beside him. Several testers were lying on their sides, some missing their caps and others pushed into the wrong slots. Pope had matched three of them to their labels while you were gone and was turning each tube until its name faced forward.

You kissed his cheek, smiling when he barely paused in what he was doing. “How much of this have you reorganized?”

“A couple of them… They have numbers, see?” Pope showed you the small label on the tester in his hand, then pointed to the empty space bearing the same one. His brow drew together as though the system should have been impossible to misunderstand. “People just don’t put them back right.”

You picked up a lip tint that had been abandoned on its side and held it over the first empty slot you saw. “Does this one go here?”

“No.” Pope’s eyes moved along the row. “Two over.”

You shifted it one space. “Here?”

He reached across you and moved the tube one place farther to the right. “There.”

You watched him turn it until the label matched the others. Pope did things like this almost without realizing: straightening bottles while he waited in line, returning something to the exact place he had found it, wiping down a counter even when the mess was not his. You knew the impulse did not always feel gentle to him. You had seen how something left crooked could hold his attention until he corrected it, how disorder seemed to settle beneath his skin and make it impossible for him to relax.

That was not the part you loved, you loved what Pope did with it. 

Even here, in a store full of strangers who would never know he had helped, he replaced caps and returned testers to their proper slots because somebody had arranged the display and somebody would have to fix it after closing. Pope noticed that labor. He respected clean spaces, organized shelves and the people responsible for maintaining them. He would never make another person’s job harder simply because he could walk away before they saw him do it.

People often mistook his silence for indifference but you had learned that Pope cared about far more than he knew how to say.

You rested your head briefly against his shoulder while he fastened the cap on another tester. “What would this store do without you?”

“Throw everything wherever they want, apparently.” He returned the tube to its numbered space and reached for the next one lying out of place.

He fastened one last cap before taking the basket from you. When you moved toward the next aisle, Pope gathered the shopping bags and followed with his free hand resting against your back.

You stopped in front of the Summer Fridays display.

“These are the balms everyone keeps talking about on TikTok.” You picked up one of the tubes and turned it around to show Pope the label.

He studied the display before looking at the tester in your hand. “What’s different about them?”

“Mostly the scents, apparently.” You returned the tube to its slot and reached for another. “They’re not supposed to be quite as good as my olehenriksen ones.”

Pope’s brow furrowed. He glanced from the rows of Summer Fridays balms to your face, already imagining you opening one at home only to discover that it did not live up to all the videos you had watched.

“If they’re not as good, you sure you wanna risk getting one?”

The concern in his voice made you smile. 

Pope hated watching you look forward to something only to be disappointed by it. It did not matter whether it was a plan being cancelled or a bakery running out of the cake you wanted. He would remember the change in your expression long after you had forgotten about it, quietly resenting whatever had caused it as if it had let him down too.

“I think I’ll survive the risk,” you assured him, smoothing one hand over his chest when his frown remained. “Everyone says these smell much better. And considering how often you kiss me, I thought you might appreciate that.”

Pope’s attention followed your fingers before settling on your mouth. “The other ones make your lips shiny.”

“Juicy,” you corrected.

His eyes remained on your lower lip. “Same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing.” You stepped closer, smiling when his gaze followed the movement of your mouth. “But you agree they make my lips look juicy?”

“Yeah.” Pope shifted the basket to his other hand, his voice lower than it had been a moment ago.

“How juicy?”

His eyes moved slowly across your lips before lifting to yours. “You know.”

“I’d still like to hear you say it, baby.” Your finger caught briefly on one of the buttons of his shirt, waiting.

Pope held your gaze for another second, then reached past you for one of the testers. He turned it over in his hand with more concentration than the label required, ending the conversation before the heat rising into his face became any more obvious.

“Which one are you getting?”

“I thought we could choose one each.” You leaned your hip against the display and watched his fingers work the cap loose. “I’ll choose the one I like, and you can choose one you want me to wear only when I’m with you.”

His fingers went still around the tester. When he looked at you again, the caution had disappeared from his face.

“Only with me?”

“Yes.” You stepped closer and lowered your voice, although nobody nearby was paying attention. “One balm for whenever I feel like wearing it and another that belongs to you. Something I put on because I know you’ll be the one tasting it.”

Pope’s eyes returned immediately to the balms. This time he studied them with real interest, taking in every shade and label as though the display had changed while he was looking away.

“So I get to pick whichever one I want?”

“Whichever one you want.”

He looked back at you, making sure. “And you’ll only wear it with me?”

“That’s the idea.”

Pope set the basket down beside the shopping bags, freeing both hands for the decision. 

“What if I choose one you wouldn’t pick for yourself?”

“I’ll like knowing you chose it.” Nudging him toward the beginning of the display. “Besides, you know me. You’ll pick the right one.”

Pope glanced along the entire row again. The corner of his mouth lifted before he could suppress it.

You had already chosen Pink Guava before entering the store. It was the shade that had appeared in the TikTok saved on your phone, and the sheer pink stain it left across the back of your hand only confirmed that it would be coming home with you.

“This one’s mine.” You dropped an unopened tube into the basket and held out your hand for Pope to inspect. “What do you think?”

“Looks good.” He looked at the color, then at your mouth as though trying to imagine it there. “You already knew which one you wanted.”

“I did.” You stepped aside and gestured toward the rest of the display. “Now you get to choose yours.”

He read every shade name before opening its tester, taking the responsibility far more seriously than you had expected. Vanilla barely held his attention. Pink Sugar made his nose wrinkle, and he returned Iced Coffee after one careful breath.

Then he opened Cherry.

The scent was sweeter and stronger than the others. When you held out your hand, Pope drew the tester across your skin, leaving a sheer red stain beside the Pink Guava swatch. His thumb remained beneath your wrist after he finished.

He stared at the color, his mind went to your mouth first.

Pope pictured the Cherry balm leaving a faint red print on his cheek, another beneath his ear and several more down his chest as you worked your way lower. You would take your time because you knew what tenderness did to him—how quiet he became when you touched him as though there were nowhere else you would rather be.

Then you would kneel between his spread thighs.

Your glossy lips would press to the head of his cock, leaving a soft red mark against the flushed skin. You would look up before kissing him again, lower this time, your tongue following the slow drag of your mouth while one hand wrapped around the base.

Pope could already feel the restraint it would take not to push into you. He would let you set the pace, watching the neat prints blur as you worked your way back to the tip and took him between your lips.

His fingers would slip into your hair. He never knew how to let you touch him without reaching for you in return. He would cradle the back of your head, thumb moving beside your ear as your cheeks hollowed around him. When he reached deeper, a small sound would catch in your throat and your eyes would begin to water, but they would remain fixed on his.

Even in the filthiest version of the fantasy, having his cock in your mouth would be another way of loving him. There would be no disgust in your expression and no hesitation when saliva gathered at the corners of your lips. Only your warm hand stroking what you could not take, your tongue beneath the head and those soft eyes watching every piece of control leave him.

He would come with your name caught somewhere behind his teeth, his hand tightening in your hair as his cum spilled across your tongue. You would keep him in your mouth until the final pulse passed, then draw back and look up at him.

Pope would forget how to breathe when you opened your mouth.

You would show him the mess he had left there, white against your tongue and the fading Cherry tint around your swollen lips. Then, without looking away, you would close your mouth and swallow. His eyes would follow the movement of your throat, transfixed by the knowledge that something of him had disappeared inside you because you had wanted it there.

By the time you smiled, the color would have faded from your mouth.

Pope would pull you up before you could wipe your chin. He would hold your face between both hands and kiss you deeply, tasting Cherry and himself on your tongue. You would make that quiet, pleased sound he loved and settle into his lap with your arms around his shoulders, understanding that he needed the closeness as much as the release.

The thought made him hard inside his jeans.

He had spent most of his life believing there was dirt beneath his skin. He could wash the blood from his hands, burn the clothes he wore during jobs and stand beneath the shower until the water ran cold, but the feeling remained. Smurf had used his body to frighten and hurt people for so long that Pope sometimes struggled to remember it could be good for anything else.

Then you touched him and somehow, Pope had never felt cleaner.

You kissed every scar without asking where it came from. You held his face while he moved inside you and looked at him as though the pleasure he gave you mattered.Your hands made his body feel like it belonged to him again. It could give you pleasure. It could hold you without hurting you. It could make you reach for him instead of recoil.

Pope sometimes wondered whether this was the relief people felt after confession. 

They entered carrying everything ugly they had done, spoke it aloud and left feeling lighter because someone had heard the truth without turning them away. Sex with you felt like that. You saw how desperate he could become, how badly he needed you and how little control he sometimes had left by the end. Then you pulled him against your chest and kissed him as if he had confessed nothing shameful at all.

“You really like that one, baby.”

Your voice dragged Pope back into the middle of Sephora. He realized he was still holding the Cherry tester, his fingers clenched around the tube.

“It’s good,” he said, but his voice came out rougher than he intended.

You studied him. The color had spread beyond his ears now, warming his cheeks and continuing down the side of his neck. When you stepped closer, Pope avoided your eyes and pretended to examine the red mark on your hand.

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s warm in here.”

You moved behind him and slipped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Were you thinking about where Cherry might leave marks?”

Pope swallowed. “Maybe.”

“On your cheek?” You pressed a kiss there. “Your neck?”

Your lips brushed the skin beneath his ear. Pope’s grip tightened around the tester.

“Or somewhere lower?”

One of your hands moved down his stomach. When your palm reached the front of his jeans, you found him already hard. Pope caught your wrist, but he did not pull you away. His fingers closed around you while your hand remained pressed over him.

“Baby,” he breathed.

You rubbed your palm over the shape of his cock once, feeling it harden further beneath the denim. “Were you imagining my red lips around you?”

Pope’s face turned completely red. His eyes moved toward the nearest aisle, checking whether anyone had noticed, before returning to your reflection in the display mirror.

“You know I was.”

The admission removed the last of the teasing from your expression. You kissed the back of his shoulder and left your hand beneath his.

“Then maybe Cherry should be yours.”

Pope looked down at the tube, seriously considering it, before glancing at the remaining testers.

“I still have three left.”

Your smile returned. You moved your hand back to his stomach and gave him enough room to continue. “All right. Keep going.”

Pope carefully returned Cherry to its proper slot before reaching for the next one.

Toasted Marshmallow had almost no color, only a few fine gold flecks suspended in the balm. Pope expected another scent sweet enough to make him return it immediately. Instead, he went still as soon as he opened it.

The warmth of it brought him back to the beach house after dark. He imagined opening the front door and finding the oven cooling, the scent of whatever you had baked still clinging to the kitchen. There would be something covered on the counter for him and a note beside the plate telling him which container to put in the refrigerator.

Sometimes you would be waiting on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, looking up from your book as soon as you heard his key in the lock. On later nights, Pope would find you asleep beneath a blanket and the television playing quietly in an empty room. You always left a lamp on for him. 

Pope smelled the tester again.

Cherry had left him hard, still too aware of the front of his jeans and the hand you had pressed there. Toasted Marshmallow made him want the rest of the night. He wanted the bath you had planned, the new towels waiting in their bags and your body leaning against his chest while the water cooled around you. He wanted to put the balm on your mouth himself and taste something that reminded him of coming home.

Pope closed the tester carefully. He picked up an unopened Toasted Marshmallow and placed it beside Pink Guava in the basket, although his fingers remained curled around the tube.

“This one.”

You moved around him to see what he had chosen. “Toasted Marshmallow?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to Cherry?” The question was gentle, accompanied by a knowing smile.

Pope’s face warmed again. He kept his attention on the tube and rubbed his thumb over the printed name. “I like this one more.”

You opened the tester and smelled it yourself. The scent was warm and familiar, closer to something that belonged in your kitchen than a makeup display.

“Because it smells like cake?”

“Sometimes.” Pope shifted his weight. “Or pie.”

You looked from the balm to him, understanding beginning to soften your expression. “It smells like the house when I’ve been baking.”

Pope nodded.

“You mean that smells like home, baby?”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah.”

You moved closer and laid your hand over his. “Then Toasted Marshmallow is yours.”

Pope looked down at your joined hands. “You meant what you said?”

“About what?”

“Only wearing it with me.”

There was something almost uncomfortable in the way he asked, as if he needed the reassurance but disliked how plainly his voice revealed it.

“Yes, baby. I meant it.”

Pope nodded, his gaze dropped to your mouth before moving back to the balm.

“You’ll wear it when we’re at the house?”

“Whenever you want me to.”

His brow furrowed. “No, I mean—” He stopped and shifted his weight again, the shopping bags rustling beside his leg. “Tonight.”

You waited, giving him time to finish.

“When we take a bath.” Pope rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. The color had spread from his ears into his cheeks again, although nothing he was asking for should have embarrassed him this much. “Could you wear it then?”

“For you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes returned to your lips. “For me.”

The quiet need in his voice made your chest tighten. Pope could walk into a room full of armed men and make them listen but asking you for something tender was different. He looked as though wanting it this badly had left him exposed.

You slipped your arms around his waist. “Yes. I’ll wear it for you in the bath.”

Pope’s hand settled against your back, but the uncertainty remained in his face.

“And…” He glanced toward the other shoppers before lowering his voice. “Can I put it on you?”

Your smile softened. “You want to?”

He nodded.

“Then you can.”

“With my finger?”

The question came out so earnest that you had to press your lips together to keep from smiling too widely. Pope noticed anyway, and his brow tightened.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You stroked your hand over his chest. “You can put it on with your finger. Then you can kiss as much of it off as you want.”

Pope swallowed. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, lingering there.

“You promise?”

“I promise, my love.”

“Okay,” he murmured, some of the tension finally left his shoulders.

You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Are you happy with your choice?”

Pope drew you closer. 

“Yeah.” He glanced once more at the balm in the basket. “I’m happy, sweetheart.”

The Rhode display stood near the front of the store. You crouched to check behind the remaining Pocket Blushes before pulling out your phone.

“The website still says they have Sleepy Girl.”

Pope looked over your shoulder. “Ask somebody, baby.”

An employee was unpacking boxes from a cart nearby. Her name badge read ALLISON. She rubbed her temple before reaching for another package.

“Excuse me,” you said. “Could you check whether you have any more of the Rhode Pocket Blush in Sleepy Girl? The website says there are a few left.”

Allison glanced at the empty slot and shifted the box she was carrying against her hip. “If it isn’t out, we don’t have it.”

“It still shows as in stock. Could there be some in the back?”

“Our inventory is wrong all the time.”

“I understand. It’s just that sometimes new products haven’t been put out yet—”

“We don’t have it,” she cut in, looking toward the clock above the register. “Choose another shade.”

Your fingers tightened around the basket. “But the others turn orange on my skin.”

“They’re all blush. It won’t make that much difference once they’re blended.”

The bags touched the floor behind you.

Pope came to stand at your side. “She asked you to check.”

Allison turned toward him. “I heard her.”

“Then check.”

Allison shifted the box higher against her hip and released a tired breath through her nose. “I’ve already explained that if it isn’t on the shelf, we don’t have it.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“I work here. I know what we have.” She reached for another product on the cart, attempting to return to her task.

Pope placed his hand over the box before she could pick it up. Allison’s gaze dropped to his fingers and then travelled slowly back to his face.

“The website says you have it,” he said.

“Our inventory is probably wrong. I still have all of this to put away.”

“Then it shouldn’t take long.” Pope removed his hand from the box, but instead of stepping back, he moved closer. “We’ll wait.”

Allison’s shoulders pulled tight. “Sir, there won’t be any.”

Pope held her gaze. “Go look. Then come back and tell her that.”

Allison opened her mouth again. Pope moved half a step closer, leaving little room between her and the cart. He kept his hands at his sides, but his voice dropped enough to make her grip tighten around the box.

“Go check.”

Allison’s eyes flicked over his face before she set the box down. “Fine.”

She disappeared through the stockroom door.

Only after it closed did you put the basket aside and take Pope’s hand. His fingers remained stiff around yours.

“Andrew, come here.”

You drew him away from the cart and back toward the Rhode display. Pope followed, glancing once over his shoulder at the stockroom.

“I love when you stand up for me,” you said, running your thumb over his knuckles. “You know I do.”

“She was talking to you like you were stupid, baby.”

“I know. She was rude.” You moved closer and rested your other hand against his chest. “But I think she was already having a terrible day before we walked over.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“It doesn’t.” You explained. “I just don’t think it was about me. Her coffee’s gone cold, she keeps looking at the clock and she has half the store left to unpack. I think I asked the wrong person at the wrong moment.”

Pope’s jaw remained tight. “She still shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

“No, she shouldn’t have.” You kissed the underside of his chin. “And you didn’t have to let her.”

His hand settled against your back, though his attention stayed on the stockroom door.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Of course not, baby.” You stroked your palm slowly over his chest. “I’m glad you came over. I only think you scared her more than you meant to.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“I know that.” You kissed him softly. “But she doesn’t know you.”

Pope looked down at your face, some of the tension finally leaving his fingers.

“When she comes back, maybe apologize for the way you spoke to her,” you murmured. “That’s all.”

He rubbed his thumb against your waist. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll apologize.”

You smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

Allison returned carrying three Sleepy Girl blushes. She avoided Pope’s eyes as she placed them in the empty slot.

“They were still in one of the shipment boxes,” she said. “They hadn’t been stocked yet.”

“Thank you for checking.” You picked up one of the small boxes.

Pope looked at Allison. His jaw shifted once before he spoke.

“I’m sorry about before.”

She glanced at him, visibly surprised. “It’s fine.”

“No.” Pope looked briefly toward you, then back at her. “It wasn’t.”

Allison rubbed her palm against her trousers. “I’m sorry too. It’s been a long day, and I took it out on you.”

You gave her a small smile. “It’s okay.”

Pope nodded toward the blushes. “Thanks for looking.”

Allison returned the nod, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

You held up the box for Pope. “This is the one.”

He placed it beside Pink Guava and Toasted Marshmallow in the basket. “You want another?”

“One is enough.”

Pope checked your face before gathering the bags again.

“Anything else?” Allison asked.

“No, thank you.”

At the register, Pope arranged the two Laneige masks, Pink Guava, Toasted Marshmallow and the Sleepy Girl blush on the counter. When you opened your purse, he caught your wrist and guided your hand away from it.

“I can pay for my makeup, baby.”

“I’ve got it.” He kept hold of you while passing his card to the cashier.

“You already bought everything for the house.”

“These are for the house too.”

You picked up Pink Guava. “This is going in my purse.”

Pope took the tube from you, returned it to the counter and tucked you against his side. “Your purse comes home.”

The cashier lowered her head to hide a smile. You stared at Pope while he entered his PIN.

“That isn’t how house purchases work.”

“You need all of it, sweetheart.”

“And apparently that means you need to pay for it.”

Pope returned his wallet to his pocket and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Yeah.”

There was no point arguing once he had decided. You slipped your arm through his and rested your head against his shoulder while the cashier packed everything.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Pope asked, looking down at the products before the cashier placed them inside the bag.

You laughed softly. “Yes, baby.”

You slipped beneath Pope’s arm as you left Sephora, talking about unpacking the last kitchen boxes and washing the new sheets before putting them on the bed.

“Kitchen first,” you said. “Otherwise we’ll leave everything in bags for a week.”

“Bed first.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to sleep in it tonight.”

You looked up at him, smiling. “We could do both.”

Pope drew you closer and kept walking. He had spent the entire afternoon waiting for something to go wrong. Every vibration of his phone made him expect Smurf’s name on the screen, followed by questions about where he was and why he had been gone so long. Only Deran knew about the two of you and the house by the beach, and Pope had told him because someone needed to know where to find you if he failed to come home after a job. Deran had promised to keep his mouth shut, but the secret still made Pope feel exposed because nothing in his life had ever remained his once Smurf discovered it.

His arm tightened around you without warning.

Your sentence trailed off. You turned within his hold and laid your palm flat against his stomach, feeling the tension beneath his shirt.

“Baby, are you okay?” You searched his face when he did not answer immediately. “Is it getting too loud? We can leave if you need to.”

Pope noticed the worry gathering between your brows and loosened his arm.

“No. Sorry.” He covered your hand with his, keeping it against him. “Keep talking, sweetheart.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moved over your knuckles. “I don’t want to leave. Tell me what you were saying.”

You studied him for another moment before kissing his chest through his shirt. Pope pressed his mouth to the top of your head, and only then did you settle against his side again.

“I bought bath salts,” you continued, slipping your arm around his waist. “So we can unpack the kitchen, make the bed and then have a bath like you wanted.”

Pope’s hand began moving slowly over your back as he listened.

“But you’re not allowed to pour in the entire bottle of bubble bath this time.”

“It wasn’t the entire bottle.”

You tilted your face up to him. “Baby, it was nearly full when I gave it to you.”

“There was some left.”

“Enough for one very small bath, honey.” You held your thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart.

Pope watched the gesture, the corner of his mouth beginning to lift. “Still wasn’t the whole bottle.”

Then a small shop beside the exit caught his attention. A rotating stand of Jellycat bag charms stood near the door, little animals, fruit and flowers hanging from metal clips while their thin cord legs swung beneath them.

Pope stopped.

You felt his hand tighten around yours. “What is it?”

He nodded toward the display. “We need keychains for the new keys.”

Your face lit up. “We absolutely do.”

Pope let you lead him inside and set the shopping bags beside his feet while you crouched in front of the stand. You had barely turned it once before a green shamrock caught your attention.

“Wait.” You lifted it from its hook and touched one of its dangling feet. “They all have legs.”

Pope glanced at the other charms. “Yeah.”

“How have I never noticed that?”

You turned the stand again, laughing when a sun, a ladybug in tiny black shoes and several pieces of fruit swung into view. Then you found a lemon and picked it up, making its little legs walk across your palm.

“Look at him. He has somewhere important to be.” You held it beside your cheek and smiled at Pope. “Should this one be mine?”

Pope watched you, completely mesmerized.

For years, he had believed that was the life he deserved.

Smurf might have been the one who decided who had to die, but Pope had been the one to kill them. Being useful to her did not make him innocent.

Eventually, he had begun to think there was nothing inside him worth saving: no soul, no heart... 

Because a man with either would have stopped long before Pope ever did and he had put too much ugliness into the world to complain when none of the good parts reached him.

Baz had made that clear years ago.

They had been in Smurf’s garage after a job, Baz drinking and still carrying the confidence that made everyone else gather around him. Pope no longer remembered what started the argument. He remembered Baz laughing over the mouth of his beer bottle and asking what Pope thought was going to happen to him.

You think some woman’s gonna marry you? Have a kid with you? You?

Baz laughed again when Pope said nothing.

Nobody wants to wake up next to you, Pope.

Pope had hit him. Baz had hit back, and Smurf had blamed Pope for the broken cabinet without asking about the blood running into his mouth. None of it stayed with him as clearly as the certainty in Baz’s voice. Perhaps Pope had hit him because he already believed him.

Nobody would choose him.

Nobody would build a life with him.

His future had seemed like one long, cold day beneath a sky that never cleared, every morning leading back to another night inside Smurf’s house. Pope had stopped expecting anything else because hope only gave people something else to take from him.

Now you were kneeling in front of a display of ridiculous plush keychains, laughing because a lemon had legs. Pope looked at you and, for one brief moment, the store disappeared.

He imagined somewhere far from Oceanside. Another mall in a town where nobody knew the Cody name. You stood beside him, older but still laughing at everything. A little girl reached for a plush toy while Pope held her beneath the arms so she could see the top row.

She had his dark hair, gathered into two uneven pigtails he had tried to make himself. His freckles covered her nose. Everything else belonged to you: your eyes, your soft cheeks, your lips already turning into the same smile you wore whenever you knew Pope would give you whatever you asked for.

He could see himself buying the toy even after you reminded him she already had too many, he could see the little girl hugging it to her chest while Pope carried her back to the car and perhaps one day the small bedroom in the beach house would hold a crib until they found somewhere farther away.

The thought should have frightened someone like him, right?

Instead, Pope wanted it so badly that his chest hurt.

“Baby?”

You were standing now, the lemon still in your hand. Pope blinked and found you watching him.

“You went somewhere.”

“I’m here.”

You put the lemon back and came closer, rubbing your hand over his chest. “You were looking at me like you wanted to say something.”

Pope reached behind the sun and removed the sunflower hanging partly beneath it. He held one charm in each hand.

“I thought we could get these.”

Your eyes dropped to them. “The sun and the sunflower?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re perfect.” You took them from him and smoothed the sunflower’s soft yellow petals, smiling down at the two charms, making their little cord legs move against your palm before looking back at him. “Why these two, honey?”

His thumb caught beneath one of the sunflower’s petals. He had known what they meant when he took them from the display. Explaining it with you standing in front of him was different. He rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Sunflowers turn toward the sun… They keep looking for it.” He shifted his weight and glanced toward the entrance, then back at the charm. “Doesn’t matter where it moves. They turn so they can still see it. They don't like the dark.”

You watched his fingers worrying at the petal. “And you want to be the sunflower?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Pope swallowed. He had already told you enough to make the answer obvious, but you waited for him to say it. Your free hand slipped into his and squeezed, giving him something to hold on to while he tried.

“Because I always know where you are,” he said. “Even when I’m not looking at you, I know.”

“And where am I, baby?”

“Here.”

His fingers tightened around yours before guiding your hand to his chest. His heart beat hard beneath your palm, each uneven thud pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt.

You had felt it countless times before. Beneath your cheek while you slept, racing against your ear when a nightmare tore him awake, gradually slowing whenever you climbed into his lap and held him until he remembered where he was. But this felt different. Pope was keeping your hand there deliberately, offering you the frantic rhythm as though it could explain whatever his mouth could not.

For one suspended moment, he felt more yours than he ever had.

He had chosen you. He had taken the parts of himself he kept hidden from everyone else, the frightened ones, the damaged ones, the ones he believed made him impossible to love, and placed them beneath your palm without knowing whether you would hold them gently.

“And if I can’t find you,” he continued, his thumb pressing into the back of your hand, “I look.”

You traced one slow stroke over his shirt. “So you’re the sunflower.”

Pope nodded. His attention dropped to the two charms, and he worried the edge of one soft yellow petal between his fingers.

“And I’m the sun?”

“Yeah.”

You waited.

His jaw shifted. He looked toward the entrance, then at the floor, visibly regretting how far he had allowed the conversation to go. Still, he did not let go of you.

“Because it was dark before you,” he said at last.

Your breathing faltered.

“In my head, I mean.” Pope frowned, frustrated with himself already. “It’s always been loud in there. Telling me this things.”

“What things?”

He rubbed his thumb against your knuckles. “That I’m bad. That I ruin everything. That none of this is gonna last because I don’t get to have good things like this.”

Your chest tightened, but you stayed quiet.

“They’re still there,” he added quickly, as though he needed to make sure you understood that you had not repaired him. “You didn’t make them go away— but they’re not always as mean anymore.”

His words were so quiet that the noise of the store nearly swallowed them.

Pope’s brow pulled tighter as he struggled to explain. “Sometimes there’s something else too. Something that says maybe I can come home. Maybe you’ll still be there when I do. That I’m…” He paused, swallowing again. “That I’m not only what they say I am.”

Your thumb stilled above his heart.

“It sounds like you sometimes,” he admitted. “Not really your voice— I know you’re not in my head.” His cheeks warmed as he rushed to clarify it, but his fingers held firmly to yours. “It just says the kind of things you say to me.”

The pressure behind your ribs became almost painful.

Pope had lived for years with Smurf’s voice buried inside him, joined by Baz’s laughter and every terrible thing he had ever come to believe about himself. You had never imagined that somewhere among them, your love had begun answering back. Not loudly enough to silence them but enough to make the darkness a little less certain of itself.

“You made everything lighter,” Pope murmured. “My life. All the stuff in here.”

He lifted your joined hands slightly against his chest.

“So I keep turning toward you.” His eyes dropped to the sunflower again. “Because you’re my sun.”

The words settled somewhere so deep inside you that you could not respond.

His pulse continued beneath your palm, hard and alive and entirely unguarded. You thought of all the years he had spent convinced that nobody would choose him, only for this man to stand before you now and confess that your love had become the kindest voice inside his head.

Your vision blurred.

Pope noticed immediately. The sunflower slipped from his fingers, swinging by its tag as both hands rose to your face.

“Hey. What happened?”

He searched your expression, alarm sharpening every feature when the first tear escaped.

“Was it what I said?” His breathing quickened when you could not answer fast enough. “It was too much— I shouldn’t have said it.”

“No, baby.”

“We can pick different ones.” He reached for the little sun in your hand. “Forget it.”

You caught his wrists before he could take it from you. “Andrew, look at me.”

“I made you cry.”

“I’m happy.”

Pope froze, his palms still cupping your cheeks. “You don’t look happy.”

“I’m overwhelmed.” You turned your face into one of his hands and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm. “Because nobody has ever given me anything as beautiful as what you just gave me.”

“I only said you were the sun.”

“You told me that loving you has made the inside of your head a little kinder.”

His mouth tightened. “Sounds stupid when you say it like that.”

“It doesn’t.” You leaned into his touch, a wet laugh catching in your throat. “It means more to me than I know how to explain.”

Some of the panic eased from his face, though uncertainty remained in the careful way he held you.

“You meant it, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t take it back.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.” You kissed the base of his thumb. “But I need you to say it again.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because this time, you’ll know the tears don’t mean you hurt me.”

Pope hesitated. His thumb swept beneath your eye, catching the wetness there before it reached your cheek.

“You’re my sun.”

Your face crumpled all over again.

He was not the collection of terrible things he had survived and the worse things he still blamed himself for.

He was Andrew.

Your Andrew.

His eyes widened. “Sweetheart—”

You laughed and threw your arms around his neck before he could panic a second time.

“Still happy, baby. I promise.”

Pope held you tightly, one hand cupping the back of your head while your laughter softened against his neck. When you finally leaned away, his gaze moved between your eyes and paused on your wet cheeks.

You kissed the worried crease between his eyebrows before looking down at the sunflower dangling from his fingers. One of its petals had folded beneath his grip, so you carefully smoothed it back into place.

“My sweet, grumpy sunflower.”

Pope frowned. “No.”

“No what?”

“You’re not calling me that.”

“But it’s perfect.” You lifted the sunflower beside his face, smiling when his frown deepened. “You’re sweet, you’re grumpy, and you just admitted that you spend your life turning toward me.”

Pope reached for the little sun in your other hand, but you hid it behind your back.

He held out his hand, palm open. “Give it back.”

You closed your fingers around the little sun and tucked it safely behind your back. “You gave it to me.”

He stepped closer and slipped an arm around your waist, trying to reach past you while you twisted away with a laugh. “I’m reconsidering.”

“That isn’t how presents work.” You turned, rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’m going to call you my sweet, grumpy sunflower every day for the rest of our lives.”

Pope stopped reaching for the charm.

“The rest of our lives?” he asked.

Your teasing softened. “Yes, baby. That’s the plan.”

His hand settled at your waist and drew you a little closer. “Okay.”

Your smile widened. “You’re accepting the nickname already?”

“No.”

“Then what was the okay for?”

Pope looked at the sun hidden behind your back and then at the sunflower resting against his chest.

“For the rest of our lives.”

You caught his face between your hands and kissed him before either of you could become emotional again.

Pope went still beneath your palms. Then both arms closed around you. One hand spread across your lower back while the other cradled your neck, drawing you firmly against him.

He kissed you slowly. His mouth was warm and slightly unsteady beneath yours, softening each time your thumbs stroked his cheeks. The faint salt of your tears lingered on your lips, and Pope kissed it away before returning for another kiss, then another, as though the first had not been enough.

Your fingers slipped into the short hair at his temples. An uneven breath left him against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your back while the kiss deepened. His thumb moved slowly beneath your ear. He took his time with every gentle press of his lips, holding you closer whenever your fingers moved through his hair.

When you finally began to draw away, his hand tightened softly at your nape and brought you back for one last lingering kiss.

Pope kept his forehead against yours after your mouths parted. His eyes remained closed, his breathing uneven while your fingers continued moving through his hair.

You brushed your nose against his.

“I love you, my grumpy sunflower.”

“Love you too.” His thumb moved over your cheek as the corner of his mouth finally lifted. “But you’re not calling me that in front of Deran.”

You smiled. “No promises.”

You didn’t think this little plan of yours all the way through. 

Which, in your defense, implies there was a point at which there had been a thought-through version, and that feels charitable now that you’re standing in the middle of your living room with a paper plate in one hand and a steadily souring sense of dread in the other.

Because really, what sort of person invites her chief attending over to the apartment she shares with her resident boyfriend while the two of them are still in the world’s iciest little bro-divorce? 

Your sort, apparently. Certified dim-bulb. Girl who sees a gas leak and thinks, hm, maybe a sparkler would improve this situation.

But in your defense the frost between them had been spreading and you were tired of pretending it wasn’t. Tired of pretending it wasn’t affecting the job itself. Everyone was.

So yes, maybe engineering one contained, inescapable little social crucible had felt wise at the time. Healing, even. Put two men in a room and let nature take its course. 

Frost can’t survive fire, you told yourself. What you failed to remember was that fire tends to not be warm in any benevolent way. Fire bites. Fire blackens. Fire leaves marks.

The proof of your terrible idea now sits on opposite ends of the sofa. Robby on one, Frank on the other, a clean swatch of empty cushion between them while they chew their food in perfect, hostile union — bite, grind, swallow, repeat — ostensibly watching the TV. 

The screen washes them in intermittent blue light, giving them both somewhere neutral to stare, somewhere that is not each other’s face. 

You give it three more seconds. A generous three, really. More than either of them deserves. Then your patient collapses inward on itself. With a sigh, you deposit your plate on the coffee table and cross the room.

If they want to commit to this pageant of masculine emotional constipation, fine. You can be disruptive. You turn and reverse yourself right into Frank’s lap, crossing your legs at the ankles.

His breath catches against your neck, a fracture in an otherwise composed exterior, surprise or shock of you climbing on him in front of your boss, but he stays statue-still except for the palm that migrates to your thigh and clamps there. 

“Robby, you still think their rookie QB’s gonna choke in the red zone?” you ask, making a doomed little bid for peace with the ragged scraps of football knowledge you’ve managed to absorb by osmosis, your chin tipping toward the drive unfolding onscreen. 

Without so much as a glance your way, Robby grunts, “Kid’s overdue for a disaster,” a verdict delivered to the television but seemingly tagged for his recovering subordinate to his left.

The half-smirk that follows is pure instigation, and Frank answers it the only way he can in mixed company: “Disaster? He just took them eighty yards in two and a half minutes. Think that earns him at least a little faith.”

And spiteful tone notwithstanding, the words pass between them minus bloodshed, which you decide counts as a victory.

Maybe not a large victory, not something they’d name a holiday after, but you’ll take whatever pocket-sized miracles the universe is handing out before it changes its mind.

Robby finally cuts Frank a sidelong look, head ticking just enough to register annoyance. “Faith won’t change the fact he’s already gift-wrapped the defense a few choice turnovers. Odds say he does it again once the end zone feels too close for comfort.”

Frank’s knee bobs once with a scoff, bouncing you with just enough force that your t-shirt shifts, neckline dipping. Robby’s gaze snaps there like iron to a magnet; he tips his beer to hide a grin, but the swelter in his stare is anything but subtle. 

Interesting.

It’s not the first time you’ve caught Robby looking at you like that.

There have been other moments, in passing, usually at work. You’ve caught him with that glazed, faraway stare before he could reel it back in when you bend over a counter to grab a pen or crowd too close beside him in those paper-thin scrubs.

It’s always just been filed away under things that are none of your business, because you are Frank’s and happily so, and desire from other men has always struck you as one of those minor background inconveniences of having a body in public.

But now this feels less easy to write off. Like all that tension that had been hard and almost boring in its predictability has warped into something else entirely. It feels humid and unstable and just this side of visible. 

You can’t name it yet, but it waits there all the same, right at the edge of articulation, poised like it knows you’ll eventually have to. 

“Real rich, coming from you,” Frank says to himself and you, but the tail end mutters itself into “— jackass.” 

They both return to the TV after that, or pretend to, shoulders squared forward, expressions set into the particular blankness of men who are absolutely not done arguing but have decided, temporarily, to ferment.

You take advantage of the attention shift, letting gravity slump you into Frank’s chest, hips shifting in an absent figure-eight as you settle. It would’ve been innocent if the movement didn’t drag you directly over the hard proof of his excitement beneath you.

Your brows lift.

Another interesting development.

Useful, too, knowing whatever strange atmospheric disturbance has rolled through the room has not passed over him untouched. Not just Robby, then.

“Easy.” His inhale saws across your nape, voice pitched for you alone, the consonants clipped and almost panicked. “You tryna start something?”

You really weren’t, but you know he’s not in a position to believe you right now after you made a show of climbing on top of him not two minutes earlier.

Across the cushions, Robby’s tongue drags across his lower lip like he’s cleaning a knife, bottle slack in his hand.

“Hmm? Third-and-four, babe. Pay attention.”

“You don’t even know what third-and-four means,” he growls under his breath. “You’re already on thin ice after springing Robby on me — so do us both a favor and quit squirming.”

“Should probably listen to him, kid,” Robby says suddenly. You and Frank turn at the same time, guilty in stereo. He reclines deeper into the couch, lids at half-mast, utterly unmoved by Frank’s incoming glare. “If Langdon wants you to quit squirming it’s only ‘cause he’s struggling to keep up,” he drawls, eyes flicking to the tell-tale bulge under your ass. “Guy’s never been great at thinking and feeling at the same time.”

You don’t even have time to be embarassed before Frank’s growling, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Robby.”

“Is that right?” he challenges with raised brows. “Well, you’re welcome to show me.”

Heat prickles along your neck, a phantom fingerprint.

Surely that’s not the invitation you take it as. You just have your mind in the gutter. A mind that happily projects the image anyway. Robby reclined in that same spot, beer perched on his knee, gaze foggy with lust while Frank’s mouth maps yours and your hips test how steady the good doctor’s hands really are.

It is, on reflection, not nearly as appalling a thought as it should be, which feels like a separate problem and also, perhaps, the main one. 

“Relax, Frank. If you can’t handle it, just say the word — I’m happy to keep her occupied.”

Oh. You stand corrected.

Frank’s lips peel back in something just shy of a grin. His hand slips from your thigh only long enough to cup your jaw, turning your head until the room blurs to the halo of his face.

“She’s already occupied,” he tells Robby, but his eyes stay on you, a dare stretching between eyelashes. 

You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Don’t so much as twitch, and that tiny surrender is apparently all the permission Frank needs.

His lips crash into yours, teeth scraping, soda-sweet fizz sparking on this tongue while his arm bands tight around your waist. The couch groans under the sudden torque of bodies. Denim grinds denim until sparks pop behind your eyes and every rational neuron shrugs, clocks out, leaves libido in full command.

The instant your mouths part for air, Robby’s bottle clinks onto the table.

You turn just as he leans in, forearms braced on his knees, broad shoulders now blocking half the TV’s glow. Up close, his stare tracks the smear of Frank’s spit on your bottom lip, the way your chest still heaves in uneven intakes. 

A shadowy smile carves on cheek as Robby tilts his head, dark eyes roaming from your swollen mouth to Frank’s white-knuckled grip on your thigh.

“Could use a closer angle,” he mutters. 

“By all means,” Frank sneers, one fist gathering your waistband, tugging you a slow quarter-turn until you’re astride him, chest to chest, knees snug to his hips.

On the short but damning list of Professional Conduct Hell-Nos, “make out with your boyfriend while your boss spectates” probably ranks very high. Somewhere between falsifying patient charts and starting a fistfight in the ambulance bay. Possibly above stealing narcotics, which feels in poor taste to think with both men in the room, but then again, the evening has already wandered several zip codes past good taste.

It wanders even further when Frank kisses you again.

The list of reasons this is wrong atomizes into glitter until even Robby’s razor-keen gaze becomes another blur at the edge of the frame, taking in tremors you no longer have the bandwidth to hide.

But the awareness of the extra set of eyes of you only seems to dump pure accelerant into your bloodstream until you’re arching into Frank and rolling your hips down against the thick seam of his fly, bumping perfect pressure against your clit.

A wet rush answers between your thighs, lace sticking to your folds, and your breasts mash against Frank’s chest until you can feel your own heart ricochet through peaked nipples.

You break the kiss again only to clamp down on his lower lip in your teeth and tug, over-dramatic, leaving a sticky sheen that practically screams look what you’re missing, Dr. Robinavitch.

“Sure he’s convinced, Frankie?” you ask, breathless, thumb dragging over his lower lip to soothe the place your teeth had just nipped at. “Convinced I’m tied up and off-limits?” 

Frank laughs, a thin, rattled sound. His hand coasts up the slope of your back, ironing himself into every dip and imperfection.

“Dunno, baby.” He ghosts a kiss at the corner of your grin, another softer one under your jaw. His gaze darts over your shoulder to Robby, then sinks back to you, trouble puddling in the dimples you love. “You wanna show him? Show him how much you like taking care of me?”

You’re nodding before the sentence is half-born, a frantic little yes-yes-yes of motion.

In your haste you misjudge your own limbs, nearly knotting them with Frank’s before scrambling free. You drop between his thighs, the carpet scraping your knee raw as one hand shoots out to catch the dense muscle of his quad for balance.

To your left, Robby shakes loose a low, entertained hum. “Poor thing was just waiting to be useful.”

“She’s useful all the time,” Frank murmurs, and there’s no bite in it. His fingers sink into your hair and comb it gently back from your face. With his other hand, he pops the button of his jeans, zipping sliding down slow enough to hear every metal tooth give way. “Just happens to be especially pretty when she’s desperate to prove it.”

A guttural breath escapes Frank as he eases himself out, fist wrapped around a length that stands fierce in his hand, the flushed head of his cock blushing deeper with every absent pass of his thumb.

Your lips part, tongue wetting the seam, gaze fixed with the naked intent of an animal staring down dinner. Satisfaction flickers in his eyes. He offers a slow, decisive nod.

You don’t wait for a second invitation. You are many things but wasteful is not one of them.

Fingers wrap him in one cautious loop, then tighten once his inhale hiccups above you. You lean in and drag your tongue in one flat stripe from base to tip, tasting salt and the darker thing that’s only his.

He hisses through his teeth, every muscle in his thighs wiring tight under your palms, his hands balling like he’s fighting the reflex to bury them in your hair and steer.

Before he’s recovered, you’re already sliding him past your lips, and all that soft worship knifes into raw, unfiltered hunger.

His fingers finally tangle at your nape, gathering the curtain of your hair back in a practiced sweep, granting him an unobstructed view as your mouth sets a slow pulse around him. Like he needs to see every inch of what you’re doing to him or he’ll die from not knowing.

Your hand picks up the slack, stroking the length your mouth vacates.

“Jesus.”

“Told you,” Frank says. “She likes takin’ care of me.”

“I’m getting that,” Robby drawls, dryness turning brittle-sharp . “Little overeager, though.”

And you are. Eager. Greedy. Shamelessly so, student-raises-her-hand-before-the-question-is-finished so. You take Robby’s little barb as praise anyway, letting it roll down your spine, because if he wanted you less eager then maybe he should stop sounding so interested in it. 

You work him deeper, spit glazing the shaft, smearing over your knuckles. Saliva puddles in the cradle of his pants, printing a wet halo.

Frank’s head thunks back against the couch. “If you had her mouth on you, Robby,” he grits, “you’d be begging for the same… enthusiasm.”

“You offering?” Robby asks Frank. “Because I’ll admit — she’s a lot more tempting on her knees than being a smartass during rounds. I could get used to that view. Might even teach her some new tricks.”

You answer with a muffled growl that vibrates along Frank’s cock. He twitches under it.

That is such bullshit. You are not a smartass indiscriminately. You are a smartass with standards. A smartass in self-defense. A smartass only when Robby shows up in his holier-than-thou vestments and wonders aloud if you’re “having trouble following directions” for daring to question a single judgment call, or when he lofts that patronizing brow at a truth everyone else is simply too cowardly to say, or when he coaxes your attitude out of you with all the patience of a snake charmer and then acts scandalized when it finally bares fangs. 

And yes, fine, maybe you’ve needled him once or twice simply because the little pinch of his mouth brings you joy.

Sue you. People have hobbies. Frank has terrible coping mechanisms. You have this. 

Your nose nudges the downy trail at Frank’s belly, saliva threading between your lips as your throat opens, then you draw up in one long, slow drag.

Warning flashes through every tense line of him a second before his breath punches out in a fractured little curse.

“Fuck, sweetheart —”

Frank’s fist eases you off him, and when your mouth slips away with a wet pop, he’s panting, cock flushed bruise-dark, a string of precum still kissing the corner of your lip before it snaps.

“Sorry — shit. You keep doing that and I’m gonna come down your throat in front of your boss.” 

You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Robby whistles. “Pretty sure we crossed that line a while ago, Langdon.”

Something hair-thin cracks across Frank’s face, a little fault line opening where the smirk had been, sour and old and too personal for the room you’re currently kneeling in. You can’t place it. Can’t tell how Robby managed to find the bruise when he’d only seemed to brush the skin. 

“Kind of rich, you saying that.”

Robby’s smile doesn’t move, but his eyes freeze over. “You implying somethin’?”

“Implying nothing. You love quoting policy til it suits you to break it.”

“You wanna pick a fight with me right now?” Robby scoffs. “Because I gotta say, your sense of timing’s still shit.”

“At least I’m consistent” 

“Listen, Langdon, the day I take a lecture on —” The rest of Robby’s retort dies when you stand, stepping straight into the line of fire and blotting out the last scrap of civility left between them.

This is what you wanted, right? The attention snapping toward you. Both of them suddenly silent because you have become, for one second, more interesting than their pride.

You catch both set of eyes as your fingers hook beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming it up your ribs, knuckles brushing the goose-pimpled slope of your stomach.

The cotton’s off before either man can inhale a protest, pooling at your feet like a dropped flag, and for a heartbeat you let them see you in nothing by the pale, breath-strained lace of your bra: straps sliding, cups stretched indecently tight, nipples pebbling hard enough to ache.

You reach behind, flick the clasp, and let the bra fall too, shoulders rolling back so your breasts lift, unapologetic, into the hush. 

Frank reacts the way he always does, as if this is a miracle he’s somehow been deemed worthy of witnessing — never mind that he’s had your tits in his mouth four times already this week. 

But it’s Robby’s look that reroutes every living cell in your body. No wide-eyed marvel here, just pure clinician, jotting mental footnotes on nipple angle, respiratory excursion, overall breast biomechanics.

He’s studying you so hard you swear the room compresses, a slow squeeze that coaxes your back to arch and your knees to drift tighter, slick pulse drumming a reminder of why you stood up in the first place. 

You channel their attention straight into your backbone, thumbs hooking the waistband of your shorts and tugging until they puddle beside your discarded shirt, leaving you to stand in nothing but a damp lace thong.

“If you two would rather keep the pissing contest going, that’s fine,” you say. “I’m perfectly capable of finishing solo.”

A bluff — half bluff — because you could, but gods you’d rather make them beg to help.

You turn, gifting them a sway of your ass, all bravado, as you saunter toward your shared bedroom.

You make it exactly three steps. An insulting distance, really, before Frank’s hand brands the small of your back and Robby’s palm spreads wide over your belly, both of them converging so fast your brain barely has time to document the win under effective tactics.

Together, they swing you back into the wall hard enough for the plaster to kiss your shoulder blades.

The air leaves your lungs in a little hmph, quickly swallowed by Frank’s mouth claiming your collarbone, while Robby’s thigh muscles between yours and pins you there, your pussy dragging firm against his pant leg. 

“Sensitive little thing,” Frank murmurs, thumb stroking the underside of your breast while his lips charts a slow latitude up your throat.

Robby catches your chin between his fingers and tilts your face, giving Frank better access and forcing your gaze up to his at the same time. Efficient. Very attending of him.

“All that attitude for a fifteen-second wait? Spoiled, aren’t we?” He glances at Frank, amused as he jerks his thigh higher to your clit. “Think she even remembers why she started the tantrum?”

“Doubt it,” Frank answers, sliding a palm between your panties and robby’s leg to cup at the wet heat there. A tremor shoots down to your toes. “Memory’s about to get a lot worse, too.”

“Good,” Robby says, smiling crookedly as his hands make their way up your thigh. “Maybe then she’ll let the adults talk.”

Adults, you want to scoff, but Frank’s thumb circles over your clit and you forget what else you wanted to say about that. 

“Bedroom,” he decides.

“Copy that,” Robby answers, and then before you can blink, you’re scooped over his shoulder, world flipping until you’re staring at his (very nice) backside.

His hand smacks your ass once, proprietary punctuation as Frank follows, tossing directions like you’re precious cargo being delivered: “Second door on the left.”

You hit the mattress with a squeak. Plush bedding cups your spine, breasts pitching up and down before settling into a slow rhythm that seems to hypnotize them both.

You blink up into the twin eclipse of their silhouettes. Four eyes drinking you in. Every rise of your chest pulls a twitch from Frank’s jaw, drags Robby’s lower lip between white teeth. Shared silence of men who have finally found a reason to put their differences aside. 

Robby looks to Frank for permission. “Can I?”

Frank gives one curt nod. “Hands and mouth only.”

“I can work with that,” Robby says. 

He crawls forward, knees depressing the mattress, settling between your thighs. 

He leans in, and suddenly his eyes are galaxies: black centers swallowing brown until just a thin halo glows like caramel on a burner. 

It’s a weird feeling. How Robby, the same man who can watch arterial spray and merely sigh for suction, is gazing down at you like he’s the one white-knuckling the edge. 

But then the galaxy eyes disappear and in their place returns Dr. Robinavitch. Cool and insufferably sure. His expression settles into something almost cruel, like he’s caught you noticing the crack and intends to punish you for it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking a glistening stripe through your underwear. “Soaked through already. That’s pathetic, sweetheart.”

He punctuates the verdict with an almost tender kiss to the inside of your knee, then another, higher. Instinct yanks your thighs together, but Frank is suddenly there on your right, palm bracketing one knee and pressing it outward again.

“Don’t hide now,” he chides.

A raw, useless sound breaks from your throat.

“There she is,” Robby praises, mouthing higher. “Nothin’ smart to say?”

You do. You must. Somewhere. But you find only ache. Voice trembling, you plead, “Please… Robby.”

He answers with action, sealing his lips over your clip through the fabric, drawing a slow, punishing suction that makes you cry out. 

Frank’s hand pushes your abdomen down, steadying the tremor, while his voice near your ear sounds: “That’s it — let him see how polite you can be.” 

You look to your right to see his cock sitting against his stomach, free hand doing lazy strokes up and down the base.

Robby hums low, mouth dragging down the damp seam of your underwear in languid swipes. His tongue flattens, gathering your taste, then flicks upward. His nose nudges your swollen bud with every rise. 

“Press a little harder right there,” Frank tells Robby. “She’ll act like it’s too much, but she likes it. Don’t let her squirm away.”

Robby listens. You hate that, you decide. How he’s on Frank’s side now.

You had been counting on his natural contrarianism to save you from Frank’s encyclopedic knowledge of all your most intimate buttons. No suck luck.

He bears down on the pulse point Frank named, then tongue-blades upward. White heat flashes through you and you flinch, trying to shear sideways, but his grip tightens, thumbs denting soft skin. 

“Uh-uh, baby — stay right there and take it,” Frank croons, the up and down rhythm he approaches with his cock kicking up speed. “You know it feels good, let him give you every drop.”

Robby works you relentlessly, sloppy and dirty, tongue alternating broad licks and focused circles that make you arch off the bed. You bury both hands in his hair, nails scratching his scalp, unable to keep your moans at bay.

“Good girl,” Frank drawls. “Let him make it up to you. All those times he’s been a dick at work. Seems only fair he uses his mouth for something useful.”

Robby shoots him a murderous side-eye but doesn’t slow. Instead he hums, vibration punching straight through the fabric. Your moan breaks into pieces — so close you can taste it. 

“Michael, I’m gonna —”

He hears his first name like a starting gun. His tongue locks onto your clit in punishing patterns, each lap faster than the last, crooked nose grinding everything just right. 

In two heartbeats the world pinpoints to a blistering of sensation. Your vision whites out, fingers clawing uselessly at this hair and the sheets as your climax slams through you. A ragged cry spills against Frank’s thigh while every muscle locks, then ripples.

Still, Robby doesn’t relent. His mouth stays on you, tongue lapping through the quake, coaxing aftershocks that make your thighs quiver against his braced shoulders.

Only when tremors give way to trembling afterglow does he ease back, breath hot against the sodden fabric, leaving you boneless and blinking, pleasure echoing through every nerve like a fading siren. 

Robby lifts his mouth, chin and beard glistening. 

“Thought about this every damn shift,” he says, tongue darting out to chase another bead of you from his lip. “Tastes even better than the fantasy, doll.”

Your eyes drag into focus by inches.

“That’s wildly unprofessional,” you mumble, the words softened by the fact that your thighs are still trembling around his head. You try to look stern. You suspect you look freshly exorcised. “You should probably report yourself.”

Frank’s hand tightens where it rests on you, his voice dropping to something rougher. 

“Don’t worry, baby. We’ll give him plenty to confess to.” He looks over your body, then to Robby. “Think she’s ready to find out what happens when we stop taking turns?”

“She’s ready,” Robby responds. “And if she isn’t, she’ll tell us. Won’t you, angel?”

A twin grin blooms across two previously warring faces.

This is not how you pictured getting Frank Langdon and Michael Robinavitch back on the same page. 

But if this is what conflict resolution looks like nowadays, who are you to stand in the way of progress?

Inevitable | @buckpunny1

After yet another horrible date leaves you stranded, you call your best friend, Garrett Graham, for help. Now, if only Garrett can convince you that he’s the right guy for you, after all…

Feeling flows both ways | @mutantvampireearthquake

You surprise your boyfriend after a big win

Jeep | @bitchinbarzal

garrett loves his car, garrett also loves you. you wrecked his car.

Awaited Moments | @g0ldendesiree

garrett finally decided he’s done with your game of cat and mouse, the only thing standing in front of him? a football player who’s name you can’t even remember.

Problem | @/g0ldendesiree

when garrett finds out about a problem you’ve been having,what kind of friend would he be to not help you?

Play Pretend | @/g0ldendesiree

the boundaries blur between fake dating and what’s real when garrett gets jealous.

Hideaways in Hallways | @/g0ldendesiree

when garrett gets clingy it’s clear he isn't up for hiding you anymore.

BREAKFAST SOUP | @edawgz

Garrett Graham loves that you’re an academic weapon. Well… he loves it until finals week rolls around and suddenly your textbooks are your first love.

mr. perfect | @aliahsarchives

when you’re partnered up with a football player for a class project, garrett can’t help but want you in his sights 24/7.

girls in matching yoga sets don't play | @grahamsangel44

Between Sets | @theunwrittenmoments

You agreed to start going with Garrett to the gym because between hockey practice, games and your work schedule, you have limited time together. Garrett spends the entire time watching you instead of his own training plan before his jealousy gets the best of him.

Off The Market (Current Boyfriend Trend) | @/theunwrittenmoments

When you stumble across the current boyfriend trend on TikTok, you and Allie decide it’s the perfect opportunity to prank your boyfriends. They didn’t find it nearly as funny as you did. Garrett’s response though? That was unexpected.

Fall into you | @girlontheruin

after a nasty fall on the ice, you return many months later to find out a certain hockey player’s stolen your usual slot. Where in Garrett Graham collides with you and your whole world falls down.  Garrett Graham x Figure Skater!Reader

Heating Pad & Hockey Boyfriend | @andy-15-07

Caught Looking | @/andy-15-07

Study Date Disaster | @/andy-15-07

PROFESSOR’S DAUGHTER | @darkkdamsel00

Garrett Graham, Briar’s star hockey player, breaks every rule he’s ever had when he falls hard for his strict literature professor’s daughter.

edge of the earth | @finelinevogue

the off campus house is having a party but you're not feeling it. luckily your boyfriend lives there and so you retreat to his bedroom (your safe space)

spin me in circles | @/finelinevogue

it's your birthday and your boyfriend won't stop kissing you for more than a minute. safe to say, he's obsessed with you.

Trouble | @/finelinevogue

you’re going to send garrett to an early grave with some of these tiktok pranks

you’ll be okay | @/finelinevogue

you’re the most hated girl on campus because you broke garrett graham’s heart, but no one actually knows the truth.

social battery is at zero | @/finelinevogue

you are absolutely shattered, but it’s the first off campus bonfire of the summer and you don’t want to let your boyfriend down

one drink limit | @kooksandpearls

study buddy | @/kooksandpearls

secret mission | @/kooksandpearls

a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well.

full immersion. | @/kooksandpearls

a random class assignment sends garrett to celibacy club, where a stupid bet, four weeks of tension, and one almost-kiss turn into a much bigger problem.

Line?!, part 02  | @/kooksandpearls

one drunk shakespeare performance turns into old feelings, bad decisions, and garrett graham onstage where he absolutely does not belong.

Laundry Day… | @grahamsangel44

Power Play… tying him up | @/grahamsangel44

Perfect For Me | @jaylalolz

you lose your virginity to the Garrett Graham. 

breaking point, part two | @pucksandpower

Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call

Hypothetically Speaking…, part 2 | @briarafterdark

Fake-dating your best friend was supposed to make your crush jealous. It wasn't supposed to blur every line you'd carefully drawn between you. But when Justin finally texts, you realize there's only one person you trust enough to help you get ready, and Garrett's offer changes everything.

keeping it casual | @severedlamb

you talk with the guys while waiting around at the house and dean accidentally let's it slip that garrett is in love with you.

rekindled love | @sunnydilaurentis

in which y/n finds herself in a slightly compromising situation with a classmate at one of the highly anticipated briar u parties, hosted by none other than her ex-boyfriend, garrett graham and his friends. what happens when garrett is the only one to notice y/n be whisked away by a classmate?

Garret getting the munchies after sex | @burgundysnow

RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP | @fleurcient

You are in love with your best friend and you really think you can have a chance until he gradually starts to slip away thanks to a fake relationship.

Bad idea | @garrettgrahamswhore

after overhearing garrett bet that he can get you to wear his jersey, you decide to play along.

lazy kisses with garrett graham | @underoospeterparker

Blindside | @newobsessionweekly

You’re tired of hiding your feelings, but when a guy mocks your insecurities, Garrett’s brutal defense proves you’re more than just friends.

Second Chance | @saturx5

garrett breaks up with you when he becomes captain of his hockey team only to realise he can’t do it without you

Father-to-be Garrett | @garrettgr4h4m

I Want My Rival Back | @escapismatbest

After a scandal leaves Y/N isolated and broken, she discovers that it was her rival who has been quietly fighting for her all along.

High Maintenance, Part 2 | @broodingboysimp

You've been falling apart quietly for three weeks and you're very good at making sure nobody notices, especially your boyfriend Garrett. You're less good at it after four drinks and one overheard conversation you were never supposed to hear.

Date rescue. | @toonice113

you're on a date with a total douche who keeps bragging about playing on the AHL and (unknowingly) fanboying over your best friend who thankfully makes an apperance just in time to rescue you from a nightmare date.

Do You Like Dean? | @adrienneleclerc

Garrett hears you talking about how you would climb Dean like a tree with your best friend.

Because he’s carried her laundry basket up three flights of stairs without being asked, eaten half her cereal with his hand in the box, fallen asleep facedown on her rug during finals week, and once let himself in at one in the morning because she texted him that she thought there was a weird sound in the hallway and he arrived in grey sweats and slides with his hockey stick in hand, and the kind of serious expression that made her forget to be embarrassed for a full eleven seconds.

So, no. She doesn’t think about the tank top.

She thinks about philosophy notes and the fact that her car’s being held hostage in the hockey house driveway while Logan fixes it, which so far seems to involve standing over the open hood with Tucker, a YouTube video, and the blind male confidence of men who have never met an engine problem they couldn’t make worse. 

She thinks about the rink, because Garrett’s supposed to take her there before his late skate and she’s supposed to sit in the stands with her laptop and pretend she doesn’t secretly like the smell of cold air and rubber mats and hockey boys yelling obscenities at each other.

She’s hunched over her desk in jeans and the white tank, hair clipped messily up off her neck, one bare foot tucked under her thigh, when the door opens behind her with exactly zero hesitation.

“Okay, so Logan says your car’s making this noise,” Garrett says, already halfway inside, “and I told him that’s not a fucking diagnosis because cars make a lot of noises, and then he got offended like I was disrespecting his craft, which is rich because his craft is apparently–”

He stops. He stops like someone’s walked into the room and slapped the sentence directly out of his mouth.

She looks over her shoulder, pen still between her fingers. “What?”

Garrett’s standing just inside her doorway in his Briar hoodie and track pants, duffel bag hanging off one shoulder, curls still damp from a shower or the snow outside or whatever irritatingly athletic thing he was doing before this. His mouth is slightly open. His eyes are very much not on her face. 

They flick down again, fast and guilty and not guilty enough. “Dude,” he says.

Her eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“When the fuck did you get your nipples pierced?”

For a second, the room goes very still around the heater rattling under the window. Then she looks down at herself. And, okay. Fine. The tank top is thinner than she remembers. 

The little metal bars are pressing faintly against the cotton, visible enough now that he’s said it, and her whole body does this annoying internal jump, not embarrassment, because Garrett has seen her in bikinis and sick and wearing a face mask that made her look like a swamp creature. 

But it’s something. A hot little awareness under her skin, as if the room has suddenly learned a new angle. She turns back around too quickly and scoffs, because dignity is mostly just committing to a tone before your pulse can betray you. “Months ago.”

Garrett nods once. Slowly. Like he’s received devastating news from a doctor with poor bedside manner. “Months ago.”

“Yes?”

“So for months you’ve just…” He looks at the ceiling, then the wall, then her face, where he very clearly intends to remain through force of character alone. “Right. Right. Cool.”

She narrows her eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

“What?” he says, and the innocence would be more convincing if his ears weren’t faintly pink. Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, man who has smiled his way out of consequences that would have ended lesser men, is standing in her dorm room looking like his entire operating system has crashed over a white tank top.. “I’m just processing information.”

“You’re being weird.”

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “I am being so normal right now.”

“You walked in here, stared at my chest, and short-circuited.”

His gaze drops for half a second again, involuntary and hopeless, before snapping back up. “Because you weaponised casual nudity.”

“I’m wearing a shirt.”

“That’s a suggestion of a shirt.”

She barks a laugh before she can stop herself, sharp and disbelieving.

He points at her like that proves something. “See? You know.”

“I know you’re an idiot.”

“I know a lot of things,” he says, still looking pained. “Unfortunately, I now know one more.”

There’s no reason for that to make heat crawl up the back of her neck, except that Garrett has shifted against the door without seeming to realise it, shoulders broad enough to make the frame look underprepared, one hand gripping the strap of his duffel. 

He’s trying very hard to turn this into a bit. She can see the effort in the slant of his mouth, in the way his eyes keep dragging back to hers like he’s hauling them up with a rope.

She stands from the chair, mostly because sitting there suddenly feels weirdly vulnerable and also because she genuinely does need to change before they leave. “I’m not going like this. Relax.”

He exhales through his mouth, cheeks puffing slightly. “Thank God.”

Her eyes narrow again. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

She crosses her arms across her chest, which does nothing for his cause. “No, go on. Thank God why?”

He lifts both hands, palms out, the duffel sliding down his arm. “Because I wasn’t in the mood to fight someone tonight.”

She stares at him. He stares back, dead serious for about two seconds before his grin starts sneaking in around the edges, all stupid golden-boy charm and teeth and the unbearable confidence of a man who knows exactly how often he gets away with saying things like that.

“Oh my God,” she says flatly. “You are so annoying.”

“I’m protective.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Those overlap.”

“They don’t.”

“With me they do.”

She rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts and walks past him toward her bedroom, close enough that her shoulder brushes his arm. It’s nothing. It’s normal. They’re always touching in ways that don’t count, or didn’t count, maybe, before Garrett noticed her piercings and temporarily lost access to the English language. 

But now the brush of him feels too present, the warmth of his hoodie against her bare upper arm registering with an irritating amount of detail. She pulls a jersey over the tank first because it’s closest, the fabric falling big over her hips and smelling faintly like laundry detergent and that cold rink smell Garrett always carries around like a second cologne. Then she grabs a jacket from the chair, shoves her arms through it, and gives herself exactly half a second in the mirror to look normal.

She looks normal. Mostly. Her face is a little too warm, but Garrett doesn’t get to know that.

When she comes back out, he’s leaning against the wall near her door, scrolling on his phone with an expression of intense concentration that’s almost definitely fake. He looks up when she enters.

And then just looks. His eyes move over the jersey, the jacket, her face, the way she’s tucked her hair back from her cheek with the annoyed efficiency of someone pretending she’s not just changed clothes with a man in the next room thinking about her nipples. His mouth does something small and private before he catches it.

“What?” she says.

He shakes his head once. “Nothing.”

“You keep saying nothing in a way that feels suspicious.”

“That’s because you’re paranoid.”

“That’s because you’re being weird.”

He pushes off the wall and opens the door for her. “I’m never weird.”

“You’re being weird right now.”

“I’m being gentlemanly.”

“You let yourself into my dorm.”

“Gentlemanly after the felony.”

She snorts and walks past him into the hall. His hand lands at the small of her back as she goes. Warm through the jacket. Familiar enough that she shouldn’t notice it. She does anyway.

Garrett closes the door behind them and, as they head down the hall, slings his arm around her shoulders like he’s done a thousand times before. Heavy and easy and a little too smug. 

She groans immediately, mostly for self-preservation. “You’re very touchy tonight.”

He hums, pleased with himself in a way she can feel through his ribs against her side. “Mhm.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

She tips her head back enough to glare at him. He’s already looking down at her, grin lazy now, but his eyes are still doing that thing. Brighter, sharper, like something ordinary has been tilted a few degrees and he’s pretending he hasn’t noticed the whole room slide.

“You’re unbearable,” she says.

“I’m driving you to the rink out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Because Logan broke my car worse.”

“Allegedly.”

She shoots him a look. “Garrett.”

“Fine. Probably.”

She huffs, but she lets herself lean into him by half an inch because the hallway is cold and because his arm is warm and because, irritatingly, he smells good. He squeezes her shoulder once, casual enough to be deniable, except his thumb brushes the side of her neck afterward, small and absent and not absent at all.

They make it to the stairwell before he says, “So. Months, huh?”

She stops on the top step and slowly turns her head. He’s staring straight ahead now, mouth twitching.

She points at him. “Do not.”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“I’ve suffered a shock.”

“You saw the outline of jewellery through a shirt.”

“Exactly. I’m suffering here.”

“You’re such a loser.”

“Maybe,” he says, then glances down at her, all grin and trouble and something warmer under it that makes her stomach dip in a way she fully intends to ignore until death. “But I’m your ride, so be nice to me.”

She starts down the stairs before he can see her smile. “I liked you better when you couldn’t speak.”

“Yeah,” Garrett says behind her, voice rough with laughter. “Me too, actually.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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If he were anything like Dean, he would've approached you already and figured out your deal.

Why did you smile politely when partygoers pushed past you?

He watched as a dude fully grabbed your hip. Your body jolted at his touch, and he could read your lips as the word sorry left them.

Sorry.

To the guy who'd touched you.

Your eyes lit up when a tall redheaded girl in an impossibly short black dress approached you. She stood in stark contrast to your mom jeans and light pink tube top.

Your friend, Garrett assumed.

She leaned down to whisper something into your ear. Your face fell for only a moment before you nodded.

He was almost sure your response was:

"Okay, that's fine."

He understood your disappointment moments later when Dean made his appearance, shirtless and drunk off his ass. He swept up your redheaded friend and started carrying her toward the back hallway.

Garrett had no excuse for not approaching you now.

If you were waiting for your friend to finish hooking up with Dean, you'd be waiting a long while.

Garrett took a swig from the one beer he was allowing himself on a night before a game.

Unfortunately, someone else had the same idea.

He recognized the guy immediately. Tall. Lanky. One of Beau's fraternity brothers. A senior on the swim team.

Mark.

Or Mateo.

Probably not Michael.

Whatever his name was, he wanted to fuck you.

Curious, Garrett decided to keep his distance. He watched from across the room as he approached the speaker blasting '80s rock music. He grabbed Logan's phone from the table and changed the song, all while keeping one eye on you.

It was almost offensive how forward the guy was being.

He had a hand on your shoulder, and he was standing so close that you were forced to tilt your head back to look at him.

"Yeah... we talked upstairs. Remember?"

You politely shook your head.

"I don't think it was me."

Your voice was sweet.

Garrett could tell that much.

Wanting to hear more of the conversation, he lowered the volume of the music.

"I know I'm so fucking drunk right now, but we ran into each other outside the bathroom. I remember. You're so hot I know I'd remember you. You don't want to kiss me again?"

He grabbed your hand.

"Uhm, no, thank you. B-but... I really don't... uhm—"

The guy started pulling.

And your feet followed.

Your eyes were panicked, but your body moved anyway.

Jesus Christ.

He wasn't getting the hint.

It didn't help that you still had that polite smile on your face.

Fuck.

Were you seriously so polite that you were going to let this idiot drag you away even though you'd clearly never met him before?

Absolutely fucking not.

Garrett's feet moved before his brain really registered what he was doing.

He shoved himself between you and Swim Team Whatever-His-Name-Was and forced your hands apart.

He wasn't trying to embarrass the guy.

He shoved his shoulder just hard enough to make him stumble.

"She said no."

"What the fuck?"

Bold and clearly running on liquid courage, the guy took a step toward Garrett.

The standoff lasted all of three seconds.

Then recognition dawned.

Because Garrett Graham was standing in front of him.

"Are you dumb?" Garrett asked. "Can't you tell she doesn't want to talk to you?"

The guy gritted his teeth.

"I was just..." He looked at you. Then back at Garrett. "She's all yours, man."

And just like that, he stumbled away in search of another vulnerable girl.

Your eyes looked just as panicked when Garrett turned back toward you.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to cause a scene."

Garrett savored the chance to finally look at you up close.

Your makeup was soft. A light dusting of blush colored your cheeks. Your lips were glossy and glittered faintly under the kitchen lights.

Your hair was pulled back with a floral headband.

Worst of all, you smelled like lavender and vanilla.

Garrett stepped closer.

Shielding you from the crowd.

Blocking you in until your back met the kitchen counter.

He wasn't sure how subtle it was when he leaned closer just to breathe you in.

"I know it's your party..." you whispered.

Your voice trailed off.

You stared up at him as if he were a wolf and you were prey.

Honestly?

The comparison wasn't far off.

If Garrett had to compare you to an animal, it would be a baby deer.

Wide-eyed, nervous and completely unaware of how vulnerable you were.

"You're..."

"Garrett," he finished for you. "What's your name?"

"Y/N."

The answer came out almost too quickly.

Too trusting.

Y/N.

It bounced around inside his head while his imagination immediately started building a picture of who you were.

A picture he already suspected he'd be thinking about later tonight.

"You're not really sorry, right?" he asked. "Because that asshole was the one trying to trick you into hooking up with him."

"I don't think he was..."

Garrett stared.

You genuinely seemed to be considering it.

As if you'd only just realized the guy had been hitting on you.

"I think he was just confused."

All Garrett really knew about you was your name.

But he'd already decided you were perfect.

Seriously lacking in street smarts.

But perfect nonetheless.

His jaw ticked.

He regretted not putting the guy through the floor.

"I think he's lucky I'm a nice guy."

You completely missed the meaning behind that statement.

He could tell because you immediately replied:

"Your house is really nice too. Thank you for having me. I mean, you didn't really invite me. Dean invited my roommate, but—"

You stopped yourself.

Realizing you were rambling.

"I mean, it's a good party."

Garrett grinned.

"Thank you. Your roommate is the redhead?"

You nodded.

"She just disappeared with Dean."

"Is she your ride?"

Garrett planted a hand on either side of you.

Close enough to feel your breathing change.

Close enough to know he was overwhelming your senses.

"Yeah. I was just gonna wait for her to... you know. Get done."

"You might be waiting a while."

Your mouth parted.

Then closed.

Had that possibility genuinely not occurred to you?

"Well, that's okay." Your smile was small. "If it gets too late, I can call someone. There's this guy in my Instructional Tech class who said he'd give me a ride if I ever needed one."

Garrett's brows immediately knitted together.

"A random guy in your class?"

"He's not random. We have class together."

"Have you ever hung out with him outside of class?"

"Well, no. But he's nice. And I can't really afford an Uber all the way back to my apartment."

Another guy who wanted to fuck you.

And you had absolutely no idea.

Garrett was beginning to notice a pattern.

He was already starting to hate the idea of letting you leave this house and return to your own devices.

"Your friend kinda sucks for bringing you here and then abandoning you."

The words came out before he could stop them.

Instantly, he regretted it.

Your face fell.

"I-I wanted to come."

"You like parties?"

"I like parties."

You practically struggled to force the words out.

A terrible lie.

Your discomfort was written all over your face.

"And she's a good friend."

"Hmm."

Garrett pushed away from the counter, finally giving you room to breathe.

"There's a good chance they're going to fuck all night, Y/N. If you want to crash here, there's a spare bedroom. If not, I can drive you home. I've only had one beer."

"You don't have to do that, Garrett. It's so out of the way. I'll find a ride."

Say my name again.

Please.

"You're adorable, you know that?"

You smiled immediately.

Embarrassed.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Never," Garrett replied sincerely. "Let me drive you home."

Because an adorable little bunny like you wasn't getting into a car with some random loser from class.

"I..."

You pressed your lips together under the weight of his stare.

Had you ever told anyone no before?

"I should check in with my friend first—"

Garrett's hand found the small of your back.

"Sure."

He guided you toward the hallway.

"If my predictions are correct, they're probably in the laundry room."

Not a single word of protest left your mouth.

The irony of the situation dawned on him. He didn’t want someone else to take advantage of you, and yet he was practically doing the same, but Garrett was nothing like the guys who only wanted to fuck you. He actually had substance that backed up his bravado. Everyone at Briar knew that, and Garrett was watching as you came to the same revelation. Hockey captain. Six-foot-whatever. He was someone not to be fucked with. Maybe that’s why your body relaxed under his touch, and you let him lead you to the end of the downstairs hallway. 

Garrett would bet a million dollars that his best friend Dean was fucking your red-headed friend with the door wide open. He pushed you ahead of him, his other hand finding the other side of your hip, holding you as you peeked into the doorway. As if you’d seen a ghost, Garrett watches as your hands slap against your own eyes. 

Garrett couldn’t hold back the deep rumbling in his throat as he laughed. He took his own peek and found your red-headed friend bent over the running dryer as Dean pounded into her from behind. You turned around quickly, practically pressing your face into his chest, “Oh my goodness. Why did they leave the door open?”

“As you can see, your friend is occupied. Are you ready to go now, princess?” Garrett grabbed you by your chin, forcing your frightened eyes to look up at his. 

You nodded, long eyelashes batting up at him. He takes another mental picture for later. He imagined his cock down your throat, that same look of fear and wonder in your eyes. He clears his throat, pushing the lewd thought out of his mind, “Then let’s get you home.” 

Your apartment building might as well have been condemned.

It was a rude thought born from privilege, but Garrett couldn't suppress the uneasy feeling creeping up the back of his neck.

Of course you lived on the worst side of town.

During the twenty-minute drive, he'd learned how you'd ended up at Briar and, subsequently, at the hockey house.

You'd transferred in January and had been forced to find housing at the last minute.

That's how you'd met Paige, the redheaded puck bunny.

Apparently, she was renting out her couch and charging you half the rent.

“It pulls out.”

“What?”

“The couch.” You glanced over at him. “I'm not just sleeping on her couch. It pulls out and turns into a bed.”

Garrett shot you an incredulous look, taking his eyes off the road for a second.

“Where do you keep all your shit?”

“We turned the coat closet into my personal closet.” You smiled proudly. “It's actually more convenient than you'd think. And I don't have that much stuff anyway.”

You paused before adding softly,

“The important thing is that I'm here. You have no idea how long I've wanted to go to school here.”

Your eyes were bright and hopeful, standing in sharp contrast to the darkness outside the Jeep.

“And you're an education major?”

“Yeah.” You answered quickly, pleased that he'd remembered. “Elementary education.”

“That's cool.”

Garrett pulled into a parking space in front of your building and shifted the Jeep into park. The engine died and silence crept inside the vehicle. 

He tucked his keys into the pocket of his sweatpants before leaning across the center console and unclipping your seatbelt.

His face ended up a little closer to yours than necessary.

“I'll walk you up.”

“You don't have to, really.” You offered him a small smile. “This is already too much.”

Too much.

The phrase irritated him more than it should have.

Was basic kindness really that foreign to you?

“I'm a gentleman, princess. Of course I have to.”

You laughed softly.

“Paige talks all the time about how hockey players are the exact opposite of gentlemen.”

Your roommate is an idiot, princess.

“Then let me prove her wrong.”

The words came out low and certain.

Garrett realized, as he climbed out of the Jeep and rounded the front of the vehicle to open your door, that he'd never meant anything more.

“Oh, I get it now. This is the same girl from the party.”

Garrett watched as Dean dug into the huge pile of food on his plate. The dining hall was bustling at lunchtime, and the conversation his friends were having was almost loud enough to cloud his thoughts of you.

Almost.

Until Dean brought up Garrett's new favorite subject.

You.

“Maybe you can invite her friend over again tomorrow since Tuck has people coming over?”

“Who’s her friend?” Dean asked, and Garrett stared back at him, forcing his gaze to remain steady to prevent his eyes from rolling.

“The redhead? Kinda moans like a goat?”

Dean’s lips pulled into a mischievous smile.

“Ah, I see. Freaky Paige. She said her roommate was, like, a super religious virgin and then something else about her growing up in a cult. Which kinda tracks. She just stood there alone smiling at everyone the whole night.”

“What the fuck? Y/N did not. And Paige is full of shit.”

Dean chuckled.

“It doesn’t matter. Paige said that was the last time we were hooking up because she’s getting back with her boyfriend.”

Your roommate really sucks, Bunny.

“Here’s your opportunity, G,” Logan spoke up, abandoning whatever conversation he'd been having with Tucker. He jerked his head toward one of the double doors.

You walked through alone, your hair thrown up in a high ponytail and a pink backpack slung over your shoulder. Although you weren’t smiling, you looked happy, and Garrett could only assume you’d just gotten out of class.

You headed toward the salad bar.

Garrett stood immediately.

He patted Logan on the back in gratitude before making his way over to you.

Your eyes widened in surprise before quickly brightening with unmistakable joy.

You were happy to see him.

“Hey,” he said, even though there was so much more on his mind.

You almost forgot you were filling your tray.

“Hi. How are you?”

“Good.”

Amazing, actually. More like it, now that you’re here.

“What about you?”

“I’m really good. I love Mondays. No afternoon classes.”

“So you’re free the rest of the day?”

Your lips parted in surprise.

You glanced down nervously as you added more toppings to your salad. Garrett followed alongside you.

“Well, yeah. I was gonna do some homework and then... start a new book.”

Jesus.

He even found the idea of you reading alone in your apartment adorable.

“I, uh, wanted to get your number. Totally forgot to ask when I dropped you off the other night.”

“My number?”

“For chauffeuring reasons, of course. Don’t want you getting stranded and having to call Instructional Tech Guy.”

That made you giggle.

“Really?”

“Really.”

You reached the end of the salad bar and started toward the register.

Garrett grabbed the tray from your hands.

“Let me get this.”

“I-I have dining dollars, Garrett. You don’t have to—”

“Save ’em.”

He’d do any small thing he could to take care of you.

At least until he figured out how to have all of you.

Garrett could practically feel his friends’ stares as he carried your tray away and abandoned them completely.

They knew this was more than him trying to score.

Girls threw themselves at Garrett.

In all his years at Briar, he’d never had to chase one.

“Let me see your phone.”

Garrett was already reaching for it before it was halfway out of your pocket.

Your lock screen was a collage of pink aesthetic photos and an orange cat.

“You have a cat?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Mouse. I’ve had him since middle school, but it didn’t feel right bringing him here. Taking him away from his home.”

“He’s cute,” Garrett commented as he held the phone in front of your face and unlocked it. “Hey, are you religious?”

You blinked up at him.

Up.

Because Garrett was sitting beside you and was still massive even while seated.

“No. Uhm, not really. Wh-why do you ask?”

Stupid, freaky Paige.

“I was, uh, just wondering where you’re from.”

Garrett quickly learned you were from a small town in upstate New York.

From what he gathered, your home life was far from cultish. Nothing toxic.

You just seemed sheltered.

An only child.

He took the opportunity to enter his number into your phone and send himself a text.

“I’m serious about calling me if you need a ride somewhere.”

“You make it seem like Briar is a scary place. Everyone I’ve met is very nice. Including you.”

“I’m flattered, princess. And I agree that most people are nice. But this place has freaks and weirdos, and I’d prefer it if you weren’t anywhere near them.”

He was entitled.

What did it matter what he wanted for you?

He didn’t own you.

He’d met you two nights ago.

And yet you didn’t argue.

Almost as if you already trusted him.

“I’m working to save up enough money for a car, so hopefully I won’t have to bother you or Paige.”

“Where do you work?”

The question came out a little too quickly.

Garrett reminded himself he might scare you off if he didn’t pace himself.

And you did look a little nervous.

But you were an open book.

“I always work game days at the campus bookstore, so I’ve never gone to a game. And then I nanny during the week.”

“Well, if you’re free tonight, let me take you out.”

“Take me out?”

“To dinner.”

“Oh.”

You stared at him, eyes wide and beautiful.

“Why?”

“Why dinner?”

“A dinner date?”

“Yeah.”

“As friends?”

“The opposite, actually.”

Your lips parted, then closed again.

Garrett watched as you intentionally took a deep breath.

In through your nose.

Out through your mouth.

“I’m really trying to keep up here, Garrett.”

Too much.

Too fast.

He was pretty sure that’s what you wanted to say.

You just didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Hey. Relax, okay?”

His tone softened immediately.

The deep quality of his voice remained, but there was something undeniably gentle underneath it.

“It’s not a big deal. Just dinner. If you want, you could come over to my place and we could order something. Watch a movie.”

Another deep breath.

“Uhm... and then what?”

And then he’d probably kiss you. And touch you as much as he could before you became a bundle of nerves. So you weren’t completely innocent. Part of you, deep down, knew what dinner and a movie often lead to. 

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. I like you, Y/N.”

“I like you too. I mean, I think you’re nice and...”

“And...?” Garrett prompted.

“Handsome.”

You winced as soon as the word left your mouth.

Not because you didn’t mean it.

Because you were worried it was the wrong thing to say.

“I’m sorry. If I’m being honest, I haven’t really been on a date since high school. And I’m a little confused that, out of all the boys at Briar, you—”

Garrett immediately shook his head.

“Are you questioning my taste?”

“Of course not!” you whisper-shouted.

“You’re pretty. You’re sweet. And I haven’t met anyone like you.”

His gaze settled on yours.

“I’d like to keep seeing you. So, I’m gonna drop you off at your apartment. You can read your book and do your homework. Then I’ll come back tonight and pick you up for our date.”

“Are you sure?”

Garrett gave you a look that was just stern enough to make you squirm.

“Okay, okay. That sounds... good.”

You waited until his expression softened before taking another breath.

“Now finish your lunch, baby.”

You nodded quickly and picked up your fork, finally beginning to eat.

dividers by @/strangergraphics

pls reblog with your thoughts to be added to my off campus taglist :)

They were so wrapped up in their own shit, they didn’t even notice when you strutted in.

Dean sat leaning forward with his elbows firmly placed on the table. His palms were pressed against his forehead as his right leg bounced with restless energy.

Behind him, Logan leant against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle. His head was tilted back against the wall, and you could see the muscle tick in his clenched jaw from where you were standing.

In the centre of the room, Garrett was pacing a hole into the rug. You couldn’t hear what he was muttering to himself but you could hear a heavy thwack sound coming from the kitchen. Tucker was angrily stress cutting vegetables, the knife slamming into the chopping board with every chop.

If there was any man you trusted with a knife, it was Tucker. But he had too much pent-up energy, and you worried he’d accidentally nick his hand or something worse. You immediately walked over to him and wrapped your hand around his wrist to stop the blade from descending again.

His eyes widened, not expecting someone to be there. When he noticed it was you, his shoulders dropped immediately. You loved the effect you had on him. Really, it’s the effect you’ve had on them all at some point.

The scene you walked into isn’t unexpected; the Briar U Hawks had lost one of the most important games of the season tonight. And it was their fault. Even as a non-hockey fan, you could see how wrong their play was, they were disjointed and the more the scoreline built, the more each player desperately went for their own glory.

You, as their friend with no ulterior motives whatsoever, had come over knowing that the frustrations would be high and they’d be looking for an outlet.

“It’s fucking embarrassing,” Garrett suddenly snaps. His voice is husky, you assumed he had been shouting a lot tonight. “We looked like a bunch of selfish, desperate, rookies out there. Logan, I was wide open but you still tried to solo through their defensemen. Dean, you were completely out of position because you wanted to score. What part of defenseman do you not understand?”

If this were a cartoon, you’d be seeing steam coming out of Garrett’s ears right about now.

“We needed a goal,” Dean muttered in response, not bothering to look up from his hands.

“No. We needed to play like a fucking team.” Garrett stops pacing to glare in Logan and Dean’s direction. “If we can’t work together, then our season is dead. We might as well just give up now and save ourselves the embarrassment.”

You’d heard enough. “Ok, that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

All four pairs of eyes turn to look at you. Logan’s crossed arms relax a little and he stands up straighter.

Garrett scowled but his voice was softer than before as he addressed you. “Dramatic? We threw the game away because we have zero coordination as a team.”

“I beg to differ,” you said as you took a step into the living room. Tucker followed you, drying his hands on a dishcloth. “Dean and Tucker demonstrated excellent team work last week. I’m sure we could teach you all a thing or two.”

Tucker’s cheeks flushed as he reminisced over what had happened when the three of you went back to his room after a party. You all had a time.

You looked over at Dean. He was leaning back on the chair now, a cocky grin on his face. The look in his eye was a challenge. Were you really thinking about doing this here? In front of them?

It was no secret that you were interested in all four of the men in the room. You’d been with all of them too with the exception of Garrett. You owned your sexuality and were a proud puck bunny.

You enjoyed pushing the boundaries of what you could take, what you could handle. And the prospect of pleasuring all four of them at the same time had you biting down on your lip.

To prove you were serious, you turned to Tucker and wrapped your arms around his neck. He immediately threw the dishcloth he was holding on the floor and wrapped his arms around you.

Looking back over your shoulder at the others in the room, you noted how they watched you with bated breath. “Think of this like a training drill,” you purred. “Use me to practice your teamwork.”

When nobody left the room, you turned back to Tucker. You looked down at his lips then back up to his eyes. As you leant in closer, he surrendered to you easily.

You pressed a few soft kisses to his jaw, then the corner of his mouth, then his mouth. You licked at his lips, a silent invitation that he happily obliged, allowing you to shove your tongue into his mouth.  

Tucker kissed like a gentleman, following your rhythm and pace. He moaned into your mouth as you sucked on his tongue. He, oddly, tasted like cherries.

Before he could pull you closer, you broke away and headed straight over to Dean, climbing onto his lap. Dean didn’t hesitate; his hands slipped under the hem of your shirt and ran up and down your back. A large calloused hand pulled down the cup to your bra and he rubbed the pad of his thumb over your nipple.

Eye contact was your weapon of choice to keep men hooked, so as you ground down into Dean, you kept your eyes on Logan who was stood frozen behind him. His eyes were dark, unable to look away from the scene in front of him.

Dean bucked his hips up into you as you repeatedly ground down into him, his hands settling on your waist. Behind you, you could hear the sound of Tucker moaning and you knew he was touching himself watching you roll your hips.

“Fuckkk, you’re needy, aren’t you?” Dean cooed, even as his head lolled back.

Tucker strode forward and cleared the clutter off of the table with a sweep of his arm. “Put her here,” he called to his teammate.

Dean had your shirt pulled over your head and bra off in seconds. In the next few seconds, you were placed on the edge of the table. You whined at the loss of stimulation.

That didn’t last long though as Tucker and Dean descended on you quickly. Dean spread your legs to accommodate his shoulders as he began kissing up your thighs, hiking up your strategically-short skirt. Tucker nipped and licked at your neck.

“Ngh– so good,” you moaned.

Tingles ran through your veins as you looked over at Garrett. He was watching with the same intense focused that Logan had. It was the spotlight on you that you had been craving.

“Captain?” you called. “Want to join?”

 Garrett moved immediately, as if he was just waiting for your permission. He pulled you into a kiss as Tucker moved to swirl his tongue around your nipple.

You moaned into Garrett’s mouth as you felt Dean’s breath ghost over your clothed pussy. The combination of all the attention, the anticipation, and the feeling of being watched by Logan and Garrett had you soaked already.

“Okay, have her lie back,” Dean said as he pushed at your stomach gently.

Tucker and Garrett took their mouths off of you and helped you to lay down comfortably on the table. You hissed as Dean pulled off your panties, the cool air hitting your heat.

“Tucker, come here.” Dean called.

Just like last week, they took their positions by your slick pussy. Their ragged breaths over you had your hole clenching. Two hands slipped under your butt, lifting you slightly so Dean could get at your hole. His tongue teased your entrance, lapping up your arousal, before plunging in. Tucker focused on your clit, flicking his tongue side to side in a rapid motion.

Garrett stepped out of his shorts and came to stand at the top of the table, close to your head. He hovered next to you, unsure of of what to do with himself and what he could ask of you.

You refused to break eye contact with him, even when a lewd moan escaped your lips as Tucker sucked on your clit.

“Tell me what you want me to do, Garrett.”

“Suck, please.” His voice was strained.

You leant over until your tongue reached his tip. You paid special attention to it, licking up the precum that had gathered there.

He hissed and bucked into your mouth as you sucked on the head.

Tucker and Dean were still working in tandem between your legs. Licking, sucking, and curling fingers into you. You mumbled praises to them around Garrett’s dick.

The sensations overwhelmed you just the way you liked, and it wasn’t long before you felt the coil in your stomach tighten. Your moans urged the men in between your legs on, and your vision faded to black as the coil snapped and your orgasm waved over you.

Almost immediately, Garrett’s hips stuttered as he came into your mouth, shooting warm cum down your throat. You gently sucked him through it, his dick twitching heavily on your tongue.

When he had fully come down from his high, Garrett slid out of your mouth. “Umm… thanks?”

You watched him as he ran off upstairs to go and clean himself off.

Tucker returned to the room, you hadn’t even realised he left, carrying a box of condoms.

He looked down at you; you looked a beautiful mess with Garrett’s cum still dripping down your chin. “You wanna go for a ride, darlin’?”

You nodded eagerly.

Switching positions, you stood up so that Tucker could lie flat on the table. Once settled, he slapped his thighs, your invitation to climb onto him. You did so with an embarrassing urgency. In less than a minute, you were straddling his thighs, slowly lowering yourself down onto his condom-clad dick.

You took a minute to really feel him inside of you before you began to bounce. You alternated between fast snaps of your hips and slow grinds.

“Yeah, that’s it, darlin’,” Tucker praised from beneath you. “You take me in so well.”  

You leant forward, palms resting on his chest as you bounced on him.

A hand snaked between your legs, rubbing circles around your clit. You turned to see Dean, one hand between your legs and the other jerking himself off. His tip was so pretty and pink, you wanted that inside you.

“Don’t cum yet, Dean,” you said in between breaths. “Want you inside me next.”

“I know you do, gorgeous. Don’t worry, I’ll take real good care of you after my teammate has had his way with you.” He had a stupidly cocky grin on his face and you wanted to slap it off of him.

“Fuck– yeah, I’m gonna-.”

Tucker began fucking up into you, thrusts erratic until his entire body jerked. His eyes rolled back as he came into the condom. You grind your hips, purposely clenching around him as he came down from his high.

“Thanking you, darlin’.” Tucker was always so smooth with it, it made you feel giddy inside.

You winced as Dean lifted you off of Tucker’s softened erection. He carried you over to the sofa, placing you there are he settled in between your legs.

“This is what you’re begging for, right?” He asked as he dragged his wrapped-up erection through the slickness at your folds. He let his dick catch on your hole, pushing the tip in then pulling it out.

“Yes,” you mumbled, mind dizzy from how turned on you still were.

“Speak up,” he commanded.

“Please,” you begged. “I’m begging. Fuck me, please.”

“Hmm.” Dean ran the tip of his dick over your clit. The sound of your frustrated grunts was intoxicating to him.

Your hand came down, taking hold of his dick and guiding it into you.

“Fuck, you really are so desperate for me.” His laugh died on a moan as he bottomed out in you.

You wrapped your legs around him, trying to pull him down deeper into you.

Every thrust was deep and deliberate. Now that you were wrapped around him, he was done with the teasing. He chased the release that he had been waiting for. He hit that spot within you that had your eyes rolling back and pussy clenching down around him.  

Dean slipped a hand in between your legs, rubbing against your clit with enough pressure that it brought your body to the edge. You didn’t bother to try to muffle your moans, your voice getting louder as you got closer.

“That’s it, scream louder for me so they know just how well I fuck you.”

You came calling Dean’s name.

“I’m almost there baby, just keep squeezing around me,” Dean grunted.

Despite being still sensitive, you clamped down on this dick. His mouth hung open as he emptied his load into the condom. Just like with Tucker, you continued to grind your hips as Dean came down from his high.

“Thank you, gorgeous.” He said as he pulled out of you.

He kissed your forehead then walked over to where Logan was standing.

“She’s all yours,” Dean said, slapping Logan on the back.

Logan walked over to where you were sat waiting for him on the sofa. His voice was deep and throaty as he spoke for the first time since you got here. “I patiently waited for my turn.”

“You did,” you praised.

“So, how are you going to reward me for it?”

You slid off of the sofa and fell to your knees in front of him. Looking up through your eyelashes as you took him into your mouth.

Main Masterlist

"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."

"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"

Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."

You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.

When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.

Twice.

The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.

You’d drawn a hard line.

Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.

"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."

"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.

"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."

"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.

"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.

"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."

"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."

He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."

You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.

"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"

You frowned. "No. Why?"

"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."

The buzz from the vodka evaporated.

Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.

He’s here.

You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.

Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.

"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."

The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.

You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.

Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.

You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.

You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.

"Move," you choked out.

Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"

"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.

A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.

The night was officially over.

The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.

Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.

"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.

Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.

You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.

Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.

Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"I’m an ass," Dean said.

His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.

"Dean—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."

You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.

"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."

His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."

"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."

Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"

"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."

Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"

You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."

Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.

"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."

You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."

The air in the kitchen completely changed.

The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.

Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.

"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"

You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."

"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."

Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.

You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.

"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."

He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.

"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."

The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.

A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"

A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."

It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.

You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.

The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.

A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.

One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.

He had actually enrolled at Briar.

Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"

You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.

Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.

Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.

"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.

The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.

But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.

That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.

Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.

Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."

Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.

Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."

Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.

The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.

The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.

Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.

"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"

Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.

"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.

Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.

Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.

His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.

He was busy. Hockey, classes, captain shit, the usual revolving door of women who used to come and go before she’d started appearing in the kitchen in his sweatshirts and stealing the last banana off the counter with the lazy comfort of someone who knew exactly which drawer the forks were in.

Garrett denied all of it. Continually. Aggressively, even. Like if he said the words she’s not my girlfriend often enough, the universe would stop presenting evidence to the contrary.

Unfortunately for him, the universe was a petty bitch, and so were his friends. Dean had been killed by Tucker for the third time in under two minutes and was halfway through an appeal to basic human decency when the first noise came from upstairs.

Not a bed thump. Not laughter. Not the usual muffled, morally concerning sounds that made Tucker reach for the remote and Logan yell, “Bro, volume,” without looking away from the screen.

This was a voice, her voice. And it was furious. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, GARRETT?”

Every thumb in the living room stopped moving at once. Onscreen, Dean’s character was immediately shot in the head.

Nobody cared.

There was a half-second where the whole downstairs seemed to hold its breath around the TV static and the low hum of the fridge from the kitchen. Logan lifted his head first, slow and delighted. Tucker’s brows went up. Dean turned, beer paused halfway to his mouth, eyes brightening with the reverent attention of a man who had just heard the opening note of live theatre.

Upstairs, something moved hard enough to creak through the ceiling. A footstep. Maybe two. Then Garrett’s voice came down, rough and defensive and very much not using his captain voice. “What? Jesus Christ, I looked at my phone.”

“You were snapping a puck bunny right before you fucked me!”

Dean’s mouth fell open. Logan’s eyes went huge. Tucker closed his eyes once, like a man hearing a disaster he could have warned someone about if anyone in this house respected wisdom.

“Oh, rookie error,” Logan said solemnly, pointing one finger toward the ceiling without taking his eyes off the stairs. “That’s a rookie error.”

Dean nodded, gravely, as if Garrett had failed a sacred code. “Yeah, no. You can’t do that.”

Tucker set his controller down on his knee. “You absolutely cannot do that.”

From upstairs, Garrett snapped, “I wasn’t snapping a puck bunny.”

“Oh, fuck you, Garrett!”

“Oh, fuck me?” Garrett shot back, voice rising now, indignant in that very particular Garrett Graham way where he sounded personally offended that reality had chosen to disagree with him. “Fuck me? Are you shitting me? I go on my phone for, like, two seconds and you freak out?”

“I was straddling you, you asshole!”

Dean made a strangled sound and pressed his fist to his mouth, eyes shining. “God, she’s good.”

Logan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fully abandoning the game now. His abandoned character stood motionless on screen while someone named xXSlayerBoiXx unloaded an entire magazine into his chest. “Yeah, no, I’m with her on that. That’s insane. You don’t check messages mid-straddle.”

“It’s about respect,” Dean said, sudden and earnest, like the spirit of an Italian grandmother had entered his body. “You gotta keep that shit separate, man. Girls know when you’re mentally in the room. They can feel it.”

Tucker looked at him.

Dean looked back. “What?”

“No, I agree,” Tucker said after a beat, which somehow made it funnier. “I just didn’t expect you to be the one bringing emotional literacy into this house tonight.”

Dean lifted his beer in salute.

Upstairs, her voice came again, closer this time like she’d moved toward the door or maybe toward Garrett, which somehow made the whole thing worse and better. “You literally smiled at your phone.”

“I smile at shit!”

“You smiled like a slut!”

Logan lost it. He folded forward, laughter punching out of him so hard he had to slap one hand over his mouth. Tucker’s mouth twitched. Dean pointed up at the ceiling with the beer bottle, triumphant.

“That,” Dean said, “is a woman with language.”

Garrett barked something they couldn’t quite catch, then louder, “It was a team thing.”

“Oh my God, don’t lie to me with hockey. That’s so insulting.”

“I’m not lying with hockey!”

“You’re always lying with hockey. It’s your little emotional support sport.”

Dean wheezed. “Oh, she’s killing him.”

“She’s not wrong,” Tucker said, and picked up his controller again only to realise no one else was playing. He set it down with the soft resignation of a man accepting that the night had changed shape. “He does use hockey as a legal defence.”

Logan wiped under one eye with his thumb. “Your Honor, I couldn’t text back because we had a power play.”

“Exactly,” Dean said. “And the jury’s like, damn, compelling.”

The argument upstairs hit a sharper pitch then, the words overlapping enough that downstairs only fragments came through: Garrett saying her name in that strained, warning way; her cutting over him with something about half the campus knowing exactly what your stupid little smirk means; Garrett snapping back that she didn’t get to act like he’d done something when he hadn’t done anything; her laugh, sharp and humourless enough to slice through the floorboards.

The thing was, from downstairs, it was hilarious. It was the kind of fight you listened to with one hand over your mouth and the other hovering near your beer because you didn’t want to miss a word.

But even through the ceiling, even with Dean’s face lit up like Christmas, there was something hot and real in it. Garrett could say casual until his voice gave out. The guys had seen him check every time the front door opened on a Friday night in case it was her. They had seen him turn down girls without making a production of it and then act like he didn’t know he’d done it. They had seen him stand in the kitchen at nine in the morning holding two mugs of coffee, one black and one with the stupid oat milk she liked, and still somehow insist he was not, under any circumstances, doing relationship shit.

Upstairs, something thudded, like someone had shoved a door or dropped a shoe or Garrett had knocked into his own dresser while gesturing too aggressively for a man who claimed to be calm.

“Don’t walk away from me,” Garrett said, clearer now.

“Oh, now you care where I am?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That– that thing where you make it sound like I don’t give a shit.”

There was a pause after that. Barely a pause. Downstairs, all three of them went quieter without meaning to.

Then she said, voice still furious but lower now, scraped around the edges, “You were smiling at another girl with my thighs around your waist, Garrett.”

Logan’s face changed first. The grin softened out of it by a fraction. Tucker looked down at his beer. Dean, for all his many sins, at least had the sense to stop laughing for a second.

Garrett didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice had lost some of the heat. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“Baby–”

“Oh, do not baby me right now.”

Dean inhaled through his teeth. “Tough room.”

“Deserved,” Tucker murmured.

Garrett said something too low for them to make out, then louder when she clearly answered over him, “I’m not trying to make you look stupid!”

“You don’t have to try, you’re doing great.”

Logan made a tiny, appreciative noise. “Goddamn.”

Dean leaned back against the couch, eyes narrowed in thought now, as if evaluating odds at a racetrack. “I got ten bucks on Kitty.”

Tucker turned his head slowly. “Kitty?”

“Yeah.” Dean said it like this was obvious, like the naming of women based on their probable combat style was an established household tradition. “Kitty.”

Logan frowned. “Why Kitty?”

Dean looked offended by the lack of memory. “Because she scratches the shit out of him. You didn’t see his back last week?”

“Oh shit,” Logan said immediately, pointing at Dean. “That’s right. In the locker room. I thought he got attacked by a raccoon.”

“Exactly.” Dean spread one hand, pleased with his own case. “Kitty.”

Tucker’s brows drew together. “Nah. She’s hotter than a housecat.”

Dean tipped his head, considering. “I didn’t say housecat.”

“You said kitty. That implies housecat.”

“She’s not a housecat,” Dean said seriously.

Logan leaned back, very invested. “Cheetah?”

“No,” Tucker said. “Cheetahs are too sleek. She’s got more… attitude.”

“Mountain lion,” Dean said, snapping his fingers.

The room went quiet in collective consideration.

Logan nodded first. “Mountain lion works.”

Tucker lifted his beer. “Yeah. Respectfully.”

Dean tipped his bottle toward the ceiling. “Ten bucks on Mountain Lion.”

Upstairs, Garrett’s voice rose again, but not in the same way now. “You think I’m sitting there trying to get with somebody else while you’re literally in my room?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Garrett, because you keep telling me this is nothing.”

That hit the downstairs like somebody had turned down the TV and let the actual room in. Logan’s mouth went a little flat. Dean’s eyes flicked toward Tucker, then away. Tucker exhaled through his nose and leaned back in the chair.

Garrett said nothing. She laughed again, quieter this time, and it was worse than the yelling. “Right. Yeah. Exactly.”

A door creaked upstairs. A floorboard shifted.

Garrett’s voice came out rough. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is you acting like I’m insane for being embarrassed when you keep making sure I know I’m not allowed to be anything else.”

“Jesus. That’s not–” Garrett stopped, frustrated enough that they could almost see him dragging a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Another silence. Dean, who had somehow turned from smug spectator into anxious civilian in under thirty seconds, whispered, “Say something good, dumbass.”

Tucker shot him a look. “You whispering isn’t helping him.”

“I know, but, like, he can sense my spirit.”

Garrett finally spoke, lower. They couldn’t catch the first part. Only the end. “…don’t want you thinking I’m messing around with other girls.”

“But you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were smiling at your phone like–”

“I was smiling because Logan sent me a video of Dean eating shit in the driveway.”

Tucker stared at both of Dean and Logan, disgusted. “This house is an ecosystem of idiots.”

Upstairs, there was a beat of silence. Then her voice, much flatter now. “What?”

Garrett said, louder, with the rushed relief of a man finally locating evidence in his own defence, “It was Dean. It was the video of Dean slipping on the ice by the cars. I was laughing at that.”

Dean pointed to himself, touched. “I saved his situationship.”

Logan leaned over and slapped his shoulder. “Your pain had purpose.”

“I told you I’m important to this team.”

The floorboards creaked again. Upstairs, she said something too low for them to catch. Garrett answered, also too low, his voice doing that thing it did when he was trying not to sound soft and failing just enough for people who knew him to notice.

Then she snapped, suddenly audible again, “That still doesn’t fix the fact that you’re weird about me.”

Garrett’s answer came immediate and defensive. “I’m not weird about you.”

All three guys downstairs went still. Then, as one, they looked at each other. Dean’s face went blank with disbelief. Logan’s mouth opened. Tucker’s eyebrows lifted toward his hairline.

“He’s so weird about her,” Logan whispered.

“Incredibly,” Dean agreed.

“He once made me Venmo her for mozzarella sticks because I ate the ones she left in the fridge,” Tucker said.

Logan turned to him. “He made you Venmo her?”

“She didn’t even ask. She was asleep.”

Dean nodded solemnly. “That’s husband behaviour.”

Upstairs, she said, “You got mad at Tucker for eating my leftovers.”

Tucker lifted both hands as if personally vindicated by God.

Garrett shouted, “Because he knew they weren’t his!”

“They were in a communal fridge!”

Dean clutched his chest. “Oh my God.”

Logan dropped his head back against the couch. “He’s cooked.”

“Burnt,” Tucker said.

Upstairs, the argument blurred again into movement, voices crossing, Garrett’s frustration and her hurt colliding in the messy, intimate rhythm of two people who knew each other well enough to know exactly where to press and not enough to stop themselves from pressing there anyway. 

There was another thud, softer this time. Something fabric-heavy hitting the floor. Maybe the edge of a comforter. Maybe one of Garrett’s hoodies being launched with intent.

Then she said, sharp but trembling around it, “I’m not asking you to marry me, Garrett. I’m asking you not to make me feel stupid for liking you!”

The living room went dead silent. Even Dean didn’t joke.

For a second, there was only the muted TV, the distant rush of heat through the vents, the soft electrical buzz of the lamp beside the couch. Tucker looked away first, because there were some things a man wasn’t supposed to witness even through drywall. Logan rubbed a hand over his mouth. Dean’s face did something strange, caught between sympathy and the reflexive horror of sincerity arriving without warning.

Garrett’s voice came low enough that they had to strain for it. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

She answered, quieter too. “You act like I am.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“Yeah, well.” Her voice wavered, barely. “You’re really good at it anyway.”

There was another pause, longer this time. Then Garrett said her name, and it sounded so unlike the way he said it when he was teasing her downstairs, so stripped of performance, that even Logan stopped breathing loudly.

“I’m busy,” Garrett said, and immediately Dean made a face like he wanted to climb through the ceiling and tackle him. But then Garrett kept going, rougher, faster, like if he didn’t get it out in one rush he’d lose the nerve. “And I’m not– I don’t do this shit. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to stop hiding behind that.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Garrett.”

Silence. Then, quieter, from him: “Maybe a little.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

Logan whispered, “Progress.”

Tucker nodded once. “Huge.”

Whatever she said next didn’t reach them. It was softer, swallowed by the ceiling and the old pipes and the house settling around all of them. Garrett answered in the same register. For a minute, the boys could hear only the shape of it: his voice low and trying; hers still hurt but no longer slicing; a murmur, a footstep, another smaller sound that might have been a laugh or might have been her telling him he was an idiot in a tone that had lost most of its blade.

Dean leaned slowly toward the ceiling, listening so hard his beer tilted dangerously in his hand.

“Are they making up?” Logan whispered.

Tucker held up one finger. “Wait.”

The upstairs went very, very quiet. A bedframe creaked once. All three of them froze.

Then, clear enough to cut through the entire house, came a high, breathless little squeal that immediately dissolved into a muffled laugh and Garrett saying something low that none of them could make out but absolutely did not sound like an apology anymore.

Dean nodded once, satisfied. “Yup.”

Logan picked up his controller. “They’re fucking.”

Tucker reached for the remote and turned the TV volume up three notches with the resigned precision of a man who had lived in this house too long. “Good for them.”

Dean lifted his beer toward the ceiling. “Mountain Lion won.”

“You don’t win a fight by sleeping with Garrett after,” Tucker said.

Dean considered this. “Depends on the fight.”

Logan unpaused the game and immediately got shot. “I still think Garrett lost.”

“Oh, he definitely lost,” Tucker said.

Dean grinned, settling back against the couch as the game roared back to life and the upstairs became, blessedly, a problem the TV volume could mostly handle. “Yeah, but he’s not gonna know that until morning.”

From above them came another muffled thump, followed by Garrett’s laugh, low and pleased and stupidly gone.

Logan shook his head, respawning. “He’s so fucked.”

Tucker’s mouth curved faintly as he lifted his controller again. “Yeah.”

Dean, eyes on the screen now, smile still wide, said, “But in his defence, did you guys see her in that little skirt earlier?”

Tucker killed him instantly in the game.

Dean stared at the screen. “Wow.”

“Respect women,” Tucker said pointing at Dean, calm as anything.

Logan laughed so hard he missed his next shot, and upstairs, Garrett Graham continued very loudly pretending he didn’t have a girlfriend.

The room has gone quiet in the aftermath, the sort of quiet that arrives after a small, localised weather event has torn through and left evidence everywhere for later people to pretend not to see. 

Garrett’s comforter is half on the bed and half dragged toward the floor, one corner caught under her knee. A pillow has somehow ended up near the closet. Her shirt is inside out beside the desk chair. One of Garrett’s socks is on the nightstand, which makes absolutely no sense, but the whole room has taken on that loose, wrecked, airless quality of a place where nothing had been put down so much as flung away in the service of more urgent priorities. 

The lamp throws soft gold over the wall and across the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, and under it all the house is still making noise downstairs: gunfire from the TV, somebody laughing too loud, a dull male groan of defeat that is probably Dean dying in the game again.

She’s sprawled on her stomach across Garrett’s chest, bare skin warm against bare skin, one leg tangled in the sheet and the other hooked lazily over his thigh like she has no intention of giving his body back to him anytime soon.

Her chin rests over his sternum, and she traces nonsense patterns over his chest with the tip of one finger, slow little loops through the faint sheen still drying there, feeling the hard, steady thud of his heart under her cheek when she tilts down. 

It’s stupid, really, how quickly the fight has gone soft at the edges now that they’ve burned through it. Her throat still feels a little raw from yelling. Her body feels heavy and loose and humming in places she’s absolutely not going to name out loud. Garrett’s hand sits at the base of her spine, thumb moving every now and then like he keeps forgetting he’s doing it.

For a while neither of them says anything. Which is probably for the best, because words have been historically risky in this room tonight. Then the floorboards creak somewhere downstairs and Logan’s voice carries faintly up, followed by Dean’s laugh, bright and stupid and unmistakably delighted by his own existence.

She stills. Garrett’s hand pauses on her back.

Her eyes lift to his face. “Do you think the guys heard us?”

Garrett looks down at her for half a second, mouth already fighting the kind of grin that means he’s decided honesty will be funniest if delivered without mercy. His hair’s a mess from her hands, curls pushed in every wrong direction, face flushed in that warm, post-sex way that makes him look softer and smugger at once, which should be illegal on a man who already has enough advantages.

“Think the whole campus heard us,” he says.

She lets out an offended little laugh and drops her forehead against his chest. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously.” His voice is lazy now, rough around the edges, pleased with himself in a way that makes her want to bite him. Again. “Pretty sure the women’s soccer team knows you’re mad at me. And now... not so mad at me.”

“Oh my God.” She presses her face harder into his chest, but she’s giggling now, because the alternative is imagining Logan, Tucker, and Dean downstairs, all three of them going dead silent and absolutely listening like the worst little creeps in Massachusetts. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I literally do.”

“You’re naked on top of me.”

She grins into his chest. “That’s unrelated.”

“Feels related.”

She lifts her head just enough to glare at him, which doesn’t work at all because he’s grinning at her like she’s the funniest, most inconvenient thing that has ever happened to him.

That look gets under her skin in a way she hates. The part where his amusement goes warm and stupid around the eyes because he’s not just entertained. He’s happy she’s there. Happy she’s still touching him. Happy in the middle of a room that looks like a crime scene made of laundry and bad decisions.

His hand slides up her back, slow and broad, then comes around the side of her neck with the kind of easy confidence that makes her body go annoyingly still. His fingers resting lightly beneath her jaw, thumb brushing once along the side of her throat while he tips her face up.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and kisses her before she can say something defensive.

It’s quick, technically. Barely more than a press of his mouth to hers, warm and lazy and smug at the corner because he can probably feel the way she melts by half an inch the second his hand settles there. 

But it does something ridiculous inside her anyway. Something bright and helpless and fluttering low in her stomach. She kisses him back without meaning to make anything of it, but he smiles against her mouth, and that’s somehow worse.

When he lets her go, she blinks down at him. “You’re very annoying after sex.”

“Before too.”

“True.”

“During, though?”

She pauses, letting her eyes move over his face with theatrical consideration. “Tolerable.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lift. “Tolerable?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s crazy, considering the volume you were using ten minutes ago.”

She gasps and shoves at his chest, but he catches her wrist before she gets far, laughing low in his throat, the sound moving under her palm. “Garrett.”

“What?”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Evidence-based confidence, baby.”

She rolls her eyes, but the baby lands anyway, soft and warm and stupidly effective in the middle of all that cocky shit. Which is exactly the problem. Garrett could say something that made her want to smother him with his own pillow and then two seconds later say baby like it belonged in his mouth, like he hadn’t even had to think about it.

He gives her ass a lazy pat and exhales, long and reluctant, glancing toward the clock on the nightstand. “I gotta get up.”

Her brows draw together. “Why?”

“Because I told Coach I’d be at the rink early.”

“It’s nighttime.”

“I'm captain.” He shifts under her, and she makes a small noise of protest before she can stop herself, which makes his mouth twitch again. “Don’t start.”

She pouts. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a sound.”

“I’m allowed to make sounds.”

“Clearly.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but Garrett’s already moving, careful and slightly awkward with the sheet and her limbs and the fact that she has absolutely no interest in helping. 

He sits up, easing her off his chest and onto the mattress, and she flops onto her back with the kind of boneless indignation only a girl who has just been thoroughly ruined and then abandoned for hockey can really commit to.

The air cools instantly where his body was, and she hates that too. Hates the little absence of heat along her side. Hates, more than anything, the fact that she notices.

Garrett gets out of bed naked, completely unbothered by the fact that he looks like that in lamplight and has the audacity to walk away from her with broad shoulders and hockey-built thighs and his back scratched to hell. 

She hadn’t realised she’d done quite that much damage. There are red marks dragged down over the muscle beside his spine and along one shoulder blade, bright against his skin, some already fading, some very much not. The sight sends a hot little pulse through her, equal parts pride and embarrassment and something so pleased it probably needs to be medically reviewed. She bites her bottom lip to stop the grin. It doesn’t work.

Garrett bends to grab his boxers from the floor and pulls them on, then glances back over his shoulder because he feels her looking. “What?”

She shrugs against the pillow, still grinning. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “That face is obviously not nothing.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You look way too proud of yourself for nothing.”

“I’m just lying here.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning enough that she gets the full benefit of his expression now: amused, suspicious, a little too aware of his own effect on her and absolutely not above using it. “That’s the problem.”

She lets her gaze drag over him again on purpose this time, slow enough to be rude, from the messy curls to the bare chest to the low waistband of his boxers, then back to his face. Garrett watches her do it. 

His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, then closes again. His jaw shifts. He looks briefly toward the ceiling, as if appealing to God, Coach, or whatever patron saint governs self-control in sexually compromised hockey players.

She giggles. “What?”

Garrett exhales through his nose. “Nothing.”

“No, what?” She props herself lazily up on one elbow, sheet slipping down just enough that his eyes drop despite his clear attempt to be a disciplined athlete with somewhere to be. “What did I do?”

He gives her a look.

She widens her eyes, all fake innocence and bare shoulders and hair messy around her face in ways she knows are not helping him. “I’m not doing anything!”

“You look like that,” Garrett says, accusingly.

She glances down at herself like this is new information. “Like what?”

“Like that.” His hand moves vaguely in her direction because apparently language has left him. “All…” He stops. Swallows. Drags a hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”

The grin takes over her whole face now, slow and delighted. “Garrett Graham. Are you objectifying me?”

“I’m trying very hard not to.”

“How noble.”

“I’m a good guy.”

“You’re currently staring at my boobs.”

His eyes snap up. “I’m flawed.”

She laughs, and the sound loosens something in his face. For one second he just looks at her, standing there beside the bed in his boxers with scratches down his back and his hair wrecked by her fingers, caught between leaving and crawling right back over her. 

The room feels warmer for it. Smaller. The mess of it suddenly not messy so much as lived-in for one strange little slice of time – her clothes with his, her phone on his nightstand, his handprint still warm somewhere on her hip, the argument hanging around but no longer sharp enough to cut.

Then he sighs like she’s personally ruined his life. “I’m gonna be late.”

She frowns immediately, because the words take a second to land in the right order. “No, you’re not.” She rolls onto her side and reaches for her phone on the bedside table, fingers searching blindly until they close around it. The screen lights her face blue for a second. “You have plenty of– oh.”

The oh comes out because Garrett’s moved while she was checking the time. Fast. Smooth. Infuriatingly athletic, even in boxers, which feels unfair given the circumstances.

One second she’s looking at the screen. The next his hands are around her thighs, warm and sure, tugging her down the mattress until her hips slide to the edge of the bed and the phone slips from her hand. She drops it with a soft thump into the sheet, breath catching in a little startled laugh as he steps between her knees.

“Garrett.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

He lifts one of her ankles first, then the other, setting them over his shoulders like he has all the time in the world and not a single intention of using it responsibly. His hands settle against her thighs, thumbs pressing in just enough to make her stomach flip.

The lamplight catches on his grin when he looks down at her, all cocky mouth and dark, focused eyes and the kind of heat that makes every smart thing she might have said disappear before it reaches her tongue.

“I’m gonna be late,” he says.

For a second she just stares at him. Then her smile spreads, helpless and bright and already half-breathless. She lets her head fall back against the mattress, laughter spilling out of her as her fingers curl into the rumpled comforter. “You’re gonna be late.”

Garrett’s mouth curves, pleased, and his hands slide a little higher on her thighs.

“Yeah,” he says, like this is simply what the night has decided and who is he to argue with circumstances. “Definitely.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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