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.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  |  @lucyysthings  |  @outpostsworld  |  @s0ftdr1nks  |  @maybankslover  |  @instantplaiddream  |  @droppedyourhnd  |  @bsenpai  |  @urfavadi  |  @em1ly57  |  @parker-barnes-af  |  @violyn20  |  @bootyliciousbutterfly  |  @bloomingflower13  |  @rexit-mo  |  @tpwkmera  |  @cherryrry581  |  @stevesxwhore  |  @solapeachtea  |  @giuliaasstuff  |  @pamacs-macs  |  @loonylosworld  |  @alice07ea  |  @hitting-euphoria4  |  @tessf13  |  @canupourme14theroad  |  @jayda12  |  @kmc1989  | 

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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His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.

He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept. 

Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.

He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing. 

She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.

So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”

“Die.”

Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield. 

She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.

Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”

She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.

“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett blinked.

Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.

“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”

“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”

“And he plays hockey.”

“No shit?”

“And he’s, like, really good at it.”

Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.

He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Baby.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”

“My boyfriend calls me baby.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”

Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”

Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”

She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“I’m taking hydration’s side.”

Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”

She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not. 

Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.

Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”

The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”

“Right. Yep. Forgot.”

“My boyfriend says that.”

“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.

Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.

Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”

Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”

Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”

“She’s drunk.”

“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”

Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”

“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”

Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”

“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”

Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face. 

She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.

His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.

For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument. 

He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.

She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice. 

She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party. 

She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.

Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.

The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears. 

Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.

“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”

She froze.

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”

She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.

“Nope,” she said.

“Baby.”

Her head snapped around. “I said no.”

Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”

“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”

“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”

“Not on this team.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”

Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”

Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”

From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.

She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”

“He’s very hot.”

“Is he?”

“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”

Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”

Logan choked.

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”

“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”

“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”

“No thank you.”

“You’re gonna freeze.”

“I’ll wait for Garrett.”

“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”

She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”

Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”

He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.

“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.

Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”

“She thinks I’m a stranger.”

“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”

“Great. That makes it better.”

Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”

Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”

“She refused me.”

“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”

Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”

Dean grinned. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”

“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”

Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.

By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal. 

Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.

Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”

She frowned up at Dean. “What?”

“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”

She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”

Garrett blinked.

Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.

She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”

Garrett slowly looked at Dean.

“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”

“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.

“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”

Garrett’s eyebrows went up.

Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.

“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.

“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.

“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”

Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”

He froze. “Hi?”

“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”

She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”

Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.

Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”

She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”

His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”

Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”

She shook her head, very firm. “No.”

“No?”

“No. There was just this guy.”

Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”

She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”

Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”

Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Oh, I should?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”

“He kept calling me baby.”

“That’s crazy.”

“And he tried to give me his jacket.”

“What a dick.”

She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”

Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt. 

He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.

She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“Mhm?”

“You wanna get outta here?”

Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”

“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”

“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”

“Yeah, we can go home.”

“And maybe get McDonald’s?”

Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”

She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”

“Confident.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”

She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his. 

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.

“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”

She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”

“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”

She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.

“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.

Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”

She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”

He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely. 

Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.

“You smell good,” she told him.

“Thanks.”

“Like Garrett.”

“Crazy coincidence.”

She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.

The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.

“She found you,” he said.

Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”

She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”

Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”

She nodded. “Way.”

Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”

Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”

She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”

“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.

Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car. 

The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.

“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.

“Yeah?”

“That guy was so annoying.”

Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”

“He was talking to me all night.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“He was kind of hot, though.”

Garrett stopped walking.

She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”

He stared at her. “Hot?”

She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And he had your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”

Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”

“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”

His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”

“And you already won.”

“I did.”

“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”

Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”

Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”

“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”

“Thanks, baby.”

She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”

At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”

“I always watch my head.”

“You don’t.”

“I have one.”

“Having one and watching it are different.”

She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her. 

She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I found you.”

His hand paused on the belt for half a second.

She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”

Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”

“There was this guy–”

“I heard.”

“–and he kept trying to give me water.”

“So rude.”

“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”

Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”

“And fries.”

“Obviously.”

“And a Sprite.”

“You need water.”

She made a face. “The guy said that too.”

Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”

She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”

“My bad.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“I am.”

“And I love you.”

The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.

He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”

She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door. 

He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big. 

When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.

Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.

For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”

Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”

“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”

His grin widened.

“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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He kisses like an athlete too, which is deeply annoying information to have about him because it makes too much sense. Confident, paced, unfairly good at changing pressure right when she starts thinking she’s adjusted to him. 

One hand is braced beside her head, the other curled around her thigh, thumb pressing absent little circles into skin like he doesn't know it’s making her thoughts get weird and slippery around the edges. He’s still wearing his t-shirt, which feels rude considering she’s in a bra and skirt and whatever dignity survived the trip up the stairs is now lying somewhere dead near his laundry basket. 

His chain has slipped out from under his collar while he kisses her, warm gold catching against the side of her throat every time he grinds down into her and makes her breath come out embarrassingly thin.

“Garrett,” she gets out, though it doesn't have much purpose beyond giving her mouth something to do when his is suddenly leaving it.

He hums like he’s heard her and decided to take it under advisement at a later date. His mouth drifts to her jaw, then lower, slow and pleased and entirely too smug about the way her body moves before she can stop it. 

He kisses down her throat, over the spot where her pulse is doing something humiliating, then lower still, along the top edge of her bra, and she should probably let him. She should probably enjoy the fact that Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, walking campus hazard, has decided her chest deserves sustained attention. 

But the second his mouth leaves hers properly, some spoiled little part of her lights up in objection.

“No,” she whines, which is not her proudest moment, and is made worse by the fact that Garrett pauses against her skin like he’s trying not to laugh. She reaches down and gets her fingers in his hair, gentle but insistent, tugging him back up until his face appears over hers again, curls mussed, mouth shiny, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that makes her want to either kiss him harder or shove him off the bed. “Come back.”

His grin spreads slowly. “Bossy.”

“You stopped kissing me.”

“I was kissing you somewhere else.”

She pouts. “Wrong somewhere.”

He gives one of those little laughs that starts in his chest before it reaches his mouth, warm and low and stupidly pleased, and then he comes back happily, because that’s the worst part of Garrett. 

He has all this cocky-boy resistance in theory, all this mouth and attitude and captain-of-every-room energy, and then she asks for him directly and his body gives him away before his ego can file an appeal. He kisses her again, deep enough that the complaint evaporates under her tongue, and for a few seconds she forgets about the chain entirely.

Then he pulls back to sit up on his knees, one thigh planted on either side of her hips, and reaches behind his neck for his shirt.

“Oh,” she says before she can stop herself.

Garrett pauses with the hem already half up his stomach, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

His teeth catch at his bottom lip. “I was about to ask if you needed a minute to process.”

She narrows her eyes at him, which would probably have more force if she were not lying under him with her skirt bunched around her waist and her hands already drifting up his exposed stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you’re still looking.”

And she is. Tragically. Openly. With no legal defence. The shirt comes off the rest of the way and lands somewhere near the chair, and Garrett is there above her in the soft lamplight, shoulders broad from hockey, stomach tight under her palms, chain resting against his chest like it’s been placed there for the express purpose of ruining her life. 

It's not even that fancy. That’s the insulting part. Just a gold chain. Simple. Warm from his skin. Sitting right at the base of his throat.

Her hands slide up his stomach, over the hard shift of muscle when he breathes, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth without meaning to.

Garrett’s grin softens into something more dangerous because he knows. Because Garrett is many things, but oblivious is not one of them, especially not when a girl is looking at his chest like she’s discovered a new academic field.

“Baby,” he says, amused.

She doesn't answer. She hooks two fingers under the chain and pulls. Garrett comes down with it, one hand shooting to the mattress beside her head, the other catching her waist as he laughs into the space above her mouth. “Jesus. Okay.”

She smiles, breath already uneven again. “Come here.”

“I was here.”

“Closer.”

His mouth hovers over hers, his chain trapped between her fingers, the metal a little warm, a little slick where it’s been resting against his skin. “You always this demanding?”

She tugs again, smaller this time, mostly because she likes the way his eyes drop to her mouth when she does it. “Only when you’re slow.”

Garrett stares at her for one beat, and then the smile goes all bright and helpless at the edges, like she’s pleased him against his will. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, bending until the chain brushes her collarbone and his mouth is almost on hers again. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

The second time is quieter, though quiet in the hockey house is a relative concept and mostly means no one is actively breaking furniture within their line of sight. They're downstairs on the couch after dinner, the living room dim except for the television throwing blue-white light over everyone’s faces and the standing lamp Tucker keeps insisting gives the room ambience, which Dean keeps calling divorced dad lighting. 

A movie’s on, something Logan picked with the confidence of a man who would be asleep within twenty minutes, and sure enough he’s already slumped in the armchair with his head tipped back and one socked foot on the coffee table, snoring faintly through the loudest action sequence anyone has ever failed to respect.

Garrett’s stretched out behind her on the couch, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other lying heavy over her waist. She’s settled half on top of him, half against him, legs tangled beneath the old throw blanket that smells faintly like fabric softener and Garrett’s laundry detergent and whatever popcorn crime Dean committed earlier. 

The whole room has that late-night, lived-in warmth to it. Empty bowls on the coffee table, Tucker leaning on the other end of the couch with his phone in one hand and his attention somehow still half on the movie, Dean sprawled on the floor with his back against Allie’s legs while she runs her fingers lazily through his hair like she’s rewarding a large, badly behaved dog.

Garrett’s chain has worked its way out again. She doesn't mean to start fiddling with it. Her hand is just there, resting against his chest, and the chain is right under her fingertips, cool at first and then quickly warming up. 

Her thumb catches the tiny curve of one link. Then another. Then she’s sliding it back and forth lightly against his skin, not really thinking, only listening to the movie and the steady sound of his breathing under her cheek and the occasional thud of Dean kicking the coffee table because he refuses to understand where his legs end.

Garrett lets it happen for a while. Long enough that she forgets she’s doing it. Long enough for the metal to move in a tiny, repetitive drag under her fingers, a private little rhythm tucked beneath explosions and the muffled rain starting against the windows. 

His chest rises under her palm. His hand at her waist flexes once, absent, and she shifts closer without lifting her head. Then his fingers close around her wrist. Warm and sure, stopping the motion.

She glances up. “What?”

Garrett looks down at her with the deeply patient expression of a man being tortured in a way he’s not allowed to enjoy too obviously. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.”

“Doing what?”

His eyes flick to the chain. Then back to her. “That.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her hand, caught in his like evidence. “Was I annoying you?”

“No.”

“You stopped me.”

“Because,” he says, lowering his voice as Dean makes a disgusted noise at the movie and Allie tells him to stop talking before she smothers him with a cushion, “you keep touching my neck, and I’m trying to be a decent citizen in a communal living space.”

Her mouth twitches. “Your neck?”

“My chain is on my neck.”

She bites back a smile. “That’s very scientific of you.”

“I go to college.”

“For hockey.”

He sucks at his teeth, a grin spreading across his face. “For hockey and the pursuit of knowledge.”

She laughs into his chest, and he immediately looks pleased with himself in that quiet Garrett way, like making her laugh while half the room is asleep counts as a personal win. 

His hand slides from her wrist to her fingers, lifting them to his mouth. He kisses her knuckles once, soft and warm, then again, slower, like he can get away with it because nobody’s looking directly at them. The contact sends a stupid little wave through her, low and gentle, a sudden looseness in her ribs and the sense that her body has settled another inch into his.

“Stop playing with it,” he murmurs against her hand.

“I didn’t know it was an activity with rules.”

“It is now.”

“Sounds controlling.”

“Sounds like you’re too hot for your own good and I’m a responsible man.”

She lifts her head just enough to look at him properly. “You’re so full of shit.”

Garrett smiles like that’s his favourite thing she’s said all day. “A little, yeah.”

Then he threads his fingers through hers and brings their joined hands down to rest against his stomach, trapping her there with him. Garrett’s hand stays wrapped around hers. Firm. Warm. His thumb moves once over the side of her finger, slow enough that it feels accidental and deliberate at the same time.

The third time, she should know something’s wrong with the whole arrangement because Garrett offers it too easily. It's the morning of her exam, a big one, the kind that has lived in the back of her head for three weeks like an unpaid bill and ruined several perfectly good evenings by existing near them. 

She’s already eaten half a banana, stared at her notes until the words lost meaning, changed shirts twice, and accused Garrett of breathing too loudly while he sat on her bed watching her spiral with the sort of affectionate calm that made her want to throw a highlighter at him.

“You studied,” he says, for maybe the fourth time, lying on his side with one elbow propped under him and his curls still damp from the shower. “Like, a disgusting amount. I know because you made me quiz you last night and I learned things against my will.”

She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her top down and then immediately undoing the smoothing because now it looks too deliberate. “That doesn’t mean I know it.”

“That’s actually exactly what studying means.”

“No, studying means I knew it at midnight in your bed while you were half asleep and kept pronouncing things wrong on purpose.”

“I was keeping morale up.”

She turns to glare at him, and he grins at her from the bed, annoyingly gorgeous and unhelpfully relaxed, his chain sitting against his bare collarbone because he hasn’t put a shirt on yet. Which is also rude. Honestly, the whole morning has been a campaign of emotional terrorism.

“I’m serious,” she says, and the words come out thinner than she wants.

His face changes then. The grin doesn't disappear entirely, because Garrett without some amount of grin would be genuinely concerning, but it settles. He sits up properly, feet hitting the floor, and reaches for her when she comes close enough. His hands land at her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs pressing once like he’s reminding her she has a body and it's standing here, not drowning somewhere in the imagined future of a badly answered essay question.

“I know you are,” he says. “I also know you’re gonna kill it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What, kill it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. You’re gonna… respectfully and academically dominate.”

“Garrett.”

He laughs under his breath and tugs her closer until she’s standing between his knees. Then, with the sudden seriousness of someone remembering an ancient ritual and not a bit he came up with seven seconds ago, he reaches behind his neck and unclasps the chain.

She looks down at it. “What are you doing?”

“Good luck.”

Her eyes lift to his. “What?”

He holds it up between them, gold catching the morning light from her window. “It’s lucky.”

She stares at him. “Your chain is lucky?”

“Extremely.”

“You’ve never said that.”

He looks almost offended. “I don’t tell everyone my deeply personal athletic superstitions.”

“You told Dean you had to wear the same socks for playoffs.”

“That was different. He touched them.”

“That feels like a public health issue more than a superstition.”

Garrett ignores this, and gestures for her to turn around. She does, suspicious but too nervous to fight him properly. He stands behind her, and for a second the mirror catches both of them: her in exam clothes and stress, him shirtless and too calm, chain hanging from his fingers. 

He lifts it around her neck, his knuckles grazing the sides of her throat as he brings the clasp together. The metal lands cool against her skin, heavier than she expects, and something in her chest gives one stupid little pull.

“There,” he says, hands settling briefly on her shoulders. “Guaranteed.”

She touches the chain with two fingers. “Guaranteed?”

“Yeah.”

“If I fail, I’m blaming your jewellery.”

“If you fail, I’ll fake my death and start over somewhere chainless.”

She laughs then, finally, and it comes out shaky but real. Garrett’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, his mouth tipped in a way that’s half smug and half proud of having pulled the sound out of her. 

He bends and kisses the side of her head, quick, easy, like he doesn't know the chain suddenly feels like some ridiculous little anchor against her collarbone.

“Go,” he says. “Ace it. Then come back and be unbearable about it.”

She does ace it.

She walks out of the exam hall two hours later with the weird, floating, slightly manic clarity of someone who knows the questions landed exactly where she needed them to, who wrote until her hand cramped, who remembered the thing from the bottom of page seven that she had absolutely expected to die with no audience. 

She calls Garrett from the sidewalk and says, “I think I nailed it,” and he shouts so loudly through the phone that a girl walking past looks over in alarm.

“Tell the chain I said thank you,” she says later that night, when she’s in his room again, sitting cross-legged on his bed with takeout containers open between them and his hoodie swallowed over her exam clothes because the adrenaline crash has finally arrived and brought a mild existential fog with it.

Garrett looks up from stealing one of her fries. “What?”

“The chain.” She taps it where it still sits at her throat. “Your ancient family luck charm.”

There's a pause. It's tiny. Almost nothing. But Garrett Graham has many gifts, and hiding guilt from his girlfriend while his mouth is full of stolen fries is not one of them.

Her eyes narrow. “Garrett.”

He chews slowly.

“Garrett Graham.”

He swallows. “Okay, before you get mad–”

“Oh my God.” She sits up straighter. “It’s not lucky?”

“It’s, uh, lucky adjacent.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve worn it to some good games.”

“You told me it was extremely lucky.”

“I was trying to get you out of your head.”

“You lied!”

“I motivated.” He points at her with a fry. “And you crushed your exam, so actually, where’s my thank you?”

She stares at him for one second. Then another. The chain’s warm now from her skin, and the fact that he made it up should be annoying. It is annoying. 

It's also so Garrett that something in her gives up and goes soft around the edges despite herself, because he saw her standing in front of the mirror two seconds from vibrating through the floorboards and decided the solution was to hand her something of his and make it sound official enough for her nervous system to believe him.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says.

His grin comes back immediately, bright with relief and bad ideas. “But effective.”

“You’re never getting this back.”

“Baby, I look really good in that chain.”

“I look better.”

He studies her for a second, eyes dropping to where the gold sits against the oversized neckline of his hoodie, and his mouth does something slower. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher. “You do.”

Her fingers move to the chain. His eyes track the motion. The takeout goes forgotten between them, steam thinning in the cartons, the lamp laying warm light over his bed and the stupid little lucky-not-lucky object at her throat.

She crawls toward him, slow enough to make his brows lift.

“What?” he asks, though his hands are already moving to her waist when she pushes the cartons aside with the care of someone who doesn't want to get sauce on his sheets but absolutely does want to ruin his evening in other ways.

“You want a thank you?”

Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes. He tilts his head, trying for casual and missing by a heroic distance. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no to gratitude.”

“Good,” she says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft enough that he follows when she pulls away.

His hands tighten on her hips. “Good?”

“Mhm.”

Then she slides off the bed onto her knees between his legs, and Garrett goes very, very still. For once in his life, he doesn't have a comeback ready.

She looks up at him, the chain hanging forward from her neck, gold swinging slightly in the space between them, and his eyes drop to it like he’s experiencing several personal revelations at once.

“Still think it’s lucky?” she asks.

Garrett exhales through his nose, a smile breaking helplessly at one corner of his mouth as his hand comes up to brush her hair back, careful and warm and already a little wrecked. 

“Baby,” he says, voice low with absolute reverence and zero shame, “I’m about to start fucking worshipping it.”

The fourth time is after a home game, which means the hockey house is operating at a volume level that could probably be reported to local authorities if local authorities hadn't long ago made peace with the fact that Briar hockey players were simply going to make too much noise. 

The living room is packed in that loose, post-win sprawl of bodies and beer and boys shouting over one another from distances that don’t require shouting at all. Someone has put the game highlights on the television and every single person in the room is pretending they're not watching themselves while absolutely watching themselves. 

Logan is arguing with a guy from the second line about whether his assist should have been cleaner, Tucker is sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer in hand and the calm expression of a man who played very well and doesn't need to scream about it, and Dean is stretched in the middle of the room like a Renaissance painting sponsored by bad decisions, loudly explaining to Allie that his defensive effort has layers.

Garrett’s on the couch below her, sitting with his legs spread, one arm hooked along the back cushions, hair still damp from the post-game shower and curling messily. He looks good in the obnoxious, lived-in way he always does after a win. Tired under the eyes, mouth lazy with satisfaction, hoodie pushed up at the forearms, chain glinting at his throat every time he turns his head to answer someone. 

There's a faint bruise starting near one cheekbone and stiffness in the way he holds his shoulders that he’s pretending doesn't exist because men who willingly block shots with their bodies have a complicated relationship with the concept of pain.

She’s standing behind the couch with her arms looped around his shoulders, her cheek resting against the side of his head, close enough that when he laughs she feels it before she hears it. The room smells like beer and aftershave and pizza grease and wet pavement dragged in from outside. 

Her chin is tucked near his temple, and his hand comes up every so often to touch her wrist where it crosses his chest, as if checking she’s still there even though she’s been draped over him for fifteen minutes like an affectionate scarf.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs near his ear.

Garrett tilts his head slightly toward her. “I got checked into the boards by a guy built like a refrigerator.”

“I saw.”

“You also yelled ‘get up’ at me.”

“You did get up.”

He huffs. “Supportive.”

“I’m very motivational.”

He smiles, eyes still on Logan across the room. “Yeah, Coach, you’re a real asset.”

She presses her thumb into the muscle at the top of his shoulder before he can get too smug, and his mouth shuts in the middle of whatever he was about to say. There’s a small drop in his posture, a breath leaving through his nose, his head tipping forward half an inch because the pressure hits somewhere useful.

“Oh,” she says softly, pleased. “There he is.”

“Don’t sound so happy about my suffering.”

“I’m happy about being right.”

He hums quietly. “You usually are.”

She starts working at his shoulders properly, thumbs pressing slow circles into the hard knots there, fingers sliding under the edge of his hoodie collar. Garrett tries to keep participating in the conversation around him, because Garrett Graham could be dying and still find time to chirp a teammate, but she feels him lose focus by degrees. 

His answers get shorter. His hand drops from his beer to rest loosely on his thigh. When she presses into the muscle beside his neck, he makes a low sound under his breath that is almost nothing and somehow still deeply satisfying.

Dean notices, of course. Dean would notice a private moment through drywall.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he says from the floor, voice carrying with surgical precision. “Captain’s getting a little spa treatment.”

Garrett doesn't open his eyes. “You jealous, Di Laurentis?”

“Of a shoulder rub? No. Of your girlfriend looking at you like you just returned from war? Little bit.”

Allie leans around him. “He did get slammed pretty hard.”

Dean points at her. “See? This is why I date women. Compassion.”

Tucker takes a sip of beer. “You date Allie because she tolerates you.”

“That too.”

She ignores them, and keeps working her thumbs into Garrett’s shoulders. The only problem is the chain. It keeps getting in the way, slipping under her fingers every time she moves toward the base of his neck, catching lightly against her knuckle, dragging sideways over his skin. She shifts it once. Twice. The third time, Garrett reaches up without looking, catches her wrist, and then lifts his other hand to the clasp.

“Here,” he says.

She pauses. “What?”

He takes the chain off in one smooth motion, turning his head enough to glance up at her with that soft, amused look that always feels worse when other people are around because it's not performative. It's just his face, open for one second before he remembers to make a joke. “Here, baby. Wear it before you strangle me with it.”

The room hears baby. Naturally. The room reacts with the dignity of wolves spotting an injured deer. Logan’s head snaps over. “Oh, wow.”

Dean sits up so fast Allie has to move her knees. “Did he just give her the chain?”

Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Big night.”

Garrett points vaguely at all of them without turning around. “Everybody shut up.”

No one shuts up. That would go against the entire founding philosophy of the house.

She bends down anyway, smiling despite herself, hair falling forward over one shoulder. Garrett lifts the chain around her neck from where he sits, reaching back and up, his fingers careful as they brush the sides of her throat. It's an awkward angle, and he fumbles once with the clasp.

Dean gasps. “He’s putting jewellery on her. In public. Garrett Graham has fallen.”

“I will throw this beer at you,” Garrett says.

“No, you won’t. Your girl’s wearing your chain and touching your shoulders. You’re domesticated now.”

Logan lifts his cup. “RIP to a slut.”

Garrett finally opens his eyes and looks over. “I’m still alive, asshole.”

“Physically,” Logan says. “Spiritually, you’re picking baby names.”

She laughs into Garrett’s hair before she can stop herself, and his hands settle briefly at her collarbone once the clasp is done, thumbs brushing over the chain where it sits against her skin. 

The touch is quick. Almost hidden. But his eyes stay there for a second too long, and the whole loud room blurs slightly at the edges in that private way it sometimes does around him, even when Dean is three feet away preparing to be the worst person alive.

The chain is warm from Garrett’s skin when it lands against her throat. Something about that should not matter as much as it does.

Garrett’s head tips back until he can look up at her. “Good?”

She nods, fingers touching the chain. “Good.”

“Can I have my massage now, or are we hosting a ceremony?”

“Ceremony,” Dean says immediately. “I have a speech.”

“No one wants that,” Tucker says.

“I do,” Logan contributes, raising a hand.

Garrett groans and drops his head forward again, but she can see the grin at the corner of his mouth, tucked away where the boys cannot fully get to it.

She goes back to his shoulders, the chain now resting against her instead of him, rising and falling gently with her breathing as she works the tension out from under his hoodie.

The boys keep going, because of course they do.

“Whipped,” Dean says.

“Tragically,” Logan adds.

“Clinically,” Tucker says, which makes Allie laugh so hard she almost spills her drink.

Garrett lifts one hand just enough to flip them off without opening his eyes. “Keep talking. I’m cutting all of you from the power play.”

“You can’t cut me from the power play,” Dean says. “I am the power play.”

She leans closer, thumbs pressing into Garrett’s neck, and murmurs, “They’re not wrong, you know.”

His eyes open slightly. “Careful.”

“What?” she says, voice innocent near his ear. “You gave me your chain in front of everyone.”

“You were choking me with it.”

“I was massaging your shoulders.”

“Poorly.”

She pinches him lightly.

He laughs, catching her wrist and bringing her hand down just long enough to kiss the inside of it, quick and warm and entirely too natural for a room full of men actively trying to ruin his reputation. Then he lets her go and sinks back against the couch, shoulders finally loosening under her hands.

Across the room, Logan makes a wounded noise. “Oh my God. He kissed her hand. We lost him.”

Dean presses his beer to his heart. “He was so young.”

Tucker, dry as dust, says, “He died doing what he loved. Pretending he wasn’t in love.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks once, but the smile wins. She feels it more than sees it, the small shift under her cheek when she bends down again and rests against him for a second, her arms around his shoulders, his chain warm at her throat, the whole loud, stupid house moving around them.

“Love is a strong word,” Garrett says, which is exactly the sort of thing Garrett says when everyone is looking and the truth has wandered too close to the middle of the room.

She smiles against his cheek. “Mm.”

His hand comes up and covers her forearm, fingers curling there, thumb sweeping once over her skin in a slow little pass that says more than his mouth is willing to risk with Dean waiting to pounce.

Around them, the boys keep chirping, the television keeps replaying Garrett’s goal from the second period, someone in the kitchen shouts about beer pong, and the chain rests against her collarbone like a tiny, ridiculous victory.

Garrett turns his head just enough that his mouth brushes near her temple, hidden from most of the room by the angle of her body.

“You look good in it,” he says quietly.

Her hands pause on his shoulders for half a second.

Then Dean yells, “I can see you whispering sweet nothings, Graham,” and Garrett closes his eyes like he’s begging a very unhelpful God for patience, and she laughs so hard into his hair that the chain jumps lightly at her throat.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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"So good," you whimper, hips bucking. His nose brushes your clit as his tongue slips in and out of you.

He kisses your clit first and then sucks hard. You wrap your fingers in his hair, needing him closer. One hand slides away, and you moan as he sinks his long fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while he keeps sucking your clit.

The moan punches out of you before you can stop it, your thighs tightening around his head. "I'm close," you whimper, and he moans in response, curling his fingers deeper.

Garrett sucks down with more pressure as your walls flutter around his fingers, your thighs shaking hard. You soak his hand and the sheet beneath you, your back arching as he stays locked in, bottoming you out with his hand.

"Atta baby," he breathes, not looking away from you once. You cry out, twisting beneath him, but he only holds you there, tongue and fingers working you through it until every extra swipe pulls another helpless twitch out of you, breath breaking. “Fuck… that’s it.”

“Oh my god,” you moan.

"Damn, baby… look at you, huh?” He murmurs, brushing your clit with soft kisses.

"Garrett..." You whisper, blinking down at him. He looks up with a crooked smile, mouth still wet.

“Still with me, pretty?” He teases, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh that makes you shiver.

You let out a frazzled laugh, hands rubbing across your eyes, your muscles still trembling. “How was practice?” The words barely make their way past your quivering lips.

He chuckles at that, his laugh vibrating against your thigh. “Fine—how was your nap, baby?”

“Amazing.” You smile at him, tugging at his dark hair, pulling closer. He crawls up to your lips, kissing you with a lazy grin.

“You taste damn good, baby.”

“Yeah?” You giggle bashfully.

“Knew you would. You always do.”

“Missed you,” you whisper, tasting yourself on his soft lips when he kisses you.

"Missed you more, baby,” he mumbles. “Got all jealous when you said you were napping without me.”

“M’sorry,” you breathe sleepily between kisses, his smile brushing along your lips.

“Apologizing to me like you didn’t make my whole afternoon with that text telling me exactly what you wanted from me—”

“Yeah?” You hum, fingers brushing through his curls, still a little damp like he ran here from the rink, his weight pressing heavy into yours.

“My favorite way to wake up my girl.”

“So good to me,” you whisper.

“Love taking care of you,” he mumbles, moving off of you underneath the covers, rolling to his side, gripping your hips in his big hands. “M’a little tired, baby.” You giggle softly, arching back into him.

He tucks his face into your neck as he drags his cock through your slick, easing inside inch by inch.

You look over your shoulder, his lips matching yours, swallowing your moan as he sinks in deep. You gasp his name while yours falls from his lips.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, his grip tightening on your body, holding you tucked against him. He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Goodnight, baby.”

"Well?" He started when you didn't continue your thought. "What does my beautiful girl want to ask me?" 

You whined and hid your face in his chest again. That was not helping, your heart racing more at that moment than when he was on top of you, your previous bravery vanished.

Seeing you trying to escape, he sat up against the headboard and brought you to sit on his lap, pulling one of his pyjama shirts over your head when he saw how vulnerable being naked and exposed made you feel. 

"Hey," He whispered, all teasing gone. "Whatever it is, just tell me. I'm here."

You wished you'd kept quiet but you knew your husband, knew that he would get it out of you eventually, better in your own words clearly than make him search for clues to piece it together. 

You took a deep breath to fight off the nausea. "Remember what you suggested for my birthday? When you said, erm, that we should, we could.... That if I wanted we could invite someone else into our bed."

Your words tumbled into each other once you got started, sitting up more and finding a point on the wall above Bucky's head to speak to as you continued.

"For, for you know, sex. Obviously. You remember that? Because I wasn't sure if I wanted to at first. I can barely deal with you, how would I manage two people? But then I was thinking, that if like you said, we, or they, could just watch or something at first, then-" 

Bucky kissed you to stop your rambling, pressing his lips to yours then scattering pecks across your cheeks and forehead before holding your face and searching your eyes.

"You've really thought about it, huh?"

You nodded, smiling at the glint in Bucky's own eyes. 

"Someone we know?"

"Yes."

"Closely?" 

"Uh huh."

"Not Sam surely?" 

"Oh, no," You squeaked, laughing a little self consciously. "I don't think I'd survive between two super soldiers." 

"Sam's not a-" 

"You know what I mean."

Bucky rolled his eyes but went back to guessing. "Okay if not Sam, then who? You know I don't know many people." He looked panicked suddenly, holding you tight as he almost begged. "Not John, right? I am not letting him-" 

"I said no super soldier, didn't I?" You interrupted.

"No one like that, not someone you don't really like."

He relaxed under you again, readjusting the hem of his shirt on you to keep his hands busy. 

"You tell me sweetheart, it's your choice after all."

You hadn't planned this far in the conversation and it took several seconds for you to compose yourself, your answer surprisingly steady considering. 

"Joaquín."

It was very quiet after you spoke, your heart beat sounding like a drum in your ears as you tried to judge Bucky's reaction. 

"Joaquín." He replied eventually, voice flat. "Joaquín Torres? Your best friend Joaquín Torres who you told me I didn't need to worry about? That one?" 

You didn't move, letting Bucky process. He knew you would never betray him. You knew he trusted you. A silent but persuasive conversation communicated purely through eye contact had his shoulders relaxing and his hands finding yours, squeezing reassuringly. 

"You sure?" You nodded slowly until Bucky joined in, the rollercoaster of emotions settling into a simmering excitement between the two of you. "Okay, birthday girl, it's your call. Joaquín better know how lucky he is if he wants to share."

***

"You should be thankful, my girl got all dressed up for you. I bought her this pretty little slip weeks ago but she wore it first for you. Special treatment for our special guest, huh?" 

You open your mouth to protest but decide against it. It was true, you don't usually make such an effort with your lingerie but you also don't usually invite someone else into your bed, so you thought you'd try to look your best. 

The process of getting here was much simpler than you imagined it would be. Bucky had done all the talking while you sat, sweating, not able to meet Joaquín's gaze until he moved directly in front of you. When he was reassured you wanted this for yourself and not to please your husband alone, he agreed so fast your heart skipped. You barely managed to deal with Bucky's attention, and now you had got yourself in a situation where two of the most attractive people you'd ever known were going to share you. How were you going to survive? 

You're surviving okay so far, sat on top of Joaquín's lap in your new lingerie, the silk and lace floating around your waist and brushing his thighs as he carefully places the birthday tiara into your hair. Despite Bucky's constant compliments, you're still very insecure in your looks, but right now, in matching underwear with a complimentary frilly slip, and your hair still done from your party earlier in the evening, you allow yourself to believe you look good.

Maybe it has something to do with the way Joaquín is looking at you as he finishes fixing your crown. 

Needing to take some of the attention off you, you ask, "Where's your party outfit gone? You look like you're going to the gym."

"Yeah Torres, why aren't you dressed up all pretty like my girl." 

Joaquín lets out a loud laugh. "I'll be honest, I didn't think I'd be dressed at all for very long." His hands find your waist, squeezing slightly as he meets your eye before adding, 'It's a clean set though, showered and everything for you.'

He smells like pure soap and coconut lotion, homely, inviting. It's a small gesture of respect but it still makes your heart fill, knowing he cared enough to freshen up after the party. Your own preparations had included a pep talk from Bucky as he helped you into your outfit, along with the constant reminder that you hold all the cards and tonight is all about you. 

Now you're here you're not sure where to start.

"You're only the second guy she's been with, be gentle."

You're not sure if Bucky's remark is helping or not, cheeks hot as Joaquín's eyes widen. "I forgot you were a virgin before you came here." 

Bucky snorts. "And I forgot you two tell each other everything."

His remark goes ignored as Joaquín curses lowly, still stuck on the previous thought. "Imagine losing your virginity to the winter soldier. I'd last about 2 minutes." 

"You wanna test that theory?" Bucky questions. The mood in the room changes, tension thick as your husband's attention moves to your best friend. You and Joaquín both look across at Bucky in shock, not expecting that response. "What? You think this is all for your benefit doll? If you think he's pretty why wouldn't I? Maybe next time I can have a turn too." 

The thought of that has you squirming onto Joaquín's lap, arousal flooding through you. It doesn't go unnoticed. 'I think you'd like that, to see me fuck him?' 

You swallow and nod, knowing better than to try and lie. Joaquín also looks like he's struggling with the thought, a slightly dazed look in his eyes as Bucky's attention lands on him. "Or maybe, you could be the one doing the fucking."

That final thought leaves you both a mess of hormones, clinging to each other as you process his words. You recover quicker, more used to Bucky's antics, refocusing on Joaquín and his flushed face. You laugh quietly. However you thought this night would go, having your husband proposition Joaquín in such a way did not cross your mind. 

It has worked to relax you, whether Bucky did it on purpose or not, and, sensing your impatience, he pushes you to make a start. 

"Kiss each other, then."

It's awkward at first, just pressing your mouths together, and you're pretty sure Joaquín's still got his eyes open. His hands, resting at first over your waist, slide gently underneath your slip and the warmth from his skin ignites something inside you. Suddenly you can't get close enough.

He squeaks in surprise as your teeth clash but you're not put off, your hands twisting into his hair to keep him close. A third hand finds the back of your neck, the cool metal a welcome relief to how hot you're running now, the quiet noises Joaquín is letting out going straight to your core. When you shift slightly and brush against his obvious arousal, your gasp doesn't go unnoticed by your husband. 

The slight tug on your hair has a clear meaning and reluctantly you pull away. 

"What?"

Both men laugh at your snappy tone. 

"Careful sweetheart, or I'll stop this right now."

"Wait, I'm sorry I didn't-"

Joaquín's lips find yours again before reassuring you, "He's joking, cariño." Since when was he able to read your husband so easily? "I think he just wants to check in."

Bucky nods, smoothing your hair. "How do you want him first?" 

Oh, that was not something you could answer straight forwardly, no matter how turned on you were, the ribbon tie of your slip becoming very interesting as you avoid both of their eyes. Joaquín, after a nod from Bucky, makes the first move and pushes you gently to lay flat on your back. 

Shifting so he's situated above you, Joaquín grins. "Let's get you warmed up, yeah?"

You don't have a chance to reply before his mouth is meeting yours again and his hands find their way to the fastening of your slip to help you out of it. The silky material is easily pulled off, leaving you in just your underwear, body melting underneath him as he trails kisses across your face, down your neck and across your chest. 

Joaquín pushes your bra down enough to allow him to nip lightly across your breast before taking your nipple into his mouth, the jolt of heat it produces causing your hips to twitch involuntarily, seeking more. 

Bucky is back, kneeling beside the bed at your side, pupils blown as he takes it all in. "Okay, doll?"

You answer with a shaky yes, grasping for his hand as Joaquín continues his journey down your body, removing your bra full and mouthing across your tummy until he reaches your knickers waistband. Meeting his gaze, you nod once, not breaking eye until he pulls the soaked material out of the way and gets his first taste. 

If Bucky was a regular human his hand may have been crushed with how hard you're holding it, fire shooting through you as Joaquín proves his mouth is good for something other than rambling. His own hold on you is strong, keeping you still as you try to fight the waves of pleasure. With one of Joaquín's arms a heavy weight across your middle and the other holding your thigh to keep you legs open, and with Bucky beside you watching with an intensity you've not experienced before, you feel caged in in the best way it's not long before you feel the familiar flickers low in your core. 

"M'close." You manage to whine quietly, not sure who you are telling. 

Bucky answers. "So soon? Are you that easy, sweetheart?" 

The fake patronising tone has you choking on your breath, brought right to the edge with a few mean words. Joaquín, who can feel how much you're fighting his hold in a desperate effort to be closer, doubles down on his efforts, getting an approving hum from Bucky as you cry out. 

"Go on then beautiful, show Joaquín how prettily you cum."

That's all it takes for your first orgasm of the night to crash through you, being held in place by two sets of strong arms as Joaquín's mouth helps drag it on. The intensity of it all means you tip into over-sensitivity quickly. Bucky notices first and, after signalling for Joaquín to let you go, whispers soft nothings to bring you back to reality. 

Through a half-lidded view as you catch your breath, you watch your husband turn his attention to the other man, encouraging him to sit up and settle into  the bed between your legs. Mouth dry, you get a front row ticket to Bucky swiping his thumb across Joaquín's lips, collecting your leftover essence before popping it into his own mouth. 

Joaquín curses lowly, not able to take his eyes off of the sight, and you know how he feels. 

Smug at achieving his goal, Bucky asks you, "Okay, doll, what now?" 

Again you can not answer that, but now you're warmed up you have more confidence. Struggling only slightly to get up, you push gently until Joaquín is sat against the pillows and you can settle easily onto his lap, pulling off his top, this position more intimate now than at the start with the lack of clothes. 

You reach for his underwear as his hand shots out to stop you. 

"Fuck sweetheart, if you need a minute or two-" 

"No," You murmur, "M'good." 

Bucky laughs from beside you. "And you're getting her on top. Lucky bastard."

"Don't be mean, Bucky," You frown. "I'm not lazy."

"Never said you were. But you do like being taken care of more often than not." 

"Still mean." 

"I'm mean, am I?" Bucky sits beside you on the bed, holding your face with one hand and pushing your cheeks together to make your lips pucker. "If I was mean I wouldn't be letting you fuck another man, would I?"

He shakes your head for you. "No. Good. Now, don't pout, otherwise I won't be able to wait my turn and poor Joaquín will just have to watch."

Joaquín, who had been watching mesmerised, tightens his hold on you at the idea.

As your husband moves back, Joaquín waves a hand in his direction as he questions, "How do you cope with him being so..." 

"Oh, I don't. That is what makes it so great."

He leans in to press a smile filled kiss to your lips. "Never realised you were so filthy." 

"Nuh huh," You protest, moving to tug his underwear down and glide the condom Bucky hands you down Joaquín's erection. "You're just jealous."

"More than you know."

You don't have time to process that statement, already sinking down on his cock, the stretch wiping all your thoughts as you freeze. You didn't think it would feel so different but it does, Joaquín's much softer and leaner body a sharp contrast to super soldier muscle and vibranium metal. 

"Bucky?" You gasp, disorientated for a moment. 

"Right here, sweetheart."

Bucky positions himself besides you, letting you lean against his chest as you close your eyes and take deep breaths. Joaquín's equally affected, bottom lip bitten through as he deals with the wet heat enclosing him. 

"You're both struggling, aren't you? Fuck, that's hot."

Bucky's strong hands stroke reassuringly up your spine as he helps you get used to the different feeling.

"I'm going to stay here sweetheart. You're doing so well." Your small smile lets him know you're okay. "You want to try moving?"

You nod, looking at Joaquín for permission. He responds enthusiastically, helping you lift your hips slightly before dropping back down, joint whimpers pulling a low groan from Bucky.  

The world narrows to the three of you. The ache in your thighs is out weighed by the burn in your core, spurring you on, desperate for that high again, this time with Joaquín in tow. He needs no coaching to target your clit, thumb finding the bundle of nerves at the same time Bucky taps a finger against your chin and turns your face towards him.

"Open," He commands quietly, to which you comply immediately.

Bucky spits into your mouth, but before you can swallow Joaquín's pulling you into the messiest, most desperate kiss yet, Bucky's saliva getting lost between you. 

Even alone, this is something you've never done before, just another one to add to the list. 

"Okay Joaquín, I'm going to let you know something about this girl." Bucky's voice is low but you and Joaquín are focused on him like he shouted. "The way to know you're fucking her right, is when you get her to hiccup."

As if on cue you let out a little squeaky noise, an inevitability under both of their touches.

Bucky's let out a delighted laugh. "There you go, Joaquín. Guess you'll be invited again."

You're too far gone to be thinking about a next time. As you try to keep kissing Joaquín at the same time as keeping the same rhythm, the pleasure makes you weak and your legs shake. You're getting close but it's not going to be enough alone. Bucky notices, supporting your weight and instructing Joaquín to lay down further into the pillows, squeezing you in warning as you squirm and try to move again. 

"Wait." Bucky says to you, then turns to Joaquín. "She's close, but you're going to have to help."

The man underneath you is more than happy to do so, getting a solid hold onto your waist then thrusting up, gently at first then speeding up as you respond positively, Bucky taking over the  pressure on your clit. 

At this angle Joaquín is able to hit that spot inside you that has you crumbling, your quiet mewl letting Bucky know you're really close this time. 

He lets go of you. Joaquín's movements stop as he breaks your fall, making sure you're okay as you lay out on his chest, your almost orgasm fading away. Tears spring to your eyes as you look to your husband, partly betrayed but mostly so turned at being used like this. 

Bucky presses his thumb to your lips like he did with Joaquín, waiting for you to open up and suck gently. 

"If you want to cum on another man's cock he has to do all the work," He explains. "Joaquín's gotta show he deserves it."

You want to reply that your previous orgasm proves that but decide it's best not, for all your sakes. Your friend, sunshine and rainbows on the worst day, responds like he's been given a winning lottery ticket.

He nods to Bucky. "I can do that." 

So quickly you get dizzy, he's sitting up and gathering you into his arms, keeping you connected to him in all ways as he lays you on your back again, kneeling carefully between your thighs. 

Joaquín looks down at you, his smile so sweet you almost look away. "You good, cariño?"

"Please make me cum."

Your blunt statement catches him off guard for a second before he pulls you impossibly closer and promises again, "I can do that."

It's not a gentle or slow start, now you're used to each other. All that time spent in the gym training for the falcon suit comes in handy as he rolls his hips into your, hitting all the right points. You were close before and it doesn't take much to get you back there, Joaquín's deadly accuracy on your clit making it hard to think. 

You reach up to pull him into a kiss, accidentally tugging on his hair in a way that has him making a guttural noise. 

You clench harder, desperate to hear it again. "Fuck, cariño. I'm not going to last."

"Me too," You reply in a mumble. 

"Together, yeah?" 

He pulls back enough to catch your eyes and this time you really have to look away, all too much at once, climax hitting harder than you can ever remember. Joaquín doesn't miss a beat, carrying you through it again, putting you first even as you can tell he's right on the edge. 

"You too," You coax quietly as the pleasure turns sharp.

He doesn't need any more encouragement. His thrusts splutter to a stop as a deep heat erupts inside you, his whimpers not being muffled at all as he hides his face in your shoulder. Your hand is back in his hair as you comfort each other, bodies sticking to each other as his full weight presses you into the sheets. 

You jump when Bucky reappears by your side, momentarily forgotten in the foggy quiet. He's gentle but firm as he moves Joaquín off of you, the sudden emptiness causing you to whine as you watch Joaquín shed the condom and collapse on the end of the bed, grin wide when he catches your eye. 

You can't help return the smile. 

"Ah ah," Bucky cups your face to bring your attention back to him. "He's had you for long enough tonight. It's my turn now."

Sucking in a breath, you look down at Bucky's cock, already covered and ready for you. Your poor core throbs, in need or protest you're not sure. 

"You'll give me one more, yeah, doll? After I let you have your fun with your little boyfriend."

You glance across at Joaquín, who looks like he may be asleep sprawled amongst the pillows, your stomach flipping at the description of him even now.

Bucky redirects your gaze once more, his own turning soft, your loving husband back to check on you. "You okay? Okay to go again?" 

You nod. "I can't do much though." 

He laughs kindly. "That's okay pretty girl. Let me make you feel good." 

Pressing a series of kisses to your face and neck, Bucky makes sure you're comfortable before lining himself up and pushing in, quick, impatient, never having to wait so long before to get inside you. He falters when he feels how easy he slides in, hips falling into yours and making you gasp, Bucky letting out his own noise of surprise.

"Fuck," He pants. "You've never been so wet."

You fuss under him. 

"But then again," He says, starting to move. "I've never fucked you after someone else has had a turn, have I?" 

His thrusts are calculated, knowing you'll probably be overstimulated soon and wanting to get you to your peak before that point. In the familiar hold of your husband it doesn't take long to feel that burn again, but despite having Bucky all over you your head still turns in Joaquín's direction, craving his touch too. 

"Joaquín, get over here." 

Bucky's words shock you. Snapping your eyes back to him, you go to object, apologise maybe, but he stills inside you, shushing you with a quick kiss and whispered reassurance.

There is movement from the other side of the bed, your friend obviously not asleep. 

"Huh?" 

His hair, fluffy from the pillows, makes you giggle. 

"My girl wants you and I can't say no, apparently."

"I didn't actually-" 

"It's alright, doll. I can tell without you saying."

Joaquín seems shocked to be included, but soon recovers, moving to sit gingerly next to where your laid out.

Bucky starts moving again and you can't meet Joaquín's eye. It's somehow a hundred times more intense to be fucked in front of your best friend than by him, your ears hot as you try to suppress your moans. Feeling the bed dip, you turn to see Joaquín laying down with you, his breath shallow as he watches. 

"You're so pretty, you know that right?"

You swallow, unable to reply. 

Bucky grabs Joaquín's hand and guides it silently to your centre. Your husband thrusting into you as another man lays beside you pressing electrifying circles to your clit is more than enough to get you close again. It's too hot, the bedsheets beneath you feel as though they could melt from your body heat, but you want more. With a whine, you tilt your head up to Bucky, begging for a kiss, anything to ground you so you can concentrate on the feeling of his cock splitting you open. 

He sees your desperation, once again directing Joaquín to your aid. 

The second his lips touch yours you're gone. Arching off the bed with a cry, not sure who's name to say, Joaquín keeps kissing you as Bucky keeps up his pace, your orgasm no less in its intensity than the previous two. Just as you're coming down Bucky hits his own peak, trapping you under him as his hips slow, milking both your orgasms as you finally relax, exhausted. 

Joaquín subtly moves away and it takes everything in you not to reach out and stop him, not ready to let him go but not sure if you're allowed to want that now the night is technically over. 

The sigh your husband lets out suggests he spots your confliction. 

"The things I do for you, huh?" He murmurs for just you to hear. 

Pulling out with a kiss and an apology, Bucky slips a nighty over your head to give you a little more modesty, then picks you up bridal style and turns to Joaquín.

"Help her clean up, okay?" 

Joaquín's sitting at the end of the bed, mouth half open as he tries to comprehend the request. 

Bucky tuts. "You think you can have all the fun and not do anything to help afterwards?" 

In his panic to get off the bed Joaquín gets tangled in the sheets, fall ungracefully to the carpet. Recovering in a way only an avenger could, he's by Bucky's side and accepting you into his arms in seconds.

"You trust me with her?" He says, like he can't believe he's still here. 

"You just made her cum two times. Two and a half technically if I count your help for the last one. So yes, I can tell you'll treat her right." 

"And can I kiss her?" 

You freeze in his arms, shocked by the question, looking to Bucky for his reaction. 

"I think you've done a lot worse than that-"

"No, but I mean, now that it's over?"

Bucky's eyes flit between the two of you. "If that's what she wants, then okay. It's not really my decision now."

The weight of that sentence isn't missed by either of you. Bucky steps forward to press a kiss to your forehead before pushing you both in the direction of the bathroom, Joaquín carefully placing you by the toilet as he starts the shower. Once you've finished and washed your hand, he swaps your nighty and birthday tiara for your shower cap with a quiet 'cute' then pulls you into the warm water and starts to clean you, ever so gentle on your still sensitive skin.

The quiet affective is too much for you, leaving you to think over his last words to Bucky. 

"Are you going to kiss me?" You blurt out when it becomes too much. 

Joaquín laughs quietly, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. You pretend you don't chase his lips when he retreats and goes back to grab your shower gel, knowing which of your products to use on each body part. 

"You're suspiciously good at this. Do you have a secret girlfriend I don't know about?"

He laughs again. "You know you'd be the first to know. Maybe I actually pay attention when you buy things, hmm?" 

"Well, you're still good. You should find a girlfriend. If you treated her anything like you have me she'd be so lucky. And you. I want you to be happy too."

Joaquín stares into the distance for a second, the quiet stretching around you as the shower continues to fall. 

"I thought it might be you, years ago." He admits eventually. 

Your stomach drops. You would have never expected that answer. Joaquín sees how devastated you look and is quick to pick your chin up, giving you a proper kiss this time, resting his forehead against yours as your eyes get watery. 

"Hey. I'm alright, aren't I? I knew you and Bucky would be a thing as soon as you met, it's no biggie."

Your throat feels tight, you don't trust yourself to say anything, just nodding as Joaquín finishes up your shower routine, guiding you into a towel and then grabbing your moisturiser. 

You should probably do this bit yourself, it felt too much to let Joaquín touch you entire body again now but you can't say no so you just close your eyes and try not to think how much you want this again. He disappears into the walk-in wardrobe, reappearing with your favourite pyjamas to dress you in, the soft pastel cotton a stark contrast to the lace number you started this event in. Joaquín's still just in a towel, and it's your turn to choose an outfit for him from your husband's selection, the top far too big for him and making you smile for the first time in a while.

There's a pause as you wonder what happens now. He hesitates too, which forces you to make the decision, catching him by the hand and pulling him back to the bedroom. 

It's apparent Bucky has also showered and dressed for bed in another bathroom, as well as changing the sheets. The lighting has been dimmed, but not enough to hide your awkwardness, shifting your weight from foot to foot as you build up your confidence. 

Bucky sees you hovering with Joaquín just behind you and sighs for the nth time tonight.

"What do you want doll?" 

"Can he stay?" You burst out. 

Joaquín steps forward to take some of the heat off you, Bucky's blank stare still intimidating to him. 

He falters the longer Bucky doesn't answer. "I can go if you-" 

"Shut up Torres, you're staying. You think you can deny the birthday girl?" 

Your shoulders relax, relieved. Bucky beckons you forward, laying down on one side of the bed and pulling you into his arms, the large yawn you let out an indication of the events of the evening catching up with you. 

Joaquín slumps down behind you, his warmth reassuring against your back as you twist your fingers through his, your other hand resting over Bucky's heart.

"Happy, beautiful?" He asks. 

Clutching your wine glass in twitching fingers, you directed your attention to Feyre and the babbling Illyrian babe in her lap. Things always seemed so effortless for her in this world, but that wasn’t true, and you knew it. Still, you found yourself envying her mateship and the ease with which love found her. It may have been a journey, but Rhys was clear with his intentions, and the mating bond cemented that. 

Even Nesta, harsh and unrelenting as she was, had a sure bond that she could rely on. And then there was Elain, finding her way with Lucien in minute acts that all meant something to both of them. You had tried to chalk your feelings for Azriel up to jealousy or seeking a partner in a paired-up family, but those were surface-level excuses. The way your heart raced in his presence, the spark that lit up your skin each time you touched—those were not symptoms of pure loneliness. 

But you were sure he would think it was desperation if you pursued him. He was the only single male out of the fae you knew, and you knew so few people in this world. If you started professing your love for him, waxing poetic about the simple way he smiled, you knew the pitying look of rejection would come soon after. He would wince slightly and run his hand along the side of your head as he so often did, and then he would say that he didn’t see you that way. That you were new and unexciting and a responsibility above all else—his High Lady’s sister that needed help adjusting to life as fae. 

He hadn’t exactly shown interest in you. He had been kind and attentive and bordering on adoring, but that was just how he treated his family. You’d seen it. You were not going to be the pathetic little thing chasing after him in the wake of a war. Things were at peace now, and he didn’t need to be bogged down with the toll of rejecting you. 

Still, you sighed as you watched him enjoy his night. You bit the inside of your cheek and choked down another glass of the fae wine you could barely stomach. Your sisters asked you questions about your training with Madja, and you answered them, allowing the ring on your pinky to dig into the skin of your palm. When Azriel had given it to you, sliding it onto your smallest finger, you had been elated, feeling light and dizzy with affection. You felt foolish wearing it now. 

You couldn’t take it off. Azriel seemed to look for it whenever he saw you, eyes going from your face to your hands as if on instinct. He would touch it sometimes—when he flew you over the city or took things from your hands to carry instead. You would feel his thumb brush the metal embossed with twines of azure stone and think something was there, but then he would offer you a polite smile and simply walk beside you. He would blush and laugh with Mor, but he would only smile with you. 

Pity. It was pity, surely. 

You had clung to him for weeks after being Made. Something about him brought you comfort in a newly abrasive world, so he allowed you to follow him around and you accepted his touches with greed. It had all been ordered. Rhys had surely ordered his Spymaster to ensure his mate’s sister was properly cared for, but you hadn’t been thinking about the implications at the time, pathetically seeking him out under the pretense of a genuine connection. And sure, Azriel was not cruel. He thought of you as family and cared for you as such. But your feelings were yours alone. 

“Shall I take you back? Or would you like to sleep here?” 

You startled at the sound of his voice, Azriel suddenly at the back of your chair. The room had dimmed in conversation, with Rhys and Feyre gone to put Nyx to bed and Mor only muttering short sentences in low tones that had Cassian nodding in agreement. Elain had all but vanished from the table, and Nesta was facing the fire to capture its warmth. You had missed the shift as your thoughts ran rampant. 

Your chair creaked as Azriel leaned against it, mouth closer to your ear. “Are you alright?” 

You blinked and tilted your head slightly to show you were attentive to his words. “I’m fine. Just tired.” 

Azriel hummed. “So would you like to stay?” 

Staying at the Riverhouse would mean distance from Azriel. And you could walk to the clinic in the morning rather than depending on him to fly you down. That was good. 

“Yes. That would be best.” 

“I’ll walk you back then.” 

He always walked you to your room—all the way there. He never came in, always content to stop at the door, but he never did anything less. Even now, when he would leave for his own room at the House miles away, he was offering to take you down the hall. It was too much. You’d become too much. 

“That’s okay,” you breathed out, finally turning your head to look at him. Your faces were only inches apart, and you had to catch your breath at the closeness. “I’ll find my way.” 

Something unusual flashed across his expression, quickly righted with a soft smile. “I wouldn’t mind.” 

“It’s just down the hall, Azriel. I doubt I’ll get lost.” 

He blinked, looking between your eyes before clearing his throat slightly and standing straight. You used the opportunity to push out from the table, trying to ignore his guiding hands. “Right, of course,” he nodded. He looked lost for a moment, standing before you. His wings twitched as you looked over his shoulder to the joining hall. “I’ll—goodnight, then. Sleep well.” 

“Goodnight, Azriel.” 

~~

Distancing yourself from Azriel after your dinner revelation was not an easy task. You hadn’t realized how much you’d intertwined your life with his, and the realization was enough to make you cringe. He was a whole person with a life before you, and now you were reliant on him for so many things. 

So, you tried to make your own way. You stopped asking to stay at the House so you could walk wherever you needed. You asked passersby for directions instead of waiting for Azriel to tell you where shops and restaurants were located. You even tried making friends, talking more with the patrons of the clinic to… be more independent—separate, even, from Azriel and your newly grown family. 

You figured he would appreciate the effort. He was probably so tired of guiding you everywhere, of keeping polite smiles on his face as you droned on about your new life and let him fly you around Velaris. And he probably loved that he finally got his overcoat back. He had let you borrow it several weeks ago, placing the Illyrian-forged threads over your shoulders when you asked him to go flying in the middle of the night. 

He had told you how much it meant to him that night as he buttoned it up to your neck. His mother had hand-woven it when he came of age, he had told you, and he had saved it ever since. You might not have understood why a coat was of so much importance, but you understood that you were hogging it. That he had let you borrow it on a cold night, and then you had practically commandeered his prize possession. He always insisted you wear it when he would fly you around, but he was just being polite. 

The thought grated on you. 

“What?” Azriel asked, mouth slightly agape as you gently placed the coat in his stiff hands. 

“I—Thank you for letting me borrow it for so long. I should have returned it ages ago. I was being greedy with it,” you tried to joke, pressing it further into his grasp. 

Azriel remained frozen. His eyes flicked down to the material now in his hands and then back up to you. “I don’t—I don’t think I understand. You don’t like it?” 

A flash of confusion struck you, but maybe he assumed you weren’t going to give it back? “What? No, Azriel, it’s a wonderful coat. Honestly, the softest, warmest thing I’ve ever put on. I just… I know it’s important to you. I’ll wear my own when I need you to take me somewhere. Although I think I’ve been doing well getting around by myself. I’ve been trying to learn Velaris’ layout, and I think I almost got it.” 

Azriel finally moved, curling the coat closer to his chest. He wet his lips before shooting his gaze down to your hands. Finding some semblance of an answer there, he nodded once, mostly to himself. “I’ve noticed that. Have you enjoyed exploring the city?” 

No. You enjoyed exploring it with him. “Yes, very much. The people of Velaris are very helpful with directions.” 

Azriel hummed, rubbing his fingers along the sleeve of the coat. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. I’ll look forward to you enjoying flying again, though.” 

“Yes, well, I never stopped enjoying that. I’ll try to space it out more, though—maybe get Cassian or Rhys to lug me around every once in a while.” 

“Why?” 

An unmistakable inflection of hurt trailed in his tone. Wonderful, now you were offending him. “Oh! Well, just to take some of that off of you. I know you’re very busy, and I’ve needed a lot of help for a long while.” 

“Take…what off of me?” he asked, words slow and lingering. 

“Um, the responsibility? Again, I know how busy you are. And I know it’s taken me a while to adjust, but I think I've got it now. At least, I’ve got it more than I used to,” you tried joking again, a dry laugh rocking you back on your heels. 

“Responsibility,” Azriel repeated.

“Right,” you affirmed. “Now you can spend more time on other things.” 

“Such as?” 

You clicked your tongue, glancing up at the ceiling as if there were answers there. “I don’t know. What did you do before I was around?” 

Azriel’s brows came together. He shook his head slightly as if you were partially insane. “I don’t think… I didn’t think you wanted to talk about that yet.” 

Maybe you were partially insane. You thought you were having one conversation, but it seemed Azriel was having another. What did that mean? Maybe his life was far easier before you started forcing him into tasks and stealing his clothes? And you weren’t ready just yet to hear that? He really thought you were unstable then. 

You laughed, despite that thought, brushing a hand through the air casually. “Come on, Az. You obviously had a life before me. Multiple lives, if we go on human terms. I’m sure you had several hobbies that didn’t include taking me places.” 

And now he looked uncomfortable. Azriel folded his coat onto his arm, and his mouth twisted before he let out a sigh. “There were pleasure houses, obviously. A few relationships, although they do not seem important in the slightest now.” 

You choked on air, clearing your throat as Azriel itched his jaw and looked up at the ceiling himself. Nothing was up there, but both of you were sure looking. “Oh,” you squeaked out. 

“The relationships are in the distant past. The—well, the casual things are more recent, though nothing after I met you, obviously.” 

Your mind was doing flips, bashing jarringly against your skull as Azriel looked at you with an almost concerned discomfort. When you said hobbies, you thought he would share that he used to train more or had a secret joy for puzzles. You had not expected a brief overview of his sexual partners, but Azriel looked about ready to give you a list if you asked. To dive deeper into the topic you were about to melt into a puddle over. 

This was what you were really holding him back from, then. 

He wanted to go to pleasure houses, but you were taking up all of that time. 

When you remained silent, Azriel shifted his weight between his feet. “I know things were different for you. You were human. I’ve learned of the demands and expectations of human women, so that’s why we’ve been going slo—” 

Your ears were ringing as he spoke. You clutched your hands together and interrupted him. “Right, yes, different for humans. And not alive as long, obviously. Less time for hobbies.” 

“I don’t mind. I don’t care about that,” he offered slowly. You weren’t even sure what he was talking about. Another beat of silence, and then, in the most usure voice you had heard from him, Azriel asked, “Is that okay?” 

Was it okay for him to go back to pleasure houses? To seek out intimacy? Who were you to decide that for him? “Of course,” you blinked, raising a hand to your forehead. “I’m—I’m going to go rest, I think. Long day.” 

“Alright,” Azriel simply replied, left standing in the hall. 

~~

You missed him, which was terribly awful in the worst ways. 

Not only had he made it abundantly clear that he was setting his sights on other women, but he was being extra nice now, probably fearing for the worst now that you were aware he was going to be spending his newfound time… doing other things.

He asked you to accompany him to dinner every night this week. You turned him down each time, but he still asked, a casual hope ringing in his words. He arrived at the Riverhouse every morning, ready to walk you to the clinic even though you assured him you were okay to go alone. He didn’t bring his coat back, but he grabbed your own from the closet by the door and had it open for you on each of those mornings. 

And his wings were doing strange things. When you would come to the door, he would spread them just a few inches wider, seeking your eyes as they roved over the exposed veins. He opened them behind you as you walked, almost ushering you closer to him on the streets of Velaris. They seemed to ruffle when he sat beside you at dinner, in the sitting room, when he caught you reading and joined you on the couch. It was almost imperceptible, but the sound was becoming soothing, and that was dangerous. 

You were reading too much into things, acting crazy again, and so, you distanced yourself more when you started to notice the patterns. And then you missed him because of it. 

He noticed. You were sure he noticed. You could only turn him down so many times before he began to question the change. 

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked after two weeks of your eyes flitting away from him. 

“What? Of course not.” 

“You’re avoiding me.” 

“I’m not.” 

Azriel took you by surprise then, kneeling by the chair you were nestled into. “You are. Tell me what I did.” 

Such a picture of devotion made you squirm. You unraveled your legs from under you and sat eye-level with the Shadowsinger’s form. “Nothing, Az. Remember, I told you I was trying to be more self-sufficient. Give you more time back.”

“Is this because of our conversation a few weeks ago? Because I only told you because it’s important to understand my history as my—” 

You quickly shook your head, not wanting another recount of his love life. Not when you weren’t part of it. “Nothing like that, I swear.” 

Cassian chose that moment to enter the small library, a decision that was both your downfall and eventual salvation, as time would reveal. 

“Whoa. Hey,” Cassian cautioned, eyeing a kneeling Azriel. “Something going on?” 

“Nothing,” you quipped, feeling Azriel’s eyes still glued to your face as it heated and turned to Cassian. “What are you doing here? Feyre said you were at the camps until next week.” 

“Yeah, well, got sick of the camps,” he replied, brow raised when Azriel reluctantly rose from the ground and stiffly turned. 

“Glad you’re back then.” 

“Thanks for the warm welcome, sweetheart.” Cassian kicked back into a far chair, the air still heavy. “Anyone have plans tonight? I feel like going out.” 

Azriel cleared his throat, fingers flexing with shadows that twined between them. “I believe Mor is going to Rita’s. But I have… business tonight.” 

“Business, huh?” Cassian smirked, flicking his gaze over to you in a quick motion. 

“Cassian,” Azriel warned, but it was too late. Something ugly and hot gripped your throat, making it impossible to swallow.

This was it. This was what you wanted. He was finally free from you, and his words tonight were only a semblance of guilt for leaving you when you asked him to. But it wasn’t fair to hold him in your grasp when he didn’t want to be there. When you were a duty to him. 

He needed to know that it was okay to move on from the responsibility of you, so you steeled yourself and swallowed down the searing pain in your chest that felt like it was yanking at you when you were resolute in your next words. 

 “Sorry, Cass, I’m not free either. I’m going on a date.”

Night after night you find yourselves talking, and suddenly your vocabulary is filled with terms you’d never imagined discussing outside bureau protocol. Hard limits and soft boundaries. Carefully planned visits. He even tested a few daring suggestions you’d never imagined yourself fantasizing about, intriguing you as much as they embarrass you.

Although mortification isn’t the problem. You’re a born profiler with an inconvenient instinct to study every new stimulus; curiosity is your ruin, so to speak. If shame were meant to deter you, it should’ve chosen a less enticing disguise.

Granted, you’re not exactly surprised when you slip into Aaron’s motel room and spot another presence waiting. You find Spencer like that, standing warily at the foot of the bed, looking strangely out of place despite the fact your knees had brushed in the SUV only an hour ago.

But your heart does a little somersault. A silly patter that spreads through your chest with the dizzy certainty that an idea you’ve only read in ink is about to be written in flesh.

The clause was tucked near the end of the contract — “the introduction of a third participant at the discretion of the primary.” You’d half-skimmed those last few pages, disbelief blurring the words when you couldn’t quite fathom that your fantasies had been printed and bound like actual paperwork.

It’s one thing to discuss it verbally, another thing entirely to see it embodied in your hands like an actual scripture.

“I just want you to feel safe,” Aaron had said, which struck you as almost redundant. You already felt safe without having these stipulations spelled out in twelve-point font. Still, you picked up the pen, humored his need for formalities, and wrote your name in deliberate strokes.

And with Spencer hovering a few unsure steps from the bed tonight, that small flourish of ink seems to glow on the page in your memory.

“You’re late,” Aaron greets from the other side of the room, and closes the space between you in three easy strides.

“Emily cornered me in the hallway," you say, meeting him halfway for a kiss before nudging back, a wry smile on your lips. “So I’m guessing he knows about us?”

His gaze flicks to Spencer before settling back on you. “He found our contract.”

Your brows curve into a frown. “You mean… he found the thing just lying around?”

“Not exactly." He gives a curt shake of his head. "It was on my desk. Didn’t think he’d come in without knocking.”

"Aaron."

“It was an oversight," he tries to defend himself. He spares you the detail that Spencer apparently read enough to memorize every clause and condition. You’re already eyeing him dubiously.

“And why is he here now?”

The same logic that led Aaron to keeping him here.

“For his silence.”

"You’re blackmailing him?”

The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Of course not. I’d call it leveraging a situation for mutual understanding."

“That is the prettiest way I’ve ever heard someone describe blackmail.”

A soft shuffle of shoes answers you from behind.

“It isn’t blackmail,” Spencer interjects. “He didn’t force me into anything. I wanted to understand what was going on and—” He falters at the subtle, expectant tilt of Aaron’s head, then clears his throat and finishes, “—and now I do.”

Aaron’s hand finds its way to your waist. “Are you okay with this?”

Are you?

You don’t answer immediately. It isn’t indecision that holds your tongue to the roof of your mouth, rather the slow crawl of anticipation that coils low in your belly. Skittering around your hips.

Oddly enough, the prospect doesn’t rattle you the way it once did when you first traced those lines in the contract. You’d just never thought the day would actually arrive, and certainly not today, with Spencer, of all people.

You can almost hear the flutter of his pulse from here, see the quiet calculations ticking behind lowered lashes as he tries to stand perfectly still. He’s cinched into his cardigan that's smoothed flat over narrow shoulders, and you’d be lying if you claimed you’d never wondered what hid beneath all those layers of neatly pressed wool.

Pure curiosity, you reason. Curiosity fed by the sparks you’ve caught in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. A sweep of hazel that dips down your neckline, or by the restless twitch of his fingers whenever your perfume drifts too close. And you’ve idly speculated, maybe more than once, whether those fidgeting hands would feel rough on your skin or as soft as the flush rising in his cheeks.

You let the quiet stretch for one more heartbeat, watching his gaze snag on the top of your blouse before darting back up.

Heat coils languid and sweet inside you.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m okay. I think.”

“Need you to be sure, sweetheart.”

“I’m okay,” you repeat, trying to smooth out your voice. Maybe saying it once more will solidify your confidence. “I’m really okay.”

Aaron’s palm tightens at your waist. “Color?”

It takes you a while to understand what he means, but when you do, you feel the answer rise with the next breath you take.

“Green.”

“Good, if at any point it changes, you tell me.”

You give him a slight dip of your head.

"Reid, come here."

Spencer obeys before he seems aware he’s moving. One cautious step, then another, until you can feel the anxious energy rippling off him. He’s close enough now that the crease of your knee nearly grazes the front of his slacks. Close enough you can catch the soft quiver in his limbs.

Your own chest tightens at the sheer proximity, but whatever butterflies flit through you aren’t half as fierce as the ones etched across his tense shoulders and downturned gaze.

“Spence, it’s okay, you can touch me," you offer.

He curls his fingers into fists, chords of tendon shifting under skin gone too pale.

He’s overthinking, of course. Mental gears grinding loud enough to drown out his own pulse. It’s his nature to second-guess and dissect unfamiliar situations from every angle. He did it when he first spotted the contract on Aaron’s desk, when Aaron quietly invited him here, even when he agreed to come of his own free will. But standing in front of you knots those gears tighter.

Enumerate risks, assign probability, choose the safest option.

The safest option, though, he realizes, is the most dangerous one.

But the real danger isn’t the touch itself. It’s how a single brush of fingertips will shatter his neatly ordered rules.

Consent redraws the margins while he continues to study. You give him an expectant look, Aaron seals it with a nod, and suddenly the universe has shrunk to three conspirators orbiting a single point of contact.

So he closes the last inch between you. Pulls in the same measured breath he’s perfected on the firing line. One, two, three — on four his fingertips drift forward, brushing the sleeve of your blouse. The cotton vibrates under his knuckles, yet even through the fabric he can feel the pliant warmth of your skin. He coaxes higher along your arm, sliding past the cuff and onto the bare flesh of your shoulder.

You’re warmer here, silken, and the softness doubles when his hand cups the delicate column of your neck, thumb resting in the hollow below your jaw. Softest of all, though, is the sight that meets him when he finally lifts his gaze. Plump, glossy petals of dewy lips.

Gone is every ounce of hesitation.

He steel himself for the question hanging on his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

Useless, of course, when you’re already leaning in.

So he does, carrying the bite of burnt motel coffee and a trace of whatever dessert he demolished tonight. You also catch the tang of his nerves on your tongue. He’s a jumble of sensations — confused, curious, ravenous, and that ripple of hunger makes itself known as he nudges his cock against your hip. The pressure loosens your knees, and just as you begin to sync with the eager pull of his mouth, another hard pressure claims the space behind.

Aaron’s obvious bulge slots perfectly between your ass, as well as the way his mouth latches along the spot where your pulse flutters the most.

It’s nearly impossible to keep your heartbeat steady when attention comes in perfect pairs.

Two mouths tracing heat.

Two cocks hemming you in.

Two sets of hands shaping your body — a pair cupping your breasts firmly, another holding your hip while the last hand dips over the fabric covering your mound.

It takes a drowsy, blinking inhale before you realize it’s Spencer coaxing pleasure through the damp cloth. A new type of pleasure that comes with new territory as his fingers slide in patient circles, translating curiosity into confidence with every slow stroke. It’s a novel kind of surrender that eclipses the rules you thought you understood with Aaron alone.

This is a submission refracted through two different types of needs. Circumstances might look like you’re completely helpless with two men manhandling you, but somehow you've never felt more powerful.

And that power consumes you, bleeding warmth into your skin until it feels like you’re burning from the inside out. Flooding every nerve, soaking through your pores until even the hum of the air conditioner feels weak against the sweat beading at the small of your back.

Aaron feels the tremor beneath his palm.

“Too hot?”

You manage a weak nod. “Mhm.”

He quickly moves to remedy it. He won’t have his sweet girl suffering for even a second longer than necessary. His fingers skim down your blouse, carefully slipping buttons through holes before Spencer’s eager hands join him — unhooking, unbuttoning, and sliding the rest of your clothes off until there’s nothing left between you and the open air.

Your lungs finally fill without the last scrap of fabric, though each inhale stays shallow. The stark contrast between your bare skin and the layers of their tailored shirts and pressed slacks only sharpens the ache gathering low in your belly. You’re so wound up that a slow, insistent throb of liquid seeps between the snug folds of your cunt.

Aaron is quick to notice, too. He’s already attuned to your body by now, the way gooseflesh ripples up your thighs the moment you try to squeeze them together for relief. Before you’ve even fully registered it, his arm loops around your waist, guiding you a step back toward the bed.

In one smooth pull you’re lifted, settled astride his lap. “I think we should show him how wet you are.”

You lean back, heart hammering in your chest.

In another life, shame would color your cheeks, but in this one, you’re too keenly aware of your own arousal as his hands hook under your thighs, spreading your legs apart.

Spencer falls to his knees. And wets his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the sheen glistening between your legs — pretty and glossy without a single touch from either of them, and he wonders how much more of a mess he can make of you. That thought sends two fingers pressing against the swollen outer lips, gently stretching them for a better view of your anatomy as he breathes in your musky scent.

God, you smell delicious.

He bets you taste just as good too.

As if drown to a magnetic pull, he leans in and lets the tip of his tongue flick against the tender spot of your clit.

You’re not sure if the gasp that escapes your lips is louder than the rush of blood pounding in your ears. Spencer hears it, feels it, and takes it as permission. He lingers, gently at first, tracing delicate circles that coax your clit into a throbbing fullness until the once shy nub swells under the next pass of his tongue.

The hammering behind your eyes barrels down your veins, skimming collarbones and ribcage, rushing through your gut before pooling right where his mouth is working. Broad laps that drag from your slick entrance to the tip. Sucks a plush fold of your labia into his mouth, testing delicate skin with gentle tugs.

Your next exhale comes out as a moan, and Aaron marvels at the sound. “Feels good?”

Good is an anemic word — barely a quarter of what’s sluicing through you when Spencer curls his tongue inside your tight walls. Pleasure radiates in hot pulses, and language dissolves on your tongue as your head lolls helplessly against Aaron’s shoulder.

He tries to press you again. Hooks a finger beneath your jaw to tilt your chin up, leaving a ghost of space that tempts you to close your mouth around him. He pulls away when you lean in.

“Good, sweetheart?”

He clearly wants an answer. So you give him one — stretch your voice into the space he’s carved for you.

“S’good.”

“Yeah?”

Your hips stutter into Spencer’s mouth. “Yes—yes. Good.”

You're finally rewarded with a kiss and a groan between your legs.

Shame really has nothing on you. Your body is on fire, and the only thing that matters is the taste of his lips plastered against yours while Spencer’s mouth devours you in greedy lungfuls. Drags his tongue slow and heavy across the entire span of your cunt as the faint rasp of his jaw scrapes against your inner thighs.

You’re hardly surprised by how your orgasm coils fast. Starts as a scatter of static in your toes, slithers up your calves and welds the muscles of your thighs as Spencer’s mouth seals around you, lips locking, tongue pressing. Instinct has your legs snapping shut around his head, but a low disapproving sound from Aaron vibrates on your mouth, cuts through your blinding haze.

“No, no—spread them open,” he tuts, prying your legs wider. “Let him take care of you.”

You can only whine in response.

Your thoughts knot and unravel in the same breath, slipping through your grasp the moment they begin to form. Words dissolve. Time warps. You're reduced to pure reaction — tiny, involuntary gasps that stutter out between parted lips. You can't keep still. Can't breathe deep. Every inhale shudders. Heat blooms at the base of your skull, racing along nerve paths until your toes curl in suspended air.

Then it hits again. But his mouth doesn’t stop the mess he's made of you. Slick glistens down his chin, streaking into the shallow hollows of his cheeks, pooling in the groove where his jaw meets his neck. He tilts his head, adjusting just enough to keep you pinned with legs spread wide and twitching as he slurps you up with intense hunger.

A keening cry rips free before you can swallow it.

Aaron notices it. Sees the way you nearly go cross-eyed towards the ceiling, jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose.

“Reid,” he warns.

Spencer barely blinks.

“Reid.”

His voice continues to fall on deaf ears.

“Reid.”

It isn’t until Aaron firmly pushes his head away that Spencer finally snaps out of it. His eyes dart up to meet Aaron’s, then to you, chest rising and falling as though suddenly realizing the state he’s left you in.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” there’s an edge of guilt in his voice. His gaze drops back to your swollen clit, overly sensitive from his relentless attention, and moves in to press a soft, almost apologetic kiss to it. “I’m sorry.”

Your hips jerk at the contact.

Aaron rests a hand over your thigh, “Let’s give her a minute.”

You finally manage to clamp your mouth shut.

It does seem wise to wait until your heartbeat evens out, let your pulse crawl back down from its wild pitch. Yet the space they leave empty aches just as sharply. All you can feel is emptiness and the gnawing urge to be filled, so you shift in Aaron’s lap, sliding forward until your hips brush the sharply pressed crease of his slacks.

“I’m fine,” you blurt out. “I can keep going.”

Aaron’s palm spans your stomach. “I don’t want to push you too far.”

“You're not,” you insist, and with desperation digging its claws way too deep in your chest, you add, “Please?"

His lips curl into a knowing smile. You're practically bleating, and he’s absolutely smitten. "You're begging already."

You are, and you'd gladly do it again. Say it sweeter, say it filthier. You’ve learned to like begging, learned how easy it sits on your tongue when it earns you that look.

"Need you, Aaron."

He looks absolutely pleased.

“You need me?" His gaze slips towards Spencer, still crouched between your thighs, wetting his lips. "Or do you need him?”

Your mouth opens before you can think—

“Need you both.”

Which, after years spent of working alongside them, is something you never expected to admit.

But the honesty on your tongue tastes absolutely sweet.

Everything then unravels in a blur of impatient hands. Buttons pop, zippers slip, fabric rustles to the floor in a blur of motion you’ll replay later but can’t quite track now. Your own senses tunnel to the snap of Spencer’s belt, the soft thud of Aaron’s shoes hitting carpet, the sigh of crisp cotton sliding from skin.

By the time the last scrap of fabric has hit the floor, you’re stretched on your side atop the cool sheets with Aaron’s solid heat pressed along your back. He braces your leg up, while the blunt crown of his cock teases the slick seam of your cunt. You’re already dripping, so incredibly wet that one firm push has the soft flesh of your hole bulging around his girth when he sinks all the way.

It doesn’t dull the shock of intrusion, though. Aaron is all all weight and pulsing veins, and no matter how many times he’s fucked you senseless, you never quite get used to how he stretches you open. The burn hits sharp, then dissolves into a syrupy ache you drink down willingly.

You also swallow around the thick head of Spencer’s cock pressing to your mouth, feeling the bitter tang dissolve on your tongue as he pauses to gauge your reaction. Your first instinct is disbelief. It boggles your mind how someone built so lanky and lithe can carry such surprising weight, but instead you let a tiny, encouraging nod.

It's all it takes for him to nudge forward.

He lets out a tiny gasp, hips stuttering as your warmth envelopes the only part your mouth can comfortably take. A shiver races through his frame, and before he can stop himself, one hand threads into your hair with a desperate grip. He’s trying so hard to be gentle, but his pelvis gives a needy push.

You choke around the force punching your throat.

Aaron immediately slows his own rhythm behind you. “Reid, control yourself,” he warns. “Won’t have you hurting her.”

You pull back just enough to steal a breath.

“No—” You swallow, eyes darting up to meet Spencer’s wide, worried gaze. “It’s okay. Do it again.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I like it,” you manage, and Aaron’s brows lift slightly. He’s never taken you too roughly. Binding you with his tie is an exercise in restraint, a blindfold a test of trust, and when it comes to edging, his patience is almost cruel in its tenderness. He likes to think his dominance is a careful thing.

But clearly he underestimated you. Especially when you lift your gaze to Spencer with glassy, luminous eyes.

“You can use my mouth,” you say softly, a little bashfully. “I want you to.”

The confession snaps something loose in Aaron. He grunts, hikes your leg higher and plunges into you with reckless speed. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he grits out. “Didn’t know you liked it so rough.”

Your clammy back slides against his chest every time he drives into you. “I-I did, you’re just a big softie.”

He gives you another grunt against your bare shoulder while Spencer tries to catch your attention again, brushing a damp strand of hair clinging to your cheek.

“Are you sure?”

You don’t think you’ve ever been this certain.

Confidence has never felt so visceral when you know what you want, and the idea someone as awkward as Spencer surrendering to hunger enough to use your mouth only slicks you further around Aaron’s cock.

So you tilt your head back shamelessly, tongue slipping out in a languid sweep over your lower lip.

And how can he possibly resist?

He wraps his hand around the back of your skull, palm splayed wide and fingers tangling in your hair as he thrusts forward. Sets a smooth languid pace, slow enough you can feel every rigid vein drag across your tongue. Most times he glides in with practiced care, more often than not, the bulbous tip of his cock bumps up against discomfort that lingers just the shy of pain.

Tears prick your lashes, a throbbing ache begins to set in your jaw, but you force your muscles to relax. Concentrate on the rush of air through your nose.

Inhale, exhale.

Gag.

Swallow.

Soft wiry curls brush the sensitive curve of your nose with each thrust as you continue to let him mold your throat into his own perfect fit. He fills your mouth with the same certainty Aaron fills your cunt, so that no inch of you remains untouched.

You’re a mess of body fluids. Spit runs from the corners of your mouth, sweat paints your bruising skin. But it’s your pussy that bears the most, swollen and slick beyond reason, you’re so thoroughly fucked that every plunge punches a shameless squelch into the air. Bounces off the faded wallpaper and the brittle plaster of an old building that has seen better days. Decades, even.

This place couldn’t be further from luxury. It’s a simple nondescript motel on the edge of this town that’s only available where the stench of cheap detergent and stale air barely masks the lingering scent of old cigarettes. Though the sagging mattress is more than enough to cradle you between two bodies in a sweaty, desperate mess.

And desperation thickens the air, thick as summer humidity. Aaron’s thrusts grow sloppy, grip bruising your skin as he pants against your ear, “Not gonna last long, sweetheart.”

You don’t think you’re going to last any longer either. Not when the sheer force of his pace makes it impossible to focus on anything else. It’s becoming too much, and Spencer seems to notice your fractured gasps muffled around his shaft. He looks at you through heavy lids and takes pity on your predicament, pulls himself out of your mouth and sits back on his heels.

You still catch the sight of him fisting his cock through the mist clouding your eyes, but even that melts away when Aaron’s lips find the shell of your ear, whispering all the filthy things that ruins what’s left of your fragile composure.

Always so good to me.

That’s it, taking me so well.

—my sweet, sweet girl.

But it isn’t until his voice drops lower that your body responds without permission.

“Gonna fill you up, yeah?” His teeth graze your earlobe. “You'll let me do that?”

Your cunt squeezes him so fiercely that he chokes on a grunt. Slides a heavy palm right at the supple flesh of your belly.

“Or you gonna let both of us fill you up?”

You feel your muscles tensing—

“Let him fuck my cum back into you?"

And moan unabashedly.

The sounds spilling from your throat hardly seem like your own. You try to marshal a proper syllable, but it simply melts on your tongue before it can crawl past your lips. What comes instead is an automatic stutter of nods, frantic little jerks of your head because he’s your boss, isn’t he? And good subordinates follow orders dutifully.

“That’s right,” Aaron croons. “Knew you’d take it. Such a good girl for me, aren't you?"

You nod even harder, grinding back against his ruthless thrusts while he keeps spinning those filthy words.

“Gonna be so full, sweetheart. Mess dripping out this pretty pussy."

The picture he paints is enough to tip you over the edge.

Pleasure snaps bright and violent. Your vision splinters into shards of glittering light as your cunt clamps down around him, walls fluttering in rapid spasms that slowly jerk his own release.

Aaron groans, fingers biting into the soft give of your skin while he keeps you chained. Holds you still as he floods your insides, heavy spurts that seem to pool deep in your belly before trickling down every fold of your flesh. Trickles weave along your swollen lips, mars the plush curve of your ass — stains your already wet thighs as he gently slips free.

You’re in no state to protest when he drags your limp body across tangled sheets. You don’t even have the strength to lift your head as he tucks you effortlessly under his chin, back to his chest, letting yourself dissolve between thick thighs. Your skin is burning fresh from the tremor clinging in your core.

Your lungs still stutter, but your pulse is clamoring for more.

Seldom have you seen Spencer move with such quiet certainty. He sinks to his knees between your quivering thighs, and the dim lamplight silvers the slick shine on his cock as he guides it through the creamy mess clinging to your folds. Quite repulsive, but nothing less than a wicked kind of fascination.

Clearly he sees the appeal — why else would he press the rounded crown against your hole, only to have you seize around him even after being stretched so thoroughly? Mesmerized is a better way to put it as he tries to rut deeper, and with every inch your pretty cunt swallows, he wonders why he’s wasted years fussing over germs when raw pleasure like this exists.

When you simply exist.

He lets out a pleased sigh when you finally stretch around him (takes a moment of more slow rocking and a hissed curse you’ve never heard from his lips) as your eyes hone in on the spot where your bodies merge. Hips flushed, pelvis snug, coarse hair pressed against your puffy clit, and you feel a stab of fullness that spirals straight into your spine.

It doesn’t take long for him to fuck you then.

Like a man possessed, too.

Your nails bite into Aaron’s thighs. Claws sinking into warm flesh as you brace yourself for every brutal thrust Spencer rams into you. The force sends your tits bouncing with each snap of his hips, and Aaron’s hands are there in an instant — rough palms claiming the soft weight, wicked thumbs skating over taut peaks. Rolls them between calloused fingers with just enough pressure to sting your eyes.

The rapture on your face is barely recognizable anymore. Pinched and overwhelmed, you don’t notice him abandoning your perky nipples to skim down your torso until the pruny pads of his fingertips find your soaking clit.

Your back arches off his chest.

“Fuuuck—” you wail, “gonna c-come.”

He can see that. It’s painfully, beautifully obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re right on the edge again for what must be the hundredth time tonight. And Aaron doesn’t think of himself as cruel. Far from it, really. But watching your body almost folded in half has him feeling absolutely wicked.

His voice is toothy sweet as he rubs firm circles against your poor, overstimulated clit. “I know, sweetheart. Gonna come again from being used?”

“Ah, ah—baby—p-please—”

“Gonna soak his cock for me? Show him how good my girl is?”

“Aaron—!”

“Mmm? What’s that?” He hums lazily. “You want me to stop?”

A desperate whine tears from your throat, and your shaking fingers clutch at the coarse hair on his forearm. His muscles flex beneath your grip, then loosen, then tighten. All it earns you is an amused laugh and an open-mouthed kiss to your cheek.

“Oh, my pretty girl. Greedy little thing can’t even decide, can you?”

“I— I can— I want—”

“Shh,” he soothes, though his touch only grows faster. Rubs your tight little bud as your hips buck shamelessly into the twofold stimulation. “No need to think, sweetheart, that’s my job. Yours is to take it, isn’t it?”

Your words slur into a quiet sob—

“You can take it, I know you can—yes—yes, that’s it, sweetie, give it to us. Come on, just like that—”

—before it blares into the stale air.

The back of your heels kick the mattress the moment you come around his word.

Spencer does too, lungs pummeled when your cunt squeeze around his length, gripping him like a steel vise.

He feels it all the way down to his bones, feels the ache radiating from his groin to his thighs and into the small of his back with every pulse of cum that hammers into you. His hips jerk in a frantic rhythm that no amount of bliss can slow, even when the swollen head of his cock nudges the soft resistance of your cervical lip, seeking a depth that simply doesn’t exist.

Still, he grinds deeper, crushing the distance until you’re stuffed full with an ironclad grip on your thighs.

“S-Spence…”

“A bit more,” he rasps. “Promise. Just a little more.”

That little fills you to the absolute brim.

It feels like his own pulse is tangled in the tight press of your walls.

And you’ve never known the smell of sex this strong. The air all but congeals when he finally pulls out, a slow, sticky slide that draws silken filaments of white from your used, swollen hole as three pairs of eyes lock onto the streak.

Yours is a little bleary. You can’t tell which milky ribbon belongs to whom, whose thick release is swirling with the gloss of your own slick, or which heartbeat drums the loudest in the tight space between your bodies. Breath, heat, and sweat fold together until the three of you feel like a single organism with too many limbs and just one shared lung.

Not that it matters. None of you seem particularly bothered by the lack of space. Aaron reclines against the creaky headboard, cradling most of your weight across his chest while Spencer draws lazy patterns over your sated thighs.

You don’t mind in the least. In fact, you bask in them both, drifting in the strange yet comforting irony that it took a misplaced contract for you to realize intimacy could be plural. You never expected it to multiply so neatly.

Some connections, it seems, don’t fit into singular terms at all.

Later that night, when the two men almost twice your size crowd you in the cramped bathroom, you realize your thoughts are already rewriting the contract. You wonder if Aaron would let you make a slight revision, scribble the third-participant clause into something more permanent.

You hold your full glass of champagne in one hand, as Mac twirls you into him and then away again, toward the target. You release a rather convincing tipsy laugh right as you slam into Gavin Whittaker, your drink, still full to the brim, going everywhere. Just as you hoped it would.

A list of profanities leaves Gavin as he gathers himself and in an instant you’re on him, hands patting down his chest as you spew apologies with a few slurred words to sell the act. "I didn't even see you, I am so sorry." You gather up the lengths of your dress, using it to pat dry the ends of his suit jacket and flashing a little bit of leg in the process to bring his guard down. It works a charm. Gavin Whittaker looks from your legs to your hands, and then to your face. You bat your eyelashes, as sorrowful as you can make them as he takes you in. Pretty girl, pretty dress, all over him along with some champagne.

"Got it," Riley alerts through your earpiece, almost at the same time as you feel a pair of warm hands on your shoulders.

"We should have been paying more attention," Mac says, gently pulling you back and a little closer to him, not quite laying his claim but something like it. "but when she asks me to dance with her, I just can't say no." Mac pulls you back further, tucking you into his side as Gavin Whittaker comes to terms with the fact that the woman that had been climbing over him seconds beforehand is spoken for. Or at least is according to the falsified documents Matty provided before you left the phoenix.

She requested that you and Mac play a newlywed couple at the gala. Lovebirds that can't get enough of each other, spending all their wedding gift money. You had argued that you could work the case under entirely different circumstances, but Matty insisted this was the only way. Just like she had with the last case, and the one before that.

Mac was your best friend, your companionship dating back to childhood, lasting through military days where Mac spent his time as an EOD and you as a Medic. And now you were here, forced almost once a month to play his lover, or girlfriend or wife. You didn't hate it by any means. You were used to being close to him. It was easy playing with his hair while you spied on targets, or letting him trace patterns on your skin while you planted a bug underneath a table.

But your problem arose with just how good you both were at it. At just how easy it was for you to slip into that format, for you to love him and be loved by him in that way. Even if it was an act, at times it didn't feel like it.

The way he held you now, protectively against him as Gavin and his security eyed you closely wasn't an act. At least you knew that much.

"Who am I to stand in the way of a woman and her champagne?" The target says at last, a very false smile crawling onto his lips. You manage a bashful smile back, ducking your head into Mac's chest to feign innocence.

Mac shrugs, "I was thinking the same thing. Is there anything we can do to help with the cleanup?" he gestures to the mans damp suit, most of the liquid soaked up by the ends of your dress. Gavin shakes his head, clearly irritated and wishing for this interaction to be over. "Don't worry about it." He says, before he turns his back on both you and Mac, security enveloping him before anything more can be done.

"Great job guys." It's Matty, ever observant in your earpieces. A breath you didn't know you were holding in blows out of you, and even though Gavin has been ushered away by his guards, Mac presses a kiss to your hair, ever the doting husband. Or maybe that's just him, doting on you.

You become acutely aware of his arm around you, still holding you close even as the coast is clear. "I had no idea you were such a shitty dancer." You say to him, hand coming to rest atop his on your hip to let him know you're aware of his touch.

"Hey," he pinches you gently, never able to hurt you even as a joke. "that shitty dancing got you close enough to feel up Whittaker didn't it?" There's a hint of distain there, as if the thought of you having to do so makes him a little sick. You can read it in his expression, in those eyes.

"I saw that." you give him a gentle slap on chest. "Quit worrying about me, Angus."

His expression instantly changes to one of annoyance. "Please don't call me that."

"Angus." you say again for good measure, reveling in the roll of his eyes.

-

When you're back at the hotel room upstairs from the gala, Mac finally releases his hold on you as you slip into the room. Inside Jack, Riley and Bozer crowd around Riley's computer as they watch the feed she's hacked into.

"Bout time you two lovebirds got out of there." Jack's voice is teasing, as if he knows something you don't. Mac scowls at him as you slip further into the room, kicking off your heels by the couch and collapsing onto it.

"How much longer till they realize they're locked out of their own safe?" you ask, Riley turning her gaze to you.

She and Bozer used the codes you and Mac managed to get to change the password on the safe. And to take out the weapons that were inside. It's bought you a little more time to let the criminals gather, but you won't be able to apprehend them all on your own.

"I'd say they've already realized." Riley nods toward the screen, and sure enough, the security are scattering as Whittaker pulls out his phone from his pocket. He dials a number with frustration on his face.

"How far away is the swat team?" you ask, hiking up the end of your dress a little, so you can fold your legs up underneath you.

"Ten minutes out."

You sigh, and look up away from the screen. You're job is done here then, for the most part. You can feel Mac's eyes on you, warm and familiar. You wonder why he's staring, if he even knows he's doing it. You often catch him lost in thought, his gaze locked onto you quietly. You don't bother to call him out on it.

The group of you wait for the call from Matty to say the S.W.A.T team is in the building, and then you begin packing your things. This case was an easy one, all things considered. Or at least easy for your little crew. You've done much scarier things, and so despite the long hours of surveillance, the flights, interrogations and small fights, you don't feel all that tired.

The flight home isn't any more interesting. You sit at the back of the plane with Riley, while the boys whisper up the front. You don't bother trying to listen in, they're always talking about some nonsense that makes no sense to you. Riley nudges you with her shoulder, and you turn your attention to the woman beside you.

"So, you and Mac seemed pretty close today." of course. You should have seen this coming.

"Were we convincing?" you avoid what she's really implying, trying to keep the focus on the case itself.

"You convinced me. Though you two don't have to try very hard to be believable." she chuckles.

You frown, shuffling up in your seat. "We're just friends." You want your voice to come out stern and final. But it doesn't exactly work that way.

"Does he know that?" Riley glances over your shoulder at the men and when her eyes come back to you there's something accusatory there. "And are you sure you know that?"

You try not to let her words settle, pushing the thought of your feelings for Mac out of your mind. You've known him forever, too long to ruin it with romance. "We're friends. He knows that. I know that."

Riley nods, looking down at the phone in her hand. "Okay." You can tell she doesn't believe you for a second, and you watch her fingers type something out on her screen until you hear a ding from the other end of the plane. You turn to see Jack checking his phone and whip your head back around to Riley.

"Are you and Jack gossiping about this?"

Riley doesn't respond, barely flinches at your accusation. But you know it's true by the way her own phone dings a second later, and you look over your shoulder again to see Jack putting his away.

-

On the other side of the plane Jack is just as much on Mac's case as Riley is on yours.

"Brother, I'm not trying to get in your business, but don't you think it's about time you told her?"

Mac stiffens. He's been watching Jack text Riley for half the flight, knowing something like this was coming sooner or later. "Told her what?" he doesn't have to ask who Jack is talking about. There's no one else it could be.

"Told her you like her, that you wanna kiss that pretty face."

Mac's already shaking his head before Jack has even finished his sentence. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do." Jack nudges Mac's foot with his own. He looks toward Bozer for back up and it's now two against one.

"Not gonna lie man, I thought you two were already a thing." Bozer states, an awkward smile hanging from his lips. "I thought you were a thing when we were ten years old, then when we were thirteen, then when we started high school I thought for sure—"

Mac cuts him off, "We were never a thing."

"Well, maybe you should tell her that." Jack mumbles, his gaze flitting between the seats at the back of the plane where you sit, and where Mac resides in front of him.

"She knows we're friends, she's made it clear that's what she wants."

"Ah, so you don't want to be just friends, you're just following orders." Bozer latches onto Mac's almost confession as fast as it comes, Jack grinning ear to ear as Mac fumbles to clear things up.

"That's not what I meant, I just meant that she knows we're friends, I know we're friends. We are just friends."

But he's already put his foot in it now, and there's no way he's getting out.

-

The next case you end up on has you and Mac paired together again. You wander through the halls of a museum with him, pretending to be a couple of lovey-dovey sightseers. You need to find your way to the back office of the museum, and get access to the files under the desk. There should be a USB drive there, if you can make it.

You hold Mac close, one hand wrapped around his arm and the other hand locked with his. He can feel the warmth of your fingers through the fabric of his button up shirt, and wishes there was no barrier between your touch and his skin.

"The office should be just around this corner." you say, nudging him a little to the left to make sure he takes the turn. He just squeezes your hand in his in response, unable to let go.

Just as predicted the door is right there when you turn the corner. There's a large sign on it that reads 'staff only' in bold red lettering. a sign you ignore as soon as you see it.

Once you know the coast is clear you pull away from Mac and open the door, moving inside quickly as to not be detected. Mac enters after you, closing the door gently. Once you hear it click you move right toward the desk at the far side of the room. It's dark brown, wooden, and smells like vanilla incense.

You rummage through the drawers as quick as you can, Mac searching the drawers at the other end of the desk. "Can you see it?" you ask as you close the first drawer and move onto the one below it. Mac grunts, shaking his head. "Nothing yet."

Your time is running out, just like your luck, because in the next second Riley's voice cracks over your earpiece. "There's someone coming you two."

"How close are they?" Mac closes the drawer he was rummaging through, his eyes now on the door. "Close enough that you don't have time to leave. Is there a place inside where you guys can hide?" She sounds stressed, and you know she's trying to find a way to divert the attention of the approaching person as she speaks.

You don't respond, lurching forward to grab Mac's hand and pull him toward a closet near the door.

"You got six seconds guys." Riley's voice is frantic, and you open the closet door and shove Mac inside before you can even think about whether you'll both fit. He pulls you in after him, tugging you tight to his body as he shuts the door to the closet. Just in time. You hear the door to the office open, footsteps soft as they enter the room.

You try to steady your breathing as Mac holds you up, your feet uneven in the small space. You would have fallen right out of the closet by now if it weren't for Mac holding you in place. You try not to breathe, not to make any sound at all.

You're staring at Mac in the darkness of the closet, gripping the fabric of his shirt in your fists. His eyes are soft, melting into yours and you grip him a little tighter as your heart races. You push yourself up as much as you can with such little space to move, and place your lips next to Mac's ear. "Is now a bad time to tell you I'm claustrophobic?" your whisper is so quiet, barely there as footsteps move outside the closet.

Mac's arms wrap around you tighter, and he's so unbelievably warm up close. "I know you are. I've known since you punched Steve Lineman in the face in fifth grade for locking you in the P.E shed."

You don't say anything in response, too afraid of getting caught by whoever's outside. The footsteps begin to move further from the closet and the desk, heading toward the door. You try not to sigh in relief just yet.

One of Mac's hands moves further up your back, splaying out across your shoulder blades and your breath hitches. You want to kiss him you realize. This close, with his hands on you and his eyes looking right in yours. You want to kiss your best friend.

"You guys are in the clear." Riley's voice interrupts your thoughts, and it makes you jump, startled in his arms by the sudden sound of her voice.

Mac doesn't react for a moment, staring at you in the minimal light of the closet. Staring at you in the way he always does when he thinks you aren't looking, except this time you're face to face.

"We should get out of here." your voice is a whisper, despite the fact you don't need to anymore. Mac nods, his hold on you loosening.

"Yeah," he reaches behind you for the closet door and pushes it open, allowing you to step backward out into the light of the room.

You move back toward the desk to continue your search but Mac reaches out, his hand grazing yours. "I got it."

You turn as his hand slides into the pocket of his jeans, and he pulls out the USB drive you had been looking for. He must have just and only found it before you had to hide.

Unable to form words, your thoughts from the closet still running rampant in your head, you nod and move toward the door.

"Are we clear, Riles?" you hear Mac mutter behind you. She confirms the hall is empty a second later, and you dash out of the room before the heat that is building between you and Mac can worsen.

-

That night you awake with a start. You sit up straight in your bed, breathing heavy as you try to get control of yourself. You were dreaming about Mac. And not platonically.

This has happened a few times before, once or twice after a night on the town, or a long mission that ended in an embrace that lasted more than a few seconds.

But the dreams have been coming more frequently lately, reminding you just how much you're avoiding. You check the time on the alarm clock beside your bed, the blue numbers informing you of the early morning. You would try and go back to sleep, but you don't think there's any point. Your heart is racing and there's no way you're just going to fall into a dreamless sleep no matter how hard you try and wrangle your mind.

You slink out of bed, your feet padding on the carpeted floor as you move toward the kitchen for a glass of water. When you get there you come face to face with the picture of Mac that you have stuck to your fridge. He smiles back at you, all crinkled eyes and white teeth, making your stomach twist.

You almost reach out to touch the photo, but you stop yourself before you can go through with it. What is wrong with you? Your fingers itch with the need to call him and tell him to come over. You know if he was here he would brush your hair back from your face and make a stupid joke. You know he would make you feel better, he always does, no matter what's got you down.

You shake you head, trying to will the thoughts from your mind. You count the steps it takes to get a glass from the cupboard, to fill it with water and take it back to your room. The counting doesn't distract you as well as you hoped it would, but it was worth a shot. Is ruining your friendship with Mac worth it too?

You don't go back to sleep after that, instead opting to watch tv in the darkness until the sun decides to make her entrance. It's new years eve today, and this isn't exactly how you pictured your day starting. But nevertheless you move sluggishly toward the shower trying to avoid looking at your phone. You know sooner or later you'll receive a text from Mac, inviting you over tonight for Bozer's New Year Party.

Just the thought of him has your heart racing. But this has happened before. You'll get over it, you just need a minute. Or an hour. An eternity, maybe.

-

Mac has been oddly quiet Jack realizes, as he helps Bozer hang up happy new year banners around the house. Mac has been anything but helpful all day, getting in the way more than anything, which isn't like him.

"Earth to Mac." Jack calls, waving his hands in front of the blonde as he waits for a response. Mac snaps to attention, blinking rapidly.

"Sorry, what?"

Jack places a hand on Mac's shoulder, "We lost you there for a second bud. Honestly, you've been off in your own little world all day."

"Mac's always in his own little world." Bozer chimes in, climbing down from a step ladder. But Jack shakes his head.

"Not like this he ain't. What's up man?"

Mac doesn't want to say it, knows that if he does he'll never live it down. So he tells a half truth. "Y/N isn't answering my texts, I think I pissed her off the other day." He knows you're not mad at him, at least he thinks he does. But it's the closet he can get to saying, 'I'm going crazy thinking about someone who isn't interested in me the way I am in them.'

"Don't worry about it man, she's never been mad at you a day in her life." Jack squeezes Mac's shoulder, pulling out a chair to sit next to him. But Bozer pipes up with some not so helpful information.

"Not exactly true, you remember the time you blew up her favourite stuffed bear? She wanted you dead Mac, she told me as much. And in high school when you tried to leave her a valentine and it covered her whole locker in red glitter? And last year when you—"

"Not helping Boze." Mac cuts in, allowing his head to fall into his hands.

Jack chuckles, twisting a ring on his finger "You left her a valentine in high school?"

"I left her a valentine as friends." Mac clarifies, trying not to let Jack run with the idea. But Bozer has other plans, and has clearly been waiting to share all that he knows.

"He left her a valentine every year up until they left for the army together."

Mac wants to deny it but he can't. What Bozer doesn't know is that he still found ways to make you little valentine gifts even during deployment. He would write notes in the dirt, make you little heart out of pieces of scrap metal and paper. He never stopped making you valentines until he joined the phoenix with you. Until you became coworkers and it began to cross a line. Not that he wasn't already toeing the line between being your friend and flirting with you.

"Can we get back to the real conversation here? I texted her asking if she's coming tonight and she hasn't responded." With the line of work you're in Mac can't help but worry. What if somethings wrong? But also, with the way you looked at him the other night while trapped in that closet....he's worried it might be something he's done. Not that he did anything. But he wanted to, and you've always been able to read him like a book.

"She'll be here man, she always shows up for us." Jack clears his throat. "For you."

Mac lets the truth of those words set in, allowing a deep breath to fill his chest. You'll be here tonight, you'll show. You always do.

-

When you walk out onto the patio of Mac and Bozer's shared place, Mac almost knocks over his drink. He jolts to sit up straighter, elbow knocking the table as his beer rocks unstably in response. He ignores it in favor of looking at you.

You've dressed up for the night, in a dress that Mac has never seen before. It's getting hard for him to breathe. Is this what people mean when they say something has taken their breath away?

Jack gets up to greet you in an instant, calling a "Look what the cat dragged in." as he moves to pull you into a side hug, walking with you to the fire pit on the deck. Mac stays still, unable to think for the first time in his life.

-

"This is amazing Boze," you say, looking around at all the decorations laid out. The banners on the walls, the streamers and the fairy lights. It's gorgeous and perfect to end the year.

Bozer gets bashful at your words, "It's nothing, I mean, I only planned it for a couple of months."

You want to laugh, but you can tell he is entirely sincere with his claim. You choose to smile instead, trying to stop your gaze from wandering to Mac. But it's a lost cause. You can feel him looking right at you, and that alone draws your own attention to him.

His blonde hair is more of a mess than usual, as if he spent half the day running his hands through it. You wonder if he had trouble sleeping last night too, or if maybe those feelings are still unrequited.

"Did you help at all? With the decorations?" you ask him. You overthink the question instantly, what a stupid thing to say.

"Mac just sat around moping." Bozer cuts in before Mac can so much as open his mouth to respond. Your gaze cuts to him, and then back to Mac in confusion.

"What, why? Are you okay?" instantly your juvenile embarrassment is gone, in favor of worrying about him.

"Yeah, Boze is just—"

This time Jack cuts him off. "He needs to talk to you."

Your eyes widen in an instant, and you want to be sick at the thought of whatever it is he has to say. "Oh, um, okay."

Mac seems just as startled as you, putting down the beer he was holding and glaring at Jack. "He's being dramatic, nothing's wrong."

"Then why did you need to talk to me?" you manage to keep the shake from your voice, but you bet everyone can see it in your eyes anyway.

"I don't." Mac snaps, and then instantly checks himself for his tone. "I wasn't moping about anything."

You don't believe him, and you know he can tell. But you let it slide, and you turn your attention to Riley who out of sympathy has started up a new conversation.

You glance at Mac across the circle, and catch him watching you right back.

-

It's almost midnight. There's ten minutes left until a new year begins and you all start spitting resolutions you know you won't keep. You have a resolution you won't dare share. That you won't let your feelings for your best friend get in the way of work, or your friendship. You don't know if you'll be able to keep it though.

Mac has been pacing for the better part of an hour, having the occasional conversation with Jack and Bozer, but never once staying still. You wonder what he's thinking about, if he really does have something important to say to you.

You have a brief conversation with Matty about Jack's antics on the last mission, about the prank you might want to pull on him to get him back next time, and then Bozer is calling out.

"Five minutes everyone!"

Your eyes move to Mac in an instant. The thought enters your head for a moment. The image of kissing him at midnight searing itself into your mind before you push it away.

Mac meets your gaze, his pacing halts.

You've spoken about it before on past New Years. "What if we kissed at midnight just for the hell of it?" "There's no harm in it right?" But you'd never once gone through with it.

Mac puts down his drink. Runs a hand through his hair, and moves toward you.

-

Mac doesn't know what ghost is controlling him right now, but surely he's posessed. He moves toward you with purpose, covering the ground swiftly until he's close enough to touch you.

"I'm sorry about earlier." He starts. "And for the other day, in the closet."

"There's nothing to be sorry for." You manage, clutching your glass of Bozer's homemade punch a little tighter.

"You look..." Mac searches for a word and comes up empty.

"Thank you." you smile, and he does the same, as Bozer shouts to the group.

"two minutes!" he sounds so excited, so happy to be here with all of you.

Mac is trying to talk himself out of it. It won't work out the way he hopes it will. He shouldn't. He can't. But you're looking up at him, fingers wrapped around your drink, and Mac knows you well enough to read the expression on your face. You're thinking the same thing he is. It's the face you made when you had a crush on Thomas from 5th grade, the face you made when he teased you about it. The face you made when you saw Thomas go with someone else to the school dance, despite the fact you thought he was going to ask you. And the face you made when Mac asked you instead. Has it really been in front of him this whole time?

Bozer's voice is a distant buzzing in the background, counting down. Mac's hands clench at his sides, his body's last ditch effort at convincing his brain that this isn't a good idea.

"I'm not sorry, about what happened...almost happened in that closet." The words find their way out before he can stop them, not that he tried very hard to.

You place your drink on the ledge beside you, "I know."

You look beautiful tonight, the string lights Bozer hung bringing a sparkle to your eye. Your dress looks soft to the touch, and the more his thoughts spin, the harder it becomes to try and stop them.

He can hear Bozer's final countdown, ten seconds till midnight. You smile, all knowing at last. And Mac knows then that this will work out. Because you're taking a step toward him, reading his mind.

6, 5, 4...

Mac's head tilts to the side, one last examination of your expression. "Fuck it."

3, 2, 1.

Mac kisses you, hands coming up to the sides of your face. You let him kiss you, let him take his time. Mac doesn't know what he expected. He realizes now that kissing you has been on his mind for a decade, but it's not how he thought it would be. There's fireworks, real ones, exploding nearby in new years celebration, but the feeling Mac gets is a lot simpler. It's not world altering, or life changing. Kissing you feels normal, like this was always how it was meant to be. He fits with you, always has.

He pulls away, and suddenly all logical thought rushes back. He's just kissed his best friend, and everyone is watching. The countdown and cheering from all your friends has died down in favor of stunned silence. They all stand around with mouths agape, and you stand before him, hands on his chest, with a similar expression.

"Sorry." it's all he can think of to say, the silence deafening.

You stand very still before him, eyes locked onto him and nothing else. He opens his mouth to apologize again, when you grip his shirt tight in your fingers and pull him down to you. "Just be quiet." you mumble.

The kiss you press to his lips is softer than the one before, as if you're communicating with him through it.

Slow claps echo around the patio, gaining speed as you both break apart. Jack is grinning ear to ear, his claps getting louder and more obnoxious by the second.

"Alright, alright, shows over." Mac says, raising one hand in defense. But his other hand has a tight grip on your waist, not able to let go of the moment just yet.

"No way," you say, and Mac follows your gaze to Matty and Riley, passing money around. "You gambling rats."

Mac smiles, because despite the words you don't sound mad at all. You sound content, and so is he. He looks down at you, at your hand over his on your hip.

"We're gonna talk about this later." you mumble, because you do have a lot to discuss. How this is going to work, how you turn a friendship into something more.

Mac thinks that can wait. For now, he wants another drink.

"Happy new year." he leans down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, feeling the warmth of your skin. He has no idea how this will work, but he doesn't regret that it happened. It's been a long time coming after all.