The ceiling in your childhood bedroom still had glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to it.

Your dad had put them there when you were little, after you’d become absolutely convinced there was a monster living under your bed. He’d explained—with the complete confidence only a father could muster—that monsters despised starlight. The stars would keep him away and protect you.

Four-year-old you had believed him instantly. 

Nearly twenty years later, the stars didn’t glow anymore. They’d faded into a dull yellow, several of them curling away from the ceiling where the glue had finally surrendered. They weren’t particularly magical these days.

They were still the first thing you looked at in the morning, though, rolling over with a sigh at the profound inconvenience of being awake.

You’d be lying if you said waking up alone, in the cramped twin bed you’d slept in for most of your life instead of the double bed you'd shared with Kevin, wasn’t still a little disorienting.

Fuck. It’d been six months. You really should be over it by now. 

This morning, though, loneliness was secondary. Whatever you had done to deserve a throbbing, eyes-almost-falling-out-of-your-skull headache was much more immediate. Vodka cranberries were apparently the culprit, though you couldn’t remember them ever hurting this badly before.

You’d at least had the foresight to close your blackout curtains before collapsing into bed, sparing yourself the particular cruelty of morning sunlight. Unfortunately, every other step of your nightly routine had been forgotten about. 

You could feel last night’s makeup sticking to your skin, half of it probably decorating your pillowcase by now. The water bottle on your nightstand was empty, so your mouth felt like you’d swallowed a handful of sand and had no way to fix it. 

And you were warm. Inhumanly so. 

You usually slept naked—or, since moving back home, in an oversized T-shirt and underwear. Feeling around and looking down at yourself, you discovered you were wearing a fucking hoodie. A thick, oversized one that smelled so good it distracted you from your headache for the few seconds you took to inhale it properly. 

Clean laundry. Something faintly woodsy you couldn’t quite identify.

Male cologne. 

You frowned hard. Why were you wearing a mystery hoodie? And why could you not stop smelling it? The answer hovered frustratingly out of reach. A memory scratched at the edge of your mind before disappearing again.

Suddenly, your bedroom door creaked open, hallway light spilling in and brightening the room in a way that felt personally offensive. A voice followed, sweet enough to be irritating at such an early hour.

“Morning, Starlight.” 

Oh no. Mom.

You groaned loudly and turned over in bed, burying your face in your pillow.

The mattress dipped beside you as she sat down, her hand finding your arm under the blanket and rubbing up and down in a way that would have been comforting if you weren’t so warm and annoyed.

You cracked one eye open and looked at her sideways.

“Oh, baby. You look like a little panda bear.” 

You closed your eye again.

Your mother laughed quietly before brushing a piece of hair out of your face, rubbing her thumb beneath one of your eyes, collecting yesterday’s mascara. It came away smudged black.

“What time is it?” you mumbled, voice rough and breaking. 

“Almost noon.” 

You groaned again, this one deeper and more offended than the last. Half a day wasted, and for what reason? What you strongly suspected was the worst hangover of your entire life and nothing else. 

“So…” your mother said, still smiling that annoyingly gentle smile she seemed genetically incapable of turning off. “Did you have fun last night? Were Cara’s bridesmaids and friends nice?”

Fun. That didn't really seem like the right word. It honestly never had.

Even when the overly stylized Evite for Cara’s bachelorette had landed in your inbox two months ago, your first instinct had been to invent a contagious illness. The only reason you’d agreed to go in the first place was because Miriam had promised she’d be there too.

Then yesterday she’d called and told you she was sick. And not even a pretend one like you’d thought about. She genuinely had a high fever and was overall miserable. You’d never been more jealous. 

Suddenly you were on your own with a bride you hadn’t been close to since you were a child and a group of women who all knew each other far better than they knew you.

So, no. It hadn’t sounded fun in theory. It certainly hadn’t been fun in practice.

You lay there staring at the faded stars on your ceiling, trying to piece the evening back together. All you could remember was flashes of things happening around you, like you’d been there but not in the memories personally. 

Getting to Cara’s house for pre-drinks.

Realizing every single bridesmaid and Cara worked together. The entire group laughing over office gossip you couldn’t possibly understand because they all worked in the same HR department.

The same HR department where Kevin just so happened to be department head.

Then you’d arrived at Club Satine. The first time you’d been back since you were eighteen and had successfully snuck in with Miriam’s fake ID.

Remarkably, six years later, it was still a complete shithole. Sticky floors, furniture that was falling apart, but pretty cheap drinks. The only people who frequented it were still college kids who couldn’t hold their liquor.

Honestly, it was a terrible place for a bachelorette. Then again… Maybe it suited Cara.

You couldn’t remember much more from inside the club. Just that you’d been lonely in a crowded room, none of the girls there particularly interested in talking to you. So you’d cried in the bathroom, called Miriam for help, and then ended up being driven home. 

By… Fraser. Oh, god. How could you forget about Fraser?

“Oh…” you said slowly, staring blankly at the ceiling. “No, yeah. We had fun.”

Your mother hummed, not looking overly convinced.

You liked to think you were a reasonably convincing liar, but you'd never once succeeded in lying to the woman who’d raised you. She could read your face better than you could. Even from the smallest, unstable tremble of your bottom lip 

Instead of pushing, she reached beneath the blankets for your hand. The moment her thumb brushed across your skin, you hissed.

She immediately frowned. “What’s this?” your mother questioned, seeing the red mark burned into your skin, gently turning your wrist over in her hands. “Sweetheart, it looks painful.” 

“I don’t…” You stared at the mark as though it belonged to someone else. “I don’t really remember.” 

Which wasn’t entirely a lie.

You weren’t about to tell your mother you’d somehow managed to burn your hand on somebody else’s cigarette. You still had absolutely no idea how you’d accomplished that. You hated smokers. You actively crossed the street to avoid walking through cigarette smoke. Yet somehow you’d ended up in the smoking area last night. Apparently trying to fit in had made you abandon several deeply held personal principles.

“You don’t remember getting injured?” she pressed. 

“I don’t know.”

“Y/N.”

“I said I don't know.”

The doorway filled with another figure before your mother could launch into a second round of questioning.

Your father stepped into the room carrying a steaming mug of tea, wearing his gardening clothes. There was dirt smudged across one knee of his jeans, and one work glove was sticking out of his back pocket. Judging by the state of him, he’d been outside for hours already, happily preparing the garden for autumn.

“Stop pestering her with questions, honey,” he said mildly. “She’s obviously hungover.”

“Morning, Dad,” you mumbled. 

“Morning, Starlight.” He crossed the room and offered you the mug with a small smile. “I brought you some tea.”

You accepted it with both hands. “Thank you.” 

Your father had always believed every problem in life could be improved by tea. Not miraculously solved, but generally improved. A philosophy you’d always respected.

You took a careful sip, the warmth spreading delightfully, before you set it down on your nightstand. You could drink piping hot tea in the middle of a heatwave, just because you liked it. It wasn’t the same as being overly hot from sleeping in a hoodie—Fraser’s hoodie, you were suddenly reminded. That was why you were wearing it.

You looked up to see your parents exchange a glance. The kind that never, ever meant anything good.

You narrowed your eyes at them. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Mom. Dad.”

Your father suddenly became very interested in the framed family photos hanging on your bedroom wall. Coward.

“Okay, okay.” Your mother folded her arms, looking entirely too innocent. “Who was the man that drove you home last night? I woke up when the headlights came through the window, and I didn’t recognize the car.”

Your stomach immediately sank.

Had she seen… that? Had she watched you proposition a complete stranger on the front porch? Had she watched you die of embarrassment immediately afterward when he politely turned you down? 

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Actually, was it considered rejection if it was the only decent thing to do? Maybe not. Fraser had done exactly what he should’ve done. If anything, you’d probably be a lot more miserable this morning if he’d accepted. But it still kind of hurt to have someone tell you no that directly. 

“It wasn't somebody's husband, was it?” your mother continued. “Or a boyfriend? I still think Cara’s too young to get married, but maybe all her friends are early bloomers.”

“Mom.” 

“What? Let me be a little nosy.” 

“It was one of Oliver’s friends,” you explained. “Miriam was too sick to get me, so she sent someone else.” 

Both of your parents perked up immediately, even if your intention had been to swiftly brush it all off. 

“Oliver’s friend?” your mother repeated. “So… a hockey player?” 

You immediately yanked the blanket over your face. “Mom, please shut up.” 

“No, no, no.” The mattress dipped as your father sat at the foot of the bed. “Even I’m interested now. Did a Bruin drive you home?” 

“Oh my god, Dad.” 

Your parents weren’t exactly hockey fans. They were Oliver fans—Miriam’s boyfriend and some sort of coach for the Bruins. 

As far as you understood it, he mostly helped very large men lift heavier things in a gym somewhere beneath Warrior Ice Arena. That hadn’t stopped the NHL from becoming this glamorous, almost mythical place in your parents’ minds whenever Oliver talked about his work.

“Was it one of the famous ones?” your mother asked.

“Honey,” your father said to her. “Do you know how little that narrows it down?”

Through the safety of your blanket, you heard your mother mutter something about there being a very significant difference between someone like David Pastrňák driving you home and a scratched fourth-liner.

You considered moving out. Immediately. You’d only been back here for half a year, and you did find it immensely comforting to spend so much time with your parents again, but this was where you drew the line. 

The blanket disappeared as your mother tugged it away from your face. The grin on her face was downright dangerous. 

“He was handsome, wasn’t he?”

You made a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a scream. “Oh my God, you’re disgusting.” 

“He absolutely was,” she concluded from nothing. “Does he have a name?” 

“I’d rather die a violent death than tell you,” you muttered. “Like, headfirst into a human-sized meat grinder like those kids in The Wall.” 

There was a beat of silence, then your mother looked at your father.

“Jeez, you made her morbid.” 

“I only introduced her to good music,” he defended, putting his hands up. “The rest she did herself.” 

You buried your face back into the blankets with a muffled groan. “Can you both please leave my bedroom now?” 

Your father pushed himself to his feet with an exaggerated sigh, setting a hand over his heart. “I think we should respect her boundaries,” he announced solemnly. “Otherwise she’ll threaten to move back out tomorrow.”

You peeked out from beneath the blanket just enough to glare at him. “I’m apartment hunting, and you know that!”

“Mm-hm,” your mother hummed, unconvinced.

Your father only grinned as he headed toward the door. Your mother followed, though considerably less willingly, casting one last suspicious glance over her shoulder as if she might still be able to extract Fraser’s full legal name from you through sheer mind reading. 

“I’ll find out someway. I’ll call Miriam if I have to.”

You let yourself fall backward onto the mattress. Defeated. Utterly, completely, humiliatingly defeated.

You could still hear your parents bickering softly in the hallway when your mother suddenly reappeared around the doorframe.

“You know, my little Starlight,” she said. The nickname landed exactly where it always did—right in the center of your chest. Despite all evidence to the contrary, her voice had turned gentle. “If he got you home safe and with a smile on your face, I like him already.”

You opened your mouth but quickly closed it again. 

Because there were approximately a thousand reasons why that statement was ridiculous. She didn’t know Fraser. Not even his name. And yet, you thought back to him buying you a cheeseburger. The parking lot. The way he’d driven around for who knew how long because he’d apparently been too polite to wake you up. You were still wearing his hoodie, for fuck’s sake. Not even taking it off despite being too warm. 

Your mother knew an uncomfortable amount about Kevin, and not once had she spoken positively about him. 

She smiled knowingly at you. “You like him, don’t you?” 

“Get out!” 

The moment she finally closed the door, teasingly laughing, you lasted approximately three seconds before you lunged for your phone on the nightstand. At least Drunk You had possessed enough common sense to plug it into the charger before passing out. That was another singular point to her and her behavior. 

You unlocked it, finger hovering over the Instagram icon. 

You were twenty-two years old. Not fifteen.

Looking up a guy online after meeting him once was... well, it wasn’t good. It was bordering on creepy. Socially questionable, at the very least.

Then again, you’d spent half the night talking to him about things you didn’t talk to anyone about. You’d stolen his hoodie. And, if your fragmented memories could be trusted, you’d also asked him to have sex with you.

Maybe finding his Instagram wasn't actually the most embarrassing thing you’d done in the last twenty-four hours.

That thought made you feel slightly better when your fingers started moving over the screen. Finding Fraser wasn’t difficult. He was the only account Miriam followed with that name. Actually, you’d never met anyone else with the first name Fraser before. It felt impossibly Canadian.

Was he Canadian? You really should’ve asked him more about himself instead of only telling your whole life story to him. Give and take, and all that. 

His profile was exactly what you’d expected from a hockey player. Not that you’d perused too many, but it just looked averagely bland. Public and professional. A profile picture in gear that somehow managed to look both friendly and intimidating at the same time.

Last chance to stop being weird…

You scrolled through his photos anyway. 

Bruins pictures, Team Canada pictures. So he was Canadian. A handful of pictures in an aggressively blue jersey from what you assumed had been his old team. A picture of him outside a Chevrolet dealership with that stupidly big truck of his. 

It looked capable of towing a small village.

And was incredibly comfortable to fall asleep in. 

Then you found his vacation photos. Lots of them, actually. Of him fishing, and hiking, and fishing again. Apparently Fraser’s natural habitat was somewhere outdoors, preferably surrounded by enough trees to get lost in.

While absently scrolling through a carousel of vacation photos, you suddenly stopped at one of him in a…lake, maybe? Ocean? You weren’t exactly looking at the water. Your thumb stopped moving, the other one finding your mouth, gnawing at loose skin. 

You pinched the screen and zoomed in before you could stop yourself.

He only had, what? One, two, three… Eight. An actual, honest-to-god eight-pack. 

Heat rushed to your face. You had propositioned a man with an eight-pack set of abs. Not just a man, but a genuinely kind man who’d spent an entire night taking care of you for no obvious reason. And who, as it turned out, looked like that without a shirt on. 

Sober You would’ve needed approximately six months of emotional preparation before even saying hello to someone that attractive. Drunk You had obviously skipped directly to “Do you want to come inside and fuck me?”

You made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper before letting the phone slip from your fingers. It landed squarely on your forehead with a dull thunk before falling down on the mattress. 

You deserved that.

The glow-in-the-dark stars overhead swam slightly as you stared at the ceiling.

“Oh my god,” you whispered to absolutely nobody. “I can never see him again.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Apartment hunting was a strange thing.

Not only because every listing online lied—they always did, with remarkable confidence—but because you were somehow expected to walk into four walls and decide whether you could imagine becoming a person inside them.

Whether you could picture yourself making dinner in that kitchen every evening for the foreseeable future. Whether the bedroom would still feel comforting six months from now or if you’d eventually discover the upstairs neighbor enjoyed learning the drums at midnight and that the downstairs one had night terrors. 

Whether you’d invite friends over because you were proud of the place or if it would quietly become somewhere you only slept between work shifts and grocery runs.

Whether you could afford the rent or if it would slowly but surely ruin you.

That last one felt especially important in Boston.

And if you didn’t make up your mind immediately, someone else would.

Apparently that was adulthood.

Or at least adulthood after accidentally moving back in with your parents at twenty-two. You’d never actually lived by yourself before. Home had been your parents’ house until your last year of high school. After that, there had been Kevin.

The two of you had stayed in Boston after graduation, sharing a small one-bedroom apartment while you finished undergrad together. It hadn’t been fancy, but you’d spent almost four years turning it into something that felt unmistakably yours. Books organized exactly how you wanted them. Plants that somehow stayed alive despite your complete inability to remember watering them. Fabrics that permanently smelled faintly of your favorite laundry detergent. (It had to be jasmine-scented; otherwise you’d get upset.) 

You’d built a little nest.

Which had made dismantling it all the more humiliating.

Nothing quite prepared you for standing in the middle of your own living room arguing over who technically owned the toaster. Or insisting that a salad bowl had originally been yours because your mother had bought it for you three Christmases ago from some expensive brand.

Discovering that heartbreak apparently involved spreadsheets and cardboard boxes had never been in your plans. 

And suddenly you were back in your childhood bedroom, surrounded by the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, the Peloton bike your mom had put in there for storage, and not much space for anything else you loved. 

Life, it turned out, had a funny habit of circling back to where it started.

Today was supposed to be an attempt at breaking that circle.

The viewing itself felt almost too good to be true. One of Miriam’s coworkers had recently moved out, and the landlord had agreed to let you see the apartment before officially listing it.

“A little insider advantage,” Miriam had called it.

Seeing it now, you weren’t entirely convinced the landlord had been doing anyone a favor. Because if you stood in the middle of the studio—and you immediately did—you could see almost everything without turning your head. A small kitchen, empty space for a bed and living room furniture, a bathroom door, and some closets. 

You tilted your head. “I’m fairly certain one could watch leftovers spin in the microwave without leaving bed.”

Miriam stepped into the apartment behind you, softly laughing under her breath. 

Looking past that, the apartment wasn’t actually that bad. About four hundred and fifty square feet. Original hardwood floors that squeaked in exactly the sort of way estate agents described as charming. High ceilings made the room feel larger than it actually was. Every wall had received what could only be described as the landlord special—approximately fourteen coats of aggressively bright white paint. Light switches, trim, and one suspicious-looking screw had all been painted over for good measure.

“There certainly can’t be a paint shortage in Boston,” you said, running a finger over a tiny drip of dried paint near the window frame. Even the hinges on it had somehow become white in the process.

The windows overlooked the street below. Across from it sat a pizza place with a flickering neon sign that buzzed every few seconds like it was trying to remember whether functioning was actually worth the effort. 

It definitely wasn’t just a front for money laundering. 

You watched a delivery driver disappear inside with an empty insulated bag and come back out a minute later without any pizzas. Well, that certainly didn’t help its case.

Miriam laughed before turning slowly in a circle. She planted herself in the middle of the apartment, arms folded, studying the room with surprising concentration.

You mirrored her without really meaning to, slowly rotating in place like you were trying to map out where your entire life would fit.

The answer, so far, seemed to be: not too comfortably.

Your bed would have to go against one wall. A bookshelf against another. If you wanted a couch, it would probably have to be one of those tiny ones that looked uncomfortable even from afar. You wondered where you'd put your telescope before realizing the answer was probably nowhere.

That one stung a little.

There was an in-unit washing machine tucked behind a folding door. A tiny dishwasher. Enough cupboards for one person who didn’t own seventeen different novelty mugs.

So, not you, in other words. But little luxuries were still worth celebrating. 

Maybe you could keep your least favorite mugs at your parents’ place still. Next to the Peloton or something. It would probably appreciate the company because you couldn’t remember anyone ever using it. 

There was potential here.

Potential was a dangerous word. Potential was hope wearing a disguise—a cheap fake mustache and a fedora. Potential had kept you in a relationship for longer than it should have.

You couldn’t live in potential, could you? 

Then again, nobody moved into a place because it already held all their favorite memories. Maybe every apartment started as potential. Empty cupboards. Blank walls. Rooms that didn’t feel like yours until enough soup dumplings, New Girl episodes, and batches of your dad’s snickerdoodles had been consumed. 

Maybe that was the whole point.

You weren’t sure if that thought comforted you or terrified you.

Leaving a place where you were loved without conditions was unsurprisingly very difficult. Who would’ve thought?

Your parents never complained that you’d moved back in. Your mom still knocked on your bedroom door every morning even though she’d long ago stopped needing to wake you up for school. Your dad still made an extra cup of tea whenever he made one for himself. They’d somehow managed to make returning home feel less like failing and more like taking a very needed long detour.

“It’s not bad, right?” you asked Miriam eventually.

She looked around one more time before shaking her head, smiling a little.

“There’s potential for it to be really cozy,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the bay window as if she could already see the finished version of the place. “Imagine it with all your posters and trinkets. You could have a book nook in the bay window.”

You glanced at the window again, and for a second you could almost see it too. Cushions piled up in the corner. A blanket thrown over the sill. One of your books open in your lap while the city moved on outside, indifferent and busy and somehow comforting in its own way.

It was a nice image.

“I think you have to take it,” Miriam went on, her tone turning practical. “Otherwise you’ll be in your parents’ house until you’re thirty-five.”

You made a face. “That feels dramatic.”

“It’s not dramatic if it’s true.”

“But I’m comfortable there,” you said, because that was the problem, really. Comfort had a way of disguising itself as permanence. “I have my own room. My dad feeds me. My mom drives me to work. It’s not exactly a hardship.”

“I know,” Miriam said, and her voice softened a little. “I know it isn’t.”

You looked down at the floor, at the scuffed hardwood and the faint white paint on the baseboards, and tried not to think too hard about how much you liked being looked after. About how easy it was to let yourself stay where you were wanted after not having felt that for a long time. 

Miriam must have seen the expression on your face, because she let out a small breath and added, “Heck, I’d want to live with your parents.”

That pulled a laugh out of you, brief and helpless.

“They’d probably let you if you asked nicely,” you said, because it was true and because the image was already forming in your head whether you wanted it to or not.

Within a week she’d have a personalized placemat at the dinner table, and by Christmas there’d be an embroidered stocking hanging over the fireplace with her name stitched across the top.

Everyone they loved simply became part of the furniture eventually. It was one of the many reasons leaving them felt far more complicated than simply signing a lease. 

Miriam watched you for another second before clapping her hands together once, as though officially concluding the emotional portion of the afternoon.

“Enough of the sentimentality now,” she announced. “We have other things to talk about.”

Your stomach gave a small, unpleasant drop. That tone never meant anything good.

You drifted away from her and toward the kitchen, partly because you suddenly needed something to do with your hands and partly because standing still while Miriam was about to interrogate you felt impossible. The apartment was small enough that there was nowhere to really escape to anyway.

You reached for the nearest cupboard and opened it with exaggerated interest. It was completely empty, save for a lone shelf with a ring-shaped water stain that suggested someone had once left something wet on it. Fascinating, really.

“Like what?” you mumbled. 

“Like, how was Fraser?” 

Your hand stalled on the cabinet door before you slowly looked back over your shoulder. “The guy you sent to drive me home because you abandoned me?”

“The very same.” Miriam nodded. 

You let the cupboard swing shut with a soft click before opening the one beside it, apparently determined to complete a thorough inspection. 

“He was… nice,” you said at last, with all the enthusiasm of someone describing bleak weather. “Nothing more to say.”

Miriam leaned one hip against the counter, folding her arms. “Just nice?”

“That's all I’ve got.” You shrugged. 

It wasn’t.

You actually had plenty to say. That was the problem. Fraser hadn’t left your brain since you woke up in his hoodie almost a week ago now. He had lodged himself there with the irritating persistence of a song you couldn’t quite get out of your head. 

He’d been patient. Gentle. Funny in a quiet sort of way. He’d bought you a cheeseburger without making you feel guilty for craving something unhealthy. He’d called Kevin a dickhead despite knowing almost nothing about him, simply because he recognized you probably needed someone to say it.

He’d spent an entire evening making a complete stranger feel safe. And then he’d watched that complete stranger drunkenly proposition him in her parents’ driveway.

Calling him nice was the understatement of a lifetime. 

Miriam watched you carefully, reading the hesitation you were trying so desperately to hide. “So,” she said, her tone turning pointedly casual, “you’d be okay going to the same party as him on Thursday?”

Your head snapped up. “What party?”

“Oliver and I are hosting a team party,” she said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “Start of the hockey season and all that.”

“Oh, uhm.” You let your fingertips find the edge of the laminate countertop and traced one of the seams without really seeing it. The surface was cool beneath your skin, the motion giving your hands something to do. “No?”

Miriam lifted her brows. “And why not?” 

“You know I’ve never liked those types of parties—”

“No.” She cut you off with a firm shake of her head, her ponytail swaying. “You didn’t come to parties with hot hockey players because your idiot ex-boyfriend couldn’t handle you having fun without him.”

You exhaled through your nose, slow and quiet. “I could’ve gone if I’d wanted to,” you argued, admittedly very weakly. “But I never wanted to.” 

“He isolated you.”

“Miriam—”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The words came out more firmly than you’d intended. Not because you were angry with her, but because there was an uncomfortable amount of truth tangled up in what she'd said. You’d spent so long adjusting your life around Kevin’s preferences that eventually they’d started feeling like your own. Skipping parties. Declining invitations. Quietly saying no to people before he’d even had the chance to tell you to.

You’d told yourself you simply weren’t interested. It was easier than admitting your world had slowly become smaller without you ever caring or even noticing.

Miriam saw the shift in your face immediately. She always did. The edge in her expression softened almost at once, her shoulders easing. 

“This is, like, a family thing,” she said gently, her voice losing its bite. “It’ll just be Oliver, some of the guys with their wives, me. And good food. You’ll be home by 10 p.m. I promise.”

“I still can’t go, I have work the next day—”

“I know you don’t because you work that weekend.” 

You let out a long-suffering sigh and tipped your head back for a second, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer some kind of mercy. Why did she know your schedule? 

“I just…” You trailed off and wandered toward the laundry closet, sliding the folding door open more because you needed to move than because you had any real interest in the appliances. “I still don’t think I should be there.”

The closet was barely bigger than a broom cupboard, but it held a stacked washer and dryer that looked almost absurdly fancy compared to the rest of the apartment. That was actually a huge positive. 

“Oh, look.” You pointed into the closet, your voice brightening with false discovery. “It has a dryer too.”

“Star.”

“Invite me to any other party,” you continued. “Just not with hockey players.”

“Y/N…” Miriam said, and now there was caution in her voice. You could hear her shifting her weight behind you, the faint scrape of her shoe against the floor. You kept your eyes on the dryer door, stubbornly refusing to turn around. “…did something happen with Fraser?”

The question landed with such precision that your entire body went still.

“Oh my god.” Miriam’s eyes went impossibly wide. “Something did happen—” 

“Nothing happened!” you blurted out, too quickly and far too loudly. You winced immediately, because that alone probably answered half the question. “I was just drunk and embarrassing, so I don’t really want to see him again, okay?”

Miriam stared at you for a long moment, her expression shifting from surprise to suspicion to something far more knowing. “Star,” she said slowly, “what did you do?”

“Nothing.” You shook your head, too fast. “I did nothing.”

“That,” Miriam said, pointing at you, “is the least convincing sentence you’ve ever said in your entire life.”

You let out a breath that was half laugh, half groan, and leaned your forehead briefly against the doorframe of the laundry closet. The wood was cool and slightly rough against your skin. For a second, you just stood there, eyes closed, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“I just…” Your shoulders slumped. “I don't want to see him again, okay?”

“Why not?” Miriam asked gently. “He’s ridiculously sweet.”

A quiet, incredulous laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “You don’t think I noticed that?” 

If Fraser had been arrogant, the kind of athlete who expected the world to revolve around him, you could’ve filed the entire evening away as an unfortunate story and moved on. Instead, he’d been impossibly kind. He’d treated you with a patience you hadn’t earned, which only made remembering the end of the night that much worse.

Miriam watched your face change in real time. Understanding settled over her features with almost frightening ease, her eyes widening just slightly as the pieces clicked into place. “Oh…” she sighed. “Little Star.”

You groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

A smile spread across her face, warm and teasing. She pushed off the counter and crossed the small kitchen in two easy steps, bumping her shoulder lightly against yours in a gesture so familiar it almost made you feel worse.

“But you are my little Star,” she said. “Maybe Fraser’s too, huh?”

Heat rushed straight to your face so fast it was almost dizzying. “Oh my God,” you muttered, horrified. “You’re unbelievable.”

Miriam only laughed, clearly delighted with herself.

You grabbed your bag from the counter before she could say anything else, already heading for the front door with more speed than dignity. The apartment suddenly felt suffocatingly small and warm. 

“Come on,” you deflected, reaching for the handle. “Let’s get out of this prison cell before I change my mind about it.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

You’d been at the party for exactly seventy-three minutes.

Not that you were counting. Okay. You were absolutely counting. The digital clock blinking steadily beneath the television even made it ridiculously easy. Every time you accidentally looked over, there it was. Quietly informing you exactly how much social interaction you’d survived.

Seventy-three minutes felt like a respectable amount. Long enough that no one could accuse you of showing your face and immediately leaving. Short enough that you could still invent an emergency involving your imaginary goldfish and leave. You didn’t own a goldfish, but you were willing to buy one if necessary.

Just in case.

Oliver and Miriam’s house had settled into that comfortable stage every good party eventually reached, where nobody was trying very hard anymore.

People had abandoned any attempt at sitting politely around the living room. Someone was perched on the arm of the couch. Two of Oliver’s colleagues had somehow ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor despite every chair in the house being available. Empty bottles and cans had started collecting on the coffee table, alongside bowls of chips that were starting to look empty. 

It was a little noisy, but it wasn’t overwhelming. Not like Club Satine. That place was loud in an aggressive sort of way, like the music wanted to physically rearrange your internal organs. That had been your last public outing unless you counted work, or the grocery store, or the little coffee place closest to your parents’ place. 

This wasn’t like that. It was familiar noise.

Oliver’s laugh echoed through the house every few minutes, impossible to mistake for anyone else’s. Music drifted lazily from a speaker somewhere in the kitchen, soft enough that conversations naturally drowned it out. Miriam had somehow convinced half the party to participate in a Mario Kart tournament, but you weren’t entirely sure she’d actually convincedthem so much as just told them they were participating.

She’d always been terrifyingly good at video games. Finding that out had genuinely altered your relationship with her. It was difficult to respect someone who smiled so sweetly while repeatedly driving you off Rainbow Road. Being four years younger than her probably hadn’t helped your chances either. She’d had far too much time to perfect her craft.

You watched her celebrate another victory from across the room, both arms triumphantly thrown into the air while some guy accused her of cheating with absolutely no evidence whatsoever.

You smiled despite yourself at the view. It felt safe, almost. Coming had probably been the right decision. You were still deciding.

In theory, this party should’ve been easy for you. You didn’t recognize that many people, but you knew someone who knew everyone. And for the first hour, Miriam hadn’t left your side for even a minute. 

She’d introduced you to people whose names immediately evaporated from your memory, periodically checked whether you wanted another drink, and subtly steered conversations whenever she noticed you getting trapped with someone who enjoyed hearing themselves talk a little too much.

Eventually, though, she’d wandered off. Just released you into the wild. Probably because she’d grown tired of babysitting a fully grown woman. 

You couldn’t exactly blame her. You were the one who’d insisted you’d be perfectly fine socializing without her. 

And you were fine, mostly. Unless you counted every time you caught Fraser’s eyes across the room and had to magically act busy even if you weren’t.

Which was annoying.

Not because he was doing anything. He obviously wasn’t. He was just there, existing with that maddeningly sweet expression of his, as if he had no idea what kind of effect he had on your ability to think like a normal person.

You’d been trying very hard not to look at him directly for the last thirteen minutes you’d been alone. So when you spotted the stack of empty beer bottles on the coffee table, you took the opportunity immediately. It was a task. A useful one. Something with a beginning, middle, and end. You gathered them up before you could overthink it and headed for the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to not stand alone like a loser anymore. 

The kitchen was brighter than the living room, all warm overhead light and cluttered countertops. Someone had left a bowl of lime wedges beside the sink. A half-open bag of ice sat sweating onto a tea towel. The recycling bin was already half full, which made you feel slightly better about the bottles in your hands. You weren’t the only one doing this. 

You placed them down carefully, not wanting to smash the glass and also get remnants of beer all over your hands. 

You were still standing there, pretending the bottles required your full attention, when you noticed Oliver already posted up at the kitchen table with a few of his friends, all of them half-sprawled in their chairs. He caught sight of you almost immediately and lifted a hand in a sharp little beckoning motion, grinning. 

“There’s my favorite cousin!” 

“I’m not your cousin, Oliver,” you argued, but you were already walking over. 

“No,” he agreed easily, throwing an arm around your waist anyway, pulling you closer to the table. “But I don’t have any cousins, so I’ve proudly decided to steal all of Miriam’s.”

You laughed despite yourself, because it was impossible not to when Oliver was in one of his moods. “Even Cara?”

He made a face, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Okay. All but Cara.” 

A couple of the guys at the table snickered into their drinks. One of them looked vaguely relieved that Oliver had found someone else to bother. Another looked like he was already regretting whatever conversation had been happening before you arrived.

You were just about to make some comment about your deeply questionable family tree when you noticed movement behind Oliver, near the far counter.

Fraser.

Not close enough to be part of the circle at the table, but not far enough away to be accidental either. He was standing with one shoulder angled toward the fridge, talking to someone you didn’t recognize—some woman with a ponytail and a paper plate balanced in one hand—while he held a bottle loosely at his side.

You tried not to look directly at him.

Which, naturally, made you aware of him in every possible way.

The shape of his profile when he turned his head. The low murmur of his voice. The fact that he was clearly listening to the room even while he was speaking to someone else. The fact that he was close enough to hear Oliver if he wanted to.

Which was unfortunate for you. Very, very unfortunate.

“We needed a girl’s opinion, Star! Help us solve a problem,” he suddenly exclaimed, dragging your attention back to the table. 

“Oh, no.” You tried taking half a step backward, but Oliver’s arm was still around you, making escape impossible. “Don’t involve me.”

Oliver simply tightened his arm around you, then pointed toward the group like he was presenting expert testimony to a jury.

“Do girls fake orgasms because they get bored or because they know they’ll never get there? Like, are some guys just that bad?” 

You stared at him blankly. Nobody at the table appeared particularly surprised he’d asked. That, somehow, was almost worse than the question itself.

“What the fuck, Oliver?” you demanded, uncomfortably laughing. 

“What?” he asked, all innocence and no shame.

“Is that what you’ve all been talking about?” 

“It’s guy talk.” He shrugged. “You don’t have to like it, but you have to tolerate that it happens.”

“I don’t have to tolerate anything that men do,” you shot back, and one of the guys at the table made a strangled sound into his drink.

Oliver looked delighted. “Just answer, pretty please.” 

You could feel heat creeping up your neck, equal parts embarrassment and irritation. Mostly irritation. Mostly at Oliver, but also at the entire predicament, and maybe a little at the fact that Fraser was still there in the background, haunting the edges of your awareness. 

“Fine,” you said at last, sighing dramatically because refusing would probably only encourage him. “If it’s an off day, someone might fake it to get it over with.”

Oliver nodded immediately, as if you’d just confirmed his hypothesis. “As suspected.”

“But,” you continued, pointing a finger at him, “if it’s a recurring problem, they’re probably just exhausted from trying to teach a man something. Guys can be remarkably unteachable.”

A couple of the men at the table made offended noises. One of them muttered a word under his breath that sounded suspiciously like betrayal. Oliver, naturally, looked thrilled to have gotten a reaction out of you at all.

“You’re speaking in second person like you’re afraid to personally admit it, though,” he accused, grinning.

“No, I’m not,” you said too quickly.

“Was Kevin unteachable?”

It was stupid, really. Just a name. Just two syllables, tossed out casually in the middle of a stupid conversation at a stupid party. But your stomach tightened anyway, and for one awful second the room seemed to tilt around it. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but you felt it like cold blood dripping from a wound. 

The old irritation came back first, sharp and familiar, followed immediately by something more complicated and much less useful. Embarrassment, yes. Annoyance, definitely. But also that ugly little flare of beautiful memories you never quite managed to shake off. 

And, because the universe apparently enjoyed humiliating you in layers, Fraser was, of course, still there in the background. You were painfully aware that he was probably listening too, as if he didn’t already know enough embarrassing stuff about your relationship with Kevin. 

You absolutely did not look at him. Just set your eyes on Oliver and stared. 

Oliver’s expression shifted almost immediately, the teasing draining out of his face when he saw yours. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” you admitted quietly, because there was no point pretending otherwise. “You really shouldn’t.” 

For a second you almost felt bad for him, because he did look genuinely sorry now. But the feeling passed quickly, replaced by the need to get out of the conversation before your face gave away anything else.

You straightened your shoulders and gestured toward the room with a little too much brightness. “I answered your incredibly weird question. That concludes my participation in Guy Talk. I hope you all learned something.” 

Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked away. Your social battery had officially flatlined for the evening. You set a course for the living room again, drifting toward the far wall and the little pocket of space every party seemed to have for the wallflowers. 

From there, you could watch everyone without anyone feeling obligated to include you. It was a skill you’d perfected years ago. Your parents used to joke that if you were ever lost at a family reunion, they should check the walls first. You always migrated toward them eventually. They made you feel like there was something solid behind you, like you had a backstop, and like there was less chance of someone sneaking up on you from the blind side.

You wrapped both hands around your drink and let your gaze drift over the room. Everything felt wonderfully normal again.

“You’re hiding.”

You turned your head. Miriam had appeared beside you so quietly that she’d somehow managed to prove your parents’ theory wrong. She leaned casually against the wall beside you, copying your posture without thinking about it. She looked like she’d either finally grown bored of winning at Mario Kart or had been sent away by the people she’d been humiliating.

You shook your head, attempting a smile. “No, Oliver was just being gross.” 

“Ah,” she nodded. “You got the faking orgasms question too?”

You groaned. “You could’ve warned me.” 

You both watched Oliver across the room, still deep in what appeared to be the same sort of guy talk. He was animated enough that even from here you could tell he was enjoying himself far too much. Miriam smiled fondly, like this was all exactly as expected.

“He means well.”

“I know.” 

You sighed, and Miriam’s shoulder brushed yours lightly as she settled more comfortably against the wall. A comfortable silence settled between you after that. The kind that only really existed between people who’d known each other long enough to stop feeling responsible for filling every empty second.

You’d always loved that about Miriam. There was never pressure to perform around her. If you wanted to talk, she’d listen. If you wanted to stand quietly beside her for ten minutes because talking seemed like the most difficult thing in the world, she’d happily let you.

After a moment, she nudged your shoulder gently.

“You know…” 

You hummed, still staring out at the room.

“He hasn’t stopped looking for opportunities to talk to you.”

You frowned. “What?” 

“Fraser. He thinks he’s being subtle.”

The words made your stomach dip before you could stop it. You looked up almost automatically, following the direction of her gaze.

Fraser was across the room near the edge of the kitchen, half-turned toward a conversation with one of his teammates. At first glance he looked relaxed enough, one hand around a bottle, shoulders loose, listening politely. But there was something careful in the way he kept glancing your way. Not staring. Just checking. Like he was trying not to make it obvious and failing in the most polite possible way.

Even you could see that. 

The second your eyes met, he offered a small smile. It was small and warm and just uncertain enough to make you wonder if he was nervous or something. You looked away immediately, far too quickly, and suddenly became fascinated by the condensation on your drink.

“Poor kid,” Miriam huffed. “He’s probably wondering what he did wrong with how you’re acting.” 

“He didn’t do anything wrong?” you questioned. 

“Well, stop avoiding him like the fucking plague then.” 

You’d spent so long trapped inside your own embarrassment, trying to save yourself from having to relive the world’s worst drunken confession, that it genuinely hadn’t occurred to you Fraser didn’t know that was what you were doing. From his side of the room, all he could see was you disappearing every time he came near, turning away, slipping out of conversations, making yourself invisible. 

Maybe avoiding someone was a lot less subtle from the other side.

Maybe… It looked a little like rejection.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

After Miriam once again wandered back into the crowd—apparently satisfied with her charity work for the evening—you decided it was time to stop pretending you were still part of the party.

Not leave. Just disappear for five minutes. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to let your face cool down and your brain stop replaying the last hour on a loop.

It wasn’t like anyone would notice. Oliver was too busy being Oliver, Miriam had already done her round of emotional support, and the rest of the house probably didn’t even know your name. 

You slipped quietly through the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the back porch. Cold October air met you immediately. It rushed across your face in a way that made you realize how warm the house had become. It smelled faintly of damp leaves and woodsmoke from someone’s fireplace a few houses over, the sort of smell that only seemed to exist for a handful of weeks every year before winter took over completely.

You took a long breath. Then another. Your shoulders dropped a little, and you were mildly annoyed to realize how tense they’d been.

Oliver and Miriam’s backyard was cozy in the way their whole house was cozy. Warm string lights were stretched between the deck and the back fence, casting soft golden light over the grass and the patio furniture below. The far end of the porch sat in shadow, quiet and still, while the rest of the yard glowed faintly around you.

A wooden staircase led down into the yard, and you settled halfway down the steps, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself.

From here, you could still hear the party muted behind you. Laughter drifted out in bursts. Someone shouted something over the music. Oliver’s voice rose above everyone else’s for a second, loud and animated and unmistakably Oliver.

You smiled to yourself. This was nice.

Quiet. Cold.

Maybe this was your ideal distance from humanity in general.

Then the sliding door rolled open behind you.

You didn’t turn around right away. People were allowed outside. It wasn’t your porch to claim, even if you suddenly wanted it to be. You stayed where you were, looking out into the yard, listening to the soft shuffle of footsteps behind you.

“You get bored of Oliver’s antics too?” 

The voice came from just behind your shoulder. Your entire body jolted so hard you nearly dropped your balance on the step. Your hand flew to your chest. “Fuck, Fraser.” 

He sounded immediately concerned. “Did I scare you?”

“A little.” 

He made a face, one hand going to the back of his neck. “Didn’t realize I was being quiet.”

You let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, your heartbeat still thudding a little too fast in your chest. You pressed your hand there for a second as if that might help.

“I think I was just... somewhere else.”

“I gathered.”

You glanced back toward the sliding door, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Oliver can get too… graphic for me, I guess. I think he’s trying to solve the female orgasm gap right now.” 

Fraser stared at you for a second, then let out a short laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

The sound of it made something in your chest loosen. He looked amused, but not in a way that made you feel silly for saying it. More like he was genuinely entertained by the absurdity of Oliver, which was fair enough.

He then nodded toward the empty space beside you. “Do you mind?” 

You shook your head. He came over without another word and sat down one step above you instead of directly beside you. It left enough space between you that your bodies weren’t touching, enough room that you didn’t have to think about where your arms were or whether your knees were too close together.

It was considerate.

You noticed yourself noticing that.

The two of you sat there for a moment, listening to the muffled noise of the party behind you and the quiet rustle of the yard around you. Somewhere in the distance, a branch scraped lightly against a fence. The cold air made your nose sting a little, but in a good way. In a way that reminded you you were outside and not trapped in the middle of a room full of people.

You glanced up at Fraser, then back out into the yard. “You don’t really like parties either, do you?”

He gave a small shrug. “Not particularly.”

You smiled a little. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

The words were out before your brain had a chance to stop them. Wonderful. Fucking perfect. Exactly the sort of thing you wanted to blurt out.

“I mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Fraser cut you off. 

You looked at him. “You do?”

“I think so.”

His voice was calm, almost gentle, and that somehow made the embarrassment ease off faster than it should have. He didn’t seem weirded out. He didn’t seem smug. He just seemed like he understood what you’d meant. 

Your gaze drifted down to your hands resting loosely in your lap.

The pale little burn mark was still there on the back of your hand, faint but visible if you knew where to look. You hadn’t thought much about it since that night, except that it was ugly and annoying and a little embarrassing in its own way.

Apparently Fraser had noticed it.

“The cigarette left a scar, huh?”

You turned your hand over and looked at it properly.

“How is it?” he asked. 

You rubbed your thumb absentmindedly across it. “It stung like crazy once I was sober,” you said. “But I pulled through.” 

Fraser nodded solemnly. “I see. You must’ve been very brave.”

That made you laugh and then immediately cover your face with both hands. “Oh, god.”

“What?”

“I should really apologize to you.” 

His eyebrows pulled together almost immediately. “You have no reason to.” 

“I was drunk and disgusting and annoying, and I basically propositioned you, and that’s never okay.” The words came faster and faster the longer you spoke, like they’d been sitting in your chest all week waiting for a chance to escape. Maybe they had been. You’d replayed that night enough times to know exactly how awful you thought you’d been. “Like, if the roles were reversed and some guy I’d just met did that to me, I’d probably punch him in the face.”

Fraser listened without interrupting, without even looking particularly uncomfortable. Only when you’d finished did he answer.

“But the roles weren’t reversed, and I didn’t find you offensive at all.” His mouth lifted into a small smile. “I actually had quite fun driving you home.” 

“What? How?” You stared at him. You could hear how incredulous you sounded, but you couldn’t help it. “I was gross! And I trauma dumped to a stranger and made you drive me around for hours.” 

He looked genuinely puzzled, like he couldn’t quite understand why you were so upset about it. You kept going before he could answer.

“I didn’t even ask if you were single, like I crossed so many lines!” 

Fraser blinked at you, mildly confused. “I don’t think that’s a requirement.”

“Well, it should’ve been.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s…” You waved both hands vaguely in front of you, searching for the right words and finding none of them. “…basic etiquette before asking someone to have sex with you.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, you wanted to crawl into the yard and bury yourself under the leaves. This was exactly why you’d avoided him all night. 

You squeezed your eyes shut and groaned into your hands. “Oh my god, I’m only making it worse. I really owe you a massive apology for that entire night.” 

“No.”

You looked up at once. “Fraser.”

“No. No. You really don’t. Because—” 

He stopped himself. For just a second, he looked away, like he was searching for the right words and not finding them quickly enough. You watched him, suddenly very aware of how quiet the porch had become around you.

Then he looked back at you and said, very simply, “Because I would’ve said yes if you’d asked me sober.”

“What?” 

For a second, your brain refused to process the sentence at all. Then it did. 

Oh. Oh. He was serious, wasn’t he? 

Fraser suddenly became very interested in a loose thread on the sleeve of his sweater. Neither of you spoke. The party carried on behind you, oblivious. Someone laughed inside. A chair scraped across the floor. The music shifted to a different song. Out here, though, everything felt suspended. 

Finally, Fraser cleared his throat. “Was that weird of me to say?” 

You blinked at him. “No, well, maybe yes. I don’t know—”

You let out a breath that turned into a laugh halfway through, but it didn’t quite hide the fact that your mind had already started racing ahead of you.

Because he hadn’t said it like a joke. He hadn’t said it to make you squirm, or to tease you, or in some poor attempt at flirting. He’d said it like a confession he hadn’t meant to let slip. Like he’d been honest for half a second too long and only realized it after the words were already out in the open.

And that meant, well. That meant he’d thought about it. About you. About that night. About what might have happened if you’d been sober enough to seriously talk to him about it. 

The realization landed with a strange, dizzying little jolt in your chest. Not unpleasant. More like your nerves had suddenly remembered they were attached to something alive. Something hopeful. Something that hadn’t been interested in romance for a very long time.  

You looked at him, then away, then back again, trying very hard not to look as affected as you felt. “Fraser, that’s an insane thing to say.” 

“I know.”

“And you said it so casually.” 

“I know.”

He still looked a little embarrassed, but not in a way that made you want to rescue him from the conversation. More like he was aware of how blunt it sounded and had decided to stick to it anyway. 

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. Somehow he’d managed to make you feel less embarrassed, which was not something you felt you deserved after the week you’d spent mentally punishing yourself for that night.

He rubbed the back of his neck again, the motion familiar now. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded. “I feel like you’ve earned that.”

“May I drive you home again?”

For a second, you just looked at him. He looked suddenly much less confident than the man who had just admitted he would’ve slept with you. Which, honestly, felt backwards in the funniest way possible. 

Your smile softened. “I’d like that.”

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

It almost seemed like Fraser knew the way to your place this time, like he still remembered the quiet suburban streets that wound away from the city, the rows of familiar houses with tidy hedges and porches already decorated for Halloween.

You spent most of the drive talking about completely ordinary things—the sort of conversations that somehow only happened after you’d already survived the difficult ones. Miriam came up more than once, mostly because the two of you slowly realized she'd been quietly orchestrating this entire evening from the start.

When Fraser turned onto your street, recognition settled over both of you almost immediately. Everything looked the same as it had a week ago. The maple tree on the corner still hadn’t finished dropping its leaves. Even the porch light outside your parents’ house glowed with the same soft yellow warmth.

“You know,” you said, “this feels familiar.”

He smiled, eyes still on the road. “Only a little.” 

The corner of your mouth lifted. Last time, you’d arrived home wearing his hoodie, almost crying, and asking him one of the most horrifying questions imaginable. This time you were practically sober, properly dressed, and happy. 

Progress.

“I, uh—” your voice stammered. “I almost didn’t come tonight, but now I’m glad that I did.” 

He glanced at you briefly before pulling up along the curb. “Me too.” 

The answer came so naturally that it settled warmly somewhere behind your ribs. You looked down at your hands, suddenly aware of how tightly you were clasping them in your lap. “Miriam sort of threatened me.” 

“I know. She, uhm… She did it to me too.” 

You laughed quietly, the sound small but real, and Fraser’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile too much at the memory. You knew exactly what Miriam was like. 

He shifted the car into park, and the engine settled into silence. The sudden quiet made everything feel sharper—the faint tick of the cooling motor, the glow from the dashboard, the soft wash of porch light across the windshield. Neither of you moved right away. The car felt strangely intimate now that it was no longer in motion, like the evening had narrowed down to just the two of you sitting side by side in the dark.

“So…”

Fraser looked over. “So?”

Your heartbeat had somehow accelerated to an unreasonable speed. You’d asked him to sleep with you before. Surely asking for his phone number should’ve been easier, but apparently not.

“Should we…”

You immediately lost your nerve. Fraser waited patiently.

“...exchange numbers, maybe?”

His smile was immediate. “I was actually trying to figure out how to ask.”

Both of you reached for your phones at the same time. You fumbled unlocking yours twice because your fingers had apparently stopped listening to your brain.

He handed his phone over so you could type your number in, and for one ridiculous second you became intensely aware that your name was about to exist inside his contacts. You added a little shooting star emoji at the end, just because. It felt a little childish but also like the sort of thing you’d absolutely never regret.

When he handed you your phone back, it buzzed almost immediately.

Fraser:  Testing.

You looked up. He gave a tiny, almost sheepish shrug.

“Just making sure it worked.”

“It did.”

You smiled down at the screen for another second before locking it again. The little flutter in your chest was getting harder to ignore. It wasn’t nerves exactly. Not anymore. More like anticipation, bright and warm and impossible to sit still inside. You wanted to jump. 

“It was nice seeing you again,” Fraser said gently. 

“Yeah,” you smiled. “You too, Fraser.” 

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It simply stretched between you, soft and expectant, as if neither of you wanted to be the first to break. You thought about moving, to thank him for the ride, and going inside. But Fraser didn’t move an inch. He just looked at you for a moment too long, his breathing a little slower than yours, his expression open in a way that made your pulse stumble.

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. The tiny motion sent a fresh wave of nerves through you, sudden and sharp enough that your hands started to tremble. You didn’t know what to do with them. 

Fraser seemed to notice too.

His large hands lifted slowly, almost cautiously, as if he were giving you every possible chance to pull away. When they settled against your face, they were warm and careful, thumbs resting lightly along your cheeks. Like he was handling something much more fragile than you actually were. You could feel the faintest tremor in him too, hidden beneath the steadiness of his hands.

Your own hands moved before your brain had the opportunity to question them, fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of his jacket. He was warm even through the material, the solid reality of him sitting there beside you, close enough now that the space between you seemed to almost have disappeared. Only a bulky center console between you. 

Your grip tightened once, then loosened, because your hands were still shaking and there was no point pretending otherwise.

Fraser’s forehead dipped a fraction closer to yours. He paused there, breathing with you, waiting before finally connecting.

The kiss itself was soft. Chaste.

His mouth was warm against yours, the first press of it gentle and uncertain before it deepened by degrees, his lips parting against yours with a quiet, careful pressure. You could feel the faint scrape of his teeth when the angle shifted, the wet warmth of his mouth, the small slick brush of saliva as the kiss opened and closed between you. His hands stayed steady at your jaw, thumbs resting on your cheeks, while the car fell away around you and, for one suspended moment, he kissed you like time had softened just for the two of you.

When Fraser pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead hovered close to yours. Close enough that you could feel his breath as he let out the smallest, shy little laugh.

You smiled too, your own breath coming a little unevenly.

Fraser parted from you slightly, breathing before going in for another, when you saw a movement outside the car. His lips landed gently against your jaw as your head turned to look.

It was only then that you noticed the front window of your parents’ house. Not clear enough to make out faces, but you saw something else. It was the unmistakable evidence of someone trying very, very hard not to seem like they were standing directly behind the curtains while absolutely standing directly behind the curtains.

“Oh my god.”

Fraser followed your gaze toward the house. One corner of the curtain shifted again.

“Are they watching?” he laughed. 

“They’re absolutely watching.” 

You covered your face with both hands, mortified all over again. Somewhere inside that house were your parents. Your wonderful, supportive, deeply nosy parents—who were almost certainly treating the living room window like front-row seats. 

“Well, this is humiliating,” you squeaked. 

“I don’t know…” Fraser glanced back at you, then toward the window again. “I think it’s kind of sweet.”

You made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh. Of course he thought that. Of course the man who had just kissed you like you were something precious would also find your parents spying on you from behind the curtains charming.

He reached over carefully, gently taking one of your hands away from your face, thumb brushing over your knuckles. The touch grounded you just enough to stop you from dissolving entirely into embarrassment.

“I’m going to kiss you again, if that’s alright?” 

The question was soft, almost careful enough to be swallowed by the quiet inside the car. He was still giving you room to choose. You weren’t used to that. 

You nervously glanced toward the house. The curtains were still suspiciously moving. “They can definitely still see us.” 

Fraser followed your gaze, then looked back at you with a hint of amusement in his expression. “Is that an issue?” 

“You don’t seem concerned.”

“I’m really not.”

You laughed, helplessly and a little breathlessly, because there was something absurdly endearing about how calm he was being. “You know what?”

Fraser tilted his head. “What?”

You reached up, sliding your hand back against the side of his face. His skin was warm beneath your palm, his jaw rougher than you expected. He went still at the touch, not pulling away, just leaning into it by the smallest amount as if he’d been waiting for your permission to do exactly that.

“They can watch.”

This time, there was no hesitation at all.

The kiss was still gentle, but it lingered longer than the first. It had the same sweetness to it, the same careful warmth, but now there was a little more certainty in it too—less like a question and more like an answer. You could feel the faint smile in it, the quiet happiness of being here, in this car, with him, with the porch light glowing outside and your parents absolutely losing their minds behind the curtains.

Eventually, Fraser leaned back with a reluctant smile.

“I'll text you when I get home.”

“Okay.”

You climbed out of the car before you could convince yourself to stay another ten minutes—before your traitorous brain could start suggesting increasingly reckless ideas, like leaning back in for one more kiss or finding out just how far that careful, patient look of his could make you go if you let it.

The night air felt colder than before, sharp against your flushed cheeks. You shut the car door softly behind you and started up the walk, your pulse still doing something ridiculous in your throat. Halfway to the front door, you glanced back.

Fraser was still sitting behind the wheel. Still watching to make sure you got inside safely. When your eyes met, he lifted a hand in a small wave. You waved back.

Then, from inside the house, the curtain snapped shut so quickly that subtlety officially died. You couldn’t help it. You burst out laughing all the way up the porch steps.

You were walking onto a mine field.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

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