LOU @abilouwrites - Tumblr Blog

Jul 15

(𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮) 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 // 𝐅𝐌𝟗𝟑

PART ONE┃SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: “Are you wearing a wedding dress?” – or the one where Fraser offers to drive a drunk girl home, and aside from being a total mess, she’s also quite cute.

Pairing: Fraser Minten x afab! reader with she/her pronouns

Word count: 11.7k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ eventual smut in future parts. read chapter specific warnings. minimal use of Y/N. for this part: mature language, alcohol, reader has had rough night, girls being mean, mentions of a breakup and a shitty ex-boyfriend. otherwise this is very fluffy and Fraser is a sweetheart.

A/N: please tell me what you think and if you have any ideas or theories for future parts!! i'm so excited to start this!! ◡̈

PART ONE┃Ballerina Out of Control

Oliver’s place was too loud for a night that wasn’t supposed to be anything serious. Fraser should’ve known that before he even stepped inside. It didn’t really matter what the plan was; it always ended the same way. Too many voices stacked on top of each other, too much energy in a space that wasn’t quite built to hold it.

It came with the job, he guessed. After all, he was in a team full of players and personnel who did not know how to keep the volume down—even for a simple night gathered around the PlayStation and a couple of cases of beer.

Fraser had been ready to leave an hour ago.

He sat stretched out at the end of the couch, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, a soda can resting loosely in his hand. The condensation had long since dried, the drink inside gone warm and flat, but he hadn’t bothered to replace it. Or even finish it.

Across the room, someone shouted over a missed play from last week’s preseason game against Philadelphia, already halfway into a reenactment no one had asked for. A controller clattered to the floor. Laughter followed, loud and effortless.

Fraser didn’t really look.

He shifted in his seat slightly, letting his gaze drift instead of fixing on anything in particular. It was a habit he never quite turned off—the constant, quiet awareness. Who was moving. Who was too close to knocking something over. Which conversation was about to turn into something louder than it needed to be. Or maybe even an argument.

Hockey brain. That’s what Oliver called it at least—their assistant strength and conditioning coach. How some players always watched and anticipated people’s moves. It probably made Fraser better at what he did, but it also made it awfully difficult to relax in rooms like this. He couldn’t be in the noise without absorbing it.

Tonight, it simply felt like too much.

His thumb traced absently along the rim of the can as he mused, already thinking about the quiet of his apartment. The dark. The feeling of being completely alone in a space where he felt comfortable.

The sound of gentle steps coming down the stairs cut through his thoughts.

Miriam appeared at the top of the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the railing as she made her way down slowly, like testing her patience before fully committing to being in the chaos of the living room.

Fraser hadn’t even known she was home. He found himself wondering how long she’d been upstairs.

She reached the bottom step and paused there briefly, scanning the room.

She had one of Oliver’s hoodies pulled over her, sleeves swallowing her hands, the fabric hanging loose around her frame. There was a flush high on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the lighting, and even from across the room, Fraser could see the faint sheen at her temples.

She looked sick. Like, not in a cool way, but actually ill.

Oliver noticed her at the exact same time. He was on his feet before she’d taken another step, his entire focus shifting like someone had flipped a switch.

“How’s the fever, babe?” His voice dropped without him thinking about it, a soft and gentle tone very unlike his usual high-pitched laughter.

Fraser had seen it before.

Oliver was loud and easygoing, the kind of guy who filled a room without trying—but when it came to Miriam, everything narrowed. The rest of the world dimmed around her, at least for Oliver.

The team had given him hell for it at first. Endless chirping, disbelief that Oliver—who couldn’t keep a girl around for more than a few weeks—had somehow ended up completely, undeniably gone for someone. Once they had gotten to know Miriam, though, it just sort of made sense that it would be her he fell for.

Miriam gave a small shrug, the movement slow, like it took more effort than it should have. “Still a fever, I think.”

Fraser found himself sitting a little straighter without meaning to, his attention locking in. Had Oliver really invited all the boys over while his girlfriend was sick? Maybe he was worse of a boyfriend than he got credit for.

“We weren’t too loud, right?” Oliver added quickly, glancing toward the living room like he was only just now registering the volume.

“No, no. It’s fine.” Miriam shook her head. “I just need some of the guys to move their cars so I can get mine out.”

There was a beat of silence—just enough for Oliver to turn confused. He blinked at her. “I’m not letting you drive when you’re sick.”

“But Y/N called,” she said, pushing a hand through her hair before tugging the sleeve back down over her fingers. “I need to pick her up from Club Satine. She’s, like, drunk and sad and other totally reasonable emotions.”

“Star is drunk? I’d pay to see that,” Oliver said, a grin pulling at his mouth.

“Don’t laugh at her, Oliver,” Miriam sighed. “She’s having a hard time, and you know that.”

Oliver held up his hands in surrender, his grin easing into something gentler. “Still don’t think you should drive with a fever, sweetheart.”

Miriam exhaled, a frustrated sound, already reaching for her phone like she was about to solve the problem herself if no one else would.

Fraser watched her for a second longer than he meant to. The slight shift in her stance made it like her balance wasn’t quite steady. The way she pressed her lips together, holding back either an argument or another sigh.

He didn’t know who this Star was. Just a nickname he’d heard a few times before. But she was someone Miriam cared about enough to leave home, like this, while she was sick, just to make sure she got home safe. That kind of told him enough.

“I can probably drive her home, if you want,” Fraser heard himself say.

“You’d do that?” Miriam lit up.

Fraser shrugged, setting the can down on the table with a quiet click as he pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah. I mean, I was thinking of calling it a night, and Satine is practically on my way.”

It wasn’t really.

But it was close enough for it to sound reasonable. And more importantly, it sounded easy. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t already reaching for his keys and had been desperate for an excuse to leave anyway. Might as well make it useful.

“Oh, Frase. You’re a lifesaver. I owe you one. Big time.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he stepped around the coffee table. “Big time? Am I going to regret this?”

“No, no,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “She’s my little cousin and a total saint. And you can invoice Oliver if she makes a mess of your car.”

“Hey—” Oliver cut in, but there was no real protest behind it.

Fraser’s mouth twitched as he fished out his car keys from his front pocket, turning them once between his fingers.

“I’ll text her you’re coming,” Miriam added, thumbs already moving over her screen. “And that you’re a trusted adult.”

“A trusted adult,” Fraser repeated, glancing back at her, one brow lifting slightly. “That’s a new one.”

Miriam smiled at him—tired and a little crookedly. “You have a kind face. It makes you trustworthy.”

Fraser let out a quiet breath of amusement through his nose. He’d heard that before. Usually right before someone asked him for something.

He nodded toward her phone. “Wait. What does she look like?”

Miriam’s gaze flicked up from the screen, something almost knowing settling into her expression despite the fever, like she was in on a joke he hadn’t heard yet.

“I think you’ll know when you see her.”

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

The line outside Club Satine was thin by the time Fraser pulled up.

A few groups lingered near the entrance, either smoking or slowly filtering toward waiting Ubers. Despite the October cold, there were bare legs and open jackets everywhere, as though enough alcohol could convince a person they were immune to the temperature. The neon sign above the club washed the sidewalk in pink, turning everything beneath it soft around the edges—artificial, almost dreamlike.

Fraser shifted the car into park and looked up at the building.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Satine. Probably just a few months after being traded to Boston, back when he’d agreed to just about anything his new teammates suggested because forcing himself to fit in seemed easier than surviving another Toronto.

He definitely hadn’t enjoyed his experience here, though. That much he remembered. Satine was the sort of place people came to get absolutely shitfaced without anyone batting an eye, and that wasn’t exactly what Fraser looked for in life.

His phone lit up on the center console. Miriam’s latest text still sat at the top of the screen.

She’s waiting outside. White dress.

That was all she’d sent. Extremely helpful.

Fraser scanned the sidewalk from the driver seat. It didn’t take him long to find you. Not because Miriam had described you—she stubbornly hadn’t—but because there was no one else it could’ve been.

A girl his own age sat alone on the curb a little ways down from the entrance, separated from the clusters of people spilling in and out of the club. Bare legs and feet tucked awkwardly to one side, elbows resting on your knees. Your head was tilted toward the sky like you were searching for something above the city lights and tall buildings.

From where he sat, he couldn’t make out your face. Just the stark white dress. Lace caught every flicker of neon, almost glowing against the darkness. It hugged your frame before flaring softly at your hips, bright enough to pull the eye from everything else around you.

Was that a freaking wedding dress?

Fraser frowned faintly, leaning forward over the steering wheel as if that would somehow help him make more sense of it. It wasn’t full-length like wedding dresses traditionally were, but it was his first honest thought. Who wore white lace to a night club? Had you been to a bachelorette party? Some kind of bridal event?

He exhaled slowly through his nose, already reaching for the door handle.

Yeah. That had to be you.

The music from inside the club thudded faintly as he stepped out, the cold hitting him immediately, sharp and clean compared to the warmth of the car. He barely had time to notice it because his attention was already locked on you.

As he walked closer, the details of you sharpened.

You looked heartbreakingly out of place—a true juxtaposition to Club Satine—like a fictional character that had somehow wandered into the wrong story.

There was mascara smudged beneath your eyes, dark streaks following faintly down your cheeks, like you’d tried to wipe tears away at some point and only made it worse. Your lipstick had long since faded too, uneven around the edges, the kind of wear that came from talking too much or drinking too much.

It was probably both.

Your fingers idly twisted the edge of your dress, over and over, like they needed something to do.

Fraser slowed as he approached, something unexpectedly tightening in his chest. It wasn’t pity, but everyone knew what it looked like when somebody was trying very hard to keep themselves together. You looked like you’d lost that fight hours ago.

Your head lifted as his shadow stretched across the pavement, swallowing the pink glow around you.

Up close, your eyes still shimmered with the remains of fresh tears. Your breathing hitched every so often, tiny uneven breaths that sounded almost like hiccups. When you saw him, your shoulders sagged another inch, as though simply recognizing the ride Miriam had promised finally gave you permission to relax.

“Are you the trusted adult Miriam sent?”

The question caught him so off guard he almost laughed, even if it was exactly how Miriam had described him earlier.

“Yeah,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “I think so. I’m Fraser.”

Your expression softened a little, but it wasn’t quite a smile. Then, with complete sincerity, you held out a hand.

“Hi,” you said with perfect politeness. “Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

Fraser stared at your hand for half a second before shaking it. Because apparently you were introducing yourself like this was a networking event instead of midnight, barefoot, on a curb outside a nightclub.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Your hand was surprisingly warm—warmer than he thought it should’ve been in the cold. His grip lingered for a little too long before he let go, his eyes catching on an angry red patch across the back of your hand. The skin looked raw, almost polished from being so irritated.

He frowned almost imperceptibly.

Had you done that to yourself?

Without thinking, his gaze drifted over the rest of you. No jacket, bare legs, and only a thin lace dress on. You were shivering. The movement subtle enough that he might have missed it if he weren’t already looking.

“Here, let me—”

Fraser shrugged out of his hoodie before he could second-guess himself and held it out.

Your eyes followed the movement.

“I had a jacket,” you said, sounding genuinely apologetic about the fact. “But I think I left it at Cara’s place.”

You sounded disappointed in yourself, like misplacing your jacket at a friend’s house was an unsolvable problem.

“That’s okay,” Fraser said easily. “So take my hoodie.”

You accepted it without hesitation, which surprised him. Somehow he’d expected you to insist you were fine.

You tugged it on a little clumsily, the fabric swallowing your hands the same way Miriam’s stolen hoodie from Oliver had earlier. The hood bunched awkwardly at the back of your neck, a little too big on you. You instinctively tucked your hands into the pockets, curling into the warmth, probably without realizing you were doing it.

For reasons Fraser couldn’t quite explain, he looked away.

The club door swung open behind him. Music flooded onto the sidewalk for a heartbeat before the door shut again, leaving only the distant bass vibrating through the walls.

When he looked back, you were already staring at him, brows knitted together.

“I think I recognize you.”

A small sense of dread settled in Fraser’s stomach.

Usually, when people recognized him, one of two things happened. They either wanted tickets—which he couldn't magically produce no matter how many people seemed convinced otherwise—or they wanted to explain exactly what he’d done wrong in last week’s game.

“You’re, uh…” You gestured vaguely toward him, your hand lingering in the air as though the rest of the sentence might simply drift into it. “A player on Oliver’s team, right?”

Fraser huffed out a quiet breath, something like a laugh. “On his team? He doesn’t even play.”

“I know, I know.” You waved a hand, dismissing your own wording. “It’s the Boston Bruins, blah blah blah. I don’t give a shit about hockey, but I do happen to care about Oliver, okay?”

The words tumbled out without a filter, softened around the edges by alcohol. Fraser couldn’t help the smile threatening to form at the corner of his mouth. He saw a little spark in your eyes as you talked about it, or about Oliver, he guessed. Just simple, matter-of-fact loyalty because you cared about him. He found, rather unexpectedly, that he couldn’t even be offended on hockey’s behalf because of it.

“Okay,” he said. “And yes, I play hockey.”

You studied him for a long second, your head tilting thoughtfully to one side. You were evaluating the information rather than admiring it. It was strangely refreshing. Most people either knew exactly who he was or didn’t know him at all. You seemed to be stuck in the middle.

“You any good?” you asked.

That almost got a real laugh out of him. Fraser folded his arms loosely against the cold.

“I guess we’ll see in April.”

You held his gaze for another beat before giving a slow nod, as if that answered the question perfectly. Like professional athletes should only be judged by what happened in the playoffs.

“Shit,” you murmured. “Fair enough.”

Fraser found himself entertained by your frankness.

You were still looking at him, though. Halfway between present and somewhere else entirely. Once you realized you were staring, almost sheepishly, your eyes dropped toward the pavement.

His followed.

Right. You were barefoot for some reason.

He glanced around, scanning the immediate area—the sidewalk, the edge of the street, the cluster of people lingering outside the club. Nothing obvious. No abandoned heels kicked off to the side, no sign of anything that belonged to you, really. He was at least happy to see that you were holding a purse. He was choosing to assume it belonged to you, anyway.

“You got shoes?” he asked, already pretty sure he knew the answer.

You looked at your feet like you were seeing them for the first time, eyebrows raised.

“I used to,” you mumbled.

Fraser huffed another quiet breath through his nose. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Let’s get you in the car first.”

He offered his hand to you, chivalrous without really meaning to, but he also suspected your balance wouldn’t be perfect right now.

Your grip was still warm and a little unsteady as you pushed yourself up. You swayed almost immediately, the motion pulling you off balance before you could correct for it. Fraser reacted without thinking, catching your elbow with his free hand before gravity could finish the job.

“Easy.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”

To his surprise, you didn’t argue again. Fraser kept his pace slow, matching yours step for step while you glanced down at your bare feet to see where you placed them.

By the time you reached his car, you were looking at it with open suspicion.

“Alright,” he said, opening the passenger door. “In you go.”

You suddenly stopped dead.

“This is a really nice truck,” you said, as if that were an issue.

Fraser blinked. “Thank you?”

You pointed at the open door, then at yourself, then vaguely at the sidewalk behind you. “I just sat on a dirty curb. I can’t sit in your—” You squinted at the badge on the side of the truck. “Is it a Chevrolet? I don’t know that many car brands.”

“It is,” Fraser admitted, unable to hide his amusement. “And yes, you can.”

You looked unconvinced in the way only a very drunk person could manage—completely earnest, entirely unreasonable.

“No,” you said with conviction. “I can’t. That would be disrespectful.”

Fraser scoffed. “Disrespectful? How?”

“Yes.” You nodded once. “To the truck.”

He laughed then, short and surprised, because you were standing there barefoot in his hoodie, refusing to get into his car on principle, like the truck had feelings that might be hurt by some dirt on your dress.

Fraser couldn’t care less about that.

“It’ll survive,” he said.

You still looked a little unconvinced, but eventually Fraser’s determination won out. You climbed into the passenger seat slowly, with the kind of intense concentration usually reserved for complicated puzzles.

Fraser leaned in to guide the seatbelt across you, pausing just long enough to make sure you didn’t tip forward or get tangled in the process. For a second he caught the faint scent of your perfume beneath the smell of alcohol.

Vanilla. Or maybe it was some sort of wood. Before he could place it, the moment passed.

“Stay here and I’ll see if I can find your shoes,” he said.

You made a small, noncommittal sound in response as he gently shut the door and turned back toward the club.

Fraser had barely taken three steps toward the entrance before the club door swung open again. A girl stepped out, pausing just beyond the threshold like she needed a second to adjust to the cold. She had a pair of heels dangling from her fingers while already wearing another pair on her feet.

White. The heels in her hands were white.

He could thank his hockey brain for being so annoyingly observant.

The girl noticed him a moment later.

“Do you know Y/N?” she asked, her tone quick and practical. “They’re—um—” She glanced past him, scanning the street. “She went out for a breather. Girl in a lace dress?”

“Yeah,” Fraser said, nodding toward the truck parked a little farther down the curb. “I’m driving her home.”

She looked him up and down in one swift, assessing sweep. Not curious, exactly. More like she was deciding whether he looked like someone she’d trust alone with a drunk girl. Then her eyes narrowed.

Fraser stood up straighter without meaning to.

“You’re not Kevin, are you?” she asked.

He blinked, thrown just enough to show it. “No, I’m—”

“‘Cause I’ll beat your ass if you are,” she cut in, dead serious.

That pulled a short, surprised laugh out of him before he could stop it. “I’m Fraser,” he said, lifting a hand slightly in something like surrender. “Just a friend picking her up.”

Friend wasn’t quite the right word, but it was the easiest one to reach for. It was simpler than trying to name whatever this was—the immediate, unthinking concern that had settled in his chest the second Miriam had mentioned you. The way he’d already started solving problems before he’d even met you. Something about the whole thing had hooked into him.

The girl’s expression softened only a fraction, though she kept hold of the shoes for another beat. Fraser got the distinct impression she wasn’t hesitating because she cared about the shoes.

She was deciding whether she believed him.

“Take care of her, okay?” she said, pointing the heels in his direction. “Or I’ll find a way to beat your ass tomorrow.”

“I will. I promise,” he answered without hesitation, and the steadiness in his own voice almost surprised him. It was an easy promise to make, somehow.

Apparently satisfied, she handed over the shoes, giving him a small nod before turning back toward the door, disappearing inside without another word.

Fraser stood there for a moment with your heels hanging from his fingers.

Who the fuck was Kevin?

That was twice now he’d heard concern where there should’ve been annoyance in regard to you. First Miriam, and now this random girl. Neither of them had rolled their eyes about having to deal with a drunk friend. Instead, they'd spoken about you with the same quiet concern, like they were sending something precious out into the world and hoping it came back in one piece.

It sat a little oddly with him. People didn't usually react like that unless they’d already watched someone get hurt.

He glanced back toward the car. You were visible through the passenger window, head resting against it, your eyes softly shut.

Fraser tightened his grip around the white heels. Despite knowing almost nothing about you, he found himself wondering what kind of idiot Kevin must’ve been.

He hurried around to the driver’s side, pulling the door open, his mind already assembling a list of what needed to happen next. Get out of downtown. Ask where you lived. Put the address into the GPS. Get you home before Miriam had time to worry and start harassing him over the phone about it.

Simple, in theory, but when he looked over at the passenger side, you were asleep.

Knocked out cold, just like that.

Curled into the passenger seat as though you’d been there for hours instead of barely a minute. His hoodie hugged your frame, one sleeve twisted between your fingers like you’d instinctively reached for something to hold onto. Your cheek rested lightly against the window, breath fogging a small patch of glass every few seconds.

Somewhere between him retrieving your shoes and walking back to the car, you’d apparently decided you’d had enough of being awake.

Fraser stood frozen for a beat.

Well. This complicated things.

He climbed into the driver’s seat as quietly as possible, setting your heels carefully on the floorboard behind you. They landed with a dull thud, but you didn’t so much as flinch.

For a moment, he simply sat there, one hand resting on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead while his brain refused to commit to a decision. Then he moved purely on instinct—pulling away from the curb, merging into traffic, putting distance between you and the noise of the club just to get away from there.

But you didn’t stir. Not when the engine started. Not when he turned onto the main road. Not even when he hit a red light a little too hard and the car dipped forward with a soft jolt.

Fraser glanced over at you every so often.

Your head had tilted slightly farther against the glass, and a loose strand of hair had fallen across your face. Other than that, he didn’t know how to describe you. Not in any way that felt fair to whatever drunk and strange half-formed impression you were making on him, anyway.

The tension he’d noticed outside the club had disappeared from your face. Whatever grief had followed you onto that curb seemed, at least temporarily, to have loosened its grip.

You also looked less sad.

That thought arrived before Fraser could stop himself. And then, because his brain apparently refused to leave well enough alone, he found himself noticing other things too.

The way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks. The small, unconscious parting of your lips as you breathed. The fact that your expression, stripped of all the effort it took to keep it composed, was so much softer than he’d expected. Not prettier, but maybe like sleep had finally convinced your mind to stop fighting itself for a little while.

Fraser sighed, looking back at the road.

Okay. What were his options?

He could just wake you up. That was the obvious choice. But beside him, you shifted slightly in your sleep, brow furrowing for just a second before smoothing out again, your grip tightening unconsciously on the sleeve of his hoodie.

You looked so comfortable that interrupting it actually felt cruel.

Option two. He could turn around and head back to Oliver’s place. Drop you off there and let Miriam deal with it.

He exhaled again, longer this time. That option was also a no.

The idea of carrying you back into that crowded house—still half-asleep, still wrapped in his hoodie, mascara smudged and dress wrinkled—and handing you off like a problem he’d offered to take care of but now didn’t feel like solving anymore, especially to Miriam with her fever, sat very wrong with him.

Which left this, apparently. Just driving you around for no reason, like some kind of idiot. Or creep. Was he being creepy right now?

The streets blurred together beneath pools of amber streetlights. Familiar intersections gave way to unfamiliar ones before looping back again. He passed the same convenience store twice, a twenty-four-hour diner with a flickering neon sign, and a gas station that looked as though it hadn’t been renovated since the eighties.

At one point Fraser became fairly certain he’d driven in a circle. You continued sleeping through all of it, which was honestly impressive considering how he was driving.

He wondered, briefly, if this qualified as kidnapping.

No. Definitely not. You had, technically, asked for a ride. Fraser just didn’t know where to drive you. Still, if you woke up now, how exactly was he supposed to explain this?

Sorry, you looked peaceful, and I didn’t want to bother you, so I've been aimlessly touring Greater Boston for the last thirty minutes?

He closed his eyes for half a second at a red light. He was being unbelievably pathetic right now.

Eventually, though, movement in his periphery caught his attention. A small sound escaped you, a gentle groan mixed with a yawn.

Fraser glanced over.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first. You looked around the car as though trying to remember where you were, then your memory seemed to return all at once.

“Oh my god.” You jerked upright so fast your shoulder hit the car window. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m sorry.”

Fraser kept one hand on the wheel, driving slowly while looking over just long enough to see the full horror of your expression.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it's not. Did I snore?” You pressed a hand to your face, covering up. “Please tell me I didn't snore.”

“You didn’t.”

“This is so embarrassing.”

“You didn’t snore,” Fraser repeated, unable to stop the faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I promise.”

The silence that followed gave Fraser exactly enough room for every unanswered question to come rushing back. He had spent the better part of half an hour collecting them, after all. It wasn’t every day he had to take care of a drunk stranger.

“Can I ask you a couple questions?” he said.

“Yeah,” you answered, shifting in your seat, still sounding mortified.

Fraser glanced at you, then back at the road. You were half-curled into the seat, your embarrassment so immediate and earnest it almost made him feel bad for asking anything at all. But he had to know.

“Are you wearing a wedding dress?”

The question came out more carefully than he intended, because he realized too late that he was asking it for reasons that had very little to do with the dress itself. He just needed to know what kind of night this had been. What kind of person got left on a sidewalk in white lace with tears in their eyes?

“Nope.” You shook your head, popping the “p” as you said it. “Okay. Well. I guess any dress could be a wedding dress, but if you mean ‘have I gotten married in this dress?’ then the answer is no.”

Fraser let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Ridiculously relieved, if he were being honest with himself. Not because the alternative had been likely, exactly, but because for one brief second he’d pictured some absurdly complicated version of your evening that involved vows and a runaway bride and a whole different kind of disaster.

You shifted in your seat again, tucking your legs up, making yourself smaller on the passenger side as though you were trying to take up less space.

“I was at a bachelorette party,” you went on. “We had to wear white. Which is—” you waved a hand vaguely, “—ironic, because I am statistically the least likely person there to get married anytime soon.”

That was a strange little joke with something bruised underneath it. Fraser felt the weight of it, but he let it pass without asking. He didn’t know you well enough to ask.

“Second question,” he said instead, because if he didn’t keep moving, he was going to start thinking too hard about the sadness in your tone, and he had already done enough of that tonight. His eyes flicked briefly to your hand; the mark on it had irked him since he first noticed. Probably because it looked like it hurt. “What’s that red mark on your hand?”

You looked down at it like you’d forgotten it was there.

“Oh.” You turned your hand over. “Some guy put a cigarette out on my hand.”

Fraser’s entire body went rigid. “What?”

He didn't know where it came from, but the word came out sharper than he intended, clipped with a flash of anger. His grip tightened on the steering wheel before he could stop it, knuckles whitening against the leather.

“Not, like, on purpose, of course,” you said quickly, shrugging. “It was just very crowded outside, and it grazed me. Didn’t even hurt.”

Fraser looked at you then, and the burn on your hand suddenly seemed much too small for the reaction it had managed to get out of him.

“But you have a burn mark on your hand.”

It sounded stupidly obvious when he said it out loud, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. The whole thing sat wrong with him. The way you were saying it like it was a minor inconvenience, like it belonged in the same category as spilled drinks or a lost earring.

“A nice girl in the bathroom put ice on it,” you added, as though that was the important part. “She said she was in med school.”

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the tightness in it. “You’re serious?”

You nodded, completely unbothered. “Mm-hm.”

Fraser looked back at the road, but the city had gone a little blurry around the edges. Not from the lights. From the effort of not turning around and asking who had done it, who had been careless enough to leave a mark on your skin and walk away from it like nothing had happened. He didn’t know why that bothered him so much.

For a second he just drove, jaw set, trying to gather himself and failing a little.

“Okay, uh—” He hesitated, then decided to just say it. “What’s your address? So I can stop driving aimlessly.”

“…Aimlessly?”

Damn it. Fraser immediately regretted his wording.

You sat up a little straighter. “Have you just been driving around? How long was I asleep for?”

“Just like, five minutes,” Fraser lied. “See? We’re still in the same area.”

You looked out the window, then back at him. By pure coincidence, Fraser happened to be driving past Club Satine right at that moment.

“So, your address?” he prompted again, mostly to save himself the embarrassment.

“Actually, uhm—” your voice faltered.

Fraser waited.

“—Would it be, like, a huge, massive inconvenience if we stopped for food?” you asked, your voice turning tentative. “I’m starving.”

You were watching him now, a little tentative and a little hopeful. You didn’t seem entirely sure if you were allowed to ask for that, like hunger itself was something you ought to apologize for.

For a second, Fraser considered all the reasons he should probably take you home.

It was after midnight. You were still noticeably drunk. You barely knew each other. This entire evening had already become significantly more complicated than intended.

Then your stomach growled loud enough for the both of you to hear it. Your eyes widened in horror.

Fraser looked back at the road before you could see the smile threatening to appear.

“Yeah,” he said, turning onto the next street. “Yeah, we can get food.”

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

Fraser had never seen someone so enthusiastic about a McDonald’s cheeseburger in his life as you were right now.

You looked almost reverent about it, as if the thing in your hands were a sacred object and not something sloppily assembled by a teenager earning minimum wage. The wrapper crackled as you tore it open with alarming urgency. Before Fraser had even managed to get the door for you, you’d already taken a bite that took nearly half the burger with it. Your nails pressed into the bun, ketchup immediately escaping to smear the corner of your mouth.

You didn’t really seem to care, though. Or maybe you did and simply didn’t care. Either way, you looked absurdly content. It was, Fraser decided, a little adorable. Almost in the same way a toddler was adorable right before it smeared applesauce into the upholstery.

“You always eat like that?” he asked.

You paused mid-chew. “Like what?”

“Like someone’s going to take it from you.”

“Shut up.” You swallowed, then pushed your bottom lip out in a small, offended pout. “I’m hungry.”

Fraser’s mouth twitched into a smile.

There wasn't a trace of embarrassment in your voice. Just a simple statement of fact, as though being starving was a perfectly reasonable explanation for inhaling an entire cheeseburger before you’d even crossed the parking lot.

Honestly, it probably was.

With your heels now back on, you wandered through the parking lot toward his car, still working determinedly on the burger. The alcohol hadn’t made you incapable of walking, exactly. It had simply convinced your balance that straight lines weren’t necessary.

Fraser found himself lingering a step behind. Just close enough that if your ankles gave out, he wouldn’t have to sprint to catch you.

The parking lot was nearly empty, washed in the soft yellow glow of aging streetlights. Beyond it, Boston settled into that strange middle ground between night and morning, where the city had gone quiet but never quite asleep. A few cars hissed past on the road beyond, their headlights sliding over the asphalt and disappearing again.

Fraser was fishing his keys from his pocket when he realized your footsteps had stopped. The uneven click of your heels against the pavement vanished.

He looked up to see you staring at the sky.

There was something almost childlike about the complete absorption on your face, as though the stars had managed to interrupt the concentration you had on your burger a second earlier.

Before Fraser could ask what had caught your attention, you drifted toward one of the concrete foundations anchoring a light pole.

Then, without hesitation, stepped onto it.

His stomach dropped. “Oh, holy shi— please don’t fall down!”

For one horrifying second Fraser saw the whole thing in brutal, cinematic detail: your heel slipping, your ankle folding, your head striking the concrete with a cracking sound he would hear in his nightmares for the rest of his life. Oliver asking how, exactly, he had managed to kill Miriam’s favorite cousin in a McDonald’s parking lot.

An impressively terrible story all around.

He was moving before the thought had even finished, covering the remaining distance to you in quick strides. Some protective instinct taking over before embarrassment had a chance to object. One of his hands found the back of your knee, steadying your leg before it had the chance to wobble. The other wrapped carefully around your calf.

Warm.

Your skin was warm beneath his palm again even though it shouldn’t be and softer than he’d expected, the curve of your leg settling into his hand with disarming ease. Fraser became very aware, very quickly, that he was holding your bare leg after only knowing you for about an hour.

The breeze swept through the lot then, tugging lazily at the hem of your dress and lifting the fabric around your legs enough for Fraser to see a little too much.

His eyes reacted before the rest of him did.

Absolutely not. Don’t you dare look up her dress, Fraser.

His gaze shot somewhere else completely, locking determinedly onto the glowing golden arches across the lot.

“I wanted to be closer to the stars,” you said, with the solemn certainty of a child and the loose, dreamy logic of someone who’d had a little too much to drink.

Fraser let out a slow breath through his nose.

He glanced up at you, then down at the concrete block beneath your feet. Generously speaking, you’d gained another twenty inches of elevation, which didn’t seem like it would help much. Apparently it mattered to you, though.

“Is that the Big or Little Dipper?” you asked.

Fraser squinted at the patch of sky you were pointing toward, still holding half a cheeseburger in your hand like a tiny, greasy trophy.

“I don’t think it’s either.”

You kept looking up, brow furrowed in concentration. “What do you mean?” you asked. “It’s sort of shaped like a shopping cart.”

Fraser glanced between your face and the stars, then tipped his chin upward again. “I think it’s Orion.”

That made you look at him, then back at the sky.

“See those three stars forming a line?” he said, pointing up. Your eyes followed his finger. “That’s Orion’s belt.”

He let his hand fall back to hold your leg again, shrugging.

“I have absolutely no idea if I’m right, by the way.”

“I think you are,” you murmured.

You were still looking up, and Fraser noticed you smiling at the sky. Not a tired smile, or a polite one, or the kind people wear when they’re trying to be agreeable. This one was bigger. Much softer. It reached your eyes and lit your whole face from the inside out.

Fraser found himself staring at you for a long moment, awkwardly sideways, still holding your leg so you wouldn’t topple off your improvised pedestal like a tipsy little saint. He looked long enough to realize, with a quiet jolt, that he liked seeing you smile like this.

He held a hand out toward you.

“Come on.”

You looked down at it for a moment before taking it.

Your fingers slipped easily into his palm. Fraser steadied you as you stepped carefully off the concrete foundation, his other hand hovering instinctively near your elbow until both of your heels found the ground again.

He didn’t know why he expected you to politely start walking back to the car next so he could get you both home. Perhaps because that would have been the sensible thing to do. The sort of thing Fraser preferred. Instead, you immediately sat down on the edge of the concrete block you’d just climbed off, smoothing your dress beneath you before taking another unapologetically enormous bite of your cheeseburger.

You looked up at him, still chewing, before patting the concrete beside you for him to sit down too. With a quiet sigh that suggested resignation more than annoyance, he obeyed.

“We're sitting here now?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “I like it here.”

Fraser followed your gaze back up to the stars as the night settled comfortably around the two of you. Traffic murmured somewhere beyond the lot. The restaurant door opened and shut behind them with a burst of warm noise and the smell of fries. Overhead, the sky stretched clear and dark, interrupted only by the amber halo of the streetlight above you.

You didn’t seem to notice any of it.

Your eyes remained fixed on everything beyond it.

Fraser watched you, trying and failing to decide what exactly it was about the sight that held him so still. Maybe it was the way you looked when you were quiet, and so very focused. Maybe it was the fact that, for all your drunken wobbling and burger enthusiasm, you seemed to have found something in the sky that mattered more than the rest of the world combined.

Eventually, he asked the question that had been sitting in the back of his mind ever since he’d heard your nickname.

“Do you like space?”

You looked over.

“I mean,” he added, nodding toward you, “I heard Miriam and Oliver call you Star, for some reason.”

You swallowed down the final bite of your burger and crinkled the paper wrapper into a little ball in your fist. “It’s just a silly nickname my dad gave me as a kid,” you said.

There was enough fondness in your voice that Fraser suspected it wasn’t silly at all.

You tipped your head back again, eyes returning to the sky.

“I’m actually kind of scared of space.”

Fraser looked at you in confusion, brows drawing together.

“It's beautiful up there but also so very…” You searched for the word, your free hand lifting vaguely toward the endless stretch of stars overhead. “…vast.”

The word seemed insufficient somehow. Fraser understood that immediately, though he would have struggled to explain why. Language wasn’t really built to describe something that refused to end.

“Gives me vertigo almost,” you went on, frowning thoughtfully. “Or maybe that’s the alcohol.”

“It gives you vertigo?” Fraser repeated, because he couldn’t quite tell whether you were joking or not.

“I mean, there’s like hundreds of billions stars in just the Milky Way alone. And then there’s even more billions of galaxies just as big as ours. Ones we can’t even observe.” You shook your head, still staring upward as though the sheer scale of it offended you personally. “That’s crazy, right?”

“A little bit,” he admitted.

He said it lightly, but he meant it. Fraser had spent enough nights under the same sky to know it was beautiful. He’d also spent enough of his life trying to keep things manageable to appreciate the comfort of limits. A broken fence could be fixed. A flat tire could be changed. A problem could be solved. The universe could not.

“And no one knows why it exists. Like sure, evolution makes sense and all that. But that’s just Earth.” You looked over at him then, genuinely perplexed. “Like why the fuck does the universe exist?”

“Great question,” Fraser said dryly.

“Even Google can’t answer it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Fraser turned his head. “You googled why the universe exists?”

“Repeatedly.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

“Seriously,” you continued, apparently encouraged by his laughter. “Scientists can explain how it formed through, like, the Big Bang and quantum physics. But if you ask why, it’s all philosophical bullshit.”

The sheer irritation in your voice made him laugh again. “You think philosophy is bullshit?”

“Only when I’m after a definite answer.” You shrugged. “So yeah, I get a little dizzy thinking about everything up there. I like sci-fi movies, though. They can make up definite answers.”

Fraser looked up at the sky himself.

He’d never thought of it in this way, even though he lived beneath it and saw it every night. Driving home after late games. Standing outside bars he didn’t really want to be at. Waiting for the team bus that was always either too early or too late. He’d looked at the sky often enough to know its shape, its color, the way it changed with the seasons.

But he’d never once asked why it was there.

That wasn’t how his mind worked. Fraser was a how-person. How do you fix this? How do you get there? How do you make sure no one gets hurt? How do you keep moving when the answer isn’t obvious? He was practical like that. He trusted things that could be measured, repaired, or at least understood well enough to be useful.

Why was a much more dangerous question.

Why could go on forever.

Why could swallow a person whole if they let it.

Fraser didn’t like why. He didn’t know what to do with questions like that.

But he liked that you asked them.

He glanced back at you, still sitting on the concrete block, fidgeting with your burger wrapper in your hands. But your smile had disappeared—that shameless smile you’d stared at the stars with, mesmerized by their existence alone.

Your sadness was back. Subtle and lurking around the edges. Your bottom lip jutting out, almost quivering in your effort to hold back tears. Some thought in your head must’ve suddenly taken a wrong turn.

“You okay?” he asked.

You let out a quiet breath. “Define okay.”

Fraser kept his eyes on your face. “Did you have a fun night?” he tried.

“I think I tried to.” You laughed softly through your nose. “It was just… a really bad bachelorette.”

Fraser didn’t interrupt. He didn’t know enough about how girls hung out in groups to question it, and you sounded like you were at the beginning of a rant anyway.

“I try not to talk badly about other women because I’m a feminist, and I believe it does more harm to us as a group than any good, but—” You stopped yourself, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek. “But it becomes very difficult to uphold those principles when girls can be so fucking cruel to each other.”

The laugh you let out wasn’t really a laugh this time.

“They were all…” You gestured vaguely into the air, searching for a word that never quite came. “Very together. Like, aggressively together. And I was just… there.”

Fraser could picture it immediately, even if you hadn’t described it particularly well. The feeling of standing in a room full of people you were supposed to fit in with and somehow still being on the outside of it, watching everyone else laugh like they’d been handed the same script.

He knew that one too well from locker rooms full of guys who actually had nothing in common with him if you erased hockey from the equation.

“Then why did you go?”

“Because the bride is my cousin,” you said as a matter-of-fact.

Fair enough, Fraser thought to himself.

He found himself wondering which side of the family this cousin belonged to. Maybe Miriam had gotten lucky, fever and all. Or maybe this bride was a cousin on the other side of your family.

He wasn’t about to ask, though.

Your heel nudged absentmindedly against the edge of the concrete.

“Kinda felt like her friends were laughing at me the entire time, and I don’t know if I did something to them to deserve that.”

The words came out almost apologetically, like you were worried you might be accusing people unfairly. Fraser had the absurd thought that you probably would’ve apologized to a mugger if you thought you’d inconvenienced him. That was how you came across.

“I hope I didn’t, because that would suck. I try very hard to be kind.”

Fraser believed you immediately. Not just kind. You were criminally kind. The sort of person who sounded genuinely distressed even when talking badly about women who’d spent the night making you feel like shit.

“But if they were laughing for the reason I suspect, then I really hate those bi—” You stopped yourself with a tiny wince. “No, sorry. Shouldn’t use that word.”

Fraser almost laughed. “You can say it.”

“But it’s not nice,” you argued.

“Just say it.”

You let out a long breath, as if you were preparing to commit a felony. “They’re… bitches.”

Fraser snorted. “Felt good, didn’t it?” he asked, amused.

You seemed to think about it like a moral dilemma. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. You were a little unbelievable. Apparently even your anger came with a warning label.

Even you let out a shy little laugh, hand coming up to cover your mouth, before silence settled between you again. Fraser looked down at the wrapper in your hands, then back at your face, trying to decide where to start. He could ask more about the bride, about the girls, about the night in general—but the answer was already sitting there, half-hidden in everything you’d said.

“Is this all about some guy named Kevin?”

You looked over immediately. “Did Miriam tell you?”

He shook his head. “No, the girl who had your heels kind of did. Said she’d beat my ass if I were Kevin.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Really? Oh my god, she was so nice to me for no apparent reason. I don’t even remember her name! That’s so bad from me.”

Fraser smiled to himself. Somehow, forgetting the name of the woman who’d defended your honor seemed like exactly the kind of thing you’d feel guilty about. To remember kindness and punish yourself for not returning it properly.

“So what happened with Kevin?” he asked after a beat.

You stared down at the wrapper in your hands, turning it over once, then again, as if the answer might be printed on the grease-stained paper.

“Je suis… dumped, I guess. By Kevin.”

He could’ve almost guessed it, but what he didn’t understand was why. A darn why-question bothering him again.

“And he’s friends with the groom,” you continued. “So I think all the girls took his side or something. I don’t want to know the story he’s been telling them.”

Fraser kept quiet. He had the distinct impression that listening worked better than sympathy with you. You would simply unfold if he gave you the time.

“I didn’t even notice anything was off in our relationship until he said I was too boring to be his girlfriend. After four years together, that’s the only explanation I got.”

Your fingers tightened around the wrapper.

Fraser frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know.”

He looked at you for a second, and your eyes were totally empty. Carefully holding things together to not fall apart. It was hard to reconcile that with the girl who’d turned his whole night into an adventure. Harder still to imagine Kevin looking at you and deciding boring was the word to best describe you with.

“Do I look boring?” you asked. “Or act it?”

“No, you don’t.” Fraser didn’t even have to think about it. “I think Kevin sounds like an idiot.”

You nodded with complete seriousness. “He was tall, though.”

Fraser barked out a laugh. “That doesn’t help his case.”

“It did for a while,” you admitted, then immediately frowned like you weren’t sure why you’d said that out loud. “Holy fuck, that’s so pathetic.”

Fraser’s smile faded. Some people might have pitied you—you seemed to be doing enough of that yourself—but Fraser couldn’t manage pity. What he felt instead was a slow, rising disbelief, sharp enough to sting. He couldn’t understand how anyone could have looked at you for four years and reduced you to something so small.

“I’m not thinking about him,” you admitted weakly, and when a tear slipped free, you wiped it away with the heel of your hand. “I’m thinking about what it says about me.”

It wasn’t about Kevin himself, Fraser realized, although it seemed impossible to somehow be your fault. It was the question he'd left behind. The one you'd been carrying around ever since, one that had rooted itself somewhere so deep even strangers could hear it if they listened closely enough.

Why weren’t you enough for him?

“It really looks like I had fun, right?” you said, smiling in a way that was almost cruel to yourself, as if you were trying to make a joke out of your own humiliation. You wiped at your face again, harder this time, dragging away more tears. “That’s what I get for trying not to be boring for one night.”

Before Fraser could think better of it, before he could remind himself that he barely knew you, that he had no business touching you like this, his hand lifted.

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, gentle as a breath, and caught the tears there along with the dark smear of mascara that had already begun to dry against your cheek. His touch was so careful it almost felt like an apology. Only after he’d done it did he realize how forward it might have been.

How intimate.

How much he wanted to keep doing it.

“Wow.”

Fraser frowned. “What?”

Your gaze had dropped to his hand, still resting, barely, against your cheek.

“Your hands are fucking huge.”

You looked up at him then, wide-eyed and shining in the pale wash of moonlight, your expression so open in the wait of a reaction from him. For one sudden, traitorous second, half-delirious with the closeness of it, Fraser had the absurd urge to part your lips with his thumb and see what you’d do. Whether you’d let him. Whether you’d take it into your mouth or not.

The thought came without warning. Just as quickly, he wanted to rip it out of his own head.

Jesus Christ. Really? Now? When she’s crying?

“It’s a hockey thing, I-I think,” Fraser stuttered out.

For one suspended second, you only stared at him.

Then you laughed so hard you doubled over.

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

Fraser wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed it, but a little while later you were back in the car, buckled safely into the passenger seat with a paper bag full of his leftover fries resting in your lap.

He suspected the fries had played a significant role in your cooperation.

The heater hummed quietly, warm air slowly chasing away the cold that had settled into both of you outside. He reversed out of the parking spot, hand on your seat to twist back and see. The lingering smell of fried food mixed with the faint perfume still clinging to you, and for a few peaceful moments neither of you spoke.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence anymore. Somewhere along the way, you’d moved past that. He couldn’t believe how nervous he’d been when you’d fallen asleep earlier. Now he wouldn’t have thought twice about waking you up if it happened again.

“You can connect your phone, if you want to,” Fraser said absently, pulling into traffic.

He also finally had your address now!

You turned so quickly he almost laughed. “I can?”

A smug, ingenious little smile crept across your mouth. Your excitement was entirely disproportionate to the privilege of controlling someone’s car stereo.

“Oh no,” Fraser mumbled under his breath.

You either didn’t hear him or chose not to. After some fiddling with your phone, the opening guitar riff of a song that sounded older than both of you burst through the speakers.

Fraser frowned instinctively, reading the title of the display. Anything, anything by some band called Dramarama. Not that he considered himself to have any sort of musical authority, but that had to be one of the worst band names he’d ever heard.

“What even is this?” he huffed.

“Don’t laugh at my music taste.” You gasped dramatically, one hand flying to your chest. “This was on the soundtrack to Nightmare on Elm Street 4.”

“Four?” Fraser smiled, glancing over at you briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Oh, I’m sure that’s significantly better than the first three.”

“I like stuff from the eighties. Sue me.”

You stuck your tongue out at him.

It was so unexpectedly childish that Fraser laughed—a little more loudly and unguarded than he’d planned to—so his hand immediately came up to cover his mouth as he did. A habit that had settled in years ago, somewhere around the awkward stretch between childhood and adulthood, and he’d never quite managed to shake it.

You noticed immediately, tilting your head at him. “Do you always cover your face when you laugh?”

Fraser lowered his hand. “No, I just—”

“I do the same thing, but I used to have fucked-up teeth,” you cut him off, shrugging like it was nothing. “Had braces to fix most of it, but I still have a gap right—” You leaned closer across the center console, pointing dramatically. “—here.”

Fraser looked briefly where you were pointing, your finger perched on your bottom lip as you showed the most minuscule little gap between two upper incisors.

Fuck. You were stupidly cute.

“I used to be able to fit a straw between them,” you continued thoughtfully. “Maybe I still can, but it’s not as easy with freaking paper straws.”

Fraser smiled, shaking his head. “But think of all the turtles we’re saving.”

“I don’t think straws alone are doing squat, Fraser.”

He laughed at your wording, again just as unguarded and loud as before. His hand practically itched to lift and cover his mouth, but for some reason—a sudden ounce of added willpower—he didn’t. You noticed. He saw the tiny smile beginning to tug at the corner of your mouth. But, thankfully, you didn’t point it out.

Fraser would’ve been embarrassed if you did.

Instead, you simply reached over and turned the music up a little. The obnoxious rock song eventually faded into something slower. Then another. Your playlist seemed perpetually stuck in 1987.

Soon the car filled with soft synthesizers and warm guitar tones, the sort of music that sounded strangely comforting despite Fraser recognizing almost none of it. The roads had emptied considerably by now, streetlights sliding across the windshield in long ribbons of gold as the city drifted quietly around them.

Somewhere between one song and the next, the conversation wandered.

He found out you worked at a library.

Well—

“A library assistant,” you corrected.

Because apparently there was a major difference between librarians and library assistants. You couldn’t quite explain it to him, though, beyond the fact that librarians had master’s degrees and better paychecks. The workload seemed about the same.

Still, you were getting your master’s, and you were insistent on that. You talked shyly about hopefully starting sometime next year. You didn’t know if you’d get in, or if you did, whether you’d be able to handle the pressure. But you seemed determined, like you’d already decided that was where your life was headed and were simply waiting for everything else to catch up.

When Fraser told you he had no doubts about you succeeding, you argued that he knew nothing.

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But you seem like someone who finishes what she starts.”

For a second, you didn’t say anything. Just looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read before your attention drifted back out the window.

“My dad always says that too.”

The sentence was so soft Fraser almost missed it. He smiled to himself as he turned onto your street.

It was well after one in the morning now. The streets of this suburban neighborhood lay completely empty, settling into that strange middle ground between night and morning, where every porch light seemed brighter than it should’ve and every parked car looked abandoned.

“This one,” you murmured eventually, pointing lazily through the windshield.

Fraser slowed, pulling alongside a modest redbrick house near the end of the block.

It wasn’t hard for him to put the pieces together.

The truck parked in the driveway carried the faded logo of what looked like a plumbing company. Flower boxes sat beneath the front windows, empty now except for dark soil waiting for spring. A wind chime made from seashells hung beside the porch, gently clicking together in the breeze.

This was your parents’ place.

He wondered if this was the house you’d grown up in. Wondered how long ago you’d moved back. Wondered if packing up four years of a shared life with Kevin had happened all at once or little by little. He wondered far too many things about someone he’d met less than three hours ago.

The engine clicked softly as it cooled.

You were quick to undo your belt, and Fraser followed swiftly. By the time he rounded the hood of the car, you were standing on the sidewalk waiting for him, swaying ever so slightly in your heels, as if your body still hadn’t quite decided which way was up.

“You sure you’re okay getting inside?” he asked.

“Fine and dandy,” you smiled.

He believed exactly half of that.

Fraser followed behind you toward the front porch anyway, close enough to catch you if your balance betrayed you again, but far enough back that it wouldn’t feel like he was hovering. The porch light flickered on automatically as you reached it.

For a moment everything felt strangely quiet.

The conversation had finally run out. The night, which had stretched far longer than Fraser expected, seemed to be gently arriving at its natural ending. And he had no words for it.

He wasn’t good at endings. Never really had been.

“Good night—” Fraser tried to say, but he was cut off by you turning around on the porch, saying something at the exact same time, your words tangling together.

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

The question hit him like an eighteen-wheeler going flat out over his body, even if he only heard the last end of it. He stared at you, mouth slightly open, while every coherent thought in his head scattered in different directions like startled birds.

He was aware, dimly, of the porch light buzzing overhead. Of the cool night air against his face. Of the fact that you were standing there in his hoodie, looking at him innocently for some reason. He hoped deeply that whatever he was feeling internally didn’t show externally to you.

“W-what?” was all that he could manage.

You blinked at him, perfectly serious.

“Do you want to come inside and fuck me?”

“What?” he repeated, continuing to stare at you. Of all the things he’d expected you to say, that would’ve never made the list. “Now?”

“No, in three weeks.” You looked at him like he was the ridiculous one. “Of course I meant now.”

For one dangerous heartbeat, his imagination tried to answer the question before his brain could stop it. What would happen if he said yes? If he stepped inside with you, if he let the night tip over into something neither of you could take back? The thought was gone almost as quickly as it’d appeared, buried under something much stronger. You were drunk. Definitely still heartbroken. You’d spent half the night crying over another man, for Christ’s sake.

“I can’t—”

The words barely left his mouth before your expression changed, sobering up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—”

You physically recoiled from yourself, as if the words had come out of someone else’s mouth and you were only now realizing what they meant. Both hands flew to your face, fingers splaying over your cheeks, and your shoulders curled inward so sharply Fraser could almost see you trying to fold yourself out of existence.

He took an instinctive step forward.

“No, no. I meant because you’re drunk and I’m not,” he explained quickly, keeping his voice gentle even as his own pulse kicked hard against his ribs. “I don’t think you know what you want right now.”

You slowly lowered your hands, letting them dangle awkwardly at your sides. “Oh, you’re being sweet, aren’t you? Fuck, that’s— You’ve been too nice to me all night. You don’t even know me—”

Seeing you spiral in front of him was almost adorable.

He only watched you for a moment—the way your eyes darted quickly around in horror, refusing to settle on him for more than a second. The way your shoulders had gone tight with embarrassment. The way your hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie as apology after apology kept tumbling out, each one somehow creating the need for another.

It would’ve been funny if you hadn’t looked so genuinely mortified.

Fraser swallowed, forcing himself to stay where he was instead of stepping closer, instead of doing the stupid, instinctive thing and trying to fix it for you. He wanted to hug you. But he couldn’t crowd you. He didn’t want to make this worse by making you feel cornered, or worse still, like he was taking advantage of how badly you were floundering.

He didn’t know you.

He knew your laugh, and the way you talked with your hands when you were trying to make a point. He knew you got quiet when you were sad and a little reckless when you were trying not to be. He knew you’d cried over a man who didn’t deserve it, and then somehow still managed to ask him to come inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. He knew enough to understand that you were hurting, and drunk, and probably lonely in a way that had nothing to do with sex at all, but you somehow thought it did.

And he especially knew that you deserved better than what you were drunkenly asking for. He refused to be something you woke up to tomorrow morning and regretted.

So he kept his voice soft when he spoke again.

“Hey,” he said, careful and steady. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

Because you were embarrassed enough for both of you. And because, despite everything, he could still feel the ridiculous pull of wanting to make you feel better.

“I just propositioned a stranger outside my parents’ house.” You gestured weakly toward the front door, squeezing your eyes shut. “Like, they’re literally inside. What the actual fuck was I thinking?”

You looked so sincerely devastated by your own behavior, Fraser had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. Not at you, but at the sheer, impossible what-the-fuck of it all.

“I’m gonna go inside now,” you said, voice still a little strained with embarrassment, but determined. “Thank you for driving me, Fraser.”

“It was nothing, really,” he said softly.

You climbed the porch steps again, this time without turning around.

Fraser waited until you disappeared inside before finally letting out the breath he’d been holding. The front door clicked shut behind you. The porch light stayed on, spilling a pale yellow glow across the steps and the little patch of front yard beyond him.

He should’ve gone then. He knew that. Instead, he stood there for another moment, hands shoved into his pockets, staring up at the dark sky as if it might offer him some kind of explanation.

He thought about the stars. About the way you’d looked at the universe like it was simultaneously the most beautiful and most terrifying thing you’d ever encountered.

And cheeseburgers.

About paper straws and the gap between your front teeth, for some reason.

And impossible questions asked outside your parents' house at one-thirty in the morning: whether or not he wanted to come inside and sleep with you.

And he was slowly realizing, with growing annoyance, that he was probably going to be thinking about you for quite a while.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. How exactly was he supposed to wake up tomorrow and carry on with life like this had been a normal evening? Because absolutely nothing about tonight had been normal.

He looked once more toward the front door.

This Kevin dude had been so wrong. Whatever else you were, you certainly weren’t boring.

Suddenly, the front door swung open again. Fraser looked just in time to see you hurry back onto the porch, barefoot now with his hoodie clutched in your hands.

“I still have your hoodie—”

“Keep it,” he said immediately.

Your eyebrows lifted.

“Seriously keep it, Star.”

You looked down at the hoodie for a moment, fingers tightening around the fabric, before a quiet smile spread across your face. Then you disappeared back through the front door a few seconds later.

“Good night, Fraser.”

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