Summary: You break up with Tucker because you are tired of being a secret, but when another guy hits on you at Malone's, he snaps and publicly claims you in front of his entire team.
Angst to fluff? But definitely Angst
Warnings: spoiler alert if you didn't read the books!, cursing, violence
A/N: Well, this would probably fit book Tucker rather than TV Show Tucker, buuuut. Truth is we didn't really see much of Tuck this season. Anyway, I hope you like it. Feedback is much appreciated! Take care of yourselves xx also, @airgoddess maybe you can enjoy this in the meantime
Words: 2.6k
Gif
It was never supposed to be this fucking complicated.
John Tucker, Briar U's laidback forward was the kind of guy who took everything in stride. He had a heart of gold, infinite patience, and a Texas drawl that could melt the panties off a saint. But his life had recently become a massive, tangled wreck. Earlier in the year, a brief hookup with Sabrina James had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy. Tucker, being the thoroughly decent, stand-up guy he was, stepped up immediately, vowing to support Sabrina and the baby every step of the way.
But then, he fell in love with you.
Because of the fragile situation with Sabrina, you and Tucker had decided to keep your relationship off the radar. You didn’t want to add to her panic, nor did you want to deal with the relentless, vicious gossip of the Briar campus. But what started as a temporary protective measure had morphed into a heavy, suffocating weight. You were sick of hiding. Sick of slipping out the back door of the hockey house before his roommates could catch you doing the walk of shame. You were tired of feeling like a dirty little secret, and the brutal strain had caused a constant, underlying friction between you two.
Which led to the explosive argument in his bedroom just hours before the team’s victory party.
You were pacing the length of his floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, while he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. He was watching you with those heavy-lidded, deep brown eyes, his large hands resting loosely on his spread knees. His unnatural stillness only fueled the anxious, clawing fire burning in your chest.
"I can't do this anymore, Tuck," you said, your voice trembling as you snatched your jacket off his desk chair. "I'm fucking done. We're done."
He went utterly, terrifyingly still.
"Come here, darlin'," Tucker commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that usually turned your knees to absolute water.
"No." You zipped up your jacket with shaking fingers, refusing to look at him because you knew if you met his gaze, your resolve would snap in half. "I mean it this time. I am so fucking exhausted. I feel like a ghost in my own relationship."
Tucker pushed himself off the bed. His massive, muscular frame seemed to swallow the small space of the room as he stepped directly in front of his closed door, effectively trapping you inside. His dark auburn hair was a messy halo, and beneath his calm exterior, his warm brown eyes were flashing with a dangerous mix of panic and pure, unadulterated male stubbornness.
"We are not doing this, Y/N," he said slowly, his Texas drawl thick with absolute refusal. "We are not breaking up."
"I am the goddamn side piece in my own relationship!" you yelled, the frustration boiling over as hot tears finally spilled down your cheeks. "I know you have to be there for Sabrina and the baby. I want you to be there for them. You're a good man, Tuck, the best I know. But I can't be your hidden fuck-buddy anymore. I can't watch you rush out of the room to take her calls, or drop my hand the second we step outside because someone might see us. It hurts too much. It's tearing me apart."
A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. Tucker closed the distance between you in two long strides. You tried to step back, but his large, callused hands gripped your shoulders, hauling you gently but firmly against the hard wall of his chest. You were instantly grounded in his signature scent of sandalwood and citrus, a scent that felt so much like home it made a broken sob rip from your throat.
"You listen to me," he rasped, his voice vibrating against your collarbone as he lowered his head to look you dead in the eye. "You are not second place. You are never second place. You are everything to me."
"Tuck, please—"
"No, you're going to let me speak." He brought one of his large hands up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb catching a tear before it could fall. "I know it's hard. I know I'm asking a hell of a lot of you to wait for me to sort this mess out. I hate that I'm the goddamn reason you're crying right now. But I am a patient man, Y/N. I will wait out any storm to keep you."
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head as you pressed your hands against his chest, trying to physically push away the one thing you wanted most in the world. Beneath your palms, his heart was hammering wildly against his ribs.
"You have to," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Go figure out your life. Be a dad. Do what you have to do without worrying about keeping me happy in the shadows."
You pulled out of his grip, intentionally ignoring the raw, devastated look that flashed across his handsome face. You reached around him, your hand wrapping tightly around the cool metal of the doorknob.
"I'm going to be at Malone's tonight," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the fact that your heart was breaking into a million jagged pieces. "I promised Allie and Hannah I'd celebrate the win with them. But don't look for me, I need space."
You slipped past him, yanking the door open. You left him standing there in the middle of his bedroom, his jaw clenched tight and his broad chest heaving, his heart full of absolute, uncompromising refusal to accept that this was the end.
By the time you pushed your way into Malone's, your hands were still shaking.
And the absolute worst part of being best friends with Allie and Hannah? It meant you were automatically dragged into the Briar hockey team's inner circle.
They had commandeered the massive, wraparound leather booth in the back corner, and you were squished right into the middle of the loud, rowdy chaos. Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Fitzy were practically shouting over the music, toasting their shutout win and passing around pitchers of beer.
And sitting directly across the wooden table from you was John Tucker.
He hadn't said a single word since you sat down. He just sat rigidly on the cracked vinyl cushion, a half-empty bottle of Miller gripped in his large hand. For Tucker, the booming bass of the jukebox and the chaotic crowd seemed to fade entirely into white noise. The only thing in sharp focus was you. Every time you dared to glance up, those heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes were already locked on you, burning with a heavy, volatile intensity that made it impossible for you to draw a full breath.
You felt like you were bleeding out invisibly. You’d done it. You’d looked him in the eye, told him you were done being his dirty little secret, and walked away. Now, forced to sit so close to him, it felt like you’d carved out your own heart with a dull knife.
Hannah nudged your shoulder, shoving a shot of cheap tequila into your hand. "Drink up! You look like you're at a funeral, Y/N/N, not a party."
Allie leaned in over Dean's shoulder, her blonde hair catching the harsh neon light. "Seriously, what's going on with you? You've been miserable all week."
You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes and downed the shot. The liquor clawed down your throat, "Just tired. Let's go dance."
You dragged them out of the booth and shoved your way onto the small, packed dance floor near the jukebox. The music was deafening, the heavy bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes and rattling your ribs. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting yourself get lost in the chaotic, grinding rhythm of the crowd. You laughed loudly with Allie and Hannah, desperately trying to project the image of a girl having the time of her life. But all you were really doing was trying to ignore the heavy, scorching gaze you could feel burning into your skin from across the room.
Tucker was watching you.
Usually, he was the anchor of his friend group—observant, laidback, the quiet guy who kept his head and his temper when everyone else lost theirs. Tonight, he felt like a coiled spring pulled back so tight it was about to snap.
Every breath he took felt like inhaling broken glass. You’d told him you were done. You’d looked at him with tears in your beautiful eyes and told him you couldn't be his second-place secret anymore. And the worst, most agonizing part? He knew you were absolutely right.
His eyes tracked your every movement through the strobe lights. You looked fucking breathtaking—flushed, wild, and utterly out of his reach—and he wasn't the only one who noticed.
A tall guy from the lacrosse team slid up behind you on the dance floor, his hands hovering dangerously close to your hips. Another guy, some frat bro in a backward cap, was trying to catch your eye, shouting some garbage pickup line over the loud music.
Tucker’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ground together. A dark, ugly possessiveness flared in his chest, incinerating every ounce of his southern patience.
They saw a beautiful, single girl looking to get wrecked and have a good time. They didn't know you belonged to him. They didn't know the soft, needy sounds you made when he sucked marks into your neck, or how perfectly your body bowed up to meet his. And it was his own damn fault they didn't know. He had kept you in the shadows to protect Sabrina's privacy and manage the baby drama, but in doing so, he had left you completely unprotected. He’d made you feel like you didn't matter. He'd practically served you up on a silver platter to every thirsty dirtbag in Malone's.
He watched, every thick muscle in his massive frame going violently tense, as the lacrosse player leaned in, his mouth entirely too close to your ear. Tucker saw you politely step back, your posture stiffening in clear discomfort, but the guy persisted. The asshole actually closed the distance again, flashing a cocky grin and reaching out to boldly wrap a hand around your waist.
That was it. Patience was officially dead.
Tucker’s grip on his beer bottle tightened until his knuckles turned stark white, the thick glass groaning dangerously under the pressure. With a harsh, ragged exhale, he slammed the bottle down on the sticky wooden table so hard the remaining liquid foamed over the top.
"Whoa, Tuck, where are you going?" Garrett asked, looking completely startled by the sudden, aggressive movement from the calmest guy on the roster.
Tucker didn't answer. He didn't even look at his captain. He was already moving, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowded bar, his dark eyes locked dead on the man touching what was his.
He parted the sweaty, grinding crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, his massive frame shoving through the bodies without a single apology. The rational, endlessly patient part of his brain—the part that always played the long game, the part that had agreed to keep this relationship off the radar to deal with Sabrina's baby drama—was dead and buried.
Fuck the secret. Fuck the gossip. Tucker didn't care about the whispers, the rumors, or the stares that were bound to follow. He only cared about the fact that the woman he was completely, irrevocably in love with was slipping through his fingers, and half the bar was trying to swoop in and take his place.
You spun around, desperate to step away from the persistent lacrosse player whose hands were getting way too bold, but before you could tell the guy to back off, a blur of black and silver stepped into your line of vision.
You gasped as the lacrosse player was suddenly violently ripped away from you.
Tucker’s massive, callused hand was fisted in the collar of the guy’s shirt, lifting him nearly off his feet.
"Hey, what the hell, man?" the lacrosse player sputtered, throwing his hands up. He puffed out his chest, trying to look tough.
The words had barely left the guy's mouth before Tucker’s fist cracked across his jaw.
The sickening thud cut through the immediate vicinity of the dance floor. The lacrosse player stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table and taking a couple of empty beer bottles down with him. The crowd gasped, forming an immediate, wide circle around you, but Tucker didn't even flinch. He stood over the groaning guy, his broad chest heaving, his fists clenched tight at his sides.
"Stay the fuck away from my girl," Tucker growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal vibration.
The guy scrambled back, holding his bleeding jaw, and frantically nodded before disappearing into the crowd.
Tucker didn't spare him a second glance. He turned to you, the violence in his frame immediately shifting into a raw, desperate need. Large, familiar hands instantly gripped your hips, hauling you flush against his hard chest.
"Tuck—" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, violent somersault against your ribs.
"Mine," he murmured fiercely.
He pulled you seamlessly into the heavy rhythm of the music. His hands slid from your hips to trail possessively up your spine, sending a shiver of blistering heat straight to your core. He spun you around, pressing your back flat against his broad chest, his thick arms wrapping securely around your waist as he swayed with you.
He could feel you trembling, feel the exact moment the adrenaline bled out of your muscles and you melted against him. This was where you belonged. Not hiding in the shadows. Not sneaking out the back door of the hockey house. It was an undeniably intimate, blatantly sexual claim, loud and clear for the entire fucking bar to see.
Over by the booths, the reaction was instantaneous. Dean’s jaw practically unhinged, his drink freezing halfway to his mouth. Garrett actually choked on his beer, coughing violently while Logan thumped him on the back. Hannah and Allie exchanged wide-eyed, completely stunned looks. John Tucker, the quietest, most reserved guy on the roster, had just knocked a guy out and put on a very public, very unapologetic show.
Tucker spun you back around to face him, completely oblivious to the shocked stares of his teammates. He brought one hand up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip, parting it slightly.
"I don't care who sees," Tucker said, his voice fierce, unwavering, and laced with absolute certainty. "I don't care how complicated it is. I am not hiding you anymore, Y/N. And I am sure as hell not letting you break up with me."
Before you could formulate a response—before your brain could even process the magnitude of what he had just done—he dipped his head and captured your lips in a searing, breathless kiss.
It wasn't a gentle, hidden kiss in the dark. It was a bold, desperate, world-stopping declaration. He kissed you like a starving man, his tongue parting your lips and claiming your mouth with a consuming, dominant heat that made your knees buckle. He caught your weight effortlessly, pulling your hips flush against the hard ridge of his arousal, showing his teammates, your friends, and everyone else in Malone's exactly who you belonged to.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your chests heaving together in the smoky air.
"You're my girl," he whispered fiercely, resting his forehead against yours. His brown eyes locked onto yours to make sure you understood every single word. "And nobody is going to steal you away from me."
summary: what are the odds that the girl they boys bet tucker won’t go talk to is already his girlfriend?
request: yes/no
warnings: drinking, swearing
word count: 1.42k
authors note: we've waited long enough and tucker finally gets to be added to our list of people I've written for! he is a cerified softie so I made sure I really leaned into that. Sorry that this is so short also! I’ve been in the thick of getting assignments done atm (I’ve got 1 and a bit left) so I should be back fully soon! Also keep on sending in those requests! I’ve had so much fun getting to start planning out the little concepts that you guys have.
Friday nights at Malone’s were always loud.
Too loud for Tucker’s liking, honestly.
Dean was halfway through his third beer and yelling at Beau over a hockey game playing above the bar. Garrett was trying to convince Logan to take shots with girls he definitely did not know.
Tucker sat wedged between Beau and Dean in the booth, nursing the same drink he’d had for twenty minutes.
Dean threw his arm over Tucker’s shoulders, “do you want to act like you want to be here?” Dean spoke dramatically as he sighed.
Tucker didn’t even look up from his beer “I do want to be here.” He didn’t even sound convincing.
Beau shook his head “look around, Malone’s is crawling with girls tonight.” He motioned to the surrounding tables of girls who were looking at them.
“And?”
Beau sent the boy a glare, “you have spoken to zero of them.” It was almost painful to the boys around them.
“Maybe I’m taking a vow of silence.”
Dean snorted “no you’re being weird.” Beau was quick to clarify “more weird than usual.” Tucker flipped them both off without a beat.
Because the truth was simple: he wasn’t interested in anyone here.
Because he was already seeing someone.
Had been for months now.
Secretly.
Not because he was ashamed of you, actually, it was far from it. The problem was that the second the guys found out, his life would become unbearable.
Garrett would become an overprotective father. Dean would question why you wanted to be with Tucker, and Logan would wonder how Tucker got you.
So Tucker kept you to himself.
And you didn’t mind as you found it hilarious.
Especially tonight.
Because the second you walked into Malone’s, Tucker saw the exact moment Dean noticed you “oh my god dude.” Dean patted the boys chest as he pointed his head towards you.
Tucker took a sip from his drink as his eyes followed the blondes “what?” He cocked his head as he wondered what they wanted.
Dean nodded toward the front entrance “look at her.” Beau immeditely joined in “Jesus Christ.”
You were laughing at something your Allie said, pushing your jacket off your shoulders as you headed toward the bar.
Tucker bit back a smile, he had missed you “go talk to her!” Beau motioned to Dean to get up so that Tucker could move.
But your boyfriend stayed calm “nope.” He shook his head as he smiled.
He was intending to go nowhere “dude are you blind?” Logan groaned, getting involved.
“She’s exactly your type.”
“She’s anyone’s type.”
Dean’s comment almost got a laugh out of Tucker.
You glanced around, immediately letting your eyes land on Tucker in the crowded room as a tiny smile tugged at your mouth.
Dean caught it “oh my God,” he said looking like a kid in a candy store as he grinned “she smiled at you.”
Tucker leaned back casually “people smile at me all the time.” He tugged his fingers through the end of his hair.
Logan let out a snort as he shook his head “no they don’t,” Logan said.
The boys all got ready to push him in your direction “I am not doing this.” Tucker announced as he raised his hands in surrender.
Dean pointed accusingly “you’re scared.” His eye twitched as he almost wanted to hit the younger boy.
That got Tucker to look at him “scared?” Tucker raised an eyebrow slowly.
Beau grinned as he rubbed the boys shoulders “prove him wrong.” He urged Tucker to give it a shot.
You were fully aware of what was happening now. Tucker could tell by the way you were hiding your smile behind your drink.
Dean leaned across the table “ten bucks says he can’t even get her number.” The blonde was resorting to a bet to get Tucker moving.
Garrett snorted into his beer “twenty says he won’t even get half way there.” Garrett motioned to Tucker to get a move on.
Tucker sighed dramatically, setting his beer down “fine.” The table erupted immediately confirming that you knew what or who they were talking about.
“There he is!”
“Atta boy!”
“Don’t embarrass us!”
The boys all chanted as Tucker motioned to them to shut up.
You watched him approach with a dangerously amused expression.
And behind him, all of the guys were walking this like it was game 7 of a Stanley Cup final.
Tucker stopped in front of you.
You tilted your head innocently, “hi.” Your lower lip was caught between your teeth.
“Hi.”
Dean was practically standing on the seat trying to hear.
Tucker glanced back once at the table full of idiots watching him.
Then he looked at you again.
Without hesitation, Tucker slid one hand around your waist and kissed you.
Not quick, either.
A full kiss.
The kind that made your hand curl into the front of his shirt immediately.
The bar around you disappeared for a second beneath the whistles and shouting coming from the booth.
When Tucker finally pulled back, you were grinning so hard it hurt.
Behind him?
Absolute silence.
Dean looked horrified.
Beau’s mouth was literally hanging open.
Garrett nearly choked on his drink.
Logan slapped the table so hard the glasses rattled “huh?” Dean was almost speechless as he blinked repeatedly.
He shook his head “how did that?” He looked at Logan who was just as shocked.
Tucker didn’t even turn around yet almost amused that the boys were so shocked “you told me to talk to her.” He shrugged, making you grin.
“You kissed her!”
You shrugged, “he’s good with his words.” You tried to hold back a laugh as you never expected to meet the boys like this.
Dean recovered first.
Barely.
He looked between the two of you “this is absolute bullshit,” he declared as he knew that there was more to the story “there’s no way this just happened naturally.” You seemed too comfortable next to Tucker.
You were still tucked against Tucker’s side, laughing as Beau continued to stare at the two of you like you had told him Santa wasn’t real “thirty bucks,” Tucker reminded casually, holding his hand out toward Dean and Garrett without even looking at them.
They slapped their wallets onto the table in front of them “I can't believe this.” Dean grumbled as he shook his head.
Logan was grinning now, delighted by everyone else’s suffering “this is my new favourite thing.” He laughed as he shook his head.
Beau looked back at how you wrapped your arm around Tucker’s torso “you two know each other?” His words finally made the boys clock what was going on.
Tucker shrugged as he smiled “yep.” He shrugged grabbing the thirty dollars from the boys before he held it out for you to grab.
You smiled as you took the money from him “thanks baby.” You pressed a kiss against his cheek as you slipped the money into your pocket.
Everyones face dropped, “baby!” Gasps travelled across the table.
Dean shook his head “I demand a redo!” He raised his hand as Garrett nodded in agreement.
Tucker shook his head “you guys thought I didn’t have game!” He argued back as he squeezed your waist.
Beau nodded as the other three went quiet, “y’know what it was kinda hot what you two did.” He confessed making the three boys glare at him.
Tuckers cheeks turned red “so how did he get you anyways?” Logan asked as he watched you smirk.
The truth was that Tucker needed a study partner and your professor nominated you.
But your story was far more entertaining “have you seen this man?” You patted Tuckers chest making the boy turn even redder.
The boys found this to be the funniest thing in the world “could have just asked me once I would have been swept off my feet.” Tucker felt like you were torturing him.
And of course the boys were eating it up “this is perfect.” Dean quickly forgot about the bet as this all seemed far more entertaining to him.
Tucker groaned “I hate all of you.” He grumbled pinching his fingers at your side.
You smirked as you kissed his cheek “and you wonder why I waited to introduce you to them sweets.” The nickname rolled off of his tongue.
Garrett laughed “how long have you been hiding her from us?” Tucker sucked at his cheek.
“Spring Break?”
The boys were back to looking offended “okay you go get more drinks.” Dean motioned to Tucker and the thirty dollars you had gone back to holding “we want to get to know her.”
summary: even on friendsgiving in a house full of chaos, you and tucker are the one thing that never cracks. (2.1k)
pairing: john tucker x reader
content: established relationship, friendsgiving madness, soft tucker, stress, fluff, very mild explicit content.
authors note: i could never ever ever write anything but fluff for my favourite. also this is my spin on the thanksgiving episode (it doesn’t necessarily follow the plot of the episode but hey that’s fiction baby)
tucker was frantically running a hand through his dark curls. it was a dead giveaway to anyone who knew him that he was seconds away from completely losing his mind.
usually, he was the definition of charm and unbothered grace, the rock of his friend group who could handle a chaotic locker room or a brutal third period without ever breaking a sweat. but right now, his jaw was set in a tight, rigid line.
the kitchen of the house had devolved into an absolute war zone of flour, half-peeled potatoes, and rising panic.
the text messages had been rolling in for the last three hours. excuse after excuse from the people who were supposed to be the backbone of this dinner.
garrett and dean had texted at the last minute saying they wouldn't be around at all, caught up in their own holiday chaos, leaving a massive void in the planning.
to make matters worse, the front door kept opening, welcoming unexpected guests whom tucker hadn't accounted for in his initial headcount, while the people who were supposed to help were nowhere to be found.
instead, it was just the two of you trying to hold the line.
"hey," you murmured, stepping up beside him at the island.
you were leaning against the counter, a peeler in your hand, feeling the exhaustion of trying to salvage friendsgiving settling deep into your bones.
you had tried to dress up a little for the holiday, wearing an oversized, off-the-shoulder cream sweater that kept slipping down your arm, paired with dark fitted jeans.
now, you had the sleeves pushed up past your elbows, trying desperately to keep the knit out of the turkey grease.
"logan just walked in with like three guys from the junior varsity line. i don't think we have enough stuffing for this at all."
tucker let out a low, rough sigh, not looking up from the turkey he was meticulously basting.
the tension in his broad shoulders was palpable, a rare sight for a guy who usually let everything roll off his back. "we'll make it work," he said, his voice a little tighter and deeper than usual. "i just don't understand how a dinner for eight turned into a buffet for twenty, with zero notice. i planned this out to the ounce."
he stared down at the roasting pan, his knuckles gripping the handle of baster. "my mom gave me her exact timeline," he admitted, his voice dropping into a rare, vulnerable register. "down to the minute. i called her three times yesterday just to make sure i had the seasoning right. it's... it's the first time i haven't been home for it. i just wanted it to be right."
the irritation you had been feeling about the chaotic house evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp pang of sympathy. tucker was always everyone else's rock, but right now, he was just a guy missing his mom's kitchen.
you tossed a peeled potato into the pot with a little more force than necessary, your own irritation flaring turning into gentle reassurance. "it will be perfect but i'm about two minutes away from locking the front door, turning off the oven, and letting everyone fight over the raw cranberries."
a faint, genuine smile finally broke through tucker's frustrated expression. the hard line of his jaw softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at you.
he set the baster down, wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, and stepped directly into your space, cutting off the rest of the chaotic kitchen from view.
before you could say anything else, he leaned down. his lips pressed warmly against your cheek, lingering just long enough to make the noise of the crowded house fade into static.
he slid his hand down to find yours, his large, calloused fingers intertwining with yours, his thumb rubbing soothing, slow circles over the back of your knuckles.
"thank you," he whispered near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "i would be losing my mind right now if you weren't here."
"you are losing your mind," you teased softly, turning your head just enough so your nose brushed against his jawline. "but i've got your back. always have."
"always have," he repeated, his voice softening with an undercurrent of fierce affection.
that was the thing about the two of you. anyone in your orbit knew that you and tucker were the blueprint.
you had been together since middle school, navigating the messy transition from kids to adults.
out of all the chaotic, fast-moving couples in your friend group, you and tucker were the stable foundation.
the absolute constants.
you had had your ups and downs, of course.
a couple of explosive, passionate arguments over the years that led to "breaks" that never actually lasted more than a week because neither of you could stand being away from each other.
looking at him now, you couldn't help but think about how far you had come.
your mind drifted back to the seventh grade, when a scrawny, blushing tucker had cornered you by the middle school lockers.
he had practically choked on his own spit asking you to go to the movies with him, shoved a crumpled pack of your favorite candy into your hand, and bolted before you could even say yes.
you had had to chase him down the hallway just to tell him you would have to ask your mom.
then there was the time you both turned sixteen.
after a brief, dramatic three-day breakup over something so stupid neither of you could even remember it now, he had showed up on your porch in the pouring rain.
he didn't just ask for you back.
he had asked you out properly. he had held a bouquet of actual flowers, his curls soaking wet and flattened to his forehead, and looked you dead in the eye with a seriousness that took your breath away.
"i don't want to just be your middle school boyfriend anymore," he had said, his voice steady and completely sure. "i want to be your real boyfriend."
and he meant it.
and to this day the love between you was an unspoken and unshakeable law.
tucker gave your hand one last squeeze before releasing it, the frustration completely melting out of his posture. "alright. let's execute a new game plan."
instead of letting the evening devolve into a disaster, the two of you shifted into a seamless, practiced rhythm born from years of knowing how the other worked.
you grabbed the potato pot and walked out into the living room to recruit some actual help.
your friends were currently being completely useless.
mila was sitting on the armchair with her legs tucked under her, scrolling through her phone, while her girlfriend aoife was standing by the window chatting with a couple of the cheerleaders.
across the room, your other friend rowan was sitting on the coffee table, looking thoroughly amused but completely lost as logan attempted to explain a hockey play to him.
they were all hanging out, but you knew they would step up the second you asked.
"i need you guys," you said, intercepting the room's separate pockets of energy.
aoife looked over immediately, offering a sympathetic smile as she stepped away from the conversation by the window. "is tucker finally cracking?"
"he's running his hands through his hair, so yes, we are at code red," you joked, setting the pot down on the counter by the pass-through window. "can you two take over peeling the rest of the potatoes? we have an army to feed now."
"on it," mila said, tossing her phone onto the chair and stretching as she stood up. "we'll save tucker from himself."
you turned to rowan, who was already raising his hands in mock surrender. "and what's my mission, captain?"
"you are in charge of muscle," you told him, pointing toward logan and the junior varsity players who were hovering by the tv.
"take logan and the freshmen downstairs and drag up every folding chair we own. we're going to be packed in like sardines."
"consider it done," rowan said, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he passed. "don't stress. the food smells amazing, you guys got this."
with your friends successfully deployed, the chaotic house turned into a well-oiled machine.
mila and aoife kept up a steady stream of banter in the kitchen, keeping the mood light while they helped tucker finish the sides, and devon successfully organized a makeshift seating arrangement that somehow fit everyone.
by the time everyone finally sat down, the table was packed shoulder-to-shoulder.
the noise level was deafening, filled with loud laughter, clinking glasses, and the chaotic, booming energy of a hockey team left to their own devices, mixed with the sharp wit of your own friends.
but against all odds, the food was absolutely perfect.
tucker sat beside you, finally completely relaxed. underneath the cover of the heavy, holiday tablecloth, his hand found your thigh.
his fingers squeezed gently, a heavy, warm weight that grounded you instantly.
it was a silent, private thank-you that only you could feel.
across the table, rowan was loading up his plate while aoife laughed at something jules said, and mila chuckled at one of logan's ridiculous stories.
everyone was mingling perfectly.
you caught tucker looking at you, his brown eyes soft.
while logan was distracted yelling across the table to rowan about a play from last week's game, tucker leaned in close.
his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, his scent of cedar and warm spices enveloping you as he stole a quick, quiet kiss from the side of your neck, his lips lingering against your skin.
it wasn't the quiet, perfectly orchestrated friendsgiving he had meticulously planned in his head.
but looking around at the full plates, all your laughing friends, and feeling tucker's hand steady against your leg, it was exactly what it was supposed to be.
stable and entirely yours.
hours later, the house was finally silent. the last of the guests had stumbled out, rowan had helped carry the heavy trash bags to the curb, and mila and aoife had kissed your cheeks goodbye after helping load the dishwasher.
upstairs in tucker's bedroom, the frantic energy of the day completely dissolved.
the door was locked, leaving the remnants of the party far behind.
you stood by the edge of the bed, finally tugging your sweater over your head, leaving you in just a soft lace bralette and your jeans.
before you could reach for one of tucker's oversized t-shirts, a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind.
tucker pulled you back against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck. he had already changed into low-slung sweatpants, his bare skin warm against your back. he let out a long, heavy exhale, the last of his residual tension melting away as he held you.
"i mean it," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against your skin that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
his lips pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your shoulder, his hands sliding up your ribs, fingers lightly trailing over the exposed skin of your waist. "i don't know what i would've done today without you."
you turned around in his embrace, looping your arms around his neck, your fingers immediately tangling into his damp, post-shower hair. "you would have fed them raw cranberries and stared blankly at the oven."
tucker chuckled, the vibration thrumming through his chest against yours. his eyes darkened, softening with a deep, familiar heat that was reserved entirely for you. "probably," he admitted softly.
he leaned down, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was a stark contrast to the quick, stolen touches from earlier.
this one was slow, deep, and heavy with years of unspoken promises.
his hands moved down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you.
the intensity of it made your breath hitch, your heart hammering against your ribs as his tongue slid past your lips, claiming you completely.
when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his thumb traced the line of your lower lip, his gaze dropping to watch the movement before rising back to meet your eyes.
"middle school, high school, college," tucker whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he guided you backward onto the mattress, his body following yours until he was hovering over you, his weight a comforting, familiar presence.
"i'm never letting you go. you know that, right?"
you smiled up at him, your hands sliding down his broad shoulders, feeling the solid, unshakeable reality of him. "i count on it."
he kissed you again, his hands sliding under the waistband of your jeans as the rest of the world faded into nothing but the quiet warmth of his room and the steady, unbreakable rhythm of the two of you.
Summary: You and Tucker break up when the burnout of senior year leaves you both running on empty. But a coordinated trap set by his starving roommates forces you two to finally admit how much you need each other.
Angst to fluff
Warnings: Not proofread yet, a little spoiler if you didn't read the books, cursing, breakup, emotional exhaustion, New Adult audience
A/N: I said I would lock in and study but I just can't help myself 😭 I can't wait for Tucker's season!!! I love all of the characters but now that I think abt it, Dean and Tucker are my favourites. As always, this fic is based more on the books than the show. I hope you like it!! Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves xx Lots of love 🫶🏻
Words:
Gif
When you first started dating John Tucker, it felt like finding a quiet, solid harbor in the middle of a Category 5 hurricane. You hadn't just fallen for the sweet, fiercely patient guy with the auburn hair and the slow, intoxicating southern drawl—you had essentially inherited his entire chaotic world.
Tucker was the undisputed anchor of the Briar hockey house. He firmly believed that being a team player was just as critical off the ice as it was on it. By default, he was the resident cook, the guy who cleaned up the post-party messes, and the one who quietly kept his three massive, hyperactive roommates from burning their townhouse to the ground.
You fell into step beside him so naturally it felt predestined. When he was fixing a broken railing on the porch, you were sitting on the steps handing him the screws. When he was cooking his legendary, carb-heavy meals for the guys, you were perched on the kitchen island, chopping vegetables.
You became the "Mom" to his "Dad." At first, playing house was a massive turn-on. There was something undeniably hot about domesticity when it was mixed with the raw, adrenaline-fueled energy of a D1 athlete. You’d help him organize the pantry, and he’d reward you by backing you against the wall, his callused hands gripping your thighs to lift you against his chest the second Garrett, Logan, and Dean left for gym. You loved him, and because you loved him, you took on his burdens.
But as the brutal New England winter thawed into spring, that shared weight stopped feeling like a partnership. It started feeling like a noose.
Senior year was a meat grinder. Tucker was quietly suffocating under the anxiety of his future, agonizing over whether to move back to Texas to take care of his mother, or risk his dad's insurance money to start a business in Boston. You were buried under the crushing, soul-sucking pressure of your final exams and post-grad panic.
You were both running on fumes, completely depleted. Instead of leaning on each other for comfort, you started treating each other like just another exhausting obligation on a never-ending to-do list.
The casual touches stopped. The sex evaporated, replaced by the sheer necessity of sleep. You were two ghosts haunting the same kitchen.
Tucker was standing at the stove, aggressively stirring a pot of marinara sauce. The muscles in his broad back were visibly knotted beneath his gray t-shirt. You were sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at your laptop screen, a dull, throbbing headache pounding behind your eyes from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. The silence between you was so thick it felt toxic.
"Can you hand me the garlic powder?" Tucker asked. His signature southern drawl, usually so warm and rich, was clipped and hollowed out.
You blinked, dragging your burning eyes away from your thesis paper, and blindly reached across the counter for the spice rack. Your sleeve caught the edge of a glass olive oil bottle. It tipped, fell, and shattered against the tile floor, sending a slick puddle of oil and jagged shards of glass across the grout.
You squeezed your eyes shut, letting out a ragged, trembling breath. "Shit. I'm sorry."
"Jesus Christ, Y/N," Tucker groaned. He dropped his wooden spoon against the stove with a loud clatter and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just... leave it. I'll clean it up. Like I clean up everything else."
The profound unfairness of the comment felt like a physical slap to the face. Your eyes snapped open, a hot, defensive spark of rage overriding your exhaustion.
"Excuse me?" you snapped, pushing your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. "I spent three hours this morning doing the laundry you and Logan left piled in the hallway. I scrubbed the bathrooms yesterday so you wouldn't have to. Don't stand there and act like you're the only one keeping this place afloat."
Tucker whipped around, his brown eyes suddenly flashing with a raw, desperate anger. "I'm the only one holding us afloat! I am fucking exhausted, Y/N. I'm trying to figure out my entire goddamn future, I'm trying to keep this house from falling apart, and every time I look at you lately, you're a million miles away. It's like you don't even want to be here anymore!"
"Because I'm fucking tired, Tuck!" you yelled, your voice breaking as hot tears of sheer frustration flooded your vision. "I am so damn tired of being the caretaker! I'm tired of pouring everything I have into you and your friends and getting absolutely nothing back! If looking at me is so exhausting for you, then why am I even here?"
Tucker stared at you. His broad chest heaved with heavy, labored breaths. And then, the most terrifying thing happened.
The anger completely drained out of his face.
It was replaced by a hollow, devastating emptiness. The fight just left his body. He leaned back against the counter, looking at you like he was staring at a stranger.
"I don't know anymore," he whispered. His voice was completely broken. "I don't have anything left to give you. I'm empty. Maybe you shouldn't be here."
The words paralyzed you. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't fighting for you. He was just... letting you go. He was too tired to hold on.
A cold, protective numbness washed over your shattering heart. You closed your laptop, shoved it into your tote bag, and grabbed your coat off the back of the chair.
You walked down the hallway, your vision swimming.
Just as you reached the entryway, the front door swung open. Dean and Logan ambled inside, laughing loudly about something Coach had said at practice. Dean kicked off his sneakers, taking a deep, appreciative breath of the air.
"Oh, thank God. Smells like chicken parm," Dean said, his signature cocky grin spreading across his face as he dropped his heavy hockey bag to the floor. "Hey, Y/N/N. What time is dinner?"
You pulled your coat on, refusing to wipe your eyes. You looked dead at him, your voice dripping with cold, bitter heartbreak.
"Ask Tucker," you rasped. "I quit."
You walked out into the freezing night air, letting the heavy front door slam shut behind you.
Dean blinked, his grin slowly fading as he turned his head to look at Logan.
"Did she just..." Dean trailed off, the reality of your shattered voice finally cutting through his oblivion.
Logan winced, staring at the closed door. "Yeah, dude. I think Mom and Dad just called it."
For five days, the fallout of the breakup played out in two different apartments, mirroring each other in a devastating, silent tragedy. You and Tucker hadn't just broken up—you had both completely flatlined.
At Hannah and Allie’s dorm room, you had become a ghost haunting their hand-me-down couch. You hadn't showered in three days. You wore an oversized Briar Hockey hoodie that still faintly smelled of sandalwood and citrus, pulling it up over your nose every time your chest seized with another panic attack. You dragged your heavy textbooks onto the cushions with you, but you hadn't turned a single page.
Hannah tried everything. She brewed endless cups of tea and gently rubbed your back while you stared blankly at the wall. Allie took a fiercer approach, bringing over tequila and loudly threatening to march over to the guys' house and slash Tucker's truck tires.
But neither tactic worked. If you spoke the words out loud—if you admitted that the safest, most solid guy you had ever known had looked at you with utter defeat and let you walk away—it would make it real. And you weren't ready to live in a reality where John Tucker didn't want to be with you anymore.
Across campus, the house was suffering an identical, agonizing death.
Without Tucker functioning as the beating heart of the house, the ecosystem had violently collapsed. But it wasn't the towering stack of pizza boxes on the coffee table or the unwashed laundry spilling into the hallway that had Garrett, Logan, and Dean on edge. It was the absolute, hollowed-out shell of their best friend.
Tucker was drowning, and he was taking himself down quietly. He hadn't turned on the stove since the night you walked out. His bed felt massive and freezing without you curled against his chest. To escape the suffocating silence of his room, he punished himself at the rink. He woke up before dawn to run brutal suicide sprints, hit the boards with an aggression that had Coach Jensen screaming at him, and then came home just to stare at the spot on the kitchen tile where the olive oil bottle had shattered.
He had failed you. That thought looped in his head like a sick, twisted mantra. He was supposed to ease your load, and instead, he had been the one to finally break you.
By day five, your friends decided they had seen enough collateral damage. A secret meeting was called to order in a back booth at Malone's.
Garrett, Logan, and Dean were crammed into one side of the sticky vinyl booth. Hannah and Allie sat opposite them.
Dean was aggressively eating a stack of pancakes, inhaling them like a man who had been wandering the desert for forty days.
"Slow down, Dean, you're going to choke," Allie muttered, sliding her coffee cup out of the splash zone.
"I can't," Dean mumbled around a massive mouthful of syrup and carbs. "Tuck hasn't cooked a single meal since Thursday. We've been living on dry Cheerios and protein powder. My body is cannibalizing its own muscles, Allie-Cat. I'm wasting away."
"You're fine," Garrett sighed, unapologetically stealing a piece of bacon right off Dean's plate. Garrett looked across the table at Hannah, his dark eyes dead serious. "What's the status on Y/N? Because if I have to watch Tucker stare blankly at the wall for one more day, I'm going to lose my fucking mind. He's a ghost, Wellsy."
"Y/N isn't any better," Hannah reported quietly, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. "She's practically fused to our couch. She won't talk about what happened. If Allie or I even say his name, she just pulls the blanket over her head and pretends to sleep."
"We tried to get Tuck to talk, too," Logan chimed in, leaning forward. "He just told us to drop it. They're both completely shut down."
"Because they're both too damn stubborn," Allie said, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked between the three massive hockey players. "If we confront them, they'll just get defensive and dig their heels in. We have to be sneaky about this."
Garrett leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Allie's right. An intervention won't work. We can't force them to talk to us. We have to force them to talk to each other."
"How?" Logan asked, raising an eyebrow. "They're actively avoiding each other. Y/N even changed her route to class so she wouldn't have to walk past the ice arena."
"Think about it," Hannah said, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face as she looked at Garrett. "What is the core issue here? They're both caretakers. They spent the entire year playing Mom and Dad to you guys. When things got hard, they stopped taking care of each other."
Dean swallowed his pancakes, his green eyes lighting up with realization. "So... we give them something to take care of."
Garrett grinned, tapping his knuckles against the diner table. "Exactly. We manufacture a crisis. Something so chaotic that their instincts override their stubbornness, and they have to team up to fix it."
The plan was executed with military precision.
Tucker was at the gym, violently punishing a heavy bag until his knuckles were bruised and aching beneath his wraps. He was trying to outrun the suffocating emptiness that had swallowed him whole, but it wasn't working. Without you to take care of, he had no idea what to do with his hands.
His phone vibrated furiously in his gym bag. He ignored it. Ten seconds later, it aggressively buzzed again. Then again. Cursing under his breath, he finally tore his gloves off and swiped the screen open to see three frantic texts from Logan.
Logan: WE HAVE A SITUATION.
Logan: DEAN TRIED TO USE THE STOVE. THE KITCHEN IS LITERALLY SMOKING.
Logan: GET HOME NOW.
Tucker’s heart plummeted straight into his stomach. Dean was a disaster in the kitchen on a good day. Tucker grabbed his keys and sprinted out to his truck, breaking at least three speed limits on the drive back to the house.
Meanwhile, across campus, you were buried under your fleece blanket on Allie’s couch, staring blankly at the wall, when your phone started ringing.
"Hello?" you answered, your voice thick and raspy from disuse.
"Y/N, thank God!" Allie yelled through the speaker. She sounded completely out of breath and bordering on hysterical. "You have to get to the house right now!"
You sat up so fast your head spun, the protective numbness instantly vaporizing. "Allie, what's wrong? Is someone hurt?"
"Dean decided he was tired of starving and tried to cook dinner!" Allie shouted, the shrill, piercing sound of a beeping smoke detector echoing faintly in the background. "There is smoke everywhere! Logan is panicking, Garrett can't find the fire extinguisher, and Tucker isn't answering his phone! You have to come help us!"
"I'm on my way!" you yelled, throwing the blanket off and shoving your bare feet into your boots. Your "Mom" instincts completely overrode your heartbreak. You didn't even bother grabbing a real coat, sprinting out the door in your oversized Briar Hockey sweatshirt.
Ten minutes later you slammed your car into park, ran up the front steps, and shoved the heavy wooden door open.
"Allie?!" you yelled, coughing as a faint, bitter haze of smoke drifted down the hallway.
You rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead in your tracks.
The room was an absolute biohazard. A thick layer of white flour was dusted over every visible surface like snow. A pot was boiling over on the stove, hissing aggressively as starchy water hit the hot coils. The smoke detector had been ripped off the ceiling and was sitting on the island, its battery completely removed.
But there was no Allie. No Dean. No Garrett or Logan.
The only person in the kitchen was John Tucker.
He was standing in the center of the chaos, still wearing his sweaty gym clothes, staring at the boiling pot with utter, unfiltered confusion. He whipped his head around when he heard you gasp.
"Y/N?" Tucker breathed, his bloodshot brown eyes going wide.
"Where are they?" you demanded, your heart hammering violently against your ribs as you scanned the empty room. "Allie called me, she said there was a fire—"
"Logan texted me," Tucker interrupted, taking a cautious step toward you. His deep southern drawl was rough and entirely bewildered. "He said Dean was burning the house down."
You both froze.
You looked at the empty kitchen. You looked at the perfectly dismantled smoke detector. You listened to the absolute, unnatural silence radiating from the rest of the house.
"Those motherfuckers," Tucker breathed, dragging a heavy hand down his face as the realization hit him.
You let out a shaky, jagged exhale, leaning back against the doorframe as the adrenaline violently crashed out of your system. You had been set up. The boys weren't starving, the house wasn't burning down, and there was no emergency. Your friends had orchestrated a highly coordinated, incredibly cruel trap.
Tucker walked over to the stove, his broad back stiff as he clicked the burner off and dragged the hissing pot to a cool coil. The kitchen fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
For the first time in six agonizing days, you were really looking at him.
He looked terrible. The shadows under his eyes were bruised and purple, his auburn hair was a sweaty mess, and he carried a rigid, defensive posture that absolutely shattered your heart. He looked like a man who had lost everything.
He grabbed a dish towel, keeping his eyes glued to the flour-covered counter. "I'll clean this up," he muttered, his voice sounding hollow and completely defeated. "You can go back to Allie's."
"Tuck..." you whispered.
"I mean it, Y/N," he rasped, aggressively wiping at the flour. His knuckles were turning stark white. He wouldn't look at you. "I know you don't want to be here. You don't have to stay just because they tricked you."
You watched him frantically scrub the counter, your chest physically aching. The anger and resentment that had fueled you for the past week completely evaporated, leaving only a profound, desperate sadness. You realized then what Hannah and Garrett had figured out days ago. You both had hard exteriors, but inside you were soft. You were both so damn busy trying to hold the house together for everyone else that you let yourselves fall apart.
You walked forward, your boots stepping over a stray piece of burnt pasta on the floor, reaching for the roll of paper towels sitting on the kitchen island. You tore off a handful, wet them under the faucet, and stepped right up beside him.
In absolute, suffocating silence, you started wiping the flour off the counter next to where he was frantically scrubbing.
Tucker went completely rigid. The aggressive motion of his hands stopped instantly. He stared at your smaller hand moving in sync with his, his broad chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths.
The silence stretched, heavy and agonizing, broken only by the hiss of the cooling stove.
"I love you."
The words were so quiet, so raw, they almost didn't register. Your hand froze on the counter. You slowly turned your head to look at him, your heart completely dropping into your stomach.
He had never said those words to you before.
Tucker finally looked up.
"I love you," he repeated, his signature southern drawl thick and trembling. "I realized it a couple of weeks ago. And it terrified the absolute shit out of me."
"Tuck..." you whispered, your throat painfully tight.
"I'm supposed to have a plan, Y/N," he choked out, swiping a shaky hand across his jaw. "I've been saving my dad's insurance money for years. But graduation is right there, and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. If I move back to Patterson to take care of my mom, I lose you. If I stay in Boston and try to start a business, I have no idea if it's going to fail. I felt like I was drowning in all this uncertainty, and I..."
He swallowed hard, looking at you with complete, heartbreaking defeat.
"I didn't know how to integrate you into a future I hadn't even figured out yet. You work so hard, and you have all these goals, and I was so scared of dragging you down into my mess that I panicked. I pushed you away."
"You idiot," you cried softly, the hot tears you had been holding back for six days finally spilling over your lashes. You dropped the paper towels and turned fully toward him. "You don't have to have it all figured out. Nobody has it figured out."
"I'm supposed to be the one who fixes things," he rasped, his voice breaking. "And I was so terrified I was failing you."
"You never failed me," you whispered, stepping into his space and resting your trembling hands flat against his broad, tense chest. "And you aren't dragging me down. I don't care if we're in Boston or Texas. I don't care if your business plan takes years to figure out. I don't need a perfect plan, Tuck. I just need you."
A jagged, shuddering breath tore out of Tucker's chest.
He closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, wrapping his massive arms around your waist and burying his face deep into the crook of your neck. He held you so tight it bruised, lifting you slightly off your feet as his large frame collapsed against you.
"I can't breathe without you," he confessed, the words vibrating fiercely against your skin. "Don't leave me again. Please, darlin', don't walk out that door again."
"I'm right here," you promised, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your tear-stained cheek against his temple. You buried your fingers in his auburn hair, holding him just as desperately. "I'm not going anywhere."
The Mom and Dad of the house were finally going to be okay.
authors note: a little self indulgent imagine. i hope my fellow shy girls enjoy <3 [ due to popular demand: find part two here ]
—
she was crouched in the hallway outside her apartment at eight in the morning, trying to pick up the contents of a ripped grocery bag.
“are you serious right now” she groaned.
she moved into the building about a month ago and already felt too awkward. everyone here seemed polished and so certain of themselves, living their fabulous lives while she still hesitated before speaking in shared elevators.
then came the heavy sound of boots down the hall.
“jesus,” a rough voice muttered. “you got jumped by a whole foods?”
she looked up too fast. her eyes widening, mouth going dry at the sight of him.
the man standing there was devastatingly handsome. large broad shoulders under a dark tee shirt, a hospital badge still clipped onto it. his face was worn like he was exhausted but in a way that made him even more gorgeous.
his eyes landed on her like she was something that caused her heart to skip a beat. he was looking at her like he actually saw her.
heat crawled up her neck as she spoke timidly, “the bag broke.”
stupid. obviously he can see that.
“yeah..” he hummed. hands on his hips as he peered down at her.
suddenly he crouched beside her without hesitation, large calloused hands collecting apples before they rolled away. his elbow brushing hers once as she nearly stopped breathing.
“new neighbor?” he asked.
she nodded. “mhm.. i’m actually across from you.”
“that explains it.” he hummed, bringing his lips into a sideways smile.
“what does?” her curiosity getting the better of her.
“i haven’t seen you before.” his gaze flicked toward her, steady and unreadable. “would’ve remembered.” he shrugged.
her stomach flipped so hard it almost hurt. men never say things like that. not to her.
growing up, she had always felt slightly out of frame beside other girls. too quiet. too nervous. too soft in the wrong ways. boys liked her friends, of course, they were the confident ones, the loud ones, the girls who knew how to flirt without blushing.
meanwhile she spent most of her life shrinking herself before anyone else could do it first.
but jack looked at her like none of that existed. like she was actually worth noticing.
“what’s your name?” he asked, struggling slightly with the weight of his body resting on his prosthetic.
she told him her name, earning a hum in response as he handed her the last can from the floor, fingers lingering for half a second. “i’m jack.”
she swallowed. “uh.. i know.”
his eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “oh yeah?”
breathlessly, she let out, “the walls are thin.”
that made him laugh, deep and low and surprised. and for some reason, that manly sound settled something nervous inside her chest causing her to smile bashfully.
oh my god?! why would you say that?!
jack stood, taking two grocery bags from her hands before she could protest. “come, i’ll walk you in.”
panic dripped into her veins, what was he doing?? he can’t do this! “you don’t have to—”
“already doing it.”
-
inside her apartment, she rushed to clear a couple of unopened boxes off the counter while he set the groceries down. her place was a homey delight, the caramel heugh coming from her sunset lamp creating a warmth that engulfed them as they stood in her kitchen in silence.
she braced for embarrassment.
instead, jack slowly looked around the apartment, then at her. “it suits you.”
her heart stuttered as she let out a chuckle, “you don’t even know me.” she said, a small smile plastered across her face as she gripped onto the island counter.
“don’t gotta know everything.” his eyes held hers again. they were intense enough to make her butterflies flutter. “can tell plenty already.”
no one had ever looked at her like that before. like she was soft in a way worth protecting. like her quietness wasn’t something to apologize for.
she looked down quickly, suddenly shy beneath the weight of his undivided attention. jack noticed, of course he did.
his voice softened. “you always avoid eye contact like that?”
a nervous laugh escaped her. “how- i… yes.”
“why?” he wanted to know.
because people don’t usually like what they see she wants to say.
because no one had ever made her feel beautiful before.
because wanting to feel desired felt embarrassing when you spent your whole life feeling forgettable.
but of course she didn’t say any of that.
jack stepped closer anyway, not crowding her but still enough for his presence to wrap around her.
“well,” he said quietly, “you should stop.”
she finally looked up and there it was again…that devastating look.
the one that made her feel warm, feminine and wanted, like every hidden ache she carried in her head had suddenly been placed in someone else’s careful hands.
jack’s jaw tightened slightly as he looked at her. “pretty little ladies shouldn’t hide.”
her breath caught at that. her heeks going pink and her head all fuzzy as she looked up at him.
because somehow she has an inclination that he meant it.
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