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 warning: 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: Garett attends y/n’s awards night expecting a long night of academic jargon. Instead, he watches his girlfriend collect award after award, realising his nerdy girlfriend might be the smartest person he’s ever met.
Word Count: 1.5K
“Why do I have to come?”
Garett glanced up from tying his shoes to where Dean sprawled dramatically across the couch in the hockey house living room.
“Because Tucker’s busy, Logan said no, and I need someone to suffer with me.”
Dean pointed accusingly.
“So you admit this is suffering.”
“It’s an awards ceremony, not a funeral.”
Dean stared at him blankly.
“For science students.”
“…fair.”
Dean groaned loudly and dragged himself upright anyway.
“You owe me wings after this.”
“Done.”
“And beer.”
“Greedy.”
“And if anyone starts talking about molecules, I’m leaving.”
Garett snorted and shoved his jacket on.
Honestly, he didn’t think the night would be a big deal.
Y/N had invited him earlier that week while curled against him in his dorm bed, absentmindedly highlighting something in a chemistry textbook thicker than his anatomy notes.
“Will you come to my awards ceremony Thursday?”
“What kind of awards?”
“Science department stuff.”
Garett had immediately grimaced.
“That sounds horrifying.”
She kicked his leg lightly.
“Please?”
And because Garett Graham would probably agree to literally anything when she looked at him like that, he’d sighed dramatically and said yes.
He figured it was one of those polite academic events where everyone got a certificate for surviving organic chemistry.
He just needed to uphold the supportive boyfriend duties, easy enough.
Now though, standing outside the university’s Natural Sciences building while Dean looked personally victimized beside him, Garett was beginning to question his life choices.
Students and faculty crowded the entrance dressed significantly nicer than usual for a Thursday night. Parents carried flowers. Professors chatted near display boards filled with research posters Garett absolutely did not understand.
Dean stopped dead in front of one.
“What the hell is computational biophysics?”
“No clue.”
“There are graphs.”
Dean shook his head solemnly.
“This is why athletes should stay with athletes.”
Garett rolled his eyes.
Then he spotted Y/N across the lobby.
And for a second, everything else disappeared.
She stood near the auditorium doors talking to a professor, wearing a dark blue dress and heels he already knew were going to kill her feet later. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders and she laughed softly at something the professor said.
But what caught Garett off guard wasn’t how pretty she looked.
It was the way everyone around her seemed to know her.
Students waved while passing. Professors stopped to talk to her. One older faculty member actually touched her shoulder proudly while speaking. It reminded Garett uncomfortably of hockey banquets. Of people stopping him after games. Recognizing him on campus. Talking about his stats and goals and future.
Only this wasn’t hockey.
This was her world.
And apparently she mattered in it a lot more than he realized.
Y/N spotted him then and immediately brightened.
“There you are.”
Garett grinned automatically as she walked over.
“You know,” Garett said while following her up the stairs, “you still haven’t explained what this actually is.”
Y/N glanced back at him with a grin.
“It’s just the College of Natural Sciences awards ceremony.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not fake.”
“It sounds fake.”
She laughed under her breath and hooked her fingers through his.
The building buzzed with students and faculty dressed nicer than usual. Professors chatted near the entrance while families filled rows of seats inside the auditorium.
“Nerd convention,” he muttered.
Y/N nudged him with her shoulder.
“You’re literally dating one of them.”
“Yeah, but you’re my nerd. Different category.”
That earned him an eye roll, but he caught the smile she tried to hide afterward.
Dean looked between them and gagged dramatically.
“You two are disgusting.”
“Why are you here?” Y/N laughed.
“He was emotionally forced.”
“I was bribed with wings,” Dean corrected.
Y/N smiled before slipping her hand into Garett’s.
“You look nice, hockey boy.”
“You saying I usually look bad?”
“I’m saying your formalwear is usually team-issued.”
Dean barked out a laugh.
Before Garett could respond, someone called Y/N’s name from across the lobby.
She turned immediately.
“Oh, I have to go sit with my department. You guys are over there.” She pointed toward the auditorium seating. “Please try to survive.”
“No promises,” Dean muttered.
Y/N leaned up to kiss Garett quickly before disappearing into the crowd.
Dean watched her leave before looking at Garett.
“She’s definitely smarter than you.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. I can feel it.”
Garett shoved his shoulder as they headed into the auditorium.
The room slowly filled while faculty shuffled papers near the stage. Dean looked seconds away from death already.
“If this lasts longer than an hour,” he whispered, “tell my family I loved them.”
Garett ignored him, gaze drifting toward Y/N a few rows closer to the front.
She sat between other science students laughing quietly about something, completely relaxed.
Comfortable.
Again, it reminded him of himself before games.
Like she belonged here.
The ceremony started a few minutes later.
Dean lasted approximately seven minutes before leaning over.
“I haven’t understood a single word.”
Garett smirked slightly.
A professor stepped to the podium.
“We’d first like to recognize undergraduate excellence in research…”
Polite applause filled the room.
Garett half-listened at first, attention drifting occasionally.
Then….
“For her work in analytical chemistry research…”
Y/N’s name echoed through the auditorium.
Garett straightened immediately.
She walked across the stage while the audience applauded warmly.
Dean blinked.
“Oh. She’s getting an award-award.”
Garett frowned slightly.
“Apparently.”
Then twenty minutes later her name got called again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth time, Dean looked personally offended.
“What the hell?”
Garett could only stare.
Because suddenly the entire room was making sense.
The professors that knew her.
The students whispering about her.
The way she carried herself here.
This wasn’t some random ceremony where everyone got participation certificates.
This was recognition.
Real recognition.
One professor smiled while handing her an award and said into the microphone:
“Students like Y/N remind us why we love teaching.”
The audience applauded louder at that.
Garett felt something warm and overwhelming settle in his chest.
Because he knew what it felt like to be noticed for something you worked your ass off at.
To walk into a room and have people know your name because you earned it.
Hockey had always been that for him.
But sitting there now, watching professors light up when his girlfriend crossed the stage, he realized science was that for her.
And somehow that made him emotional as hell.
Dean leaned toward him slowly.
“Dude.”
“Yeah?”
“Your girlfriend’s kinda famous.”
Garett laughed quietly under his breath, unable to look away from her.
Y/N sat back down, smiling shyly while another student whispered congratulations beside her.
“She’s just…” Garett trailed off.
“Terrifyingly smart?”
“Yeah.”
Dean nodded solemnly.
“She could probably build a bomb.”
“She studies chemistry, not terrorism.”
“How do you know there’s a difference?”
Garett shoved him again, but he was smiling.
By the end of the ceremony Y/N had four awards, two faculty recognitions, one research distinction, and apparently an entire department ready to adopt her.
Garett honestly felt stunned.
Because outside of this building, people looked at him first.
At parties.
At games.
On campus.
He was Garett Graham.
Star hockey player.
Center of attention without trying.
But here?
Here, people looked at her the same way.
Like she was impressive.
Important.
Exceptional.
And watching it happen made him absurdly proud.
After the ceremony ended, the lobby filled immediately with congratulations and conversation.
Y/N got stopped every three feet.
A professor asked about her summer research plans.
Another student congratulated her tutoring award.
Someone’s mom literally told her, “You were wonderful up there.”
Garett stood off to the side watching her laugh politely through it all.
And suddenly he understood something.
This was her version of the rink.
This was where she shined.
A few minutes later she finally escaped the crowd carrying several certificates against her chest.
Dean stared at the stack.
“I’m actually embarrassed for the rest of the department.”
“Oh my god,” Y/N laughed.
“I’m serious. You won half the ceremony.”
“It was not half.”
“Forty percent minimum,” Dean argued.
She rolled her eyes before turning toward Garett.
But the second she looked at him properly, her smile faltered slightly.
“What?”
Garett stepped closer slowly.
“You never told me you were basically the Wayne Gretzky of science.”
Y/N immediately groaned.
“Please never say that again.”
“I’m serious.”
Her cheeks pinked slightly beneath the lobby lights.
“You looked at home up there,” Garett admitted quietly. “Like… this is your thing.”
Something softer flickered across her expression then.
“It is,” she said.
And Garett swore he’d never heard her sound prouder.
He reached for the awards in her arms before leaning down enough to kiss her forehead gently.
“I’m really proud of you, baby.”
The words clearly hit harder than she expected because her entire expression softened instantly.
“I understood like three percent of the ceremony,” stated Garett.
Dean nodded seriously beside them.
“I understood zero percent and even I’m impressed.”
Y/N laughed quietly.
Then Garett wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his side.
And standing there surrounded by professors and research students and academic achievements Garett felt more certain that his girlfriend was every bit as exceptional as people said he was on the ice.
summary - the hawks have won a game and are celebrating in Malone’s, where you work, and then everything goes wrong
pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader
word count - +3.6k
The Hawks had won yet another game.
They were getting closer and closer to winning all their games this season. This of course meant two things; 1) A fuck load of celebrations and 2) A very happy boyfriend for you.
You were working the late shift when news of Briar U’s win came through, which instantly alerted you to prepare for an influx of people. Everyone knew the Hawks watering hole after a game was Malone’s. And they also knew it was only because their captain’s girlfriend worked there.
Garrett and the rest of the guys walked through Malone’s doors just after 8PM.
A chorus of cheers erupted through the small diner. You cheered and clapped from behind the counter.
Garrett smiled as people patted him on the back but his eyes instantly searched for you. It was as if his hold demeanor lit up when he saw you.
Your boyfriend wasted no time cutting through the throngs of people and around the counter, and you wasted no time bringing him down to your height for a celebratory kiss.
The cheers only got louder.
Your hands threaded through the curls on the back of his neck as you kept his lips pressed against yours. The kiss was sweet and sticky.
Garrett’s hand was just about to cup over your ass, but Della whipped it with a towel before he had the chance.
Garrett pulled away from your kiss reluctantly, causing you to actually whine.
“What the— Della!”
“She’s on the clock.” Della raised her eyebrows at Garrett, as if he was the one who initiated the kiss and not you. You could never do any wrong in Della’s eyes.
“But…”
“Ah ah. Get.” She chased him out from behind the counter.
You had to hide a laugh, because seeing Garrett get chased away from you by a woman twice his age was quite the spectacle.
Garrett got sucked back into the crowds of people celebrating.
He looked over his shoulder at you as Logan pulled him away, pouting like a child who had just lost their favourite toy. You smiled at him before returning to work.
——
A couple of hours later, you were still busy.
You hadn’t had a chance for a break, which was making you cranky, and you were doing your best to ignore the girls who had swarmed your boyfriend.
Garrett, of course, looked very uninterested with them and was mainly interacting with his friends, but it didn’t stop the simmering jealousy building up inside you.
“Another beer.” A guy appeared in front of you, slamming down his empty glass on the counter.
The guy looked completely drunk. His eyes bloodshot red and a mix of drink and dribble down his blue top.
“Was there a please in there somewhere?” You asked sarcastically.
“Just get me another beer.” He sneered.
Okay… If he wanted to be a prick, so could you.
“ID?”
You held out your hand.
“What?”
“ID, please.”
“You didn’t need my ID before.” He scoffed.
“Well I do now.”
The guy slammed his hands down on the counter and you tried your best not to flinch. You’d dealt with pricks like this before.
“Hey. Everything okay?” Garrett appeared next to the guy, arms folded across this chest.
If it weren’t for the fact that you were severely hangry and your patience wasn’t being tested by this guy, you might’ve swooned over how hot your boyfriend looked without his jacket on. There was a reason you always (jokingly) bit on his biceps.
“She won’t give me a beer.” The guy slurred.
“Maybe you don’t need another.” Garrett was clearly trying to deescalate the situation for you.
“It’s her job to serve beers.”
“And I said—.”
“Garrett, it’s fine.” You sighed, putting a new pint of beer in front of the guy.
“There we go. Now that wasn’t hard, was it princess?”
Garrett unfolded his arms, looking ready to punch this guy into next week - which was terrifying, considering it was only Wednesday.
You knew that if Garrett started something he would hate himself later, so you were only protecting him when you snapped, “Garrett. I said it’s fine.”
“Yeah, listen to your bitch Graham.”
Garrett couldn’t hold himself back then.
He used both of his hands to pull the guy up by his disgusting shirt. The guy - who’s name was still a mystery to you - physically whitened as it suddenly dawned on him that he’d messed with the wrong guy.
Garrett was taller than the guy, which gave him the upper hand to talk down to him to remind him of his place.
“Speak to her like that again and I’ll make sure you’re never able to speak again.”
“You won’t touch me.” The guy tried to act brave, but his lips trembled as he spoke.
“There’s more than one way to silence a man.”
Garrett let the guy go roughly.
You took note of how many onlookers there were, who clearly thought there was going to be a more interesting fight than there was.
This is exactly what you didn’t want.
You took the beer back from the counter as the guy scrambled to leave Malone’s.
Garrett looked like he was still trying to evaporate his anger when he turned back to face you.
“Baby—.”
“Why couldn’t you just leave it?” Your tone was angry as you wiped the counter down, and continued with other jobs.
“He was being a dick.”
“Yeah, most guys in a bar are.”
“Well, sorry for stepping in?” Garrett questioned, leaning against the bar.
You stopped what you were doing to stand in front of him from the other side of the bar.
“I said it was fine. You should’ve left it.”
“Well, I didn’t like the way he was speaking to you.” Garrett scoffed.
“I can handle myself.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“You didn’t have to.” You said, effectively ending the conversation by walking away into the kitchen to get away.
You’d never been good at the difficult parts of a relationship, or in other words ‘the real stuff’. It was difficult trying to understand and accept that you had someone else on your side, and they weren’t expecting anything in return.
Garrett was the first boyfriend you’d had who was willing to defend you and it be as simple as that. It was hard to wrap that concept up in your brain.
“You good honey?” Della asked.
You realised you were standing in the way of the kitchen door, after having come through to catch your breath for a moment.
“Yeah.”
You weren’t even sure you’d convinced yourself.
“Jonah’s agreed to lock-up if you want to finish at midnight, rather than close?” She asked you. You knew with Della, though, that this wasn’t a request but rather her telling you to finish at midnight.
“Thank you.”
You looked at the clock in the kitchen, which told you you only had an hour left of this shift.
You could do this.
——
Turns out, you could not do this.
Your bad mood only worsened with time.
You hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. You hadn’t sat down in so long you couldn’t even take a guess how long it had been. You’d dealt with rude customers all night - one of which had subsequently caused an argument to happen with your boyfriend. And perhaps worst of all, you’d had to watch girls throw themselves at Garrett all night.
He was very publicly unavailable.
That didn’t seem to stop these girls though.
There had been one girl that had been really trying hard with him all night. She was everything you weren’t. Her hair, face, height and everything in between were the complete opposite to you.
She had you feeling insecure for no reason.
The girl had managed to squeeze herself onto the end of the booth, next to Garrett, and had been chatting to him for a good twenty minutes now.
He didn’t even look annoyed that she was there.
Was he punishing you for being a bitch to him before?
“Y/N, doll, will you collect dirty glasses please?” Della asked you.
“Sure.”
You picked up an empty crate tray and made your way around the counter, venturing into the belly of the diner for the first time tonight.
You started picking glasses up closest to the door, slowly making your way around the room.
In your head it was very obvious to everyone else in the room that you were saving Garrett’s table until last, because you were dreading it, but obviously no one else was actually thinking that.
The tray was nearly full when you reached Garrett’s table.
“Y/N!” Dean shouted, starting a chorus of cheers from the guys.
Logan stood beside the booth and pulled you into a side hug when he saw you.
Normally you would’ve melted into the hug and hugged him back, but you really weren’t feeling it tonight.
The anxiety in your stomach from the argument with Garrett was bubbling over-time. It didn’t help that the girl was still sitting beside him even though you’d come over.
You tried your best to smile as you took their empty glasses from the table and stacked them on your tray.
“Can we get another round of drinks?” The girl asked before you could leave.
Yet another person who had impeccable manners.
“Sure.” You nodded.
“Garrett, what are you drinking?” She asked, daring to put her hand on your boyfriend’s forearm.
“He only has one drink—.”
“One drinks my max—.”
You and Garrett both spoke at the same time.
You looked at him to find him smiling at you, a sort of truce lingering in the air between you both.
“Yeah, okay. Still another round of drinks.” The girl said.
As soon as you turned to walk away you heard her laugh with her friends. Normally you wouldn’t care, but you were pretty sure she was laughing at you.
She shouldn’t have tested you when you had so little patience left.
You slammed the crate of drinks on the nearest table and turned back to her, making everyone in the space around you stare.
The commotion had set Garrett on high alert.
You walked back to the table, stopping in front of her.
“Anna, is it?” You asked.
“Paloma.” She snickered, offended that you didn’t know her name.
“Right. Well, Paloma, I would appreciate it greatly if you could stop fawning over my boyfriend.”
The smile you gave her was anything but nice.
“Your boyfriend?”
You nodded.
“Your boyfriend is Garrett Graham?” She laughed. Her friends beside her also laughed.
You breathed out through your nose heavily, trying to keep your emotions in check. It was proving difficult.
And because you were so high on anxiety and adrenaline, you couldn’t help what your next few words were, “You come across as a bit of a slut when you’re trying to latch onto a guy who’s taken.”
You felt instant regret at your choice of words. Even the guys in the booth looked taken aback, because they’d never seen this side of you before.
Paloma scoffed, before standing up from the booth.
“Ohhh shit.” Tucker said quietly.
The rest of Malone’s had gone quiet after seeing the rising tension between you and Paloma.
“What did you just call me?”
“I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have said that.” You sighed.
“Sorry is what you’re about to be.”
Your reflexes were a second too late as Paloma struck you around the cheek with her hand.
Your head physically turned from the force of her hand, causing you to stumble so far back that somehow you ended up tipping over the tray of dirty glasses you’d collected, triggering your inability to balance and fall onto the floor with the glasses smashing all around you.
There was a collection of shocked gasps and screams from the fallen drinks.
It had only taken about five seconds to happen.
“What the fuck!” Garrett shouted.
The rest of the guys pitched in with the swearing and other girls swarmed Paloma like she was dead meat.
Whilst the chaos ensued around you, you tried your best to process what had just happened.
Your hands pricked with pain as you picked them up from the floor where they’d softened your fall. Tiny shards of glass were stuck in your palms and there was a fair amount of blood too.
Your cheek stung like hell.
It was inevitable that when the moment caught up to you, your eyes started to pool with tears.
Garrett immediately came into focus in front of you, crouching so he didn’t kneel in the broken glass.
“Hey. Hey, baby look at me.” He said softly, cupping the cheek you didn’t just get bitch-slapped in and turning your face towards him.
He took note of how red your cheek was, a slight cut there from where Paloma’s nails must’ve caught. He looked so worried. You could tell, because he wasn’t focusing on your eyes or lips for once.
Your eyes looked down at your palms, the stinging sensations increasing tenfold.
“Everyone out!” Della shouted from somewhere.
People started scrambling around you, which made you flinch in panic that someone may trample you.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Garrett said calmly. “You’re okay.”
“Di Laurentis, make yourself useful.” Della handed Dean a broom.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“C’mon. Let’s move out of the way.” Garrett said.
He scooped his arms underneath you and picked you up.
You wriggled a little, not wanting your boyfriend to feel like he had to carry you - especially after a brutal game of hockey where, no doubt, his limbs were still aching from.
“Hold still.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that about ten times tonight and none of them have been true.”
It was so annoying when he was right.
You settled into his hold as he carried you over to sit down in a booth far away from the mess. The last few stragglers were leaving now, except for yours and Garrett’s friends who were helping to clean up.
You guys were all like family, so you understood why none of them were leaving.
Garrett thanked Tucker when he brought over a small first aid kit, before he left you two alone again.
Your head was resting on Garrett’s shoulder as he had you sitting sideways on his lap. Your bruising cheek was visible for Garrett to see and wince at the intensity of it.
Garrett started pulling bits out of the first aid that he needed.
“I shouldn’t have called her a slut.”
“Maybe so, but she never should have hit you.”
“Oh, like you and that guy.” You reminded him of earlier.
“That was different. I just lightly threatened him.”
You didn’t want to start another argument about how it wasn’t different. Not when you felt like shit.
Garrett gently took one of your hands and started carefully picking out the shards of glass with some tweezers. He was so focused, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed.
You let yourself close your eyes for a moment.
It was insane that you’d been waiting for a break all evening and yet this was how you were receiving it - bloodied and exhausted in the arms of your boyfriend. It was slightly bittersweet.
“I hated her.”
“Paloma?”
You nodded and looked up at him. “She wouldn’t leave you alone.”
“Baby…”
“I know she wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even encouraging her. But I was right across the room from you and I… I just felt so stupid.”
“That’s not stupid.” Garrett continued plucking out glass, “For the record, I felt stupid too.”
“You did?”
“I should’ve just backed off when you told me too.”
“Garrett…” Your eyes softened.
“No. I still would’ve kicked his ass if he had touched you, but I should’ve listened to you.”
An understanding passed over you both.
Neither of you had done the right or wrong thing. You’d both just been humans making human mistakes, but it was owning up to and fixing them that made you just right for each other.
You brought out the best side to each other.
Garrett went back to removing the glass chips from your palms and you closed your eyes again, sitting in the quiet of the moment with him.
“You better not be crashing out on me.” Garrett mumbled.
Your eyes stayed closed as you smiled, your face protesting from the movement.
“I’m not.”
It was a few minutes later when Garrett had finished pulling the glass out of both your palms.
“This might sting.” He said.
You winced as he wiped over your cuts with antiseptic wipes. He kissed the top of your forehead with a quiet apology each time you flinched.
“Let me see you for a minute.”
“You are seeing me.”
“I want to see your eyes.”
You opened them slowly. No doubt they still looked a little glassy from the build up of tears that you were too stubborn to let out.
Garrett’s eyes were focused on yours. He was looking deep into your soul, like he was really trying to make sure that you were doing better.
A curl had fallen onto his forehead and you reached up to push it back. It was only then that you noticed he’d placed an obscene number of plasters all over your palm, which you couldn’t help but laugh at.
“This might be overkill.” You snickered.
“There’s no such thing.”
“There’s one, two… Five plasters.”
“Exactly. It’s not overkill.”
You rolled your eyes playfully.
Garrett caught your hand in his, covering yours entirely with the large span of his. It was little things like that which made you feel entirely safe with him.
“You know, I wasn’t trying to make you look weak earlier.” Garrett said, breaking the silence around your argument.
“I know.” You looked up at him so he could see the truth in your eyes.
“Then why were you so pissed?”
You shrugged, “I was tired.”
“Baby…”
“Genuinely. I promise. I was hungry. That girl, Paloma, was driving me insane. We had argued and it felt like everything was a little too much. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No it wasn’t okay to snap like that. I’m sorry so please forgive me.”
“I already have.”
He leant down to kiss you. It was way less passionate than earlier on in the night, but with the burning pain from your cheek this was about all you could manage.
Garrett was very careful and gentle. He pulled back when you’d winced one too many times. Once again, you whined from the loss of contact.
“Need to be careful, baby.” He smiled as you puckered your lips to try and kiss him again.
“I am.”
Garrett gave you one more kiss to satisfy you, before pulling away entirely.
“Let’s get you home, yeah?”
“Okay.”
——
You all got back to the Off Campus house a little after midnight, since Della let you go home early.
You were tucked into Garrett’s side on the sofa downstairs, his oversized college hoodie on and your favourite comfortable joggers on too.
He hadn’t let you separate from his side since the whole showdown with Paloma.
“Thank you.” You said to Tucker - ever the caregiver - as he handed you a cup of tea.
Garrett nodded his head to his friend in thanks.
“That was a gnarly fight, L/N.” Dean said as he played Mario Kart with Logan.
“Dean.” Garrett warned.
“Sorry dad.” Dean joked, causing Garrett to launch a pillow at him.
“Seriously. Are you okay though?” Tucker asked as he settled down on the other side of you.
“I’m okay, Tuck.”
“Cause we’ll beat down her brother.” Dean suggested.
You turned to Garrett, peering at him around the hood you’d pulled up over your head, “Is he serious?”
Garrett made a face that told you Dean may-or-may-not be serious.
“Just say the word and we’ll ride at dawn.” Dean said, making you laugh.
Garrett welcomed the feel of your body moving from laughter, tugging you closer into his body with his arm. You couldn’t physically get any closer to him and yet somehow he managed it.
“You’re going to look so badass with that bruise.” Tucker said.
“Tuck… Garrett’s going to ride at dawn if you don’t stop saying shit like that.” Logan piped up, causing Tucker to cower and Garrett nod his head in agreement. Of course he wouldn’t, but he didn’t mind holding the threat over Tuck’s head either.
“How can I look badass when I’ve been wrapped in so many plasters that you can’t even see my skin anymore?”
“You always look badass.” Garrett squeezed your arm.
“Now you’re just getting corny, Graham.” You rolled your eyes and tried to hide the smile on your face.
“I’m okay with that.” He kissed the okay side of your face, “Worth it to see that smile.”
As the guys returned to the game of Mario Kart, with Tucker giving unfiltered commentary, you closed your eyes as you lay against your boyfriend.
You calmed down a while ago. The anxiety had left your body, but it didn’t hurt to still be kept safe against Garrett.
With your eyes closed you could feel the hood of Garrett’s hoodie being peeled back from your cheek. It was no surprise when you opened your eyes to see Garrett doing a quick check of your cheek.
“Stop checking if it’s still there.”
“Can’t help it.” He pouted.
“I’m okay.”
“And I believe that now.”
You hummed unconvinced.
Garrett only smiled before tucking the hood back around your face.
He still checked on the bruise throughout the rest of the night anyway.
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – garrett graham doesn’t do girlfriends. he does, apparently, do late-night hospital pickups, car doors, seatbelts, and hand-holding on the drive home.
warnings – suggestive content, public-ish makeout, hospital placement mention, brief IV mention, strong language
notes from me – just a little nursing student!reader blurb while i work through requests!! <3
word count – 1.6k
navigation – masterlist | taglist
The hospital spits her out just after eleven, blinking and half-frozen and still smelling faintly of antiseptic no matter how many times she’d washed her hands.
Behind her, the automatic doors sigh shut on all that bright linoleum and distant beeping and someone’s shoes squeaking down a corridor, and then she’s outside in the dark, where the cold hits so sharply she actually makes a noise about it. A wounded little exhale as she shoves her hands into her jacket pockets and tucks her chin down toward the collar of her scrub top.
“Jesus,” she mutters to herself, shoulders coming up around her ears.
It’s been a night. Long enough that her body feels like it’s been assembled incorrectly. Her feet hurt. Her brain feels soft around the edges. There’s pen on the side of her hand, her ponytail has slipped half-loose, and she’s still thinking about the patient in bay four who’d told her very seriously that nurses were the backbone of America before asking if she could please make the heart monitor beep quieter, as it was distracting him from his crossword.
She’s still smiling a little when she sees him.
Garrett’s leaning against his Jeep under the car park light, arms folded. His hair’s messy from a shower, dark curls still damp at the ends, and he has that whole Garrett Graham thing going on. Broad shoulders. Stupidly easy confidence. Mouth already curving like he knows exactly what she’s thinking and has decided to be annoying about it.
Her stomach does something small and embarrassing. Very professional. Very composed. Very student nurse of her.
He pushes off the car when he spots her, and his grin pulls wider, warm and smug all at once. “Hey.”
“Hey, you,” she says, and hates a little bit how soft it comes out.
His eyes move over her face, then down to her scrubs, her badge, her shoes. Quick enough to pass as casual if she didn’t already know him too well.
“You look like the hospital won.”
She huffs, but it turns into a smile because she’s missed him, which is humiliating. “That’s just what clinical excellence looks like.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Back pain. Emotional damage. Mild dehydration.”
“Sounds prestigious.”
“It is. Very competitive.”
His mouth twitches as he reaches past her for the passenger door and opens it before she can. He stands there holding it, eyebrows lifted like he’s daring her to say something.
She looks at him. “I can open a car door.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.” His eyes flick briefly to her mouth. “I’m being impressive.”
“With doors?”
“I’m starting small.”
She laughs despite herself and slides into the passenger seat, immediately hissing when the cold leather touches the backs of her thighs through her scrub pants. “Oh my god.”
Garrett leans one forearm on the top of the door. “You good?”
“No. I’ve died.”
“You’re still talking.”
“Final reflex.”
He laughs, shuts the door, and rounds the front of the Jeep. She watches him through the windshield, the loose, easy way he moves, one hand dragging through his hair as he comes around to the driver’s side.
They’ve texted constantly over the last two weeks. Stupid things. Tired things. Her half-delirious updates from placement. His pictures of Dean passed out on the couch or Tucker making dinner like a man personally betrayed by vegetables.
But it hasn’t been this. Him in the same space as her. His car smelling like clean laundry and cold air and whatever body wash he uses that she has absolutely no business recognising this quickly.
He gets in and starts the car, immediately blasting the heat. She holds both hands in front of the vents like she’s trying to resurrect herself.
“It’s so cold,” she says.
“It’s November.”
She turns her head slowly. “Thank you. That helped.”
“Anytime.” He shifts toward her instead of putting the car into reverse, one hand coming up to her jaw with that easy, devastating confidence of his. His fingers are warm against her skin, thumb settling just below her cheekbone. “C’mere.”
She goes torward him easily. His mouth is warm, familiar, faintly minty, and the kiss is supposed to be quick until she smiles into it and he makes that low, pleased sound in the back of his throat like he’s won something. His thumb presses a little firmer at her jaw. The hospital car park drops away for a second.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. “How was it?”
She hums, because words take a moment. “Okay. Busy. Fun, kind of. My brain’s not really working. Like, I think if you asked me my birthday right now, I’d need a minute.”
“Good to know. I’ll keep it simple.” His thumb strokes once over her cheek. “You eat?”
She makes a face.
Garrett’s expression flattens. “That’s a no.”
“I had coffee.”
“Babe.”
“And half a granola bar.”
“Babe.”
The word lands too easily. Warm. Exasperated. Like he has any right to sound that domestic when Garrett Graham doesn’t do girlfriends.
He only picks her up from hospital placements at eleven at night, texts her to make sure she isn’t walking out alone, remembers her schedule better than she does, and looks personally offended when she hasn’t eaten dinner. Completely different thing.
She lifts her brows. “Don’t babe me in your disappointed captain voice.”
“My disappointed captain voice works.”
“It’s bossy.”
He finally leans back, hand dropping to the gearshift. “You wanna go to yours? I can drop you. The guys are throwing something at the house.”
“Something?”
“Dean said low-key.”
“So loud.”
“Probably.”
“And sticky.”
“Almost definitely.”
She scrunches her nose, already imagining the music, the yelling, Logan saying something insane across the kitchen while Tucker tries to make sure no one breaks a lamp. Usually, she likes the hockey house. Tonight, the thought of it makes her want to climb into bed fully clothed and become unavailable to the public.
“No party,” she says. “I’d fall asleep standing up and someone would draw on me.”
Garrett nods. “Dean would.”
“Tucker would stop him.”
“Tucker would try.”
“Logan would take a picture.”
She grins, nodding very seriously. “Unsafe environment.”
Garrett smiles, softer this time. “Home, then.”
She nods, but instead of sitting back like a normal person, she leans over the console and kisses him again. Slower this time. Less hello, more something she’s not going to name because he’ll get unbearable about it and also because she’s tired enough to be honest by accident.
His mouth curves against hers.
“You staying over?” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” he says, too quick to pretend he had to think about it. Then, quieter, “If you want me to.”
She rolls her eyes before her face can do something stupid. “You’re very easy.”
“For you?” His grin turns lazy. “Yeah. Little bit.”
That shouldn’t make her stomach flip. It does anyway. To recover, she slides a hand into his hair and tugs lightly at the curls near the nape of his neck. His breath catches, barely, but she hears it.
She smiles. “Interesting.”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
His hand lands on her thigh over her scrubs, big and warm and far too comfortable there. “You’re supposed to be exhausted.”
“I am.”
He huffs a breath through his nose. “You’re harassing me for sport.”
“I can multitask.”
He laughs under his breath and kisses her again, and this one gets away from them fast. Two weeks of missed schedules and half-asleep phone calls and pretending none of it counts as missing each other.
His hand slides a little higher on her thigh. Hers tightens in his hair. The heat blasts over her knees, and she leans closer over the console, smiling into his mouth when he makes another low sound that’s going to be a problem for her later.
Then someone walks past the front of the Jeep. Close enough that when her eyes open, she catches the white coat, the badge, the tired doctor face, and the unmistakable glance into the car before he looks away with the grim professionalism of a man choosing not to involve himself.
She freezes. Garrett starts laughing.
“Oh my god.” She drops her forehead into his shoulder. “No.”
His chest shakes under her cheek. “Was that one of your doctors?”
“Don’t.”
“I’m just asking.”
“That is so unprofessional.”
“You’re off the clock.”
“I’m in the hospital car park!”
He shrugs. “Completely different.”
She lifts her head to glare at him, but his face is bright and smug and delighted, and it only makes her want to laugh too, which is frankly rude of him. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. That man watched me miss an IV yesterday.”
Garrett’s grin gets worse. “Good. New association.”
“What?”
He gestures with one hand. “Now he won’t think about the IV.”
“He’ll think about me making out with you in your Jeep.”
“Exactly.” He looks deeply pleased with himself. “Rebrand.”
She stares at him, then smacks his chest. “Drive.”
“Okay, okay.” He catches her hand before she can pull it back and kisses her knuckles, still smiling like an idiot.
She groans dropping her head back against the headrest. “I’m transferring schools.”
“No, you’re not.”
She points at the windshield. “Drive, Graham.”
He pulls out of the car park still grinning, one hand on the wheel, the other finding its way back to her thigh as soon as they hit the road.
Outside, the hospital drops behind them in glass and light, the streets stretching dark and quiet toward campus. The heat keeps blowing over her legs. Garrett’s thumb moves slowly over her scrubs like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
She tips her head against the seat and watches him in the passing streetlights, the curve of his mouth still there, stupid and pleased and familiar.
“What?” he asks without looking over.
She shakes her head softly. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
She turns her hand palm-up on her thigh, and after half a second, his fingers slide between hers like they were headed there anyway.
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ fluff!!!, est. relationship, teammate chirping, jersey + letterman jacket theft 😌, possessive!garrett, sex mentioned if you squint, ✨smooching✨, dean refuses to let this man know peace + language
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ bonus linked at the bottom || [smut]-> praise, dirty talk, car hookup, unprotected p in v, aftercare, pet names (baby, pretty girl + no y/n), garrett is embarrassingly obsessed + language
Garrett Graham doesn’t do girlfriends.
At least, that was the story he’d been telling for the last three years.
The same answer he gave his teammates. The same answer he gave whenever a girl started asking questions that sounded a little too much like commitment. The same answer he gave every time somebody in the locker room accused him of getting attached.
No relationships. No complications. No reason to rearrange his life for somebody else.
Then you showed up and completely ruined that plan.
Now he automatically moved to the outside of the sidewalk whenever the two of you walked anywhere together, his fingers laced in yours.
He reached for your bag before you could, slinging the strap over his shoulder while you complained that you were perfectly capable of carrying it yourself.
He stayed awake longer than he meant to, stretched across his bed with his phone in his hand, waiting for the text that told him you’d made it home.
And somehow, without really noticing when it happened, he’d started giving you his things. Which should’ve concerned him. Because Garrett liked his things.
His hockey sticks lined up exactly where he left them. His Jeep. His routines. His clothes. Especially his clothes.
He loved the way his jerseys seemed to fit you just right, skimming and teasing your curves when you tossed it on after sex, dressed in nothing more than his last name, a pair of panties.
And every time he turned around lately, something of his seemed to be in your hands. Garrett had a bad habit of handing you things and never asking for them back.
The letterman jacket was different. Maybe because it wasn't just another sweatshirt—maybe because he'd worn that thing for years.
Maybe because he'd left it at your apartment the night before after tossing it over a chair, fully intending to grab it on his way out the next morning. Instead, he'd stumbled out five minutes late for morning skate with his mind lost somewhere between the sheets and that goodbye kiss.
And when you showed up to puck-drop dripping in royal blue, he almost lost his edge completely.
His jersey. His letterman’s jacket. That dainty necklace he'd bought you for your birthday peeking through the space in between whenever you moved.
You looked like every hockey girlfriend fantasy he never admitted he'd been carrying around in the back of his mind. The kind of thing he'd spent years pretending he didn't want.
The kind of thing he'd caught the guys talking about on the bench between shifts; somebody waiting in the tunnel after the game, secretly texting from the gym when they’re supposed to be in a team workout, gifting jerseys, giving them a reason to look up into the crowd instead of the back of the net.
Now he couldn't shut up about you either.
You laugh at something the person next to you says before turning toward the ice, and even from halfway across the arena, Garrett catches the smile that spreads across your face the second you spot him.
Dean slashes him lightly as they skate out toward center ice, following Garrett's line of sight into the crowd. The second his eyes land on you, a grin breaks across his face.
"Holy shit,” Dean gasps dramatically.
Garrett immediately groans, throwing his head back, already knowing exactly where Dean’s gonna take this.
"You seein’ what I’m seein’, buddy?" He laughs, looking back toward the stands like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. "She looks good in your jacket—"
“Does she now?” Garrett asks with a challenging bite, latching onto the part where Dean said his girl looked good and ignoring the rest entirely.
Dean lets out another laugh, skating alongside him as they reset for the next shift. Garrett adjusts his grip on his stick, dropping his gaze to the tape wrapped around the blade. It lasts all of three seconds before he's looking back up into the stands again.
"Oh, you're in trouble,” Dean chuckles.
“Focus,” Garrett grunts, the attempt so half-assed it only makes Dean laugh harder.
"No, you focus."
Garrett shakes his head, trying and failing to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the music blasts over the speakers.
Dean exhales sharply, blowing it out slowly like he’s genuinely concerned. "You're gone, bud.”
"Shut up."
“You are."
"I'm literally standing right here," Garrett laughs, finally looking over at him.
"Mentally?" Dean asks, smacking a gloved hand on top of Garrett's helmet. "Absolutely not."
Garrett opens his mouth, fully intending to argue but nothing comes out. Dean lifts an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.
"You got nothin'."
"Fuck off,” Garrett chuckles.
The puck drops and Garrett does his best to forget about the stands. And for a little while, hockey wins.
The game settles into that familiar rhythm; slamming into the boards, skate blades carving into the ice, eyes darting between bodies for an opening.
Dean feeds him a perfect pass through the slot and he takes it—bar down, the net ripples and the horn explodes ahead, the crowd erupts into cheers as the music plays.
Garrett’s fist pumps instinctively as adrenaline courses through him, teammates crashing into him from every direction before he can even slow down.
And like a complete idiot, the first place his eyes go isn’t the scoreboard.
Dean catches it immediately, grabbing him by the back of his jersey as they head back to the bench. “Did you do it for her? I just gotta know. How are we gonna play this?”
Garrett shoves him away, but Dean hangs on, refusing to let go.
“Boys,” Dean announces dramatically. “We lost him.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“Answer the question, Graham,” Dean demands as he steps off the ice.
“What question?” Garrett asks, brushing the ice off the blade of his stick.
“The goal.”
“The goal?”
“Yes, the goal,” Dean adds, with no plans of letting it go.
“I scored because you passed me the fuckin’ puck, buddy. That’s how hockey works—”
“See? That’s not a no.”
“Mhmm,” Garrett hums, gnawing at his mouthguard to hide his smile.
A few of his teammates stream past with the puck and distract Dean for a moment, Garrett’s eyes finding their way back to you. You’re looking down at your phone, smiling at the screen, and he can’t help but wonder if his phone is buzzing in his locker right now.
Fuck, he’s in trouble.
“Malone’s after this? A few beers with the boys, G. What do you say?” Logan’s voice calls from Dean’s right, catching him completely off guard. Because what do you mean, with just the boys on a Saturday night? A home game? With you in the crowd looking like that? Fuck off.
Garrett looks to his left and Dean and Logan are both staring at him now, matching grins stretched across their faces.
Garrett narrows his eyes immediately, the pieces clicking together all at once. Those motherfuckers.
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a test.
And judging by the way Dean doubles over before he can even answer, he’d failed it spectacularly.
“No way,” Dean howls. “No fuckin’ way.”
“You’re a dick,” Garrett laughs, flicking him off with a gloved hand.
“You’re the dick, G. Fucking rude, actually. You didn’t even think about it!” Logan adds.
“Not for a second,” Dean agrees, pointing at him like he’s presenting evidence in court.
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” Dean laughs. “That look on your face? Incredible.”
Garrett lifts his water bottle, taking a long drink while the two of them continue losing their minds. “Hang it up, Dean.”
“Not a chance… You know my favorite part is?” Dean asks as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his breezers.
“No… No I don’t,” Garrett answers simply.
“Three years. Three fuckin’ years of listenin’ to you tell everybody how there was no way you could do both. You spent all that time acting like getting attached was gonna ruin your game.”
“It would’ve,” Garrett deadpans.
“Really?” Dean asks. “Because you got a goal, two assists, and you’ve looked up into the stands approximately forty-seven times tonight—and it’s only the first.”
Logan nods, looking up at the scoreboard and back to Garrett. “Statistically speaking, she should probably come to every game.”
“—Yeah,” Dean agrees. “For the good of the program.”
Garrett scrubs a hand across his jaw, already losing the battle not to smile. “Both of you are idiots.”
“Maybe.” Dean shrugs. “But we’re right.”
Garrett rolls his eyes, hanging his head for a moment. Eventually the conversation drifts somewhere else, both of them getting distracted by whatever’s happening on the ice. Garrett immediately takes advantage of it, searching the crowd without even thinking about it.
Back to you.
Dean catches it almost instantly. “Fuckin’ love this for you, G.”
Garrett rolls his eyes toward the ice, but the smile gives him away. “Shut up.”
The second the locker room door swings open, Garrett spots you.
One second he’s laughing at something Dean says, smiling for one reason, and the next he’s smiling for another entirely. His hand drags across his mouth like he can somehow hide it, duffel bag looped over his broad shoulder, the other shoved into his pocket as he tries and fails to look casual.
You’re leaning against the brick wall, still drowning in that royal blue jacket of his.
Your eyes lift from your phone and the second you spot him, a smile spreads across your face, and Garrett feels his own answering before he can stop it. He doesn’t even realize he’s walking faster until Dean catches up beside him.
“Oh, wow,” Dean breathes dramatically.
“Go away, dude,” Garrett mutters under his breath with a laugh.
“No, seriously. Look at you… You are clippin’.”
Dean smacks him on the ass as he blows past, earning a startled laugh from you before he jogs ahead to catch the rest of the guys.
Garrett just shakes his head, already fighting a losing battle. His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer like he’s wanted to all night.
“Good game,” you smile.
“Yeah?” His grin softens immediately as he leans in closer. “You think so?”
“Rain check on that boys’ night?” Logan yells from halfway down the hallway, his voice echoing through the tunnel just as Garrett’s lips brush yours.
“Oh?” You ask sweetly as Garrett pulls back and shoots Logan a dirty look. “You have plans?”
“Hell no,” Garrett answers immediately, his hold on you tightening slightly as he turns you just enough to block out the idiots behind him.
“Goal was for you, by the way!” Dean shouts over their laughter, and Garrett’s entire face floods red.
“Don’t listen to them,” he mutters, pulling you into a tight hug.
“I mean, the first one definitely was,” Dean continues.
“Buddy, both of ’em were,” Tucker adds as the locker room door swings shut behind him, piling on while Garrett groans.
“Don’t you have shit to do?” Garrett asks.
“You better have him home by midnight, sweetheart,” Dean adds as he pushes through the side door, pointing at the two of you like an exhausted hockey parent.
Your back presses against the wall as Garrett keeps his eyes fixed on the exit, waiting for the last one of them to leave.
The second Dean disappears through the door, Garrett exhales, silence finally settling around you, just the two of you and an empty hallway, exactly like he’d been hoping for. He turns back to you, breath catching when he finds your eyes already on him.
And before you can speak he kisses you deep, his hand gripping into the back of the letterman’s jacket to bring you closer. His other hand lifts, cradling the back of your head, smiling against your lips as he draws back just enough to whisper.
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.
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – logan ends up in the ED after a hit at hockey training, and garrett gets a front-row seat to nursing student mode.
warnings – hospital setting, concussion symptoms, blood, split lip, minor hockey injury, medical treatment/medication mention, strong language
notes from me – this is a lil combination of a couple nursing student!reader asks i've had!! <3
word count – 2.7k
navigation – masterlist | taglist
The emergency department has a particular kind of morning ugliness to it, the sort that isn’t dramatic enough to be interesting and isn’t calm enough to be kind.
It’s fluorescent light on tired faces, the faint burnt smell of coffee that’s been sitting too long in the pot, printer paper curling out of a machine no one has had time to swear at properly, someone coughing behind curtain three, the soft squeak of sneakers over linoleum, the distant beep of a monitor that has been going long enough to stop sounding urgent and start sounding like part of the building.
She’s standing at the nursing station with one hip braced against the counter, trying to finish the last of her clinical notes while drinking a Red Bull at eight in the morning as if that’s a normal adult decision and not evidence that the system has failed her personally, when the ambulance bay doors open behind her.
She doesn’t turn around at first. That’s one of the first things the ED teaches you, in its harsh little way. People are always coming in. Doors open, wheels roll, voices sharpen, and the floor somehow makes room for whatever crisis has just arrived like it had been expecting it.
Around her, everyone moves with that strange, practiced calm that still feels a bit like witchcraft to her, panic folded neatly into tasks, fear clipped down to the edge of a pen, hands already reaching for gloves and monitors and charts before the person on the stretcher has even fully crossed the threshold.
“What’ve we got?” Dr. Patel asks, already stepping toward the paramedics.
The stretcher rolls past the nursing station behind her, and one of the paramedics starts talking in that clipped, efficient rhythm that makes every sentence sound both ordinary and terrifying. “This is John Logan, twenty-one. He’s come in from Briar hockey training after a hit during drills. He’s taken contact to the face, gone down, and coach thinks he may have hit the back of his head on the ice. No loss of consciousness that anyone saw, but he’s been asking the same questions and can’t really tell us what happened. He’s got a headache, feels dizzy, bit nauseous. Nosebleed was active when we got there but it’s settled now, and he’s got a decent split to the inside of his lower lip. No neck pain, no vomiting. Obs have been stable.”
Her pen stops moving. For a second, the whole department seems to keep going without her. The wheels keep squeaking. The monitor keeps beeping. Someone laughs at the far end of the nurses’ station in that brittle way people do when the shift has already started to get weird.
But all she can hear is John Logan sitting in the middle of that handover like a puck dropped clean at her feet.
“Logan?” she says, too loud and too immediate, before she can smooth it into anything professional.
The paramedic glances back. Dr. Patel glances back. Maria, her charge nurse, gives her a look from beside the stretcher that manages, somehow, to say several things at once, the main one being whatever this is, please do not make it my problem.
She’s already pushing away from the counter, notes abandoned, Red Bull sweating a bright silver ring onto the desk behind her. “Sorry. I– sorry. I know him.”
Logan gets wheeled into bay four looking, frankly, far too pleased with himself for someone with dried blood crusted under one nostril and a split lower lip swelling on one side.
His hair’s damp from melted ice and sweat, sticking up in the back in a way that would be funny if his eyes weren’t doing that slightly unfocused thing she’s been trained to notice before she’s allowed to react to it.
He blinks up at the ceiling like the tiles are being rude to him. She follows Maria in, pulling gloves on with fingers that only shake for half a second before she makes them stop, heart thudding once, hard, and then settling into the lower, steadier part of her body where she keeps all the useful things.
Logan turns his head when she comes into his line of sight. His brow creases, slow and dramatic, like recognition is having to fight its way through several layers of fog and hockey equipment. “I know you.”
“Hi, Logan,” she says, leaning in just enough that he doesn’t have to search for her face. Her voice comes out softer than she expects, but steady. Good. She’ll take steady. “You okay?”
His eyes narrow with the heroic concentration of a man trying to remember his own Netflix password under medical supervision. Then his face clears, delighted and bloody. “Garrett’s girlfriend! Hi!”
Every person in the room hears it. There are things a person could whisper in the ED and nobody would catch them over the phones and monitors and general human misery, but Garrett’s girlfriend has the acoustic reach of a trauma alarm.
Heat climbs straight up her throat. “I’m not–” she starts, because some stupid reflex in her still thinks this is the hill worth dying on, even though Logan is lying there with a possible concussion and blood on his teeth. She stops herself and reaches for the rail instead, lowering it so Maria can get in closer. “Okay. Lean back for me, yeah? Let them have a look at you.”
“Garrett’s gonna be so mad,” Logan mumbles, letting his head fall back against the pillow with the loose obedience of someone who has temporarily lost access to all his usual objections.
“Probably,” she says, gently turning his wrist so Maria can clip the pulse ox on properly. “But that’s more of a personality defect than a medical concern.”
Maria’s mouth twitches.
Logan looks at her with genuine, hazy admiration. “You’re funny.”
“You’ve told me that before.”
They get him settled with the strange, controlled choreography of people who know exactly where to put their bodies in a small room. Dr. Patel checks him over, asks the kind of questions that sound simple until the answers come back wrong. Name. Age. Where are you? What happened? Does your neck hurt? Any vomiting? Any vision changes?
Maria repeats a few in a softer tone when Logan’s gaze drifts toward the curtain and his attention starts to slip off the edge of the room. He knows who he is. He knows he’s at the hospital. He doesn’t know what drill they were running, or why his mouth tastes like pennies, or why his coach apparently went full soccer mom and called an ambulance.
When she checks his temperature, he gives her a slow, solemn thumbs-up like she’s just done something worthy of ESPN coverage.
“Thanks, bud,” she says, fighting a smile.
“Professional,” he tells her, thickly, through the swelling.
“I’m a student.”
“Close enough.”
Dr. Patel orders more monitoring, meds for the headache and nausea, and imaging if he doesn’t settle the way they want.
The room thins out by degrees, people peeling away toward other beds and other problems, and she’s just reaching for the blood pressure cuff when a familiar voice cuts across the main department, too loud and too panicked and much too Garrett to be anyone else.
“Where is he?”
Her eyes close. Another voice follows, higher with stress and irritation. “Bro, you can’t just walk back there.”
Then Tucker, sounding like he’s trying to be polite while actively losing his mind. “Sorry– sorry, we’re with the idiot who got concussed.”
“Fuck,” she mutters.
Logan perks up immediately, which is not ideal. “Guys?”
She strips off her gloves and steps out before the entire Briar hockey team can commit a privacy violation in front of God, Maria, and three irritated nurses who have already had enough of today.
Dean’s craning his neck over a privacy screen like he’s trying to spot someone across a party instead of an emergency department, Tucker has both hands shoved into his hair, and Garrett’s standing between them in his hoodie and sweats, curls flattened on one side like he’s dragged a hand through them too many times, face set in that awful careful way that means he’s much closer to freaking out than he wants anyone to know.
His eyes find hers, and something under her ribs does one bright, stupid little flip before she can stop it. “Oh, thank God,” Garrett says, already moving toward her. “Is he okay?”
“He’s okay,” she says quickly, putting a hand out before he can walk straight past her and into a bay he absolutely hasn’t been invited into. Her palm lands against the front of his hoodie, solid heat and hard chest and the faint outdoor cold still clinging to him. “He’s in there. Stop yelling.”
“I’m not yelling.”
Dean points at him immediately. “You were absolutely yelling.”
Garrett doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay on her face, scanning it like she might accidentally give away something worse than her words. “Is he conscious? Did he know where he was? He couldn’t remember what happened.”
“He’s awake, he’s talking, he’s annoying, so all his major personality functions are intact.” She lowers her voice a little when the sharpness in his jaw doesn’t move. “Garrett. He’s okay. They’re assessing him properly.”
The tension in his face shifts, dragged out of panic and pushed into something he can carry without making it everyone else’s problem. He nods once, quick and tight. “Can I see him?”
“For two minutes,” she says. Then, because Dean’s already angling his body toward the curtain with the unearned confidence of a man who has never met a boundary he didn’t consider negotiable, she adds, “And if any of you crowd him, I’m kicking you out.”
Dean blinks at her. “Wow.”
Tucker, still pale under his tan, nods once like this has genuinely done something for him. “That was kind of hot.”
Garrett shoots him a look. “Shut up.”
She leads them in anyway, and Logan’s whole face lights up the second he sees them, like he hasn’t just been scraped off the ice and transported here in an ambulance. “Guys!”
The room immediately becomes too full in that specific way rooms become too full when hockey players enter them. Dean swears under his breath and leans over the bed, Tucker lets out a rough little laugh that sounds more like relief than humour and grabs Logan’s ankle through the blanket, and Garrett goes quiet.
That’s the thing she notices most, he doesn’t crowd, doesn’t start talking over everyone, doesn’t perform the worry into something loud enough to hide behind.
He steps to the side of the bed and looks at Logan’s face, really looks, taking in the dried blood, the split lip, the unfocused eyes, the way Logan is smiling too widely because his brain has temporarily filed this whole morning under weird but fine.
“You scared the shit out of us, dude,” Garrett says.
Logan frowns. “Why?”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “Because you got bodied and then asked what day it was four times.”
“Oh.” Logan thinks about that, then looks at her. “What day is it?”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, dragging both hands down his face.
“Okay,” she cuts in, stepping between Dean and the monitor before he manages to trip over something expensive and attached to the wall. “Everyone back. Back, please. I actually have to work.”
Garrett moves first. He catches Tucker lightly by the sleeve, nudges Dean back with his shoulder, and somehow gets both of them away from the bed without making it a whole production.
His gaze stays on her, though. She can feel the attention of him, steady and warm and much too direct, following her hands as she wraps the cuff around Logan’s arm, clips the pulse ox back onto his finger, asks him to rate his headache out of ten, asks whether the nausea is better or worse, checks the bleeding at his lip with gauze and the lightest pressure she can manage.
She knows she’s not doing anything extraordinary. It’s observations and questions and documenting what she’s told to document. It’s the kind of thing she’s been practicing for weeks, the kind of thing that still sometimes makes her feel like she’s wearing someone else’s competence and hoping it fits long enough to pass.
But Garrett watches her like she’s doing magic. Like the girl who steals his hoodies and falls asleep with her anatomy notes open on her chest has been briefly replaced by someone sharper and calmer and terrifyingly capable, and he has no idea what to do with the fact that both versions are her.
Maria comes in a minute later with the meds, her eyes flicking once to the three enormous boys lined up against the wall in various states of poorly hidden distress. “Doctor put in orders for acetaminophen and Zofran,” she says, holding the chart out a little. “You want to give them? I’ll cosign and watch.”
Her mouth goes a little dry for reasons that have very little to do with the Red Bull still abandoned at the nursing station. She nods. “Yeah. Yep.”
Logan eyes the tablets suspiciously. “Am I dying?”
“No,” she says, scanning what Maria tells her to scan, double-checking the dose because Garrett’s watching and Maria’s watching and, more importantly, because Logan is a real patient and not just an idiot she’s seen drunk in Garrett’s kitchen eating cereal out of a mixing bowl. “This one’s for the headache, and this one should help with the nausea. Small sip of water, okay? Don’t sit up too fast.”
Logan takes the cup with exaggerated seriousness, like she’s handed him an ancient goblet. “Yes, nurse.”
“Student nurse.”
“Future nurse,” Tucker says from the wall, earnest enough that she has to keep her eyes on the chart or she’ll smile.
She points at him without looking up. “Waiting room.”
Maria gives a soft, approving hum from beside her. “Actually, honey, these boys do need to wait outside.”
“Yeah,” she says, peeling her gloves off. “I’ll walk them out.” She turns back to Logan, whose eyelids are drooping a little now that the initial excitement of having visitors has started to wear off. “Logan, say bye to your friends.”
He lifts one hand in a loose, tragic wave. “Bye, friends.”
Dean looks genuinely affected. “Why did that make me sad?”
“Head injury makes him nicer,” Tucker says. “Maybe we should keep him like this.”
Garrett doesn’t laugh, but his mouth twitches. That tiny break in him is enough to make the room feel a fraction less tight. He lets her guide them out, walking last, still glancing back through the curtain like Logan might vanish if he stops looking.
When they reach the hallway, she turns and plants both hands on Garrett’s chest before he can hover there indefinitely and slowly turn into hospital furniture.
“I’ve got him,” she says, softer now, because Dean and Tucker are a few steps ahead and because Garrett’s face has gone quiet again. “It’s okay.”
His hands hover for half a second before settling at her waist, careful and brief, the way he touches her when he remembers there are people around and he’s trying very hard to be normal about it.
His thumb moves once against the side of her scrub top, a small restless stroke that gives him away completely. “You’ll come tell me?”
“Yeah. When the doctor comes back and they know more, I’ll come out.”
His eyes search her face like he wants to argue and knows she’ll win, which is maybe one of the more satisfying developments of the morning. Finally, he nods. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she echoes, then gives his chest a gentle push. “Go wait. And keep Dean from charming his way into a restricted area.”
Dean, already halfway down the hall, calls back, “I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
Garrett’s mouth curves then, small and tired and stupidly soft at the edges. For one second, with the ED moving around them and Logan concussed behind a curtain and her Red Bull still sitting open somewhere going warm, he looks at her like she’s done something much more impressive than take a blood pressure and bully his friends into behaving. Like the competence of her has hit him somewhere inconvenient and he’s trying not to make it her problem.
Then he leans down just enough to murmur, “You’re really good at this.”
The compliment lands too warm and too directly in her chest, especially with her badge clipped crookedly to her pocket and dried coffee on one sleeve and the faint medicinal smell of the room still clinging to her.
She looks away first, because there are some things she can handle in front of three hockey players and a charge nurse, and Garrett Graham looking proud of her is not one of them.
“Waiting room, Graham.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and backs away with both hands raised, smiling like an idiot.
summary - you are absolutely shattered, but it’s the first off campus bonfire of the summer and you don’t want to let your boyfriend down
pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader
word count - +1.8k
It was the first bonfire of the summer.
Every year the Off Campus house would throw a bonfire to celebrate the start of summer. Exams finished and parties beginning.
You had spent the afternoon with Garrett and the guys prepping for the party, whilst also attending an extra credit class for an hour. Safe to say, you were exhausted.
The kitchen was hectic as Tucker ordered people around.
“Dean, no! I swear to God, if I see you eat another marshmallow man…” Tucker threatened Dean with a wooden spoon. Terrifying.
You smiled to yourself, whilst continuing your delegated job of setting out the drinks on a portable table just outside.
The sound of a camera going off made you look to your right, where your boyfriend, Garrett, stood shamelessly.
“Really?”
“What? You look so pretty.” Garrett shrugged like it was nothing.
You had to stop yourself from blushing, because it was getting annoying how much he could make you blush with even just the tiniest of things.
Dick.
Garrett continued messing around on his phone as you finished lining up the cans of beer in the ice-cooler.
You sighed, tired but feeling accomplished.
“You okay?”
Garrett slid his phone in his pocket and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, so he could pull you in for a quick kiss on your head.
You melted into his hold, feeling like you could just close your eyes and drift off in the comfort of him.
“Mhm.”
You inhaled his presence. He slightly smelled of Tucker’s cooking from inside, but mainly the laundry detergent he used that was on your list of five favourite things about him.
“Sure?” He pulled you back away from him, meaning you had to pull on your fakest smile.
“Yeah.” You nodded, smiling up at him.
“Okay.” He leaned down to kiss you softly. He would have kissed you longer than a few seconds, but the guys started whistling and cheering on from the kitchen window. “Fuck off, creeps.”
“Y/N - can you help me with this?” Tucker shouted from inside.
Garrett rolled his eyes and you couldn’t help but let out a laugh.
“Duty calls.” You patted his chest.
“Cannot catch a break.” Garrett muttered - something he always said when you were forced from his side for more than 5 minutes. It did make you feel very loved.
——
The bonfire had officially started an hour ago, but people had only really started joining in the last five minutes or so.
You, Hannah, Allie, Grace and Sabrina had been playing cards in the living area with a couple drinks between you, but now there were more people arriving you’d decided to give it up for the day.
The girls had gone to get more drinks and join the guys out back, but you’d stayed back to clear up.
“Y/N!”
You turned to see Beau enter the house with a couple of his friends behind him.
“Hey, Beau.” You smiled, packing away the last of the cards.
The guys had a cupboard just beneath the TV where they kept all their board games - including the game of Twister that you and Garrett played on your second date, and it made you fall for him really hard (Literally).
“You doing okay?” He asked, hands in his jean pockets.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” You smiled.
“Cool.”
He left you to find the guys outside. No doubt he had some dramatic entrance or speech planned with Dean.
You sat back against the sofa, and took your phone out to give yourself literally anything to do rather than go back outside.
You opened up your texts, responding to a couple of people that were asking whether they could come to the bonfire. Garrett had said it was an open house, so you replied yes.
You opened Instagram next, smiling when you saw Garrett had a new story posted. You clicked it and smiled even wider when you realised he had posted the picture of you setting up the drinks before.
“Can’t get rid of her ❤️”
That’s what he’d written as the caption.
You chuckled to yourself as you replied saying, “No refunds or returns.”
You opened up your work calendar next, your smile instantly disappearing when you realised how many shifts you had upcoming. It was made even worse when you realised you’d be missing out on being with Garrett for the start of summer.
It sucked, having to work for money.
Of course Garrett always offered to help you out, but you enjoyed the independence of earning your own money. Lord knows that didn’t stop him for always paying for dates and days out together.
“Absolutely not.” Your phone was plucked out from your hand by your boyfriend, as he sat up on the couch behind you.
“Hey!”
“This is a party, baby.”
“I know.”
“So what are you doing sitting here on the floor, looking at the most depressing calendar?” He challenged.
You sighed, tipping your head back to lean against his thigh.
You closed your eyes, enjoying this quiet moment with him.
“Sure you’re okay?” He took your chin between his forefinger and thumb, causing you to open your eyes sleepily.
“Mhm.”
“You’re not about to crash out on me, hm?”
You shook your head.
“Okay, then. Come keep me company outside.” He said, not giving you the opportunity to choose because he knew you’d stay inside given the option. He knew you too well.
“I’m keeping you company right now.”
Garrett huffed out a laugh, dropping his hand from your face. Your head automatically went back to leaning heavily against his thigh.
“You’ve been hiding in here for like ten minutes, baby.”
“I haven’t.” You squinted at the accusation.
“Beau arrived a while ago and immediately came out to find me, completely bypassing Dean, because he wanted to check in with me to see if I knew you were in here alone.”
“You both worry too much.” You cupped his cheek at an awkward angle, which he leant into.
“Of course I worry.” His eyes furrowed as he tried to comprehend why you’d think otherwise.
“I’m okay. Promise.”
“Okay. C’mon then, please?”
And because he asked nicely, of course you went with him.
——
The music is loud and the conversations are louder.
The main group of your friends are sitting around the bonfire. Garrett had saved you a camping chair beside him, but it didn’t matter because you were more comfortable sitting on his lap.
Dean had been talking about summer plans when you’d last properly listening to the conversation.
Since then your friends had talked about hockey, then movies, which somehow turned into hotdogs. You hadn’t contributed one word to any of their conversations though.
You were too busy fighting your heavy eyes by playing with the tassels on your boyfriend’s hoodie. It didn’t help that he had been constantly rubbing slowly circles on your lower back with his thumb.
Your head was resting against his shoulder as you sat sideways on his lap.
“Should I be offended that Y/N hasn’t laughed at a single one of my jokes?” You heard Dean ask, cracking a small smile from you but you didn’t have the energy for anything more.
Garrett looked down at you, which you knew because you could feel his eyes on you.
His face leant down so he could be close to you, without anyone else interrupting or overhearing.
“Shall we call it a night?” He asked.
Your eyes flicked to his and you immediately softened.
Maybe it was unfair that Garrett could look at you like that. Like there wasn't anywhere else he'd rather be. Even with half the hockey team sitting around the fire.
You made no big protesting movement, which told Garrett everything he needed to know. You were shattered.
You shook your head. “It’s your party.”
“You know that’s not an answer, baby.” He gave you a half-smile.
“You should be down here, with your friends.”
“I just want to be with you.”
“Okay Troy Bolton.” You huffed, which turned into a proud smile when Garrett laughed because he understood your reference.
“Tell me honestly. If you’re tired, we can go.”
“I don’t want you to be disappointed or feel like you’re missing out.” You looked down from his eyes to focus on picking at his hoodie tassels again.
“I promise I won’t. I’d be more sad missing out on something with you than this lot.”
And you know he means it.
You gave him a small nod and that was all the confirmation that Garrett needed.
You stood up from his lap with all the strength you could muster, your muscles aching to sit back down and rest for at least twelve hours. Garrett stood up quickly after you, taking your hand in his.
“We’re heading out.” Garrett announced to the group.
“Already?” Dean complained and Allie hit him on the arm.
“Yeah. Deal with it.”
“Get home safe.” Hannah smiled at you both as Garrett led you away from the fire.
“Bye guys.” Logan smiled.
“Bye.” You mustered a smile and a wave, and followed Garrett away from the party.
——
Garrett’s room was surprisingly quiet, considering the party going on downstairs - or maybe you were just too tired to notice.
As soon as you’d gotten upstairs, Garrett handed you his sweatshirt that he knew you loved wearing.
He helped you get changed, after noticing how slow and groggy your movements were. He was always happy to help, especially when it earnt him a thank you kiss.
Now you were laying on your side of his bed, curled up under the duvet and feeling like this is where you were meant to be.
Garrett had continued to potter around his bedroom, tidying aimlessly.
“What are you doing?” You asked, eyes half open.
“Tidying.”
You watched him throw socks and pants into his landry basket without any care for whether they were clean or dirty.
“Why?”
“Because my girlfriend is staying over and it looked like a dumpsite.”
“Graham, just get your ass in bed.”
Garrett chuckled, throwing the last of his messy clothes in his laundry basket before joining you in bed. He wasted no time getting underneath the covers and sliding in tight behind you.
“Babe?” You prompted.
“Hmm?”
“The light.”
“Oh for—.” Garrett mumbled some profanity as he got back out of bed to turn off the big light - which honestly why he had it on in the first place was a mystery and disgrace.
He quickly got back into bed with you.
This time he all but merged himself with you, entangling your legs with his and wrapping his arms around your body tightly.
The smile on your face was completely valid.
Being held in Garrett’s arms like this was second to none.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“I think my social battery died five hours ago.”
“Baby, I know.” He chuckled, which caused his hot breath to tickle the back of your neck.
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."
A/N: another fic i've had written for months! so excited to finally be sharing these and to have a growing audience for them! thanks to everyone who has been liking and sharing my dean fics, it means so much and it's great to have a little motivation to get back into writing. more off-campus content to come! <3
summary: you overhear a conversation from dean's friend's that you weren't exactly meant to hear
word count: ~2.8k
warnings: MDNI 18+ talks of sex, descriptions of sexual acts (not full on smut but describing past experiences), insecure reader, asshole friends, comparing new relationship to past ex
Dean was out late since he had a game with the Hurricanes, but he told you that you could stay in his room at the guys’ place until he got back. You had dinner by yourself, deciding on McDonald’s since the rest of the guys were out of the house, though once you settle in bed, two hours before Dean is expected to be home, you hear the door open.
Loud voices fill the downstairs space, and you partly want to venture down there to see what the guys are up to, but also don’t want to intrude on their boys night. However, eventually, when your glass of water runs dry, you decide to head down for some more, but before you can even get to the second stair and descend, you hear your name.
“Is (Y/N) here?” You can tell it’s Logan by the teasing tone in the question, he is always messing with you and Dean about how much you’re over here.
“I dunno,” Tucker responds, his speech slurred due to the amount of drinks he’s had. You knew they were going to Malone’s to celebrate a friend’s birthday, but you didn’t expect them back this early.
“She’s always here,” Logan replies matter-of-factly. “It’s like she’s…monitoring him.” That phrase throws you off, your body freezing in fear. What could he possibly mean?
“Yeah, I can see it,” Garrett cuts into the conversation. “Like she doesn’t trust him or something. She must think him being alone tempts him too much so she’s always with him.”
“But she also doesn’t give him anything in return,” Tucker adds. “He told me they haven’t fucked in like, two weeks. I don’t know how the guy does it.”
You are very aware of the fact that your libidios don’t exactly match, and it’s not something you’ve brought up just yet. He’s assured you that it’s no hurry, he’s got a hand and a toy for a reason, but it still makes you feel guilty. And this whole conversation makes you wonder what he tells them.
“Dude yeah,” Logan agrees. “He told me the same. I’m like…are we talking about the same Dean that was fucking every night? I mean him and Allie would go at it like rabbits whenever they’d see each other.”
Upon hearing that name, your entire body tenses up. They brought up his ex-girlfriend in comparison to you. Your worst fear in a relationship.
“i miss Allie, she was so good for him,” Garrett says, a reminiscent tone to his voice. Your chin rests on your knees, tears welling up in your eyes, the phrase repeating over and over in your head.
“She so was. Their personalities fit so well together.”
“Uh huh, they could match each other’s energies. Now, it’s like (Y/N) is an energy vampire, sucking the life out of him.”
“I mean she’s not doing much sucking.” A chorus of laughter stings your ears as they continue to poke fun and question your ability to make their friend happy.
Unfortunately for you, your mind starts to wander. Does Dean think that way as well? Does he miss his ex because she was able to match his sexual desires? Were they more compatible than you and him? Insecurities rise in your body, and suddenly, you forget about the fact that you needed water.
Instead, you quietly trudge back to your boyfriend’s room and gather everything you’ve kept in here over the past few months into your duffle bag, prepared to leave the second he gets back from the game.
Although when he returns, finding his roommates passed out drunk on the couches, he also finds you asleep on his bed, above the covers, slightly shivering due to the chill in the air. He notices that you’re no longer wearing his hoodie, which is neatly folded on the chair at his desk.
His eyebrows furrow in confusion and his green eyes follow the duffle bag sitting open, containing some articles of clothing he has seen placed neatly in the drawer of his dresser that he designated as yours.
“Baby?” He shakes you awake a little, but you don’t budge one bit. He decides to then take a quick moment to check all the places he knew you kept your stuff; your drawer is empty, your toiletries including your toothbrush and toothpaste are gone, and your t-shirts that were hanging up in a small section of his closet were missing.
A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he takes a seat on the bed, though something catches his eye. A neatly folded piece of paper on his desk. Standing back up, he takes a couple steps and picks it up, carefully unfolding it with his calloused fingers.
His green eyes scan over the words that were written in your handwriting, and he can’t help the scoff that escapes him.
“Oh, hi Dean,” you finally awake, having been rattled from the force that he rose off the bed from. Slowly, he turns towards you, holding the note between his fingers.
“You wanna explain this?” He questions, a hurtful and almost betrayed bite to his voice. Swallowing thickly, you remember what you had written in your emotional flurry, and instantly regret it instead of talking to him. “You’re not seriously wanting to break up, are you?”
Silence hangs between the two of you and it’s horrifically awkward. You aren’t sure what to say or do, the damage already having been done.
“I…I don’t want to, but I was…”
“You were what? All of a sudden unhappy in this relationship and decided to make that decision without me?” Your heart aches in your chest, realizing the severity of what you had done. “What the fuck is going on, (Y/N)?”
Dean takes a seat with you again, the note fluttering beside him, quickly forgotten once his eyes set on you. He doesn’t want to hear it from a handwritten note, he wants to hear it from your mouth.
“I was just thinking that maybe we aren’t right for each other,” you shrug. “I mean, you have girls still fawning over you, waiting to have their moment with you, I hate to think I’m holding you back because I have issues.”
“You think you’re holding me back?” He appears hurt by your assumption, and because of that, you’re unable to properly form a response. “Holding me back from what exactly?”
“Sex. I hate to think that you fuck me every couple weeks when I’m in the mood and get stuck with your hand the rest of the time because I have little to no libido. You don’t deserve that, you deserve someone like Al-”
Dean’s eyes immediately widen upon your slip-up, even though you stopped before you could say the whole name. He knows exactly what you mean. A scoff escapes his lips, completely flabbergasted that you would even say such a thing.
“You’re really comparing yourself to my ex? I thought I told you many times, we’re nothing anymore.”
“You did, and I trust you, b-”
“So then why are you so worried about what you’re like and comparing to what she’s like, hm?” When you don’t respond, he pushes for an answer. “What’s got you worried, (Y/N)?”
“Your friends,” you choke out, averting your eyes away from him. You hate to be the person to throw his friends under the bus to him, but he wants the truth, so he’s going to get it.
“What makes you say that?”
“I overheard them talking about me. Saying that the only sucking I’m doing is sucking your energy, also saying how they liked her better than me, how you were better with her, how I’m over here all the time because I have to monitor you so you don’t get tempted to sleep with someone else because we don’t have sex that much.”
Confusion and anger flash in his eyes, and he has to stop himself from racing downstairs and pounding his friends’ faces in.
“They said all that?” You nod to his question, too afraid of your voice breaking to speak. Dean is so outraged, wondering what led his friends to say such awful things about you, that he doesn’t even notice the tears silently streaming down your cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to leave before you got back, but they were still up and I-I didn’t want to face them, but then I-”
“Hey, hey, shhh,” he coos, immediately bringing you into his arms, holding you close to his strong chest. You choke back a sob as your tears soak his grey long sleeve shirt, though you barely register what’s even happening. “I’ll have a talk with them in the morning. I’m not gonna stand by and let them say shit like that about you. Did they know you could hear them?”
“No, I was getting ready to head downstairs, but then I heard my name, so I stopped.”
“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, holding you even tighter in his grip. “I’m so sorry, baby. But please, don’t let their words get between us, okay? I need you to talk to me instead of running away.”
His request holds nothing but admiration and reassurance, no judgement whatsoever. He knows things haven’t been easy for you, and that communication has been a weak aspect on your side of things.
“Does it really bother you that we don’t…have sex very often?”
“Of course it doesn’t. I’ve told you that so many times.”
“But they said you and Allie-“
“Fuck what they said! They know nothing! Yeah, I used to have a very active sex life, but your safety and wellness is more important to me than anything. I may not understand what it’s like to just…not want to have sex but I respect it. Like I’ve told you, I have a hand and I have a toy. I would never, ever, cheat on you because of something like that.”
His words are spoken with a strong and confident tone, leaving no space for you to even interpret his words wrong. He’s told you the same thing previous times, there’s nothing that would change his mind or lead him to doing something that he would regret.
Even when he gets drunk now, the last thing he thinks about is sex. It’s you. How he wants to be cradled in your arms, his friends have stated how he never shuts up about you when he’s hammered. So much so, that they keep a framed photo of you to appease him; which makes their confessions earlier tonight even more confusing to you.
Overall, these factors have confirmed to you that Dean isn’t that type of guy anymore, and he’s adapted to your own personal way of things.
The Life of Dean has changed because of you.
“I know your mind is still going crazy, baby, but I promise you. Our relationship is different, but it’s a good different. I like that when you are finally in the mood, it’s like…mind-blowing.” You chuckle softly at his words and hide your face in your hands.
“Hey, no hiding on me,” he adds. “I mean it. When I first tasted your pussy, I-“
“Okay, Dean!” You giggle, your face now bright red and blushing, the smile on Dean’s face as wide as ever.
“Trust me, every time it happens, I just…black out afterwards. Most intense orgasms ever,” he adds on. “Plus, that one day that you let me go down on you when you weren’t up for it. I’ll never forget that.”
Your face now feels like it’s on fire from the way he’s talking. He’s right, one day, he begged and begged to go down on you, and despite you telling him that you weren’t in the mood for sex or to come, he insisted that he wanted to do so for his own pleasure.
Eventually, after setting some ground rules and such, you let him eat you out while you played around on your phone, the sounds of his moans turning you on, but your mind too clouded to reach an orgasm.
But he didn’t care, he was paying no attention to you. He was in his own little world, mouth covered in your arousal, eyes shut, occasionally fluttering open to meet your smiling face. Not once did he stop to take a breath, drowning in the smell and taste of you, both things that you had been highly insecure about leading up to that point.
He was down there for about thirty minutes before he finally exploded in his shorts, grinding against the bed and making a mess of himself. You hadn’t even realized he had done so until he lays there between your legs, spent, and awkwardly adjusts himself.
That’s when he sits up, revealing the large amount of cum seeping through the grey shorts of his, since he had forgone boxers. That sight alone was enough for you to pull him back down to your pussy and make you orgasm three times in a row.
“I need you to understand that sex isn’t just about fucking. It’s about sharing a moment with one another in each other’s pleasure. And to me, that means all the times that you give me a handjob or blowjob even when you want nothing in return, it’s me fingering you because that’s all you have the energy for, it’s dry humping one another when we’re too lazy to get undressed, the thigh riding, all of it. I don’t need penatrative sex every single night, despite what my friends say. I did it because it was fun, sure, but I’m in a committed relationship now. Priorities change, and that means adapting and making compromises.”
His little speech has brought tears to your eyes, and yet another blush to your cheek. All of a sudden, his friends words and your insecurities that had risen from them disappear, and Dean is the only one that matters.
“I’m sorry I doubted you on that,” you murmur, feeling upset with yourself for writing such an impulsive letter and not talking to him about all of this. He grins softly and presses a kiss to your cheek.
“It’s alright, baby girl. I can’t imagine how tough it was hearing that. And trust me, I’m still going to give them shit for it in the morning. Maybe a good punch or two as well.” You share a short laugh, knowing full well that he’s not going to hurt his friends.
However there’s an inkling in your mind that says that he’s not kidding at all.
“Just know that they’re wrong. They can think they know what’s best for me, but I’m the only one who can judge that. You and her are very different, and that’s what I like. I don’t want the same that I had with her, there’s a reason we split up. With you, things have been so beautiful and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’ve learned so much from you and it’s made me see things in a different light. You’ve opened up a more domestic side to me and I love it.”
“Domesticated Dean, huh? That wasn’t a thing before?”
He smiles widely and pulls you into his arms, adjusting your bodies so you now lay under the covers, seeing as it was nearing ten o’clock and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with you after a long day.
“It wasn’t, but I like who I am when I’m with you.” For some reason that single comment makes your heart soar in your chest. The fact that he’s admitting that you make him a better person, a better version of himself, is one of the highest compliments to ever receive, and it definitely doesn’t go unnoticed.
“I love you,” you whisper into his neck, placing a couple kisses there to seal the words.
“I love you too, sweetheart. I wouldn’t trade you for the world, you’re mine and I’m yours. No one can break that apart.” He kisses you sweetly, cradling your face with his rather large hand. After he breaks away, he sits up to reach across the covers, grabbing the note that you had written in the heat of the moment.
“And this?” he says as he rips the note to shreds, tossing the pieces into the trash can near his bed, “is not happening. I’m not letting my friends rip you away from me over this, got it?”
“Yeah,” you grin up at him, glad that he isn’t too hurt or upset over the fact that you had even written such a thing.
“It’s behind us, alright? Next time, I want you to come straight to me if something happens, especially if something happens with them.”
“Will do, Mr. Di Laurentis.” A blush takes over his features and he kisses you passionately once more. The two of you get comfortable in his bed, a heavy sigh escaping him as his muscles finally start to relax.
“Get some rest, okay? I’m not going anywhere. Unless I wake up before you, then I’ll be downstairs kicking my roommates asses.”
You intend to spend your spring break reading and sunbathing. That's skewered by a game of dogfight football, and when you get hurt, Dean is finally forced confront his feelings for you.
warnings: 18+, mdni! nothing specific, sprained ankle, injury, dean being a flirt w/c: 3.2k
main masterlist
"Wait... so what are the rules?" You ask, arms crossed as you squint up at the guys, currently in the process of trying to talk everybody into a game of dogfight football.
Apparently, they're no longer satisfied with trying to knock the shit out of each other - they want to involve the rest of you too.
Dean drops down onto your lounger, and you send a half-hearted kick his way. He catches your foot easily, pressing a kiss to your ankle. You roll your eyes, but don't pull out of his grip.
It's just the way you've always been. Physical without it ever turning to sex. Flirty without it ever turning to love.
Despite what everybody else may think, there is nothing going on between you and Dean Di Laurentis.
"There aren't rules, really. Just try and get the ball to the other team's side, and don't be a dick," Tucker shrugs. "It'll be fun."
You glance over at Allie and Hannah, hoping for some back-up, but they seem to be onboard. Beau is the only one who shares your disdain. "You guys are always dicks, so I'm not sure how that one's going to work."
"It's a guideline, not a law," Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing the soft skin right above your ankle bone. He’s still holding your foot in his lap, entirely too comfortable, completely unbothered by Beau’s commentary. "Don't worry, princess. I'll watch out for you."
"I don't need protecting," You shoot back, though you don't miss the way Hannah raises an eyebrow at his casual touch. You ignore her smirk, and the way she nudges Garrett. "I need some sun, and uninterrupted reading time."
Dean scoffs. "This is your third book of the trip. You've done plenty of reading."
Sensing that you're losing, you let out a resigned sigh. "Fine. One game."
Logan reaches for a cap and begins to pool everybody's beer caps. "No stacked teams. We’re drawing straws. Or in this case, bottle caps."
He holds out a baseball cap filled with a mix of black and caps. "Black is Team A, silver is Team B. Dig in."
Dean finally lets go of your foot to stand up, stretching his arms over his head. He reaches into the hat first, pulling out a black cap and tossing it in the air with a smirk. "Team A. Prepare for destruction."
You roll off your lounger, stick your hand into the hat, and pull your fingers back out. A silver cap rests in your palm. "Mhm. I wouldn't be so sure about that, if I were you."
The rest of the drawing goes quickly. You, Garrett, Allie, Tucker, and Jules all pull silver caps, along with a couple of the younger freshmen players. Dean, Beau, Hannah, and Hunter all pull black caps, flanked by the rest of the random team members scattered around the yard.
Grumbling slightly, you grab a pair of shorts, making the executive decision that bikini bottoms are definitely not dogfight appropriate. As you walk toward your team's designated side of the lawn, you feel a gaze burning into your back. You look over your shoulder to find Dean watching you, a lazy smirk on his face. You flip him off without a second thought, and take your place.
"Alright, silver team, huddle up," Tucker commands, clapping his hands together like a legitimate coach. He and Garrett go on to outline a plan that you're barely listening to. You keep glancing over at Dean, face heating up when he catches you staring every single time.
You don't even have time to settle into your stance before a large, tan frame steps directly into your line of sight. Dean. He smirks down at you, deliberately planting himself so close you can smell the sunscreen and coconut oil on his skin.
"You've got to be kidding me," You mutter, looking past his shoulder at the rest of the Black team defence. "You're covering me?"
"Told you," Dean draws out the word, shifting his weight, his eyes locked on yours. "No mercy."
"Surely your skills are better placed with Garrett or Tuck."
"I'm right where I want to be, sweetheart."
Garrett calls the snap, and you immediately dart to the left, trying to shake him. Dean matches your step perfectly. You cut hard to the right, but before you can break away into the open space, a heavy hand clamps down around your wrist.
It’s a firm, unyielding grip that instantly halts your momentum.
"Ah, ah," Dean’s voice rumbles right against your ear, his chest pressing into your back as he leans in close. His breath is warm, sending a sudden, ridiculous spike of heat straight down your spine. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Let go, Di Laurentis! That’s a holding penalty!" You yell, wrenching your arm back.
He releases your wrist the exact second Garrett throws a deep pass over both your heads to Jules. The whistle blows as Jules catches it for a first down, but you’re too annoyed to celebrate. You turn around and dig both palms into Dean’s chest, shoving him hard.
Dean barely moves an inch, but a massive, wicked grin spreads across his face, his eyes dancing with dark amusement. He loves every second of it, and you hate that he's pulling this reaction from you.
"You're playing dirty," You hiss, smoothing down your shirt.
"I'm playing to win," He corrects, falling right back into step beside you as the line shifts down the field.
The next three plays follow the exact same frustrating pattern. Dean doesn't care about the ball. He doesn't care about Garrett’s fake-outs or Tucker’s blocking. His entire world has narrowed down to making your life miserable. Every time you try to run a route, he’s there.
Despite the grumblings from his team that he's not pulling his weight, his tactic doesn't change.
The beach is chaos around you - people shouting, laughing, waves crashing too close to the makeshift field. Your feet sink with every step, burning your calves, but you keep going anyway because you're going to scream if Dean keeps you from touching the ball this entire game.
At the last second, you fake left.
Dean lunges.
You pivot right instead, sand kicking up around your ankles as he completely overshoots you, and get the ball from Allie. Now it's just a run to the end-zone.
You're almost there, about to score another goal for silver, when...
David, one of the younger, over-eager freshmen defencemen who completely missed Tucker’s "don't be a dick" memo, comes barrelling in from your blind side. He’s running entirely too fast, his eyes locked on the ball, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re already out of bounds and completely unprotected.
His shoulder clips you hard, the sheer force of his momentum knocking you completely off balance. The ground rushes up to meet you, and for a terrifying second, you brace yourself to crash into the hard dirt at full speed.
You never hit the ground.
A pair of massive, iron-clad arms wrap securely around your waist, snatching you out of mid-air. Dean’s chest absorbs the brunt of the collision as he intercepts your fall, managing to manoeuvre so you're held against his chest, before he places you back on the ground.
"Shit," You mumble, legs feeling wobbly. "Thanks."
"Anytime, sweetheart," Dean replies, but his attention is already on David. "What the fuck, man?"
"I-It was an accident!" He replies immediately, and you reach out for Dean's arm.
"I'm fine. Promise."
It takes him a second to drag his eyes away from staring down David, but he manages. "You want to stop?"
Despite your initial grumblings, you're actually kind of enjoying yourself. You shake your head, lip between your teeth. "Few more rounds can't hurt."
*****
Turns out, dogfight football is a lot of fun. Only when you get to a score of 10-10, do you finally decide that winner takes it all.
It's now or never.
Dean's stayed on you the entire game, but he's at least letting you touch the ball now. In fact, he seems more concerned with keeping the rowdier members of his team away from you, rather than trying to stop you.
You're pretty sure Logan is close to murdering him.
Especially since he just let you get the ball, giving you ample space to reach the end-zone, and win the entire game.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him gaining on you. In fact, you're so focused on Dean's form, you don't even notice Hunter Davenport going in for the tackle.
Before he can reach you, Hunter obliterates your blind side.
His shoulder spears directly into your ribs, while your foot remains stuck in the wet sand beneath your feet.
The momentum sends you spinning through the air. You hit the ground hard, the back of your head whipping backward and bouncing ruthlessly against the hard-packed shore.
Everything goes black for a second.
*****
The football slips from your hands, but before it can even stop rolling into the incoming surf, Dean is already there.
"Jesus Christ," He snaps, his voice a sharp, jagged bark as he hits the sand on his knees right beside you.
Hunter is still scrambling to his feet, stammering out a frantic apology. "Dean, man, I didn't see her-"
"Move," Dean snarls, not even looking up at him. "Get the fuck away from her. Now."
A silence has fallen over the beach, as your friends run over. Allie's at your right, Hannah at your left, but all you can focus on is Dean.
"I'm okay, Di Laurentis. Seriously," You insist, your voice tight with embarrassment as you look past his shoulder at the entire Briar hockey team staring at you. Not exactly how you envisioned your spring break going. "Just let me up."
"You're fucking bleeding!"
"It's just a scrape," You argue, trying to blink away the tears of pain before anyone can see them. You cannot handle being the loser who manages to ruin everybody's fun because you got hurt on the third day of vacation. "I can walk. Just give me a second."
Before he can stop you, you plant your uninjured left foot into the sand and try to push yourself up, determined to prove him wrong. You manage to lift your weight for a fraction of a second, but the moment you try to stabilise yourself, you accidentally put pressure on your right side.
Your ankle gives out instantly. A white-hot spike of agony shoots up your leg, and your knee buckles completely, sending you dropping straight back toward the ground.
Dean catches you before you can even drop an inch, his arms hooking under your knees so he can lift you up entirely.
"You guys keep playing," You insist weakly. "Please."
You get a few nods, but you're sure that dogfight is over for the day from the way everybody begins to migrate back towards the loungers. "You want some help? We could call an ambulance?" Beau offers, but you shake your head.
"It's just a sprain, I'm pretty sure. Ice'll sort it out."
"I've got it," Dean interjects, grip tightening on you. "I'll text if we need anything."
With that, he sets off for the beach house, pointedly ignoring the looks shared between everyone else.
*****
Dean kicks the screen door open with his foot, carrying you straight past the living room and into the bright, air-conditioned kitchen. He doesn't bother with the couch; instead, he hoists you up and sits you carefully on the edge of the marble kitchen counter.
"Stay right there. Don't move an inch," he orders softly, though there’s nowhere for you to go anyway.
"You know, I'm sure I could deal with this myself, if you... y'know, wanted to go back out there. Don't wanna harsh the vibe."
Dean looks at you like you've grown a second head. "M'staying right here, princess. No discussions."
He finds the first aid kit, and rifles through it, looking for what he needs, brow furrowed in concentration.
"I'm sorry," He finally mutters, keeping his head down as he squirts antiseptic spray onto a cotton pad. He carefully begins wiping the packed sand and dried blood from your shredded palm. "Should've caught you, or something."
A beat of stunned silence hangs over the kitchen, and then, despite the throbbing in your ankle, a breathless laugh escapes your throat.
Dean's eyes snap up to yours. "What's funny?"
"You! And your hero complex. Dean, it was a freak accident. Nothing more. You couldn't have done anything."
"I was covering you," He defends, his touch gentle as he moves to your other hand. "It was my job to watch your back out there."
"It was a backyard game of dogfight football, not the Stanley Cup finals," you snort, though the sound catches in your throat as the alcohol spray stings a fresh cut. "Fuck."
"Sorry," Dean immediately stops, blowing soft, cool breaths over your palm to ease the sting before continuing. Your heart does a sudden, erratic flip in your chest at the sheer intimacy of the gesture.
"You can't control the laws of physics, Di Laurentis. You can barely pass physics."
"Alright, nice to see you're feeling better, since the snark is back," He replies, letting out a long, slow breath before shifting his weight. He lowers to his knees, moving his hands down from your palms to your right ankle. His touch is incredibly careful as he slides his fingers under your heel, lifting your foot just enough to rest it gently on his thigh.
He unzips the first aid kit again, pulling out a roll of elastic bandage. As he begins to wrap it around your swelling ankle, his fingers brush against your skin.
That’s when you notice it.
His hands - the same hands that can cleanly handle a hockey stick at ninety miles an hour - are trembling. It’s a faint, barely noticeable shudder, but against your bare skin, it feels like an electric current.
"Dean," you say softly.
He doesn't look up, entirely focused on making sure the tension of the wrap is perfect. "Yeah?"
"Look at me."
It takes him a second to comply, and you reach out to cup his jaw, tilting his gaze up towards you.
"You're shaking," You whisper, thumb tracing over the soft skin of his cheek.
"Do you have any idea what that looked like?" He asks, his voice thick and strained as he stares up at you, his fingers still pressing into your thigh. "Your head hit the fucking ground. I thought... I don't know what I thought. But I felt terrified."
"I'm fine," You mumble, but he shakes his head.
"You could just have easily not been," He snaps.
"You get injured all the time at hockey," You remind softly. "This wasn't anywhere near as bad as that."
"That's different, though."
"Why?" You challenge, and he gets to his feet again, satisfied with his work. Instinctively, your legs part a little, and he settles between them.
"You know why," He sighs.
"I don't, actually," You argue.
It's like something snaps in him. "Because I'm in love with you."
The words leave his mouth fast, sharp, and impatient, delivered with the exact same bluntness he uses when he's arguing a bad call with a referee on the ice.
Then, absolute silence falls over the kitchen.
The hum of the air conditioner suddenly sounds deafeningly loud. Dean’s fingers freeze against your skin. He realises what he just said. You realise what he just said.
He immediately tries to recover, ripping his hand away from your leg as if he’s just been burned. "Forget I said that," He blurts out, voice rough. He rubs a hand aggressively over his face, shaking his head. "Just - forget it. I'm stressed. I'm running on adrenaline. Ignore me. I-I'm completely wired from the game, and seeing you go down like that - it fucked with my head. We’re good. We’re exactly how we’ve always been. Just casual. Just friends. I didn't mean to make it weird, I swear to God-"
You don’t let him finish the sentence.
Reaching out, you grab the front of his damp t-shirt and yank him forward. The sudden force catches him completely off guard, cutting his spiral off mid-word as he steps forward. Before he can even process the movement, you lean down off the counter and press your lips directly to his.
For a single second, he's agonisingly still, and you worry you've made a horrific mistake.
Then, a low groan tears from the back of his throat, and the hesitation is gone.
He takes over the kiss completely, his mouth parting yours with an urgency that makes you dizzier than the head injury. One of his hands leaves the counter to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to tilt your head back, pulling you impossibly closer until there is no air left between you. It's teeth and tongue, and soon you don't know where he starts and you end.
The world tilts. Needing more leverage, you instinctively shift your weight on the counter, attempting to wrap your legs tighter around his waist to pull him in.
A terrible move.
Another wave of pain hits you, and you cry out into Dean's mouth. He pulls back so fast your lips chase him for a desperate fraction of a second. His hands instantly snap to your waist, holding you perfectly still. "Shit, shit, m'sorry," He breathes.
"No," You gasp out, your forehead dropping against his shoulder as the white-hot throb in your ankle slowly begins to dull back down to an ache. "No, it was me. I tried to move."
"Right, that’s it," Dean grunts, much to your immediate disappointment as he officially breaks the contact. "No more excitement for the day."
Without another word, he's grabbing ice from the freezer, and scooping you up to carry you to the living room.
He drops down onto the edge of the couch right beside your hips, carefully placing the cold compress over your swollen ankle. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging as the adrenaline finally begins to leave his system.
You look at him, your hands itching to pull him back into your space. The sudden distance feels completely wrong after what just happened in the kitchen. "Can't believe you're leaving me hanging," You grumble, and he laughs, for the first time since the accident. "I thought hockey players were horny 24/7."
"I can't believe you're thinking about sex right now."
"Are you not?"
"No," He lies, entirely unconvincingly. "My priority is your well-being."
"Well, I would argue that sex makes up a considerable chunk of my well-being."
"Would you now?" Dean arches an eyebrow.
"I’m just being pragmatic," You point out, reaching over to map the broad line of his shoulders, your fingers digging into the cotton of his shirt. "My ankle only hurts when I try to move it. Which means, logistically speaking… we can keep doing what we were doing. As long as I stay completely still."
Dean stares at you for a second like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Logistically speaking?” He repeats.
“Yes.”
“You sound insane," He says, before letting out a huff of breath. “Okay. Counterargument.”
“I’m listening.”
“You are injured.”
“Minorly.”
“You almost broke your ankle.”
“Debatable.”
"You literally almost cried when we were kissing," He points out.
“Still not hearing a no, Di Laurentis.”
When he leans forward, brushing his lips against your jaw, you know you've won. "One single noise of pain, and we stop. Deal?"
You nod, smile spreading across your face. "Deal."
Hello! Can you write a Dean Di Laurentis x Reader based on the song “Heaven” by Julia Michaels? Mainly the line “all good boys go to heaven but bad boys bring heaven to you”
Dean is a bad boy and he is the first bad boy Y/N has ever dated but he also turns out to be the best boy she has ever dated, please and thank you!
Heaven in Disguise
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Reader
Word Count: 1229
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
Dean Di Laurentis had a reputation.
That was the first thing everybody said about him, and the first thing you had heard before you ever really knew him. He was the kind of guy who walked into a room like he owned it, grinned like he knew secrets nobody else did, and flirted like it was a reflex. A bad boy, people called him, with all the easy confidence and sharp edges that phrase usually came with.
So when you started dating him, you knew exactly what people expected.
They expected trouble.
They expected a mistake.
They expected Dean Di Laurentis to be fun for a while and impossible later.
What they did not expect was that he would become the safest thing in your life.
It started one evening when he picked you up outside your dorm in that expensive jacket he wore like he did not care how good he looked in it. He leaned against the car, watching you with that lazy smile of his, and when you came down the steps he said, “You look like you’re trying not to be impressed.”
You rolled your eyes. “By what?”
“Me.”
You laughed. “You’re very full of yourself.”
“Yeah,” he said, opening the passenger door for you. “But you still got in the car.”
That was Dean. Half challenge, half charm, all trouble.
Except the trouble turned out to be warm hands around your waist when you were tired. It turned out to be Dean remembering the coffee you liked without asking twice. It turned out to be him walking you home when it was late and texting you before bed just to make sure you got inside. It turned out to be the kind of attention that looked casual from the outside and felt like devotion when it was directed at you.
You learned quickly that the bad boy thing was mostly what everyone saw.
What they did not see was him noticing when you got quiet.
They did not see him asking, “You okay?” in a voice too gentle for his reputation.
They did not see him taking your hand under the table and squeezing once like he knew exactly when you needed it.
And they definitely did not see the way he looked at you when he thought nobody was watching.
One night, after a party that had gotten too loud and too crowded and too full of people making assumptions, you sat with him in the back of his car outside your apartment, the city lights reflecting in the windshield. Dean was quiet, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near your knee.
You glanced at him. “What?”
He looked over. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been staring at me for five minutes.”
Dean shrugged. “Can’t help it.”
You smiled, but there was something softer under it. “You’re weird.”
“And you’re avoiding my question.”
You looked out the window. “What question?”
“Do you want to tell me why you got so quiet in there?”
You hesitated.
Dean watched you, his expression changing immediately when he saw the pause. Not because he was pushy. Because he was paying attention.
“You don’t have to,” he said, lower now. “I’m just asking.”
You turned back toward him. “It’s stupid.”
He leaned back in his seat. “You know I hate when you say that.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s usually not stupid.”
That made your throat tighten a little.
You looked at your hands. “I just kept hearing people talk about you like you were some kind of disaster waiting to happen.”
Dean was still.
You kept going before the nerves could stop you. “And I know that’s how you seem to everyone else. I know that. But it’s not who you are to me.”
His eyes stayed on you. “Yeah?”
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
Something shifted in his face.
His voice got quieter. “What am I to you?”
You looked at him then, really looked. At the guy everyone thought they knew, at the one with the sharp grin and the expensive clothes and the attitude that made professors sigh and girls stare and guys either envy him or hate him. And somehow, sitting there in the dark with him, all that faded into the background.
“You’re the first person who made me feel like I could be completely myself,” you said. “You’re the first bad boy I ever dated.”
He smiled at that, but it was softer than the usual one. “Supposed to?”
You nodded. “I thought you’d be trouble.”
“I am trouble.”
“You were,” you corrected. “At first.”
That made him laugh, low and quiet.
Then you reached for him, resting your hand on his arm. “But you’re also the best boy I’ve ever dated.”
Dean went completely still.
It was so immediate that you worried for a second that you had embarrassed him.
Then he looked at you with an expression so open and stunned it nearly took your breath away.
“You can’t just say things like that and act normal,” he muttered.
You smiled. “Why not?”
“Because I’m trying very hard to remain cool about it.”
You laughed. “You?”
“Yes, me.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyes were still warm in a way that made your chest ache. “Best boy, huh?”
You nodded. “Absolutely.”
Dean leaned a little closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “You realize that ruins my whole image.”
“What image?”
“The dangerous, unattainable, emotionally unavailable guy.”
You gave him a deadpan look. “You mean the one who drove me home in the rain, sent me a good morning text, and remembered my favorite tea?”
He blinked. “That was strategic.”
You laughed. “Was it?”
“No.”
You smiled.
He was quiet for a second after that, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost careful. “You know I’m not good at being… normal.”
“I know.”
“I’m not always the easiest person.”
“I know that too.”
He looked at you, searching your face like he was trying to understand how somebody like you had ended up looking at him like this. “And you’re still here.”
You tilted your head. “Yeah.”
Dean let out a breath that sounded almost like relief.
Then he kissed you, slow and certain and warmer than the whole night had been. It didn’t feel like the kind of kiss people expected from Dean Di Laurentis. It felt like trust. It felt like the kind of thing that made all the bad boy rumors seem ridiculous.
When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb over your cheek and said, “You know, you’re kind of ruining me.”
You smiled, half shy and half smug. “Good.”
He laughed quietly. “You’re dangerous.”
“Am I?”
Dean’s gaze dropped to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes. “You have no idea.”
And maybe that was the truth of it.
Maybe Dean had looked like trouble from the start.
Maybe he had been trouble in every way the world could measure.
But to you, he was always something else entirely.
He was the boy with the sharp smile and the soft hands.
The one who looked like he belonged in the dark, but somehow brought light into every room he walked into with you.
Bad boys, people said, were supposed to ruin things.
Summary: You're tired of hiding your feelings, but when a guy mocks your insecurities, Garrett's brutal defense proves you're more than just friends.
Friends to Lovers / Hurt/Comfort / Angst
Warnings: not proofread yet, mentions of imposter syndrome/academic insecurity, graphic violence, swearing, Protective! Garrett
A/N: I really hope you like it! I wrote it in a rush bc I kinda feel the need to deliver, so I hope there are not so many mistakes bc English is not my first language. Anyway, starting today and until the 16th I need to lock in hard and study a whole semester worth of crazy engineering classes (mixed feelings abt engineering rn, it needs a lot of work but i kinda love it). so i will be a bit absent. all the requests will be written after the 16th. if you request something and feel like you can't wait for me, it is totally fine by me if you send the request to someone else. but i would appreciate if you give me the heads up first. Feedback is appreciated, as always! Take care of yourselves xx and lots of love 🫶🏻
Words: a lot
Requested here!
You had perfected the role of the platonic best friend over the years. You knew the layout of the perpetually messy house he shared with his teammates like the back of your hand. You were the girl who spent Thursday nights sprawled across his massive mattress, stealing slices of his bacon-and-sausage loaded pizza while he grumbled about his history assignments and the two of you debated Breaking Bad theories.
You knew the real Garrett. You knew that beneath the arrogant, untouchable exterior there was a guy who harbored a vicious resentment for the expectations his father, Phil Graham, placed on his shoulders.
And you knew exactly how to bite the inside of your cheek and look the other way when a starry-eyed puck bunny did the walk of shame down his stairs.
Garrett had made his boundaries crystal clear long ago: he didn't do relationships. Hockey was his entire life, and casual, no-strings hookups were his only speed. You were the sole exception to his rule about letting girls stick around, but only because you were safely, immovably boxed into the friend category.
Tonight, however, the walls of that box felt like they were shrinking.
The hockey house was currently vibrating with the force of way too many drunk college students, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and cheap cologne. You had retreated to the kitchen for a momentary breather, hoisting yourself onto the counter next to the sink.
"Here you go, darlin'." Tucker slid a freshly poured red plastic cup into your hand. He leaned against the counter beside you, watching the chaos of the living room with an amused smirk. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
"I love being shoved into drywall by sweaty frat boys," you replied dryly, taking a sip. "It's my favorite Saturday night activity."
"Hey, Y/N/N," Dean drawled as he wandered into the kitchen. His green eyes scanning the room before locking onto a blonde hovering near the fridge. Dean was an unapologetic slut, and he treated the house like his own personal playground. He shot you a lazy, devastating wink before zeroing in on his target. "Looking good. Try not to let G scare off every guy in a ten-foot radius tonight."
You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your stomach tightened. Dean wasn't wrong.
Speak of the devil.
Garrett pushed through the swinging kitchen door a second later, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path through the throng of bodies. He was nursing a single Bud Light, strictly adhering to his self-imposed, one-drink limit for the hockey season.
He crossed the room and planted himself right between your knees, boxing you in against the counter. He smelled like his familiar, woodsy aftershave, and the sheer heat radiating off his large frame made your pulse betray you.
"I still don't get why you're insisting on mingling downstairs," Garrett muttered, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "We could be upstairs watching season two right now."
"I wanted to be social," you sighed, trying to ignore how naturally his hand rested on the denim of your thigh. "And I actually wanted to talk to some people tonight."
"Talk to who? That pretentious guy from your psych seminar?" Garrett scoffed, his jaw ticking. "I’m telling you, Y/N, the guy is a walking disaster. I saw him in the quad yesterday and he looks like he showers in liquid arrogance."
"His name is Harry, and he asked me to come find him tonight," you snapped, exhaustion seeping into your bones. "And for the record, you said the exact same bullshit about the last three guys I tried to date."
"Because they were all walking red flags!" Garrett argued.
It was an exhausting, toxic cycle. He didn't want you, but the second you tried to scrape together a dating life of your own, his fiercely protective streak mutated into full-blown sabotage. He actively blocked every attempt you made at moving on, hovering like a giant, muscle-bound guard dog while offering you absolutely nothing but friendship in return.
"Stop fucking hovering, Garrett," you fired back. You hopped off the counter, forcing him to take a step back to avoid a collision. "I'm going to go find Harry. Alone."
You didn't wait for his response, pushing your way out of the kitchen and into the sweaty bodies to escape the heavy weight of his stare. You just wanted five minutes to breathe, five minutes to pretend your chest didn't ache every time he touched you.
But as you stepped into the living room, your night was about to collide with a very different kind of disaster.
You scanned the room, looking for Harry. You had met him in your advanced literature seminar, and he was exactly the kind of guy you should be focusing on—smart, ambitious, and completely disconnected from the hockey ecosystem. He was supposed to be the guy who finally helped you pry Garrett Graham out of your heart.
You finally spotted him near the makeshift beer pong table set up over the dining room table. He was holding a plastic cup, laughing with two guys you recognized from the honors program.
You took a breath, pasting on a smile, and started to weave your way toward him. But as you closed the distance, the loud thump of the music dipped between songs, and Harry's voice carried over the ambient noise of the crowd.
"...yeah, I told her to come find me tonight," Harry was saying, taking a casual sip of his beer.
"Isn't she in your advanced lit seminar?" one of the other guys asked with a laugh. "I heard that class is brutal."
Harry scoffed, a cruel, dismissive sound that made you freeze in your tracks. "It is, and she is completely drowning in it. Honestly, it's painful to watch her try to keep up with the rest of us. I basically had to explain the entire reading list to her on Tuesday."
"So why'd you tell her to meet you?"
"Are you blind? Look at her," Harry chuckled, a slick, arrogant sound. "She's hot. And she's so desperate for help with her midterm, it’s basically a guaranteed hookup. All I have to do is pretend her thesis isn't completely pathetic, tutor her a little, and she'll be all over me. It's almost too easy."
The words hit you with the force of a physical blow.
Your lungs seized. A hot, suffocating wave of humiliation crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. It was your darkest, most deeply buried imposter syndrome dragged out into the open and weaponized. You spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over your writing, terrified you weren't smart enough to be at Briar, and Harry had seen that vulnerability and decided to use it as leverage to get you into bed.
Tears prickled the back of your eyes, hot and sharp. A strangled breath escaped your throat, and before Harry or his friends could turn around and see you standing there, you spun on your heel and bolted.
You veered into the hallway leading to the front door, moving so fast you didn't even see the two silhouettes pressed against the wall until you collided hard with a solid back.
"Whoa, hey—" a familiar voice muttered.
You blinked the tears away just enough to realize you had crashed right into Dean, who was in the middle of hooking up with the blonde from the kitchen. Because of course he was. Dean had a notorious habit of hooking up everywhere but his bedroom.
"I'm so sorry," you choked out, your voice cracking pathetically.
Dean pulled back from the girl, his light-green eyes widening as he registered the tears spilling over your lashes. "Y/N/N? Hey, what's wrong? Wait—"
"I'm fine, sorry," you gasped out, pushing past him and shoving the heavy front door open.
The crisp October air hit you like a bucket of ice water, but it didn't numb the stinging humiliation. You stumbled down the porch steps and pulled your phone out of your pocket with shaking hands, swiping furiously at your screen to pull up the number for the campus taxi service.
Before it even began to ring, the front door burst open behind you.
"Y/N!"
Garrett’s voice was sharp with panic. He marched down the porch steps, his heavy black boots thudding against the wood. He grabbed your elbow, spinning you around to face him.
"Dean said you ran out of here crying. What the hell—" Garrett froze, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat as he took in your wet cheeks and trembling bottom lip.
The annoyance that usually shadowed his features when you fought was instantly wiped away, replaced by a raw, terrifying protectiveness. His large hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs gently brushing the tears from your skin.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Did he touch you?"
You shook your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut because looking at him only made the shame burn hotter.
"Nothing," you choked out, pulling out of his grip. You wrapped your arms around yourself, fighting a losing battle against your own tears. "I'm not telling you what happened just so you can give me the whole 'I told you so' speech. You were right about him, okay? Can we just leave it at that?"
Garrett stared at you for one long, suffocating second. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, putting two and two together. The silence that stretched between you was terrifying. His eyes darkened to the color of a storm, and the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.
He just turned on his heel and stalked back up the porch steps.
"Garrett!" Panic seized your chest. "Garrett, no!"
You scrambled up the steps, chasing him through the front door, but he was moving with the blinding, aggressive speed he usually saved for the ice.
"Garrett!" You yelled his name, pushing past confused partygoers, but he was an unstoppable force. "Garrett, stop!"
He found Harry exactly where you had left him, still leaning against the beer pong table.
Garrett grabbed the back of Harry's shirt, spun him around, and swung.
His fist connected with Harry's face with a sickening, bone-jarring crack. The guy didn't even have time to scream before Garrett hit him again, the sheer force of it lifting Harry off his feet and sending him crashing backward into the beer pong table. Red plastic cups and cheap beer went flying in every direction as the table buckled beneath them.
The crowd erupted into shrieks, scattering backward to form a wide circle.
Harry hit the floor, groaning, but Garrett wasn't finished. He dropped to his knees, grabbing Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling his fist back to deliver another devastating blow.
"Garrett, stop!" you screamed, finally breaking through the circle of onlookers.
You lunged at him, grabbing his thick bicep and trying to haul him backward. But he was two hundred pounds of pure, sculpted muscle fueled by blind rage. You couldn't even budge him. Your fingernails dug into his arm, but he didn't even flinch.
"Graham, enough!"
Suddenly, Logan and Tucker burst through the crowd. Logan, a bruiser of a defenseman, wrapped his massive arms around Garrett's chest from behind, hauling him backward. Tucker grabbed Garrett’s other arm, digging his heels into the sticky floor to help drag their captain away from the bleeding guy on the floor.
"Get the fuck off me!" Garrett roared, thrashing against his teammates, his chest heaving wildly.
"Cool it, man!" Logan shouted, straining to hold him back.
You planted yourself right in Garrett's line of sight, placing both your hands flat against his chest. His heart was hammering violently against your palms.
"G. Look at me," you commanded, your voice shaking.
His wild, silver eyes finally locked onto yours. The lethal fury in his gaze flickered, the fight slowly draining out of his posture as he registered the sheer panic on your face. He stopped fighting Logan and Tucker, his heavy, ragged breathing filling the tense silence of the room. His knuckles were already turning a vicious shade of purple.
"We are going upstairs," you said, your tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Now."
You didn't wait for him to agree. You grabbed his wrist and turned, dragging him away from the wreckage, up the narrow staircase, and straight into his master bedroom.
You slammed the door shut, leaning your back against the heavy wood as if it could keep the rest of the world out. The chaotic bass of the party was instantly muted, leaving only the sound of Garrett’s ragged, heavy breathing.
He stood in the center of the room, staring blindly at his split knuckles. The skin was already swelling and bleeding, identical to the brutal bruises he brought home after playing dirty teams like St. Anthony's.
"Are you insane?" you choked out. Your voice trembled, the adrenaline crash finally hitting you and leaving you hollowed out. "You could get suspended for that! Coach Jensen will bench you, Garrett!"
"I don't give a fuck about Coach Jensen right now," he snarled, spinning around to face you. His gray eyes were stormy, flashing with a volatile, untamed fury. "He was using you, Y/N. He was standing there laughing with his buddies about manipulating you."
"And you think I don't know that?" Your voice broke. "You think I didn't hear him? God, G, you didn't have to throw a punch to prove how pathetic I am. I already knew!"
Garrett flinched as if you'd struck him. "What are you talking about? You aren't pathetic."
"I am!" you yelled, pushing off the door. The humiliation from downstairs was a living, breathing thing inside your chest. "I'm the idiot who thought a guy actually liked me for me. I'm the idiot who's failing her seminar, who trails after you like a lapdog, exactly like he said! And you charging in there to fight my battles like I'm incapable of defending myself only proved him right!"
"He's a piece of shit who felt threatened by you," Garrett argued, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "He knows you're brilliant."
"Stop it!" You shoved both hands against his solid chest, trying to push him away, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "Stop pitying me! I can handle the fact that you don't want me. I can handle sitting on the sidelines watching you bring home a different girl every weekend. But I cannot handle you treating me like some fragile charity case you have to protect!"
Garrett didn't move. He absorbed your shove, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin.
"Pity?" he repeated, the word tearing out of him in a harsh, jagged exhale. "You think I pity you?"
"Garrett—"
"You think I sit up at night, listening to you talk about other guys, watching you dress up for dates with assholes who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you, out of pity?" He grabbed your wrists—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to pull your hands off his chest so he could step directly into your space.
His heat surrounded you, smelling of sweat, adrenaline, and his familiar woodsy aftershave.
"I don't defend you because I pity you, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate rasp. "I do it because I am completely, out of my fucking mind for you."
The air vanished from the room.
You stared up at him, your heart slamming violently against your ribs. "What?"
Garrett released your wrists, bringing his hands up to cup your face. His thumbs gently swept over your wet cheeks, his bruised knuckles resting warm and rough against your skin. The arrogance and swagger he wore like armor were completely gone, leaving behind a raw, agonizing vulnerability.
"I have been in love with you for years," he confessed, the words pouring out of him like a dam breaking. "I told everyone I didn't want a girlfriend because the only girl I wanted was my best friend, and I was too terrified of ruining it. So I kept my mouth shut. I watched you look for someone else, and it tore me apart."
"Garrett," you breathed, a fresh tear slipping down your face.
"You are the smartest, most beautiful person I know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips with heavy, agonizing intent. "And if you want me to back off, I will. I'll walk away right now. But don't you ever, ever think I pity you."
Your brain was short-circuiting. The secret you had buried so deep, the ache you had carried for years, was suddenly reflected right back at you in his intense gray eyes.
"You're the biggest idiot on this entire campus," you whispered, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping your throat.
He froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "Y/N—"
"I've been in love with you since high school," you interrupted, sliding your hands up his chest to tangle in his short dark hair.
Garrett’s breath hitched audibly. "Are you serious?"
"You really think I hung around all this time just for the free pizza and your terrible taste in TV?" you asked, a blinding smile breaking through your tears.
A slow, devastating smirk spread across his lips, the dimples you loved so much finally making an appearance. "Well, damn," he breathed.
The hesitation vanished. Garrett’s hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against his body. He crashed his mouth down on yours, and it was a messy, desperate collision of everything you had both held back for years.
He kissed you like he was starving. His lips were demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a hungry, possessive heat that sent a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine. Your fingers gripped his hair, anchoring him to you as he backed you up against the door, his large frame pressing you into the wood.
When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, his forehead resting heavily against yours.
"So," Garrett murmured, his thumb stroking your hip. "I guess this means I don't have to share you anymore."
You laughed, pulling his mouth back down to yours. "No, G. You definitely don't."
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ jealousy + insecurity, ex mentions, crying (both), drunkenness/intox, miscommunication, possessive!dean, pet names (princess, baby, angel, baby doll + no y/n), angst with comfort, party setting + language
“There you are, princess.”
You smile before you can stop yourself as Dean presses a rough kiss against your cheek, his body sliding in behind you, big and warm against your back while the crowd moves around both of you.
“Havin’ fun?” He asks, mouth brushing your neck while his hands settle on your hips.
“Mhmm,” you giggle.
“You drunk, baby doll?”
“Mhmm…”
His laugh rumbles against your skin. “Yeah? Are you askin’ me or tellin’ me?”
You laugh harder at that, turning your head slightly when he nudges his nose against your cheek. Dean catches your mouth, kissing you deep and slow before pulling back with a grin still spread against your lips.
“You wanna dance?”
“Okay,” you say, and the second that word leaves your lips he’s pulling you away.
The dance floor is packed by the time the two of you push your way into the middle of it. Bodies crowd tight around you beneath flashing lights, Dean’s hand tightening on your waist, pulling you against him.
The two of you start dancing, your body moving easily with his while the crowd shifts around you.
“You look so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles, low and deep against your ear, making you press into him a little more.
His hands hold your hips again, turning you and pulling you close, your arms wrapping loosely around his neck while a smirk tugs at his lips and his hands move lower.
The chain around his neck glints beneath the lights as he dips in, pulling you closer by the small of your back, his lips on yours, sending a wave of warmth rushing through you.
A smile breaks across his lips as the music changes—something slower—putting you right where he wants you. Your back hits his chest, breath catching in your throat.
His hands wrap around your body, his face tucked so close you can feel every warm breath, the two of you grinding slower now.
Your eyes flutter open and a wave of unease rushes over you as you lock eyes with a few people you recognize from the rink. The second you catch them staring, they look away, one of them muttering something into his red SOLO cup while the other nods in agreement.
Dean starts singing along to the music, his deep voice vibrating against your neck. You focus on that, the corners of your lips trembling as they pull into a smile you wish wasn’t so weak.
You try to let yourself fall back into him, focusing on the heat of his body and the smell of his cologne. His hands drag you closer, but it doesn’t stop the unease this time. When you open your eyes again, the insecurity hits harder.
Wellsy… She gives you a small smile, tight around the edges just like yours.
You close your eyes again before the doubt can settle too deep, Dean’s head tucking back into your neck. His lips move slow against your skin beneath the pounding music, his grip firming on your waist instinctively.
He turns you around again, one hand sliding over your waist while the other curls loosely around your throat, pulling you back against him before kissing you so deep your thoughts scatter for a second.
His mouth moves against yours, slow and messy, warm from beer. Dean kisses like he gets distracted by it—like he forgets there are people around once he gets ahold of you.
Your fingers tighten in the front of his shirt, as a lump forms in your throat, your breathing tightening in your chest as the thoughts come rushing in.
Maybe if she called, it would be over.
What if he wishes he were kissing her instead?
What if he wishes you were someone else?
“Dean,” you whisper softly, your voice breaking against his lips.
“Angel,” he murmurs, kissing you again.
You swallow hard, collecting yourself for a moment. “Do you wanna go upstairs?”
Dean grins so boyishly it makes the hurt worse.
He grabs your hand, pulling you through the crowd so fast you barely have time to keep up with him. He drags you through the packed house, still glancing back at you with that stupid excited smile.
And when you reach the steps he hooks an arm underneath your thighs and lifts you clean off the floor, starting up the stairs with you. A startled laugh slips out of you, but he swallows it, not catching the way it waivers on his lips.
Your fingers slide into his messy blond hair as he carries you farther upstairs. You close your eyes tighter, stomach sinking as you become all too aware of the sting building behind your eyes—tears balancing dangerously along your lashes.
You’ve felt weird all day. Ever since this morning when you opened Instagram and saw Dean’s name underneath one of Allie’s posts.
One stupid comment. Congratulations!
That was it. Nothing flirty. Nothing inappropriate.
Nothing that should latch on and refuse to let go, but it does.
Allie was standing on some giant stage in New York smiling beneath bright lights while thousands of people flooded the comments underneath her post and somewhere in between all of them was Dean.
And now, those weird looks and whispered conversations downstairs suddenly feel loaded. Every glance feels like the people around you know something’s going to happen, and you don’t, and they don’t want to miss the chance to see when he finally finds his person again.
Like you’re temporary.
Just the girl standing in the middle of whatever unfinished thing still exists between Dean and the girl everybody thought he’d end up with.
Dean shoves the bedroom door open, and kicks it shut, the bass downstairs making the pictures in his room rattle against the wall, the hum of the party seeping through the bottom of the door.
You reach for the ties of your top, trying to pull yourself together as he tears the t-shirt over his head, the both of you stripping between messy kisses before he’s dragging you down onto the mattress with him.
You crawl toward him slowly, knees sinking into the comforter while Dean watches. “Fuck, baby…” He lies down on the bed, guiding you on top of him as he brushes his hair off his face, biceps flexing with it. “Been waiting for this all day.”
Those six words heal something in you for a moment. Inching you back to that place you had been before you woke up this morning.
He reaches his arm up, hooking his hand around the back of your neck, lowering you toward his lips. “I love you—”
“Allie?”
You blink down at Dean once, thinking you heard him wrong, but it sounded like he said her name. Dean’s head snaps toward the door—all the color draining out of his face.
A person from behind the door tries again. “Allie, Dean? You in there?”
Dean goes completely stiff beneath you. “No—” The word flies out of him. “No, dude, what?”
Your stomach drops so hard it makes you sick.
Dean’s already trying to recover before you can even think straight.
“You need something?” He calls quickly, voice tighter now.
“Just wanted to say ‘hi’, man. Sorry.”
You shove off him, knee catching in the comforter as you stumble toward your discarded clothes on the floor, heart shattering so hard it aches.
“Hey—hey.” Dean catches your wrist, fingers wrapping around you fast enough to stop you mid-step. “Baby.”
“Let me go,” you whimper, and he does, his hands drawing back but he follows after you anyway as you struggle back into your clothes.
“What—what’s goin’ on?” He asks breathlessly. “I’m sorry about the Allie thing, alright? I’m sorry, baby.”
The room around you swims with the tears waiting to fall from your eyes, trying not to blink because you know once they fall there’s no stopping them. But you break anyway.
“That’s just Cooper,” Dean says quickly, words starting to trip over each other now. “I haven’t seen him in forever, he just—he’s fuckin’ dumb, alright?” He laughs nervously, but there's nothing funny about it and he can feel that.
Your fingers shake so badly fumbling with the zipper of your jeans it takes three tries to get it up.
“Baby, c’mon.” Dean’s voice whispers over your shoulder, his big hand coming down to rest on your hip. “Just talk to me.”
You lift the sleeve of your top, brushing away your emotion. You can feel him staring at you now, looking over your shoulder, but he can't see enough—not yet.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, turning you toward him, hands gripping your arms. “Baby—hey, hey.” His blue eyes search your face desperately. “No, no, no. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
You try to look away from him, but Dean pulls you into his chest before you can, his arms wrapping around you tight. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other pressed against your back, trembling with adrenaline.
“Baby,” he says again, softer now. You can feel his heartbeat pounding underneath your cheek, suddenly sober, that loose buzz he’d been feeling downstairs long gone.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, big hands cupping your face while his thumbs swipe beneath your eyes trying to catch the tears.
“Baby… I—That. That can’t just be because of that, right?” He asks, voice stumbling over itself now. “I mean—yeah, okay, wait. That—that was insensitive as fuck…” His brows pull together harder the longer he looks at you. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Your lip trembles, and Dean’s entire expression shifts, his thumb brushing along it too like he's trying to stop that from happening. The panic on his face gets worse, blue eyes moving frantically over your face, trying to figure out how this got so bad.
“Talk to me,” he whispers but you bite your lips instead to keep from crying, complete whiplash from the girl laughing and wrapped around him downstairs twenty minutes ago—but you were putting on an act for the both of you.
Allie’s name breathing into the room at the same time that Dean was telling he loves you was just it… the breaking point. The moment you couldn't keep up with the lie that you were okay, because you're not.
His hands tremble as he holds your cheeks, leaning in to kiss you, gentler than he ever has, like he thinks he can soothe this out of you if he’s soft enough.
He draws back a little, the air between you tight and heavy, as you whisper.
“You’re not over her, are you?”
“What?” He asks, not angry or defensive, just hurt. “Allie? I am. I promise you, I am.”
“I don’t think you are,” you whisper. “Or…” Your voice cracks a little and you look away from him, embarrassed the second more tears start slipping loose. “Maybe you are, I don’t know.” You laugh, but it sounds miserable. “I just—”
“Talk to me,” he says quickly, following your face when you turn away, trying to catch your eyes again. One of his hands slides down your arm, rubbing nervously while he watches you unravel. “Please.”
You stare down at the floor for a second before finally whispering, “I saw the comment… On her post,” you continue quietly. “It sounds so stupid out loud. Oh my god,” you sigh heavily, burying your face in your hand.
“It doesn’t—”
“And, people…” You swallow hard, trying to get the words out confidently but they sound so small. “I know they were talking about us downstairs.” Your throat tightens harder.
His brows pinch in confusion, stepping a little closer. “What people?”
You shrug defeatedly, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s so stupid,” you whisper.
“It’s not,” he stops you from brushing it off as his hand slides down your arm, fingers threading through yours. “Seriously, who?”
“People expect you to be with her.” Your eyes finally lift back to his. “They do, Dean.” You wipe a few tears away, watching your hand tremble out of the corner of your eye. “I mean, she’s Allie. She’s beautiful and everybody loves her—”
Dean’s face softens. “Hey,” he says quietly.
“I just feel like—” Your throat tightens before you swallow. “I don’t know. Like maybe I’m just the girl in the middle of all that.”
He looks down at you, his lips pulled tight, the pink flush in his cheeks deepening, blue eyes shimmering now with tears of his own.
“Allie is a good person,” he says honestly. “She is.” He squeezes your hand in his. “She’s funny and she’s kind… I cared about her for a long time.”
Your stomach sinks hearing those words leave his lips. His forehead presses against yours, breathing deeply with you.
“But she’s not you.” His voice comes out low and certain this time. “She’s not the girl I’ve been thinking about nonstop for months. She’s not the first thing I think about when I wake up or the last person I talk to when I go to bed at night.”
He steps a little closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. Dean blinks and a tear rolls down his cheek. You reach up, cupping your hand against his face, brushing it away and he leans into it, looking down at you.
He grabs your hand, kissing your palm, then your wrist, guiding you to wrap your arms around his neck.
“She’s not the girl I dragged upstairs tonight because I couldn’t stop looking at her downstairs,” he continues, his voice gentle and broken. “And she’s definitely not the girl making me panic because she thinks I want somebody else.”
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding your head.
“It ended. We both knew it was ending before it actually did. I moved on,” he says softly. “And then I met you. Not the other way around. I swear.”
You nod up at him, feeling guilty for even bringing it up in the first place, maybe because he’s making you feel the opposite of what any guilty person would make you feel. There’s no defensiveness. No twisting it back on you. Just honesty.
“I just…” Your voice breaks, fingers twisting weakly in the front of his shirt again. “I don’t want to be the placeholder. The girl that’s here until you get your girl back.”
“Holy shit,” the words trip out fast. “How can you think that?” You can hear the hurt in his voice now as he buries himself in your neck. His breath comes out shaky as a few warm tears fall on your shoulder, seeping through your shirt. “You’re perfect,” he mumbles against your skin. “You’re mine.”
Your fingers slide in his hair, holding him closer and he exhales.
“I hate seeing you cry,” he whispers.
“I hate seeing you cry too. I’m sorry,” you answer, your voice just above a whisper.
“Please believe me, alright?” Dean asks as he pulls back and matches your gaze.
“I believe you. I do.”
“I’m sorry, baby. I should’ve caught this sooner.”
“You’re okay,” you whisper.
He inhales sharply through his nose, an anxious laugh slipping through his lips with your own. You rub the little rivers of wet off the apples of his cheeks, embarrassment crawling warm up your neck now after seeing his reaction.
“If it helps,” he says softly, “everybody downstairs already knows I’m crazy about you. I’m serious.”
“I’m crazy about you too.”
“I am obsessed with you.”
“Stop,” you laugh weakly, rolling your eyes while he bends suddenly, lifting you again.
“I mean it,” he mumbles as he nuzzles into your neck before dragging back. “You gotta promise me something, though.”
You look back at him and nod.
“You gotta promise me you’re not gonna sit in your head thinking shit like that by yourself. Because I swear to god, baby, I’m gonna prove to you that I got you. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I promise—”
“I can’t lose you,” he pushes out before you can even finish.
“You won’t,” you whisper softly.
“Me and you,” he says quietly.
“Me and you.”
dividers @uzmacchiato
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summary: your daughter says one word and it sends garrett spiralling.
—
Playoffs are starting. The team is running him into the ground. He’s surviving on caffeine and four hours of sleep and somehow your four-year-old daughter has chosen this exact week to become physically incapable of listening.
Tonight she refuses to get in the car after preschool.
“No.”
“Bug, c’mon.”
“No.”
Garrett keeps his patience for ten full minutes.
While she wriggles away from him in the parking lot laughing because to her this is a game.
Until she darts too close to moving traffic.
That’s what does it.
Fear.
Pure instant fear.
Garrett grabs her arm quickly and pulls her back toward him harder than he means to.
“Enough!”
Loud enough that she startles immediately.
Her little face crumples. And then she says the sentence that completely destroys him.
“You scared me.”
Tiny voice and watery eyes.
Garrett goes white. Actually white.
Like all the blood drains from his body at once.
His grip on her arm disappears instantly.
“Oh my God.”
Your daughter looks confused now more than anything because she already regrets saying it. “Daddy…”
“I scared you?”
The crack in his voice is horrible.
You step in immediately, crouching beside your daughter. “Hey, baby, Daddy was scared because you ran near the cars.”
But Garrett can barely hear you. Because all he can hear is his own childhood. All he can hear is every moment he was ever afraid of his father.
And now his little girl just said those same words to him.
Your daughter reaches for him instinctively because despite everything, Garrett is still her safe place.
But he hesitates before touching her.
Like he suddenly doesn’t trust himself.
“Garrett,” you say softly.
He blinks hard and immediately picks her up, holding her so carefully it’s almost painful to watch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over into her hair. “I’m sorry, bug. Daddy’s sorry.”
She’s already over it. Literally already over it.
By the time you get home she’s asking for snacks and showing Garrett a rock she found in the playground like the last twenty minutes never happened.
At dinner your daughter climbs into his lap like always.
Garrett barely eats.
At bath time she splashes him until he’s soaked and giggling despite himself.
The second she’s asleep, the smile disappears.
You find him sitting alone in the dark living room staring at nothing.
“Hey.”
Garrett rubs a hand over his face. “I scared her.”
“You startled her.”
“She said she was scared.”
“She’s four.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
You sit beside him carefully. “She ran toward traffic.”
“I grabbed her too hard.”
“You kept her safe.”
His jaw tightens hard enough to hurt. “That’s exactly what my dad used to say.”
Silence.
Your heart breaks instantly.
“Garrett…”
“He always had a reason too.” Garrett laughs bitterly, eyes glassy now. “Always some explanation for why he lost his temper.”
“You did not lose your temper.”
“I saw her face.”
His voice cracks completely on the words.
“She looked scared of me.”
You take his hand immediately. “Baby, she cried because you startled her. Five minutes later she was asking if you’d cut her toast into stars tomorrow.”
But Garrett shakes his head.
“You know what the worst part is?” he whispers. “When she reached for me afterward, I almost didn’t pick her up.”
Your chest tightens. “Why?”
“Because for a second I thought maybe she shouldn’t trust me.”
There it is: The real wound.
That Garrett genuinely believes one mistake could make him unsafe forever.
You move closer instantly, cupping his face.
“She ran to you anyway.”
His eyes close.
“She loves you, Garrett.”
“But what if one day she doesn’t?”
“She will.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” you say softly. “But I can promise that bad fathers don’t sit in dark living rooms crying because their kid got startled.”
Garrett’s breathing turns uneven.
Then quietly, so quietly it nearly breaks you, he says: “I would rather she break my heart a thousand times than ever fear me again.”
For three days Garrett second-guesses everything he does.
Every tone.
Every correction.
Every single interaction with her.
The way he hesitates before telling her no now. The way he looks at you after every tiny moment of discipline like he’s checking whether he handled it wrong. The way he physically flinches when she startles too fast around him even if it has nothing to do with him.
It’s breaking your heart.
Because your daughter forgot the parking lot incident approximately eleven minutes after it happened.
“Bug, careful with your juice,” he says one morning.
She nearly tips the cup anyway and Garrett instinctively reaches to steady it.
Immediately his hand drops back, like he’s afraid to grab too suddenly.
Your chest aches.
Later that afternoon she’s running through the backyard while Garrett watches her with this constant nervousness sitting behind his eyes.
You walk up beside him quietly. “She’s okay.”
But his gaze never leaves her.
“I keep thinking about her face,” he admits after a long silence. “When she said I scared her.”
“She was startled.”
“She was afraid.”
“For one second.”
Garrett swallows hard. “One second is enough.”
You don’t know how to explain to him that loving parents accidentally scare their kids sometimes. That toddlers cry when voices get sharp or emotions get big because they’re tiny humans still learning the world.
But Garrett doesn’t hear normal parenting mistakes.
He hears echoes.
That night he’s quieter than usual during bedtime.
Still loving. Still sweet to his girl but careful.
Your daughter notices it too.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, bug?”
“Why you sad?”
Garrett immediately forces a smile. “I’m not sad.”
“You got sad eyes.”
God.
You have to look away for a second because she is so observant it’s terrifying.
Garrett brushes her hair back gently. “Just tired, baby.”
She accepts that answer easily because she’s four and currently more concerned about whether her teddy also needs pajamas.
Eventually she falls asleep between you both reading stories.
Garrett lingers by her bed longer than usual after you carry her to her room.
You watch him stand there in the soft glow of her nightlight with this awful guilt still weighing down his shoulders.
“She adores you,” you whisper after he finally closes the door.
He nods faintly.
But he still doesn’t fully believe he deserves it.
You wake to tiny sobs echoing down the hallway.
Before you can even sit up, Garrett is already moving.
You hear him open her bedroom door.
“Bug?”
More crying.
Then “Daddy!”
Pure panic.
Garrett’s heart visibly shatters.
You follow more slowly, pausing in the doorway.
Your daughter is sitting upright in bed, cheeks wet with tears, arms already reaching for him.
Garrett crosses the room in two seconds flat.
“I got you,” he says immediately, scooping her into his arms. “Hey, hey, what happened?”
“Bad dream,” she cries into his neck.
Garrett sits in the rocking chair holding her close, one hand rubbing up and down her back automatically.
“You’re okay.”
“There was monster.”
“No monsters here, baby.”
She clings tighter.
Garrett kisses her hair over and over. “Daddy’s got you.”
Your daughter’s breathing slowly starts evening out.
Tiny hiccuping sniffles against Garrett’s chest.
And then, half asleep already, she curls impossibly closer into him and mumbles “I safe now.”
Silence.
You physically see the words hit him.
Garrett goes completely still.
One hand comes up to cover his mouth for a second like he just got punched in the chest.
Your daughter doesn’t notice.
She’s already drifting back to sleep tucked against him.
But Garrett’s eyes immediately fill with tears.
That’s the answer to every fear that’s been eating him alive all week.
Her instinct, even after all his fears, is still to run toward him.
To feel safest in his arms.
“You hear that?” you whisper softly from the doorway.
He nods once.
Can’t speak.
Your daughter sighs sleepily against his chest, completely relaxed now.
Safe.
Garrett presses a kiss to the top of her head and finally, finally lets himself hold her without fear.
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