Saw someone say they think the person in the foreground of this shot is Steve and if it is it makes the poses and expressions on Sam + Bucky's faces so much funnier.
summary - you surprise Garrett after studying abroad for a year
pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader
word count - +2.3k
a/n - lowkey love this duo enough to continue with either a summer series for them or a mom&dad type series!! lmk what you think!
For an off campus party, Garrett Graham seemed pretty miserable.
The party was small and contained. Only close friends of the guys had been invited to celebrate the start of summer. No more exams or schoolwork. Just sun, sand and sex.
Everyone had gathered in the back garden, just outside the house on the decking. Tucker was manning the grill, with Logan supervising. Dean and Allie were attempting to play a game of badminton, but were mostly just arguing. A couple other hockey guys were sitting around chatting, with Grace and Sabrina nearby. And it was Hannah who noticed Garrett sat by himself not taking part in anything.
“You okay?” Hannah asked and sat down on a chair opposite Garrett.
“Yeah.” Garrett gave a fake smile.
“Convincing.” Hannah joked, “What’s up?”
Garrett had become close enough with Hannah to know she wouldn’t take the piss out of him. He was glad that Allie kept bringing her around, because she was one of Garrett’s closest friends now.
Garrett held up his phone briefly, “My, uh, girlfriend hasn’t texted me since yesterday and I’m just a bit worried.” Garrett frowned, looking from Hannah down to his notificationless phone.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Garrett’s smile went wide.
He noted the shocked expression on Hannah’s face.
Garrett rarely told people about you - not because he wanted to keep you a secret, but because he was just terrible at opening up to people about things like that. You were always encouraging him to be braver with his feelings.
“Since when?” Hannah leaned forwards with interest.
“Coming up to three years now.”
“I’m sorry… You’ve had a girlfriend for three years and I’m only just finding out now?”
“Well I didn’t know you three years ago, Wellsy.” Garrett countered.
Hannah let it slide. “Okay, whatever. Tell me everything about her.”
When someone did finally know of your existence, that was one of Garrett’s favourite things to be asked. He could talk about you for hours, days, forever. He was a healthy amount obsessed with you.
Before Garrett could delve into the 101 reasons why you were his favourite person, Dean had to ruin the moment.
“Jheez, Wellsy, are you a witch? How’d you make G smile?” Dean patted Hannah on the back as he came over with Allie in tow. No doubt their game of badminton had gotten too argumentative to continue safely.
“I was just asking Garrett about…” Hannah cut herself short, realising that she didn’t even know your name.
“Y/N.” Garrett added for her.
Dean clicked his tongue and sighed like a man in love. “Ah, mom and dad.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Hannah laughed, looking between Garrett, Dean and Allie for some explanation.
Allie sat on the arm of the chair that Hannah was sitting on, wrapping her arm around her best friend's shoulder. Dean sat on the same bench that Garrett was sitting on.
“Mom and dad.” Allie repeated, “Y/N and Garrett got the label because they are genuinely like the mom and dad of this group.”
“They’re always keeping us in check. They do the shopping for the house. Y/N actually cleans this place, God knows why. They’re just so mom and dad.”
“She sounds great.” Hannah smiled.
“She is.” Allie nodded.
“Agreed.” Dean added.
Garrett just sat there, quietly smiling to himself as he listened to some of the most important people in his life gush over the most important person.
“So how come I’ve never met her?” Hannah asked.
“She’s spent the last year studying abroad.” Garrett said, frowning again when he realised that this whole conversation had started because he couldn’t get in contact with you.
“That’s so cool. Where abouts?”
“Uh, London– Sorry, I’m just going to–.”
Garrett got up and headed back inside, continuing to stare at his phone like it was personally wronging him.
Allie got up off the end of Hannah’s chair and moved to sit down next to Dean - who immediately pulled her close to his side. Hannah was so happy for her best friend finally being with someone who actually cared for her.
They smiled without looking at each other.
“What?” Hannah asked, wondering what was going on.
“Can you keep a secret, Wellsy, ‘cause we sure can’t.”
“Yeah.”
Dean leaned forwards, double checking the back entrance to the house to make sure that Garrett wasn’t loitering close by. Hannah leaned forwards too.
“Y/N’s surprising Garrett. That’s why he hasn’t heard from her, because fuck knows she’d ruin the surprise if she opened her mouth.”
Hannah’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.
“When? Today?”
Allie checked her phone.
“Like, literally any minute.”
Hannah tried to control her excited smile as she leant back in her chair. Dean moved back too, raising his eyebrows to Hannah as if to silently say ‘don’t say a word’.
Logan and Tucker came over minutes later, saying the grill was all prepped and the food was ready to be cooked whenever everyone was ready. They were also in on the secret surprise, so were holding off on cooking until you arrived.
Sabrina and Grace, along with a couple of other hockey guys, had also joined the group so everyone was sitting together, when Allie’s phone pinged.
She opened the notification to see you’d texted to say you were outside.
Allie widened her eyes at the group, all of them visibly lighting up with excitement.
“Where’s G?” Logan asked.
“He went inside before.” Dean said.
“I think he was going to try and contact Y/N again.” Hannah added with a sad pout. She felt for the guy - especially when he had no clue that he was about to see you in a couple of minutes.
Allie stood up, telling everyone that she was going to go and get you. Everyone was in agreement that you should go and see Garrett first, so Tucker and Logan returned to the grill to start cooking in the meantime.
Allie wandered through the house, with no sign of Garrett anywhere.
She opened the front door quietly and silently screamed when she saw you.
You looked tired - no doubt from the long plane ride, lack of sleep and jet lag - but you also looked so happy to be back. You had a big Briar U hoodie on that was no doubt Garrett’s and a pair of navy jogging bottoms on.
You had a shit tonne of luggage bags surrounding you, which Allie would make Dean take in later. It was a mystery how you managed all these bags through the airport yourself.
Allie squeezed you in a tight hug, both of you trying to be as silent as possible.
She let you go, knowing you’d be eager to see Garrett.
You both had a silent conversation with hand gestures, which basically translated to you asking where Garrett was and letting Allie know that’s where you’d be going first. Allie rushed you off, not delaying your reunion any longer.
You tried your best to be quiet up the stairs, the familiarity of the house hitting you all at once. Even the feel of your hand on the wooden bannister felt like coming home.
At the top of the stairs you felt a flurry of butterflies start up in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t tell whether you were nervous or excited to see Garrett. It was the anticipation that was causing the feeling, you decided.
After texts and face-time calls, every day for the last year, it was hard to believe you were about to see him in real life again. It sounded weird to say, but it was true. The last year had been so great, but it had also been so hard living away from Garrett.
If that made you clingy, then you’d wear that label with pride. So what?
Garrett’s door was closed over, but not shut entirely.
You pushed the door open to find Garrett sat on the edge of his bed, crouched over with his phone in his hands.
You knocked gently so as not to make him jump.
Garrett wiped his eyes, not so subtly, before sitting up to look at you.
His whole body sagged as he saw you standing in his bedroom doorway. He closed his eyes and let his body pull him back to lay back on his bed, legs grounding him to the floor.
Tears started to fill your eyes as Garrett’s chest visibly moved up and down from crying. His hand went to cover his eyes, probably trying to comprehend whether this was a cruel trick or genuinely real.
You didn’t wait any longer to move closer to him.
“Hey.” You laughed through your own tears.
“Fuck.” Garrett sat up, taking you in. You watched the disbelief leave his teary eyes, as he fully understood you were right here with him.
He wasted no more time pulling you the rest of the way towards him - absolutely no distance between you allowed again - until you landed on his lap in an awkward straddle. Your arms wrapped around his neck tightly and his wrapped around your waist.
Both of you sat there, lightly crying.
Your face buried into Garrett’s neck as you breathed in his familiar scent. That smell alone caused a few tears, because it was so nostalgic and homely to you. Garrett’s head rested just beside yours.
Neither of you said anything for what felt like the longest time, both more than happy to just sit silently in each other’s arms.
“I thought something bad had happened.” Garrett mumbled.
You reluctantly pulled your head away from his neck, blinking away the remnants of tears as you pulled Garrett’s head up to see him. His eyes were red-rimmed and his dark circles were as dark as yours.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t text me for so long. I thought something bad had happened.” His eyes traced over every inch of your face, scanning every freckle to make sure they were all still there.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did. If 24 hours of no contact is what it takes to be surprised, then, baby, I don’t want it.” He shook his head.
“Okay. Noted.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek back and forth. He melted into your touch, trying to get as physically close to you as possible.
“Can’t believe you’re here.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t kissed me yet.”
Garrett’s hands left your waist instantly to cup your cheeks and bring your lips directly to his, kissing you exactly how one would kiss their significant other after a year apart. The kiss was bruising, barely enough space to breathe between you.
Garrett tilted your head with his hands so he could kiss you deeper, your hips involuntarily rocking over his. The small movement was enough for Garrett to break the kiss, though the distance between you barely existed.
Both of your chests were heaving and your breathing heavy. You leaned in closer with dazed eyes focused on his lips, kissing him again. This time was shorter and with more feeling, before you pulled away with a soft laugh.
“What?” Garrett asked, still holding you close.
“I missed you.”
Garrett smiled, “Yeah, baby. Me too.” He kissed you four times in a row, before breaking off from your lips to kiss your cheeks, nose, eyes and anywhere else he could. The sound of your laughter filled his room for the first time in a year as Garrett kept kissing you.
You forced yourself forwards to make Garrett fall backwards on the bed, because you knew it was the only way to stop him from kissing you for now.
Garrett’s hair flopped around him on the bed, with a little curl falling over his forehead. His hands moved to place over your hips, whilst yours pressed into his bed either side of his head to keep you upright.
“Can’t believe you’re here.” Garrett said.
“You’ve already said that. Have you developed temporary amnesia, baby?” You teased him.
“My brain hasn’t worked since you walked through the door.”
Garrett’s hand tucked underneath the hoodie you were wearing, and traced up and down your bare skin. The featherlight touch made you smile and you rewarded him with another quick kiss.
You moved to sit back up less than gracefully. Luckily Garrett’s arms were there to support you as he mirrored you to sit up as well.
“How was your flight?” He asked, his eyes focused on you. No doubt he wouldn’t be letting you from his sight for the foreseeable future. He was going to attach himself to you like a limpet whether you liked it or not.
“Shall we go downstairs and see everyone so I don’t have to answer that question fifteen more times?”
Garrett grumbled and his eyebrows furrowed, “No.”
“No?”
“I want you to myself.” He said as his hands tightened their grip on your back.
“Baby, don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean, I'm being selfish. There’s a difference.”
“Not a good difference.” You argued.
“Did the Brits teach you to be polite or something?”
You tried not to laugh at your boyfriend’s childish behaviour, because, honestly, some part of you understood what he was feeling. You got possessive when he left for a hockey game for just a weekend, let alone you having been gone a full year.
Of course you wanted to just be with him too, but your friends were important to you too. They’d all kept close contact with you, always letting you know how Garrett was really doing and being there for him when he needed people around. You owed a lot to them all.
“C’mon. You’ll get me all evening.” You compromised.
“You’ve finished over there?”
“Yes,” You smiled, brushing a curl back off his forehead, “Finished last week.”
“So you’re here to stay?”
“Baby, I’m back. I’m here for summer, then autumn, winter and spring. Then summer again and autumn…”
“Okay, okay,” Garrett cut you off, “Can we spend summer together?”
“I literally brought all my shit here with me, because I intend on moving in. You’re stuck with me.”
pairing – garrett graham x figure skater!reader
summary – figure skating should not look like that, garrett decides. it also shouldn't involve another guy dropping his girlfriend.
warnings – figure skating injury, failed lift, pain, brief panic, jealousy, protective behaviour, strong language
notes from me – based on a couple of requests that i combined!! i hope u enjoy babes!!
word count – 4.9k
navigation – masterlist |
The problem, Garrett thinks, is that figure skating shouldn't look like that.
It looks too good. It looks like somebody took all the brutal, ugly, body-destroying parts of being an athlete and then had the nerve to cover them in clean lines and soft music and a little white practice skirt that keeps flicking up every time she turns.
It looks like balance and force and trust all disguised as something delicate enough that the idiots sitting beside him have started making wounded animal noises every time she glides past the boards.
Which is, obviously, not helping.
“She’s kind of insane, dude,” Logan says from Garrett’s left, elbows planted on his knees, chin tipped up toward the ice with the open, helpless awe of a man watching someone do something he understands is hard, but absolutely cannot personally replicate without dying.
Garrett doesn't look at him. Garrett is busy being mature. Calm. Supportive. A boyfriend who understands that his girlfriend is a collegiate athlete with a partner and a routine and years of training that existed before him and will continue to exist regardless of whether or not Garrett Graham’s lower intestine has decided to twist itself into a knot every time another man puts both hands on her waist.
“Yeah,” he says, flatly. “She’s good.”
Dean snorts from the other side of Tucker. “She’s good,” he repeats. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Garrett’s jaw works once. Out on the ice, she pushes backward into a clean, sweeping curve, one arm extended, the other caught in Avery’s hand.
Avery. Stupid fucking name.
Garrett has nothing against the guy as a person, technically, except for the obvious crimes of being tall, male, decent on skates, and currently in possession of his girlfriend’s hand while she looks like that.
He's probably fine. He'd introduced himself with a friendly enough smile, had called Garrett man in the harmless athlete way, had been polite to her, had checked the lift timing twice, hadn't done a single thing wrong besides existing in a category Garrett has recently decided is aggressive.
“She’s better than good,” Tucker says, because Tucker is nice and honest and willing to throw gasoline onto a very controlled, very internal fire. “That edge thing she did before? That was wild.”
“It’s called a bracket,” Garrett says automatically.
All three of them turn to look at him.
He keeps staring forward. “What?”
Dean’s grin arrives slowly, the way bad weather rolls in. “Sorry, Professor Blades. Didn’t know we were dealing with a scholar.”
“She tells me stuff.”
“Oh, I bet she does.”
Garrett finally cuts his eyes over. “You wanna finish that thought?”
Dean lifts both hands, delighted. “Nope. Not at all.”
Logan leans forward a little more, squinting through the glass. “Is this the guy you hate?”
“I don’t hate him.”
“You called him Pairs Boy for, like, two weeks.”
“That’s not hate. That’s identification.”
Tucker makes a low sound that is either agreement or an attempt not to laugh directly in his captain’s face. “He seems okay.”
“He’s fine,” Garrett says, and because the universe is committed to ruining him, this is the exact moment Avery’s hands settle firmly at her waist.
It's choreography. It's positioning. It's the same neutral athletic contact Garrett himself has done a thousand times on the ice, shoulder checks and glove taps and hands braced briefly on teammates during drills, bodies moving in proximity because sports are, unfortunately, made of bodies.
Avery’s fingers spread at her ribs and Garrett’s brain, which has survived championship pressure, Phil Graham, playoff overtime, and Dean Di Laurentis explaining the plot of a reality show with no women wearing full shirts, immediately becomes a smoking hole in the ground.
Dean sees his face and actually laughs. “Oh my God,” he says. “You’re gonna chip a tooth.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to challenge him to a duel.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You know he has to touch her, right?” Logan asks, which is such an obviously Logan thing to say that Garrett considers shoving him off the bench on principle. “Like, that’s the sport.”
Garrett turns his head very slowly. “Thank you, John. I had no idea.”
Logan grins. “Just checking.”
On the ice, she and Avery pick up speed.
That shuts them all up for a few seconds. Even Dean stops being Dean long enough to watch properly, because the room changes when she moves like this.
It isn’t the careful, slow, rehab-framed skating Garrett first learned with her, those early mornings when every lap felt like something fragile being carried across a room full of sharp corners.
This is different. This is closer to what she must have been before the injury took a bite out of her life and made her body something she had to negotiate with instead of command.
She’s still not reckless. Garrett can see the slight caution in her landings if he looks for it, the tiny guarded shift in the knee, the way she checks her weight for half a breath before trusting it fully.
He knows her well enough now to read the places other people would only call graceful. But she’s fast. Controlled. Her face has gone focused in that quiet, inward way that makes everyone else on the rink feel briefly less important.
Her hair is twisted back, pieces coming loose at the sides from exertion, cheeks pink from cold and work, mouth parted around her breath. The skirt moves around her thighs, pale against the black of her tights, and every time she extends a leg behind her the line of her body looks so clean it makes Garrett’s chest do something weird and unpleasantly sincere.
She's incredible. That's the other problem. The bigger one, maybe. Jealousy is stupid, and he knows it. The part underneath is worse.
The part where he watches her fly across the ice with another person’s timing stitched into hers and feels, not excluded, but confronted by the fact that there are whole languages of her body he's only just beginning to learn.
Avery lifts one arm. She takes it. They turn together, close enough now that their shoulders almost brush, her hand sliding to his forearm, his other hand at the back of her waist as he guides her through the entry into a spin.
Garrett’s fingers curl against the edge of the bench.
Dean, of course, whispers, “Thoughts and prayers.”
“I will bench you.”
“We’re not even playing.”
“I’ll find a way.”
Tucker’s mouth twitches. “You know she can see you through the glass, and you keep making that face.”
That, unfortunately, makes Garrett straighten his expression through sheer force of will. It's one thing to be jealous in the privacy of his own horrible little skull. It's another to have her look over and catch him visibly sulking because her skating partner is doing skating partner things during skating partner practice.
She would get that soft, amused little crease between her brows. She would try not to laugh because she’s nice, and then she would laugh anyway because she's less nice when she feels safe, which is one of his favourite things about her.
Out on the ice, the music shifts. Avery says something too low to hear, and she nods once.
Garrett recognises the setup before he knows the name of it. The lift is one they've been talking about all week. In careful little fragments she gives him when they’re lying in his bed or sitting in the dining hall with her knee tucked against his under the table.
Avery keeps rushing the entry. My timing feels off. It’s fine, it’s just annoying. Cam said I’m cleared for it, so don’t do your face. No, not that face. Garrett.
He does his face now without meaning to.
Avery’s hands settle. She bends her knees slightly, finding the rhythm. She looks tiny beside him for one ridiculous second, which Garrett knows isn't fair because she's not fragile, she's made of muscle and skill and sharp, quiet stubbornness, but then Avery’s hands are around her waist and she’s stepping into the lift and Garrett’s entire body goes tense in immediate, full-system objection.
“Jesus,” Logan mutters, not joking now.
For one second, it works. Avery lifts her cleanly, and she rises above the ice in this stunning, impossible line, one leg extended, arms reaching like the whole cold room has opened under her.
Even Garrett, in the middle of hating every single element of this, feels the breath leave him. She looks unreal up there, like every hard thing she's ever done to herself has learned how to look effortless for four seconds at a time.
Then the timing goes wrong.
It's fast enough that Garrett almost doesn’t understand it until his body has already moved. Avery’s grip shifts. Her hip drops half an inch. One blade catches air wrong, then ice, then panic flickers across Avery’s face in a way Garrett sees with awful clarity through the boards.
He tries to save it. Garrett will give him that later, maybe. The guy tries. His arms clamp, one hand catching at her side, but the lift has already fallen out of itself.
She hits the ice hard. Her shoulder takes too much of it, then her hip, the sound of her body striking the surface sharp enough to cut through the rink, and she slides several feet before stopping near the circle with one leg bent under her and one arm curled instinctively against her chest.
For half a second nobody moves, then Avery's on his knees beside her, white-faced. “Oh my God. Shit. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Garrett's already over the boards.
He doesn't remember deciding to move. One second he's sitting with the boys, the next his skates hit the ice, and he's crossing the rink with the kind of speed that makes somebody behind him swear. The cold air tears at his face. His stomach has dropped so far through the floor it feels like it’s somewhere under the zamboni bay.
She's moving by the time he reaches her, which helps and also doesn't help at all. She’s rolled slightly onto her back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open around a low, annoyed groan that's very much alive and very much in pain.
“Fuck,” she says, small and furious. “Ow.”
Garrett drops beside her so fast his knees bite cold through the fabric of his sweats. “Hey. Hey, baby.” His hands hover for one tight second because everything in him wants to touch and check and gather, and the athlete in him knows better than to start hauling someone up after a fall like that just because his heart has decided to behave like an idiot. “Look at me. You good?”
Her eyes open. They find him, which helps more than anything else has so far. The first breath she takes after that is shaky, but it comes with a little grimace that's nearly a smile if someone is generous and afraid enough.
“Hi,” she says, like this is a normal location for him to appear.
His laugh comes out once, breathless and not remotely amused. “Hi. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah.” She blinks hard and shifts her shoulder, immediately regretting it if the way her face pinches means anything. “Same.”
Avery's still crouched on the other side of her, hands hovering with the horror of a man who's just dropped another human being and may never psychologically recover. “Dude, I’m so sorry. I had it and then I– I don’t know, my grip slipped or the entry was–”
She turns her head toward him, eyes sharpening through the pain. “You told me you had it.”
“I thought I did,” Avery says, miserable. “I swear to God, I thought I did. I’m so sorry.”
This is a deeply inconvenient combination and he has no interest in processing it while his girlfriend is still on the ice looking small and pissed off and hurt enough that her fingers have curled tight against the front of her own practice jacket.
“Can you move everything?” Garrett asks, voice lower now, controlled in the way it gets when it has no other choice.
She gives him a look, faintly offended even from the ice. “Everything?”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I’m not being cute. I’m on the floor.”
“You’re on the ice.”
She rolls her eyes. “That feels like a technicality.”
Behind him, there's the scrape and scatter of hockey skates as the boys come closer but not too close. Tucker’s voice arrives first, careful in a way Garrett appreciates even while wanting everyone to shut up. “She good?”
“Give her a sec,” Garrett says without looking back.
“I’m good,” she calls, and then winces immediately because calling anything anywhere has apparently pulled at her shoulder. “Ow. Okay. Medium good.”
Logan makes a strangled sound from near the boards. “Medium good is not good.”
She lifts her uninjured hand in a weak thumbs-up anyway, because she would rather die than have a group of hockey players start treating her like a tragic little rink casualty. “All good.”
Dean, quietly but with feeling, says, “That was a fucking wipeout.”
Garrett shoots him a look over his shoulder.
Dean lifts both hands.
Garrett turns back to her. His palm has found her knee by then, not the bad one, not the one with all the old history in it, the other knee through the smooth chill of her tights. “Can you sit up?”
She nods once. “Yeah. Just… slow.”
“Okay.” He slides one hand behind her upper back, careful to avoid the shoulder she landed on, the other catching her hand. “Use me.”
Avery shifts like he wants to help too, and Garrett feels something ugly and immediate move through him before he can civilise it. She must feel it too, because her fingers tighten around Garrett’s and she says, softly but clearly, “I've got Garrett.”
It shouldn't feel as good as it does, considering the circumstances. Garrett doesn't smile, because he's not a monster. But something in his chest unlocks by one hot, stupid notch anyway.
Avery sits back at once, nodding too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Garrett helps her upright with as little jostling as possible. Even so, her breath catches when her body comes vertical, a sharp little inhale through her teeth that goes straight under his ribs and turns his voice gentler by force.
“I know,” he murmurs, close enough that only she gets it. “I know. Easy.”
Her forehead nearly touches his shoulder for half a second. Not fully leaning, because they're still in the middle of the rink and there are people watching and she has pride in places that don't always serve her. But her weight tips toward him, just enough for his hand to firm at her back.
“Grazed,” she says after a second. “Hip and shoulder, I think. Maybe elbow. Nothing dramatic.”
Garrett looks at the angry red scrape already showing near the edge of her sleeve where the fabric has ridden up. “That looks dramatic.”
“It’s not.”
“You say that about everything.”
“I’m very brave.”
“You’re very concussed if you think I’m not taking you to the medic.”
“I’m not concussed.” She blinks up at him, and there's enough irritation in her face now that some of the worst fear unclenches in his spine. “My head didn’t hit.”
“Good. Great. Love that. Still getting checked.”
She exhales, then nods, giving in faster than he expected, which tells him it hurts more than she wants to say. “Yeah. Okay. Fuck, it hurts. What the hell.”
Avery makes a wounded sound. “I’m so sorry.”
She looks back at him, and the edge in her face softens slightly, not enough to let him off the hook completely but enough to keep him alive. “I know. I know you didn’t mean to.”
“I didn’t. I swear. I just–”
“But don’t tell me you have it if you don’t have it,” she says, quieter now. “I would’ve bailed out sooner.”
Avery’s face goes worse. “Yeah. No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
Garrett’s hand has settled more securely at her waist now, partly because she's upright and partly because his body has decided that if Avery’s hands can be there for choreography then Garrett’s hands can be there for literally all other reasons, including medical evacuation and personal sanity.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“Use me,” he says again.
This time, she does. Fully. One hand grips his forearm, the other hooks around the back of his shoulder, and Garrett rises with her slowly, keeping his stance solid beneath them both.
Her skates scrape once, finding balance. Pain flashes across her face and disappears fast, tucked away with the efficient misery of someone who has been trained too well in performing fine.
He doesn’t call her on it in front of everyone. He only bends his head close to hers and murmurs, “Don’t do that.”
Her eyes flick to him. “Do what?”
“Act fine for my idiot friends.”
That gets the smallest laugh out of her. It costs her. He sees that too.
“I’m fine-ish,” she says.
“Fine-ish gets you benched.”
“I already hate this relationship.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” she agrees, and the smile, tiny as it is, makes his chest hurt. “I don’t.”
They start toward the boards slowly, her weight tucked carefully into his side. Garrett matches her pace without making a production of it, one arm around her waist, his other hand ready in front of her in case she wobbles.
It's the slowest he's ever crossed this rink while this angry. Somewhere behind them, Avery's still apologising to the coach who's come over with a clipboard and the pinched expression of a woman already mentally rewriting half a practice schedule.
The hockey boys part like they're witnessing royalty or an injured woodland creature with blades strapped to its feet.
“You okay?” Tucker asks when they get near enough, his face open and genuinely concerned.
She nods, giving them another thumbs-up that is less convincing now but still valiant. “All good.”
Logan’s eyes drop to her shoulder and back up, wince already forming. “That was insane.”
“Very helpful review,” she says, breath catching at the end but her mouth quirking anyway.
Dean points at her, solemn. “I would like to say, from the bottom of my heart, that I did not know your sport was trying to murder you guys like that.”
She looks at him for half a second, then actually laughs, soft and pained. “What did you think was happening?”
“I don’t know,” Dean says. “Sparkles. Vibes.”
Garrett would laugh if he weren’t currently busy hating the fact that she's leaning heavier against him with every inch they get off the ice. Instead he hooks his arm more firmly around her and guides her through the little gate to the bench area.
The second she sits, the composure slips by a degree. Her shoulders drop first, then her jaw loosens, then her eyes shut for one breath too long as if sitting down has given the pain permission to arrive properly.
“Yeah,” he says, already crouching in front of her. “Okay. Skates off.”
Her eyes open. “You don’t have to.”
“Baby.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.” He looks up at her from where he’s already reaching for the laces. “I’m doing it anyway.”
She stares at him for a second, then her face gives in first, softening around the mouth in a way that still seems to surprise her when it happens in public. “Okay.”
Garrett unties her skates carefully, working the damp laces loose with fingers that are still colder than he expected them to be. Her tights are scraped at one hip, a pale line of ice burn visible beneath the torn fabric, and the sight makes his jaw tighten all over again.
From somewhere above them, Dean says, “G, buddy, you look like you’re about to commit a rink crime.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that today.”
Logan leans one hip against the boards, trying and failing not to grin now that the immediate terror has passed. “You know, for a guy who doesn’t hate Avery, you did kind of look like you were about to bodycheck a figure skater.”
“I still might.”
She snorts, then immediately presses her lips together and lifts one hand to her shoulder. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh.”
Garrett looks up fast. “Stop moving.”
“I laughed, Garrett. I didn’t run a marathon.”
Garrett slides one skate off and sets it beside the bench, then starts on the other.
His hands are gentle, but his mood isn’t, and she clearly knows it because she nudges his stomach lightly with the toe of her sock. “Don’t be mad.”
He glances up. “At you?”
“No.” Her eyes flick briefly toward the ice, where Avery's still standing with both hands on top of his head, looking like guilt has physically aged him. “At him.”
Garrett follows her gaze, then looks back down at the laces because his face has not yet been cleared for public use. “I hate that guy.”
She giggles, quick and helpless, then winces so sharply his hands stop. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” he says, standing at once. “Okay. No more giggling. Sit still.”
“You’re so bossy.”
He can't bite back his smirk. “You like it when I’m bossy.”
Dean makes a choking sound. Tucker immediately says, “Nope. We’re all walking away.”
“We’re in skates,” Logan says.
“Then glide away, bro.”
Her cheeks have gone pink, partly from pain and partly, Garrett suspects with a grim little flicker of satisfaction, from him. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m a little funny.”
“You’re jealous and annoying.”
“I’m emotionally injured.”
That gets her again, a tiny laugh she tries to swallow and mostly fails, one hand going carefully to her ribs as if holding herself still will make humour less dangerous. Garrett shakes his head, but his mouth betrays him.
“Seriously,” she says, quieter now, once the boys have drifted a few feet away under the very weak pretence of giving them privacy. “He didn’t mean to drop me.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I can know something and still want to punch it.”
Her eyes warm at the edges. “Very evolved.”
“I’m working on it.”
“You were watching like you wanted to climb through the glass even before I fell.”
Garrett peels off her second skate and sets it beside the first. “Was not.”
“Garrett.”
He looks up at her. She’s sitting there with one socked foot slightly tucked under the bench, practice jacket unzipped at the throat, hair escaping its bun in soft, sweaty pieces.
Her face is still a little pale under the pink of exertion, and there's a scrape blooming angry at her elbow now, and somehow she's looking at him with this small, fond amusement like his jealousy is ridiculous and known and maybe, God help him, a little liked.
He sighs. “Fine. Maybe I wasn't enjoying the... artistic integrity of the waist-grabbing.”
Her mouth curves. “The artistic integrity?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s part of the choreography.”
“I’m aware.”
“You know that?”
“I can understand waist contact.”
“Can you?”
“No,” he says. “But I’m being brave.”
Her laugh comes out softer this time, careful, and she reaches with her good hand to brush the back of her fingers over his cheek. It’s small. Barely anything. But doing it here, in front of the rink and the boys and Avery still looking like he might throw himself into traffic, makes something stupid and warm move under his ribs.
“My brave hockey boy,” she says, very quietly, almost teasing but not only.
Garrett catches her hand before she can pull it away and presses his mouth to her knuckles. “Don’t be cute. I’m mad at you.”
She blinks, amused. “At me?”
“For getting dropped.”
“I’ll try not to be so inconsiderate next time.”
“Good.”
“Maybe I’ll schedule the fall.”
“That’d help.”
She smiles, then it fades when she shifts her shoulder again, pain moving through her face in a duller, heavier wave. Garrett’s body reacts before his thoughts do. He straightens, one hand going carefully to the back of her head, thumb near her temple.
“Hey,” he says, softer. “No more jokes. Where’s it hurt worst?”
She exhales through her nose. “Shoulder. Hip. Elbow’s just gross.”
“Head?”
“No.”
“Neck?”
“Nope.”
“Knee?”
She pauses, and his stomach drops. Then she shakes her head. “No. Scared it for a second, but no. It’s okay.”
He believes her because she knows that part of her body too well to lie casually about it. Still, his thumb moves once near her hairline, and her eyes flicker as if the touch has landed somewhere bigger than the question.
“Okay,” he says. “We’re going to the medic.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. You think I’m sending you with Pairs Boy?”
Her mouth twitches. “He has a name.”
“I’ve chosen not to use it.”
“It’s Avery.”
“Mm.”
“Garrett.”
“What?”
“Say his name.”
He looks at her for one long second. “Fine. We’re not sending you with Avocado.”
She stares at him, then has to press her lips together so hard it nearly ruins him. “That's not his name.”
He shrugs. “Agree to disagree.”
Tucker steps forward at once, practical as ever. “Want me to grab your bag?”
She looks up at him, surprised by the immediate offer, then nods. “Please. It’s the black one near the far bench.”
“Got it.”
Dean points vaguely toward the hallway. “You want, like, ice? Not rink ice. Regular ice. Medical ice.”
She gives him a small, pained smile. “That would actually be good.”
Dean nods with great seriousness, thrilled to have been assigned a useful task instead of just standing there making jokes around mild trauma. “I can do that.”
Logan looks between them all. “What do I do?”
Garrett says, “Nothing.”
She says, at the same time, “Maybe tell Avery I’m not dead.”
Logan points at her. “On it.”
Garrett helps her stand, this time in sneakers because Tucker has reappeared with her bag and Garrett has made quick work of getting her feet into something that doesn’t involve blades.
She leans into him more openly now, one arm around his waist, her head tipping for one second against his shoulder when she thinks the boys aren't looking. Garrett doesn't tell her they definitely are. He only tightens his arm around her and lets her have the illusion.
As they start toward the hall, Avery calls her name from the ice, still pale, still stricken. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I’ll– I’ll text you later, okay? Or call. Whatever. Just… I’m sorry.”
She turns as much as her shoulder allows, Garrett’s arm still keeping her close. “It’s okay,” she says, then amends with a wince and a little honesty, “It’s not okay, actually, but we’ll talk later.”
Avery nods fast. “Yeah. Yeah, totally.”
Garrett feels her hand press once into his side, a warning without looking at him. Behave.
He looks at Avery and gives the tightest nod known to man. Avery, wisely, accepts that as mercy.
“You’re really jealous,” she says, softly enough that it isn’t quite an accusation.
Garrett lets out a breath and looks down at his hand. “Yeah.”
“It’s kind of stupid.”
“I know.”
“You know I have to do partner work.”
“I know that too.”
“And Avery isn’t–”
“I know,” he says again, then looks up at her properly because she deserves that much, even if it is embarrassing and he would rather be hit by a slow-moving Zamboni than have Dean hear any of it. “I know. It’s not about him. Not really.”
Her expression shifts, the teasing thinning into something gentler.
Garrett drags a hand through his hair. “I just hate watching somebody else be the one who catches you.” His mouth twists because that sounds bigger than he meant it to, but it's out now. “And then he didn’t.”
Her face goes very still.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “That was–”
“No,” she says. “No, I get it.”
“You do?”
She nods once, slow. “I like that you want to be the one who catches me.”
Garrett stares at her.
Her cheeks colour almost immediately, but she holds his gaze anyway, shy and sore and sitting in terrible fluorescent lighting with a scraped elbow and ice melt dampening one side of her tights, and somehow she has the nerve to look at him like that. Like he's something she trusts even when the day has literally dropped her onto a rink.
Then, because she clearly cannot survive sincerity for more than seven seconds without offering herself an exit, she adds, “Even if you’re being a psycho about waist contact.”
Garrett laughs, low and helpless. “I’m not being a psycho.”
“You called him Avocado.”
“Yeah, well.” He lifts his head, mouth curving despite himself. “He dropped my girlfriend.”
She softens again at the word. My girlfriend still does that to her sometimes, which Garrett has noticed and absolutely files away like a criminal. Her fingers squeeze his.
“Your girlfriend is okay,” she says.
“Your boyfriend is not.”
“Poor thing.”
“Thank you.”
“You should get him looked at.”
“Too late.”
She smiles then, small and lovely and a little wincing at the edges, and Garrett ducks his head just enough to kiss her. It’s careful because of the shoulder, because of the hallway, because the boys could come back any second with ice and concern and eleven jokes between them.
But it’s still enough. His mouth presses to hers once, warm and grounding, and she exhales into it like the day has finally found a softer place to land.
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Summary: when a ridiculously sized water bottle hits you in the back of the head during your first week of college lectures. you never expected the culprit to become your best friend, his roommates to become brothers, and a crowded table to feel like home. everyone knew that what you and garrett had was something special. well, everyone except the both of you.
Warnings: best friends to lovers trope. no mention of y/n, but the nickname Missy is used a lot to refer to the reader. found family. seriously, so much fluff. one kiss. two rather stupid idiots in love.
a/n: i’ve risen and written this as a comeback fic. admittedly, i wrote this in a span of three days, and you can tell when i was hungry while writing it. or the fact cherry coke is my favorite. also my inspiration for the nickname came from an off campus interview where i heard stephen say missy. (let me know your thoughts on this! i would love to hear them:)
Word count: 6.9k
masterlist
Music blared as you walked into the Boys’ house, which was home to Dean Di Laurentis, John Tucker, John Logan, and Garrett Graham. A blur of drunken college students and bodies pushed together in random small spaces that they thought fit for privacy passed by as you made your way to the kitchen to grab a drink.
You checked in the fridge, knowing there would be a stock of mini cherry Coke cans waiting for you. A grin grew on your face as you reached for one.
“Missy!” you heard someone call from behind. You grabbed a can and turned away from the fridge to the sound of the voice. “Missy, Missy, we were wondering when you were stopping by,” Dean tutted as Beau and Logan were beside him with smugness written across their faces.
“As if I would miss seeing drunk Tucker and Logan,” you joked as you walked towards them. “Maybe we can convince Tucker to make ricotta tortellini for dinner tomorrow. You know he’ll feel bad if he agrees tonight and doesn’t go through with it.”
“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.
“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.
“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.
Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”
"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.
“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.
Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner.
“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”
“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”
You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.
“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face.
Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”
“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.
“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”
“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”
Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated.
“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.
“G, not cool, man.”
Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”
“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder.
Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”
“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear.
“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”
Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair.
“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused.
“Great, G!”
“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.
Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.
You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk.
“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.
Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”
“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out.
Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”
You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”
“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him.
“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.
Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.”
“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.
Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.
The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.
The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.
Thunk.
It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.
“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.
You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.
The expression on his face caught you off guard.
He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime.
You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad.
Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed.
“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”
You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large.
Then back at him.
“Yes, totally.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious.”
“I just hit you with my water bottle.”
You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”
He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
He frowned.
You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again.
“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”
“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be.
“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped.
“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.
“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.
“Officially?”
He paused, confused, “What?”
“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”
His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”
“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.
“You’re very observant.”
“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.
He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”
“That sounds right.”
“So let me make it up to you.”
“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Coffee,” he offered.
You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.
“Coffee?” you repeated in question.
“I owe you.”
“You really don’t.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”
You smiled, “Okay.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
“Sure,” you answered again.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.
He followed right behind you.
The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.
Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed.
The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”
Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”
The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”
“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.
“Oh, absolutely.”
“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”
You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”
The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.
You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, beautiful.”
You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett.
Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”
From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it.
Cute. You thought to yourself.
Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”
You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”
Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”
Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”
“He basically has,” you snorted.
“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”
“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.
Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.
You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.
You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”
“What?” he tried to play it off.
“You have that look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” you insisted.
Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”
That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.
Dean nearly choked.
“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.
“Don’t what?” he responded.
“That.”
“What?”
“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing.
Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing.
Garrett just shrugged.
You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.
“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.
“Coffee,” he agreed.
Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.
By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.
At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.
Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.
Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.
No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.
To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,
Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester.
You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.
Bingo.
You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her.
The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in.
The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.
The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.
“There she is!”
You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”
“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.
Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”
“She still answers it.”
You hated that he was right.
The grin he gave you says he knows it too.
A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan.
The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.
“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room.
“Excuse me?”
“I expected worse,” he shrugged.
You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”
Each of the boys quipped a response.
“A lot.”
“Enough.”
“Some would say too much.”
“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.
“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.
By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.
You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.
At some point, you realized something.
You didn’t feel like a guest.
It was almost like you’d always been there.
And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.
It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume.
When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”
“I won't forget perfume.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“Baby, it’s there just in case.”
He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room.
You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.
Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself.
As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family.
Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head.
You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.
It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds.
Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand.
“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts.
You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”
You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there.
Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.
He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester.
“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes.
You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.
You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”
“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge.
“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.
Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.
“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”
“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back.
“Whatcha got, Logan?”
“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes.
“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile.
He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy.
“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.
You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted.
“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted.
“Up in his room.”
“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.
“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.
The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”
“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.
“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter.
Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table.
“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.
“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.
You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move.
The meal was perfect.
You took one bite.
Then another.
Followed by another.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.
Tucker laughed, “What?”
“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.
“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.
“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”
You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”
“Obviously,” Garrett stated.
“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.
“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.
You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”
“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.
“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.
The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness.
The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.
If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.
Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible.
It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving.
You felt like you always belonged there.
The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.
“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular.
Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”
“A little.”
“A little means yes.”
You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”
“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.
“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it.
“It does,” Garrett nodded.
“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.
“I’m supporting you.”
“More like interrupting,” you kid.
Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”
You blinked at him, “What?”
Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”
Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”
“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.
“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.
The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”
“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence.
“You have an idea.”
The other three just watched the banter between you two.
“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.
“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.
You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.
It felt natural.
“Okay.”
“Done.”
By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed.
Every Sunday.
One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.
Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.
Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three.
The dinners became routine. Then tradition.
Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.
Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.
Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.
By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends.
Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.
Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.
Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.
You saved him a portion when he was running late.
The pair of you always sat beside one another.
Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.
But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing.
That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other.
“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.
Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.
“A shot,” Dean answered.
“Very informative.”
You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”
Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”
“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.
“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath.
Dean wiggled his shot.
You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.
“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.
“Probably.”
“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.
“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots.
“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.
“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished.
There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.
Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other.
The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot.
The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.
“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.
“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.
“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett.
“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.
Logan nearly doubled over laughing.
Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.
Dean looked personally offended.
And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met.
The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.
Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out.
Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.
Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.
You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.
You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside.
You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs.
The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall.
There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore.
Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom.
He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours.
Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other.
Neither of you said much for a while.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.
Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”
“Exhausted.”
“Did you have fun tonight?”
“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.
Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses.
“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.
You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away.
Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too.
Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”
The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore.
His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.
Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”
Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”
“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”
You blinked, “We are fine.”
“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”
You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second.
Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”
“Wow.”
“What?” he quirked his brow at you.
“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief.
“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.
“It definitely did.”
“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”
Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.
Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you.
Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.
Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship.
Every time he remembered something small.
Every time he made space for you in crowded places.
Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal.
Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day.
You already knew, but hearing it made it real.
“What?”
You smiled, “I know.”
His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”
“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.”
“In my defense–” you cut him off.
“You gave me a drawer.”
“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.
“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”
The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”
You snickered. “Seriously?”
“I just want confirmation.”
“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”
He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.
“So?”
“So what?”
You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”
“Missy.”
“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”
Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” you repeated.
Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time.
When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”
You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”
“They’re going to be unbearable.”
“Especially Dean.”
“He’ll claim responsibility.”
“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”
He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”
“Agreed.”
The agreement lasted less than eight hours.
The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon.
Logan was standing at the stove.
Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands.
Dean was eating cereal directly from the box.
Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual.
Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual.
Nobody paid attention.
Logan continued cooking his bacon.
Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.
Dean kept munching on the cereal.
Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.
He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.
“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.
“Morning,” You replied.
You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.
And not normal.
The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”
You immediately dropped your head. “No.”
“YES.”
“It has been like six hours.”
“I KNEW IT.”
Garrett groaned.
Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”
“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked.
“I brought you together.”
“You really didn’t,” you laughed.
Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”
Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.
Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled.
“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.
“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off.
“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett.
Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”
The room erupted.
Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”
Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”
Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”
Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two.
And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back.
You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family.
Garrett was still your favorite person.
The only difference was that now everybody knew it, including you and Garrett.
Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there! And an even happier day if your son's name is Brisket and you've been wearing matching outfits with him since Day 1.
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