pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – black lace, pink lace and one failed shower seduction leave kitty demanding an explanation for garrett graham’s deeply offensive new self-control.
warnings – 18+, strong language, sexual rejection fears, jealousy references, lingerie, explicit sexual discussion, nudity and suggestive touching
notes from me – oh i love this song and oh i love them!!
word count – 4.4k
navigation – masterlist | MBF masterlist
For the first few days, she assumes Garrett is tired. It isn’t an unreasonable theory. He has practice before most of the campus has accepted that morning exists, classes arranged around hockey with the precision of a military campaign, captain meetings, film sessions, lifting, assignments he remembers approximately six hours before they’re due, and now a second unpaid occupation involving the construction of every object in her apartment.
The dresser is finally standing. One drawer sticks if pulled too quickly and another sits slightly higher than the rest, but Garrett has declared both defects structural and forbidden her from criticising them until she has successfully assembled something containing more than four screws.
The coffee table is upright. Two of the prints have made it onto the wall. Her bed frame no longer creaks with the haunted complaint of furniture aware it was built incorrectly, because Tucker came over, looked at Garrett’s work for seventeen silent seconds and rebuilt one corner without saying a word.
Garrett has been busy. So when he kisses her forehead instead of her mouth on Monday night, she lets it go.
When she changes beside him on Tuesday and catches him looking very seriously at the television while she pulls her shirt over her head, she assumes he’s trying not to distract her because she has an assignment due.
By Wednesday, he has started doing things that feel almost insulting in their tenderness. He brings dinner without turning it into an excuse to bend her over the kitchen island. He sits beside her on the couch with one arm around her shoulders, thumb moving slowly against her upper arm.
When she climbs into his lap halfway through a movie, Garrett kisses her temple, adjusts the blanket around her bare legs and continues watching a documentary about an unsolved bank robbery as though she hasn’t deliberately placed her ass over his dick.
Thursday is suspicious.
Friday is a declaration of war. She wears the black set because it has always worked before.
Calling it pyjamas is generous. It contains less fabric than one of Garrett’s socks and provides roughly the same protection against a Massachusetts winter. The tiny lace shorts sit low against her hips, scalloped edges skimming the tops of her thighs, while the matching camisole has thin straps, a deep neckline and enough transparency to make the continued existence of Garrett’s self-control feel less like maturity and more like a personal attack.
Normally, she cannot cross his room wearing it without being grabbed. Once, she had made it as far as the foot of his bed before Garrett caught the back of the shorts with one finger and dragged her toward him, grinning when she stumbled into his lap.
Another time, he had walked directly into his desk because he claimed he was checking where he had left his phone while watching her adjust one of the straps in the mirror.
Tonight, he looks up from the cardboard box beside her wardrobe, says, “That’s cute,” and returns to sorting a collection of tangled charging cables.
Cute. Her eye twitches.
She stands there for several seconds, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Something about taking it off. Something filthy enough to restore natural order. At minimum, an indication that he’s noticed the lace and that her nipples are visible beneath it.
Garrett picks up an old phone charger. “Is this yours?”
She stares at him. “No.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t own anything that ugly.”
Garrett studies it, considering whether electrical equipment can have aesthetic failings. “Think it’s Dean’s.”
She blinks at him. “Throw it away.”
“He’ll complain.”
She huffs. “Throw him away too.”
His mouth twitches. He places the charger in a small pile near his knee, then reaches into the box again. She remains in the middle of the bedroom in her sluttiest pyjamas, arms hanging loosely at her sides, experiencing what she can only describe as rejection.
Eventually, Garrett looks up. His eyes move over her face rather than anywhere useful. “What?”
She narrows hers. “Nothing.”
“Okay,” he murmurs.
Everything is gentle now. His voice. His hands. The brief kisses he leaves on her hairline before going to practice. He touches the small of her back when passing behind her but never lets his palm wander lower. He’s slept in her bed four nights this week and treated it like a protected wildlife sanctuary.
Before the scare, Garrett had been physically incapable of behaving himself around her. She could wear an old t-shirt and complain about the weather and still end up pinned beneath him because, apparently, the way she said humidity had been provocative. He used to look at her like he had been given access to something rare, dangerous and specifically designed to ruin his schedule.
Now he has willpower. It’s disgusting.
By the following evening, the black lace has been replaced by a pale pink set with a bow between her breasts and shorts so small they ride up when she walks. Garrett arrives after practice with damp curls, grey sweats, a duffel over one shoulder and two takeaway bags balanced in one hand. He kisses her cheek. He asks whether she’s eaten. He takes the rubbish downstairs without being reminded.
He doesn’t fuck her.
Sunday morning, she showers while he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and spends several deeply humiliating minutes positioning herself beneath the water like an expensive shampoo advertisement. Garrett hands her the conditioner when she asks for it, presses one kiss to her wet shoulder and leaves to make coffee.
She considers drowning him.
By Sunday night, exactly one week after the pregnancy test declared her uterus free from immediate responsibility, she’s stopped believing any of this is accidental.
Garrett’s lying beside her on the bed with his back against the headboard, one knee bent beneath his phone and the other stretched over the comforter. He showered at her apartment after practice, which means his hair is still damp at the ends and he smells like the body wash she bought because he liked it, though he continues referring to it as hers whenever someone points out that a bottle has also appeared in the upstairs bathroom at the hockey house.
The television is playing something neither of them has followed for twenty minutes. Garrett is scrolling with one thumb, expression relaxed and mildly interested, while she sits beside him in dark red lace that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination except how quickly it might tear.
She’s been waiting for him to notice for eleven minutes. He noticed. She knows he noticed because his eyes had dropped when she came out of the bathroom, then immediately lifted to her face with the kind of deliberate control usually required when speaking to somebody’s mother at a funeral.
He’d said, “You cold?”
She’d nearly thrown herself through the window.
Now his phone glows over his face while one hand rests innocently against his stomach. Not on her thigh. Not beneath her shirt. Not even close enough to suggest he might accidentally brush her. The restraint is offensive. Worse, it’s beginning to hurt.
The first few days had made her irritable. The rest have done something quieter. Something that sits beneath her sternum and tightens each time Garrett kisses her forehead like she’s precious and sexless.
She’s checked herself in mirrors more than she would ever admit. Turned sideways. Looked for changes that do not exist. Wondered whether the pregnancy scare had taken whatever filthy, hungry thing used to spark between them and made it feel dangerous to him.
Maybe the thought of her pregnant had rearranged the way he saw her. Maybe he had pictured a child inside her and could no longer separate that body from the one he used to drag toward him by the hips. Maybe all his talk about not leaving had come with some new, terrible version of respect where she became something to look after rather than want.
Garrett’s thumb moves over the screen. Her jaw tightens. He smiles faintly at whatever he’s reading. Something inside her snaps with remarkable cleanliness, so she smacks the phone out of his hand.
It flies sideways, bounces once against the comforter and lands facedown near his thigh.
Garrett blinks. His empty hand remains suspended in front of him. “Hey–”
She climbs into his lap before he can finish. His back hits the headboard with a quiet thud as her knees settle on either side of his hips, lace shorts dragging over the soft cotton of his sweats. Garrett’s hands come up automatically, catching her around the waist while she takes his face between both palms and kisses him.
There’s no gentle beginning, she catches his bottom lip between hers, sucking hard enough to steal the small surprised sound from his throat before pushing her tongue into his mouth.
Garrett kisses her back on instinct, head tipping beneath her hands, lips parting, breath warming as she tangles one hand into his damp curls and holds him exactly where she wants him.
For one bright second, everything rights itself. His mouth gets rougher. His fingers flex at her waist. His body tightens beneath her, familiar and responsive enough that relief moves through her with almost painful speed.
She rolls her hips down, letting him feel the thin lace between them, and Garrett groans softly into her mouth. Her fingers tighten in his hair. His hands slide from her waist toward her hips, palms following the curve until they stop.
Garrett exhales against her lips and moves both hands back up. She kisses him again, harder, convinced he’s simply miscalculated. Then she releases his hair, catches his wrists and deliberately places his hands on her ass.
Garrett leaves them there for perhaps half a second. Then, with the careful patience of a man returning a misplaced object to its correct shelf, he lifts them to her waist again.
She pulls back.
Garrett’s lips are swollen. His breathing is a little rough. His curls stand up where she gripped them, and his eyes move over her face with open confusion. “What?”
She looks down at his hands, then at him. “What the fuck?”
His brows draw together. “What?”
“Why are your hands there?”
Garrett glances down. “On your waist?”
“Yes.”
His expression doesn’t become more enlightened. “That’s generally where I put them.”
Her eyes sharpen. “No, it isn’t.”
“Baby–”
“You haven’t fucked me in a week, Garrett.”
The words land between them with significantly more volume than she planned. Garrett’s mouth closes. His hands remain at her waist, warm and broad and infuriatingly respectful.
He lets out a breath. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Her voice climbs. “That’s not an okay statement.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
Her eyes widen while her brow furrows. “You said okay.”
“Because you said I haven’t fucked you in a week.” A crease appears between his brows, like he’s trying to approach the conversation logically despite the half-naked woman currently straddling him and looking prepared to commit a felony. “Which is true.”
She stares. “Great. I’m glad we’ve established the timeline.”
Garrett’s mouth twitches at the wrong moment.
“Oh, don’t.” She climbs off him so quickly her knee catches the edge of the comforter. Garrett reaches out, but she slaps his hand away and stands beside the bed, furious enough that her bare feet feel too hot against the timber floor. “Do not smile at me.”
“I’m not smiling.” Garrett sits straighter. “I’m just looking at you.”
“No, you don’t. Not properly.” She gestures down at herself, the movement making the bow between her breasts bounce with humiliating cheerfulness. “I am standing in front of you in this, Garrett.”
His eyes drop because she has forced them to. They travel over the red lace, the deep line of her chest, the narrow strip of skin between the camisole and shorts. His throat moves.
She points at him. “Do not start pretending now. I’ve conducted an experiment.”
Garrett’s eyes lift slowly. “An experiment?”
“Yes. Multiple. Black lace, pink lace, shower, no bra, sitting on your dick during an entire documentary about bank fraud– nothing.”
His brow furrows. “That wasn’t about bank fraud.”
“I don’t give a fuck what it was about!”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay!”
He presses his lips together. She starts pacing because standing still requires a level of control she no longer possesses. Three steps take her toward the dresser Garrett built, then four return her to the bed because the room isn’t large enough for the scale of her outrage.
“You used to be obsessed with me,” she says. “Literally obsessed. I couldn’t bend over in your general vicinity. I wore your old shirt once and you acted like I’d personally invented tits.”
Garrett rubs one hand over his mouth. His shoulders move suspiciously.
“This is not funny!”
“It’s a little–”
“Do you know how lucky you are to get to fuck me?”
His hand drops. “What?”
“No, seriously. Do you understand?” She gestures at herself again, more broadly now. “Look at me. I’m hot. I’m flexible. I let you do things that would make a priest leave the church. I bought us a vibrator and let you name him Douglas even though that’s a name for a divorced dad.”
His bottom lip pouts slightly. “You liked the name.”
“That’s completely irrelevant.”
“Okay.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Sorry,” he says immediately.
She resumes pacing. The lace shorts have started riding up on one side, but stopping to adjust them would undermine the argument, so she continues with one cheek marginally more exposed than the other.
“And now what? You’re in touch with your emotions?” she demands. “You’ve developed restraint? You’re behaving like I’m some fucking nun you’re helping cross the road.”
“I don’t think nuns–”
“Garrett.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“You’re being so fucking gentle with me. You keep kissing my head.” She points accusingly at her forehead. “This part. Constantly. Do you know how insulting that becomes after the sixth time?”
His brows lift. “I didn’t.”
“Well, now you do.”
“I was trying to be nice.”
“Since when?”
The question leaves her sharper than the rest, slicing cleanly through the room. Garrett goes quiet.
She feels the difference immediately. The rant loses some of its momentum, but not enough to stop. Her chest is moving too quickly beneath the lace, each breath catching faintly against her ribs. “Seriously. Since when do you care this much about being respectful? You’ve fucked me against this kitchen counter before there was a chair in the apartment. You tried to negotiate access to my ass while I was giving you a house tour.”
“I accepted the ruling.”
“Not the point!”
His hands settle against his thighs. He watches her pace once more toward the dresser, then back, his expression no longer amused. There’s something careful in it now, but not the awful tenderness she’s spent the week resenting. This is attention. Full and steady and fixed entirely on her.
She hates that it makes her eyes sting. “You made me feel like shit,” she says, quieter than everything before it. “I’m right here, and you won’t touch me with a twenty-foot pole.”
Garrett’s jaw tightens. “That’s not true.”
“You literally removed your hands from my ass.”
“I was trying not to–” He stops.
“To what?”
His gaze shifts briefly toward the floor. He drags one palm over the back of his neck, fingers catching in the damp curls there. “You done?”
Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
“Are you finished yelling at me?”
She considers the question with genuine seriousness, cataloguing the remaining insults at her disposal. There are several. Most lack the emotional precision of the earlier material. “Yes,” she says eventually. “For now.”
“Sorry.” A faint, exhausted breath leaves him. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that.”
The immediate sincerity is irritating. She folds her arms over her chest, which pushes everything upward enough that Garrett’s eyes flick down before returning to her face.
“I wasn’t trying to avoid you,” he says. “Or make you think I don’t want you.”
“You have a very confusing way of communicating desire,” she mutters.
“I know.”
“You brought me garlic bread and organised my cables.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You needed both.”
“I needed your dick.”
Garrett’s eyes close for half a second. When they open again, something warmer has entered them, though the tension around his mouth remains. “Yeah. I’m getting that now.”
She gives him a flat look.
He leans forward, forearms braced against his thighs. “It’s been weird since…”
“The scare,” she finishes.
Garrett nods. Outside the bedroom, the apartment hums with all its small new noises: the refrigerator motor, a car passing below, one of the pipes ticking faintly inside the wall. The same apartment where they sat with a cushion between them and waited three minutes to find out whether the rest of their lives had already changed.
Garrett looks down at his hands. “I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
“So you decided to become celibate?”
“I didn’t decide anything.” His thumb moves over the faint scrape near his knuckle. “I just kept thinking about what I said to you. About how I made you feel. And then every time I touched you, it felt like…” He exhales, frustrated by the sentence before it exists. “Like maybe that’s all I know how to do with you.”
Her arms loosen by a fraction. “What?”
“You were scared, and I was a fucking asshole. Then the test was negative, and we hugged, and the next thing I wanted to do was kiss you.” His mouth twists. “Which felt shitty.”
“Why?”
“Because you were standing there crying after I accused you of sleeping with someone else.”
“And you think kissing me would’ve been… the offensive part of that evening?”
“No.” He rubs both hands over his face. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just didn’t want to act like sex fixed it.”
She looks at him.
Garrett’s hands drop. His face is open in that reluctant, uncomfortable way it becomes when he’s run out of places to hide without physically leaving the room. “I didn’t want you thinking I was only being nice because I wanted something. Or that I was just waiting for enough time to pass before I started grabbing you again.”
“You could’ve asked.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve said, hey, I’ve become weirdly complicated and may need written permission to touch your ass.”
He gives her a look. “That would’ve gone well.”
“It would’ve gone better than treating me like somebody’s grandmother.”
His mouth twitches. “You don’t dress like anybody’s grandmother.”
“Then why weren’t you looking?”
“I was looking.”
“No, you weren’t.”
His eyebrows raise lazily. “I was trying not to get caught.”
The answer arrives so simply that she stops.
Garrett lifts one shoulder, almost embarrassed. “You kept changing in front of me and walking around in these little…” His gaze drops again, slower now, taking in the lace where it clings to her waist and disappears high over her thighs. His jaw shifts. “Things.”
“Pyjamas.”
“Those aren’t pyjamas.”
Her mouth threatens to move. She fights it. “You said the black ones were cute.”
“I was fighting for my life.”
“You sorted cables.”
He huffs. “I needed something to do with my hands.”
The laugh escapes before she can stop it, quick and unwilling. Garrett watches her face soften, his shoulders loosening by a degree. She uncrosses her arms. “So you still want me.”
His eyes settle on her, dark and steady, the humour leaving his mouth while something heavier takes its place. “Baby,” he says, “I’ve wanted you every second of this week.”
The words move beneath her skin slowly, warmth spreading into all the places that had gone tight and cold. She picks at the edge of one lace strap. “You have an extremely stupid way of showing it.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought the pregnancy thing made you see me differently.”
Garrett’s brows draw together. “It did.”
Her stomach drops.
He sees it. “Not like that.”
“Choose your next words very carefully.”
“I mean…” He looks briefly toward the ceiling, searching for whatever language has avoided him all week. “I don’t know. It made everything feel more… real.”
The back of her neck warms. “Everything?”
“Us.” He says it quickly, then continues before either of them can examine the word too closely. “This apartment. You. How much I’m here. How much of my shit is here. The fact that you weren’t sleeping with anybody else.”
“You weren’t either.”
Garrett’s eyes flick to hers.
She lifts her chin. “Were you?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate enough that the last small knot inside her loosens.
He rubs his palms once over his thighs. “I realised I’ve been walking around saying this isn’t anything while treating it like it’s…” His jaw works. “Not nothing.”
She waits, but Garrett doesn’t give her more. He looks like the sentence has already cost him a functioning organ.
The realisation arrives quietly anyway. He’s frightened because the pregnancy scare made them real in a way jealousy and toothbrushes and furniture never quite had. Frightened enough to try becoming a better man through the deeply flawed strategy of refusing to put his hands on her ass.
Her chest tightens, but this time the pressure is warm. “You’re such an idiot,” she says.
Garrett nods. “Yeah.”
“And I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“And you should’ve spoken to me.”
He nods again. “I know.”
“I didn’t ask you to respect me into celibacy.”
That finally breaks him. Garrett drops his head, laughing into both hands while she stands between his knees trying not to smile. His shoulders shake once beneath the thin grey shirt.
When he looks up, his face is softer. “I’m sorry.” Garrett’s eyes move over her face. “Can you come here?”
She nods. The distance between them is only a few steps. Garrett watches each one, his gaze dropping openly now to the lace shorts, then climbing back to her face when she stops in front of him.
His hands settle against the backs of her thighs, and for one second, neither of them moves.
Then Garrett slides his palms upward, slowly enough that she feels every inch of the path, warmth dragging over bare skin until his thumbs reach the lace hem. He looks up at her while his fingers curl around her thighs, drawing her closer until she stands between his knees and the soft cotton of his shirt brushes her stomach.
“There,” she murmurs. “Was that so difficult?”
“Extremely.” His mouth touches her just above the waistband of the shorts.
The kiss is gentle, but this time it doesn’t feel cautious. It feels intentional. His lips press to the soft lower curve of her stomach, then move slightly to one side, warm breath spilling over her skin as his hands continue their slow journey upward.
Her fingers find his curls. She doesn’t pull yet. She only lets them settle there, combing lightly through the damp strands while Garrett kisses her again.
“You look so fucking sexy,” he murmurs against her stomach.
She bites her bottom lip. “I know.”
His laugh brushes over her skin. “Yeah. I know you know.”
“You could’ve mentioned it earlier.”
He presses another slow kiss to her stomach. “I was worried encouragement would make the outfits smaller.”
“They can get smaller.”
Garrett’s hands tighten beneath the curve of her ass before he catches himself.
She looks down. “Don’t you dare.”
His eyes lift.
“Leave them there.”
Something shifts in his face. The last trace of restraint gives way , his hands spread properly over her, palms filling with lace and warm skin as he pulls her forward until her stomach presses against his mouth.
“Better?” he asks.
“Marginally.”
Garrett kisses the centre of her stomach again, then lower, mouth dragging along the lace waistband. “Marginally?”
“You’ve caused significant emotional damages.”
His teeth catch lightly near her hip. Her breath stutters. “I’ll fix it.”
“You’d better.”
He turns his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss over the point of her hip, just above the lace. Then another lower, where the shorts curve high over her thigh. Each one is slow enough to feel like an apology and hot enough to make the meaning significantly less respectable. Her fingers tighten in his hair.
Garrett looks up at her through his lashes, mouth resting against the exposed skin beside the tiny bow. “I really am sorry, baby.”
She swallows. The humour thins around the ache beneath her ribs. “I know.”
His thumb moves once over her ass, no longer pretending not to. “I don’t want you thinking I don’t want you.”
“Then don’t make me conduct another week-long lingerie study.”
He pouts against her skin. “Think I need to review the data.”
“You had your chance.”
He smiles against her skin. “Take these off.”
A warm pulse moves low through her stomach. “Is that a request?”
“Mm.” His fingers hook carefully beneath the lace at her hips but do not pull. “Can I?”
She watches his face. The dark focus in his eyes. The humour still sitting at the edges without hiding the sincerity beneath it.
“Yes.”
Garrett drags the shorts down slowly, his knuckles skimming the outside of her thighs. She steps out of them when they reach her ankles, one hand braced against his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to her waist before lifting his gaze again.
“The top too?”
She catches the hem herself and pulls it over her head. Garrett exhales. The sound is quiet, almost disbelieving, and significantly more satisfying than any prepared compliment. His eyes move over her without restraint now, taking in every part of what she has spent a week placing directly in front of him.
Garrett turns his face and kisses her lower stomach again. “Been thinking about this all week.”
The confession sends a fine shiver over her skin. “You’re going to make it up to me?” she asks.
His mouth moves over her hip. “You know I will.”
“Mhm.” She curls her fingers into his hair and tips his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “And Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you have an emotional breakthrough, you still have to touch my ass.”
His grin spreads beneath her hand, warm and boyish and finally familiar again. “That a rule?”
“It’s a condition of continued access.”
He drags his bottom lip through his teeth. “Very restrictive.”
She tugs his hair harder. “You’re lucky to be here.”
“I know.”
This time, when she climbs into his lap, Garrett’s hands go exactly where they belong.
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SUMMARY Garrett goes to embarrassingly great lengths to get you to call him a certain pet name again.
CONTENT love island au, fem reader, use of pet names (sweet boy), short and sweet, barely edited
A/N this is very short sorry, but it's just something small I thought would be funny lol
love island masterlist
The first time it happened was in a moment so inconspicuous, it was almost offensive. Because maybe, if it had happened in a grander way, Garrett could have capitalized on it more—or at least, have been more prepared for it.
Instead, it happens right as the lights in the bedroom turn on and all the Islanders start getting up for the day.
Garrett stretches, letting sleep cling to him for just one more moment before sitting up. Next to him, you’re splayed out in a way that almost doesn’t look comfortable, having decided at some point in the night that his forearm was a better pillow than the five on your bed.
Your eyes squint slightly at the light and he can tell you’re starting to wake up so he leans over, pressing a greeting kiss to your lips. You hum against his mouth, the sound vibrating between you as he coaxes you out of sleep. You’re warm the way people always are when they first wake up, a toasty comfort lingering on your skin, and when he pulls away, you’re blinking up at him sleepily.
And then, in a voice that’s small and groggy and drips from your lips like grenadine, it happens.
“Hi, sweet boy.”
Garrett thinks it’s unfair of you to do this to him so early in the morning, when his curls are still a frizzy mess on his head and he hasn’t even wiped the sleep from his eyes. You don’t even seem to fully register what you’ve said—or the way Garrett freezes and his chest stutters—blinks slowing as you start to slip under the warmth of the blankets again.
He wants the memory etched into his brain—you half-asleep, your face still puffy, wearing a sweet smile as the sound of those words, shaped by your voice, fills his ears until he can’t hear anything else. There’s not a single part of him that feels normal about this. In fact, the only thought he can seem to form fully is that he wants to take you, your blankets, and at least eight water bottles and not leave your bed for a very long time.
And so Garrett says the only thing that a man who feels like his heart is going to explode can in this situation.
“...My arm’s asleep.”
After that morning, you don’t call Garrett “sweet boy” again. The memory seems to have completely slipped your mind—like the only reason you had said in the first place was because sleep had lowered your inhibitions. And he tried an embarrassing amount of things to get you to call him it again, purposefully trying to be extra sweet, like maybe if he was so overwhelmingly sweet, you’d have no choice but to never call him anything else again.
And in return he gets your happy giggles and pleased kisses and a few confused glances because sometimes he kind of overdoes it and makes you wonder why he’s acting so weird, but never the two words he’s hoping for. Of course, he could just ask you to outright, but Garrett hasn’t fully discarded his self-respect (having to verbally ask you to call him “sweet boy” would be embarrassing) and besides, he wants you to say it because you want to, not because he wants you to (having to verbally ask you to call him “sweet boy” would be embarrassing).
But Garrett is a man of science, so he thinks that, sometimes, the best way to get a desired outcome is to recreate the situation in which it happened. And so he starts trying to wake you up before you have the chance to do it yourself, in hopes that you’ll be tired enough to call him it again.
“Garrett.” You groan into your pillow when you’re dragged out of sleep by the feeling of him kissing along the side of your neck.
After three nights of this, it was starting to become noticeable and—given how late you all often had to stay up some nights to get all the shots production wanted for each episode—incredibly unwelcome.
Garrett doesn’t respond, pressing slightly firmer kisses against your skin as he pulls the blanket back from where it’s wrapped around your shoulder.
“If you make me open my eyes and the bedroom light is not on right now, you’re sleeping outside.”
You feel his lips still against you.
Unfortunately the damage had already been done and you heave a breath, flipping around in his hold so that you’re facing the suddenly very guilty looking man you’ve allowed into your bed. It’s somewhat difficult to make out his features—because it is not morning and the bedroom lights are not on—but even in the dark, the unhappy furrow of your brows is obvious.
He tries to lean forward to soften you with a kiss, but is quickly thwarted by a hand to the face as you shove him away.
“Uh-uh,” you whisper stubbornly. “Why am I awake right now?”
Garrett winces. “Baby—,”
“Nope. Try again.”
You’re still glaring at him and Garrett has to look away, looking around helplessly. He hopes that the discomfort that’s coloring his face bright pink isn’t noticeable.
Every explanation he comes up with in his head sounds more embarrassing than the last—because how exactly does he say that he’s resorted to setting his internal clock back an hour to try and get you to call him a pet name again.
“I’m not kidding. If you don’t explain yourself, I will make you sleep outside.”
Garrett groans, burrowing his head into the crook of your neck—which you let him—so that he doesn’t have to face you. “Will you just say it?”
“Say what?” You ask in a baffled whisper.
He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whine, but isn’t and he’ll deny it to anyone who says that it is.
“Don’t make me—,” He huffs. “You’re not fair, you know. I’ve been trying everything, but you just won’t say it. So I thought that—,”
“Garrett, what—?”
“Nooo.” This time it definitely is a whine but, in Garrett’s defense, waking up this early to wake you up this early was also tiring for him. “Stop calling me that.”
You’re too tired for this, trying to piece together whatever Garrett is talking about with a half functioning brain. “Stop calling you your name?”
You feel him nod into your shoulder.
You blink slowly. “So what am I supposed to call you, then?”
Garrett lets out a humiliated grumble into your skin. He genuinely can’t believe that you’ve reduced him to this.
“What… What you called me before…”
“What I—?” Your brows knit in thought, fighting through the remnants of sleep to recall what he’s talking about. “What? Sweet boy?”
Garrett’s arms tighten around you.
You bring one of your hands to your mouth to try and muffle your incredulous laughter. “That’s what all this has been about? Why didn’t you just ask?”
“No way—,”
“Why not, sweet boy?” You tease.
A strangled sound leaves his mouth as words fail him and this time you aren’t able to muffle the laughter that spills out of your lips.
“You’re such a simp.”
Garrett sits up indignantly. “I am not a—!”
“Hey guys.” Kendall’s voice suddenly pulls you both back to the shared bedroom. “It’s great that you were able to figure that out—Which, cute of you, Garrett. Unbelievably pathetic, but cute—But now, can you please shut the fuck up and let us sleep?”
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
summary: in which a post-practice grilled cheese turns into the first time garrett talks about raising lily alone after her biological mom left.
notes: hi! i thought this was a sweet little way for garrett to acknowledge y/n's burnout with college, and doing something simple, yet still caring for her! 🥹 the walls are slowly starting to come down a little bit when it comes to garrett's past!
ꪆৎ
garrett gets home earlier than expected.
the house is quiet.
the only light still on is the one above the dining table, casting a warm glow across the open-plan kitchen.
he pauses for a second after closing the front door, instinctively listening.
no tiny footsteps, no cartoons playing in the background, just the soft click of laptop keys and the faint voice of someone lecturing.
garrett drops his keys into the bowl by the door, shrugging off his jacket before following the sound into the kitchen.
you're sitting at the dining table, your laptop open in front of you.
lecture slides fill the screen beside a colour-coded notebook, highlighters lay scattered across the table, and a half-finished bowl of cinnamon toast crunch sits beside you, soggy, clearly having been forgotten about between paragraphs.
one earbud sits in your left ear, your eyes fixed on your notes until garrett rounds the corner.
your head jerks up before a hand flies immediately to your chest.
"holy shit. you scared me."
"sorry." the corner of his mouth twitches. "i didn't mean to."
you pull your earbud out, "i thought you weren't going to be home for another hour."
"got out earlier tonight."
he washes his hands at the sink before glancing over his shoulder, his eyes drifting from the lecture on your laptop to the bowl of cereal beside you.
"...that's dinner?"
you follow his gaze before looking back down into the bowl, "maybe."
a quiet huff of amusement leaves him as he pulls open the fridge. "you fed lily a proper meal?"
"chicken, vegetables, rice."
he nods approvingly before raising his eyebrows, clearly confused.
"...and you're eating cinnamon toast crunch?"
you take a spoonful, "it's balanced."
he looks over the fridge door. "is it?"
"there's calcium."
garrett doesn't respond.
"and whole grains."
he gives you a look that says nice try.
"right."
there's a beat of silence before garrett starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge without another word.
bread, cheese, butter.
you watch him for a second, "what are you doing?"
"making dinner."
"for you."
"for us," he corrects.
you blink. "garrett."
he doesn't look up. "hm?"
"i said i was fine."
"i know."
"you don't have to cook for me."
he sets a frying pan on the stove, "i'm already cooking."
"you know what i mean."
garrett finally glances over, eyes meeting yours. his expression is so matter-of-fact it almost catches you off guard.
"i don't like the idea of you going home having eaten cereal for dinner."
that's it. no grand speech, no awkwardness, just a simple statement before he turns back to buttering bread like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
you don't really know what to say to that, so instead, you push back your chair and stand.
"do you need any help?"
he slides the block of cheese across the bench towards you. "grate."
you huff out a laugh. "someone's bossy."
"well..." his mouth twitches. "you do work for me."
you roll your eyes dramatically, though a small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, clearly amused. "you're lucky i love lily."
"good."
"good?"
"means you'll probably keep putting up with me."
you shake your head, "don't get too confident, graham."
"i'll try not to."
the kitchen settles into a comfortable rhythm. the soft scrape of the grater, the quiet hiss as butter hits the hot pan, the smell of toasted bread slowly filling the room.
it's easy.
the kind of comfortable silence that doesn't need filling.
garrett flips the sandwiches before leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest.
"how was she today?"
you smile without thinking, "good."
"good?"
"she informed me bunny needed a nap because he'd had a really big morning."
he nods once, "that sounds pretty fair."
"he'd been to the supermarket."
"…long day."
you smirk. "apparently."
"anything else?"
you grin. "she tried to put her friend maisee in the 'penalty box' at the park today."
garrett pauses. "what did she do?"
"took her shovel."
"well technically that is interference."
you stare at him, he stares back.
"garrett."
"what?"
"they're three."
"doesn't change the rules."
you laugh, shaking your head. "she made her sit on the bench for two minutes."
"good."
"you cannot be encouraging this."
"i'm not encouraging anything." he turns back towards the stove, entirely too pleased with himself. "i'm just saying she made the right call."
"of course you are."
"kid knows the game."
"kid also ate sand last week."
"that's entirely unrelated, y/n."
you laugh again. garrett shakes his head, reaching for the spatula. "yeah."
"what?"
he closes his eyes for a second. "she's definitely mine."
for a moment, the kitchen falls quiet again.
garrett flips the sandwiches before his eyes drift back towards your laptop and the notebook beside it. highlighted readings, handwritten notes and colour-coded tabs spill across the open pages.
he nods towards it. "how's college going?"
you look up, a little surprised, "busy."
"busy?"
you smile. "is that your favourite follow-up question?"
one corner of his mouth lifts, "apparently."
you shake your head with a quiet laugh. "i've got a paper due next week."
he glances back at your notes. "you've been working on that every night after lily goes to bed."
it's not a question.
you blink, clearly taken aback. "you noticed?"
garrett looks at you like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "of course i noticed, y/n. i would be a real dick if i didn't notice you constantly working away."
something warm settles quietly in your chest. you hadn't realised he'd been paying that much attention.
"it's just taking a bit longer than i expected."
he lowers the heat beneath the pan before leaning back against the counter.
"you know you don't have to stay once lily's asleep."
you frown. "i don't mind."
"i know."
his voice is calm. "i'm just saying, if you've got work to do, go home. don't worry about wiping benches or folding washing because you think you should."
you stare at him for a second.
"garrett."
he meets your eyes. "your degree's important, y/n."
the words are simple, matter-of-fact, as though there isn't any other option.
"i don't want you running yourself into the ground trying to do everything."
you smile, softer this time, "i'm okay."
he studies you for a second, "you sure?"
"yeah."
"just tired?"
you nod, "a little."
"okay."
he leaves it there. no lecture, no trying to convince you otherwise. a minute later, he slides two grilled cheese sandwiches onto separate plates.
one lands in front of you, and you can't help but smile at the absurdity of it. the captain of the boston bruins, standing barefoot in his kitchen after practice, making you grilled cheese.
"thank you."
he shrugs, "don't mention it."
you both settle onto opposite stools at the island.
the first bite is almost embarrassingly good, you can't help but let out a small mumble around it.
"okay."
he raises an eyebrow. "okay?"
"this was worth abandoning the cereal."
"that's quite the compliment, y/n."
"don't let it go to your head."
you take another bite before glancing down at the perfectly golden sandwich, "you're annoyingly good at these."
he gives a small shrug. "i've had a lot of practice."
"making grilled cheese?"
"yeah."
he tears another bite before speaking again.
"when it was just me and lily..."
his voice is quiet enough that you almost miss it. "after her mom decided she couldn't do the whole co-parenting thing."
your eyes instinctively lift to meet his.
it's the first time he's ever mentioned lily's mom, not vaguely, not in passing, at all.
he doesn't look at you. instead, he watches the steam curl from his sandwich. "lily was barely walking."
a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "i was still figuring everything out."
he lets out a quiet breath. "most nights i just needed something quick before she fell asleep."
he nods towards the sandwich. "grilled cheese was about the easiest thing i could make."
"quick, hard to mess up." he pauses. "mostly."
you can't help but smile. "mostly?"
he huffs a quiet laugh. "set the smoke alarm off more than once."
"a few times?"
"more than i'd like to admit."
you can't help but picture it.
a younger garrett, completely exhausted, standing alone in the same kitchen. one hand balancing a sleepy toddler on his hip while the other flipped a grilled cheese in a pan. learning how to be everything lily needed.
you smile, shaking your head. "i don't think this is what people picture when they imagine garrett graham, captain of the boston bruins."
he glances up. "no?"
"i think they're picturing fancy restaurants, private chefs..."
"not grilled cheese?"
"definitely not grilled cheese."
he huffs a quiet laugh. "their loss."
he catches you looking at him, giving a small shrug, almost embarrassed he'd admitted so much.
"guess i got pretty good at them."
you glance back down at your plate. "i'm glad you did."
for a moment, neither of you say anything.
you don't tell him you're sorry. you don't ask about lily's mom, either, somehow, you know that's not what he wants from you.
he isn't looking for sympathy or reassurance. he's simply letting you into a part of his life he's never spoken about before, offering you something small and strangely fragile without asking you to do anything with it.
so you don't.
instead, you lift the last half of your grilled cheese.
"well..."
he looks up.
"if retirement comes early, i'd say you've still got a pretty bright future."
one of garrett's eyebrows lifts. "oh yeah?"
"as a professional grilled cheese maker."
he laughs, properly this time, the heaviness of the conversation prior easing just enough.
SUMMARY You and Garrett hide from the rest of the Villa together (or the first time Garrett realizes you’re going to change him irreversibly).
CONTENT love island au, fem reader, love island relationship dynamics, idk if the book thing is how the show actually works but I've never seen them read so I'm assuming, reader sits on Garrett, Garrett picks reader up, waterboy Garrett is back, reader and Garrett use the same water bottle (they do way worse, but idk it might be gross to some people), Joe mention (boo tomato tomato), I think I accidentally made Garrett an ass man idk, history major Garrett (also shout out to the anon who gave me this idea ily), lots and lots of fluff, barely edited
A/N throwback to the beginning of their relationship lol. I had a lot of fun with this one, it was very cute to me, thank you for the request! also, I think I have finally planned out all the fics I want to do to establish the before-Casa timeline, so if there's anything you guys wanna see about their relationship before Casa lemme know! anyway, please enjoy!
love island masterlist
“Oh, thank fuck.”
The sheer relief in Garrett’s voice causes you to look up questioningly.
You’re hiding out under one of the canopies, somewhat hidden from the view of the rest of the Villa as you stretch out on the couch-bed hybrid.
Garrett steps under the shade of the canopy. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I’ve just been here,” you say softly, setting down your pencil and book.
He nods in approval. “Well hidden.”
“Bad mood,” you provide.
“Yeah?” Garrett moves to sit down next to you and almost immediately you curl into his side, resting your head against his collarbone as he wraps an arm around you. “What happened?”
You shrug noncommittally. “Dunno. Just woke up feeling off today. The girls were getting ready really loudly in the dressing room and it’s so hot.”
You whine, like explaining why you’re annoyed has reminded you of it too, moving against Garrett to find a position that doesn’t feel gross, that somehow ends in you straddling one of his thighs. “And I can’t even get comfortable because I’m contractually obligated to have a micro-thong shoved up my ass.”
Garrett glances down and promptly removes his hand from the small of your back. “Oh, um, yeah, that’s… definitely unfortunate.”
You pull back an inch to look at him, narrowing your eyes to look irritated, but they sparkle with amusement.
“Subtle.”
Garrett smiles innocently.
“Anyway, I decided to find somewhere to hide because I was getting too mean,” you finish.
Garrett lets his gaze drop to look at you, the space between his eyebrows crinkling skeptically. “I have a hard time believing you get mean.”
“I went off on Paul this morning because he was drinking water too loudly.”
Garrett grins. “Now, that I would have loved to see.”
You let out an unimpressed hum.
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“You sayin’ you’d go off on me too?” Garrett asks playfully.
“Only if you drink too loud.”
“Here, let’s test it.” He reaches for his water bottle, taking a decent sized gulp. “Good?” He checks.
You consider it, before deciding that—unlike Paul—Garrett swallows water at an adequate volume. “Yeah.”
Garrett takes another sip of water, before holding his water bottle up to your mouth.
“I’m annoyed too though. We should check that you don’t drink water too loud either.”
You take the bottle from him, wrapping your lips around the nozzle to take a small sip.
Garrett’s brows scrunch, his mouth puckering slightly and his bottom lip jutting out as he pretends to think. “I’m not sure yet. Take another.”
He makes you take five more sips before finally nodding.
“Okay, you’re good.” He lets you give him back his water bottle and sets it down somewhere on the couch.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, collecting some of the water that had dribbled there between each sip, with a knowing huff. “You’re an idiot.”
“I think that was quite clever, actually.” The corners of his mouth twitch in triumph.
Another wave of heat rolls in and you whine in frustration, your face scrunching sourly. You squirm against Garrett’s leg, knees and elbows knocking against him as you try to find a position that doesn’t make you feel like you want to rip your skin off.
“Okay—Give me a sec—,” When one of your knees only just misses his groin, Garrett takes matters—and you—into his own hands, grabbing you by your hips.
He spreads his legs out to make more room between them, moving you off his thigh and into the space he’s just created. Twisting, he reaches around you both and removes the insane amount of pillows stacked behind him that are taking up half the cushion and scooches back so you have more room to stretch out. His hand grabs your leg again, throwing it over his other thigh to get you leaning more comfortable against his chest.
When you gingerly wrap one of your arms around his shoulder and rest your cheek at the base of his neck—and all of your limbs are away from his crotch—Garrett lets out a breath. “Better?”
He feels you nod against the bare skin of his chest. And you must mean it because you don’t tell him off when his arm stays wrapped around you and his hand stays in a spot where it’s covering you better than your recently defined “micro-thong”.
After a moment, you speak, your voice soft. “Why are you annoyed?”
“Hm?”
“You said you were annoyed too.” You remind him.
“Tucker spent the morning micromanaging everyone in the kitchen while we were making breakfast because we were ‘doing it wrong’. Sean tried to talk to me, like, five times about his relationship problems with Allie, which—Why would I give a fuck about that? But when I finally did try to help, apparently I did that wrong too, and I gave ‘bad advice’ on how to save a relationship I genuinely could not care less about.” He scoffs. “Then I went to the gym to lift weights and try and cool off and in comes fucking Joe to tell me I’m doing it wrong—Like knowing proper exercise form isn’t my literal fucking job—So I told him he talks a lot about how to grow your delts for a guy who doesn’t fucking have any and went to find you.”
He feels your smile grow against his chest. “You told him that?”
“Among other things.” Garrett lets his other hand drop to your thigh casually. “There may have been more yelling and cursing involved, I don’t really remember.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Right.”
His eyes catch the thin booklet you discarded on the cushion when he first found you and he suddenly removes his hand from your thigh and reaches over you to grab it.
“What’s this?”
You turn your head slightly to see what he’s talking about and he moves back to his original position, holding the book up so it’s closer to you.
Aside from challenges, recouplings, and getting ready for challenges and recouplings, there isn’t a lot to do during your downtime in the Villa. You don’t have your phone—which means you don’t have any shows, or movies, or YouTube deep dives on topics you know almost nothing about, but are willing to watch a three hour video on anyway. You couldn’t even bring any books to read because the show didn’t want to risk having to edit around a dramatic moment because a visible book title was in the shot.
What they did let you bring was a blank journal and an inconspicuous book full of sudoku puzzles.
“Sudoku. Do you know it?”
Garrett looks down at the half-solved sudoku puzzle on the page. “Not really.”
You shift so you can face the book better. “It’s like a puzzle, but with numbers,” you explain, pointing to some of the numbers printed on the page. “So these are kinda like pieces that are already solved and you work around them to finish the puzzle. See how the square is split up into nine boxes?”
Garrett nods.
“So basically each box has to have every number from one to nine in it. Like this one,” you point to one of the boxes you’d solved.
Garrett squints. “That seems… easy.”
“Okay, hotshot. There’s more to it than that.” You roll your eyes lightheartedly. “The square is separated into nine boxes, but it’s also separated into nine rows and columns and each row and column also needs to have every number from one to nine in it.”
“That seems less easy.”
Garrett flips through a couple of the pages, looking through the puzzles you’ve solved before he reaches a blank one. “Can I try?”
You’re a little surprised that he wants to, but nod, reaching for the pencil and handing it to him.
He starts on the puzzle, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. He has to flip between pages a few times to check how you write numbers you’re unsure of. You try to help him, but he bats your hand away gently and tells you he can do it. You watch as he stares at a square, writes a ‘3’ in it, looks again, and then erases it.
He flips back to one of the pages you did that he’s using as a reference. “You’re kinda quiet today,” he muses, not looking up from the book.
“Yeah, I don’t know, I think I’m just tired.”
Garrett stops the intense analysis he’s doing of your sudoku page, letting his eyes fall to where you’re resting on his chest. “You wanna try and take a nap?”
You shake your head. “No, it’s okay.”
“We can do something else if you want?” Garrett offers. He sets your pencil between the pages he has open, closing the booklet around it and setting the two aside. “I can do this later.”
Your eyebrows raise slightly. “You want to?”
“Yeah. You still can’t help me though.” He admonishes.
“Uh-huh.” You tease, your tone unconvinced. “You’ll come crawling back to me soon enough.”
Garrett pinches your thigh in retaliation.
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence until Garrett suddenly clears his throat.
“So… The next recoupling is coming up soon…”
You snort lightly. “Smooth.”
“What?” Garrett chuckles. “I’m just sayin’. And it’s girls’ choice.”
You lift your head up until you and Garrett are eye-to-eye.
“Is this your way of saying you want me to pick you?”
Garrett levels you with a dry look. “You know that I do.”
“Yeah, I know.” A wide grin stretches across your face. “I wanna hear you say it though.”
Garrett shakes his head, pressing his lips against each other to try to—unsuccessfully—keep his unamused expression.
“You’re a brat.”
You hum, unperturbed. “That doesn’t really sound like a ‘please, please, please pick me at the next recoupling’.”
Garrett tilts his head challengingly. “And if I don’t? Who exactly would you pick instead?” His eyes drop to your lips, like he’s daring you to say anyone else.
You pretend to think. “Well, Tucker’s really nice…”
“Mm. He isn’t me though.” Garrett’s voice drops to a cocky murmur. You both know the reason your face is only an inch from his has nothing to do with volume.
“There’s also Sean. I don’t know if he and Allie are really going anywhere, so maybe I’ll pick him.”
The corners of Garrett’s mouth rise into a disbelieving smirk.
“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that,” he whispers before closing the distance between you and catching your lips between his.
Your mouth moves against his lazily until you both hear an exaggerated gag coming from somewhere else in the Villa. You both pull away to see that Justin and Hannah, who were sitting closer to the pool, had finally noticed you—the latter watching you with an amused but fond look, while the former cups his hands around his mouth.
“Get a room!”
Garrett grumbles something in annoyance, but you turn to shout back, “You first!”
In retaliation, Justin grabs Hannah’s face with both hands, making a show of kissing her sloppily as she laughs before getting lost in it as well. When you glance back down, you catch Garrett watching the two of them before he feels you staring at him and turns back. At the look on your face, his brows scrunch questioningly.
You look down bashfully. “Will you please say it?”
Garrett makes a small noise of understanding. He reaches up to tenderly brush his thumb against your temple.
“I would be very happy if you picked me at the next recoupling,” he tells you quietly as the pad of his thumb travels across the sticky sheen of sweat and sunscreen on your skin. “Please, please, please. With a cherry on top.”
A smile breaks out on your face and you tuck it between your teeth. “Okay,” you whisper happily.
The kiss that you press to his lips gets abruptly interrupted when you accidentally yawn and Garrett laughs against your mouth.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take a nap?”
You shake your head stubbornly. “It’s too hot. I won’t fall asleep.”
Garrett gives you a dubious look.
“Really,” you try to assure him. “I just wanna keep watching you do sudoku wrong.”
Garrett’s face takes on an exaggeratedly wounded expression when he sees you’re biting back a laugh. “Et tu, Brute?”
You can’t stop the embarrassingly smitten giggle that escapes you. “You know Shakespeare?”
He shakes his head. “Only Julius Caesar. I took a class on the history of the Roman Empire in college and we had to read it—,” He winces at the memory. “And perform a memorized monologue.”
“Do you remember it?” You ask and when Garrett hesitates, you let out a delighted gasp. “Oh my god, you do!”
“No, I don’t,” Garrett denies fruitlessly. “I’ve definitely forgotten it—Or most of it—It was a weirdly large part of our grade—,”
“Will you do it for me?” You plead, giving him a pair of puppy dog eyes that Garrett is finding increasingly harder to not immediately fold to with each passing day.
“I—I really don’t remember a lot of it.” He warns.
“Yes, you do,” you tell him knowingly, scooting down until you’re lying on his chest again, resting your cheek against the base of his neck. “But if you forget, you can just make it up. I won’t know.”
Garrett lets out a nervous breath. “Okay, um… So, it starts like, ‘Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, no Rome of safety for Octavius’… Uh… ‘Go hence and tell him so. Yet stay awhile; thou shalt’... ‘Thou shalt… not go back till I have borne this corpse into the market-place. In my oration, the people’—No, wait—‘There shall I try, in my oration, how the people take the cruel issue of these bloody men; according’... ‘According to which thou… shalt… describe to young Octavius the state of things. Lend me your hand.’”
When Garrett finishes, he glances down to see that, at some point in his recollection of his college monologue, your eyes have fluttered closed.
“Keep going,” you demand, your voice thick with sleep.
Garrett chuckles quietly. “That’s the end of the monologue, baby. Mark Antony leaves after that.”
“Well then, can you tell me the story?”
“Of Julius Caesar?”
“Yes please.”
“Like, the play? Or real life?” Garrett asks.
You think, eyes still closed. “Whichever version’s your favorite,” you decide finally.
“Okay,” Garrett agrees.
You make it only a few minutes into Garrett’s retelling of the life of Julius Caesar before you’re asleep. Garrett knows this, but continues telling you the story anyway.
With one hand rubbing your back and the other hooked around the top of the back of your thighs to make sure you don’t slip—because the cushion is long enough for you to stretch out on, but not long enough for you to move any lower down Garrett’s chest—and a discarded sudoku book that Garrett is bad at, he tells you about empires, and heirs, and betrayal.
He watches the steady rise and fall of your back as you breathe softly, the serene look on your face and the way the fat of your cheek is smushed against his skin. Garrett only trails off when you make a small sound and, still asleep, nuzzle closer into the crook of his neck.
And he thinks about the meaning of water bottles, and the numbers 1 through 9, and a memorized monologue he hasn’t thought about since his sophomore year of college, and the fact that, not even 30 minutes ago, the thought of being around another person made him want to throw something at a wall.
You let out another small, contented hum.
Garrett’s not really sure what those things mean, but he knows they mean something. And he knows that, whatever happens, they’re going to mean something for a very long time.
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
hi bb! not necessarily a storyline idea but for briar media!reader i think it’d be kinda cute if we saw her trying to get the team to lock in and film content but they’re being particularly difficult that day for some reason! so she kinda puts them in her place and g is like “….thats hot” OR alternatively he kinda snaps at the team for her !! (i feel like this sounds a lot more angsty than i intended but i was thinking of it being super light hearted !!!)
It should have taken four minutes. That was the part making the muscle beneath her right eye twitch. Four minutes. Maybe six if somebody forgot the line.
She needed eight players standing against the Briar media wall after practice, each saying one sentence about Saturday’s fundraiser so she could cut the clips together, throw captions over them and have something usable on Instagram before dinner.
Instead, twenty minutes in, Dean had changed his line three times because he felt come support a great cause lacked sexual intrigue, Logan kept deliberately walking through the background, Tucker was trying to help but had somehow become responsible for holding three sticks, somebody’s helmet and her spare microphone, and Garrett had spent the last forty seconds flicking balled-up athletic tape at Dean’s head.
“Okay,” she said, lowering the camera. “Garrett, stop.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he muttered.
A piece of tape left his fingers and bounced directly off Logan’s shoulder. She stared at him.
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “That one was already in motion.”
Dean laughed. Logan threw it back. Somebody behind them started making fart noises into the microphone Tucker was still holding.
Something hot climbed the back of her neck. “EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP.”
The room died. Even the distant scrape of somebody unlacing skates seemed to reconsider itself.
She stood there with the camera clenched against her chest, pulse beating high beneath her jaw. “Do as I fucking say or, so help me God, I will get Coach, and we all know he likes me more than you dumb fucks. Stand where you’re supposed to fucking stand, say what I asked you to say, and if one of you fucks around one more fucking time, I swear to God–”
“Yep,” Logan said immediately. “Shutting up.”
“So sorry, boss,” Tucker added, already placing everything neatly on the bench.
Dean straightened against the wall. “Deeply sorry. Huge supporter of the fundraiser.”
Behind him, Garrett muttered something.
Her head snapped toward him. “Something to add, Captain?”
Garrett, who had the survival instincts to look only mildly amused, lifted one shoulder. “Was just saying you’re hot.”
She closed her eyes for one second. “Stand there.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And say the line properly.”
“Yes, boss.”
Dean leaned toward Logan and whispered, “Terrifying.”
Without lowering the camera, she said, “I heard that.”
Dean immediately faced forward. “Sorry. Love charity.”
pairing – rafe cameron x maybank!reader
summary – an oyster-bed injury, an understaffed country-club shift and one infuriating kook turn an already terrible night into something considerably messier.
warnings – strong language, drug use, poverty and financial stress, objectification by older male customers, bleeding injury, minor medical care, class-based insults, possessive behaviour, kissing and ass grabbing
notes from me – as requested here!! thank you baby!
word count – 4.8k
The oyster bed had been John B’s fault until JJ remembered he was the one who had told her to jump. After that, it became nobody’s fault. An unfortunate maritime event. An act of God. A freak accident.
The actual sequence had been fairly simple. They had taken the HMS Pogue out after lunch with enough weed to make the afternoon feel soft around the edges and no plan beyond finding somewhere to swim where nobody from Figure Eight would complain about the music.
Pope had been arguing with Kiara about whether the tide was coming in or going out. John B had been standing at the stern attempting to untangle a rope that had somehow formed a knot. JJ had taken a running leap off the side, surfaced with both hands raised and yelled that the water was perfect.
She had believed him because she was high. Under ordinary circumstances, she might have remembered the oyster beds hidden beneath that particular stretch of marsh. Under ordinary circumstances, she might also have remembered that JJ considered water perfect as long as it was deep enough to prevent his skull from striking the bottom.
Instead, she had jumped. Her right leg caught the oyster shells on the way down.
The pain arrived bright and immediate beneath the water, several sharp lines tearing from below her knee toward her ankle before the marsh closed cold and murky over her head. By the time she surfaced, JJ was laughing because he thought the sound she had made was dramatic.
Then she lifted her leg against the side of the boat and blood started threading down her shin in thin red streams, and the laughter dropped out of his face so quickly it might have been switched off at the wall.
Kiara had cleaned it with bottled water while Pope explained, with unbearable accuracy, how easily oyster cuts became infected. John B had apologised even though he hadn’t told her to jump. JJ had called the oysters cheap-shotting little bitches and offered to go back under with a hammer.
She had still come to work. Every little bit counted. That was how life worked. JJ picked up shifts washing dishes and occasionally bussing tables. John B had been working on Ward Cameron’s boat for months now, sanding, scrubbing, hauling equipment and accepting whatever little jobs Ward found when he wanted to feel generous without committing to anything expensive. Kiara brought food when she could get away with it. Pope sometimes arrived with groceries and pretended Heyward had ordered too much.
She had begged the country-club manager for the bartending job after overhearing that two girls had quit in the same week. She had stood in his office in her cleanest shorts and told him she had experience, which was true if pouring warm beer at keg parties counted, and that she could work any shift he gave her, which was true because desperate people rarely possessed scheduling conflicts.
The fact that she was technically too young had become an administrative problem solved by never writing anything down too clearly.
Now she stood behind the polished mahogany bar in a fitted black polo, a black skirt ending halfway down her thighs and white sneakers she had scrubbed in the Chateau sink the previous night with an old toothbrush.
Her hair was pulled into a high blonde ponytail that made her scalp ache beneath the elastic. The country club required female staff to look neat and approachable.
Her injured leg throbbed every time she shifted her weight. The cuts were shallow enough that she hadn’t needed stitches and deep enough that the skin pulled open whenever she bent her knee. Kiara had wrapped the worst of them before the shift, but the gauze had soaked through during the dinner rush and begun peeling away.
Still, the bar was busy. Busy meant money.
She smiled at a man named Chip while making his third gin and tonic, though Chip had spent the last ten minutes explaining that women her age no longer understood eye contact while staring directly down the front of her polo.
“Extra lime,” he reminded her, tapping two fingers against the bar.
“I remembered,” she said brightly.
She placed three wedges against the rim because generosity occasionally resembled citrus. Chip smiled like she had done something exclusively for him and left a twenty-dollar note under the empty bowl of bar nuts.
Worth it.
She swept the cash into her apron before turning away and letting her face collapse toward the shelves of liquor. Her stomach performed one dry, revolted little turn. Then she rolled her shoulders back, caught the next order and became charming again.
Rafe was seated near the far end of the bar. He had arrived with Topper and Kelce just over an hour earlier, freshly showered and wearing a pale blue polo that stretched cleanly across his shoulders. His hair had grown enough over the top of his buzz cut to cast a faint shadow when the overhead lights struck it, though it remained completely useless for grabbing.
She had already complained about this. He had already refused to grow it. Their relationship, if somebody became reckless enough to call it that, was built from several similarly productive negotiations.
The country club was one of the few places they could speak in public without immediately inviting suspicion. She worked there. He practically belonged to the furniture.
Rafe Cameron asking the bartender for another drink was normal. Rafe Cameron collecting JJ Maybank’s twin sister from the Chateau after dark would result in at least one broken window and possibly a body in the marsh.
Topper hated her with the focused, uncomplicated purity of somebody who had been raised to understand that Pogues existed largely to damage property values. He didn’t flirt with her like the older men or ignore her like some of the women. He watched her with open irritation, as though she had climbed over the back fence and diluted the bloodline.
Kelce was easier. Kelce mostly wanted his drink filled and everybody around him laughing, and he possessed the rare social intelligence to understand that insulting the person holding the tequila was poor planning.
She poured two fingers of scotch into Rafe’s glass and slid it across the bar. “Thanks,” he muttered, catching it without looking away from whatever Topper was saying.
“You’re welcome, sunshine.”
His eyes flicked toward her at that. The smallest warning crease appeared between his brows before Kelce asked him something and pulled his attention away again.
She smiled to herself and reached for a used glass. The movement sent heat dragging down her shin. Not the manageable pulse she had been ignoring all evening, but something wetter. Cooler.
She glanced down, and a thin line of blood had escaped beneath the already half lifted bandage, and travelled along the inside of her calf, slow and glossy beneath the bar lights. It had already reached halfway to her white ankle sock.
“Shit,” she whispered.
The other bartender, Emily, was stacking clean glasses near the register. She was twenty-one, perpetually tanned and kind in the uncomplicated way of people who had never needed kindness to be treated as a limited resource.
She caught the direction of her stare and winced. “Oh my God. What happened?”
“Oysters,” she muttered.
Emily’s mouth opened.
“Don’t ask.” She grabbed two folded cocktail napkins and pressed them against the blood. “Are you okay for a minute? I’ve gotta fix this before it gets on my shoes.”
Emily looked at the customers waiting along the bar, then back at her leg. “Yeah, go, babe. I’ve got it.”
“Love you.”
“Please don’t get sepsis.”
She huffed a laugh. “Pope already gave that speech.”
She slipped through the small swinging door before anybody else could order something. The service hallway behind the bar was narrow, cool and lit with fluorescent panels that made everyone look vaguely deceased. She moved quickly despite the pull in her leg, passing the kitchen doors and disappearing into the staff room before her manager could see her leaving the floor.
The first-aid kit lived on top of a metal locker beside several employee schedules and a laminated poster about handwashing. She dragged it down, collected a wad of paper towel from the sink and dropped into one of the plastic chairs.
The bandage looked worse once she peeled it away. Three ugly scrapes crossed the outside of her shin, surrounded by smaller cuts and thin red scratches. Raw, swollen skin that objected to movement and continued bleeding out of spite. She wet the paper towel and cleaned the blood away, jaw tightening when the water touched the open skin.
“Fuck,” she hissed.
The first-aid kit contained twelve alcohol wipes, two pairs of gloves, triangular bandages and approximately six hundred tiny adhesive strips designed for paper cuts. Nothing large enough to cover an injury caused by a whole colony of shellfish.
She cleaned everything as well as she could, stuck three of the useless little bandages across the worst spot and sat there for another moment with her hands resting between her knees.
The walls vibrated faintly with music from the dining room. Somewhere beyond them, glasses knocked together and somebody laughed too loudly. She imagined the till filling in her absence, every unserved drink becoming money sliding politely out the door.
“Good enough,” she muttered.
By the time she returned, Emily was taking three separate orders while Chip attempted to catch her eye again. Rafe’s head turned the second the door moved. His gaze went first to her face, then down.
She stepped behind the bar before he could examine the leg properly and took over the nearest order, smiling at a silver-haired man who requested a vodka martini and then told her she had dangerous eyes.
“What makes them dangerous?” she asked, reaching for the vermouth.
“Look like they might get a man in trouble.”
The answer lodged somewhere between her shoulder blades like a dead insect. She smiled anyway, tipped vodka into the shaker and said, “Only if he’s lucky.”
The man laughed and placed a twenty beneath his empty glass before she had even finished the drink.
Behind her, Emily made a tiny gagging noise while slicing lemons.
She turned with the shaker and murmured, “That’s our electric bill.”
Emily’s face sobered respectfully. “Godspeed.”
The night dragged forward in orders, tips and the persistent sting in her leg. The country-club men grew louder with every round, their voices gaining confidence as their balance deteriorated. She let them call her sweetheart. Let them ask what time she finished. Let one of them tell her she would make somebody a very distracting wife someday.
Each time, she smiled. Each time, money appeared beneath a glass. Rafe watched more than he spoke. She felt his attention catch whenever one of the men leaned too close or made her laugh with the bright false sound she used for tips. Once, when Chip put his hand flat against the bar and asked whether she had a boyfriend, Rafe’s gold ring clicked sharply against the side of his glass.
She didn’t look over. Looking would make it something.
Near ten, the crowd thinned enough that she could wipe down the counter without somebody immediately placing a wet napkin on it. Topper and Kelce had moved to a table behind the bar area with two other boys. Rafe remained standing near his stool, finishing the last of his drink.
He came closer while she worked, positioning himself on the other side of the bar where their voices wouldn’t carry. “Am I takin’ you home tonight?” he asked.
She pushed the damp cloth beneath a stack of coasters. “I know where I live.”
“T’Tannyhill.” He glanced toward the dining room before looking back at her. “No one’s home.”
The offer moved warm and familiar through her body despite the pain in her leg. Clean sheets. His shower. A kitchen containing actual food. Rafe’s hands around her hips while he told her to stop talking, usually moments before making it impossible. Any other night, she would have made him work harder for the yes.
She shook her head. “Not in the mood tonight.”
His face tightened at once. “You kiddin’ me?”
“Nope.” She sprayed another section of the bar and scrubbed at a ring left by somebody’s glass. “I just wanna go home.”
“To that dump?”
The cloth stopped beneath her hand. She looked up slowly. Rafe had the sense to keep his face neutral, but not enough sense to take the words back before they reached her.
“Yeah, asshole,” she said. “To that dump.”
He sucked briefly at the inside of his teeth and looked away. “Right.”
She resumed wiping the counter, harder now. “Can you not be a dick? I’ve had a shit enough night without you being a fucking asshole too.”
His eyes came back to hers, sharpened by the challenge. “Watch how you talk to me.”
“Or what?” She leaned one hand on the counter, lowering her voice into something sweet enough to curdle. “You won’t fuck me anymore? Shame.”
A short laugh left him, rough and disbelieving. He tipped his head as if reassessing her from a more interesting angle. “Mm. You say that now. Remember last night when you were beg–”
“Shut up.”
Rafe’s mouth curved.
“I mean it.”
“Yeah?” His voice had gone lower. “Sounded pretty serious last night too.”
Heat climbed beneath the collar of her polo. She glanced toward Emily, but the other girl was occupied at the far end of the bar and unaware that Rafe Cameron was attempting to describe her private behaviour within hearing distance of the ice machine.
“You’re disgusting.”
His smile widened by a fraction before flattening again. “Whatever. Have fun in the Cut.”
“Planning on it.”
He held her gaze for another second, annoyance and something else moving beneath his expression too quickly for her to separate them. Then he pushed away from the bar and returned to Topper and Kelce without saying goodbye. Good. Excellent. She hated him.
Her body, which had spent much of the previous night enthusiastically disputing that claim, could keep its opinion to itself.
She worked for another twenty minutes before the blood started again. This time she felt it reach her sock. The wetness gathered beneath the fabric at her ankle, small but unmistakable. She looked down and saw a red stain beginning along the white ribbing.
“Oh, come on,” she muttered.
Emily followed her gaze and grimaced. “Go.”
“I already went.”
Emily gave her a look. “And now you’re bleeding into your sock.”
She put the cloth down with a sigh. “I’ll be two minutes.”
The service hallway was empty when she slipped through the door again. She had almost reached the staff room when her manager stepped out from the office beside it.
Mr Collins was a narrow man in his late forties who wore his belt too tight and treated scheduling like a branch of military command. His expression tightened the instant he saw her. “Where are you going?”
“Staff room. I just need to–”
“You’ve already taken a break tonight.”
“It wasn’t really a break. I cut my leg and it’s–”
“We’re short-staffed, and I cannot have employees disappearing whenever they feel like it. Emily’s been covering your section twice now.”
Her mouth opened. The blood inside her sock felt suddenly hotter, irritation rising with it, fast and clean. “I’m not disappearing. I’m literally bleeding.”
“You should have addressed that before your shift.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll let the oysters know for next time.”
His face hardened. “Excuse me?”
Before she could decide whether losing the job would be worth the next sentence, Rafe’s voice came from behind them. “Hey, man.”
Mr Collins turned. The change was immediate enough to be embarrassing on behalf of the entire country club. His shoulders lowered. His mouth reorganised itself into something professionally concerned. “Mr Cameron.”
Rafe walked toward them with one hand in the pocket of his shorts, posture easy in the way only rich men could manage while interrupting somebody else’s employment dispute. His gaze touched her face for half a second before settling on the manager.
“Sorry,” he said. “My fault. Asked her to grab somethin’ for me.”
Mr Collins blinked. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Rafe smiled. It wasn’t his real smile. It was the clean polite one he used around people who worked for Ward, all teeth and nothing warm behind them. “Should’ve asked somebody else. Didn’t realise you were busy.”
“No, no. Of course.” Mr Collins gave a small laugh that made her want to strike him with the first-aid box. “I apologise, Mr Cameron. I was only ensuring the bar remained properly staffed.”
Rafe nodded like the explanation deserved consideration. “No, yeah. Doin’ your job. I understand.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
“We’re good.”
Mr Collins looked at her once, some leftover warning compressed into the glance, then smiled at Rafe again. “Enjoy your evening.”
“Thanks, man.”
They watched him disappear into the office and close the door. The second it clicked shut, she turned and smacked her palm against Rafe’s chest. It didn’t move him. Nothing ever did unless he chose to be moved, which was one of the more irritating things about him physically.
“I don’t need you fighting my battles for me, asshole.”
Rafe looked down at the place she had hit, then at her. “You’re welcome.”
“I had it handled.”
“Yeah.” His gaze dropped to her sock. The red mark was visible now, staining the white just above her sneaker. His brows pulled together. “Clearly.”
She shifted her foot behind the other. “Stop looking.”
“What the fuck happened to your leg?”
“Nothing.”
Rafe gave her a flat look. She attempted to move past him toward the staff room. His arm came across the hallway, palm flattening against the wall beside her before she could get by. “That why you’re not comin’ over tonight?”
She looked at the line of his forearm, then up at his face. “Yeah.”
His expression changed slightly, irritation losing its clean edge. “It hurts?”
“It fucking hurts, and it won’t stop bleeding.” She glanced toward the office door and lowered her voice. “So unless you’ve developed some deeply specific medical kink, tonight’s not happening.”
Rafe ignored that. “The fuck did you do?”
She sighed because the explanation only grew less intelligent each time she gave it. “We were out on the water.”
“Who’s we?”
“You know who we is.”
His jaw shifted.
“JJ, John B, Kie, Pope.” She waved one hand impatiently. “We were swimming and I was stupidly high, and the guys forgot to tell me where the oyster beds were. Fucked my leg.”
For a second Rafe said nothing. He looked down at the injury again, mouth pressing into a hard line. The faint muscle beside his jaw jumped once. “They forgot.”
“Yeah.”
“Your brother let you jump into an oyster bed.”
“He jumped first.”
His eyes flashed. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“I’m aware.”
“Fuckin’ idiots.”
She leaned her shoulder against the wall. “I was also there, Rafe. Participating. Nobody pushed me off the boat.”
His nostrils flared faintly as he breathed out. “Yeah, well, they should’ve been watchin’.”
The words landed somewhere inconvenient. Rafe rarely supplied anything soft without first wrapping it in annoyance and swearing. Still, something inside her chest shifted enough that she looked away toward the staff-room door.
“I’m alive.”
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”
“Pope cleaned it.”
“Pope,” Rafe repeated, visibly unimpressed by the medical credentials involved.
“He knows things.”
Rafe rubbed one hand over the back of his head, the short hair making a faint rasp beneath his palm. “How’re you gettin’ home?”
She shrugged. “Walking.”
His hand dropped. “Yeah. Uh, fuck that.”
She almost laughed at the sheer offence in his face. “It’s not far.”
“No.”
“I can walk fine.”
“You’re bleeding through your fuckin’ sock.”
She sneered up at him. “I’ve got another sock at home.”
Rafe stared at her as if she had deliberately misunderstood the concept of blood loss to annoy him. “I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
His brows drew together harder. “What?”
“I said no. I don’t need you taking me anywhere.”
Somebody came through the kitchen doors carrying a crate of empty bottles. She and Rafe both moved sideways to let him pass, their shoulders brushing in the narrow hall. The employee nodded quickly at Rafe and continued toward the loading entrance without looking at her leg.
Rafe watched him disappear. Then his hand closed around her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“C’mere.”
She tugged at her arm. “No.”
He ignored the refusal and pulled open the storage-room door beside them, steering her inside before anybody else could enter the hallway. She stumbled after him, more from surprise than force, and hissed when the movement pulled at her shin.
The room smelled like cardboard, cleaning chemicals and citrus syrup. Shelves crowded both walls with napkins, bottles, spare glasses and enough cocktail straws to support the country club through a natural disaster. Rafe shut the door behind them.
She yanked her wrist free. “What the fuck?”
“Lower your voice.”
“You dragged me into a cupboard.”
Rafe stood between her and the door, broad enough to block most of it without trying. “I’m driving you home.”
“I’m not going home with you.”
“Fine.” His patience snapped around the word. “Then I’ll take you to your fuckin’ shack, Jesus Christ. You’re not walkin’.”
She crossed her arms. “Oh, because you care about me so much?”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. He took one step closer, enough that the shelving pressed near her shoulder and the air between them warmed with him. “I like fuckin’ you.” He glanced down at her injured leg. “And I don’t wanna fuck you when your leg’s all fucked up.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, dry and sharp. “Oh. How romantic.”
“Fuck you.”
“You want to.” She tilted her chin. “I won’t let you.”
Rafe’s mouth twitched once, then his hand came up and closed around her jaw.
His palm fit warm against one cheek, fingers settling beneath her ear, the pressure firm. He drew her forward until the front of her polo brushed his chest and looked at her for half a second with that heavy, irritated focus he usually got immediately before proving an argument physically.
“You’re such a brat,” he murmured.
“You’re such a–”
He kissed her before she could finish. Slowly, which was unfair. If he had kissed her hard, she could have shoved him away. Called him a dickhead. Reminded him they were standing in a room containing industrial quantities of napkins while her manager sat less than twenty feet away.
Instead, Rafe pressed his mouth to hers once, warm and unhurried, thumb resting near the corner of her lips. Then again, deeper this time, his head angling as her mouth opened beneath his.
Her body betrayed her so quickly it felt rehearsed. The tension left her shoulders. Her hand caught the front of his polo. Her face tilted into his palm while his tongue moved against hers, tasting faintly of scotch and mint and the cigarette he had probably stolen from Kelce outside.
Rafe made a quiet sound in his throat, almost satisfied. His other hand slid down her side and cupped her ass beneath the edge of her skirt. She sucked in a breath against his mouth.
His fingers tightened, squeezing once before dragging her closer until her hips met his. Somewhere beside her head, a plastic packet of napkins crackled softly under the movement.
She tugged at his shirt, needing something to hold because his hair remained useless and his shoulders were too broad to grip properly with one hand. Rafe kissed her deeper, thumb shifting along her jaw while his palm worked over her ass again, slow and possessive enough to send heat curling low through her stomach.
Her injured leg throbbed. The rest of her barely noticed.
Rafe pulled back just far enough for their mouths to separate. His breathing touched her lips. His eyes moved over her face, dark and faintly accusing, as though she had personally caused whatever had just happened.
“You are so fuckin’ annoyin’,” he said.
She nodded, still gripping his polo. “I fucking hate you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She pulled him back in and kissed him. His hand returned to her ass immediately, squeezing harder this time as his mouth opened under hers. She sighed into the kiss before she could prevent it, body pressing closer while his thumb dragged once along the curve beneath the skirt.
Unfortunately, her body had never developed the ideological discipline required to hate Rafe properly. He kissed like every conversation had gone on too long. Like words were irritating obstacles people invented because they couldn’t place their hands correctly.
Even now, annoyed and half drunk and pretending the concern was about future access to her body, he knew when she softened. Knew the exact second her grip changed from pushing him away to holding him there.
He slowed again. That was worse than anything. His mouth moved over hers with enough patience to make the storage room disappear at the edges, until there was only the warm grip at her jaw, the broad hand beneath her skirt and the solid line of him against her. Her thighs tightened instinctively, friction catching beneath the thin fabric of her underwear and producing a whole new problem she didn’t have the resources to address during a shift.
Rafe broke the kiss first. She followed for half an inch before pride caught up and stopped her. His eyes dropped to her mouth. A small, smug curve touched his.
“Dickhead,” she whispered.
He hummed. His thumb brushed once over her lower lip, almost gentle. “Pain in the ass.”
“Take your hand off mine, then.”
He squeezed it once more before obeying. She glared at him while tugging her skirt back into place, though the effect was weakened by her swollen mouth and the fact that she hadn’t properly released his shirt.
Rafe looked down at her hand. She let go immediately.
“I’m drivin’ you home,” he said. “When’re you done?”
“Eleven.”
“I’ll be outside.”
She crossed her arms. “No.”
“If you try and leave, I’ll follow your ass.”
She narrowed her eyes up at him. “That’s kidnapping.”
His tongue pressed briefly into his cheek. “Uh-huh. Whatever.”
“You can’t just decide to drive me places.”
“Just did.”
“I’ll get JJ to pick me up,” she argued, because there was no way she was giving in after one kiss.
“On what?” Rafe asked. “The dirt bike? You gonna sit on the handlebars with your leg bleeding?”
She opened her mouth. Nothing arrived.
Rafe nodded, satisfied. “Right.”
“I could call John B.”
Rafe sucked at his teeth. “He’s probably high.”
“You’re drinking.”
He held up two fingers. “Had two.”
“Three.”
His eyes narrowed. “You countin’?”
She tilted her head. “I poured them.”
“Been here three hours.”
She hated when he introduced mathematics into an argument. It made the whole thing feel unnecessarily formal.
Rafe opened the storage-room door, then glanced back at her leg. “Go clean that up.”
“Yes, doctor,” she scoffed.
He pointed loosely at her leg. “Need more than those little Band-Aids.”
“Thanks. I hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ve got a kit in the truck.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
His expression went blank in the particular way it did whenever a question brushed too close to an answer he disliked. “Just do.”
Rafe Cameron kept cigarettes he claimed not to smoke, condoms in his wallet, a blanket in the truck and enough medical equipment to treat a roadside casualty. Nothing meant anything. Every object had simply appeared there through natural causes.
He stepped into the hallway, then paused. “Eleven.”
“I heard you.”
“Don’t leave.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Go away.”
His gaze travelled once over her face, then down toward the hem of her skirt before returning to her eyes. “Fix your leg, baby.”
The endearment came out low and absent, stripped of the mocking edge he usually placed around it in public. Before she could react, he walked away toward the dining room.
She remained in the storage room for another second, listening to the fading sound of his steps. Her mouth tingled. Her ass still carried the shape of his hand. Blood had reached the edge of her sock, and the ache in her shin continued pulsing with every heartbeat.
She looked down at herself. Horny, bleeding and still on the clock. Great.
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pairing – Petal!Reader x Garrett Graham
summary – Garrett Graham has a ten-step plan to get his girl back.
warnings – Strong language, alcohol consumption, lingering concussion symptoms, jealousy and relationship insecurity, discussions of unhealthy past relationship dynamics, references to parental abuse, family trauma, financial hardship, and an argument between friends
word count – 9k
navigation – Masterlist | « Chapter Four | Chapter Six »
Chapter Five.
Kisses On Cheeks.
Malone’s had never looked this good in its life. Usually, the place carried the exhausted dignity of a bar that had survived too many Briar students believing a sticky floor was an invitation rather than a warning.
Tonight, though, the tables had been pushed back from the little stage, the worst of the old beer smell had been bullied beneath lemon cleaner and hot food, and paper Hurricanes swept in uneven little trails along the exposed brick walls.
The posters they’d made yesterday stood near every entrance, framed by fairy lights Hannah had found in the theatre storage cupboard and sworn had been officially decommissioned rather than stolen.
Silent-auction sheets covered the long table near the rear wall beneath signed sticks, restaurant vouchers, game tickets, and the aggressively scented candle that had somehow developed its own three-foot exclusion zone.
Red and white balloons floated over the tables. QR codes had been taped to every menu holder so people could request songs and donate without needing to approach another human being, an innovation Dean had praised as revolutionary despite having contributed nothing to it.
The photo-booth still stood near the bathrooms, even though the actual booth had died twenty minutes before doors opened and currently displayed a handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign Tucker had produced while Dean advocated for replacing it with PHOTOS ARE TEMPORARY, DONATIONS ARE FOREVER.
The place was packed. Families from the Hurricanes programme had taken over the tables nearest the stage, kids in little team hoodies darting between chairs with the dangerous speed of people who had discovered nobody would tackle them at a charity event.
Briar students crowded the bar three deep. Local business owners hovered near the auction sheets with drinks in hand, quietly trying to outbid one another on dinner vouchers and signed equipment while pretending money had nothing to do with it.
Freshmen moved through all of them carrying donation buckets, raffle strips, and the frantic purpose of young men who had been informed by their captain that failing to raise money for children was both morally indefensible and likely to result in extra conditioning.
On the little stage, After Hours were halfway through Dirty Little Secret, Justin’s voice scraping pleasantly over the guitars while the drummer hit hard enough that the glasses behind the bar trembled faintly against one another.
It was a fucking vibe. She stood near the side of the dance floor with Logan on one side and Garrett on the other, nursing a vodka cranberry that had become mostly ice while Logan tried to persuade a group of girls that placing cash directly into his red donation bucket was more meaningful than using the QR code.
“It has atmosphere,” Logan said, lifting the bucket toward them with both hands. He had written FOR THE LIL ’CANES across the front in black marker, then surrounded it with small hurricanes that looked suspiciously like commas. “You can feel the donation happen.”
One of the girls dropped in a five. “There.”
Logan peered into the bucket. “That’s it?”
She choked on her drink. Garrett laughed beside her, warm and low, one hand briefly catching the back of Logan’s neck before Logan could continue fundraising through public shaming.
“Thank you,” Garrett told the girl, dragging Logan half a step backward. “He’s very grateful.”
“I am grateful,” Logan protested. “I’m also encouraging generosity.”
“You asked her if that was it.”
“She looked rich.”
The girls dissolved into laughter and moved toward the bar, leaving Logan to watch them go with the wounded expression of a man whose charitable methods had been unfairly constrained by leadership.
Garrett released him. “You’re not allowed to profile donors.”
“I wasn’t profiling,” Logan grumbled.
She tipped her cup toward Logan. “Maybe try saying thank you before asking whether they’ve concealed more money elsewhere.”
Logan pointed at her with the donation bucket. “I raised eighty bucks in twenty minutes.”
“Through fear.”
“Money spends the same.”
The song ended beneath a final crash of drums. The room erupted immediately, clapping and shouting while Justin stepped back from the microphone with a grin and lifted his guitar neck in acknowledgment.
She clapped too, the cold side of her cup pressed into one palm while the other stung faintly from how hard she brought it down. Beside her, Garrett put two fingers between his lips and produced a sharp whistle that made her flinch and laugh at the same time.
Dean climbed onto the edge of the stage before the applause had properly finished, taking the microphone from Justin with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned whether a room wanted more of him.
“Give it up for After Hours, everybody!”
The cheering rose again. Justin bowed theatrically, dark hair falling forward, while one of his bandmates spun a drumstick between his fingers and nearly lost it into the crowd.
Dean waited until the noise dipped, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He had dressed for the fundraiser as if there were a possibility charity might lead directly into a magazine shoot: watch catching the stage lights every time he moved the microphone.
“And give it up for my buddy John Logan,” he continued, turning toward them with his free arm extended. “The man responsible for putting this whole thing together.”
Logan froze. The applause came harder this time, spreading through the room as people turned toward him. Someone near the back shouted his name. One of the Hurricanes kids lifted both fists above his head.
Garrett grabbed Logan by both shoulders and shook him with enough enthusiasm to make the donation bucket rattle.
She whooped beside them, laughing as Logan tried to maintain the solemn expression of a competent event organiser while Garrett physically rearranged him.
Dean leaned toward the mic. “Look at him. It genuinely does not get better-looking than that.”
The room laughed. Logan’s face went slowly red.
“And he’s single, ladies.”
The whooping became immediate and ugly. Garrett threw his head back and contributed a long, rising wolf howl directly beside Logan’s ear. She laughed so hard her drink sloshed over the plastic rim and onto her thumb.
Logan lifted one hand toward Dean and spun his finger in a tight circle. Wrap it up.
“Alright, alright.” Dean looked down briefly at whatever figures had been written on the card in his other hand. “We’ve already raised two grand for the Lil ’Canes tonight.”
The cheer that followed felt different. Less drunken, more surprised. Logan’s expression shifted before he could stop it, the embarrassment loosening around something warmer as Garrett’s hands gave his shoulders one last firm squeeze.
“But we want a hell of a lot more for those guys,” Dean said. “So get drunk, hit the silent auction, and get some cool shit. Sadly, the photo booth is out of order, but there’s still a lot of fun to be had. The band is taking requests, so scan those QR codes and let them know what songs you want to hear. Make them regret agreeing to this.”
Justin leaned toward his own microphone. “Too late, mate.”
His Australian accent rolled easily through the speakers. A group near the stage screamed for him. Hannah, working behind the bar beside Allie, looked up so quickly the cocktail shaker in her hand stopped halfway through a movement.
Dean’s mouth pulled into a grin. “You guys ready?”
The answer nearly lifted the roof.
After Hours launched into a hard instrumental fill, guitars cutting through the shouting while Dean raised both hands. “Let’s have some fun.”
He handed the microphone back to Justin and came off the stage in one easy drop. He fist-bumped Tucker first where he stood near the silent auction, caught Logan’s hand next and pulled him briefly into his shoulder, then did the same to Garrett.
When he passed her, Dean’s hand landed warmly at the top of her shoulder, giving one quick squeeze before he continued toward the bar. Allie watched him approach without smiling.
Interesting.
Garrett’s attention had already shifted across the room. He looked toward the booth where six freshmen had gathered around two pushed-together tables, all of them wearing expressions that suggested they had been ordered to socialise but had not received further instructions.
“You good?” he asked her.
She looked up. The stage lights caught faintly in his eyes. He wore a black shirt beneath an open dark green jacket, curls falling in the irritatingly soft way they did whenever he showered and then pretended his hands had played no role in the result.
“Fine,” she said.
Garrett studied her face for half a second longer. Not searching for the answer he expected. Checking the one she’d given. He nodded. “Come grab me if you need me.”
“It’s all good.”
“Okay.” His hand brushed lightly against the back of hers, there and gone before it could become a question. “I’m gonna make sure none of them have donated their rent.”
She glanced toward the freshmen. One of them was studying the silent-auction sheet with the grave focus of a man considering financial ruin for a signed Bruins puck. “That feels possible.”
“Exactly.”
Garrett crossed toward them. The change arrived before he reached the booth. His shoulders settling, expression sharpening, easy warmth reorganising itself into something quieter and more focused.
Captain Garrett.
He slid onto the bench beside Tucker, pulled out his phone, and angled the screen toward the freshmen. Within ten seconds, all six were leaning in while Garrett pointed at something and spoke with one hand moving over the table, probably explaining positioning, line changes, St. Anthony’s power play, or why nobody under his command was permitted to bid more than forty dollars on memorabilia signed by a player currently sitting eight feet away.
Briar played St. Anthony’s tomorrow night. Garrett had mentioned it twice today in the calm voice he used when a game was important enough that talking too much about it might expose something. St. Anthony’s played mean, fast hockey and had spent the last two seasons treating every Briar matchup like a personal invitation to test the structural limits of the boards.
She knew that now. She knew who Garrett would likely line up against. Knew St. Anthony’s took too many penalties but made teams pay for getting frustrated. Knew Logan was expected to see more time on the second line and Tucker had spent most of yesterday muttering about defensive coverage while gluing auction sheets to poster board.
She had learned his shit too, apparently.
Dean joined the table a moment later, followed by Beau, while she moved toward the bar where Allie was filling plastic cups with ice at a speed suggesting each cube had personally offended her.
“This is sick,” she said, leaning one forearm on the polished wood.
Allie glanced up and looked around. The room glowed warmly beyond her, packed bodies moving beneath the paper Hurricanes, donation buckets cutting red paths through the crowd. “We did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.”
She grinned. “Agree.”
Allie’s eyes shifted over her shoulder. The change was small. A hard little tightening at one corner that immediately made her turn. The booth had filled.
Two freshmen sat pressed closest to the wall on one side, Dean beside them with one arm stretched across the backrest. Opposite them sat Tucker, then Garrett, then Beau on the edge. Around the open ends of the table and along the aisle stood a whole collection of girls in tiny tops, hockey jerseys, glossy hair, and expressions bright with interest.
Puck bunnies, if a person wanted to be uncharitable.
Garrett barely seemed aware of them. His phone remained flat on the table between himself and Tucker, one finger tracing something across the screen while Tucker nodded. One of the girls bent closer to see. Another rested her hand against the booth behind Garrett’s shoulder.
He didn’t turn toward her. Didn’t give the full campus smile. Didn’t begin gathering attention simply because it had arrived within reach. He remained focused on the freshmen and whatever hockey problem he had opened for group analysis.
Still, something tightened low beneath her stomach. The old bodily preparation for it, muscles bracing before anything had actually struck.
Allie had taken out her phone. She looked down as Allie opened the camera, then realised she was scanning the QR code taped to the bar.
“What are you doing?”
“Requesting a song.”
“What song?”
Allie didn’t answer.
Hannah appeared at the other end of the bar with a stack of empty trays pressed against her hip. A loose strand of blonde hair had escaped the clip at the back of her head, curling faintly from the heat. “We need more pigs in blankets, napkins, and–”
Allie’s eyes remained fixed on her phone. “That really doesn’t bother you?” Allie tipped her chin toward the booth.
Hannah turned. Her gaze moved over the girls, Garrett at the centre of the table, then returned with no visible change beyond mild curiosity.
But the question wasn’t directed at Hannah.
She swallowed. Her eyes went back to Garrett. One of the girls had said something now. Garrett glanced up long enough to answer, polite and brief, then looked toward Tucker again.
“I don’t know if I have a right for it to bother me,” she said.
Allie’s attention finally lifted from the phone. “What?”
“Honestly, after the shit I said to Garrett yesterday…”
Allie frowned. “What did you say yesterday? Other than publicly castrating four hockey players at morning skate, which Dean told me about. Incredible, by the way.”
A huff of laughter escaped her, but it didn’t move properly through her chest. “No. Um. Last night.”
She wrapped both hands around her cup even though the ice had already numbed her fingers. Hannah remained near the bar, trays forgotten against her side.
“I was at Garrett’s,” she said. “We were working on that Martin assignment and then we were making out, and it got… heated.”
Allie’s brows rose slightly.
“Not that heated,” she added quickly. “Just enough that his hand moved and then I completely lost my fucking mind.”
She looked at Hannah, suddenly aware she was spilling the internal wreckage of her relationship to a girl she had properly spoken to for the first time while hanging fairy lights six hours ago.
Except Hannah didn’t feel like a stranger now. Not entirely. They had spent the afternoon balanced on chairs, untangling extension cords and trying to stop Logan from taping decorations directly over a fire-exit sign.
Hannah had been easy. Funny in a quieter way than Allie, warm without demanding immediate intimacy. She had told stories about Justin’s band practices and the fact that he texted like punctuation cost him money.
She had rolled her eyes when Allie accused her of dressing too nicely for setup, then admitted she and Justin were going somewhere after the fundraiser if he survived three hours of requests from drunk hockey players.
At one point, while they were arranging auction sheets, Hannah had brought up Garrett herself. Only a careful, “I just want you to know there’s nothing happening there. There never really was.”
The fake dating had been Garrett and Hannah’s stupid, mutually convenient arrangement during the breakup. Hannah wanting Justin to react. Garrett wanting campus – and maybe one specific person – to believe he had moved on. As well as needing to pass philosophy. A few public kisses, some staged exits, photographs people were meant to misunderstand. Then friendship left over when the performance ended.
Hannah had said she liked Justin. Properly. They had been on a few dates, and she was trying not to scare herself by deciding what they were before either of them had survived ordering food together more than twice.
She had believed her. Believing Hannah hadn’t removed every little image her body had stored of Hannah kissing Garrett. It had only taken the poison out of them and left the bruise.
Now Allie and Hannah were both looking at her. She had already begun. The rest pressed forward before she could rebuild the wall.
“I freaked out about what the fuck we’re doing,” she said. “Whether we’re together or not, whether this is becoming the same thing without anybody saying it. And I just…” Her thumb rubbed at the condensation on her cup, spreading it into a cold streak beneath her palm. “Allie, you remember how I was with him the first time.”
Allie’s expression softened.
“I adored him,” she continued. The words left quietly enough that the music nearly swallowed them. “Like, completely. He was everything to me. Everything. And I’ve never been in love like that with anyone, ever, and I don’t know if I can be that girl with him again.”
The booth blurred faintly beyond Hannah’s shoulder. Garrett’s head bent near Tucker’s while Dean gestured too aggressively at one of the freshmen with a cocktail straw.
“I don’t think I want to be,” she admitted. “Not like that. I didn’t know where I ended and he started half the time. Everything depended on whether we were okay, whether he was looking at me, whether I felt chosen that day. It was fucking exhausting, and I still would’ve done anything to stay.”
Allie’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“So I snapped,” she said. “I told him I’d never love him like that again. That he would never have me like that ever again.”
The memory moved over her body with ugly precision. Garrett standing shirtless between the bed and the rolling chair. His mouth red from kissing her. Tears brightening his eyes while he bit down on his lip and refused to throw anything back.
“He just stood there,” she said. “He had tears in his eyes and he just… took it. Then he told me he didn’t want me like that either. That he thought we were trying to do it differently.”
She rubbed one thumb against the rim of her cup.
“I felt like the biggest dick alive. Then I cried into his chest for a while, we finished most of my assignment, I fell asleep in his bed, and this morning I basically said goodbye and fled before class.” Her laugh came small and joyless. “So. Really strong emotional clarity all around.”
Neither girl answered immediately. Behind them, the blender started with a violent mechanical scream. Allie reached back and switched it off without looking, deciding whoever ordered the frozen drink could survive uncertainty.
“There’s just too much going on,” she said. “The audition’s in two days. My head still feels weird if I stare at a screen too long. I don’t know what Garrett and I are. I know I want him, which is completely unhelpful because my body has never once been fucking asked to contribute.”
Hannah’s mouth curved faintly.
“I’m confused,” she finished. “That’s all.”
“For what it’s worth,” Hannah said carefully, shifting the trays to the counter, “I think Garrett’s a really trustworthy guy.”
She turned her head.
Hannah lifted one shoulder. “Not perfect. Obviously. He’s a man and a hockey player, so statistically he’s facing challenges.”
A laugh slipped out of Allie.
“But he was always honest with me,” Hannah continued. “Even when we were doing the fake-dating thing. He never made promises he couldn’t keep, and he never tried anything. Not once. Half the time he was asking me whether a post looked believable while staring at your Instagram.”
Her brows lifted. “He what?”
Hannah grimaced. “I maybe wasn’t supposed to say that.”
She blinked hard. “That feels extremely relevant.”
“He was pathetic,” Hannah said, with a warmth suggesting the insult had been earned fondly. “But trustworthy.”
Her gaze returned to Garrett. He was looking down at the table. One of the freshmen had taken the phone now, apparently presenting his own theory while Garrett listened.
Then Garrett’s head lifted, as if something had moved lightly against the side of his face. His eyes found hers immediately. He simply looked up and found her at the bar.
Garrett smiled. Small, private, nothing like the one he used when a stranger praised a goal. He lifted one hand from the table and gave her a little wave.
Warmth moved beneath her ribs before she could defend against it. She waved back.
The old Garrett might have left her standing across a room while girls gathered around him, trusting that she knew what he felt because he had told her privately. This Garrett looked for her without being asked and made the looking visible.
The tight place in her stomach eased by a fraction.
Allie sighed beside her. “He knows what he wants.”
She and Hannah both turned.
“Huh?” Hannah asked.
Allie was no longer looking at Garrett. Her gaze had fixed on Dean, who had abandoned the booth and was now leaning near the end of the bar, laughing at something Beau said while two girls stood beside them.
“God,” Allie muttered. “It’s so hot when people know what they want.”
Hannah frowned. “Are you and Dean okay?”
Allie gave a short, offended huff and dropped her phone onto the bar. “He’s being an asshole.”
She stared at her. “What?”
“Dean is obsessed with you,” Hannah added.
“That’s not the issue.”
“What did he do?” she asked.
Allie opened her mouth. The band finished the song before she could answer, cymbals crashing through the bar while Justin stepped toward the microphone again. His face was flushed from the lights, guitar strap cutting darkly across his shirt.
“Alright,” he said, vowels softened by the Australian accent Hannah had spent the afternoon pretending she didn’t find hot. “We’ve got another request. This one goes out to Maverick.”
Allie turned away from the girls and grabbed the towel from her shoulder. “Let’s go dance.”
She and Hannah looked at each other.
“Maverick?” Hannah asked.
Allie had already rounded the bar. “Come on.”
They followed because Allie in that mood had the momentum of weather. The opening guitar of U + Ur Hand hit as they reached the little patch of floor in front of the stage.
Recognition moved through the room at once. A cluster of girls screamed near the first chord. Justin grinned down at the request sheet taped near his microphone while the drummer counted them into the beat.
Allie started moving before either of them had properly found space. She rolled her shoulders, hips catching the rhythm, mouth shaping every word while her gaze remained fixed with almost violent precision across the room. At Dean.
“Oh,” Hannah said.
She began laughing. “What the fuck did he do?”
Allie ignored both of them.
They danced anyway. The song had too much bratty momentum to resist. Hannah loosened first, laughing as she bumped her hip lightly against hers.
She moved back, vodka warmth settling pleasantly beneath her skin now, chest and shoulders following the bass while the three of them formed the kind of shifting little circle women created instinctively when dancing was meant for one another rather than the room.
Allie remained committed to psychological warfare. Every line was delivered toward Dean with a smile sharp enough to leave structural damage.
She turned her head to see whether it was working. Dean had gone still beside the booth, cup halfway toward his mouth, eyes locked across the room with the expression of a man realising he had become the subject of a request and might not survive the chorus.
Beside him, Tucker had noticed too. His mouth moved near Garrett’s ear. Garrett followed his gaze, first toward Allie and then toward her.
The moment his eyes landed, his jaw tightened. It was small. A single hard shift beneath his cheek while his gaze travelled down and back up, catching on the movement of her hips, her shoulders, the pink top she had chosen because it made her feel good and definitely not because Garrett once told her that colour should be illegal on her without elaborating.
She grinned at him. Then she mouthed along to the song, not enough to deliver any full lyric, only the shape of it directed across the room with deliberate sweetness.
Garrett’s mouth curved. He shook his head once, slow and disbelieving, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek while he watched her. The look travelled straight through the pleasant warmth from the vodka and settled lower.
Her heart, brain, and body had apparently formed three separate committees. None were communicating. One wanted distance, one wanted to crawl directly into Garrett’s lap, and the third was still composing a formal apology for words said yesterday while his hand had been on her ass.
Extremely functional system.
Allie checked her phone before the final chorus had fully ended. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her. “Okay,” she announced. “Back to work.”
She left.
Hannah stared after her. “Was that…?”
“A threat?” she offered.
“Maybe.”
They looked toward Dean. He had already taken out his phone.
Hannah’s eyes widened. “Oh, she requested it.”
“Absolutely.”
Both of them laughed.
Hannah glanced toward the bar where three people were waving for service, then toward Justin onstage. “I should go before someone starts pouring their own vodka.”
She nodded. “Probably.”
Hannah touched her arm lightly as she passed. “For the record, you’re allowed to be bothered. You just don’t have to assume it means something’s wrong.”
The sentence caught her slightly off guard. Before she could answer, Hannah had disappeared behind the bar and started apologising to a man holding an empty glass with the solemnity of someone awaiting medical treatment.
She stood near the edge of the dance floor for another second, music vibrating up through the soles of her boots. Then her eyes found Garrett again.
He was still watching. When she stepped toward the booth, he shifted immediately. Beau stood to let him out before she reached them, unfolding his long body from the end of the bench.
“Hey, Beau,” she said.
His grin arrived easily. Beau Maxwell carried himself with the relaxed confidence of someone born into money, good bone structure, and a family where at least one sibling had become theatrical royalty before he finished high school.
“Hey, you.”
She liked Beau. Or half-liked him, in the low-maintenance way people became friends through Dean, repeated parties, and the fact that Beau’s sister Joanna remained a name spoken around Briar theatre with the reverence usually reserved for saints and women who secured agents before graduation.
“You good?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah.” He stepped aside while Garrett rose behind him. “You?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Heard about the audition.”
Garrett came to stand beside her. Close enough that the warmth from his body reached through the thin sleeve of her top. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t immediately put a hand on her or pull the conversation toward himself.
He only looked down at her face with the steady, quiet attention that had begun feeling more dangerous than any amount of public charm.
She kept her eyes on Beau. “Yeah. Couple days.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Okay.” She considered the word. “Terrified, but in a controlled, very artistically useful way.”
“I mean it. Joanna still talks about that thing you did last year.”
Her brows lifted. “She does?”
“Yeah. Said you were the only person in the cast who understood when not to move.”
She stared at him. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Beau laughed. “Theatre people are weird.”
“Deeply.”
Garrett’s hand settled against her lower stomach. Broad and warm over the soft fabric beneath her ribs, fingertips resting lightly near her side to draw her attention without cutting across Beau’s sentence.
Every thought in her body scattered. She looked up.
“You want another drink, baby?” Garrett murmured.
The endearment landed softly and publicly. His hand remained still against her, giving her every opportunity to step away.
His eyes moved over her face, checking the glass in her hand, the faint tiredness she knew still sat beneath her makeup, probably counting what she had eaten without daring to ask directly after yesterday’s near-death experience at the hands of his schedule.
She wanted to kiss him. The want came hard enough that her fingers tightened around her cup. His mouth was right there. She could see the slight dampness along his bottom lip from his drink, the faint shadow near his jaw, the curl resting near one eyebrow.
Two feet behind him, several girls still occupied the booth. Tomorrow night he would play St. Anthony’s. In two days she would walk into the most important audition she had ever had.
Yesterday she had told him he would never have her again, then slept with her back pressed to his chest and his hand loose around her waist.
Her body leaned faintly into the warmth of his palm before she stopped it.
She shook her head. “I’m okay.”
Garrett nodded. No argument. “Alright.”
“You having fun?” she asked.
His shoulder moved in a small shrug. “Mm.”
Before she could question it, Garrett lifted his free hand and brushed her hair back from her shoulder. His knuckles skimmed the side of her neck. The touch was slow without becoming deliberate enough to accuse, familiar without assuming the whole history attached to it.
Her lungs tightened. Garrett’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth. His hand on her stomach flexed once, almost imperceptibly, then loosened again.
The noise around them blurred at the edges. Justin said something into the microphone. Somebody laughed loudly near the auction table. A freshman walked past holding a donation bucket and nearly collided with a chair because he was staring at the amount inside.
She cleared her throat.
“I’m gonna…” The sentence arrived without an ending. She glanced toward the bar where Allie was shaking a cocktail with far more aggression than the drink required. “Go hang with Allie.”
Garrett’s eyes returned to hers. For half a second, something disappointed moved across his face. He didn’t use it. Didn’t ask whether she was avoiding him or curl his fingers tighter to keep her there.
He nodded. “Mhm.”
His hand slid from her stomach. The loss of heat moved through her immediately.
She stepped backward. “I’ll see you.”
“I’m right here,” Garrett said, mouth curving faintly.
“Right.”
“Come grab me if you need me.”
The same thing he had said before. No pressure hidden underneath it. No implication she was supposed to need him to prove anything.
She nodded. “Okay.”
Garrett let her go. She turned toward the bar with her drink still held between both hands, painfully aware of his eyes remaining on her back for several steps before captaincy, freshmen, and tomorrow’s game pulled him into the room again.
Her chest felt crowded. Full of too many versions of the truth.
She trusted Hannah. She believed Garrett. She had watched him look for her across a crowded bar and make sure she knew he had. She still felt the old reflex every time another girl stood too close.
She wanted him so badly her body kept stepping toward him before her fear caught up. She was terrified of loving him carelessly again and equally terrified that caution might become another way to never let him reach her.
She had almost made it back to the bar when Logan intercepted her with the donation bucket tucked under one arm and the particular set to his mouth that meant he had discovered a problem requiring other people’s labour.
“Hey.”
She smiled. “Hey.”
“I need those freshmen selling raffle tickets and not listening to GHA over there talk strategy.”
Her head turned automatically. Garrett had reclaimed the booth after she left him. Two freshmen sat opposite, shoulders angled toward the phone he held between both hands.
Garrett was gesturing over the screen with one thumb, dragging whatever video he had opened backward before tapping hard near the top. Both freshmen watched with the tense, obedient concentration of men being shown footage from an active crime scene.
Dean had disappeared. Tucker was at the auction table. Beau was talking to someone near the stage. Which meant Garrett had somehow converted a charity fundraiser into an emergency film session in under three minutes.
She looked back at Logan. “GHA?”
“General Hard Ass.”
A laugh escaped her. “That’s what you call him?”
“Among other things.”
“Does he know?”
Logan tilted his head. “He knows the hard-ass part.”
She glanced toward the booth again. Garrett had stopped the clip and was now drawing some invisible shape across the table with one finger, brows pulled together while the freshmen nodded.
“What’s so important about this game tomorrow?”
He sighed and shifted the bucket against his hip. “Ever since St. A’s beat Eastwood, they’ve been gunning for our top spot in the conference.”
She frowned. “Are they close?”
“They’re on a ten-game streak.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “So they’re close.”
Logan tipped his head to one side, mouth twisting. “If we lose tomorrow, they’ll be number one in the conference.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” He gestured toward Garrett with the bucket. “That’s what’s in his head right now.”
Garrett had moved on from the phone and was using two coasters to demonstrate something. One freshman leaned closer. The other looked faintly afraid of disappointing the coasters.
“Plus, the St. A’s guys are all kind of pieces of shit,” Logan continued. “Dirty players. They love getting under your skin and then acting shocked when someone reacts.”
“Sounds healthy.”
Logan shrugged. “It’s college hockey.”
“That didn’t answer me.”
“It answers most things.” Logan exhaled and looked around the room. A family near the stage was buying raffle tickets from one of the other freshmen. Three people stood at the auction table. Somebody had begun dancing alone beside the speaker with the solemn commitment of a person three drinks beyond self-consciousness. “There’s nothing we can do about tomorrow tonight. We need people drunk and happy and spending money.”
He laughed softly at his own phrasing. She did too.
“Can you help?” Logan asked. “Get them out of there before Graham starts assigning line combinations on napkins?”
She pressed her lips together and gave him a small nod. “Yeah. I got you.”
His expression loosened. “Thanks.”
He started to turn, then stopped.
“And thanks again,” he said. “For all your help with this.”
The sincerity caught her more than it should have. Logan rarely lingered inside gratitude long enough for anyone to notice it, usually burying the whole thing beneath an insult before it became embarrassing.
She smiled. “What’re friends for?”
Logan grinned, gave one quick nod, then moved back into the crowd with the bucket raised and immediately called after a passing group, “You guys look like you support youth sport.”
She watched him go, then leaned over the bar until Hannah noticed her between drink orders. “Can I grab a sandwich?”
Hannah reached automatically toward the platter beneath the counter. “Yeah. You hungry?”
“No. Not me.” She tipped her head toward the booth. “GHA over there.”
Hannah followed the gesture. “GHA?”
“General Hard Ass.”
Understanding moved over her face. “Ah.”
She looked toward Garrett again. He had put the coasters down and returned to the phone. Both freshmen were still trapped opposite him while three unopened rolls of raffle tickets sat beside one of their elbows.
“Yeah,” Hannah said. “Give me one second.”
She disappeared into the narrow service space behind the bar, stepped around Allie carrying a tray of drinks, and returned with a white plate holding a thick sandwich cut diagonally through the middle.
Turkey, cheese, lettuce, something mustardy near the edges. It looked like the sort of food Tucker would approve of and Garrett would consume without ever noticing whether he liked it.
Hannah passed it over. “There.”
She grinned. “Thanks.”
She balanced the plate in one hand and crossed back toward the booth. The room moved around her in warm little collisions. Music pushing through the floorboards, laughter breaking near the bar, the smell of beer and hot pastry and whatever candle had opened a second front in its campaign against breathable air.
Garrett didn’t see her immediately.
“They’ve scored at least three goals by the end of the first in six of their last ten,” he was saying. “Their zone is suffocating if you let them settle. You can’t give them time to close the walls in. The second you recover possession–”
She set the plate down between the phone and the coasters. “Garrett.”
His eyes lifted.
“Let the freshmen be free.”
One of the freshmen looked down very quickly. The other stared at the sandwich.
Garrett leaned back against the booth. “Baby, I–”
She turned to the freshmen. “Go do your jobs. Sell tickets.”
Both of them looked at Garrett. Garrett shook his head once. They looked back at her.
She nodded toward the aisle. “Go.”
Their eyes returned to Garrett with the frantic coordination of spectators at a tennis match.
Garrett exhaled through his nose. “Fine. Go.”
The freshmen scrambled up before he could reconsider. One caught his thigh against the underside of the table, swore quietly, gathered the raffle rolls, and followed the other into the crowd with the speed of someone escaping an academic conference.
She watched them disappear. “They’re going to tell people I rescued them.”
“They’re going to lose tomorrow,” he grumbled.
She slid into the space they had vacated, opposite him. The booth seat was still warm through her skirt. Garrett picked up one half of the sandwich without inspecting it, took a bite, and returned his eyes briefly to the abandoned video on his phone.
For one second, the confidence she had carried across the room vanished. It was stupid. He had told her to come grab him if she needed him. Logan had asked for help. She had brought food.
Nothing in Garrett’s face suggested anger, but her body had already begun reading the old version of the room. The clipped answer. His attention returning to hockey. The small irritation of being pulled away from something he considered more important.
She shifted against the seat. “You know this is supposed to be a party.”
Garrett chewed, swallowed, and looked up. “And?”
“And parties are supposed to be fun.”
He lifted one shoulder. “So is winning.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.”
The unease remained tucked beneath her ribs, made more embarrassing by the fact that Garrett was simply eating the sandwich she had brought him and waiting for her to say something else.
He noticed. His brows drew together. “What?”
She looked down at the damp ring her cup had left near the edge of the table. “Nothing.”
“Baby.”
The word came quieter.
She rubbed her thumb against the side of her index finger. “I just… um.”
Garrett put the sandwich down. The movement made her chest tighten harder, because now she had interrupted him twice: first the hockey, then the food. An entirely self-created emergency.
“Normally, when I would…” She stopped and looked toward the crowd instead. Logan was handing a raffle strip to a woman near the stage. One of the freed freshmen had already cornered three people beside the bathrooms. “When I’d interrupt you, I just–”
Her throat felt unexpectedly dry.
“I don’t want to piss you off.”
Garrett’s forehead creased, confusion softening his mouth while he watched her try to make the sentence smaller after it had already arrived between them.
He picked up the sandwich again, not because he had stopped listening but because apparently eating prevented him from turning everything into a crisis.
“Baby,” he said after another bite, “you’re sitting with me and you brought me food. Those are, like, my favourite things. Why would I be pissed off?”
She blinked at him. “I don’t know.”
Garrett chewed slowly, eyes staying on hers. There was something almost painful in how genuinely he didn’t understand the fear and how quickly he seemed to understand where it had come from.
His free hand moved across the table. He turned his palm over and covered her fingers, giving them one warm squeeze. “It’s okay.”
She stared at their hands.
Garrett’s thumb brushed lightly over her knuckle. “Come here.”
She hesitated. The booth suddenly felt large, despite the table between them and the noise pressing in from every side. Going around to him would mean choosing the closeness in public. Sitting where the puck bunnies had just stood. Letting everybody see she belonged there before either of them had worked out what belonging meant.
Garrett didn’t tug. He didn’t repeat himself. His hand stayed around hers, loose enough that she could pull free without resistance.
She slid out of her side. Garrett stood while she rounded the end of the table. Beau’s abandoned drink sat near the edge, and she pushed it aside before sliding into the booth, Garrett sliding in after her.
The bench dipped beneath their combined weight. For a moment, she remained upright with a careful inch between their thighs. Garrett picked up the plate again as if he hadn’t asked her closer for any reason more complicated than wanting her there.
The restraint made it easier. She let her shoulder settle against his. Then a little more. Her body folded into the warmth of his side until her knee rested against his beneath the table and the hard line of his arm pressed along hers.
Garrett’s mouth shifted at one corner. He didn’t look down at her, which she appreciated. “You want a bite?”
She looked at the sandwich. “Mhm.”
He held it toward her. She leaned in and took a bite from the corner, teeth catching through bread and turkey while Garrett kept it steady. A little mustard pressed against her bottom lip. She caught it with her tongue before sitting back.
“Mm,” she said around the bite. “S’good.”
“Right?” Garrett took another bite from the same place without hesitation.
She watched his mouth close over the edge she had bitten and immediately regretted having eyes.
The band started another song. Something louder, bass moving faintly through the table. Garrett balanced the plate in one hand while his other arm rested along the back of the booth behind her, not quite touching her shoulders. She could feel the shape of him anyway.
Two girls approached from the aisle. She recognised both before they reached the table. Sarah and Michaela. Girls she knew in the vague, campus way people knew one another through parties, shared classes, mutual follows, and Garrett Graham.
Sarah smiled first. “Hiii, Garrett.”
Michaela stretched the word into a soft chorus beside her. “Hey.”
Garrett glanced up. His smile was small and polite, no different from the one he had given the girl who donated five dollars to Logan.
Then he said her name. The sound of it in his mouth pulled her attention fully toward him. “You know Sarah and Michaela, right?” he asked.
He didn’t introduce them only to her. Didn’t make her stand beside him while someone else controlled the shape of the conversation. He turned the whole thing toward her as naturally as passing the plate.
She nodded. “A little. Hey.”
Both girls smiled back.
“Hey!” Sarah’s eyes moved between them, then down toward the narrow space that no longer existed between her thigh and Garrett’s. “Wait. Are you guys back together?”
She and Garrett both made the same useless sound.
“Oh, uh–”
“Sorry,” Michaela said immediately, lifting both hands. “Sorry for interrupting.”
Sarah’s smile widened. “So cute. Enjoy your night, guys.”
They were already moving away before either of them managed to correct anything.
“Your earrings are so cute,” Sarah added over her shoulder.
“Thanks,” she called, half a second too late.
The girls disappeared into the crowd without waiting for an answer to the question they had dropped onto the table. She sat very still.
Garrett took another bite of the sandwich. No visible panic. No frantic need to clarify that they weren’t together, technically. No searching glance around the room to see who had heard. No annoyed exhale because someone had made the situation complicated.
He chewed, looked down at the sandwich with genuine concentration, and said, “Fuck, this is good.”
She blinked.
Garrett lifted the other half as though checking whether the bread contained an explanation. “What’s on this?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Is that mustard?”
“Um, probably.”
He took another bite. Something warm rose through her chest too quickly to stop. It pressed at the back of her throat, moved beneath her ribs, and softened every place that had spent the last year preparing to be left standing beside him.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Garrett went still beneath it. Only for a second. Long enough for her lips to register the faint scrape of stubble, the warmth of his skin, the tiny movement in his jaw when his teeth caught the inside of his cheek.
Then his face turned slightly toward hers, not enough to find her mouth, only enough that the corner of his smile brushed near her temple.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. The sandwich stayed lifted halfway between the plate and his mouth while something soft and dangerous settled into the narrow space they shared in the booth.
Then a cymbal crashed through Malone’s. One loud, ugly metallic collision that made half the room flinch and the other half cheer automatically because Dean Di Laurentis had climbed back onto the stage and apparently seized percussion as part of his hosting responsibilities.
Justin recoiled from his own cymbal. “Mate.”
Dean handed the mallet back without remorse and took the microphone. “Thank you.”
The band’s guitarist strummed a sarcastic little flourish behind him. People began turning toward the stage, drinks lifting, conversations folding down into scattered shouts.
Garrett placed the remains of the sandwich onto the plate and slid out of the booth first. He held one hand toward her automatically. She took it before thinking about whether the cheek kiss had changed the terms of anything.
It hadn’t. Or it had, but quietly.
He drew her to her feet, fingers tightening once around hers as the crowd shifted toward the stage. They moved to the rear of it, where Tucker had taken up position with his arms folded and the expression of a man trying to calculate how many laws Dean might violate before the fundraiser ended.
Garrett stopped beside him. She stayed close enough that her arm rested along his, their hands still loosely joined between them.
Dean tapped the microphone twice. The speakers complained.
“Okay, party people.” He looked over the room with the satisfaction of someone who had personally invented public gatherings. “A few of our silent-auction items are currently going for way undervalue, so if you act fast, you could get them for a steal.” He paused, eyebrows lifting. “A steal.”
The room laughed and cheered. Somebody near the auction table immediately turned to check a bid sheet as though Dean had revealed confidential market information.
“Now, um…” Dean glanced down at the card in his hand. “I know there are mostly Boston fans in the house.”
The response rose instantly. Whoops, whistles, several aggressive declarations of Bruins loyalty from people who had probably been born in Connecticut.
“That’s right!” Logan called from beside the stage, one arm raised around the donation bucket.
She joined in, whooping as she caught Garrett’s forearm with both hands and shook it. His body moved barely an inch, but the smile tried to happen anyway. He bit it back, glancing down at her while the noise rolled around them.
Dean waited for everyone to settle. “And as a born and bred New Yorker, I happen to think those people are living a sad, desperate existence–”
Beau threw both arms into the air. “Ow! Ow! New York!”
The cheers broke into boos.
“Get outta here!” Della shouted from behind the bar, pointing a wet tea towel toward the stage.
Dean pressed his free hand over his heart. “Hey! Della! We love you.”
The room laughed again.
“But this one…” Dean drew the phrase out, lifting the card between two fingers. “This one…” His grin widened. “This one’s part of the family.”
Her brows pulled together. Beside her, Garrett stopped moving. It was so small at first that she might have missed it if she hadn’t spent half the night checking the shape of his face across rooms.
His hand went slack inside hers. The warmth remained, but every part of him behind it seemed to draw inward at once.
Dean looked toward the auction table. “I have box seats to a New York Rangers game and a meet and greet with the legend himself, Phil Graham!”
The room exploded. People shouted. Someone whistled so sharply it cut over the speakers. A cluster near the front began clapping before Dean had even finished raising the auction sheet above his head.
Her own body turned before her thoughts caught up. Garrett’s face had emptied. The expression he wore was almost polite, the kind of careful neutrality people mistook for calm because nothing visible had broken through it yet.
His mouth sat flat. His shoulders had risen beneath his jacket. His eyes stayed fixed on Dean for one hard second before dropping to the card in his hand.
She tightened her fingers around his. “Did you–?”
Garrett shook his head once. “Nope.”
The word came clipped enough to leave no room around it. She followed his gaze when it moved past the stage.
Logan stood beside an older man near the donation table, nodding while the man spoke close to his ear over the noise. One hand remained wrapped around the bucket. The other held a folded sheet of paper. Garrett let go of her hand.
“Garrett, don’t–”
She reached for his arm, but he moved before her fingers made contact, cutting through the back of the crowd with his shoulders set hard beneath his jacket.
Tucker’s head turned. “What happened?”
She didn’t answer. There wasn’t time, and there was no version she could offer without opening something Garrett had never given her permission to share.
The cheering had begun to fade behind Dean’s next announcement, but the band had started playing underneath him again, low chords filling the room while people resumed talking. Garrett reached Logan before she did.
The older man saw his face and stepped away immediately, muttering something about checking the auction sheet. Logan looked up, faintly distracted at first.
Then Garrett spoke. She couldn’t hear the opening over the music. Only saw Logan’s brows pull together and Garrett’s hand move once between them, palm cutting sharply toward the stage.
Logan’s expression changed. The donation bucket hit the table beside him with a hollow plastic thud. He said something back.
Garrett shook his head. The tight control in his body began slipping, not into shouting yet, but into the restless, contained anger she knew too well. His fingers opening and closing near his side. His jaw working between sentences.
By the time she reached them, Logan’s voice had climbed high enough to break through the music.
“Are you kidding? All we ever do is think about what you want. Do you know how much hockey costs? Genuine question. ’Cause the kids need the money. I needed the money.”
Garrett stared at him. Logan’s face had gone red, not with embarrassment now. Something older had climbed through it. His shoulders were rigid. The bucket stood between them, already heavy enough with donations that the handle bowed faintly beneath the weight.
“This fundraiser is the only fucking reason I’m here.”
Garrett’s mouth opened. For one second, nothing came out. The anger seemed to catch against something lower in his throat, leaving him looking younger and more exposed than he had any right to in a room this full.
“It’s not all about money.”
Logan scoffed. “Spoken like a person with a shit ton of it.”
Garrett’s face tightened. Phil’s money had paid for equipment, private coaching, camps, travel, every expensive inch of the path that brought him here. It had also purchased access to him, expectation, silence, and whatever else Phil believed came included with the bill.
Logan knew only the first half. She stepped beside Garrett and caught his wrist. The pulse beneath her fingers was fast and hard, tendons pulled tight beneath warm skin.
“Logan, c’mon,” she murmured.
His eyes snapped toward her. “Stay out of it.”
She blinked. The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They landed with the ugly surprise of a door shutting where she hadn’t realised one stood open.
“Hey–”
“Dude–” Garrett started at the same time, his body shifting half a step in front of hers.
Logan scoffed again, dragging one hand roughly through his hair. For a second he looked as though he might say something else. His mouth opened, jaw tight, eyes moving between them.
Then he grabbed the donation bucket and walked away. People parted without looking directly at him. He disappeared toward the far side of the bar, shoulders cutting a hard line through the crowd until the moving bodies swallowed him.
She stared after him. “What the fuck?”
Garrett exhaled. The air left him all at once, taking the fight out of his shoulders without removing any of the tension beneath them. He turned toward her, eyes dropping to the hand she still had around his wrist.
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be.”
“He shouldn’t have said that to you.”
“He’s upset,” she murmured.
“That doesn’t mean he gets to–”
“I know.” Her thumb moved once over his pulse. It had not slowed. “I know.”
Behind them, Dean’s voice carried through the speakers as he moved onto the next auction item, completely unaware that the words part of the family had opened something raw near the edge of the crowd.
She looked up at Garrett. “You okay?”
He nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”
His eyes had already moved past her, finding the stage, the auction table, anywhere that didn’t require him to hold her gaze while he said it. She kept her hand around his wrist.
notes from me – WHEWW how are we feeling? a kind of purely 'canon' chapter, but still some important progress for our babies.
as always lemme know all your thoughts, shit hits the fan next chapter :)
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
She’s Just Not That Into You | Love Island!Garrett
SUMMARY All it takes is a kissing challenge, a new bombshell, and a white lingerie set, and suddenly Garrett’s an artist.
CONTENT love island au, fem reader, love island relationship dynamics, lots of making out/kissing, very suggestive but no smut yet, some of the stuff I mention in this part hasn't been written yet—I tried not to make it too confusing (hopefully), I tried to keep her actual physical appearance unspecific but reader's outfit is described in detail so I may have missed something on accident, reader sits in Garrett's lap, Garrett picks reader up, you can listen to 'good girl' by Isabel LaRosa while reading this if you want (it's what I imagine would be playing during reader's turn in the episode lol), like 4k words of Logan ragebaiting Garrett, barely edited
A/N okay the wait is over, here's the bombshell fic lol also I have beef with the system tumblr uses to flag mature content bc tell me why I had a pic of Garrett having an attitude and tumblr flagged it?? mind you, all the pictures I tried of people half-naked covered in paint? fine, totally good, but god forbid a man be a little sassy ig 😔 I think I'll definitely be adding on to this more later, but my brain can't understand the concept of a "one shot" and this was getting long.
love island masterlist
It’s not every day you find yourself clad in nothing but white lingerie and a blindfold while your man is handcuffed to a giant bed in nothing but a pair of white boxers, but, hey, when in the Love Island Villa!
You hadn’t been totally sure what to think when you all walked out for the evening to see a massive bed in the middle of the Villa and the more Ariana Madix explained the rules, the more excited—and nervous—you became.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she explains as you and the girls move to sit on the chairs set up next to the bed. “Boys, you’ll be locked up at the headboard. Girls, you’ll be blindfolded and armed with your own personal paint color. Once those blindfolds go on, you’ll have to rely on touch, chemistry, and instinct as you make your way around the boys, feeling your way through to find your man.”
Garrett looks up, stifling a groan.
“Don’t be afraid to enjoy the journey and have a little fun as you go,” Ariana winks. “And you’re literally leaving your mark so, by the end of this, everyone will be able to see exactly where you’ve been… And who you’ve been with.”
Garrett is no longer able to stifle his groan.
Ariana turns to face the girls—though you can’t see it through your blindfold. “When you think you’ve found your boy, lock in your answer by handcuffing yourself to any part of him.” She turns to the boys warningly. “Boys, no talking, no helping, and definitely no giving yourselves away.”
Hannah goes first to start the game, crawling onto the bed slowly as Ariana helps her up. She dips her hands into the bags of blue paint around her thighs before patting her hands out. Garrett had—quite smartly, he thinks—chosen the spot closest to you and the girls making him the first guy Hannah reaches. And the first guy you’d reach.
A blue hand print stains his thigh as she crawls up his body. They share a kiss as she feels him up but it’s nowhere close to the one they shared on their first date, and as soon as she realizes that he isn’t Justin, she moves on to Tucker who is sitting next to him. When she reaches Justin, she gives him a much longer kiss, clearly recognizing him, and handcuffs herself to his wrist.
Dionne’s next, holding out purple covered hands as she shuffles forward on her knees. She places an awkward hand on Garrett’s chest, before moving it up to—somewhat heavy-handedly—feel his face. She stops when her fingers smash into his nose and mouth, a cheeky smile on her face as she pats his nose and mouth a few more times.
“Oh… I think I know who this is.”
She gets off his lap and whispers smugly, “Don’t worry, champ, I’ll spare you.”
Garrett shakes his head with a chuckle as she moves on to Tucker and then Justin, who she also recognizes. Like Hannah, she’s also able to find her partner, handcuffing herself to Paul after a brief kiss. It would almost be impressive if she didn’t seem so uninterested.
Finally it’s your turn and Garrett perks up as Ariana helps to lead you to the bed—only to watch as she bypasses him completely and leads you to the other side of it. Suddenly Garrett’s genius plan is feeling much more stupid as he realizes in horror that you’ll have to get through Dean, Paul, Justin, and Tucker before getting to him.
The boys all watch you eagerly as you grab onto Ariana’s hand for support and wobble onto the mattress.
The thing is that—while, at this point, they’d all kissed you multiple times and seen you almost exclusively in bikinis—to your core, you’re a lover girl. Meaning that, while you did truly try to get to know all of them, you preferred to do it more through talking than anything else, reserving more physical stuff for your current partner.
You also have an objectively goofy personality. You usually never took challenges too seriously, choosing to mess around with the guys instead of going full throttle. In a weird way—(that Garrett did not understand at all)—the fun, entertaining relationships you had with the other guys made them sometimes seem to forget that you were attractive.
However, right now, in that lingerie you’re wearing, nothing can distract from the fact that you are, inarguably, attractive.
When Garrett first saw you walk down the stairs with that delicate lace hugging your body, he legitimately thought he died and went to heaven.
The white corset accentuates your figure, ending just below your sternum and cupping your breasts with a lift that has them peaking out of your bodice, highlighting your cleavage. Sheer stockings cover your legs, stopping just above your knees. The soft skin of your bare thighs acts as a teasing trail up to the barely-there bottoms you’re wearing. They wrap around your front and hips with a frilly lining that connects to a small triangle of fabric at the back that only covers about as much as your tailbone, the rest of your butt curving out from under the hem.
You look like the embodiment of seduction, with the white sleep mask covering your eyes and your slightly overlined lips coated in your favorite lip gloss.
Garrett knows it, the guys know it, all of America probably knows it.
You dip your hands into your paint bags, letting out a small squeak at how cold it is as it covers your hands and forearms in pink. Dean looks all too pleased when you trip over yourself and end up stumbling into his chest. Your hands feel up his body slowly as you dip down to kiss him, your mouth moving against his without its usual reserve as you try to figure out if he’s Garrett or not.
Dean makes a small noise as you open your mouth, catching his bottom lip and trying to feel the outline of it, your fingers pressing along his shoulders and biceps. Garrett watches as he tilts his head to try to deepen the kiss, but you’ve gotten all the information you need and pull away.
“No…” You whisper to yourself. “Garrett has bigger muscles than that.”
It takes Dean a second to process your words, still slightly dazed. When he does, his mouth drops open in offense, but Ariana silences him with a pointed look and a finger to her lips. Garret can’t help but smirk proudly.
You reach Paul next, unaware of Dionne, who’s sitting on the opposite side of him. Sitting up on your knees, you line up one of your legs with the outside of his thigh, leaning over him at a slight angle to find his face. Paul’s hand settles a little too close to your ass for Garrett’s liking as you kiss him with a similar amount of forwardness as your kiss with Dean. Your hands travel up to his hair and, as soon as you feel the short strands, you move on from him too, turning away so that he can’t see the way your nose scrunches in dissatisfaction—but Garrett certainly can.
Your hands land on Hannah before they can find Justin and you giggle, pressing a kiss to her cheek. You move to skip Justin entirely, but you’re struck with the worry that maybe Hannah is wrong and this isn’t Justin—really, you just don’t want to mess this up and the thought of taking your blindfold off and being cuffed to anyone who isn’t Garrett is genuinely mortifying.
You turn back, just to check, pressing your lips to his slow enough to actually feel them. You don’t even bother feeling his hair, he and Garrett have similar enough curl patterns that you don’t want to overthink it and confuse yourself. Instead you scratch your nails along his abdomen and, when he flexes into it instead of shivering at the feeling, you pull back with a resolute nod and crawl away, discreetly wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
While Garrett certainly isn’t enjoying watching you make out with every other guy in the Villa, he can’t pretend that the fact that you’ve reacted to every kiss thus far with visible displeasure doesn’t make it almost worth it.
You have a bit more trouble finding Tucker, needing to cup his face with both hands to locate his mouth. Your kiss with him lasts longer than your previous ones and, to his credit, he keeps his uncuffed hand to himself. You’re not even fully in it, more distracted by the fact that you know you’re getting closer to the last boy and, while you’re almost positive you haven’t kissed Garrett yet, a small part of you still can’t help but worry that maybe you have and didn’t realize.
Still you move on from Tucker and, finally, make your way into Garrett’s lap. Almost as soon as you feel the broad width of his shoulders, you know it’s him, running your hands up and down his chest as your mouths meet. Now positive you’ve found your man, you try to convey a silent apology for the fact that he had to wait and watch as you kissed the other guys, putting in more effort for him than all the other boys combined.
You drop your head to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck as your nails scratch against his pecs, smiling knowingly when you feel goosebumps pebble his skin. Garrett throws his head back in a mix of relief and slight disbelief as you continue kissing along his throat, wrapping your arms around his neck as you try to get as much paint on him as possible.
He lets you do it for a few seconds longer, before grabbing your jaw with his hand that isn’t currently cuffed to the headboard and guiding your face back to his. He slips his tongue in your mouth without an ounce of decorum, sitting up to get a better angle as your head tilts, nose nudging against his cheek with a happy sigh.
Garrett drops his hand from your face when you move both of yours to cup his cheeks and lets it travel down to search blindly for one of the bags of paint strapped to your thigh. Once he’s found it, he dips his own hand inside, covering it in the pink paint. You let out a gasp against his mouth when he suddenly grabs your ass, squeezing it possessively until he’s satisfied with the large, pink handprint he’s left behind.
The other guys silently lose it at the sight, covering their mouths to not give themselves away—except for Tucker who is trying to discreetly move away so that he isn’t sitting right next to you. When you finally pull away, your lips are shiny and swollen, Garrett has pink paint everywhere, and he’s never been smugger.
“Hmm… I don’t know…” You tease, but you’re already moving to grab your handcuff and click it around his wrist.
Allie’s turn is next, leaving yellow hand prints all across the white bedding as she somewhat loses her bearings, though Garrett’s attention is quickly drawn away from her when Justin lets out a surprised gasp.
He points subtly behind them and Garrett stretches his neck to see a girl he doesn’t recognize walk into the Villa in her own set of white lingerie. When she sees them, she waves coyly. The guys all look between themselves—some excited, some confused, some both.
“Bombshell?” Tucker mouths and Garrett shrugs.
The new bombshell dips her hands into a bag of red paint that had been left behind one of the ledges of the Villa, before creeping quietly to the opposite side of the bed. Allie had finally been able to track down one of the boys, none the wiser that, as she makes out with Justin, Dean is currently being covered in red paint.
When they both finish, the new girl falls into a pattern of sneaking around Allie to kiss the guy that she just finished with. As she gets closer, she leaves an intense trail of red paint in her wake and Garrett shifts uncomfortably. His eyes fall to where you’re sitting next to him, completely oblivious and still somewhat out of breath from your kiss.
The new bombshell crawls onto Tucker’s thighs, luring him in for a heated kiss, and Garrett takes it as his chance to pull you into his lap, causing you to jolt slightly in surprise. His free arm ends up hanging over one of your shoulders, his hand hovering just over your breast.
For good measure, he leaves a pink hand print there too. You pinch his thigh in reprimand, but have to tuck your bottom lip in between your teeth to hide your smile.
Ariana watches, deeply amused, as the bombshell pulls away from Tucker, turning to kiss Garrett and faltering when she realizes you’re now sitting against his chest and directly in her line of access. Garrett shoots her an awkward smile, giving her a half-hearted, one-armed shrug that somehow perfectly encapsulates the “Oh well, what can you do?” attitude of a man that has created a problem entirely of his own free will and has no desire to resolve it.
From the other side of the bed, Allie giggles, “I definitely missed a few boys, but I think I can stop here.” And handcuffs herself to Dean.
With Allie’s turn now over, the new bombshell gets up from the bed silently and disappears back out the entrance.
Finally, Ariana helps lead a blindfolded Kendall to Dean’s side of the bed and green hands start making their way across the mattress. That’s when the guys notice another figure walk into the Villa and suddenly are much less excited than they were for the previous bombshell.
The new guy stops just behind the headboard, coating his hands in orange paint, before giving all the boys a teasing salute and climbing onto the bed. He doesn’t waste any time, cupping just under your jaw with both orange hands and drawing you in for a passionate kiss.
You let out a muffled noise of surprise, but you genuinely think that it’s Kendall—which is also kind of surprising, but kissing a bunch of guys blindfolded can be nerve wracking and you don't want to knock her confidence.
Garrett watches with a clenched jaw as the new bombshell seems to find no issue with pinning you up against Garrett’s chest—because you’re still sitting in his lap, by the way—to deepen your kiss. And then he has the audacity to wipe at your bottom lip with his thumb, leaving a streak of orange behind as he moves on to the next girl.
In Garrett’s opinion, the new bombshell doesn’t kiss any of the other girls with the same amount of vigor—he’s done before Kendall is, who had to go back and forth between Justin and Tucker a few times before eventually locating Tucker. Once she cuffs herself to him, the bombshell does the same thing as the one before him and quietly walks out of the Villa.
“Alright girls, go ahead and take off your blindfolds,” Ariana instructs.
You pull your blindfold off slowly—and Garrett helps you—blinking a bit to adjust to the light. When you are able to see him and confirm that it is, in fact, Garrett that you’re cuffed to, you light up with a bright smile.
As you look around at the other Islanders to see if all the other girls were able to correctly identify their partners too, your eyes widen in slight embarrassment as you notice just how much pink paint you left on the other guys in your determination to find Garrett. Still, they’re covered in a bunch of other colors too—so it’s not like you were the only one who got a bit too carried away—and Allie also accidentally skipped half the guys on her turn. And Garrett definitely has other colors on him too.
But none of the guys or paint colors hold a candle to the amount of pink paint that is currently drying on Garrett’s skin.
“Okay,” Allie laughs, though it’s a bit strained. “Which one of you is red? Because Dean is covered in it.”
The boys look between each other, unsure what to say.
Paul clears his throat, covered in an equal amount of red paint. “I think it’s just some of the paints mixing together, you know?”
“Red’s a primary color, idiot.” Dionne shoots him an unimpressed look.
You turn to Garrett in confusion.
“Oh, my bad,” Ariana interrupts you all with feigned innocence. “I forgot to tell you all one more thing. You weren’t the only ones getting up close and personal with the boys. Please welcome your newest bombshell Lola!”
The new girl scampers into the Villa—covered in red paint—to varying reactions from the other girls, but you’re a bit more focused on looking between her and Garrett, trying to hide your delight when you realize that he doesn’t have a drop of red paint on him.
You look down to reign in your expression and that’s when you notice all the orange paint on your body. A glance around shows that none of the guys have any orange paint on them and almost all the girls do, though you and Hannah noticeably have more.
You snort. “Geez Kendall, did you even kiss any of the boys? There’s more orange on us than them.”
“I’m not orange…” Kendall cocks her head as she holds up her green hands.
Another wave of confusion hits the girls as Ariana grins. “You girls didn’t think I’d forget about you, did you? Of course, I brought someone for you too. Please welcome Logan!”
Your eyes widen as a tanned brunet walks into the Villa, orange paint staining his hands as he checks you all out confidently. You look at him, and then down at yourself, and then whip your head to Garrett.
“It’s okay,” he assures you quietly before you can say anything, though he makes a point of holding your chin in place with two fingers so that he can wipe the orange paint off your lip.
You wait patiently until he’s finished, relaxing as his body language confirms to you that he isn’t secretly upset.
Your voice takes on a playful lilt as you bat your lashes and ask, “You gonna clean the paint off my ass too?”
Garrett drops his hand from your chin, dragging it slowly through some of the wet paint on his chest. Without warning, he slides it under the frilly elastic hugging your hip, pressing another pink hand print to the inside of your thigh, the tips of his thumb and index finger brushing the soft skin that connects your inner thigh and pelvis.
He removes his hand from your lingerie bottoms before anyone else can notice, but you can still feel the warmth from his skin underneath the fabric. He takes in the shock and helpless arousal on your face with a smirk.
“Nope.”
The game finishes shortly after, Ariana waving goodbye to you all as you and the girls uncuff your boys from the headboard—(you teasingly tell Garrett that you want to see him in handcuffs again and he, very seriously, says “Only if you keep the blindfold.”)—and the evening continues as you get to know the new bombshells, all of you still barely clothed and covered in paint.
The girls take Lola to go talk on one of the large couches and the guys and Logan move to the fire pit. Garrett’s not particularly interested in getting to know him, but he enjoys the view he has of you on the other side of the Villa, speaking animatedly with the girls—with two distinct, pink handprints on your ass and breast and one he can’t see, but knows, is splayed out across your inner thigh.
The small talk between the guys trickles off and Dean follows Garrett’s gaze.
“Okay, can I just say what we’re all thinking?” Dean asks finally, before turning to face Garrett. “Your girl’s a good kisser, man.”
Tucker chokes on his water. “That is not what we’re all thinking.”
Aside from Tucker, no one else chooses to voice that that wasn’t what they were thinking about.
Garrett crosses his arms, running his tongue along the front of his teeth. “Shame she didn’t like kissing any of you though.” He says simply.
“Well, that’s not entirely true.” Dean nudges his head towards Logan.
“I will actually kill you.”
Dean holds his hands up. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger!"
At the invitation into the conversation, Logan gives Garrett a single nod. “She is a good kisser,” he supplies.
“She thought you were a girl.” Garrett reminds him flatly.
Logan tilts his head slightly at the challenge. “You scared of a little competition, Garrett?”
“No, I like to think that me and Kendall have a mutual respect for each other,” Garrett smiles sarcastically.
Tucker looks away with something between a wince and a laugh. Logan just smirks which pisses Garrett off more, and Garrett decides he’s done with the conversation, getting up without explanation and heading over to pull you from the girls.
A bit later, you and Garrett are cuddled up on one of the couches. He’s tracing the skin of your thigh with his finger idly as you ramble on about a dream that you had last night that you can only remember half of. The two of you are waiting for the showers to free up, still covered in—now fully dried—paint.
“Hey.” The sound of Logan’s voice stops Garrett’s finger in its tracks. “Can I pull you for a chat?”
Before you can respond, Garrett turns to look at him, deadpan. “No.”
“Garrett,” you chide, getting up from the couch—much to his dismay.
You lean down, cupping his face and giving him a sweet kiss before he can protest.
“I’ll be right back,” you promise against his lips. “Be nice.”
Logan waits politely as you untangle yourself from Garrett, shooting you a charming smile when you walk over to give him more of your attention.
“Where did you want to chat?”
Logan shrugs. “I was thinking we could play ping pong?”
You freeze, grimace in preparation, and turn to look at Garrett hesitantly. Sure enough, when you look back, he’s staring at the two of you like he just witnessed Logan shoot Archduke Franz Ferdinand.
“I don’t know, I’m really tired,” you say quickly, before the situation can escalate to World War I levels of confrontation. “How about we go to Say Less?”
“I’m good with that,” Logan agrees readily.
You can feel Garrett shooting daggers at him as you walk away and you make a mental note to keep this conversation as brief as possible.
“Hi, my baby.”
Garrett’s exactly where you left him when you return from your enjoyable—but uneventful—conversation with Logan, currently looking like a dog who thinks it’s about to be rehomed.
And, honestly, it shows how down bad for him you are, because you find the whole thing incredibly adorable and endearing.
“How was your chat?” Garrett grumbles sarcastically, but still grabs you by the waist as soon as you’re in reach and hauls you onto his lap.
“It was good,” you tell him, kissing him before he can get offended and gently peeling a pink paint chip from his cheek. “Logan’s nice. I actually think you’d really like him.”
Garrett sniffs bluntly. “I doubt it.”
“And, if you must know, we had a short, friendly conversation where he told me he was interested in pursuing me and I told him that I’m happy in the couple I’m in and not really looking for anything else,” you continue to reassure him.
Garrett considers your words carefully.
“...That’s it?”
“That’s it,” you confirm and then you make a show of squinting in thought. “Well… I did also tell him that I needed to go shower... And that I’d probably need some help because someone got a bunch of paint on me in places I can’t reach.” You pout.
Garrett angles his head to give you an unimpressed look. “You told Logan you’ll need help showering?”
“Uh-huh,” you tease, voice dropping to a murmur as you lean tantalizingly closer to Garrett’s lips. “Weird how I’m out here with you, huh? Still covered in paint…”
You let out a delighted shriek as Garrett gets up suddenly and throws you over his shoulder before racing to the showers.
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – six shifts are more than enough to love someone, and one devastating loss leaves garrett holding his girlfriend through the worst night of her placement.
warnings – infant death, premature birth, neonatal intensive care, detailed medical procedures, neonatal deterioration and resuscitation, parental grief, emotional distress, guilt, panic, nightmares, crying
notes from me – um well u guys asked for angst but i am never breaking my babies up so 🧍🏼♀️ here we are. but based on these requests combined!
word count – 6.9k
The NICU makes medicine feel like magic performed by people with lanyards.
It’s breast milk measured into syringes instead of bottles, skin protected with dressings cut into pieces barely wider than her thumbnail, medication doses containing enough decimal points that she checks them three times before showing the nurse and then watches the nurse check them twice more.
The blood-pressure cuffs look like toys. The nappies seem physically impossible. The first time she changes one, she holds it between both hands and laughs because surely no human being is small enough to require something that could comfortably fit around her wrist.
Then she looks through the incubator wall at the baby waiting inside it, one pink foot no longer than the top joint of her thumb, and stops laughing.
The entire unit exists in a strange, permanent half-light. Curtains pulled around expressing mothers. Small lamps glowing beside incubators. Sunlight softened through blinds because some of the babies have not developed enough to tolerate the ordinary brightness of a hospital corridor.
There are alarms constantly, but never the same brutal chaos as emergency. Here, every sound seems to mean something specific. A heart rate creeping too high. Oxygen saturation dipping. A feeding pump finished. A sensor losing contact because somebody has kicked one astonishingly tiny leg with enough determination to dislodge it.
She loves it almost immediately. She loves the little name cards clipped to the incubators and the knitted blankets donated in colours no commercial nursery would ever select.
She loves watching parents learn how to change nappies through the side ports without disturbing six different wires. She loves the careful choreography of nurses turning babies whose bodies are still too fragile to decide their own position for very long.
She loves that a person can be born months before they are meant to be, skin translucent and lungs unfinished, and instead of everyone quietly accepting that the world has made a mistake, an entire team gathers around and says, alright. We’ll help.
There’s something almost obscene about the faith of it. Caffeine to remind an immature brain to keep breathing. Surfactant to help lungs stay open. Nutrition sliding through lines narrower than sewing thread. Warm air, filtered light and hands scrubbed clean moving through plastic doors to give a body weighing less than a bag of flour enough time to become ready for the world.
She has been on placement for six shifts when she decides the NICU might be the closest thing medicine has to a miracle.
For most of those shifts, she has been assigned to June. Not independently, she’s a student, not delusional.
Every movement she makes around June happens beneath the eye of Claire, the primary nurse who has worked neonatal intensive care long enough to change a line dressing while simultaneously calming an anxious father and reminding a junior doctor that the blood gas result he is searching for has been open on the screen in front of him for several minutes.
But June is hers in the strange, temporary way patients sometimes become yours during placement. She checks the monitors when she arrives. Helps with her cares. Watches Claire draw up medications and follows every calculation on paper until the numbers stop looking like a threat.
She records wet nappies with the seriousness of somebody documenting matters of national importance and learns which corner of June’s mouth lifts before she begins objecting to being handled.
June was born at twenty-four weeks and five days, weighing six hundred and eighty grams. She has lungs that require constant negotiation, a duct in her heart that has refused to close properly, and a list of complications long enough that her parents keep the consultant’s explanations written inside a small notebook because exhaustion has made memory unreliable.
Maya and Daniel arrive every morning carrying takeaway coffees and looking like they haven’t slept properly since June was born.
By her third day, she knows Maya drinks oat milk and Daniel forgets to eat until someone puts food directly beside him. By the fourth, Daniel starts bringing her a coffee too, despite her insisting students cannot accept gifts from patient families and Daniel pointing out that the coffee costs three dollars and tastes like burnt cardboard, which barely qualifies as a gift.
Maya sits beside the incubator for hours with one hand resting through the port, her smallest finger curled beneath June’s palm.
“She squeezes,” Maya tells her on Tuesday, eyes bright with tiredness and pride. “It’s not a reflex. Everyone keeps saying it’s probably a reflex, but she knows it’s me.”
She looks at the impossibly tiny fingers wrapped around Maya’s. “She probably does.”
“You’re meant to be neutral,” Maya smiles.
“I’m a student. We’re still allowed a little whimsy.”
Maya laughs quietly so she doesn’t disturb June. Daniel looks up from the notebook and says, “Write that down. Medical confirmation.”
She looks forward to seeing them. That’s perhaps the first mistake, although calling it a mistake feels ugly after everything.
She looks forward to Maya showing her the photograph of the nursery they finished while June was still meant to be inside her. She looks forward to Daniel announcing every weight increase in grams like a stock market closing figure.
She looks forward to June’s whole face scrunching when Claire changes the tape near her cheek, fury gathering in a body too small to produce any meaningful noise around the breathing support.
On Thursday, June tolerates an entire skin-to-skin cuddle against Maya’s chest. Forty-three minutes without her oxygen saturation dropping enough to end it early.
Maya cries. Daniel takes twelve photographs. She stands behind Claire with one hand wrapped around the side rail and feels something warm expand beneath her ribs as June settles against her mother’s skin, no larger beneath the blanket than a loaf of bread.
“That’s good, right?” Daniel asks for the fourth time.
Claire smiles. “That’s very good.”
She nods too, though nobody asked her. “She looks comfortable.”
“She likes her mom,” Daniel says.
Maya looks down at the little hat resting over June’s head and begins crying harder.
The following morning, her first observation of June is normal for June. Not normal in the broader sense. Almost nothing about a neonatal intensive care unit fits comfortably within the broader sense.
But her heart rate sits where it usually does. Her oxygen requirement is slightly higher than the night before but not dramatically. Her temperature is fine. Her abdomen appears mildly distended, though Claire checks it and says they will keep watching.
Maya arrives at eight-fifteen. Daniel follows ten minutes later after moving the car because the parking app had stopped accepting his payment and threatened to make an already impossible week much worse.
June is unsettled during her cares. Her oxygen saturation dips twice while they change her nappy, then recovers with repositioning.
Claire’s mouth tightens slightly while looking at the monitor, but when Maya asks whether that happens often, she answers honestly.
“It can,” she says. “She’s taking a little longer to come back up today, so we’re keeping a close eye on her.”
Maya nods. The hand holding her coffee tightens around the cardboard cup.
They send bloods. The registrar reviews June. Antibiotics are adjusted while the team waits for results, every decision made quickly but without panic, the people around the incubator speaking in that quiet, clipped rhythm healthcare workers use when concern hasn’t yet become an emergency but is beginning to move in that direction.
She stays close to Claire. She checks equipment. She helps reposition the saturation probe when it stops reading properly and watches June’s oxygen numbers climb again.
Eighty-one. Eighty-six. Ninety.
Everyone exhales without acknowledging they had been waiting.
Maya sits beside the incubator, one hand inside against June’s leg. “She’s being difficult today.”
“She’s allowed,” she says softly. “She’s got a lot going on.”
Maya’s mouth lifts, but the smile barely forms before the monitor begins alarming again. The saturation drops first. Ninety-one to eighty-two so quickly the numbers appear to skip between them. June’s heart rate follows, falling out of the one-fifties.
Claire straightens. “Come on, sweetheart.”
She opens the incubator port and places a careful hand against June’s back while Claire adjusts her breathing support. The numbers continue falling.
Seventy-four. The alarm changes tone.
The sound is sharper now, cutting through every other noise on the unit. Claire’s hand moves to the emergency button.
The registrar is already turning from the workstation before she calls him. “Heart rate’s ninety.”
Maya stands so abruptly the chair catches against the floor behind her. Daniel is beside her immediately, one hand hovering near her waist without touching.
“What’s happening?” Maya asks.
Nobody answers quickly enough. The consultant comes through the curtain, followed by another nurse and the respiratory therapist. The space around the incubator contracts, bodies filling every available gap while the monitor keeps sounding above them.
“Heart rate sixty.”
Claire looks at her. Focused enough that her voice loses every unnecessary word. “Can you take Mom and Dad to the family room, please?”
She looks at Maya.
Maya has already understood enough to shake her head. “No. No, I’m staying.”
“Maya,” Daniel says, though his own voice has begun breaking.
She moves toward them because Claire has asked her to and because standing still feels like choosing something worse. “I just need you to step outside with me for a minute.”
“What’s happening?” Maya catches her forearm. Her fingers are cold even through the scrub sleeve. “What’s happening to her?”
Behind them, someone says, “Heart rate forty,” and the room changes completely.
The sides of the incubator open. A resuscitation board appears beneath June’s body. Hands begin compressions with two fingers against a chest so small the motion looks impossible.
Maya hears it. She makes a sound that does not belong in any hospital corridor. “Is she dying?” she asks.
She cannot answer that. She cannot lie either. Her whole throat seems to close around every word she knows.
“The doctors need room to help her,” she manages, covering Maya’s hand with her own. “I need you to come with me right now, okay? They’re doing everything they can.”
“I can’t leave her.”
“I know.” Her own voice is shaking now. She forces it lower. “I know. You’re not leaving. We’re going right outside.”
Daniel wraps one arm around Maya and helps turn her away. She walks with them through the curtain, one hand still gripping Maya’s, while the alarms continue behind them.
Maya keeps looking over her shoulder. “June,” she cries. “June, Mommy’s here.”
The family room is less than twenty feet away. It feels like a different building. Two grey chairs. A box of tissues. A painting of the ocean selected by someone who believed blue water might soften whatever was said beneath it.
Daniel lowers Maya into one of the chairs. She doesn’t sit properly. Her body folds toward the door, every muscle trying to return to the room they have just left.
“What are they doing?” Daniel asks.
“Resuscitating her.”
The word leaves her mouth before she can find something gentler. Daniel shuts his eyes.
Maya’s fingers close around hers so hard the little bones grind together. “She was okay yesterday.”
“I know.”
“She was on my chest.”
“I know.”
“I felt her breathing.”
She cannot say anything to that. She crouches beside Maya’s chair because standing over them feels cruel and keeps holding her hand while another nurse arrives to stay with them.
“Go,” the nurse says quietly. “They’ll need you inside.”
She returns through the curtain. For the next several minutes, time becomes a series of instructions.
Bring the medication tray. Open another packet. Move the light. Record the time. Pass the syringe to Claire. Step back. Come closer. Hold this. Move that line. Watch the clock.
She does everything she’s told. Her hands work even while the rest of her body feels several seconds behind them. The doctor intubates. The respiratory therapist checks placement. Compressions continue.
Medication moves through the line in amounts so small they still require a syringe, even now, even while everyone in the space is willing June’s heart to remember its job.
The monitor remains wrong. A number appears, falls, disappears beneath the movement of leads and hands. The room smells like plastic, sanitiser and the faint sweet trace of milk from the feed that had been stopped earlier.
Someone calls another time. The consultant listens. The compressions stop.
The silence afterward isn’t complete. There are still machines in the room. Pumps running. Ventilation equipment hissing. Another baby alarming from the next bay because the world hasn’t agreed to pause.
But June’s monitor no longer demands anything. The consultant looks at the clock and says the time aloud. Every person around the incubator becomes still.
She stares at June. Without all the hands moving over her, she looks smaller than before. Smaller than a body should be allowed to look. Her knitted hat has shifted upward slightly. One leg rests bent beneath the edge of the nappy she had changed that morning.
Claire turns off the alarm. The quiet sound of the button clicking seems to enter directly beneath her ribs.
Maya’s cry reaches them from the family room before anyone opens the door.
The parents are brought back in. The equipment that can be removed is removed. A blanket appears, soft and pale yellow. Claire wraps June with the care she used when June was alive, supporting her head, smoothing the hat back into place, tucking the blanket beneath her feet even though she can no longer become cold.
Daniel stands near the wall with one hand over his mouth. Maya takes her baby.
She doesn’t collapse dramatically. That might have been easier to witness. Her body only folds inward around June, shoulders curving, cheek lowering slowly against the little knitted hat while a sound keeps leaving her in pieces.
“My girl,” she says. “My beautiful girl.”
She stands near the door because she cannot make herself go farther away and cannot imagine she belongs any closer.
Maya lifts her head eventually. Her face is wet, almost unrecognisable beneath the grief moving through it. Her gaze finds her across the room.
“Thank you,” Maya says.
The words make no sense. She blinks. “I–”
“You looked after her.” Maya tightens the blanket around June. “She knew you.”
Her throat closes. She shakes her head once because she doesn’t know what she’s refusing. Daniel crosses the small space between them and pulls her into a hug.
It’s brief. One arm around her shoulders, his other hand still pressed against his own face, his body shaking hard enough that she feels it through both layers of scrubs.
“Thank you,” he repeats.
She stands there after he releases her, arms hanging by her sides, and understands that she will never forget the weight of being thanked by two people whose baby has just died.
Claire sends her on break.
She makes it to the staff bathroom, locks the door and grips the edge of the sink with both hands. For several seconds, nothing happens. Her reflection stares back at her beneath the fluorescent strip above the mirror. Scrub cap still sitting crooked over her hair. Mask pulled beneath her chin. A faint pressure mark across the bridge of her nose.
Then her mouth twists. She bends forward so quickly her forehead almost hits the mirror. One hand flies over her mouth before the first sob can come out properly, the sound trapped hot against her palm while her shoulders begin shaking.
There’s nowhere for it to go. The room is too small. Her body is too tight around it. She presses both palms against her eyes until colours burst behind them, trying to stop the image of June beneath two fingers, June wrapped in yellow, Maya saying my girl like the words could still keep her tethered.
She cries until her breathing becomes painful. Until her throat is raw and her nose runs and her knees feel unreliable beneath her. Then she turns on the tap, splashes cold water over her face and waits for herself to look approximately employable again.
She doesn’t feel better. She looks less visibly ruined. Hospitals often accept that as an adequate substitute. The rest of the shift passes through her without leaving much behind.
Claire offers to send her home. She says no because there’s only an hour and twenty minutes left and because the idea of leaving the unit while June’s parents are still inside feels like walking away from a sentence before it’s ended.
So she restocks feeding syringes. Folds blankets. Checks expiry dates on supplies she knows are nowhere near expiring. She documents what she’s asked to document and reads every line three times because the words keep refusing to stay in their correct order.
Near the end of the shift, she helps Claire press June’s foot into ink for the memory card. The footprint is scarcely larger than the pad of her thumb.
At five-thirty, Claire takes the pen out of her hand. “Go home,” she says.
She nods. She changes in the locker room, though she has no memory of removing her scrubs. Her hands put on jeans, a jumper, shoes. Her badge disappears into the front pocket of her bag. Someone says goodbye near the door.
Garrett’s car is parked beneath the far light in the staff car park. He had handed her the keys that morning with the same explanation he always uses now, that she’s not wasting her own petrol driving to unpaid placement when he has a perfectly good car.
She reaches the driver’s door and stops. The keys are already in her hand. She could unlock it. Sit inside. Reverse out. Follow the familiar roads back toward campus.
Her body will not move.
She looks through the window at the steering wheel, and the thought of putting both hands onto it makes something cold slide beneath her skin. Traffic lights. Pedestrians. Lane changes. Braking distances. Decisions arriving one after another while June’s monitor drops from ninety to sixty to forty inside her head.
She sits on the curb instead. The concrete is cold through her jeans. Garrett’s car rises beside her, dark and clean beneath the parking-lot lights, his Briar pass still hanging crooked from the mirror.
The hospital glows behind her. People come and go through the staff entrance, talking about dinner and rosters and whether the rain will hold off tomorrow.
She takes out her phone.
Garrett answers on the second ring. “Hey, baby.”
The sound of his voice almost undoes the work of the bathroom. She presses her thumb into the seam of her jeans and stares across the car park at nothing.
“Can you come get me?”
“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, more carefully, “What’s wrong?”
She opens her mouth and discovers she cannot put the day inside it. “I can’t drive.”
The words come out flat. Numb enough that they barely sound like hers.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” She swallows. Her throat aches. “Physically, yeah. I’m fine.”
Another small pause. She can hear movement now. A cupboard closing. Garrett saying something away from the phone, too muffled to make out.
“Okay,” he says, voice returning close to her ear. “I’ll be twenty minutes, baby.”
She nods before remembering he cannot see her. “Okay.”
“You still at the staff car park?”
“Mhm.”
“Stay there.”
“I am.”
“I’m coming.”
The call ends. She lowers the phone into her lap and waits. She doesn’t check the time. It could be twelve minutes or eighteen or half an hour.
The light above Garrett’s car hums faintly, attracting small insects that circle it without ever finding what they want.
Dean’s car turns into the lot hard enough that its headlights sweep across three empty spaces before settling on her.
It pulls up beside Garrett’s car at an angle that would probably irritate Dean under any other circumstances. The engine cuts off. Garrett is out before the headlights fully dim, one hand still holding Dean’s keys and his expression already changing as he takes her in.
She gets to her feet. For one second, she only stands there. Bag hanging from one shoulder. Phone loose in her hand. Garrett in grey sweats and a Briar hoodie, curls disordered like he dragged his fingers through them the entire drive.
Then he says, “Baby?”
Her body moves. She reaches him fast enough that her bag slides from her shoulder. Garrett catches her as it hits the ground, one arm wrapping around her back and the other coming up behind her head as she throws herself into his chest.
The first sob tears out of her without warning.
Garrett’s whole body tightens around it. “Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.”
She grips the back of his hoodie in both fists. Her face presses beneath his jaw, breath catching against his throat while the crying comes harder now than it did in the bathroom because nobody is waiting outside the door, because she doesn’t have to return to the unit, because Garrett’s arms are around her and her body has finally decided it’s safe enough to stop pretending.
“What happened?” he asks, his palm moving over the back of her head. “Baby, what happened?”
She tries to answer. The first attempt disappears into a gasping breath. Garrett holds her tighter, one hand smoothing down her hair again and again even though it has already come loose around her face.
“Take your time,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”
“The baby.” Her voice breaks completely. She presses her face harder into him like she can force the words back inside. “June.”
Garrett goes still. He knows June through every story she brought home. June gained twenty grams. June hated cares. June held her mum’s finger. June did skin-to-skin for forty-three minutes and didn’t desaturate once.
“June?” he asks quietly.
She nods against him. “She died.”
Garrett’s breath leaves him. The whole sentence is outside her now, but it doesn’t make the weight of it smaller. Her knees weaken. Garrett adjusts without comment, one arm dropping lower around her waist to take more of her weight while the other keeps her face against his shoulder.
“Oh, baby.” His mouth presses into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“They did everything.” The words begin coming in broken pieces, each one dragged through another sob. “They were there, and her numbers just– they just kept going down, and Maya wouldn’t leave. She kept saying June’s name, and I had to take them out, and then we–”
Her breath catches too sharply to continue. Garrett rubs one hand between her shoulder blades, slow and firm.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. There’s nothing else sensible to say, and Garrett does not try to improve it. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
“She was so little.”
“I know.”
“She was fine yesterday.” Her hands tighten in his hoodie. “She was on her mom’s chest. She was breathing.”
Garrett shuts his eyes. His cheek rests against the top of her head while she cries into him beneath the hospital lights.
“I couldn’t drive,” she gasps after a while. “I’m sorry. I tried to– I looked at the car, and I couldn’t–”
“No.” Garrett pulls back only far enough to hold her face between both hands. His thumbs move beneath her wet eyes, catching tears that are replaced almost immediately. “Don’t apologise.”
“It’s your car.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the car.”
“I made you come all the way here,” she mumbles.
“Baby.” His forehead presses to hers. “You called me because you needed me. That’s it.”
Her mouth trembles.
Garrett’s hands slide from her face, one returning to the back of her neck while the other holds her at the waist. “I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “I always have you.”
She closes her eyes. June is still dead. Maya is still inside the hospital holding a body that had been warm beneath her hand that morning.
But Garrett is here. His hoodie is damp beneath her cheek. His fingers are moving through her hair. His heart beats steadily against the side of her fist.
“I know,” she whispers.
The words break in the middle, but Garrett hears them. His arms tighten around her again, and she clings harder, letting him hold everything her body cannot keep upright alone.
They stay that way until her breathing begins to slow. Lengthening enough that each inhale stops scraping on the way in.
Garrett kisses the top of her head. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”
She nods against him.
“We’ll leave my car.” His hand moves down her back. “I’ll get it tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He eases away carefully, keeping one hand around her arm like he doesn’t trust the ground beneath her yet. He picks up her bag, hangs it over his own shoulder and walks her toward Dean’s passenger side.
She stops when he opens the door.
Garrett looks at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes burn again. She wipes beneath one with the heel of her hand. “Dean let you take his car?”
“Didn’t exactly present a balanced argument.” Garrett guides her down into the seat. “I said hospital and he threw me the keys.”
A small sound catches in her throat. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that Garrett’s face softens.
“There she is,” he murmurs, then seems to regret asking anything more of her expression. His hand cups the side of her head instead, thumb smoothing once over her temple. “You want the seat back?”
She shakes her head.
“Heat?”
“Mhm.”
Garrett reaches across and pulls the seatbelt over her because her hands have gone useless in her lap. The belt clicks into place.
He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and looks over her face once more, not searching for an explanation now, only making sure she is still with him.
“I’ll get you home,” he says.
She curls one hand around the sleeve of his hoodie before he can move away. Garrett stops immediately. “Don’t go yet.”
His expression changes so quietly it hurts. “I’m just going around the car, baby.”
She nods, but her fingers don’t release him. Garrett leans in and presses his mouth to her forehead, staying there for several seconds while one hand rests warm against the side of her neck.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs.
Only then does she let go. Garrett closes the passenger door gently and walks around the front of Dean’s car, his shape briefly passing through the headlights still shining over the empty parking spaces.
He climbs into the driver’s seat, turns the heat high and reaches for her hand before starting the engine. She gives it to him.
His fingers close around hers, warm and sure over the centre console, and when the hospital begins disappearing behind them, she doesn’t look back.
The hockey house has never been good at being quiet. Even asleep, it produces noise with the restless commitment of something built over old pipes and occupied by four men.
The radiator beside Garrett’s desk clicks every few minutes. Someone turns over in the room across the hall and makes an entire bedframe complain.
Downstairs, the refrigerator begins one of its long mechanical groans, followed by the soft clunk of the ice maker dropping three cubes nobody asked for.
Tonight, though, the house is trying.
Dean had turned the television off without being told when Garrett brought her through the front door. Logan had taken one look at her face and moved the shoes blocking the stairs instead of asking what happened. Tucker had reheated soup, set it in front of her and accepted without argument when she managed only four spoonfuls before staring into the bowl like she had forgotten what it was for.
Nobody made a joke when Garrett carried the bowl away. Nobody complained when he closed his bedroom door before nine.
She had showered because hospital smell had become something she needed off her skin immediately, though Garrett had stood outside the bathroom the whole time after she went silent beneath the water for long enough that he nearly knocked.
She emerged in one of his shirts with her eyes swollen and her hair damp against her shoulders, climbed into bed without speaking and let him arrange himself around her.
Garrett had stayed awake longer than she did. He watched the back of her head against his pillow and kept one arm locked around her waist, palm spread beneath the shirt over her stomach.
Her breathing had taken a while to settle. Every few minutes, it would snag and her body would tense faintly against him, like some part of her had remembered where she had been and needed to check whether it was still happening.
Eventually, exhaustion took her properly. It takes Garrett too, one second he’s watching the shadows from the blinds sit across his wall; the next, the room has gone black and shapeless around him, his face pressed into the back of her hair and one leg trapped between both of hers.
The noise wakes him sometime later. It’s small. Barely enough to reach through sleep. A soft, breathy sound from somewhere directly in front of him, followed by another that catches strangely at the end.
Garrett’s eyes stay closed. For one slow, profoundly unhelpful second, his half-conscious brain decides she’s moaning.
His hand shifts instinctively at her waist before the rest of him has agreed to become involved. His mouth presses sleepily near the back of her neck, and he’s somewhere in the process of thinking that this is inconveniently hot for what feels like the middle of the night when she makes the sound again.
It breaks this time. Not pleasure. Not even close. Garrett’s eyes open.
The room is dim enough that he can only see the pale outline of her cheek against the pillow at first. Her body has gone stiff within the curve of his, shoulders pulled tight and both hands gathered near her chest beneath the blanket.
Another little sound leaves her, thin and frightened, while her head moves once against the pillow as if she’s trying to turn away from something that keeps following.
“Baby?”
She doesn’t wake. Garrett lifts himself onto one elbow. Sleep falls away from him all at once.
There are tears running across her face. They have collected at the bridge of her nose where her cheek is pressed sideways, slipping steadily over the skin and darkening the pillow beneath her.
Her brows are drawn together. Her mouth opens around another broken breath, and the sight of it makes something cold move through his stomach.
“Fuck.” Garrett reaches for her face, then stops himself before grabbing her too quickly. “Hey. Baby.”
He slides one arm beneath her shoulder and rolls her gently onto her back. She comes without resistance, still asleep, head tipping toward him while another tear slips into her hair.
Garrett moves over her, one knee pressing into the mattress beside her hip. “Baby, wake up.”
His thumb catches the wetness beneath one eye. More replaces it immediately. He wipes that away too, then cups the side of her face, keeping his touch steady even while his pulse begins kicking much too hard beneath his ribs.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He says her name, quietly at first, then again with more force when her breathing stutters. “Wake up for me. You’re dreaming. That’s all. Wake up, baby.”
Her face twists.
Garrett’s stomach drops. “Hey. Hey, you’re okay. Come on.”
He strokes his thumb over her cheek and says her name again. Once. Twice. A third time, close enough that his breath moves over her mouth.
Her eyes fly open. She jerks upright with a sharp gasp, nearly catching Garrett beneath the chin. Her hands come up between them without direction, fingers grabbing at the blanket, his arm, the front of his shirt, anything they can find while she drags in another breath that seems to stop before reaching the bottom of her lungs.
“Hey.” Garrett catches both sides of her face. “It’s me.”
Her eyes move around the room too quickly. The lamp he had left on low beside the bed. The dark window. The jersey hanging over his desk chair. Garrett above her, hair flattened from the pillow and heart trying to punch its way through his chest.
For a second, she only stares, then recognition reaches her and her whole body comes forward.
Garrett barely has time to sit back before she throws both arms around his neck and buries her face beneath his jaw. The force of it knocks him against the headboard, one shoulder striking the wood with a muted thud while her hands knot in the back of his shirt.
He folds around her immediately. “Okay.” One hand cups the back of her head. The other closes around her waist, pulling her tight enough that there’s no room left between them for whatever she woke from. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”
She nods against his neck, though her breathing says she hasn’t entirely returned to the room yet. Each inhale comes fast and shallow against his skin. Her fingers grip harder, pressing into the muscles along his back until it starts to hurt.
Garrett doesn’t loosen them. “Just a dream,” he repeats, quieter. His palm moves slowly over her hair, smoothing it down the back of her head despite the pieces already sticking damply to her cheeks. “You’re here. You’re with me.”
Another shudder passes through her. It starts near her shoulders and moves through the rest of her body, small enough that somebody not holding her this tightly might have missed it.
Garrett presses his mouth to her temple. “What happened?”
She doesn’t answer at first. Her face turns farther into his neck, nose cold against his skin, lips moving once before any sound emerges.
“June,” she whispers.
Garrett shuts his eyes. The name sits differently now than it had when she used to say it over dinner. No amused little story attached. No update about grams gained or oxygen tolerated or the knitted hat somebody had donated in a colour she claimed made June look like a tiny retired golfer.
Only June.
“Just–” Her breath catches. “Nightmare.”
“Oh, baby.”
Garrett’s hand spreads more firmly over the back of her head. There’s nothing useful he can do with the picture his mind supplies. A monitor falling. A baby small enough to fit along his forearm. Her standing in the middle of it while two parents begged her for an answer she couldn’t give.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”
She shifts suddenly, trying to get closer despite already being wrapped completely around him. One knee moves across his thigh. Then the other. Garrett adjusts before she can lose her balance, sliding both hands beneath her hips as she climbs into his lap and settles astride him with no trace of anything sexual in the movement.
She only needs more of him. Her arms lock behind his neck. Her face returns to the same place beneath his jaw, and her whole body folds against his chest as if sitting over his hips has finally removed the last unsafe inch between them.
Garrett leans back against the headboard. The wood is cold through his shirt. He draws the blanket around her shoulders with one hand and keeps the other broad over her back.
“Got you,” he says into her hair. “You can stay right there.”
She gives a tiny nod. He begins scratching lightly along her spine, up beneath the loose fabric of his shirt and down again, his nails barely catching against warm skin. It’s something she usually likes after sex, or when she’s pretending not to be tired on the couch and needs help losing the argument.
Tonight her back remains tense beneath his palm for several passes before the muscles start to soften.
Garrett keeps talking because silence feels too much like leaving her alone with whatever is waiting behind her eyes.
“You did everything right, baby.” Her fingers tighten faintly at his nape. “You stayed. You helped them. You did what Claire asked you to do.” His hand travels down the centre of her back, then up again with the same slow pressure. “You got her parents somewhere safe while everybody worked. You went back in. You helped.”
A breath leaves her into his neck, warm and uneven.
“There wasn’t something you missed,” Garrett continues. He doesn’t know if that’s the exact shape of the thing hurting her, but he knows her. Knows the brutal little inventory she will already be taking through the whole shift, checking every number and movement for evidence that a better nurse might have changed what happened. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He feels her swallow.
“She was too sick,” he says softly. “That’s not the same as you not doing enough.”
The words sound almost too neat once they leave him. Garrett hates neat explanations for things that have torn somebody open. He presses his mouth to her hair and tries again.
“Her mom thanked you.”
Her body goes still.
“You told me that in the car,” he says. “She thanked you because you looked after her baby. Because she knew you cared about her.”
A wet breath catches against his throat.
“They loved you,” Garrett murmurs. “Her parents did. June probably did too.”
He can practically hear her objecting to the scientific integrity of that claim on any other night. Telling him premature babies aren’t capable of filling out student evaluations. Asking whether he has conducted a peer-reviewed study on neonatal affection. Nothing comes.
Garrett strokes his hand over her back again. “You’re such a good nurse.”
Still nothing.
His brows draw together. He tips his face down toward the top of her head, trying to see whatever portion of her expression is not hidden against his neck. “Baby?”
She remains heavy against him. For one brief, stupid second, alarm tightens beneath his ribs again. Then a soft little breath warms his throat.
The next one carries a faint snore. Garrett goes still. He waits. Another tiny, congested snuffle escapes her nose, followed by the slow release of her whole body as sleep takes the final tension from her spine.
Her fingers are still tangled loosely behind his neck, but the grip has gone slack. Her cheek rests warm against his skin, mouth parted slightly near his collarbone.
Garrett looks toward the ceiling. A quiet laugh leaves him through his nose, too soft to disturb her. “Okay.”
He shifts carefully, testing whether he can lower them both without waking her. The second he moves, her arms tighten on instinct and one dissatisfied noise catches in the back of her throat.
Garrett stops immediately.
“Right,” he whispers. “Here it is.”
The headboard isn’t especially comfortable. One of its narrow wooden edges is already pressing into the centre of his shoulder blade, and her full weight has begun settling over one of his thighs in a way that promises circulation will become a future concern.
He doesn’t care. Garrett reaches behind himself one-handed, drags the pillow upright against the headboard and wedges it between the wood and his spine.
The movement earns another sleepy sound from her, but she doesn’t wake. She only nuzzles closer, nose brushing once against his neck before her breathing evens out again.
He pulls the blanket higher around her. The clock on his nightstand says 2:43.
Across the hall, somebody gets out of bed. A door opens with unusual care, followed by the quiet pad of feet toward the bathroom. Garrett listens until the pipes begin groaning in the wall, then looks down at the girl asleep in his lap.
Her face is mostly hidden. He can see the damp curve of one cheek, the swollen edge beneath her eye and the lashes still clumped slightly from tears. One hand lies loose at the back of his neck, palm warm against his skin.
Garrett slides his own hand into her hair and holds her there. He doesn’t know how to make tomorrow better. June will still be dead when the sun comes up. Her parents will still wake somewhere without the monitors they have been listening to for weeks.
His girlfriend will probably open her eyes and begin taking herself apart over a baby she had known for six shifts, because six shifts had apparently been more than enough to love somebody that small.
He cannot fix any of it.
The thought presses against an old, ugly place in him. The part that still believes love should make him capable of getting through every locked door before something happens on the other side. The part that hears pain and immediately starts searching for something he can hit, carry, stop or solve.
There’s nothing here for his hands to fight. Only her. Her breathing against his neck. Her knees tucked around his hips. The soft weight of her asleep on his chest because, even after the worst day she has had in a hospital, some exhausted part of her still knows exactly where to go when she cannot hold herself up anymore.
Garrett lowers his cheek onto the top of her head. His leg starts going numb ten minutes later. He stays exactly where he is.
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summary: in which lily has a nightmare that nothing, not even garrett, can soothe, until she tearfully asks for y/n, forcing him to confront just how deeply attached she has become.
notes: hi! thank you both for your requests <3 this story was so sweet to write! 🥹 i hope you all enjoy! 💌 💌
ꪆৎ
garrett hadn't planned on having everyone over, friday nights simply had a habit of turning into this.
dean had shown up first, claiming he was 'starving'.
tucker wasn't far behind.
logan wandered in a few minutes later, a bag of takeaway balanced against his hip. he dropped it onto the counter without a word before helping himself to a drink.
somewhere along the way, the four of them had ended up spread across garrett's living room, half-watching a movie while arguing over whose turn it was to buy dinner next friday, despite none of them keeping track anyway.
upstairs, lily had been asleep for almost an hour, exhausted after a full day of running around.
you'd finished work not long after.
garrett had walked you to the front door like he always did.
"thank you again, y/n."
you had rolled your eyes, smiling. "you're welcome."
"drive safe."
"i will."
he had held your gaze for another second before giving a small nod, "goodnight."
you laughed softly, "goodnight, garrett."
then you'd gone home. everything had been completely normal.
until-
a scream split through the house.
"daddy!"
garrett was on his feet before he'd even realised he'd stood.
the television became background noise, dean stopped talking mid-sentence, logan looked towards the stairs, tucker had already put his drink down.
another cry echoed through the hallway. "daddy!"
garrett took the stairs two at a time. "bug?"
he pushed open her bedroom door. lily was sitting bolt upright in bed, her cheeks soaked with tears. her little chest rose and fell in panicked gasps, tiny hands gripping desperately at the blankets gathered around her waist.
she looked completely terrified.
garrett crossed the room immediately, "hey."
his voice was gentle, soft enough that only lily could hear. he was beside her before she'd even looked up. "i'm here, bug."
lily threw herself into his arms. garrett caught her easily, settling her against his chest as he sat down on the edge of her bed.
"i've got you."
she buried her face into his shoulder, her entire body shaking.
"bad dream?"
she nodded frantically in response. garrett rested his cheek against the top of her head, "okay."
his hand rubbed slow circles across her tiny back. "it's alright."
lily let out another sob.
"you're safe."
despite garrett's words of comfort, she only cried harder. by then the others had reached the doorway. dean stayed back, keeping his voice low. "everything okay?"
garrett gave a small shake of his head, "nightmare."
logan quietly disappeared before returning a moment later with bunny tucked beneath his arm. "thought she might want him."
garrett smiled gratefully before nodding his head, "thanks."
he held lily's bunny out. "lil! look what uncle logie found." normally, bunny fixed everything, yet today, lily barely looked, only clinging tighter to garrett's shirt.
"okay," he whispered. "that's okay."
he wasn't worried yet. she'd had nightmares before, they'd always been hard, yet he knew what to do.
garrett held her closer in his arms, rocking gently back and forth as he hummed absentmindedly beneath his breath. only once her sobs had softened did he set her carefully back down on the bed.
brushing the hair back from her face, his voice comes out soft, "we'll check together."
he crouches to look beneath the bed first, "nothing."
then he opens the wardrobe, "nothing in here either."
finally, he crosses to the window, pulling back the curtains. "all clear, bug."
he crouches down beside her, resting a hand gently against her knee. "there's nothing hiding."
lily looked towards the window where garrett had pulled back the curtains. for one hopeful second, he thinks he's done it, until her bottom lip begins to wobble.
another sob breaks free, even louder than the last.
"daddy..."
garrett immediately gathers her back into his arms. "i know lil, i know."
ten minutes pass, then twenty.
lily wasn't getting worse, yet she wasn't calming down either.
she was simply stuck.
dean tried distracting her with stories about dinosaurs, nothing.
tucker balanced bunny on his head until he toppled onto the floor. normally she'd giggle, however tonight she didn't even notice.
logan filled a sippy cup with water. lily took one sip before bursting into tears again.
garrett had lost count of how many times he'd kissed the top of her head. he had tried everything, whispering the same reassurances over and over.
"i'm here."
"you're okay."
"daddy's got you."
each one eased her breathing for a few seconds, until she would cry again.
the room had grown unusually quiet. the guys had stopped trying to help, simply watching. garrett had been doing this for almost forty-five minutes, never once looking frustrated, never sighing, never asking lily to stop crying.
he just held her, exactly as he'd held her every time she'd ever needed him.
dean looked away first, his chest tightening. there was something quietly heartbreaking about watching garrett like this, doing everything right, and still being unable to stop her tears.
garrett brushed damp hair away from lily's forehead. "talk to me, bug."
she shook her head against his shoulder.
"what do you need?"
another sob. garrett waited, patiently.
"want."
his hand paused. "what do you want, lil?"
lily pulled back just enough for him to see her face. her eyes were swollen, her little nose pink.
"...want y/n."
the room fell silent, garrett blinked. "what did you say, bug?"
fresh tears spilled immediately from her eyes, "want y/n."
she buried her face against him, repeating the same words as before, "i want y/n."
garrett swallowed. his first instinct was to soothe lily. "we'll see her tomorrow."
lily cried harder.
"no!"
"she's at home, sweetheart."
"i want y/n!"
he kisses her hair again. "i know."
"i want y/n!"
every answer became the same. every question, every reassurance, every attempt, they all circled back to one thing.
"i want y/n!"
garrett looked helplessly towards the doorway. dean rubbed the back of his neck.
"...g."
garrett didn't answer. logan sighed, before finally speaking up, his tone calm.
"maybe."
he hesitated.
"...maybe call her."
garrett looked down at the little girl trembling against him. she'd cried herself hoarse, her breathing hitching every few seconds.
he hated this.
god, he hated this.
you'd finished work hours ago, you deserved your evening, you deserved to switch off.
the last thing he wanted was to make you feel responsible.
garrett closed his eyes briefly, "i'll be back."
he stood carefully before stepping into the hallway. his phone felt unusually heavy in his hand as his fingers shifted across the screen, pressing on your contact.
you answered almost immediately. "garrett?"
your voice was soft, sleepy, instantly concerned. "is everything okay?"
he leaned against the wall outside lily's room, "i'm really sorry."
there was no hesitation from your end. "what happened?"
"lily had a nightmare."
"is she okay?"
garrett shifts his gaze back through the open bedroom door. lily was still crying, still searching the doorway every few seconds between sobs.
he lets out a quiet breath, "no."
another pause.
"we've tried everything." he glances back into the room. “i've been holding her for almost an hour."
"dean's here."
"logan."
"tucker."
"we've checked the room."
"read stories."
"given her water."
"bunny."
his voice softened. "she just won't settle."
silence.
"what does she keep asking for?"
garrett briefly closes his eyes, clearly debating on whether he should give you all of the details.
“you."
he almost expected you to hesitate, yet you don't.
"i'm leaving now."
"y/n, you don't have to-"
"i'm already grabbing my keys."
"i feel awful calling-"
"garrett."
your voice was gentle. "it's okay."
another pause.
"i'll be there soon."
half an hour later, headlights sweep across the front windows.
garrett hadn't told lily.
he hadn't wanted to promise something he couldn't guarantee. if traffic got bad or something came up, there was every chance you wouldn't make it.
he was still sitting in the rocking chair, gently rubbing circles across her back, when the front door clicked open downstairs. soft footsteps followed, then the familiar creak of the hallway floorboard.
"garrett?"
lily froze. for the first time in nearly an hour, her sobs stopped. her little head lifted from garrett's shoulder, listening to the footsteps outside her bedroom.
"y/n?"
hope. pure, unmistakable hope.
you appeared in the doorway a second later, still wearing leggings and an oversized hoodie, your hair pulled into the messy ponytail you'd clearly thrown together before leaving your place.
the second lily saw you-
"y/n!"
she reached. both little arms stretching desperately towards you. garrett barely had time to stand before you were crossing the room.
"oh, sweetheart."
you gathered her into your arms without a second thought. the moment her cheek rested against your shoulder she exhaled.
one long, shaky breath, followed by nothing.
no sobbing, no panicked gasps, no frantic searching, she simply melted against you, like every muscle in her tiny body had finally decided it was safe to relax.
garrett stared.
he'd spent the better part of an hour trying to slow her breathing, and here, you'd done it in seconds.
your hand rubbed gently up and down her back. "i know."
you kissed the top of her head, "i'm here."
another shaky sniffle.
"bad dream?"
a tiny nod. "it was scary."
"yeah. i thought it might've been."
lily only clings tighter to your hoodie.
"do you want to know what i did before i came upstairs?"
lily blinks, you lower your voice. "i checked outside."
"why?"
"to make sure your bad dream didn't follow me."
she looks at you very seriously.
"...did it?"
you smiled. "no. your daddy already scared it away."
her shoulders finally relax completely. "really?"
"really."
you look over at garrett, sending him a warm smile of encouragement. "didn't you?"
he smiles softly in return. "every monster in the neighbourhood knows not to come near this house, bug."
a tiny laugh slips from lily. it's barely audible, but enough.
you tuck her back beneath the blankets, settling bunny beneath one arm before carefully tucking the blanket beneath her chin.
"story?" she asks quietly.
"of course."
you grab lily's favourite picture book from beside her bed. garrett leans against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest.
he'd watched you read this book dozens of times. you always did the same voices, paused in the same places, let lily finish the last few sentences herself.
halfway through, her eyelids begin drooping and by the final page she's asleep, peacefully this time. you gently comb your fingers through her hair, humming softly as the boys stand around outside together.
for a long moment nobody speaks, all four of them simply watching you, crouched down beside lily.
dean breaks the silence first, "well."
logan doesn't take his eyes off garrett, "you're in trouble, g."
garrett looks over, meeting his gaze. "what?"
logan nods towards lily. "she's attached."
garrett glanced back through the bedroom doorway, his gaze settling on you as your fingers continued to comb gently through lily's hair. he'd known she was attached to you, he just hadn't realised how deep those roots had grown.
logan shoves his hands into his pockets. "you wanted someone she'd feel safe with."
another beat.
"...mission accomplished."
the words settle somewhere deep in garrett's chest.
logan was right. he'd wanted consistency, someone gentle, someone lily trusted, someone who made this house feel lighter whenever they walked through the front door.
he'd gotten all of that.
beside him, dean bumped his shoulder, his next words coming out quiet enough that only garrett could hear. "good luck, captain."
garrett didn't answer.
his eyes stayed fixed on lily's bedroom, on the soft bedside lamp still glowing, on you sitting inside, humming quietly to his little girl while she slept.
for the first time since hiring you, one thought settled heavily in his chest.
a/n alright, you twisted my hand. I’m about to reread this real time w u guys so lets make it fun and do a bit of reminiscing together 😁
wc 20.1K lmao
Rafe Cameron wasn’t certain that he would ever get used to this feeling.
The thought crossed his mind on an uneventful, Sunday night; one that was occurring as Sunday nights usually did. You – splayed across that shaggy, retro rug that you “absolutely had to get, Rafael!” from Etsy, poring over the bright screen of your laptop through those blue light glasses he so adored. Him – forcing the air out of his nose noncommittally, the way he tended to do when something was mildly amusing, but not funny enough to warrant a full blown chuckle. Him, again (this time, on occasion) – hazarding a glance at your tired figure; catching you work through the n-th draft of an assignment, or the bills, or old emails, or that weathered study guide that you knew off by heart, anyway.
Why you felt the need to do all of your work on the floor, Rafe Cameron would never understand. You had a perfectly sturdy desk, one he had built you – “with my bare fucking hands, baby” – the same day that you had moved in. You had a perfectly modest double bed (though you were sure a single would have sufficed; the way Rafe blanketed you, and pulled you onto his side, every single night). The Arts library was a perfectly convenient five minute walk away; it was well-stocked, well-insulated, and well-protected from the rowdy frat boys that inhabited your residence every Friday. And most importantly, you had a perfectly enamoured hometown boyfriend with a knack for soothing those forehead creases you got when you were a little more stressed than usual. His arms were strong, and his torso broad; he made for the perfect, makeshift seat, one that held endless comfort – fingers carding through your hair, thumb brushing over the contour of your cheek, lazy kisses pressed onto your temple, small circles traced into your skin. And yet, you worked – diligently, he’ll give you that – on the boring old Etsy rug that you had purchased two years and five months ago, on a whim. You’d spent so very long perfecting the position that your figure was beginning to cave it’s surface; it was more than a little flattened, at this stage, and your body was its favourite callus. Though the peculiarity of this comparison wasn’t lost on Rafe, he maintained that it was the only word, really, that he could find to describe it. The space your body inhabited was a friction-addled surface, similar to the callus that notched your ring finger; the same space where you rest your blue pen, when it wasn’t annotating, or editing, or rewriting, or – God, did you ever relax?
“Y/n/n.” Rafe hummed, lifting his head from the arch of your back – his favourite spot. “What exactly are you doing?”
You knitted your brow, shaking your head absently. “Nothing.”
“Exams finished last week, yeah?” Rafe chided, shifting slightly to better survey your features. “So why’re you still hunched over like that?”
Above him, the sky was periwinkle blue – like it always was – and twilight was beginning to smear its surface was careless daubs of silver. In his periphery, the horizon hung low – like it always did – and sunbeams dipped in and out of your room like golden bullets. And sitting an arm’s length away – like you always were – was his dream girl, hair tousled just a little, lips puckered pink, cheeks rosied just right, fingers fiddling with his signet ring. Everything was as it was last Sunday, and the Sunday before that, and the Sunday that occurred two Sundays ago, and that one Sunday you braved a trip to the supermarket at midnight. And still, as Rafe Cameron took in the scene – the ‘this feeling’ in question, in all it’s mundane glory — he wasn’t certain that he would ever get used to it.
The furrow in your brow deepened, and it was enough to straighten Rafe with a jolt. “It’s nothing.”
“Don’t worry about it.” You added sternly, feeling a strong arm circle your waist. “Seriously. Nothing.”
“Sweetheart –”
Rafe lifted you up and pulled you into his lap, registering the haste with which you scrambled to hide the screen. “ – you know I’m going to worry about it.”
You couldn’t help but pout a little at that, though Rafe’s certain the doe-eyed display had an ulterior motive. “Fine. Then worry about it. But if you expect me to worry about you worrying about it —”
Rafe attempted to force a falter through a particularly indignant huff, but despite his conviction, it’s resonance was slight; it failed to convey any real irritation, and you had him exactly where you wanted him. He tried to scowl (to keep the act going… adorable), and it was though he didn’t know that you had already clocked every single one of his tells — the low rumble of his chest as he suppressed a laugh, the little quirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth, the twinkle in his eye that so effortlessly mirrored yours, the defeated sigh on his lips as he realised: you’d won the argument before the argument had even begun. “ — then you’re about to be very disappointed, Rafael.”
Rafe pressed his tongue against his cheek, an endeared smirk adorning his features. He cocked his head to one side, marvelling at the sight of you in his arms, and after a single, infinitesimally long, beat, he purposefully dipped his head, and pressed wet kisses on every inch of your bare skin. “You could never disappoint me, sweetheart.”
“Right.” You breathed, shifting a little closer, tangling your legs a little tighter, and when your fingers found their way to his ruffled hair, Rafe Cameron’s thoughts rose to a clamour, and he was certain — so certain he swore it — that he would never get used to this feeling.
Rafe brought his head back to eye-level, meeting your lips for a heady embrace. They parted obligingly as he made to deepen the kiss, breathy moans leaving little to the imagination — this was the favourite part of your day, the lawlessness with which you and your golden boy made out. He nipped at your bottom lip playfully, his bruising touch teasing the sweet spot between coy and handsy.
“Rafael.” You protested lamely, realising he had discovered your convenient lack of lingerie. “You have to go soon.”
Rafe let out a strangled groan, burying his head in the crook of your neck. “There’s just something about your nipples being this hard under my fucking sigma phi tee —”
“Rafe —”
“Alright, trouble.” He grinned, cupping your cheeks and kissing you slow. “Relax. I’m heading.”
You shimmed off his lap with a satisfied huff, arms folded across your chest, but mouth twisting mischievously, all the same. “Trouble. That’s new.”
“New good?” Rafe mused, guiding you back to your feet. “Or new like never-call-me-mommy-again?”
You crinkled your nose playfully, giving him that small smile that was reserved just for him. “New good.”
Wrapping your arms around his neck, you flushed right against his chest, letting out a surprised squeal as he began to palm your ass. With a small pout, you nudged your nose against his chin, prompting him to tilt his head so you could peppering lazy kisses along the contour of his jaw.
“Baby.” You frowned, making a face as you hit a particularly scratchy patch of stubble. “You need to shave.”
“Oh?” Rafe teased, roughing it against your soft cheeks. “Last time I heard that, I lost 500 bucks.”
“That porn stache didn’t go with my dress.” You argued, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. “It didn’t go with your suit, either —”
“And what about your dress for tomorrow?”
Rafe cocked his head to one side, feeling like the same, bright-eyed sixteen year old that had agonised over a certain, baby blue number, so many years ago. “Does it go with that, dream girl?”
“Nice try.” You quipped, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’ll see tomorrow.”
Rafe slipped his hand back under your (his) shirt, allowing a pause to lazily cup your breast. “Or I can see right now —”
“At the dry cleaners.” You managed to swallow, palms pressed against his torso with every ounce of conviction you could muster. “My mom’s picking it up when she arrives —”
You sucked in a sharp breath — Rafe’s forefinger had made contact with your nipple, again, the worn curve of his emerald ring kissing the valley of your breasts. “Rafael.”
“I don’t get why I can’t just stay.” Rafe protested, breaking contact reluctantly. “Wanna feel you, baby.”
You let out an exasperated scoff, fingers flying to the silver chain adorning your nape. “Graduation is tomorrow.”
“Yeah, graduation.” Rafe emphasised, making a mental note to ask Topper and Kelce for dress clues before he left. “Not our fucking wedding.”
“Our wedding?” You repeated, cocking your head to one side — teasing. “How can you be so sure we’re going to get married, Rafael?”
It was a silly question, really; you knew it, Rafe Cameron knew it, and the constellation of stars above you most definitely knew it. They decorated the purple sky like argent pearls, and as they registered the — near rhetorical, Rafe would argue vehemently; the answer far too obvious to be anything but — question, they flickered through the air lightning; almost threatening you, daring you to continue.
They knew better than anyone the ardency of Rafe’s feelings, and though his actions spoke for themselves, they had admired them diligently, from the sidelines; a curt nudge here, a slight straighten there, all in the name of love — in the name of you, it’s very definition.
“Because, sweetheart.” Rafe murmured, his gaze impossibly intense — your knees weak, feeling on the edge of seventeen, again. “Fate wouldn’t let you leave, even if you tried.”
You let out a little laugh at that, shaking your head bemusedly. “Three years later and you’re still the same lover boy, huh?”
“Always.” Rafe nodded sagely, pressing one last, chaste kiss on your temple before stepping backward. “So what time tomorrow?”
“My parents are arriving at 9am, I think.” You responded, expression unreadable as you hazarded a glance at your laptop. “And my ceremony is at 10. And yours is at —”
“— 12.” Rafe affirmed, gently catching your wrist. “Yeah.”
“And Ward and Rose are coming at…” You faltered, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to concentrate. “…11.30?”
Rafe felt his features soften, a familiar thrum steadying his chest. He loved how attentive you always were; the intention with which you committed the details of his life to memory. Everything from his class schedule to his favourite parking spot on campus was neatly filed in the Rafe Cameron folder of your brain; sizeable enough to fill you to the brim — a fact you weren’t sure you minded, especially not with him.
“Mm-hm.” Rafe nodded, ghosting over your knuckles with the phantom of his lips. “Oh, and —”
Rafe paused for a moment, speaking through a sheepish grin. “— I think Sar and Wheeze are coming after all.”
“Oh, of course!” You exclaimed, recalling the text message — can’t wait to celebrate you in a few days xo — Sarah had sent you not a day prior. “I’m glad, Rafael.”
“Me too.” Rafe admitted, feeling the tips of his ears redden. “But it’s not that big of a deal, really —”
“You’re graduating from college.” You interrupted, tracing soothing circles into the skin of his palm. “Of course it’s a big deal.”
“Not to mention.” You added, tugging at his shirt collar to pull him close. “You have a killer job lined up —”
“That doesn’t count, it’s with my fucking dad —”
“ — up.” You continued, raising your voice to drown out any interruptions. “As soon as you get outta here.”
“So yeah.” You finished, balancing on tip-toes to press a gentle kiss on his lips. “It is a big deal, hot shot.”
Rafe rolled his eyes in feigned exasperation, the blush blooming across his cheeks a dead giveaway. “You’re the one graduating with all A’s, baby.”
“Oh, yeah.” You coughed, chewing at your bottom lip nervously. “It’s not, uh —”
You cringed at the forced falter, swallowing the near imperceptible quaver to your tone. “ — yeah. Excited.”
Rafe knitted his brow, bowing his head to eye-level. “Sweetheart…”
He trailed off with a small sigh, searching your features in earnest. “…something’s on your mind.”
“Something to do with —” He paused, jerking a forefinger toward your still-open laptop. “— that.”
You grimaced, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. “Listen, it’s —”
“No way.” Rafe interrupted, stern. “No avoiding. Not with me.”
You had come a long — long — way from the timid girl who had broken his heart so many years ago. You no longer collapsed into yourself at the first sign of adversity, nor attempted to hide the truth from your favourite confidantes. When you cried, it was loud, and it was unabashed — you allowed yourself to feel everything fully, and when all was said and done, you afforded your friends the luxury of helping you back to your feet. You had come a long way, and your golden boy couldn’t be prouder. That didn’t stop you succumbing to the occasional slip; even the most determined of individuals weren’t immune to relapse. I’m not perfect, you would reason, and I don’t pretend to be, and — what was that saying? The one people tended to use before making bad decisions? Ah. Old habits, die hard.
“Seriously, Rafe.” You frowned, your features languid — pleading. “It’s nothing, okay?”
“Y/n.” Rafe warned, your wrists clasped against his chest in pre-emptive determination. “If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to go ahead and check —”
“Go on then.” You goaded, wriggling out of his grasp to cross your arms across your chest. “Read my emails. You wouldn’t.”
“Oh?” Rafe pressed, narrowing his eyes. “So it’s an email, then? What is it about?”
He chewed at his bottom lip thoughtfully, his mind moving a mile a minute. His contact with you had been frustratingly minimal over the last few weeks — a decision that was entirely your doing; intent on performing your very best on your exams (and your golden boy performing the same). Time had blurred into a haze of late nights and copious amounts of coffee; he was still catching up on sleep, and his restless brain was only encouraging the whisper of what-ifs.
You offered him a simple, half-shrug, in response, stubbornly gesturing toward your laptop screen. “Why don’t you just go ahead and have a look?”
Your voice was saccharine sweet, your words strangely permissive, and yet, Rafe Cameron didn’t dare budge. You did this often. So often he was T-1 admonishments close to finding it almost endearing. Unbelievable. Was he ever going to get used to this feeling?
“Alright.” He sighed finally, reaching toward your desk to grab a green claw clip. The action alone was enough to prompt a small pout, your head tilting a little, allowing Rafe to bunch up your wild curls and twist them into an up-do. He had always been attentive, in that way; registering your frustrated huffs before you did, the way you kinked your neck when their presence grew abrasive. “You win.”
You furrowed your brow, palms splaying his chest. “Rafael, I —”
You hesitated, biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood. The words you wanted to say, and the words you should say, were separating at lightning speed; it was late, and the din now distant — maybe tomorrow. Maybe not today.
“ — tomorrow, okay?” You proffered, swallowing the want’s, and then swallowing the should’s, as though you couldn’t feel the foreboding ache settling into every crevice of your chest. “After graduation. Tomorrow.”
“You can lean on me, you know?” Rafe frowned, thumbing at the soft skin of your cheek. “I love you, always.”
You allowed your eyes to close, leaning into his touch, the way you always did. “I love you, always.”
—
“Mom.” You groaned, letting out an exasperated huff. “Stop. I’m fine.”
“You should have given me more time.” Your mother tutted, choosing to ignore your protests in favour of pulling, and tugging, and pulling-and-tugging, and readjusting, and… well, and treating the affair with almost as much remonstrance as she did Midsummer’s. “I could have gotten this tailored, I mean honestly, Y/n, the fabric is beginning to bunch up right —”
She tweaked the beaded tulle that began at your waist, pinching the bridge of her nose frustratedly. “ — here, and the corset is showing —”
She curled a forefinger into the space above your breastbone, attempting to shimmy the far-too-tight for-your-(read: Rafe’s)-own-good garment loose. “ — far too much, and —”
“Respectfully.” Rafe grinned, leaning his shoulder into the space where the room door hinged. “I think she looks perfect, Mrs. Y/l/n.”
He looked ruggedly handsome, as always, all 6’4 of carelessly gelled hair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and biceps flexing his dress shirt taut as he folded them across his chest.
“Rafe!” Your mother gushed, eager to pull him into a hug. “How are you, dear?”
Rafe happily obliged, tucking his chin over your mother’s shoulder to allow his eyes free reign over your figure. “I’m good, Evelyn. How are you? Where’s Bill?”
“He’s just popped out to grab us some coffee.” Evelyn responded, leaning backward with a twinkle in her eye. “When are Ward and Rose arriving, sweetheart?”
“A little later — my ceremony isn’t till noon.” Rafe explained, absently popping his shirt collar. “Found some seats with Topper and Kelco to cheer on our girl, though.”
“Ah.” Your mother beamed, casting you a meaningful look before clearing her throat. “Right, well, I better go find those boys. It’s been far far too long.”
“Yeah mom.” You nodded keenly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Go. Please go.”
Rafe Cameron, ever the gentleman, waited until your mother disappeared out of sight to close the space between you. You remembered how much the opposite he used to be; a douchebag with — what appeared to be — zero regard for the girls he pressed into hidden corners of his house, or shamelessly pulled into his lap, or guided upstairs with that stupid conceited smirk. You remember how much you hated the way his lips quirked upward; it felt so very silly, now, in light of the warmth his presence brought your skin.
“Hey, baby.” He breathed, crowding you against the opposing wall as soon as he got the chance. “So this is the dress, huh?”
“No, this is just something I threw on.” You quipped teasingly, tangling your fingers in his hair. “Rafael, it’s like, an hour till my ceremony. Of course this is the fucking dress.”
Rafe tucked his forefinger over the lilac corset, his free palm gripping the curve of your waist. “So that’s a no to letting me rip it right off you?”
He bowed his head ever so slightly, enjoying the way your breath hitched — even now, so very many years later — at his proximity. “Because that’s all I can think about right now, baby.”
“Rafael.” You swallowed, and his lips were inches away from yours, now, his unfastened buttons and popped shirt collar and that single strand that always managed to escape his gel taking you back to your hotel room in Florence. “Your buttons are undone.”
Your eyes flitted over his tinged lips and toward his open chest, registering the silver chain peeking out at his shoulder, and resisting the urge to use it’s shackles to tug him in for a breathy kiss.
“So do them up for me.” Rafe teased, his palm finding its way to your ass with an appreciative groan. “Jesus Y/n/n, why the fuck can I feel everything?”
“Material’s thin.” You mumbled lamely, tilting your chin obligingly as Rafe attached his lips to yours. “Rafael — lipstick —”
Rafe pulled away reluctantly, his eyes still half-closed as he wiped away its careless smear. “I don’t mind.”
“But I do.” You responded tersely, licking your thumb to remove the lipstick smudges that had — you weren’t sure how really, you were sure the kiss had only lasted a single beat, though time did appear to still when you lost yourself in such an embrace — found their way to Rafe’s stubbled jaw. “And Kelce and Top definitely do.”
“Our girl?” You added, mouth twitching mischievously. “And here I thought the Kook fucking prince was incapable of sharing.”
“Been three years since I was the Kook anything, sweetheart.” Rafe countered, dipping his head until his breath fanned the sweet spot under your earlobe. “But yeah. That was definitely for show. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to share you.”
You crinkled your nose a little at that, one palm pressed against his chest and the other entertwined with his. “C’mon.”
Giving your reflection one last, fleeting, once-over (“Don’t fucking bite your lip — how many fucking times… I — Jesus —”), you grabbed your regalia from its place on your desk, sliding it into the front pocket of Rafe’s dress pants before allowing him to guide you through the door.
Though the living room of your apartment wasn’t particularly full, the buoyancy its current inhabitants exuded was enough to knot your stomach. Squeezing Rafe’s hand tight, you halted at its very helm, not daring breathe too loud lest they register how nervous you were.
Kelce and Topper were in the middle of an avid conversation with your father — one he had roped them into forcibly, you imagined — donning the same, carelessly fitted graduation attire as your golden boy. Beside them, the beautiful figure of Chloe Peterson was gushing over the flower arrangements your mother had ordered for Midsummer’s, this year. Her and Kelce had become official two summers ago, affording her exactly two iterations of the infamous event to memorise every single one of it’s quirks. She had of course, passed with flying colours. You were fairly certain your mother would make Chloe her daughter-in-law, if she could.
Rafe knitted his brow slightly, always honed in on your subtle tells. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”
You weren’t. Things were moving entirely too quickly; you were here, now, and then you would be at the Ceremony, and then at your graduation party after that, and then in your room with Rafe, alone, and then — you would have to tell him the truth. You weren’t.
“Mm-hm.” You nodded, plastering on a smile. “C’mon.”
“Dad!” You greeted, sidling away from Rafe’s figure to pull him into a tight hug. “Hey.”
“There she is!” Your father exclaimed, grinning broadly as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “My beautiful girl.”
He pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead, only pulling away once he was certain you were ready. “A toast?”
“Yes — but first.” Your mother frowned, reaching over to smooth out any, near non-existent creases. “Where’s your regalia, honey?”
“I’ll get it.” Rafe offered, giving you an encouraging nod. “You stay here and toast. I think I saw it in your room.”
He leaned in to give your lips a small peck, and it wasn’t the action itself that warmed your skin, it was the beautifully innate manner with which he did it — as though kissing you was the most natural thing in the world; as though kissing you was hard-wired into his DNA, somehow.
“Thanks.” You mumbled, reaching over to give his hand a quick squeeze (it was all the explanation he needed; he knew exactly what it meant — hurry, Rafael. I miss you already). “Love you always.”
“Love you always.” Rafe echoed with a reassuring smile, stepping backward slowly before pivoting on his heel. “As you were!”
“Right.” Your father nodded, clearing his throat to conviction. “Does everyone have a glass?”
Topper was already pouring you a flute before your father had voiced the question, thrusting it into your chest with an affectionate smile playing on his lips. “Now they do.”
“To Y/n!” Your father saluted, words a little strained as they caught in his throat. “The brightest star in the Outer Banks.”
“No offense, boys.” Your father added with a cough, clapping a strong hand on Kelce’s shoulder. “You’re great kids, of course —”
“No, Mr. Y/l/n.” Kelce interrupted, and you swore there was a watery gleam in his eye — a trick of the light, you supposed; there was no way your best friend was crying, was there? “She is. We agree.”
He raised his champagne flute expectantly, his features softening as he met your eye. “To Y/n.”
“You guys are graduating today, too.” You added meekly, blushing crimson. “To all of us!”
“But especially to you.” Rafe murmured, the warmth of his embrace far more comforting than the regalia he wrapped around your figure, a moment later. “The most talented girl in the OBX, baby.”
“Cheers!” He added, clinking his flute against yours before taking a modest sip. “To Y/n!”
“And Rafael, and Top, and Kelce.” You quipped, pouting a little. “Stop, you guys. I’m already feeling enough emotions about today.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Your mother cooed, leaning forward to untuck your loose curls. “We’re just proud of you, is all.”
You tried to shake the flush right out of your cheeks, but there it remained – implacable as ever – for the rest of the day. It was there when your mother ushered you through the door of your apartment, there still when you bid Rafe farewell at the door. Amber acknowledged its presence as “shut up. Is that the new Anastasia blush? I absolutely have to steal it off you before the party tonight”, and when you crossed the stage to a loud holler of cheers, you were certain all the graduation photographer captured was your damned, crimson blush.
It returned with a roar at Rafe’s ceremony an hour later, when he flashed you that roguish grin that made you feel sixteen and a little drunk. This time, however, it wasn’t splotchy and uncomfortable; it radiated across your cheeks in waves of adoration, feeling warm against your skin; feeling the very same as his gentle touch.
“There they are!” You beamed, already waiting outside the ceremony hall when Rafe, Topper, and Kelce stepped into the sunshine. “Business graduates, baby!”
Your families surrounded your figure like a shroud, but Rafe wasn’t certain he’d ever seen someone so clearly. “And the hottest Arts graduate for fucking miles.”
“No offense.” He added teasingly, bumping his knuckle against Amber’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Graham.”
“And you, bud.” Amber smiled, bumping his shoulder right back. “Proud of us.”
She excused herself once Topper was in close proximity, giving your forearm a friendly squeeze before disappearing out of sight.
“Hey.” Rafe mumbled, giving you that bashful smile he reserved just for you. “Think time stopped when you walked across, you know that?”
You crinkled your nose a little at that, tangling your fingers in his hair, and then, ruffling the gel right out. “Think we’re a little old for your comments now, aren’t we?”
“I mean.” You continued sagely, biting back a laugh. “You’re a graduate now, Rafael. You’re going to like… be going to your 9-5, not skipping 9am lectures –”
He leaned in to kiss you slow, and you were too busy hoping to God that he didn’t clock the tension returning to your shoulders to fully enjoy it. “Together.”
—
Though the stress that came with a celebratory lunch with the Cameron family (at the most expensive restaurant on this side of town, no less) would have been the perfect excuse for your unusual behaviour, your — frustratingly perceptive; especially when it came to you — golden boy was simply not having a bar of it.
After dropping your parents off at the airport, you and Rafe drove back to your apartment in silence; not the comfortable kind, nor the kind that promised solidarity, no — the tension was palpable, the silence heavy, and it swallowed the air around you like deadweight. Something was definitely troubling you, and this in turn, was troubling Rafe too.
You unbuckled your seatbelt as soon as the car stopped, acutely aware of Rafe’s watchful gaze, and eager to put as much as between it and you as possible. But Rafe’s stride was wider, his persistence resolute, and the love he had for you enough to force a halt.
“Stop.” Rafe started, resting his hands on the hood of his car to disallow your figure from pulling away. “Y/n…”
He trailed off with a defeated sigh, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “…it’s tomorrow now, baby.”
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, allowing yourself to feel — really feel — the comfort of his proximity, for what felt like the first time today. The knots in your shoulders began loosening, the muscle in your jaw a little more relaxed, and as your spine slumped against the side of his car, Rafe Cameron did the only thing he knew how to do — wrap you up in his arms and refuse to let go.
“Is it the future?” He murmured into your hair, his gentle remonstrance loud enough to be heard over the heavy bass. “Because, you’re going to be just fine, sweetheart, the museum would be lucky to have you over summer break.”
You shook your head slowly, wondering whether now was the right time, whether there would ever be a right time, whether you even had a choice at this stage, whether Rafe’s arms had always felt so much like home and whether they still would, after today.
“No, it’s not that.” You sighed, forcing yourself to straighten. “I, uh —”
You hesitated, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. “ — I applied to Duke.”
“Post-grad.” You explained, smiling small. “I got in. That was the email.”
“Y/n/n!” Rafe exclaimed, picking you up and twirling you around. “Are you kidding? That’s amazing, baby!”
He dipped his head to press wet kisses onto every inch of your face, unwilling to relent until he heard the beautiful sound of your giggle.
“I — yeah, thank you.” You exhaled, scrunching up your nose a little. “I kinda did it on a whim, but I mean, they have an amazing Art History programme, and I think it’ll be a great place to do my Masters, you know?”
“Mm-hm.” Rafe nodded, grinning proudly. “Why didn’t you just tell me? This is great news!”
You furrowed your brow at that, peeling your eyes away from his figure to shift your gaze heavenward. Above you, a cloak of stars spangled the moonless sky, and you wondered whether they were responsible for the painful sense of nostalgia binding your chest.
“Because...” You swallowed, mouth going dry. “You’re moving back to the Outer Banks, and I’m staying right here.”
“I mean — I know Duke isn’t far.” You hurried, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to gather your thoughts. “But it’s not exactly close, either, not if you’re in the Eight and I’m further from it than UNC.”
You forced out a shaky breath, digging your palms into the soft skin of your cheeks. “I just… I know how excited you were to go home together, and to start your new job, and for me to start one too, and our lives to stay in sync like they have been for so long —”
“Stop.” Rafe frowned, gently catching your wrists. “Baby…”
He muffled his words by guiding your knuckles to his lips, pressing kiss after gentle kiss on their surface before holding them against his chest. “…our lives are always going to be in sync.”
He paused, bumping your chin with the pad of his thumb. “You — doing what you love? Infinitely more important than me. Infinitely more important than anything else.”
“Long distance, Rafael.” You mumbled, forehead puckered as you chewed at your bottom lip. “The degree is two years.”
“It won’t —” Rafe faltered, a flicker of something slight transforming his features. “ — okay, listen, I was going to wait till tomorrow, but —”
He smoothed out the shallow creases lining your forehead, free hand splaying the small of your back to guide you back into your seat. “ — come on. Let’s get you some peace of mind.”
Though the car ride back through the city brought the same disquiet as the one from the airport, it existed within a renewed sense of togetherness, now — Rafe’s comforting grip on your thigh, chaste kisses on your temple at red lights, palm resting atop his on the gear stick, soothing circles traced into your bare skin. By the time he had pulled into an unknown street and parked beside an unknown house, your phone was beginning to blow up with expectant messages from Topper and Kelce. With a small frown, you slid it back into your handbag, knowing whatever Rafe had to show you was entirely more important than a stupid party.
“C’mon.” Rafe encouraged, having jogged to your side of the car and opened the door for you. “I want to show you something.”
He took your hand in his and guided you to your feet, locking the car with a jingle of his keys, and, you noticed bemusedly — knowing their home was in his back pocket — keeping them in his clutches.
“Show me something?” You echoed, tucking into his side and circling his waist (or what appeared to be a valiant effort at doing so — his broad torso stretching your limbs). “In Raleigh?”
He made a big show of zipping his lips and throwing away the key, shaking his head slowly before making for the house in front of which he had parked.
“Rafael…” You fretted, eyes widening. “Why are we walking toward an empty house?”
“We’re not.” Rafe responded cryptically, quirking an eyebrow at your expression. “It’s not empty. It’s fully furnished.”
“Rafael —”
“You’ll see, sweetheart.” Rafe chided, halting at the threshold to shimmy the house key free. “Ah — this one.”
He pushed it through the keyhole and unlocked the door, and still, his lips remained diligently sealed.
“Here.” He smiled, pawing at the wall on his left for a moment before finding the light switch for the hallway. “Home.”
He pressed his forefinger against your lips before you had a chance to respond, his emerald ring glinting where it reflected your wide eyes — illuminating the many questions that swam within its depths. “Let me just show you around, first, yeah?”
He took you through the perfectly sized foyer into the perfectly sized living room, the same one that was painted a perfect shade of porcelain white and perfectly contrasted the gorgeous brown oak panels that vaulted it’s perfectly high ceiling. To his right, a perfectly large kitchen welcomed you in with minimal clutter, its wide, black marble countertop a perfect display for a bunch of perfectly picked, baby pink peonies. Just behind him, a perfectly slatted set of wooden stairs was illuminated with the golden glow of hidden lights, their destination a perfectly zen bathroom, two perfectly sized bedrooms, and in the latter — a perfectly designed en-suite with an expertly carved, marble toothbrush holder, already containing a perfectly worn set of suspiciously familiar toothbrushes.
“So?” Rafe questioned nervously, surveying your features in earnest. “Do you like it?”
Your perfectly golden hometown boyfriend had bought you the perfect first home to move into after graduation, and all you could manage was a far from perfect: “I —”
You allowed a pause to gather your thoughts, unsure if you were capable of articulating them just yet. “ — Rafael… I — I don’t know what to say.”
“It was just meant to be for the summer.” Rafe hurried, tugging at his shirt collar nervously. “The house I wanted to show you is in the Eight. I was going to get it renovated over summer for us to move intojust after, but I thought I’d find a house for us to rent —”
He gestured toward the large living room, heartbeat threatening to thrum right out of his chest. “— in the meanwhile.”
“But since it’s close to Duke.” He continued, chewing at his bottom lip thoughtfully. “We can just stay here, after summer break, and I can put a pause on renovations — at least for now — and maybe talk to my dad about working from home.”
“Rafael.” You breathed, lips parting slightly. “I — when did you manage to do all this?”
“It’s been on my mind for a while.” Rafe admitted, offering you a sheepish, half-grin. “Asking you to move in with me after college was always my plan.”
“And sure, it’s a little different to how I imagined.” He added, bumping your chin to kiss you slow. “But when does anything ever go to plan when it comes to us?”
He wrapped his arms around your waist, flushing your back against his chest as he tucked his chin over your shoulder. “We can stay here together till you’re done with your Masters.”
“And then.” He lilted, shifting your curls away to pepper bruising kisses on your nape. “We can move back home and make you the hottest milf on the OBX, yeah?”
You smiled a little at that, cupping the stubble on his jaw as he continued his assault on your soft skin. “I absolutely don’t deserve you, you know that?”
“You deserve this and more, sweetheart.” Rafe frowned, whirling you around and guiding your arms around his neck. “So… is that a yes?”
You knitted your brow in mock concentration, allowing a pause before leaning in to nip at his bottom lip. “Of course it’s a yes, Rafael.”
Rafe let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his bright eyes bedecked by the fated twinkle of distant stars. “We’re moving in together, baby.”
“Mm-hm.” You affirmed, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “We’re moving in together.”
And wasn’t it? The most natural thing in the world? Wasn’t this moment so very blanketed by fate that you felt silly for ever doubting its omnipresence? In a world of star-crossed lovers, and organised mess, you and Rafe Cameron remained the one thing the twilit sky had accurately predicted. And they’d be damned if they let you go – they’d be damned, and you knew it, too.
—
You should’ve known it the minute Sarah insisted you accompany her to her favourite nail salon on the mainland. Scratch that – you should’ve known it the minute prior.
“You should go.” Rafe suggested, trying his very best – and failing miserably, Sarah would later proffer – to feign nonchalance. “We weren’t going to do anything today, anyway, were we?”
You crinkled your nose a little at that, knowing your plans – or more specifically, lack thereof – were entirely his doing. The ride to Tannyhill had consisted of suggestion after (admittedly, poorly tailored) suggestion of a Figure Eight itinerary: a visit to all your favourite haunts, a scoop – single in a cup, as Rafe had discovered so many (nearly six, you thought with a soar) years ago – of mint choc chip, a leisurely stroll along the beach, the OBX sunset caught on film. Despite the allure of a blissfully free day in your presence, Rafe Cameron had remained resolute, rolling through every possible iteration of the word “No” before pulling into his childhood home with a distracted huff.
“Let’s just –” He had paused here, jogging to the passenger’s side (as a way to release some nervous energy, you realised now) to open the door for you. “ – see how we go, yeah?”
He had locked the Ford GT, and that had been that. You would see how things go – and boy, were things going.
“Mm-hm.” You nodded finally, making to wriggle out of his grasp to wrap Sarah up in a hug. “Sar’s better company than you anyway, Rafael.”
Rafe’s grip only tightened at the action, tongue pressed against his cheek as he lowered his voice to a near inaudible lilt. “Didn’t sound like it this morning.”
Your eyes widened at the quip, fingers flying to your lips instinctively – still bruised by the phantom of his. “You’re the worst.”
“Yeah.” Rafe grinned, bowing his head ever so slightly. “But you love me anyway.”
“Unfortunately.” You grumbled, wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him slow. “What are you going to do all day?”
Rafe faltered momentarily, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “Probably find my dad.”
“Your dad?” You echoed, concern manifesting through the characteristic way your fingers found his signet ring. “But it’s the weekend.”
“To catch up, sweetheart.” Rafe laughed, carding his fingers through his hair and hoping to God you didn’t clock their nervous tremble. “Not business. Swear it.”
A lot was riding on today, and his worrying lack of composure was doing little to help his cause. He hadn’t so much as done a promposal, before, let alone a –
He swallowed dryly, knowing the mere mention of the term would swirl his half-chewed breakfast right into his throat. “But I’ll see you back here in the afternoon anyway, yeah?”
“That long?” You frowned, casting Sarah a meaningful look. “Are we running errands too, Sar?”
“Yeah.” Sarah responded quickly, grimacing as she registered the eagerness lacing her tone. “Uh, yeah. We can get lunch too, we’re only due back when –”
“Didn’t you say you booked for 10am, Sarah?” Rafe coughed, eyes widening pointedly. “You guys should probably head if you wanna catch the 9.30 ferry.”
You whirled around bemusedly, placing your hands on your hips. “Rafael, when the fuck did she say –”
“Yeah.” Sarah interrupted, linking your arm with a vigorous head nod. “I’ve always booked for 10, just like our mom. That’s how you know, right Rafe?”
You features softened at the mention of Rafe’s mother, reaching backward to give his hand a comforting squeeze. “I’ll see you later then, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Rafe exhaled, smiling small. “Counting down to it, sweetheart.”
No, I’m not. I’m absolutely, positively, shitting it.
He waved you down the driveway and into Sarah’s VW Golf, fighting the very real urge to tug at the now-empty space behind his head. His hair was a little floppier than it was back in college; he had grown into his blonde locks with grace, and they “shouldn’t be hidden by that faded Knights logo, I don’t care how sure you are that they’re going to qualify this year” — so hidden, they weren’t. Not often, at least, with the baseball cap’s occasional appearance reserved for golf with Noah, or the monthly barbecues that Kelce and Chloe liked to throw. His awareness of its absence had waned with age; he seldom employed his nervous tic, these days, much preferring the familiarity of your presence — that fragrant, lavender shampoo, that bergamot perfume that drove him absolutely crazy, your small smile, your bright eyes, your nimble fingers carding through his hair — to ease him through a particularly rough day. Today, however, it returned with a roar, and Rafe Cameron wondered whether this was how seventeen, once felt.
He didn’t budge until Sarah’s car disappeared out of sight, and even then, a pause mantled the passage of time, forcing him to remain rooted to the spot. A beat passed, and then another, and still, there Rafe Cameron stood. He breathed in the purlieus of upper-class suburbia – cavalier birdsong, the near imperceptible sound of traffic, even the effervescence of foamy waves appeared far more pretentious than he recalled.
The Eight had been his home for as long as he could remember, though he wasn’t sure he could say the same for Tannyhill. It was strangely nostalgic, being back here; at the threshold of his old life – one that represented his old self – with the prospect of starting anew. The low flutter in his chest permeated for an entirely different reason, the whir of thoughts in his mind rising to an entirely different clamour.
“Rafe.” He muttered finally, pushing off the tiled windows that flocked either side of the entrance. “Fucking breathe.”
Letting out a shaky breath, he forced his figure to turn, moving through the house on autopilot before halting in front of his father’s study. When he rapped his knuckles against the door, he was almost surprised at how smooth their grooves appeared; disuse had allowed them to heal completely, their once calloused surface subject only to your touch, nowadays.
“Son, is that you?” Ward called, sharing a meaningful look with Rose before continuing. “Come in.”
Rafe nodded slowly, catching one wrist with the other — Shit, why was he shaking? Maybe he should’ve had a shot. Maybe he should’ve had two — as he made to turn the door handle. “Yeah, it’s just me.”
“And Y/n is…” Ward paused, clearing his throat awkwardly. “...Y/n, dear, are you here, too?”
“Just me, dad.” Rafe affirmed, an endeared smile tugging at his lips. “Rose with you?”
“Just made the last phone call.” Rose answered by way of greeting, pulling Rafe into a tight hug as he stepped through the door. “Oh, this is all so very exciting!”
“Thanks, Rose.” Rafe exhaled, allowing his shoulders to wilt, if only for a single moment. “Couldn’t have done it without you, seriously.”
“Both of you.” Rafe corrected, catching the gleam of something slight in his father’s eye. “Still got the ring?”
“In the safe.” Ward nodded, standing up to clap a firm hand on his shoulder. “Just upstairs.”
He gestured toward the exit, and for once in his life, Rafe was grateful for his father’s punishing grip — it was iron-clad, as he had been when he was younger, and it was the only reason Rafe was capable of shifting one foot in front of the other. “Rafe…”
He trailed off with an unwieldy cough, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “...how are you feeling, son?”
The sentiment alone was enough to force a falter, though Rafe was certain Ward’s softened features would’ve done it, had his words failed. They stood on the fourth step, just under the skylight, and burnt orange airbrushed Ward’s forehead creases into gentle oblivion – he appeared younger, somehow; the version of him that was once his mother’s.
“I, uh –”
Rafe faltered, trying to remember the last time Ward had asked him that question. When he couldn’t, he didn’t seem to mind. It wasn’t a scathing revelation, nor particularly malicious, it was a guileless fact about their relationship – that just wasn’t how they operated; it never had been.
“ – nervous.” Rafe admitted after a beat, absently threading his fingers through his hair. “I’ve always known, but…”
He trailed off with a sigh, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to gather his thoughts. “…this needs to be perfect, you know? She deserves nothing short of perfect.”
“And she’s already settled with me.” Rafe continued, raising his voice with a renewed sense of conviction. “She shouldn’t have to settle for a subpar proposal, too, or a subpar wedding, after that, or a –”
“Rafe.” Ward interrupted, his tone exact to the point of deliberation. “She hasn’t settled with you.”
And for the first time in his life, Rafe Cameron knew that his father meant it.
__
“Okay, stop.”
Sarah cringed at the stern lilt to your tone, attempting to fix her features before turning back toward you. “What’s up, Y/n/n?”
“Don’t play dumb.” You accused, narrowing your eyes punishingly. “You’re up to something. Spill it.”
Sarah fiddled with the raw hem of her denim shorts, twisting her manicured forefinger around a particular strand that was dangerously close to breaking loose. “No I’m not.”
You’re not?” You cajoled, raising an eyebrow. “Because we’ve been to the nail salon, and then we went to five different shops to find me a dress, for God knows what –”
“You should treat yourself more often, Y/n/n –”
“ – what, not to mention, every fucking dress I’ve tried on has been either been too long, or too short, or too purple, or too frilly, or just plain too Figure Eight for your highness to budge.”
The corners of Sarah’s mouth quirked up a little at that, allowing a pause before nodding toward the bag in your hand. “That one’s perfect.”
“Perfect for what?” You pressed irately, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sarah, Midsummers isn’t for a few weeks –”
“It’s always good to be prepared.” Sarah argued, jutting out her bottom lip obstinately. “And seeing Rafe in baby fucking pink –”
“Nope.” You interrupted, not letting her change the subject. “We’re getting off topic. Spill. It.”
Sarah offered you a simple, half-shrug, unwilling to relent. “Like I said. Not up to anything.”
“Sar.” You sighed, folding your arms across your chest. “It’s Rafael, isn’t it? You’re covering for him.”
You knitted your brow in concentration, attempting to gather your thoughts. “Is he secretly working today, or something? Because he promised me he would fucking take a break, and –”
“Yeah.” Sarah responded quickly, eager for an out. “Sorry, yeah. He told me to distract you so he could do some paperwork. Sorry, Y/n/n.”
“Of course he did.” You scoffed, letting out an exasperated huff. “I’m going to fucking kill him, he –”
“Can you kill him in like –” Sarah hazarded a glance at her watch, squinting slightly as she did the mental math. “ – an hour? So that he doesn’t kill me?”
You smiled a little at that, shaking your head bemusedly. “You’re a good sister, you know that?”
And an even better sister-in-law. T-2 hours, Y/n/n.
“I know.” Sarah grinned, propping her sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose. “C’mon, there’s this new sushi place by the water that I’ve been dying to try.”
“Of course there is.” You quipped, your eyes twinkling mischievously. “Just like the new nail salon you’ve been dying to go to, and the –”
“Hey!” Sarah admonished, poking her tongue out at you. “You love it.”
And it was true. You were willing to comb through every, single, Sarah Cameron-esque destination on the mainland in the name of augmenting your special bond. From Bloom (the only cafe for miles that made matcha lattes with – “there’s a pinch of cocaine in here. I swear to god.”) to Island Time (“Have you seen how big these almond croissants are? It’s criminal.”) to that one boutique on the corner of Fort Street that had changing room mirrors that “make your ass look bigger – trust me, they do.”, the older sister file in the back of your brain was growing with a marvellous swell. You had slotted into the Cameron family with such a characteristic ease that Rafe couldn’t help but wonder whether fate’s intentions extended past the love he had to give; whether they circled the people in his periphery – the promise of siblings, of sisters, of a big old, American family.
“True.” You agreed, bumping your hip against hers playfully. “Hey – how’s that kid you were seeing? Mason, or…?”
“Matt.” Sarah corrected, making a face. “Not good.”
You frowned, surveying her features carefully. “Lamest. How come?”
“He’s just –”
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut frustratedly, speaking through gritted teeth. “ – like every other frat boy I’ve had the displeasure of seeing. Extremely disappointing.”
“Oh no.” You winced, wrapping an arm around her shoulder to give it a comforting squeeze. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
Sarah faltered, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. “Because…”
She trailed off awkwardly, twisting and untwisting the golden, croissant ring she had inherited from her late grandmother. “…I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed.”
Though you were the same height (if not a modest, half-inch shorter) as Sarah, your soothing touch was enough to flute her figure into your side; she buried her head into the crook of your neck, and slowly, you managed to coax out a frustrated sigh.
“About what, Sar?” You encouraged, furrowing your brow. “You don’t have to be, not with me.”
“With Rafael, sure.” You added, lilting your tone teasingly – a languid attempt at lightening the mood. “But never – ever – with me, yeah?”
You felt her smile against your skin, and wondered whether it was because she had registered your use of her brother’s favourite form of punctuation – yeah?
Over the past five years (and four months, and twelve days, and eight and a half minutes, and… you were fairly certain Rafe Cameron would pleat the passage of time till the n-th fraction of a millisecond, if he could), the clandestine phrase had found its way into your vocabulary; a fact so golden it quirked at Rafe’s lips every time it escaped yours – another part of him, tangled up in another part of you.
“How’d you crack it, Y/n?”
“Crack it?” You echoed, brows snapping together in confusion. “Crack what?”
“You know –” Sarah faltered for a moment, emphasising her words by means of vague gesticulations. “ – douchebags.”
You let out a little laugh at that, cheeks tinged pink as you teased your fingers through her blonde locks. “Like Rafael? My Rafael?”
“Mm-hm.” Sarah smiled wanly, casting you a wayward glance. “Like…”
She was quick to fix her features, keeling over dramatically and pretending to gag. “...your Rafael.”
“Hey.” You quipped, blush roaring back. “I thought you weren’t allowed to call him that.”
You slid your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, the intensity of your gaze stopping Sarah in her tracks.
“To answer your question.” You started, speaking slow – with a gentle remonstrance. “You find one that isn’t actually a douchebag.”
You paused, smiling fondly. “A lovable douchebag, you know?”
“But –” Sarah faltered, her brow knitted in mock concentration. “ – my brother isn’t that, either, so –”
“Not too late for me to change my mind.” You lilted, fixing her with what you thought was a stern glare (read: an affectionate glance). “About going back to the Eight, I mean.”
“No way.” Sarah pressed, jerking her forefinger toward the bustle of cafes in the distance. “Sushi’s like, right there. Come on.”
She tugged you through dipping sunbeams and their intermittent, nebulous glow; flitting between tourons and locals alike until she arrived at the new restaurant. Once you were seated, and your orders placed, Sarah let out a relieved sigh. She knew all she had to do now was kill-time; an art form that tended to come naturally, when you were a Figure Eight legacy in the Outer Banks.
It took her exactly half an hour to fill you in on all the Island Gossip you had missed, and a further thirty-five minutes to echo every single reproach it proffered. By the time you were onto the topic of Mrs. perfectly-preened-garden-with-a-white-picket-fence, who had managed to cheat on her husband with not one but two separate teachers from her son’s boarding school, the display on your watch read 2.30pm; the one on Rafe’s Cartier – 30 minutes till forever.
A fair few miles away, he was pacing the space between the pool and the deck, a dangerous tremor developing in his forefinger as it began the scroll through his contacts. The action was more to buy him time, than anything else; he was fairly certain your phone number was the first thing he had memorised, when the two of you had gotten together, punching it into his keypad almost muscle memory, at this stage. He forced out a shaky breath, willing his heartbeat to slow. Everything was ready. But what if you weren’t?
“Hold on, Sar.” You frowned, the familiar chorus of Lover resonating through the speaker of your phone where it sat face down beside your sushi bowl. “This is Rafael’s ringtone.”
You picked up the phone with a small scowl, forcing a breath of air through your nose — the way you tended to do, when you were particularly vexed with his actions — before answering. “Rafael.”
“Sweetheart?” Rafe greeted, the furrow in his brow audible. “What happened?”
“Dont play dumb.” You derided, letting out an indignant huff. “Sarah told me.”
“And don’t go blaming her either.” You added, almost feeling the irreverent curses threatening to roll off his tongue like bullets. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Rafe swallowed several times, giving his shirt collar a nervous tug. “Baby… I mean – it’s not just something I could tell you, it’s –”
“Right.” You scoffed, narrowing your eyes to a punishing degree. “Because you knew I’d be mad.”
Rafe froze, his features blanching. “Mad?”
“Yeah?” You glowered, wild gesticulations acting to spur you on. “You told me you weren’t going to do any work over the weekend, you’ve been –”
You paused, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. “ – you’ve been so busy recently, Rafael. I thought today was for us.”
“And that’s not to say I don’t love spending time with Sarah.” You added hurriedly, though the genuine smile you offered her was unnecessary – she’d known you for five years, now, and it was fair to say she loved you unconditionally. “But… I mean, even in the car, you were saying no to everything, and I was so excited because heading back to the Eight was your idea, and now…”
You trailed off, squeezing your eyes shut frustratedly. “…well now I know you only wanted to come to finish off some paperwork or something.”
“Sweetheart –”
“Am I wrong?” You argued, and Rafe knew you were folding your arms across your chest, now; he knew all of your little quirks off by heart. “Don’t sweetheart me, buddy, I’m mad.”
God, I’m so in love with you. All I can think about is how fucking hot you look when you’re mad.
“I swear to you —” Rafe proffered, and you knew he was crossing his forefinger across his breastbone, now; you were fairly certain it was his most endearing quality — cross my heart and hope to die, baby. “ — that I was not finishing off paperwork.”
“I did say ‘or something’, too.” You scowled, unwilling to relent. “Rafael, if you’re calling to —”
“Ask you to come home?” Rafe interrupted, speaking through a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Come home, baby.”
He raised his voice just enough to pique Sarah’s interest, her eyes flitting past the row of Instagram stories on display to find the time in the top left hand corner. With a satisfied huff, she opened up the Snapchat app, hazarding a sneaky photo of you (captioned: T-30 💍) before sliding it back into her handbag with an admiring amount of circumspection.
“You better have some burger shack ordered for when I arrive.” You grumbled, rising from your chair reluctantly. “With a milkshake and fries, no skimping.”
“Skimping?” Rafe echoed, pressing his tongue against his cheek — teasing. “Remember the first time I got you burger shack?”
“What?” You goaded, though a small smile was tugging at your lips — one that wistful, almost nostalgic; the same smile that appeared so very in awe of the years that had gone by, and so very aware of them, at the same time. It rang through Rafe’s speaker with a specific kind of sentimentality; the kind that comes with years and years of pining — the kind that seemed only to belong to you and him. “On our not-date?”
“Y/n/n.” Rafe lilted, absently fiddling with the emerald ring on his forefinger (a habit he had developed after catching you twisting and untwisting within those rare moments that you happened to get sick of the one adorning your nape). “You know I’d buy you burger shack if you wanted me to, right?”
“Well yeah, getting your girlfriend a burger is hardly —”
“No.” Rafe interrupted, shaking his head slowly — how did you still not get it, after all these years? How exactly were you still so painfully oblivious? “I’d buy you the burger shack — like, the restaurant. I’d buy you the whole fucking restaurant.”
“I’d buy you several restaurants.” Rafe added, chewing at his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I’d also buy you the Island Club, and then I’d buy you a big house on the beach, and then I’d buy you a —”
— big fat engagement ring. I already did that one, though. I did that one a few weeks ago.
“Rafael.” You warned, blushing crimson. “Don’t start with your little comments.”
“Rule #3?”
You paused, heartbeat quickening at the mention of the list you had once created in your efforts to avoid Rafe Cameron. The steady thrum in your chest was the same one you had felt in Paris, so many years ago; the same implacable thrum that had roared back in the Amalfi Coast, and then again in Florence — the same place Rafe had first won you over; the same place Rafe had first lost you, too. Though the latter appeared to vacillate its permanence, its flicker was as transient as the smatter of stars in the purple sky — the same stars that fate acknowledged, the same stars that dotted its vast expanse, today.
“Rule #3.”
—
“Here.” Sarah insisted, readjusting the straps of your dress for what felt like the millionth time today. “Let me just —”
“You’re going to make a perfect Figure Eight mom, one day, you know that?” You teased, swatting away her hand playfully. “Honestly, the way you’re fussing over me right now —”
“Hey.” Sarah admonished, though a mischievous grin was spreading across her face — betraying her. “You’re going to thank me for it. In exactly —”
She forced a falter at the threshold of Tannyhill, twisting her wrist to bring her watch displaying into view. “— ten minutes.”
You knitted your brow bemusedly, tilting your chin to better survey her features. “Huh?”
“You’ll see.” Sarah shrugged easily, a nervous excitement — the kind that almost scared you, but did so in the best way possible — lacing her tone. “Rafe! We’re here!”
Rafe’s figure stood a single stride away from yours; sweaty palms jammed into his front pockets (the back being off limits — stretched into the shape of a velvet box as it held the precious cargo) as he forced out a shaky breath.
“Door’s open.” Rafe swallowed, resisting the urge to rake his fingers through his hair. “Come on in.”
You rolled your eyes preemptively, misreading the slight quaver to his tone. He’s nervous, you thought grimly, glad that he had the common decency to appear recreant at your arrival. Good. He should be. I’m going to fucking kill him.
“Rafael.” You greeted shortly, folding your arms back across your chest once you had pushed open the door. “How was work?”
Rafe pressed his tongue against his cheek, an endeared smirk tugging at his lips. “Good.”
“Good?” You scoffed, throwing your arms up in exasperation. “You have some fucking nerve –”
You stepped forward with pupils flared, and when you punched a forefinger into his chest, all Rafe wanted to do was it – right here, right now, get down on one knee and lament the promise of forever. “ – telling me it was fucking good, after you –”
“Sweetheart?” Rafe coughed, casting Sarah a meaningful glance. “Can we go on a walk?”
“Fine.” You huffed irately, your narrow eyed gaze remaining unrelenting. “As I was saying, after you…”
Nodding obligingly, Rafe wrapped a strong arm around your shoulder, slotting you into his side before making for the shortcut to the beach. The conviction underlying your admonishments was admirable, and if Rafe wasn’t so distracted, he was sure that they would’ve transformed his features.
Unfortunately for you, however, they did the exact opposite. The trepid thrum in Rafe’s chest was rising to a dangerous clamour, and your words rendered white noise in the presence of the square-shaped bulge in his back-pocket. All he could focus on, really, was you; one foot in front of the other – you – breath in, and then out, again – you – a million different thoughts racing through his mind – you – the warmth of your skin, the bergamot smell of your perfume, the fiery twinkle in your eye – you, all of you.
By the time you reached the edge of the beach, you were beginning to exhaust all possible avenues of reprimand. Your arms were beginning to unfold, your lips quirking just a little, and as you leaned into the comforting touch of your golden boy, the anger dissolving like white foam on golden sand.
“Okay, m’done.” You exhaled finally, guiding his arm around your neck. “Where are we walking to?”
Your brows snapped together in concentration, attempting to guess the correct answer to your question. “Are we finally doing my OBX itinerary?”
“Not quite.” Rafe responded cryptically, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll see.”
“I’ll see?” You repeated bemusedly, shifting your gaze from the low horizon to the expanse of sand underlying your feet. “Wait a minute –”
You stumbled to a halt, registering a large, white gazebo billowing in the distance. “ – what’s that?”
“No clue.” Rafe lied, offering you a simple, half-shrug. “Should we go check it out?”
Your narrowed your eyes a little at that — since when did the Rafe Cameron offer to look at forgotten, old make-shift belvederes in lieu of tugging you toward that forgotten corner of the beach you had discovered in the summer following your Euro Trip?
“Uh — okay?” You nodded, the curious lilt to your tone making it sound more like another question, than an answer to his. “I guess so?”
Replacing his grip on your waist, he stole you toward the gazebo, it’s curtained walls ballooning just a little as they caught the worst of the ocean breeze. The closer you got to the entrance, the more erratic Rafe’s gait appeared; reduced to just plain stumbling by the time you were taking the last few strides.
“What is with you?” You frowned, palms splaying his chest to steady him. “Did you have a drink with your dad, or something?”
No, sweetheart. Your presence is intoxicating enough.
“Shut up.” Race chided, playfully nudging your chin. “I just lost my balance, come on.”
Intertwining his fingers with yours, he allowed a pause at the threshold of the entrance, it’s yawning surface appearing far larger up close than it had done so many steps ago.
“Rafael…” You mused, registering how very comfortable he appeared — almost as though he’d been here before. “What’s going on?”
You glanced down at where your hands were clasped together, absently chewing at your bottom lip. “Why are you shaking?”
“Are you okay?” You frowned, cupping his jaw to tilt his head down toward you. “Rafe — what aren’t you telling me?”
Rafe let out a shaky breath, and when he reached for the missing bill of his missing backwards cap, he felt like the same seventeen year old boy who had drunkenly proffered his love for you, so many years ago.
“I’m fine.” He assured you, the intensity of his brilliant blue gaze demanding a moment’s pause. “I — uh, I lied before.”
“I know what it’s for.” He continued, beckoning you forward. “I know because I’m the one who set it up.”
Shifting behind you, he pressed a palm on either shoulder, trying to ignore the anticipation swirling in his gut as he guided you through the curtained entrance. Sitting in the very middle of the space, a black projector emitted a single beam of bright light — fanning out over the high ceiling, appearing to scintillate with the same, characteristic speckle as that of the twilight sky.
“This is the same spot of sand where you asked me if I was alright at the end of junior year.” Rafe murmured, resting your chin between his forefinger and thumb. “The same spot I realised you were it for me, you know?”
He allowed you a moment’s pause to bask in the revelation, your eyes flitting over the rest of your surroundings — looking for more clues, trying desperately (even after all these years) to stay in control.
“And this projector.” He continued, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to jerk his forefinger toward it. “Cycles through photos of the night sky.”
He reached backward to close the curtained entrance completely, plunging the room into velvety darkness. The spangled ceiling was your only source of illumination now, currently frozen to an image of several, brilliantly silver constellations.
“This.” He murmured, pulling you into his chest. “Is how the sky looked that day in freshman year, when we first met.”
The projector flickered to a different image, this time, curtained by the presence of a crescent moon. “This one, is from the Thornton fundraiser before senior year.”
“Arguably our first date.” Rafe added teasingly, and as he pressed a chaste kiss on your temple, the image switched once again. “This one’s from the day Topper invited me on the trip.”
“And this one’s from the night we had our first kiss.”
The projector cycled through several more images of the starry, night sky — the day you first told him you loved him, the day you moved to UNC, the day he asked you to move in, the first day in your shared apartment — before stopping at a single, fated image with a purposeful whir.
“And this one.” Rafe breathed, admiringly discreet as he slipped the velvet box out of his back-pocket. “Is a prediction of how the sky is going to look tonight.”
“Tonight?” You repeated, frowning. “What’s happening tonight?”
Rafe shook his head slowly, giving the large rope to his left a purposeful tug. It undid the curtained walls and ceiling of the gazebo, allowing them to drape the golden sand beneath your feet. The mesmerising crash of ocean waves was brought back into view, and with it, the halo of sunbeams that so effortlessly circled your figure.
You whirled around with a small start, lips parting slightly as you breathed in the wonderful sight. For a moment, you furrowed your brow — so used to gazing up at the figure of Rafe Cameron that you thought he had disappeared completely when he made to get down on one knee.
“There’s a party at the Island Club.” Rafe answered easily, his gentle voice bringing your gaze downward, just a little. “Rose and your mom planned it, actually.”
“Rafael.” You breathed, registering his popped knee, registering the velvet box in his hand, registering the nervous furrow in his brow, registering the small smile tugging at his lips. “What’s going on?”
“Sweetheart.” Rafe started, the steady thrum of his chest returning with a roar. “I feel like I’ve been planning this day in my head since fourteen year old you rejected me on the track.”
“It’s been over ten years since that happened, and you still give me the same butterflies you did when you first called me Rafael.”
He paused, taking in a long breath. “I’ve spent so many years now loving you, sweetheart, that I don’t think I’d be me without the way you make me feel.”
“I know that we say ‘Love you, always’.” He continued, the ocean breeze teasing through his blonde locks — ruffling them just a little, exactly the way you liked. “But I think it’s time we make that last word official, don’t you?”
He opened the velvet box, revealing a gorgeous, Venetian ring, it’s oval cut diamond glinting magnificently in the bright sunshine. “Y/n Y/l/n…”
He trailed off purposefully, giving you a moment to let out an audible gasp. “…will you marry me?”
“Rafael.” You breathed, and you were nodding your head, now, you were nodding your head with absolutely everything in you, you were nodding your head and you weren’t certain you would ever stop. “Rafael, of course. Of course I’ll marry you. I — yes. Yes.”
Rafe let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, steadying your shaky hand with his shaky hand and twisting the gorgeous, Tiffany rock onto your shaky ring finger using his shaky forefinger and shakier thumb and silently cursing himself for ever thinking you could say no and silently cursing you for being crazy enough to settle for little old him.
Cupping his cheeks, you guided him back to his feet; your cheeks flushed, eyes impossibly bright, and as his strong arms circled your waist, heartbeat thrumming right out of his chest and into the warmth of his embrace, instead.
He kissed you with the same, dizzying sense of ardency as he always did, but it was a little wilder, this time — like he was trying to memorise how exactly a fiancé’s (his fiancé, he thought with a soar) lips should taste.
“So.” You mumbled finally, lips puckered pink — bruised in that desperate way that hitched your breath, every time. “Doing some paperwork, huh?”
Rafe bit back an endeared smile, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. “I mean, I was doing work.”
He allowed a purposeful pause, gesturing toward the crumpled gazebo behind you. “Just, not the kind you were thinking.”
Your eyes were still half-closed, but you knew those tiny crinkles were creasing the sides of his — you knew it the way you knew that the sky was blue, or that the Earth was round, or that the sun was just a bright star. You knew it the way you knew him; the way you always had, even all those years ago, when you would desperately pretend that you didn’t. “I forgive you, I guess.”
“Thank fuck.” Rafe grinned, exhaling dramatically. “Saying that your fiancé is mad at you sounds way worse than saying your girlfriend is.”
“Fiancé.” You echoed, doe-eyes catching his with that same, sweet disposition they possessed when you were kids. “We’re fiancés now.”
“I may be your fiancé.” Rafe lilted, pulling you close to kiss you slow. “But you’re still my dream girl.”
—
“Holy shit!” Amber shrieked, eyes widening as she dipped her head to examine the ring. “What is this, like twenty fucking carats?”
“Shut up.” You quipped, blushing crimson. “You know I have no idea.”
“It definitely did some serious damage.” Amber responded sagely, splaying your fingers before shifting them into plain sight. “Oi! Cameron! Nice job, buddy!”
“It was all me, Ambs!” Sarah chimed, absolutely beaming from across the Island Club. “As if my brother has enough taste to pick out an authentic Tiffany.”
“True.” Amber grinned, slowly shaking her head before turning back toward you. “I’m so so happy for you guys. Seriously.”
“We’re so so happy for you guys.” Topper corrected, coming up behind Amber and slinking his arms around her waist. “Dude. You’re getting married.”
He reached out to bump his knuckle against your shoulder, a genuine, almost reverent, smile tugging at his lips. “My best fucking friend is getting married.”
“So me and Top are obviously joint maid-of-honour…” Kelce lilted, his figure appearing at your side with two champagne flutes filled to the brim with bubbly. “…right?”
You bit back an appreciative giggle, furrowing your brow in feigned confusion. “Don’t let your girlfriend hear you say that, bud.”
“Hear him say what?” Chloe frowned, clinking her glass with yours as she leaned into your other side. “Kelco. Behave.”
You pretended to zip your lips and pocket the key, taking a long sip of champagne before looking around the Club. In typical, Figure Eight fashion, it appeared embarrassingly ostentatious, bedecked with grandiose floral arrangements, expensive plates of hors d'oeuvres, and fountains of the Island’s best Dom Pérignon. Usually, this fact would’ve been a source of significant chagrin. Today, you weren’t sure anything was capable of dulling your shine.
Rafe was leaning against the drinks counter when you caught his eye from a distance, ruggedly handsome as ever, mid-roguish grin, a palm clapped against Noah’s shoulder as he raised his flute in acknowledgement.
“This is my engagement party.” Rafe felt himself repeat, unsure if he would ever get used to this feeling; unsure if he ever wanted to. “She’s my fucking fiancé.”
“Proud of you, Cameron.” Noah grinned, his bright eyes reflecting constellations — fate’s favourite messenger. “It’s been a long time coming.”
He shifted his gaze past Rafe’s figure, settling instead, on where your mother was attempting to steel you toward a crowd of people. “Oof. Trouble in paradise.”
A fair few steps away, you were dragging your feet against the hardwood floor.
“Mom.” You groaned, registering the individual at the very helm of the group. “I’m —”
“Sweetheart.” Your mother hissed discreetly, her lips barely moving as she spoke. “They are our family friends. You cannot avoid them forever.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose for a moment, nodding slowly before plastering in a smile. “James! Hey!”
“There she is!” James grinned, and in the distance, Rafe Cameron’s shoulders tensed. “Where’s the man of the hour?”
Rafe knew that you could hold your own, but he also knew that you shouldn’t have to. In this moment, he was the same boy from the Bonfire who had so effortlessly clocked the subtle change in your demeanour – he was sure James’ hug gave you today, teetered the same edge between comfort and unease, and the thought alone was enough to tighten his jaw to a punishing degree.
“Ah, it really is a wonderful ring.” His mother acknowledged, taking your hand as you pulled away. “And your fiance is Ward’s son?”
“Rafael.” You affirmed, smiling broadly. “Yeah.”
“He was quite the character when you were all kids, we hear.” James’ father boomed, clearing his throat purposefully. “What did you say he does again, Evelyn?”
“He’s in development.” Your mother answered, frowning slightly as she spotted a near-empty plate of hors d'oeuvres in the distance. “Sorry, if you’ll excuse me –”
She had disappeared into the crowd before you had a chance to protest, and you found yourself cursing her generational roots for allowing her to become such an expert at flitting between familiar faces. “Yeah, he, uh, he’s working with Ward at the moment.”
“Ah, speaking of!” James’ father exclaimed, casting his mother a meaningful glance. “We simply must go speak to him and Rose, it’s been entirely too long.”
“It was lovely to see you, my dear.” He added, flashing you a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “And congratulations, once again!”
Once his wife had echoed the sentiment, he gave James’ shoulder a purposeful pat, muttering an inaudible comment that you swore involved the words “convenient” and “filthy rich” before heading back into the crowd.
“So he’s working with his dad, then?” James established, offering you a sweet smile once his parents were out of sight. “Nepotism. That’s lovely.”
You hardened a little at that, wishing for a moment that you weren’t twenty-four with a gorgeous ring glinting on your finger, just so you could punch him a third time, for good measure. “How’s the summer internship at Johnson Law going, James?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s good.” James responded, absently tracing the rim of his champagne flute. “Glad I stuck with Law, you know? It’s been really rewarding.”
In the distance, Rafe felt his arm jerk against his side. He wondered if he could get away with tugging James’ out of the party by the obnoxious emblem sewed onto his shirt collar.
“Good to hear.” You deadpanned, offering him a tight-lipped smile. “Anyway, I should –”
“Relax, Y/n, we’re still talking.” James’ dismissed, not letting you finish your sentence. “So you decided on a degree in…”
He trailed off with a furrowed brow, though the action appeared almost derisive as it transformed his features. “…making paintings?”
“Art History.” You corrected with a wince, biting the inside of your cheek. “Graduated with a Master of Arts, majoring in Art –”
“Whatever.” He jeered, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Not that it matters.”
When you refused to rise to the bait, he let out a low bark of laughter. “Cause I mean, you’re going to end up being a stay-at-home mom, anyway, right? That’s the whole reason you married into one of the richest families on the Island?”
“Excuse me?” You spluttered, keeling over a little as bubbly dripped down the rim of your flute. “What the fuck did you just say?”
You weren’t being particularly loud, nor startling enough to cause a scene, but the unease radiating from your figure blanketed Rafe like a spectral being; it sent a dangerous shudder down his spine, and his legs were taking him back toward you before his conscious mind had a chance to intervene.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of!” James simpered, his mouth twisting spitefully. “My mom’s stay-at-home, and so is yours, I guess you just weren’t cut out for –”
“ – a disciplinary hearing?” Rafe finished, circling your waist protectively — home. “Heard a funny little story about that from Amber, actually.”
A muscle in James’ jaw twitched, his next few words spoken through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Rafe goaded, tucking you behind him before rolling his shoulders. “Selling kids coke and telling them it’s Ritalin isn’t the greatest look for a future lawyer, is it?”
His eyes flitted toward James’ knuckles, almost laughing at the way they blanched. “Really, buddy? At my engagement party?”
He allowed a purposeful pause, here, punching a forefinger into James’ breastbone until he was certain it would bruise. “Take a walk.”
“Now.” He snarled, his pupils dangerously flared. “Oh – and Johnson?”
He applied a punishing grip on James’ shoulder, only satisfied when he registered his subtle wince. “Y/n graduated with a Masters at the top of her fucking class, she’s got a killer job lined up as senior art curator of the museum her grandfather built, she’s going to Spain in a few months with some of the best people in her field, and she’s going to knock them right off their tenured asses once they realise how incredibly talented she is.”
“So don’t you dare –” He shoved James’ forward roughly, bumping a clenched fist into his back for good measure. “ – tell her what she is and isn’t cut out for. She’s already more successful than you’re ever going to be.”
James swallowed slightly at the sentiment, and when he disappeared into the crowd, his head was low, his shoulders wilted, and he left only a low mutter of inaudible curses in his wake.
“Thank you.” You sighed, allowing yourself to fully relax. “I don’t know where that came from.”
Rafe frowned a little at that, pressing a chaste kiss on your temple. “He’s just bitter.”
“Amber told me he’s repeating his final year.” Rafe explained, slotting you back into his side protectively. “His father had to pay the school out to avoid expulsion.”
“Fucking hell.” You winced, shaking your head. “What a mess.”
“What a mess.” Rafe agreed, guiding you through the crowd before slowing to a stop in front of his best friend. “But enough about that motherfucker –”
“What motherfucker?” Noah asked, quirking an eyebrow bemusedly. “Johnson not bothering you, is he Y/n?”
“He was.” You pouted, leaning into Rafe’s side with a small smile tugging at your lips. “Gave Rafael his knight in shining armour moment though.”
You paused, the corners of your mouth twitching mischievously. “You know… the one I robbed him of at your party in our freshman year of college.”
“Would’ve been more satisfying if I’d thrown a punch.” Rafe grumbled, but he tilted your chin, all the same, kissing you hard – like it was the first time, all over again. “Six years later and he’s still the same douchebag, huh?”
“And you’re still the same lovable one.” You countered, crinkling your nose playfully. “Douchebag, I mean.”
When he let out an appreciative chuckle, you couldn’t help but do the same – when he was happy, so were you, and when you were happy? When you were happy, the stars above were, too.
“So… you should know.” Noah smiled, raising his arms to pull you into a tight hug. “That when you become a Cameron, you become a White by default, too.”
“Kid’s my brother, you know?” He added, and you pouted a little when you registered how strained his voice sounded; the way his eyes glistened under the dull glow of the ceiling light. Who would’ve thought that your presence — little old you — could render the two biggest, self-proclaimed douchebags in your year to tears? “So… welcome to the family.”
—
You tugged at the alarmingly high hem of your black dress, turning to one side, and then the other, as you surveyed your appearance in the full-length mirror. “Too much?”
“Y/n.” Chloe lilted, rolling her eyes over the white claw she was sipping. “It’s your bachelorette party.”
She shifted forward from where her figure splayed your blue comforter, insistent fingers pulling it right back up. “There’s no such thing as too much.”
You crinkled your nose a little at that, swatting her hand away playfully. “Shut up. I don’t even care about the party.”
“But I care.” She chastised, fixing you with a pointed glare. “And I’m definitely getting you drunk, baby.”
“We are definitely getting you drunk.” Amber corrected, her figure appearing at the threshold of the door with several, haphazardly balanced drinks in hand. “Here — you’re already behind.”
“Behind who?” You frowned, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “What do you know, Graham?”
Amber’s features twisted into a defeated grimace, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “Topper might have mentioned that the boys have been drinking since three.”
“Three?” You repeated, letting out an exasperated scoff. “It’s nearly fucking six —”
“Which is why —” Amber cajoled, carelessly thrusting a white claw into your chest. “ — you need to start. Like, now.”
She placed a hand on her hip, the other gesturing for you to hiss open the can. “Now, Y/n/n.”
“Alright, alright.” You pouted, biting back a small smile. “Although…”
You trailed off with a quirked brow, eyes twinkling mischievously. “…think there’s some vodka on the top-shelf of the pantry.”
“Now we’re talking!” Chloe grinned appreciatively, standing up and wobbling toward your figure. “Opa!”
She linked your arm with hers, nodding Amber forward before tugging you toward the door. “To the pantry!”
“To the pantry!” You echoed teasingly, reaching forward to tuck Amber’s figure into your other side. “When are we leaving?”
You paused, flirting with the idea of getting a little more information (Chloe had been adamant that the night’s itinerary be kept a secret, a fact that the control freak in you couldn’t bear to accept). “And what are we doing?”
“Well, first.” Chloe inclined, stepping forward to claw at the top shelf of the cupboard. “We’re getting drunk.”
She tugged the near-full bottle of vodka out of its hiding spot, setting it down on the marble countertop before finding three shot glasses within your drawers. She only poured all of them to the brim the first time round, and by the time you had hit your fourth, you were far too spacey to notice she had stopped filling the other two, entirely.
“Okay.” You cringed, downing it with a low shudder. “Enough.”
“We’re just getting started, actually.” Chloe grinned, bumping her hip against your affectionately. “Okay, c‘mon — final touch.”
She guided you toward the living room with the tiniest hint of a stumble, reaching for the hideous, fuschia sash (Bride to be!) that she had placed atop the coffee table.
“I’m definitely not wearing that.” You warned, wincing slightly at the dangerous slur to your voice. “Like, definitely not wearing it.”
Amber was halfway opening her mouth in protest when the resonant ding of the doorbell interrupted your conversation, your brow furrowing slightly as you attempted to figure out who exactly it could be.
“Guys.” You frowned, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. “This was meant to be small!”
“It’s nothing.” Chloe insisted, waving a dismissive hand in the air as she disappeared to the foyer. “Promise.”
When she returned, it was with the animated bustle of more company — Priya and Jade from your fleeting time at UPenn, Sophie Nichols, Amber’s best friend, a few of the girls you had met through your Art History papers at UNC, and —
“Top and Kelce!” You exclaimed, wrapping your arms around their equally inebriated figures. “I thought you guys were with —”
“— Cameron?” Kelce finished, raising an eyebrow at your guilelessness. “You didn’t think we’d actually miss your bachelorette party just because we’re guys, right?”
“Besides.” Topper added, smiling dopily. “They started early, so we got to spend some time with Cameron, anyway.”
“It also means we’re adequately buzzed.” Kelce said solemnly, draping his arm over your shoulder. “And ready to get you fucked up.”
Several drinking games, another two shots, and half a game of twenty questions later, Topper and Kelce were completely sober (not for lack of trying — they were out drinking you by miles), and a single, slurred confession away from eating their words.
“So.” You continued, squinting slightly as your vision began to slur. “S’he does this thing with his tongue, that makes m’ —”
“Should we go now?” Kelce coughed, fixing Chloe with a pointed glare. “To a club? With people around?”
“We are in a sec.” Amber laughed, nodding toward her phone. “Ubers are a minute away.”
“Don’t think that’s going to get her to bite her tongue, though.” Chloe grinned, tipsy enough not to care about your actions, but sober enough to mean every word she said. “You’re the one who wanted to come to the party.”
“Yeah.” Kelce responded grimly, making a face. “Because I thought a male stripper was as bad as it was going to get.”
“S’a stripper?” You slurred, stumbling into Chloe’s side. “One time, I surprised m’Rafael in that Lara Croft s’outfit that —”
Topper clapped his hand over your mouth, a painful grimace twisting his features. “Jesus, Y/n, stop.”
“Though w’playing twenty questions.” You muffled, splaying your palm in front of his face. “S’answered fifteen, now, think.”
“True.” Priya nodded thoughtfully, biting back a laugh. “Hey, Y/n, where’s the craziest place you and Rafe have had sex?”
“Topper’s pool.” You giggled, giving his cheek a fond pat. “Sorry, Top.”
“No you fucking didn’t.” Topper gagged, steadying your figure against his chest as he made to stand. “When?”
“S’freshman year of college.” You slurred dopily, dragging your feet against the floor as he guided you toward the exit. “S’movie night.”
Kelce furrowed his brow slightly, slowing to a stop to allow the rest of the girls to move past him. “Movie night?”
“Mm-hm.” You grinned, eyes twinkling mischievously. “S’you guys went to shower after swim and m’and Rafael said we’d go after.”
You wriggled out of Topper’s grasp to stumble through the door and onto the porch, clapping excitedly when you realised the girls were beginning to hop into several, patiently waiting Ubers.
“I don’t know why I even asked.” Kelce cringed, painfully aware of the fact that he used Topper’s guest bathroom, that day, the same one that had a clear view of the large pool it overlayed. “Disgusting.”
“Nooooo.” You protested, folding your arms across your chest crossly. “Pool sex s’reaaalllly nice —”
“Stop talking.” Topper interrupted, making a mental note to punch Rafe in his smug face the next time he saw him — honestly, sex with his childhood best friend in the pool he had spent his entire childhood swimming in? With you, his childhood best friend? Who he had known since childhood? And who he — yeah. When he saw Rafe Cameron, next, he was definitely going to give him a shiner. “And please get in the fucking Uber.”
—
There were far too many nightclubs in Chapel Hill for this encounter to just be a coincidence.
Despite this, it appeared the only viable explanation – Noah and Chloe had diligently combed through the facts, and there was simply no way that you and Rafe could have planned this late night rendezvous. And it was true – you hadn’t. The star spangled sky above you was the one who preferred doing all the hard work.
“Rafaellllll.” You slurred, eyes widening comically. “S’you!”
Rafe Cameron – who (bless his heart) was seeing far more than four, and wouldn’t have spotted your figure for miles, the state he was currently in – furrowed his brow, allowing a moment’s pause before vigorously shaking his head. “Okay. M’definitely too drunk t’function now.”
“You didn’t imagine it this time, buddy.” Noah snorted, tugging Rafe forward by the shirt collar. “She’s there.”
And there, you were. Already hobbling toward him in those blistering heels you seemed to love, your eyes a little wild, loose curls tousled just right. You were far too drunk to stand, and still, you continued your careless lumber, stumbling right into his chest with a that dopey smile he couldn’t get enough off, doe-eyes speckled, fingers clasping the blonde locks that teased the nape of his neck
“Woah.” Rafe mumbled, carelessly circling your waist. “Y’like really hot, bu’ I have a fiancé.”
“M’too.” You nodded sagely, nudging his chin with your nose to pepper wet kisses alonghis jaw. “M’getting married to him tomorrow.”
“Y’are?” Rafe slurred, pressing himself further into you with an appreciative groan. “Lucky guy.”
“Y’should wear this dress tomorrow.” He added sloppily, roaming hands finding their way to the curve of your ass. “S’hot.”
“You’re hot.” You moaned, spurred on by the alcohol running through your veins. “Why didn’t w’do this party together?”
“Mmmm.” Rafe nodded, and his bruising touch was dangerously close to hitching your dress up further, now, the low neck he traced with his puffy lips leaving little to the imagination. “W’should’ve. W’out everyone else.”
“Okay that’s enough.” Noah coughed, applying a punishing grip on Rafe’s shoulder to pull him backward. “We’re in public. Please behave.”
“Noah!” You grinned, carelessly leaning into his chest (what he assumed was heavily intoxicated you giving him a sloppy version of a hug). “Fancy seeing y’here.”
“At my best friend’s bachelor party?” Noah questioned, biting back an amused chuckle. “I know. Super random.”
He beckoned Chloe over with a meaningful glance, his free hand pressed into your forearm to steady you. “How’s your night going, Y/n?”
“S’really good!” You exclaimed, squinting a little as you looked toward your palms, and then focussing all of your energy on maneuvering them into two thumbs up. “H’yours?”
Noah resisted the urge to make a face, his bicep rippling threateningly as he circled it Rafe’s neck. “Oh, you know. Same old.”
“Bro.” A guy named Will (one of Rafe’s frat brothers from his time at UNC) proffered, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “Tell me you hired a stripper.”
Currently, they were sitting in the private room of a centrally located club, the one Noah had hired for the night. The room was littered with empty glasses of beer, whiskey, and different iterations of the same tequila shot — no one was sober enough to think straight; the conversation was just beginning to get interesting.
“No way.” Noah chuckled, shaking his head knowingly. “You guys know how whipped Cameron is for Y/n.”
He paused, resisting the urge to make a face. “ And you guys didn’t know him in high-school, he was so much fucking worse then —”
“Stripper?” Rafe echoed, as though he had only just registered the sentiment – alcohol was running through his veins like water, and he was a single shot away from reaching the point of no return. “I know the perfect stripper.”
He scrunched up his features momentarily, attempting to gather his thoughts. “Lara Croft.”
Noah’s eyes widened at the admission, knowing where this was going, and clapping his hand over Rafe’s mouth (for his own good, he would later say, though they both knew it was really for Noah’s good, and for the good of humanity as a whole). “You’re not repeating that story again.”
“S’a good story!” Rafe protested, his voice muffled to a near imperceptible degree (or was his inability to speak a result of the several shots he had downed? Noah White was struggling to keep count). “Y’know who s’about?”
He swatted at Noah’s hand crossly, and his eyes were glazing over, now, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little, his features soft, his brow a little furrowed, and – oh, boy, Noah knew that look far – far – too well. “S’about my dreeeeaaaammmm girllll.”
“Y’know.” He continued, his eyes widening comically. “M’getting married t’her tomorrow.”
He stumbled into Noah’s figure, circling his neck to the point of suffocation. “How’d I manage that?”
“Been asking myself the same thing.” Noah teased, attempting to loosen his grip with minimal avail. “Bro –”
“White.” Rafe interrupted, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Th’stripper y’should call is Y/n. She’s really good at it, but y’guys can’t b’here for it, it’s a private show –”
“Right.” You nodded, chewing at your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Same old.”
You were opening your mouth to ask another question – “Hey, Noah, c’you leave us alone now?” – when Chloe’s figure appeared at his side, hands on her hips as she gave you a once over, stern glare enough to force a falter. “You’re not meant to spend your bachelorette party with the bachelor you’re marrying, by the way.”
“But I want to.” You protested, jutting out your bottom lip obstinately. “S’right here. My Rafael.”
Chloe couldn’t help but smile a little at that, sharing a knowing look with Noah before lowering her voice. “And how goes the best man duties?”
Noah shook his head as if to say – oh, you have no idea, his lips barely moving as he dipped his head. “We started the night with a drinking game where Cameron has to take a shot every time he mentions Y/n.”
“Ah.” Chloe nodded, surveying Rafe’s stumbling figure with a stifled giggle. “No wonder he’s so fucked up.”
“Oh… no.” Noah responded grimly, shaking his head. “We had to stop playing fifteen minutes in.”
“You know.” He continued, the corners of his mouth quirking up just a little. “Because you can’t say your vows if you have fucking alcohol poisoning.”
__
You let out another shaky breath, smoothing out the lace roses that emblazoned the waistline of your wedding dress. It was day dot – the promise-of-forever day, as your future self would lovably tout it (your current self couldn’t think of anything worse than adding the extra pressure of a fucking nickname, to today, and she was silently cursing you for ever doing such a thing – didn’t you know that it was thrumming through her chest like an omen? Didn’t you know it was the exact opposite of what she needed today?).
“Relax.” You muttered to yourself, scrutinising your appearance with a punishing amount of determination. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Yes, you are.” Your father smiled, his booming voice enough to whirl you around. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
He allowed a pause to swallow thickly, his eyes glistening as he offered you an outstretched palm. “Ready?”
Several steps away, sheltered by an elegantly sculptured pavilion, Rafe Cameron hazarded another glance at his Cartier watch. It glinted just a little as it caught the light, and when he registered the time it displayed, it was enough to straighten him with a start. He blew all of the air out of his cheeks, and for a single, infinitesimally long moment, he closed his eyes, and committed every single detail around him to memory. The enchanting hum of Taylor Swift lyrics. The salty embrace of a clement, ocean breeze. The pompous murmur of Figure Eight patriarchs, and matriarchs, alike. The burnt orange hues of radiating sunbeams. The expectant glint of an argent, silver ring. And then – the promise of forever. You.
Rafe Cameron opened his eyes, and the passage of time blurred into a mess of slurpy brushstrokes. Slowly, he blinked back unshed tears, and as he zero-ed in on your angelic figure, he committed every single detail to memory, all over again. The wreath of loose curls that held a magnificent, ivory veil. The waterfall of beaded tulle that radiated around your waist like a halo. The slight pucker to your tinged lips, the brilliant twinkle in your doe-eyes, the teasing waft of your bergamot perfume, that near-imperceptible crinkle of your nose — the same crinkle that you reserved just for him. You.
“This is it.” Noah muttered, giving his forearm a reassuring pat. “Got the rings when you’re ready, buddy.”
Rafe didn’t hear him. You were close enough, now, for Rafe to feel the full strength of your magnetic pull; the world warped around your intertwined figures like space-time, and he wasn’t certain he ever wanted it to stop.
“Hey.” He managed, clasping your manicured fingers to guide you up the pavilion steps. “You look…”
He trailed off with the small shake of his head, and in the distance, the chorus appeared to know exactly what he was going to say.
“You too.” You breathed, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I love you, Rafael.”
“I love you. Always.”
Behind him, the wedding officiant appeared to be speaking, and through the arms he raised in welcome, he assumed it was the opening address. He didn’t bother tuning it in, nor anything else, really, in his periphery, focussing all of his effort instead, on memorising you.
He looked down at the way your fingers knotted in his, and remembered the very first time you had taken his hand in yours. It was senior year, right after your History project, and you — bright-eyed and beaming, had clapped alongside your peers before absently clasping his hand and dipping your figure into a polite bow. His breath had hitched, as it was doing right now, and his heartbeat thrummed, as it did in this moment. And though he gazed down at you today with the same glint of adoration his eye had reflected, back then, he was met, this time, with the beautiful gift of solidarity — the air was still, and it acted a two-way mirror between your fated figures. This time, you felt it too. And Rafe Cameron wasn’t certain he would ever — ever — get used to this fact.
“…and I believe that the bride and groom have prepared their own vows?”
The last word was enough to bring Rafe out of his reverie, giving the wedding officiant a small nod before sliding a piece of paper out of his pocket. Though he clutched it taut enough to cause a small rip, his hands were shaky, and his palms a little clammy — the words were blurring into splotches of ink, though Rafe wasn’t sure he would have made sense of the words, regardless. He closed his eyes for a moment, and within the darkness, Rafe found gratitude in the number of years he had spent loving you. He didn’t need the piece of paper, nor the words that they displayed. They were already written in the stars above and reflected within his beating heart — he hadn’t said them, nor read them, but he already knew them off by heart, and with a deep breath in, and then a deep breath out, Rafe Cameron raised his chin, and he confessed every ounce of his undying love.
“Y/n.” He started, and his voice was no longer quavering, now, the words resolute as they rang through the air. “Firstly — you look so goddamn beautiful, baby, you know that?”
The crowd let out an appreciative hum at that, though the bashful smile tugging at your lips was enough to render it white noise.
“I’ve loved you since before I even knew what love was.” He continued, letting out a slow breath. “And I’m not sure I could stop loving you, even if I tried.”
“You — the way you make me feel…”
He trailed off with a small shake of his head, clasping your hands a little tighter. “…most people spend their whole lives trying and failing to chase that feeling.”
“And I get to feel it every damn day.” He added thoughtfully, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. “I get to hold you, and to love you, and somehow —”
He paused, and as he dipped his head, you willed yourself to lose yourself in his brilliant blue gaze, completely. “— somehow, I get to say that you love me too.”
“When we were fourteen, I remember thinking — there’s something about her, you know?”
“And I tried my very best to shake it.” He added with a grin, and when he lowered his voice to a near inaudible lilt, it was to address you, and you only. “Via a two-year long stint on douchebag autopilot.”
“But I couldn’t.” He continued, raising his voice again. “And I look back at it now and just want to yell at that stupid kid — because why the hell would you want to let this feeling go?”
He allowed a pause to exhale, brushing over the soft skin of your knuckles. “Because there isn’t just something about you.”
“There’s —” He faltered, knowing there didn’t exist enough words in the English language to do you justice. “— I mean, ‘something’ sounds so insignificant.”
“It’s the way you smile, and the way you throw you head back when you laugh; it’s that little twinkle in your eye, and it’s how concentrated you get when you try to say goodbye. It’s your way with words and it’s the how deeply you love and how fiercely you care and how gently you breathe and —”
He drew in a sharp breath, as though his love for you was so all-consuming that it threatened to swallow him whole. “ — God, it’s everything, you know? I’ve loved you since before I knew what love was, and I’ll probably love you until I take my last breath. Thank you, for being mine.”
Maybe the crowd rose to a clamour when Rafe finished, or maybe they did the exact opposite. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. You were zero-ed in on the only boy that mattered, and the warmth of his presence alone was enough to coax your vows right out of your mouth.
“Rafael.” You started, smiling small — just for him. “I think I’m finally ready to admit that I was pining for you for a bit there, too.”
The crowd laughed, but you didn’t notice. You were too busy basking in the afterglow of Rafe Cameron’s roguish grin — the same one he had flashed you so many years ago, the same one that made you feel seventeen, again. “You taught me what love is supposed to feel like, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.”
“I remember spending all of senior year being way too scared of giving you my heart.”
“I built up so many walls.” You continued, swallowing slightly. “But with you, it was like they were made of glass.”
You sidled a little closer to his figure, matched his gaze with a little more finality. “You make me come alive, Rafael — you make me feel like I can do anything, you know?”
“To find someone like you — someone who fits me like a jigsaw puzzle — within a place as small as the Eight?”
You paused, shifting your gaze heavenward. “I’m so incredibly lucky. I can’t even begin to explain how very rare it is — the way I feel about you.”
“So thank you.” You finished, your forehead creasing in earnest. “For making me yours. It’s the only place I’ve ever truly belonged, you know? In your arms. Always.”
Rafe smiled so very bright at that you had to remind yourself to breathe. God, he thought, will I ever get used to this feeling? not knowing that you were asking yourself the very same question, fate coaxing it out at the very same time.
“Wonderful.” The officiant beamed, raising his arms appreciatively. “Now, repeat after me…”
And repeat his words, you did.
When he told Rafe to kiss you, the world blurred into a haze of stolen memories — intertwined as your figures were, threatening to melt into the same oblivion within which you inhabited a single spot. He kissed you like it was his last day on Earth, and then, he kissed you some more. He kissed you for every almost-kiss, for every accidental touch, for every forced embrace. The sky above you spangled silver with a blanket of stars, and Rafe Cameron kissed you hard enough for them to wink in acknowledgement. He kissed away every chance encounter, every rude awakening, every dangerous quaver. He kissed you hard enough to immortalise forever, and when he did finally pull away, it was no longer just a promise. It was here. You had reached it — you had reached forever.
—
Noah cleared his throat purposefully, casting Rose a meaningful glance before nodding toward the live band.
Rose flashed him a small wink in acknowledgement (one day, Mrs. Cameron, he thought with a cryptic smile), mouthing a discreet “On it!” before getting out of her seat and disappearing into the crowd.
Beside him, his best friend was whispering something near indiscernible in your ear. It was just the right amount of audacious, Noah was sure of it. He was sure by the way you scoffed, surer still when he clocked that tiny smile (the same one you used to think no one noticed – the same one Noah always did, when you interacted with Rafe Cameron).
Once he was given the go-ahead by Rose, he straightened in his chair, clinking his fork against the crystal glassware until the room murmured into silence.
“May I have everyone’s attention?” He announced, standing up with a confident smile. “I would like to make a toast.”
He glanced down at Rafe’s figure with a twinkle in his eye, clapping a hand over his shoulder before continuing. “When I first met Cameron, we were like two peas in the same douchebag pod.”
“Granted, we were ten.” Noah grinned, allowing a pause as people laughed. “But we used to strut around the playground of Kildare middle school like we owned the place.”
“One of us grew out of the habit.” Noah continued sagely, making a show of pointing at himself. “And the other…”
He trailed off with a dramatic sigh, shaking his head defeatedly. “…the other took a couple more years.”
“And you know what?”
He paused, catching your eye with a little wink. “It would’ve taken him a lot longer than a couple of years if a certain, special girl hadn’t called out Mr Williams in our freshman math class.”
“No, wrong reaction.” Noah reproached, speaking to the sea of saccharine sweet Ooh!s and Ah!s. “Mr Williams sucked.”
He allowed another pause as people laughed again, using the moment to reach over and tousle your curls just a little. “Y/n, the boy loves you like crazy, you know that?”
“It’s insufferable.” He continued, keeling over and pretending to gag. “I mean, he’s been smitten since the day he met her. I didn’t even think he was capable of real human emotions until she called him Rafael, that day on the track, and all he did was flash her that disgusting, I’m-hopelessly-in-love-with-you smile.”
“For context.” Noah explained, his pressed tongue against his cheek as he recalled the fond memory. “In eighth grade, Cameron punched a kid – yo, James, you in the crowd, bud? – for calling him Rafael.”
“And I never understood why he hated his full name so much.” He frowned, and he was guiding you to your feet, now, pulling you into his side to speak to you, and only to you. “I didn’t understand till he met you.”
He paused, here, the intensity of his gaze so very mesmerising that you felt exactly how he had described you – like that certain, special fourteen year old girl who had plagued Mr William’s math class, so many years ago. “He was saving it for the girl of his dreams.”
“Or his dream girl.” He corrected, pressing a gentle kiss on your temple. “And to that I say… welcome to the family, Mrs. Dream-Girl Cameron!”
You wrapped your arms around his waist as people cheered, feeling the warm figure of your golden boy – your husband, you thought with a soar – flush the back of your body to wrap his arms around him, too.
“Love you, bro.” Noah muttered, clearing his throat in an attempt to drown out his small sniff. “So fucking happy for you.”
“And you.” He added with a smile, bumping your chin affectionately. “Surprised you didn’t rope him into hyphenating.”
“No way.” You lilted, crinkling your nose playfully. “Can’t turn down the satisfaction of being a Cameron milf.”
“Once Rose retires, of course.” You added, biting back a laugh. “When are you going to snatch her up?”
Noah cast you a meaningful glance, shaking his head gloomily. “One day.”
A few spots away, Topper and Kelce were preparing to make their speech, perched on the very edge of their respective chairs in anticipation of the moment. Once they were certain that the crowd had stilled, and your figures adequately settled, the latter clinked a fork against his champagne flute, straightening in sync with the former’s announcement.
“Our turn!” Topper grinned, raising his glass preemptively. “We, too, would like to make a toast.”
“So me and Top here have known Y/n for most of our lives.” Kelce started, jerking a forefinger toward his figure before continuing. “But for some reason, she’s always liked him more than me.”
“And I mean like-like.” He added, raising his fingers in air-quotes. “Verbatim what she told me when we were ten and he was away for summer camp – ‘Kelce, I think I like Topper. Like, like-like him’.”
You blushed a little at that, burying your head in your hands.
“So she spent most of middle school and high-school deluding herself into thinking she liked Topper.” Kelce continued, shaking his head knowingly. “But I think that was because she had never really crushed on someone before, so she didn’t know how it was meant to feel.”
“And, douchebag Cameron over here didn’t make things easier for her.” Topper picked up, biting back a fond chuckle. “He was so insufferable all of high-school that he gave her the perfect out.”
“Y/n…” Kelce teased, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “…no way is it possible to talk about someone you hate that much.”
“For real.” He continued, making a show of shaking his head soberly. “Every single day – Oh my god, did you hear what Cameron just said to me? Or – No way am I going to prom with Cameron… but who is he going with, anyway? And even – Let’s ditch his birthday party and hang out at home… oh but here’s a $700 bottle of Bordeaux from my parent’s wine cellar that I’m going to give him –”
Around him, people laughed appreciatively, and he had the gall to grin, enjoying the attention a little bit too much. Asshole.
“But on a more serious note.” Topper smiled finally, moving his earnest gaze back toward you and Rafe. “I’m glad I invited you to Europe with us, Cameron, because it was the first time I ever saw Y/n come alive.”
“She deserves the kind of love you give her.” He added, quirking his eyebrow just a little. “Even if it makes the rest of us want to gag.”
Kelce clinked his glass against Topper’s in agreement, gesturing for everyone to raise theirs, too. “To Rafe and Y/n!”
“Rafe and Y/n!” The crowd echoed, the clamour allowing you a moment to slip out of your seat and into their arms.
“Going to make me cry.” You mumbled, blinking back unshed tears. “I love you, guys.”
They squeezed you extra tight, the second time around, pretending like it was because you were crying (but really, it was because they were, too). “We love you.”
Chloe’s speech came after that, and it was by far the most unforgiving. Perhaps it was because she was the only one who bore witness to “you and hometown’s disgustingly long FaceTime calls – I mean seriously, there’s no way you were just talking for that long”, or perhaps, it was the fact that she was your first real girl friend. It wasn’t as though Topper and Kelce were willing to sit through a debrief on your dates, or your conversations, or your sex, or why “Come over if you want!” really reads as “Don’t come over at all”; they remained blissfully debrief-less, and were none the wiser for it. By the time she had completed her address, you were dangerously close to tears, your voice a little thick as you wrapped her up in an embrace.
“Thank you.” You muffled, drawing backward with a watery smile. “Seriously.”
“I love you, baby.” Chloe pouted, words strangled as they caught in her throat. “My favourite person ever.”
She tucked a stray curl behind your ear before gently whirling you around, Rafe Cameron’s calloused palm already raised expectantly.
“It’s first dance time.” He murmured gently, intertwining your fingers before guiding you to the floor. “We can leave the Christmas lights up ‘til January…”
“This is our place.” You continued, wrapping your arms around his neck. “We make the rules…”
Rafe circled your waist a little tighter, your head resting in the small nook between his breastbones – close enough to hear the nervous thrum of his heart; close enough to cause it to quicken with a start. You were swaying in time to the music – and, he thought with a soar, in sync with him – and fleetingly, Rafe wondered whether this is how you two would have danced had he managed to ask you to prom so many years ago, when you were seventeen. Whether you would have shared the same first dance you were doing, right now, whether you would have elicited the same emotions, and felt them in turn, allowed the rest of the world to melt into oblivion, allowed yourself to melt into him, instead.
“You know.” He smiled, his breath tickling the sweet spot below your ear as he gently dipped his head. “We’ve never slow danced before.”
“Not properly.” He added, guiding his hand to the small of your back. “Not like this.”
It felt as though every memory that knitted you into the fabric of space-time was unravelling – they were blurring around your tangled figures like a golden halo, and for a moment, Rafe wondered whether it was possible for all of the atoms in his body to deliquesce into it, too.
“That’s true.” You nodded, and when you tilted your chin, it felt as though he was going to drown in the ardency of your embrace. “Not like this.”
He caught your wrist and brought it to his chest, your other hand resting on the top of his broad shoulder. The chorus was starting, and your touch so very intoxicating, and your soft skin caving his, and your tinged lips speaking slow, and – god, would he ever get used to this feeling?
“I love you.” He mumbled into your hair, and in the distance – Can we always be this close, forever and ever? “Always.”
“You’re my…” You smiled, allowing your eyes to close. “...my, my, my…
–
Rafe Cameron wasn’t certain he would ever get used to this feeling.
“Good book?” He murmured, careful not to disturb you. “How long have you been out here, baby?”
You furrowed your brow slightly, peeling your eyes away from the weathered pages of Pride and Prejudice. “A little while. How was golf?”
“Good.” Rafe smiled, pressing a gentle kiss on your temple. “Here.”
He handed you a bottle of your favourite, organic Kombucha, shifting your figure sideways so he could lay on the hammock beside you. “Where’s Lex?”
“Asleep.” You hummed, resting your head on his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around your shoulder. “Picked her up from her play-date with Holly and she was absolutely floored.”
“Still managed a glass with Ambs, though.” You added with an appreciative nod. “She told me allll about James’ new girlfriend.”
“New girlfriend?” Rafe echoed, absently threading his fingers through your curls. “He still hasn’t settled down?”
“Nope.” You responded, popping the p. “And —”
You paused, casting Rafe a meaningful glance. “— she’s twenty.”
“No she fucking isn’t.” Rafe grimaced, shaking his head in disdain. “Jesus — 10 years?”
“Mm-hm.” You nodded, bringing the book back to eye-level. “Fucking unbelievable.”
Rafe hummed concomitantly at that, sliding his phone out of his back-pocket to scroll through the evening news.
Above him, the sky was blanketed by purple velvet — the way it always was — stars spangling its moonless surface like dust. In his periphery, still water reflected the waning glow of twilight — like it always did — confining its magnificent glimmer within the four walls of your pool. Beside the hammock, your wooden deck streamlined the artificial beam of lights within your home — as he expected — cloaking the scene in a curious sense of satisfaction, as if to say: we made it. This is all ours. And I’m all yours. And effortlessly tucked into his side — like you always were — was his dream girl, eyes a little tired behind blue light glasses, cheeks painted pink by the salty breeze, loose curls twisted into that green claw clip you loved, fingers padding over the weather skin of his knuckle. Everything was as it was last Saturday, and the Saturday before that, and the Saturday that occurred two Saturdays ago, and that one Saturday you opened a rare bottle of Bordeaux to celebrate Rafe’s promotion to CEO of Ward Development. And still, as Rafe Cameron took in the scene — so very beautiful it made his head spin — he felt like the same fourteen year old boy who had fell in love with you so many years ago, and with a small soar, and an even smaller sigh, he realised —
EVE !! https://vt.tiktok.com/ZS45gBMBH/ this with media reader omfggggg i know Garrett would be pissy and be like “I’ll buy whatever you want just tell me what you want” and dean is for sure the “no I pay for your shit all the time”
The video opened on the narrow rubber walkway between the locker room and the ice, the rink washed blue-white beyond the boards and her phone held low enough that the boys didn’t immediately notice what she was doing.
The first freshman came through adjusting one glove with his teeth. “Hey,” she said brightly. “Can I have twenty dollars?”
He stopped so abruptly the player behind him nearly walked into his back. “Uh.” His eyes moved from her face to the phone and back again. “Sure?”
The next one heard the question before he reached her and barked, “Fuck no, dude,” without breaking stride.
A third slowed, already reaching toward the pocket of his sweats beneath his gear. “Yeah, boss. Only twenty?”
The fourth frowned. “For what?”
“Chocolate.”
He stared at her for half a second, then laughed hard enough his cage rattled. “Hell no.”
Tucker came out next, helmet tucked beneath one arm, and his whole face changed when she asked him. “Tuck, can I have twenty dollars?”
His brows pulled together. “You okay?”
The laugh escaped her before she could keep the bit intact. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Can I have twenty dollars?”
He nodded immediately, earnest as anything. “Yeah, course. After practice?”
“Thanks, Tuck.”
Dean appeared behind him, caught the tail end of it and scoffed before she had finished asking. “No. I pay for your shit all the time.”
Her gasp bounced off the glass. “No, you don’t!”
“I so do,” he called over his shoulder, grinning as he stepped onto the ice.
Logan came through next with his stick balanced across both shoulders. “Hey.”
“Hey, Logan. Do you have twenty dollars?”
He laughed, bright and helpless. “If you manage to get twenty, let me know. I need it.”
By the time Garrett appeared, she was already fighting the smile pulling at her mouth.
“Hi, Captain.”
He bit back one of his own. “Hi.”
“Can I have twenty dollars?”
The grin disappeared. His gaze moved over her face, then the rest of her, as if the missing money might have left visible damage. “What do you need twenty dollars for?”
“I just need twenty dollars.”
“No, what do you need?” he said, irritation beginning to crease between his brows. “If you need something, I’ll buy it.”
“I don’t need you to buy it. I just need twenty dollars.”
“Why?” He shifted closer, lowering his voice while three freshmen hovered shamelessly near the gate. “Just tell me what it is. I’ll get it.”
Her laugh finally broke through. “Okay.”
Garrett narrowed his eyes at her, unconvinced, then leaned over the phone pressed near her chest and kissed the top of her head. “We’re talking after practice.”
He pushed onto the ice while the video cut off on her laughter.
pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader
summary – six teenage boys make the unfortunate mistake of discussing mrs cameron within rafe’s hearing range.
warnings – strong language, teenage rule-breaking, sexual comments, lowkey objectification, possessive jealousy, suggestive.
notes from me – oh my god i love them so bad!!!!!! based loosely on these requests, thank u my babies!! <3
word count – 2.7k
navigation – masterlist |
Rafe has been home for eleven days, which is long enough for the house to stop treating him like a guest and begin assigning him work again. The first three days had been almost pleasant.
Lila followed him from room to room with the solemn devotion of a small, talkative shadow. Marlowe pretended she hadn’t missed him and then spent forty minutes sitting on the floor of his office while he answered emails, offering unrequested commentary about every person who called. His wife slept later than seven twice, which felt like an achievement worthy of champagne.
Banks lasted until day four before getting caught skipping his last class to take somebody’s dirt bike down a maintenance road near the dunes. So Rafe stayed home.
He moved meetings, ignored three increasingly anxious messages from Charleston and told the office he was taking two weeks, possibly three, depending on whether his son rediscovered basic survival instinct. His wife had looked at him across the kitchen island with one eyebrow lifted and asked whether he was taking time off or establishing martial law.
“Time off,” he’d said.
Banks, standing beside the fridge with his car keys newly confiscated, had muttered, “Feels like martial law.”
Rafe had pointed toward the stairs without looking at him. “Keep talking.”
Banks had stopped.
Now, on a bright Saturday morning, Rafe stands over the grill with a wire brush in one hand and six sixteen-year-old boys sprawled across the back deck behind him like laundry nobody has folded.
Their shoes are abandoned near the sliding door. Three empty cans of soda sweat rings into the outdoor table. Somebody has brought a speaker and is playing music low enough that Rafe has chosen not to complain, mostly because the boys have forgotten he exists.
It’s unexpectedly useful.
They talk differently when they stop performing for adults. The conversation rolls between school, somebody’s terrible new haircut, a rumour about the lacrosse coach and an argument over whether Tyler actually kissed two girls at the same party or only told two different girls that he had.
Rafe scrapes another line of burned grease from the grate and listens without turning around. His wife is going to love this.
She calls it tea, which Rafe finds embarrassing for everybody involved, but she also once sat cross-legged on their bed for nearly an hour while he relayed an argument he’d overheard between Marlowe and two girls from dance.
She’d asked follow-up questions. She’d made him repeat exact wording. At one point, she’d put down her moisturiser and said, “No, no, go back. What did Ava say after Marlowe called her exhausting?”
Rafe hadn’t known what that meant at thirteen. He’s fairly certain he only knew three emotions at that age, and two of them were anger.
Behind him, one of Banks’ friends laughs hard enough to choke on his drink. “Bro, no chance she said that.”
“She did,” another boy insists. “Right in front of everybody.”
“Who?”
“Steph.”
Rafe’s hand slows against the grill. There’s a tiny pause behind him. The sudden, collective awareness of boys who have stepped near information one of them doesn’t want examined.
Then somebody says, “Banks, bro, how is Steph goin’?”
Rafe turns his head just enough to catch his son cutting a quick look toward him.
Banks is stretched low in one of the patio chairs, long legs kicked beneath the table, sunglasses pushed into his hair.
At sixteen, he has begun taking up space the way Rafe does without noticing it – shoulders broadening, knees always in somebody’s way, one arm draped along the chair beside him like the world was built slightly too small.
His expression closes the second he sees Rafe looking.
“Shut up,” Banks mutters.
The boys erupt.
Banks shoves one of them in the shoulder and says, “I’m serious, dude. Shut the fuck up.”
Rafe turns back to the grill before his mouth gives him away. Steph. Interesting.
He files it away for later, somewhere between Tyler lying about his sexual history and Banks having referred to somebody named Cooper as a desperate little freak for posting gym selfies.
His wife will enjoy all of it. She’ll probably ask what Steph’s surname is, and Rafe will have no idea, and then she’ll accuse him of gathering incomplete intelligence.
The back gate clicks below the deck. A second later, Lila’s voice carries up the stairs before the rest of her does. “Daddy!”
Rafe sets the brush down just in time for six years of wet limbs and tangled towel to come flying toward him.
She’s wrapped in a faded pink beach towel from her shoulders to her ankles, her damp hair slicked backward from her face and her feet leaving little dark marks over the boards.
Rafe catches her beneath the arms when she launches, lifting her against his chest while the towel loosens.
“Hey, baby girl.” He settles her onto one hip and pulls the towel higher over her shoulders. Her skin is cool and pebbled beneath his hand despite the heat. “How was the water?”
Lila nods so violently her wet hair slaps against her cheek. “So good. I went splash, and then the water went sploooosh–” Her arm shoots out from the towel, nearly catching Rafe beneath the chin. “–and then Mama had to come get me because I went too far, but I wasn’t too far. Mama just couldn’t see because the wave was big.”
“Right,” Rafe says, looking down the steps. “Sounds responsible.”
His wife reaches the top as Lila begins reenacting the wave against his shoulder. She has a canvas beach bag hanging from one elbow and Lila’s sandals hooked through two fingers.
A pale sarong is knotted low around her waist over a black bikini, damp hair pushed back from her face and drying in uneven bends over her shoulders. There’s a faint strip of sand along one shin and a pink flush high over her chest from the sun.
Rafe forgets the grill. It happens with humiliating regularity. He’ll be in the middle of something normal – opening mail, finding a missing shoe, explaining why the pool company has overcharged them – and she’ll walk into the room looking like that, like three children and half a lifetime have somehow only given her more places for his attention to catch.
Her stomach is softer than it was when they were eighteen. Her hips curve beneath the sarong in a way his hands know better than his own.
There’s a thin silver stretch mark near one side of her waist that he can see when the fabric shifts, left by Banks or Marlowe or Lila; he doesn’t remember which anymore, only that each of their children changed her and somehow made her look more specifically his.
Every version of her body has held some part of their life.
She looks up and smiles at him, attention moving first to Lila shivering in his arms and then to his face. Rafe’s chest pulls tight in the familiar place.
Unfortunately, Banks’ friends have eyes.
He notices because they all go quiet in stages. One boy stops halfway through opening a bag of chips. Another sits up. Tyler, the liar, looks at her for one second too long before glancing quickly toward the ocean as though he has developed a sudden interest in tides.
Rafe’s grip tightens around Lila. Not because he’s jealous of teenage boys. He’s a grown man. A husband. A father. He owns property and has employees and understands at least seventy percent of his mortgage.
Still. Little fucks.
His wife either doesn’t notice or chooses not to. Her entire focus remains on Lila as she steps closer and rubs both hands over the child’s towel-covered arms. “Come on, sweet girl. Let’s get you into a warm shower, yeah? Then I’ll make you some lunch.”
“Yes, please!” Lila immediately begins wriggling out of Rafe’s hold with no concern for gravity.
He lowers her to the deck, catches the towel before it falls and wraps it around her again. “Walk. Boards are slippery.”
“I know, Daddy.”
She runs anyway.
His wife watches her disappear through the sliding door, then comes to him, one hand flattening against the centre of his chest. Her fingers are cool from the water. The contact settles something in him before he has decided it needs settling.
“Hi, baby,” he murmurs.
His hand closes around the back of her neck, thumb fitting beneath her ear as she rises onto her toes and kisses him. It’s brief and warm and tastes faintly like the sunscreen she always gets too close to her mouth.
“Hi, honey.” Her smile brushes his lips. “You want food too?”
“Yeah.” He slides his other hand around her waist, palm flattening over the damp knot of the sarong. “Thank you, baby.”
She looks past him toward the table. “Banks? Boys? Food?”
The response is immediate and absurdly polite.
“Yeah, thanks, Mom,” Banks says.
“Yes, Mrs Cameron.”
“Yes, please, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mrs Cameron.”
Rafe glances over his shoulder at them. Tyler is looking directly at the table now with the concentration of somebody sitting an exam.
She only nods. “Won’t be long.”
She follows Lila inside, leaving the smell of salt water and coconut sunscreen behind her. Rafe watches until she disappears up the stairs.
Then he turns slowly toward the boys. Every face is arranged into innocence.
Rafe picks up the grill brush. “Something wrong?”
Six heads shake.
“No, sir,” one of them says.
Banks closes his eyes briefly.
Rafe hums and goes back to cleaning.
He waits another five minutes before carrying the brush and drip tray into the kitchen. The window above the sink has been cracked open to let the breeze through, facing straight across the deck toward the ocean. From inside, the boys are mostly hidden by the frame, but their voices carry perfectly through the gap.
Rafe turns on the tap. Behind him, the floorboards upstairs creak as his wife walks Lila toward the bathroom. Pipes groan inside the wall. Outside, a chair scrapes.
Then Tyler says, in the low, urgent voice of somebody sharing state secrets, “Banks, bro.”
Banks sighs. “What?”
“Your mom is so fucking hot.”
Rafe’s hand stops beneath the water. There’s an immediate collision of voices.
“Dude, shut up.”
“No, seriously.”
“Full MILF, man.”
“That’s my mom, you fucking freak.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Don’t.”
Another boy laughs. “No way your old man can handle all that.”
The metal tray slips in Rafe’s hands and hits the sink with a sharp clang. Outside, the conversation dies. Rafe stares through the window at the ocean, jaw locked hard enough that something aches near his ear.
Old man. He’s thirty-eight, not dead. And handle all that? He’s been handling all that since before these little assholes were even a thought.
He handled her at seventeen when she used to climb through his bedroom window because Ward hated sleepovers. He handled her through college, through a breakup, through three pregnancies, two mortgages, four houses, one wedding and more arguments than he could count.
He knows exactly where she likes his hand when she falls asleep and which side of her neck makes her knees weaken and how to calm her down without telling her to calm down.
He knows she hates tomatoes unless they’re cooked, that she cries when she’s angry enough, that she pretends not to want the last bite and always wants the last bite.
No way your old man can handle all that.
Rafe shuts off the tap. Stupid fucking children.
Footsteps move down the stairs before he can decide whether throwing six teenagers into the ocean would technically violate his time off. Lila appears first in clean yellow shorts and a shirt with a glittering dolphin across the front, hair brushed and beginning to curl as it dries.
His wife follows more slowly, still in the bikini and sarong, gathering her damp hair into a loose knot.
Lila runs toward the pantry. “Can I have chips?”
“No,” both parents say at once.
She stops. “Why?”
“Because lunch is coming,” his wife says.
“But chips are lunch.”
Rafe reaches for his wife as she passes, catching her around the waist and drawing her between his body and the counter. She comes without resistance, arms folding around his shoulders, her whole weight settling into him with a small, tired hum.
There it is. The thing those idiots outside couldn’t begin to understand. She melts for him.
Her stomach softens against his, cheek tipping near his collarbone while his palm moves slowly up the warm line of her back. She smells like salt and shampoo from helping Lila, though she hasn’t showered yet herself.
“I can make lunch,” he says against her hair. “You wanna go shower?”
“Don’t mind,” she murmurs, fingertips scratching lazily at the back of his neck. “I can do it.”
Rafe lets both hands slide lower, settling over her ass through the thin sarong. He taps lightly once, then again, a quiet rhythm beneath his palms. She makes another soft sound and presses closer.
The sliding door opens. Six boys begin filing into the kitchen, loud until they see him.
Rafe looks over his wife’s shoulder. Every single one of them becomes deeply interested in something else. The fridge. The floor. Lila’s abandoned towel. One boy studies the bowl of fruit as though he has never encountered an apple.
“Little shits,” Rafe mutters.
His wife lifts her head. “What, baby?”
“Nothin’.” He pats her ass again, eyes still on the boys.
Her brows pinch faintly, but then she tilts her chin toward him in the familiar, wordless request she’s made for more years than any of these kids have been alive.
Rafe smiles. She has no idea. His hand comes up to hold her face, fingers spreading along her jaw as he bends and kisses her.
Slow this time. Deliberate. His mouth moves over hers until she opens with a surprised laugh, and then his tongue catches hers just enough to make the laugh melt into a warm, pleased sigh against him.
Lila groans with her whole body and slaps both hands against his thigh. “Yuck! Daddy, stop! Mama!”
From beside the island, Banks says, “Oh my God. Really?”
His wife pulls back laughing, cheeks warm and eyes shining. Rafe steals one more kiss before she can get far, short but thorough enough to make Lila shout again.
“I’ve got lunch,” he tells her, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “Go shower, Mama. Tell Marlowe to come down on your way up for me.”
“‘Kay.” She kisses his cheek this time, then slips from his arms and heads toward the stairs. “Lila, don’t touch the chips.”
Lila freezes with one hand already inside the pantry. “I wasn’t.”
She disappears upstairs.
For several seconds, the kitchen stays quiet. Rafe turns toward the boys. They stare anywhere except at him. Banks looks like he wants to crawl beneath the island and stay there until adulthood.
Rafe takes a cutting board from the drawer and sets it on the counter with calm, measured care. “Tyler.”
The boy near the fruit bowl goes pale. “Yes, sir?”
Rafe looks at him, then he nods toward the fridge. “Get the burger meat out.”
Tyler moves immediately. “Yes, sir.”
Rafe glances at the rest of them. “You boys want lunch, you can help. Buns are in the pantry. Plates outside. Banks, cheese.”
They scatter through the kitchen with the efficient panic of unpaid staff during an inspection. Rafe reaches for the knife, mouth pulling slowly to one side.
Old man. Fuck that.
Upstairs, the shower turns on. Marlowe calls something unintelligible through her bedroom door. Lila begins explaining to one of the boys why dolphins are smarter than him.
Banks opens the fridge and mutters, “You’re so embarrassing.”
Rafe looks over at his son, then toward the ceiling where his wife is moving through the house above them, still humming faintly to herself.
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pairing – garrett graham x briar media!reader
summary – twelve days with briar football leave the hockey team emotionally abandoned and garrett increasingly determined to remind everyone where loyalty belongs.
warnings – strong language, jealousy and possessiveness, flirtatious comments, workplace teasing, public kissing, neck kissing, mild sexual tension
notes from me – FINALLY getting something for these two out!! as requested here! thank u lovely xx
word count – 3.1k
By the twelfth day of her temporary reassignment to Briar football, the hockey team had stopped pretending they were coping.
They hadn’t coped especially well before that, either, but there had at least been some dignity during the first three days.
Tucker had sent her a polite text asking how long she expected to be helping out. Logan had reacted to one of her football practice stories with a thumbs-down. Dean had stood in the doorway of the athletics media office while she packed a second camera battery into her bag and informed her that football content lacked emotional complexity of hockey content, which was an argument she had refused to entertain before nine in the morning.
Garrett had said nothing. Garrett had instead begun appearing wherever she was with the silent, increasingly oppressive regularity of a large cat whose preferred person had committed the unforgivable offence of going to work.
He came to the media office between classes and leaned in the doorway while she edited player interviews, arms folded over his chest, watching her drag colour sliders back and forth with a crease between his eyebrows.
He waited outside the dining hall after her lunch meeting with their head coach. He dropped onto the mattress beside her at night and immediately hauled her across the sheets until her back was pressed to his chest, one heavy thigh wedged between hers, his face buried in the back of her neck as if she might be reassigned again if he left any space between them.
When she had laughed and asked whether he was planning to let her breathe, he’d tightened his arm around her waist and muttered, “You breathe too much at football practice.”
Which was both irrational and, unfortunately, cute enough that she had kissed his bicep instead of arguing.
The hockey team’s restraint had disintegrated completely by the second week.
She made the mistake of stopping by the rink that afternoon to collect a lens she’d left in the media cabinet and was intercepted before she reached the bench.
“Boss,” Logan called from the ice, skating straight toward her with the urgent relief of a man spotting rescue after weeks at sea. “Tell me you’re back.”
“I’m collecting equipment.”
Dean swung over the boards instead of using the open gate three feet away, landing on the rubber mat with his gloves still on and his helmet shoved back enough to reveal damp hair plastered across his forehead. “We’re experiencing a severe leadership vacuum.”
“You have a captain.”
Garrett, standing near centre ice with one glove resting over the top of his stick, looked directly at her. His expression said that he had been experiencing something, certainly, and would be happy to explain it privately with the door locked.
“I mean creatively,” Dean said. “The new guy has no vision.”
“The new guy has a name.”
“Does he?”
She shot him a look. “Yes.”
Dean waited.
She sighed. “Evan.”
Dean shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
“He filmed you this morning.”
Tucker coasted to a stop beside Logan, breathing hard but still managing to look more reasonable than the rest of them. “He posted the same warm-up clip twice.”
“I saw. The second one had different music,” she pointed out.
“It was worse music,” Logan said.
“Way worse,” Dean agreed.
She pressed her lips together, because laughing would only encourage them, and looked past their shoulders to Garrett. He hadn’t moved. He was still watching her with that narrow, unreadable focus he wore during games when something had started getting under his skin and he was deciding whether it deserved restraint.
She lifted her eyebrows. “You don’t have anything to add?”
Garrett pushed away from the stick and started toward the bench. “They covered it.”
“That’s very mature of you.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m growing.”
“You told me last night that football should hire its own employees.”
“It should.”
“They have employees.”
“Then one of them should stop being sick.”
She had only been given fragments of the actual explanation. Influenza, possibly. Tonsillitis. Some rapidly spreading illness that had taken out the football media coordinator and both student assistants within the same four-day window.
The athletics department had asked her to cover temporarily because she already knew the university’s posting system, had access to all the equipment and was the only person on campus who could make twenty-year-old athletes answer a question without saying bro every third word.
“They’ll be back Monday,” she reminded him.
Garrett reached the boards and leaned his forearms across them, close enough now that she could see the damp curl stuck beside his temple and the faint red mark his helmet had left over one cheekbone. “That’s what they said last Monday.”
“Are you keeping a calendar?”
Dean looked between them, delighted. “He is. He asked me this morning whether today was day eleven or twelve.”
Garrett didn’t turn. “Nobody asked you.”
“It’s twelve,” Logan supplied.
“I know,” Garrett grumbled.
Tucker made a sympathetic noise. “He misses his girlfriend.”
Garrett’s eyes remained on her. “I see my girlfriend.”
“Barely,” Dean said. “She’s been fraternising with the enemy.”
She looked at all four of them, their jerseys damp from practice and their faces arranged into varying degrees of theatrical misery, and something warm pressed outward beneath her ribs.
It had been less than two weeks. Twelve days of different schedules, unfamiliar players and afternoons spent on grass instead of ice, and they were acting as though she had abandoned them for another country.
Sweet, ridiculous boys.
“I miss you too,” she admitted.
Logan’s entire face brightened. Dean put a glove to his chest. Tucker smiled like he had known she would crack eventually.
Garrett just said, “Good,” with quiet satisfaction.
She pointed at him. “Don’t make that smug.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her pointing finger, then returned to her face. “Come here.”
She looked at the clock over the scoreboard, then at the camera bag over her shoulder. Football practice started in twenty-six minutes. She should have left four minutes ago. She went to him anyway.
Garrett’s hand closed around her wrist as soon as she reached the boards, guiding her between the open gate and his body until she stood against the cold padding, his chest close enough that the front of her jacket brushed his practice jersey.
He smelled like ice, sweat and the sharp, plasticky scent of his gear, familiar enough that the football field suddenly felt much farther away than the six-minute walk across campus.
“You’re clingy,” she murmured.
“I’m neglected.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You slept with your head on my tits last night.”
“Bare minimum.”
His hand slid from her wrist to her hip, fingers settling there with an ease that made her stomach draw tight beneath her sweater. Around them, the team had gone conspicuously silent.
She glanced over his shoulder. “Do none of you have a drill?”
“Water break,” Tucker said.
Coach Jensen’s whistle shrieked from the far side of the rink. “It was a water break thirty seconds ago!”
Dean lifted his bottle in vague acknowledgement. “Hydrating!”
Garrett bent and kissed her once, firm and brief, then pulled back without releasing her. “What time are you done?”
“Six-thirty, maybe seven. They want some sunset shots.”
His jaw shifted. “I’ll pick you up.”
“You have film review.”
“I’ll be there.”
There was no point telling him he didn’t have to. That hadn’t been the question, and both of them knew it. He wanted to be there, standing somewhere she could find him once she finished, reclaiming the small pieces of routine football had disrupted.
She softened despite herself, reaching up to tug the loosened strap of his helmet back into place. “Okay.”
His thumb pressed once into the side of her hip. “Okay.”
Coach’s whistle went again, angrier this time. She stepped away before Garrett could decide twenty-six minutes was actually an acceptable amount of time to spend holding her beside the bench, collected the lens from the cabinet and left to a chorus of, “Come back soon, boss.”
Football practice was warmer, louder and inexplicably more crowded. The hockey rink made noise feel contained. It bounced off glass and metal, packed itself into the cold until every whistle and impact felt sharp enough to touch.
The field spread sound in every direction: coaches calling formations, cleats tearing at dry grass, shoulder pads knocking together, music leaking tinny from somebody’s speaker near the sideline. The late-afternoon sun sat low enough to catch in the edge of her lens every time she turned west, throwing amber light across helmets and bare forearms.
She was lying on her stomach near the end zone, elbows planted in the grass while she photographed a receiving drill, when someone stopped close enough that a shadow passed over her viewfinder.
“Careful, Mrs Graham.”
She lowered the camera. “Careful of what?”
Nate Cole, one of the wide receivers and possibly the biggest flirt she had ever met who didn’t live in Garrett’s house, nodded toward the cleats planted beside her elbow. “Wouldn’t want our media girl getting stepped on.”
She stared at him. “I’m not your media girl.”
He smiled down at her, all white teeth and shamelessness. “You should stay.”
“I’ve told you eight times that I’m not staying.”
He tilted his head. “Nine might be the one.”
“Go catch something.”
“Your heart?”
She couldn’t help the small laugh that huffed out. “The ball, Nate.”
He jogged backward with both hands raised in surrender, laughing when she lifted the camera again. “That sounded like encouragement.”
The problem was that they were all like that. Relentlessly, competitively charming in the way groups of young men became when they had discovered a new person who laughed at their jokes and knew how to make them look good online.
They called her Mrs Graham because Garrett had appeared twice during the first week and glared so hard from the sideline that one of the linebackers had asked whether they were already married.
They called her boss when they wanted a photo approved, their girl when they wanted to irritate her, and occasionally traitor when she reminded them that she belonged to hockey.
“Permanent transfer,” Malik said later, leaning down beside her camera screen as she checked a burst of action shots. “We could make it happen.”
“You don’t control staffing.”
“I know people.”
She swiped to the next photo. “This one makes you look slow.”
Malik’s confidence disappeared. “Delete it.”
By the end of practice, her knees were grass-stained, the strap of her camera had rubbed a sore line across the side of her neck, and the sun had fallen behind the trees bordering the far edge of the athletics complex.
The field lights flickered on one bank at a time, harsh white replacing the softer gold she had been chasing for the last forty minutes.
She was crouched near the sideline photographing a cluster of players sorting equipment when she noticed Garrett.
He stood beyond the painted boundary with his hands shoved into the pockets of his Briar hoodie, hockey bag dropped beside one sneaker and his backwards cap pulled low over his curls.
He had changed out of his team clothes but not showered; there was still a tired heaviness sitting through his shoulders, the kind that came after practice and film review and too many hours in rooms that smelled like stale coffee and dry-erase markers.
He was watching her. More accurately, he was watching the three football players gathered around her while they attempted to convince her that hockey had terrible lighting, inferior uniforms and no appreciation for her work.
Garrett’s mouth was a straight line. She smiled before she could stop herself.
Nate followed her gaze and lit up with the terrible enthusiasm of someone discovering a fresh target. “Graham!”
Garrett lifted his chin once. It wasn’t a greeting so much as acknowledgement that sound had occurred.
“Come talk some sense into your wife,” Nate called. “She’s pretending she doesn’t want to stay with us.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened. She could see it from thirty feet away.
Malik slung one arm over the shoulder pads tucked beneath his other arm. “We’re offering advancement opportunities.”
“You offered me a protein bar and control of the aux cord,” she said.
“Benefits package.”
Another player, Ellis, pointed at Garrett and called, “Share your girl, man. Hockey’s had her long enough.”
The muscles along Garrett’s cheek pulled taut enough that she genuinely wondered whether teeth could fracture from irritation alone.
Her body reacted before the sensible part of her mind did. A fizzy little warmth slipped low through her stomach, spreading beneath her skin as she watched him stare at Ellis with the flat, controlled expression he usually reserved for opponents who had crossed a line and referees who had failed to notice.
It wasn’t that she needed Garrett to prove anything. There was nothing fragile between them to defend, no real threat hiding inside a football player’s joke. She knew exactly who she was going home with. So did everyone on the field.
But Garrett wanted the fact understood anyway. She tucked the camera into her bag, zipped it and walked toward him while the football team continued offering unhelpful commentary behind her.
“Don’t scare him!”
“He’s definitely counting to ten.”
“Mrs Graham, blink twice if you need asylum.”
Garrett didn’t take his eyes off the players until she stepped into reach. Then his gaze dropped to her, moving quickly over her face, the camera bag, the grass streaking both knees of her jeans.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” The word came out clipped.
She curled her fingers into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Baby, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever’s happening in your head,” she said, .
“Nothing’s happening.”
Behind her, Nate called, “That’s our girl, Graham. Be nice to her.”
Garrett’s hands left his pockets.
“Oh,” she murmured, already smiling. “There it is.”
He caught both of her belt loops and pulled her forward in one easy motion, the small surprised sound that left her swallowed when his mouth came down over hers.
The kiss was warm and immediate and much less restrained than anything he normally gave her in the middle of an athletics complex. One hand left her jeans to slide around her waist, holding her flush to the solid length of him, while the other came up to cup her jaw.
His thumb settled beneath her ear; his fingers spread into her hair. She tasted the mint gum he always chewed after film and felt the quiet irritation still wound through him in the pressure of his mouth, thorough enough that the football field disappeared for two long seconds behind the heat creeping into her cheeks.
When he finally let her breathe, she stayed tucked against him, blinking up.
“Garrett,” she whispered, trying for reprimand and getting something much softer. “I’m working.”
“Looked done.”
“I was saying goodbye.”
“To them?”
His eyes moved past her shoulder. She didn’t need to turn to know every football player within shouting distance was watching.
Garrett dipped his head again, pressing one kiss to the corner of her mouth, then another beneath her jaw. His hand tightened around her waist as his lips travelled slowly down the side of her neck, warm against skin cooled by the evening air.
A laugh caught inside her chest. “You’re being ridiculous.”
He hummed against the place where her neck met her shoulder, then kissed it once before lifting his head. His chin remained close to her, his arm firm around her middle while he looked directly over her shoulder at the men who had spent two weeks calling her theirs.
The satisfaction moving through her was embarrassingly physical. It loosened her tired shoulders and curled low in her stomach, left her mouth helplessly curved as she smoothed both hands over the front of his hoodie.
“Hey, Graham,” Malik called. “You know possessiveness isn’t a substitute for communication, right?”
Garrett’s palm spread wider at her waist. “We communicate great.”
“She tell you we’re keeping her permanently yet?”
“No.”
“Because she hasn’t accepted the offer,” Nate said.
Garrett looked down at her. “What offer?”
“A protein bar and aux privileges.”
His expression remained entirely serious. “Competitive.”
“It was chocolate peanut butter.”
“Fuck.”
She laughed and tucked her face briefly against his chest, feeling the answering movement of his quiet laugh beneath her cheek. Some of the rigid tension finally left his body, draining out beneath her hands now that she was there, bag packed, practice finished, pressed against him where he’d been waiting to put her all afternoon.
Ellis cupped his hands around his mouth. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs Graham!”
“No, you won’t,” Garrett called back.
She lifted her head. “They will. I work tomorrow.”
His face fell.
“Last day,” she reminded him.
“You said that three days ago,” he whined.
“No, athletics said that. I said probably.”
He bent to collect her camera bag before she could reach for it, slinging it over his shoulder beside the hockey bag already dragging down the opposite side.
She watched him adjust both straps with the grim determination of a man carrying evidence away from a crime scene.
From the field, Nate yelled, “At least let her finish our season!”
Garrett took her hand. “She’s busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Hockey!”
The football team began booing.
Garrett looked down at her, his earlier jealousy eased into something warmer now, smugness returning by slow degrees at the corners of his mouth. “You ready to go, wifey?”
Her smile spread until her cheeks hurt. “Mhm.”
Garrett tugged her closer by their joined hands and kissed her temple before leading her toward the car park, carrying both bags despite her repeated attempts to take the camera from him.
Behind them, Nate shouted, “This isn’t over!”
Garrett didn’t turn around. “It is for you!” He lifted one hand without looking and gave him the finger.
She laughed, sliding her arm around Garrett’s waist as they crossed the car park. He shifted the bags onto one shoulder so he could pull her properly into his side, fingers hooking through the belt loop he had used to drag her into that kiss.
“You’re very pretty when you’re jealous,” she told him.
“I wasn’t jealous.”
“No?”
“No.” He glanced back toward the football field, where several players were still waving at her beneath the harsh white lights. His hand tightened at her hip. “They were confused.”
“About what?”
Garrett looked down at her, dark eyes warm, his mouth curving with that bright, intolerable confidence she had missed almost as much as the rink. “Whose girl you are.”
She should have rolled her eyes. She did roll them, technically, but she was smiling too hard for it to carry any real criticism.
“And?” she asked.
“And they know now.”
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You’re Too Nice to Me When I Tell You Things | Love Island!Garrett
SUMMARY In the morning after your fight, Garrett finally opens up to you.
CONTENT love island au, fem reader, this is kinda from Garrett's pov so that's fun! hurt/comfort (reader comforting Garrett—I wanted to show a bit of a different side of their relationship bc our silly yapper girl does take care of him too), love island relationship dynamics, use of pet names (sweet boy, baby), if you recognize a section of this from something I wrote on my old account... no you didn't :) , this probably isn't how the filming of love island works but for Garrett's privacy let's pretend, talks of Garrett's canon childhood (child abuse, domestic abuse, parental death), Garrett cries and has a panic attack (but it's not graphic), there's one line that could be interpreted as suicidal ideation but it's not explicit and very brief, happy ending, barely edited
A/N this is a direct part two to this fic, which I recommend reading first. this got way sadder than I meant for it to, like this is the first time in a while I've actually cried while writing something, but I hope that it's a satisfying reconciliation for you guys and gives you a bit more insight into (this version of) Garrett :) anyway, please enjoy!
love island masterlist
For the few hazy seconds between sleep and wake, Garrett forgets.
He stretches out slowly, searching for the familiar warmth of the body next to him, the feeling of a leg wedged between his own because “I can’t sleep if my thighs are touching” but somehow being sandwiched between both of his is fine. Instead he feels the empty cushion of the daybed, the slightly cool morning air because he kicked his blanket off at some point in the night, and the weight of a stuffed white tiger lodged between the crook of his elbow and his bicep.
And then Garrett remembers.
He sits up with an exhausted breath of air, rubbing two hands over his face. It’s so early that the sun still seems to be deciding on whether it wants to start rising or not, the Villa unusually quiet, like he’s woken up before time has actually started yet.
Garrett’s surprised that he doesn’t feel tired. He thought that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, that he’d be up tossing and turning the whole night, but the day before had left him so exhausted that it took him about as long as it took his head to hit the pillow to slip from consciousness entirely. And now, much more rested and removed from the situation, he’s able to look back on your fight with much more clarity.
He looks down, his eyes landing on the stuffed animal flopped awkwardly next to him.
“I fucking suck, huh?” He laughs hopelessly. And then, because it feels inconsiderate not to, he grabs Snowy and places her on his lap, fixing her limbs until she sits more comfortable.
With a touch lighter than he’s ever touched anything, Garrett traces the fur right above one of her glass eyes. He remembers a day, probably only a few days after you had coupled up for the first time, when you’d been feeling especially homesick. You curled up on one of the couches, Snowy on your chest and your chin resting on her head—which was unusual since you usually never brought her out of the bedroom—a wistful look on your face, your mouth scrunched in the way it does when you’re sad about something but trying to tell yourself that you’re not.
You’d explained it to him then, when he sat down next to you and rested his head on your shoulder, that you’d taken Snowy with you everywhere with you when you were younger. That she was a tapestry of your childhood. Through a bittersweet smile, you showed him the coffee stain on her paw from when your dad had knocked over his mug and you weren’t able to snatch her off the table fast enough. You showed him the blot of nail polish on her nose from when you’d come to your mom crying because Snowy’s nose had chipped. She grabbed one of the small, fancy bottles of expensive nail polish she only used on special occasions and layered on the lacquer until Snowy’s nose was fixed.
You told him about the time you and your sister had watched 101 Dalmatians for the first time and she thought Dalmatians were way cooler than tigers and sharpied black polka dots on the side of Snowy’s stomach. You showed him the small stain of detergent at the base of her tail from the time you’d accidentally spilled foundation on her and an ex-boyfriend had spent the day with a YouTube tutorial and a Dollar Store toothbrush trying to get it out. The sky blue thread just under one of her arms your best friend had used to stitch up a hole that had torn there.
You swore that her left ear smelled like your grandmother’s perfume and your grandad had been the one to get her for you in the first place. You told him that Snowy was a collection of everyone you’d ever loved.
And then you said that you knew it was probably silly, that you didn’t expect things like giant sharpie polka dots and your mom’s expensive nail polish to matter that much to people who weren’t you, but since that day, anytime anyone tried to tease you about your stuffed animal, he’d tell them to shut up in a tone that left no room for misunderstanding.
Because he wanted those things to matter to him too. And he wanted to maybe—hopefully—one day be one of those things that mattered to you.
The air shifts suddenly when the quiet of the morning is interrupted by the sound of someone leaving the bedroom. Garrett’s breath stutters when he sees you walk out, wiping sleep from your eye with one hand as the other holds on to your empty water bottle. Your gaze gravitates to the daybed you know he’s sleeping on and when you realize that he’s awake—and watching you too—you freeze in surprise.
For a moment neither of you moves, you just look at him, eyes flicking down briefly to your stuffed animal in his lap. And then you turn away and walk to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle. Garrett looks down defeatedly, letting out a quiet breath as he tries to calculate how many more hours he has to just sit and get lost in his head before everyone else wakes up and the day actually starts.
He hears you finish in the kitchen, the sound traveling over the silent dawn, but your footsteps don’t immediately retreat back to the bedroom. Instead you walk until you’re a few feet away from him before you stop.
“I, um, I’m ready to talk about yesterday if—If you need more time, that’s okay—I’ll just… I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.” You can’t meet his eye and Garrett hates it, that ugly feeling sinking into his chest again.
You turn to go.
“Now,” he says suddenly, his voice cracking from lack of use. “I’m—I’m ready to talk about it now.”
You nod slowly and move to sit down on the daybed across from him. It’s probably the most privacy the two of you will have, it’s too early for either of you to have your mic packs on and no one’s awake to make sure that they have multiple cameras at multiple angles filming a spot as inconsequential as the daybeds. Garrett thinks he realizes this at the same time as you and he rolls his shoulders out before letting out a breath.
“I’m sorry.”
It doesn’t feel remotely enough and you must know that because you stay silent.
“I shouldn’t have—I said a lot of stuff that wasn’t true and… And I took something out on you that isn’t your fault and that wasn’t fair. I, um, I do need you and you do take care of me and I promise I never thought that you didn’t. I mean, I spent one night without you and I fucking hated it, I just—That scares me more than anything, honestly.”
He swallows, one of his hands wrapping around the other as he squeezes his knuckles. “But that’s not a good reason—I don’t have a good reason. But I…” He looks up and you’re finally looking at him, worry heavy in your gaze as you watch his hands start to shake. “I have to tell you something about… About me.”
You nod again, your voice a soft whisper. “Okay.”
Garrett takes a deep breath.
“You know what I’ve told you about my dad? How he—Well that wasn’t—That wasn’t all of it,” he squeezes his hand harder, fingers curling into a fist.
His mouth opens, but the words get clogged in his throat, like suddenly every thought is impossible to articulate. You don’t rush him though, or interrupt to push him through it. You listen, like even his silence matters enough to listen to.
“My… My mom died, when I was 11, and my dad wasn’t… He was never a good dad. Or husband. He, um—,” Garrett lets out a humorless, uncomfortable chuckle. “Sorry, I don’t really know how—,”
You reach out for him slowly, like he’s a stray dog whose hackles could raise if you move too quickly—or maybe that’s just what he feels like. Whatever it is, it doesn’t scare you out of wrapping your hand around his.
“That’s okay.”
He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “No, it’s—I should be able to just say it.”
“It’s okay if you can’t,” you tell him gently.
It feels like a lie to Garrett, but you’re looking at him in such earnestness that he has to believe you. He nods, letting out a shaky breath.
“She never really talked about it. I know—I know that she was just trying to protect me, but I wasn’t stupid… I knew she was miserable. I knew he made her miserable. And I kind of… Fuck—,” He looks up as his eyes water, sniffing loudly to push through it. “I, um, I kind of resented her sometimes? For not leaving. For… For not taking me with her when she did.”
He’s biting the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste copper in his mouth. Your hand leaves his suddenly, the warmth of your palm replaced by cool air. You get up before he can question it and for a sinking, devastating second he thinks you’re going to leave. But then you’re crossing the short distance to his daybed, curling up on the cushion next to him.
You grab his hand again, tracing soothing strokes across the bones of his fingers as you gently coax them out of his curled fist and tangle them with your own. Wordlessly, you squeeze—though not as forcefully as he had been—like you know he needs the pressure to ground him. He’s not quite sure how you know, but somehow you always do.
He stares at your interlocked fingers as he continues, “I—I don’t feel that way now, I know it’s more complicated than that. That it’s not as simple as I thought it’d be when I was a kid. I know that it was hard for my mom. Taking care of a kid is a lot and, even if she did leave, courts suck, and my dad had money, and there wasn’t really anywhere we could go. It’s… It’s harder when you have to take care of someone. And maybe if my mom didn’t have to take care of me, it would have been easier for her to leave him. Like, if I didn’t need her so much, she could’ve—Maybe she would’ve been happier.”
“And sometimes it scares me because what if one day you’d be happier? Or—,” He clears his throat, though it doesn’t really do anything. “I do think in some dark, fucked up way, my dad needed my mom too and what if—What if I need you the way he did and you care about me too much to leave?”
“Garrett…” Your voice breaks in understanding, your arms wrapping around him tightly.
He melts into your chest and something about the way you’re petting his hair and letting him hold onto you like a lifeline—even after everything—has the tears streaming down his face before he can stop them.
He shakes his head fervently. “I don’t look at you like you’re a ‘damsel in distress’. I wish I—You’re not scared to—Feel things. Even the bad stuff. And you know how to—How to tell people so that they understand and I don’t—I can’t—I—I got mad and I threw it in your face—And I’m so sorry!”
Each breath feels like it’s cracking open his ribcage, causing each one to be more short and shallow than the last, puffing raggedly against your arm.
“Garrett. Hey.” You cup his face gently, your voice calm as you force him to look at you. “I need you to breathe, sweet boy. You’re okay.”
“No. No.” Garrett pushes away from you suddenly, wiping uselessly at his eyes. “I—I’m not saying this to—To guilt-trip you into forgiving me. I fucked up—You’re allowed to be mad at me—You should be mad at me—!”
“I know that’s not what you’re doing, baby. I’m not mad at you.” You reach for him again, but he’s still fighting it.
“How can you say that?”
“Garrett, you made a mistake,” you tell him firmly. “I did too. But that’s not—Look, if you won’t do it for you, then… Do it for me please because I really need a hug right now.”
Your lips curl into a sad smile, your eyes glassy. And maybe if Garrett were a stronger man, he’d refuse, because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. But he isn’t a stronger man. Just like every other time, he takes one look at your pleading eyes and complies instantly.
He’s wrapped in your arms just as quickly as you take on the full force of his body weight without complaint—if anything, you’re insisting that you do, hugging him tightly as you rest your chin on the top of his head.
“I’m sorry too,” you whisper through the kiss you press to the crown of his head. “I shouldn’t have said what I said and I shouldn’t have accused you of not caring about me. I was just hurt and wanted you to feel hurt too and that was wrong. You didn’t deserve that.”
Garrett’s arms tighten around your middle and when you clear your throat, it sounds congested.
“And I… I am so sorry that you went through that, and that—You never should have had to experience that. You or your mom. But, Garrett... I promise you that your mom would choose this life with you over every life where she couldn’t have you.” He feels one of your hands move to stroke gently at the side of his neck as you cradle his head.
“And I know that because, even though I never knew her, I know you. I know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do if it meant I got to have you and I know your mom feels the same because… Because you’re better than everything, Garrett.”
It’s somehow the worst and best thing Garrett’s ever heard in his life. His shoulders shake as you run your fingers through his curls. The tank top you wore to bed is probably covered in wet patches and he’s sure he’ll feel embarrassed about it later, but right now, Garrett just needs you. And he needs you to hold him, and run your hands through his hair, and take care of him, and do all the things he’s tired of pretending he doesn’t.
“I, ugh, I feel like such an asshole.” You let out, what sounds like, a mix between a wet chuckle and a sniffle. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. You’re literally always so good to me, I should’ve known that something bigger was bothering you.”
Garrett shakes his head against your collarbone. “You didn’t know. I could’ve just talked to you.”
“Yeah, maybe.” You gently work through one of his tangled curls with your fingers. “But I’m not going to hold it against you that you weren’t exactly jumping at the opportunity to talk about it directly into a microphone and camera.”
When Garrett finally tilts his head, so that his cheek is pressed against your clavicle, he finds that you’re already looking at him knowingly.
You smooth a thumb tenderly against one of his brows. “Look, this isn’t exactly a normal situation people find themselves in. I don’t know about you but, usually, if the guy I was seeing was also kissing my friends every other day, that would kind of be a dealbreaker for me.”
You smile when Garrett makes a slight face at your words—he’s never exactly been subtle about the fact that, if it were up to him, you wouldn’t be doing that in here either.
“So I think it’s okay for us to be understanding,” you continue your point. “And, yeah, if this is something that keeps happening then we’d need to have a bigger conversation about it, but it happened once. And you messed up and you know it and I messed up and I know it. And I know now that it wasn’t really about me, you needed me to be more understanding in that moment and I wasn’t—,”
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I should’ve—,”
You smush your palm against his mouth with a playful groan. “Oh my god, would you please put aside your Atlas complex for five seconds—I feel like I’m talking to Batman. How about we both could’ve handled it better? Can you accept that?”
“Batman’s cool.” Garrett ignores your questions to pout against your palm.
He watches as you move your hand from his mouth to his cheek, drying his tear tracks with your fingers as you look at him fondly.
You reach up with your other hand to push a loose curl away from his forehead. “He also needs an SSRI and a court-mandated therapist.”
In the quiet air of the morning, with the rising sun lighting you up in a golden angelic glow, Garrett finally laughs.
“Yeah, you’re right. I think Nightwing’s cooler anyway. He’s like if Batman had more hope.” When your eyes suddenly darken, Garrett cocks his head slightly. “What?”
“That was actually the hottest thing you’ve ever said.”
Garrett’s eyes widen in amused disbelief. “That was the hottest thing I’ve said?”
“Uh-huh,” you nod, lids dropping as you lift your neck. Garrett takes the hint and drops his head to press his lips against yours. “Talk nerdy to me, baby.”
Garrett lets out a loud, surprised laugh against your mouth. “Okay, you’re done. You’re done.”
“What?” You’re giggling when he pulls away.
He just shakes his head endearingly, letting his body drop back on top of you as you stretch out on the daybed. Your fingers make their way back to his hair, carding through it gently as you both watch the sunrise.
After a few minutes of silence, you let out a quiet laugh. “Our fight didn’t even make it to sunrise.”
“You say that like it wasn’t the longest day of my life,” Garrett grumbles and tightens his arms around you.
“How much do you wanna bet that the producers are gonna make us re-enact making up when they realize they missed it?”
Garrett grunts against the strap of your tank top. “They can get the version where I drop to my knees in front of everyone and beg you to take me back.” He presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder when you laugh. “Also, we’re never fighting again.”
You raise your brows in amusement. “We’re gonna fight, Garrett. That’s just how life works sometimes.”
“...Fine.” He relents. “But we have to take a nap first. Together.”
“Yeah, okay.” You have that fond look on your face again as you look at him. “And then we make up.” You hold your pinkie out for him.
Garrett shifts so he can wrap his pinkie around yours, your smiles practically identical as you look at each other.
“Yeah, then we make up.”
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
summary: in which tom finally pushes garrett too far, an old betrayal comes to light, and victory suddenly becomes the least important thing on the ice.
notes: hi! this is the final part to the angst for found family, i hope you all enjoy! 💌 thank you all for your patience <3
warnings: mentions of violence, blood, manipulative ex-boyfriend
*please note some of the technicalities/terminology of the game may be incorrect!
ꪆৎ
the game had been tense from the beginning.
not bad, not dirty, just tight.
the kind of game where every pass was measured and every hit carried a little more weight than it needed to.
the score had remained tied through most of the second period, neither team willing to give the other enough room to breathe.
garrett had been focused, at least, he was trying to be. he'd noticed tom during warmups, it would've been impossible not to.
tom carried himself like the ice belonged to him, skating lazy circles around centre with his helmet tipped back, same infuriating smirk sitting comfortably across his features.
he'd looked towards the stands once, only once, but it had been enough.
his eyes found you through the glass before settling on garrett. the smile that followed made something cold settle in garrett's stomach.
you hadn't noticed.
you'd been talking to allie at the time, leaning closer so she could hear you over the music pouring through the arena speakers.
garrett had forced himself to look away, convincing himself that it didn't mean anything. tom liked attention, he liked reactions, the best thing he could do was refuse to give him either.
for most of the first period, it worked.
tom chirped after faceoffs, commenting on small things, predictable things, such as the rivalry, garrett's captaincy, his statistics.
garrett ignored every comment, checking tom cleanly into the boards midway through the period, stealing the puck before moving forward.
garrett didn't glance back, didn't chirp him, he simply did nothing. tom hated that, garrett could tell.
he saw it in the way tom began lingering after whistles, in the way he started skating a little too close whenever the officials separated them, in the way his comments gradually stopped being about hockey.
the whistle sounds after a scramble in front of the net.
players from both teams separate slowly, sticks dragging across the ice as they move towards the next faceoff. garrett adjusts the cuff of his glove, pushing away from the crease as tom falls into step beside him.
"c'mon, graham."
garrett doesn't respond, he simply keeps skating. from behind the glass, you watch tom say something else. you can't hear him, not over the crowd, not through the thick barrier separating the seats from the ice.
all you can see is the smug tilt of his mouth. garrett's face however remains completely blank, controlled.
"enjoying my sloppy seconds?"
garrett's jaw tightens, barely, the kind of movement most people wouldn't notice. tom does, because of course he does.
"or maybe she's just got a thing for guys cleaning up other people's messes."
garrett's grip tightens around his stick, "fucking move."
his words come out low, quiet enough that the official skating ahead of them doesn't react. tom's smile widens, clearly pleased with himself, because there it was, the first crack.
he skates closer, eager to get under garrett's skin. "there he is." tom grins, "knew i could get to you."
garrett pushes off harder. he doesn't look at tom, doesn't look toward the stands, simply keeps his eyes on the bench, on the next shift, on anything that isn't the man beside him.
your stomach turns from where you're standing. you don't know what's being said, which almost makes it worse. you know tom, you know the expression on his face, the casual cruelty of it, the satisfaction.
allie shifts beside you. "he's trying to get a rise out of him."
you nod, your fingers curling around the railing in front of you, anxiety coursing throughout your entire body. "garrett won't give him one."
you say it with more certainty than you feel. allie looks at you for a moment, before turning her gaze back on to the ice.
"no." she agrees quietly. "he won't."
the game resumes.
for the next few minutes, garrett makes himself disappear into the game.
he wins a battle along the boards, breaks up a pass through the neutral zone, sets up a shot that glides off the post hard enough to make the entire arena groan.
tom is still there, always a few strides away, watching, waiting.
when the next whistle blows, garrett turns immediately towards the bench. tom cuts across his path, eyes bright with amusement. "you know the funny thing?"
garrett keeps skating. every instinct tells him to turn around, instead, he repeats the same words over and over.
ignore him.
"i've still got something that's hers."
garrett stops, only for a second.
"…what?"
tom smiles, knowing he has him now. "nothing."
garrett stares at him. "what the fuck are you talking about?"
tom shrugs. "guess i never was very good at letting things go."
he starts to skate away, garrett doesn't follow.
he knows better, he knows that's exactly what tom wants, however, it doesn't stop his heart from beginning to race. he can feel it beneath his chest protector, harder, faster.
tom glances back over his shoulder. "don't worry about it, captain."
another smile.
"you'll catch up eventually."
the linesman gestures for both of them to move. garrett forces his feet forward, one stride, then another. he's trying, desperately trying.
he tells himself tom is bluffing, that this is just another attempt to get under his skin, that whatever he's alluding to either isn't true or isn't as bad as he's making it sound.
garrett swallows, focusing his attention back on to the puck.
the faceoff begins, the game carries on.
you can see something has changed. it's subtle at first, garrett's shoulders sit tighter beneath his jersey, his movements are sharper, less fluid. he misses a pass he would've taken cleanly any other night.
dean notices too. you see him lean over the boards, saying something when garrett returns to the bench.
garrett shakes his head once.
dean looks towards the opposing bench, his eyes finding tom, his expression hardening.
you try to catch garrett's attention, but he doesn't look up.
it's not because he's ignoring you, he's trying not to, it's because he knows that one glance at your face will make whatever tom is doing harder to tolerate.
the period continues, the score remains tied.
with less than three minutes left, both teams are playing cautiously, waiting for the other to make the mistake.
tom stops waiting.
the whistle sounds after an offside call. garrett turns towards centre, tom glides up beside him again, closer this time, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch.
"she always did hate when i kept things."
garrett doesn't respond, his eyes remain fixed ahead.
tom watches him carefully, "old messages."
nothing.
"old videos."
garrett's grip shifts against his stick, tom lets the silence stretch.
"photos."
garrett stares at him.
tom smiles. not big, not obvious, just enough to confirm that he has said exactly what he meant to say. garrett stares at him. for the first time all night, the rest of the arena fades around him.
the crowd, the music, the scoreboard, all of it.
"what photos?" his voice is almost too quiet to hear.
tom looks towards the stands, towards you, before back at garrett. "you know."
garrett's stomach drops. he doesn't, not fully, but something in tom's expression makes the answer settle anyway.
private photos, old ones, ones that had never belonged to him, ones you must have trusted him with once, ones he should have deleted the second that trust ended.
garrett's entire body goes rigid, tom chuckles. "she asked me to get rid of them."
the words are delivered casually, like he's discussing an old jersey, something forgotten in the back of a cupboard.
"more than once, actually."
garrett feels sick. "you still have them?"
tom tilts his head. "didn't see the point in deleting them."
for one second, garrett considers hitting him, not shoving him, not checking him, hitting him. he pictures the movement with startling clarity. his glove coming off, his fist connecting with tom's mouth, the satisfying split of skin.
he doesn't do it, rather he forces himself to skate away, except tom follows.
"that's it?"
garrett says nothing.
"thought you'd have more to say, graham."
nothing.
"she looked good."
every syllable is laced with something vile. not because of the words, but simply because of the way he says them.
garrett's jaw clenches so hard it hurts. "fucking move, langford."
tom laughs.
from behind the glass, all you can see is garrett trying to skate away, and tom following closely behind, talking the entire time.
your pulse starts to race. you can tell garrett is angry now, not irritated, not competitive, angry. the tension in his shoulders is unmistakable. even from here, you can see how rigid he's become.
your chest tightens, "what's he saying?" you ask.
allie shakes her head. "i'm not sure, y/n, but whatever it is, it can't be good."
dean looks towards the stands from the bench, his eyes immediately finding yours, sending you a look of confusion.
he clearly didn't know what was being said either.
tom skates right beside garrett again.
"you know..."
his voice drops.
"a few of the guys would probably appreciate seeing what you get to go home to."
garrett stops, completely, his skates scraping sharply against the ice. tom stops with him, while the linesman ahead slows, already glancing over.
garrett turns. "say that again."
tom's eyebrows rise, innocent, mocking. "what?"
"say it again."
tom smiles, he knows he's cracked him, finally.
"all sweet and innocent until-"
garrett doesn't let tom finish his sentence, spinning around so quickly that tom barely has enough time to brace himself. both of garrett's gloves slam into his chest, the sheer force driving him backwards into the boards.
the impact echoes through the rink. the crowd erupts, not cheering, not yet, just reacting to the chaos beginning to unravel in front of them.
it's a single collective sound of shock, and you can't help but flinch.
"garrett."
his name slips from your mouth, despite there being no chance he could hear you.
officials move immediately yet garrett barely notices, his forearm pressing across tom's chest, holding him against the glass.
"you're fucking sick."
every word is bitten off, tom laughs in his face. "touchy subject?"
garrett shoves him again, hard enough that tom's helmet knocks against the boards. "talk shit about me all you want."
another shove.
"keep."
another.
"her."
another.
"name."
his voice drops. "out of your fucking mouth!"
a linesman grabs garrett around the shoulders, while another wedges himself between the pair. tom's smile never disappears, if anything, it only grows.
he likes this.
he likes knowing he finally made garrett snap, likes knowing the captain everyone praises for being controlled and disciplined is now being dragged away by an official.
"hit a nerve, graham?" he coaxes.
garrett lunges again, clearly attempting to grab hold of tom one final time however the linesman tightens his grip, dragging him back.
garrett's eyes never leave tom's. "those photos go anywhere, and i'll make sure you never set foot on another hockey rink again."
for a moment, tom's smile falters, only for a moment, then he shoves forward, his glove catching garrett across the face. garrett tears free, his gloves hitting the ice, with tom's following a heartbeat later.
the arena explodes.
players surge towards them. dean is over the boards before the coaching staff can stop him, officials intercept him halfway across the ice.
garrett gets one hand twisted in the front of tom's jersey. to his dismay however, it's tom who throws the first punch, catching garrett high across the cheek.
his head snaps to the side, you gasp.
allie's hand closes around your wrist, her mouth open in shock. "y/n, don't."
you hadn't realised you'd moved, hadn't realised you'd taken a step towards the opening near the bench. you can't get to him, you know that, still, every instinct in your body is screaming at you to try.
garrett swings back immediately, his fist connecting with tom's mouth.
the crowd roars.
the officials are between them almost instantly. one grabs garrett from behind, while another pulls tom in the opposite direction.
both of them continue shouting over the officials' shoulders. you can't hear a single word.
garrett's face is flushed red with anger, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. tom is laughing, completely entertained by it all.
that's the part that frightens you the most.
not the fight, not the blood, but the fact that tom looks pleased, like this is exactly what he wanted.
garrett is dragged towards the penalty box. he doesn't resist the officials, only wiping his hand on his mouth, attempting to stop the bleeding. his chest rises and falls heavily as anger continues to course throughout the entirety of his body.
his eyes remain fixed on tom until the box door closes behind him.
then finally, he looks towards you.
the anger disappears from his face so quickly it hurts. one second he's furious, the next he almost looks afraid.
not for himself, but for you.
your hand lifts instinctively to the glass, garrett's expression tightens.
the final two minutes of the period blur together. you don't remember the plays, you don't remember the shots.
you barely register the clock running down.
garrett sits in the penalty box with his elbows resting on his knees. his helmet is gone, blood continues to gather slowly at his split lip, one cheek is already beginning to swell.
he stares at the ice, his gaze looking empty.
tom sits in the opposite box, talking to one of the officials as though nothing has happened, as though he hasn't just taken something deeply personal and dragged it into the middle of a rink, as though he hasn't threatened to humiliate you.
garrett's hands shake, he curls them into fists, a clear weak attempt at trying to calm himself down.
tom's voice keeps playing over and over in his mind.
she asked me to get rid of them.
didn't see the point.
the casualness of it makes him feel worse, because tom knows what he has, knows what it means, knows you trusted him once, and he kept them anyway.
not because he had forgotten, but because he could use them, because some part of him wanted to preserve that power over you.
garrett swallows hard at the thought before looking towards the stands once again.
you're still there.
allie stands close beside you, one arm wrapped around your shoulders in a clear attempt at comforting you. you look terrified, confused.
the realisation hits him with almost as much force as tom's punch. you didn't know what tom said, you didn't know what he had admitted to.
you only knew that garrett had lost control.
he hates that.
he hates that he has to be the one to tell you, hates that the truth is waiting for you at the end of the game.
the final horn echoes through the arena.
for half a second, no one moves, then, like clockwork the entire arena erupts.
briar have won.
players pour over the boards, sticks and gloves lift into the air, the bench empties around dean as the crowd surges to its feet. garrett doesn't look at the scoreboard, doesn't look towards the celebration, doesn't even look for the trophy.
his eyes land on you.
the penalty box door opens as he steps onto the ice. one of the officials says something about waiting yet garrett barely hears him. he skates towards the bench, his stick slipping from his hand, falling onto the ice beneath him.
garrett heads straight for you. allie says something to security, dean reaches the boards, pointing towards the access gate.
everything happens quickly after that.
someone opens it and you immediately step through. the second garrett sees you, his expression breaks.
you meet him halfway, your arms wrapping around his neck before either of you says a word. his hands find your waist automatically, pulling you against him.
close, impossibly close. as though the last twenty minutes have hollowed something out inside him and this is the only way to fill it again.
"hey."
his voice is quieter now, nothing like the tone he'd used against tom. he buries his face against your shoulder, breathing you in.
your perfume, your hair, the warmth of you. simply proof that you're here, with him.
your whole body is trembling, he feels it immediately, his grip tightening around you.
"i'm okay," garrett says. the words crack, and somehow they're enough to undo you.
your eyes burn, and a tear slips free before you can stop it. you try to pull back, wanting nothing more than to see garrett's face, wanting to inspect the cut on his mouth.
he doesn't let you, not yet. instead, his arms tighten around you more.
"garrett."
your voice is muffled against his jersey. he presses a kiss into your hair, "i'm alright."
"you got hit."
"i know."
"you were bleeding."
"i know."
you hold him tighter. somewhere behind you, his teammates are celebrating, cameras are flashing, the crowd is chanting, yet none of it seems to reach the small space between the two of you.
eventually, garrett lets you lean back.
your heart sinks the second you see him properly. his cheek is already bruising, his lip is split, angry red scratches run beneath one eye.
your stomach twists at the sight of him, all battered and bruised.
"oh my god."
your fingertips lift carefully towards his mouth. you barely touch him, yet he winces anyway.
"i'm sorry."
he catches your wrist gently. "don't apologise, y/n."
"we need to ice that."
"probably."
his hand settles over yours, warm, steady.
you stare at him. "are you okay?"
he nods, then hesitates. "yeah."
you don't believe him, not for a second.
his eyes search yours. "are you?"
you nod.
he leans in to kiss you, but you hesitate. his eyebrows pull together, clearly confused. "what?"
"your lip."
you press the gentlest kiss against the corner of his jaw instead. "it looks sore."
his mouth curves despite the swelling. "you're making it worse."
"how?"
"by not kissing me."
despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. "i thought you were the one always saying kisses fix everything."
you raise an eyebrow. "i'm pretty sure that only applies to headaches."
"same principle."
you roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. "garrett."
"y/n."
another reluctant smile pulls at your mouth. he closes the distance himself. the kiss is impossibly gentle, barely there, careful of his lip, careful of you.
when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, clearly taking in the moment.
you let out a quiet laugh. "better?"
"much better."
his thumb moves slowly across your waist. for a few seconds, neither of you say anything.
"you're a frozen four championship winner, baby." you say.
the corner of his mouth lifts, "damn right i am."
you grin, nudging him lightly with your shoulder, "try not to let it go to your head."
garrett huffs a laugh, before letting out a long breath. "guess i can kiss the sportsmanship award goodbye."
you stare at him before sighing.
"i'm just trying to lighten the mood, y/n."
a tiny smile flickers across your features, however it fades quickly. garrett sees it happen, watching as your eyes drop to the deep bruise forming beneath his cheekbone.
"what did he say?"
garrett goes completely still.
you can see the shift immediately. his shoulders tighten beneath your hands, while his fingers stop moving against your back.
"garrett."
he looks over your shoulder towards the ice, trying to fix his gaze on anything else but your face.
"he was just trying to get under my skin, y/n."
"what did he say?"
he doesn't respond.
"garrett."
slowly, you cup his bruised jaw, careful not to touch the worst of it. you guide his gaze back to yours. his eyes soften the second they do.
"please tell me."
his jaw works, once, twice, before he exhales. "he said he still had photos."
your brows pull together, clearly confused as to where this conversation was going. "what photos?"
garrett's expression crumples, just slightly, enough to make your stomach drop before he even answers. "private ones."
the world seems to stop. your hand falls away from his face. for a second, you don't understand, or maybe you do, maybe your mind simply refuses to accept it.
"no."
garrett's grip tightens around your waist.
"baby-"
"no." your voice is barely there. "he deleted those."
garrett doesn't say anything. your breathing changes, quickening. "he told me he deleted them."
your eyes search garrett's face as though he might be able to give you a different answer. one that makes sense, one that doesn't make your skin feel too tight around your body.
"he said they were gone."
garrett swallows. "he told me you asked him to delete them."
your face drains of colour as realisation begins to sink in. "i did." your voice cracks, "i begged him to."
garrett closes his eyes for half a second, pain clearly moving across his features. when he opens them again, he looks wrecked, completely, undeniably wrecked.
"i know."
"he said he deleted everything."
"i know."
"garrett, he promised me."
your breath catches. you look towards the rink, your gaze landing on the tunnel that tom had disappeared through minutes ago.
it feels as though he's still standing there, watching you. your arms fold instinctively across your body like a shield.
garrett notices immediately, his heart breaking. there's no discomfort, no hesitation, only concern for you.
you rest your forehead against his chest, while garrett instinctively wraps both arms around you, holding you carefully, like he's afraid the wrong movement might break something already fragile.
your voice comes out muffled against his jersey.
"god."
you squeeze your eyes shut. "i was in high school."
garrett's arms tighten instinctively around you.
"i was stupid."
he shakes his head before you can keep going.
"baby-"
"i thought it was fine," you whisper. "i trusted him."
your breathing catches. "they aren't even...they're not proper nudes." shame floods every word. "they're just stupid lingerie photos."
you let out a broken laugh that sounds closer to a sob. "i honestly forgot they even existed."
garrett closes his eyes, pressing a kiss into your hair. "i know."
another.
"i know." his arms tighten. "i'm so sorry, y/n."
you shake your head against him. "you didn't do it." your fingers curl into the back of his jersey. "did he threaten to send them?"
garrett goes quiet, you feel the answer in the way his body stiffens.
"garrett."
"he implied it."
your breathing catches.
"he said other people would want to see them."
your face crumples, garrett immediately pulls you closer. "but listen to me." you don't move, his hand settles against the back of your head. "he doesn't get to do that."
"you don't know that."
"i know he doesn't get to control what happens next."
his voice is steady now, captain-steady, the voice he uses when everything around him is falling apart and he needs everyone else to believe it can be fixed.
"we'll deal with it."
"how?"
"properly."
he leans back enough to look at you. "with the team, the league, whoever we need."
panic flashes across your face. "people will know."
"only the people who have to."
"and if he already sent them?"
garrett's jaw clenches at the thought. he forces it to relax before answering. "then none of that is your fault." he holds your gaze. "if he's done that, there are consequences. we'll go to the league, we'll go to the police if we have to."
your eyes close. "it'll feel like it is."
"i know." his thumb moves gently across your cheek. "but it isn't."
"you trusted someone you loved," his voice softens. "he's the one who betrayed that."
your lip trembles. "i should've known."
"no."
the word is immediate, firm.
"you don't get to be blamed for believing someone when they promised not to hurt you."
another tear slips free, garrett wipes it away. "he doesn't get to make you feel ashamed of something he chose to keep."
you breathe out shakily, while garrett's forehead remains resting against yours. "they're yours."
he says it quietly. "your body, your trust, your choice."
your eyes close. for a long moment, you simply stand there, breathing the same air, holding onto each other while the arena carries on around you.
eventually, your hands return to his waist. tentative at first, then tighter. garrett feels it, the smallest release in his chest. "he doesn't get to have any part of you anymore."
his forehead remains pressed to yours.
you nod, weakly, but you nod. garrett kisses your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth, careful of his own split lip.
"i've got you, y/n."
your fingers tighten in his jersey.
this time, when you lean into him, he holds you without hesitation.
somewhere behind you, dean calls garrett's name, while allie speaks quietly to one of the team staff.
the celebration continues without either of you.
you stay there for another long moment, listening to the roar of the crowd echoing through the arena. eventually, your breathing begins to steady. you pull back just enough to look at him.
your eyes are still red, your cheeks are damp, but you manage a small nod.
"okay."
garrett searches your face. you swallow hard before nodding again. "i'm okay."
garrett doesn't look convinced.
"baby-"
"garrett."
your hand comes up to cup his bruised cheek. "go."
he frowns.
"this..." your voice catches before you find it again. "this is everything you've ever wanted."
your thumb brushes gently across his cheekbone. "go celebrate. be with your team."
"i'm not leaving you, y/n."
"you're not." another watery smile. "i'll be right here."
his eyes search yours for another few seconds. "promise?"
"promise."
you lean forward first this time, pressing one more soft kiss to his lips. "go get your trophy, captain."
something in his expression breaks before he kisses your forehead gently, "don't go anywhere."
"wasn't planning on it."
he doesn't move.
his hands linger at your waist, his forehead resting against yours for one last second, as though he's trying to convince himself it's okay to leave.
it takes dean's hand landing firmly on his shoulder to finally pull him away, "c'mon, g."
only then does he finally let you go.
he glances back twice before dean catches him around the shoulders, practically dragging him towards the rest of the team.
you watch him disappear into the celebration.
a few seconds later, the championship trophy is lifted high above his head.
germansingergirl
blakekathryn
gamechangershow
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
