— summary: you bring your boyfriend to a place you’ve never brought anyone to before—your mom’s grave, the place you still go when you miss her the most. hours later, he cheats on you at a bar, and the only thing carrying you forward is the porch light glowing outside garrett graham’s house.
— warnings: death of a parent, mentions of su*cide and sh, cancer, cheating, betrayal, and grief
— word count: 6.1k
The engine of your beat-up silver Honda Civic idles beneath you as you stare at the cracked stone of the Hawks’ house. The car is nearly twenty years old and somehow survived three different owners before ending up with you. One of the hubcaps disappeared sometime during your freshman year and never resurfaced, the rear bumper is dented from a parking lot incident you’d rather not talk about (a teenage boy in your hometown drove a shopping cart into it at the absolute speed of light, and combined with the weight of his body while he was riding in it, dented it and broke a taillight), and the driver’s side speaker hisses every time you turn the volume above fifteen.
Those flaws are usually embarrassing enough that you find yourself apologizing whenever someone climbs into the passenger seat, but tonight, you barely notice any of it.
You’ve been parked in front of the house long enough for the dashboard clock to change twice, but you couldn’t pinpoint exactly how much time has passed. Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? After the night you’ve had, it all feels the same. Time stopped meaning anything somewhere between the moment you opened Instagram and the moment you pulled into Garrett Graham’s driveway.
The porch light is on, illuminating the front steps and the black railing. It makes the house stand out against the darkness of the quiet neighborhood. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, but then the world falls silent again.
Your hands are still clutching the steering wheel, your fingers wrapped around the black leather so tightly that your knuckles are cracking at the seams. Every now and then your grip loosens, only to tighten again when another memory surfaces. Your head hurts from crying, and your eyes are so bloodshot that your tears could easily be mistaken for pink eye. There’s a crumpled napkin in the cupholder from the gas station you stopped at on the way over, and it’s completely useless now after being used to wipe away tears for most of the drive.
You know you should get out of the car—it’s why you came here in the first place. But every time you reach for the door handle, your stomach lurches and you find yourself staring back at the porch light instead.
Garrett Graham isn’t your best friend. The two of you don’t talk every day. You don’t know his favorite movie or his biggest pet peeve. If someone asked you to list the most important people in your life, his name probably wouldn’t be one of the first few that came to mind.
But somehow, when everything fell apart tonight, this was where you ended up.
Maybe it’s because Garrett has always felt easy to be around. Not in the way Brooks did, where every conversation made your stomach flutter and every text had the ability to make your day better, but he is different. He’s steady and familiar, the kind of person who remembers that you have an exam coming up and asks how it went a week later. The kind of person who notices when you’re having a bad day and doesn’t make a big deal out of it. You met him in a foreign policy class spring semester of sophomore year and became friends almost by accident. One study session turned into another, and then coffee after class became normal. Those coffee hangouts were where you bonded over your birthdays being in the second half of the school year, so you guys wouldn’t turn 21 until spring semester junior year. It was where he teased you over being four days older than you. Somewhere along the way, he became someone you trusted without ever consciously deciding to.
Your eyes drift back to the porch light, and the sight of it makes your throat tighten all over again.
Because just over twelve hours ago, you were happy. The memory hits so suddenly that your grip tightens on the steering wheel.
You had told Brooks to meet you there. The entire drive over, however, you had gone back and forth on whether bringing him was a mistake. Part of you wanted to turn around and go home before he arrived, but the other part of you knew that if you left now, you would regret it.
The cemetery wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t something you shared either. Most people knew your mother had passed away. You were nine, and had found her in the bathtub, submerged in water that was so red that your naive, youth-centered mind had thought it was Koolaid at first. You remember laughing and telling her that her skin would be all sticky from the sugar, but when she didn’t answer you after repeated calls of her name, you yelled for your dad so loudly the only way it could be described was maniacal.
Some people knew where she was buried, but nobody other than your dad had ever sat beside you there. That place belonged to the three of you.
It was where you went when you missed her, and where you ended up on birthdays and holidays. Because Briar was only thirty minutes from your hometown, it was where you came after bad exams, job interviews, and every other major moment of your life because some part of you still wanted to tell her about it. Even after eleven years, the cemetery remained one of the few places where grief felt honest. You never had to pretend you were okay there.
When Brooks’ Grand Cherokee finally pulled into the parking lot, your stomach twisted itself into knots.
You remember watching him climb out through the windshield, and then immediately noticing everything in his hands—a cardboard drink carrier, which he could barely handle without dropping due to the bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper—and the sight caught you so off guard that you actually laughed when you stepped out of your car.
“What’s all that?”
Brooks glanced down at what he was carrying as though he’d forgotten about it entirely, “I stopped at Malone’s on the way. Thought you could use something to warm you up.”
You remember reaching for one of the drinks first. The paper cup was warm against your cold hands. Massachusett’s in October wasn’t forgiving. The wind coming off the Atlantic had teeth that nipped so hard it felt like shark season, and the cold had settled deep into your bones before you’d even made it to the cemetery. The heat from the cup felt incredible against your frozen fingers.
The second you read Della’s messy handwriting your heart softened. It was hot chocolate.
Three weeks earlier, you’d mentioned during a late-night study session that coffee made you anxious whenever you were stressed. It had been a completely insignificant conversation, one of hundreds you’d had together since meeting freshmen year. At least, you thought it had been insignificant, but evidently, Brooks hadn’t.
“You got me hot chocolate?”
“You sound surprised,” he chuckled softly.
“I am surprised.”
Brooks flashed you a soft smile, and the slight coffee stain on his teeth complimented his blond hair more than you would have liked to admit, “It seemed better than coffee.”
You remember smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. It wasn’t because of the hot chocolate itself, but because he’d remembered. It was such a tiny detail, such a stupid little thing, but somehow it mattered to him.
Then your eyes landed on the second cup sitting in the carrier.
“What about that one?”
The expression on his face softened, “This one’s for your mom.”
Even now, sitting outside Garrett’s house at 1:30 in the morning with tears drying on your cheeks, that memory steals the air from your lungs.
For a second, you hadn’t known what to say, and had simply stared at him. Who thinks of that? Who remembers that your mom’s favorite coffee came from a tiny local diner you’d mentioned once over breakfast at that diner two months ago?
Apparently Brooks did. He walked into Malone’s after his last Friday class, remembered your mom’s order, bought the coffee, and brought it to the cemetery for someone he’d never met and someone he never would.
Your throat tightens. At the time, the gesture had felt so thoughtful that it was almost overwhelming, but in such a good way. Now it just feels unbearable, like the effects of coffee on you when you’re stressed.
The flowers had somehow been even worse.
You remember Brooks sitting down on her gravesite next to you, his hand tracing the carvings of her name and the epitaph on her gravestone: Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere. Your dad chose the quote because Goodnight Moon had been the first book your mom had ever read to you. As Brooks did so, you finally noticed the bouquet tucked beneath his arm and immediately dissolved into laughter.
He looked completely offended, but you couldn’t stop laughing.
“What?”
“Brooks.”
“What?”
“Those are carnations.”
His eyebrows pulled together.
“My mom hated carnations.”
The look on his face had quickly become one of your favorite memories. He was struck with pure horror and confusion, and his expression was one of a man realizing he’d accidentally made a catastrophic mistake without having any idea how.
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“You weren’t.”
“Then why are you laughing at me?”
Because your mom hated carnations. She hated them because they’d reminded her of funerals. Every time she saw them in a grocery store, she complained about how depressing they looked. She refused to buy them, refused to put them in the house, and refused to let anyone send them to her. There was one time her aunt had passed away and her college roommate had sent her a vase of them, and while she wrote a letter back to thank her, she had immediately thrown them into the trash.
Somehow Brooks had unknowingly shown up to a cemetery carrying the one flower she would have made fun of immediately. The irony was too much, but your laughter eventually settled into something softer. You took the bouquet from him and looked down at the flowers, “They’re perfect.”
Brooks blinked, “I thought she hated them.”
“She did.”
“Then how are they perfect?”
A smile tugged at your lips, because you knew your mom would have laughed. She would have teased him and would have spent the next twenty minutes giving him a hard time about funeral flowers in a cemetery.
But she would’ve loved him for trying.
“I think she’d think this is hilarious.”
The relief that crossed Brooks’ face made you laugh all over again.
Looking back now, you think that was the moment everything changed. Somewhere between the hot chocolate and the carnations, the coffee and the stories of her, you stopped wondering whether you could trust him. You started believing that you already did.
Eventually, however, the cold won.
Not all at once—neither of you looked at the time and decided it was time to leave. It happened gradually, the way most good afternoons do. The once steaming hot coffee Brooks had left beside your mother’s gravestone had gone completely cold, and the hot chocolate in your hands was barely warm anymore. Every time the wind picked up, you found yourself pulling his Red Sox sweatshirt tighter around your body. You don’t recall who stood up first, only looking up and realizing the sun had started to dip lower in the sky, “I think we’re freezing to death.”
“Good thing we’re in a cemetery, then,” Brooks shot back, a joking smile spread across his rosy cheeks.
You rolled your eyes so hard it made him laugh, which only made his smile widen. You looked back over at the headstone, where the carnations rested at the base beside the coffee cup. Looking at them made something warm settle in your chest again.
The thought makes your chest ache now.
You eventually brushed the grass off your dark wash jeans and climbed to your feet. Brooks stood a second later, immediately offering you a hand when you stumbled slightly because your legs had fallen asleep, half from sitting with them folded under the rest of your body and half because your feet were numb from the spine-tingling chill in the air.
When you finally reached your Civic, you leaned against the driver’s side door while Brooks stopped beside his Grand Cherokee. Although a few cars remained scattered throughout the parking lot, most people had gone home. For a moment, neither of you said anything, not because there was nothing left to say, but because neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
Then Brooks checked his phone, and a quiet curse slipped from beneath his breath before he shook his head and laughed.
“What?” you questioned, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
His eyes met yours, and let a quiet sigh out, “I told the guys I’d meet them tonight.”
It takes you a second to remember what he’s talking about, but then it registers, “Malone’s?”
He nodded. It had been the plan all week. The true reason you even knew about it was because your boyfriend had spent several days complaining about how impossible it was to get a group of college guys to agree on where they wanted to go. Brooks immediately asked if you’d go with him, and for a second, you were tempted, but then the wind cut through the parking lot again.
“I’m going home, taking a hot shower, and then burrowing under my blankets while watching Derry Girls,” you grinned before gesturing to his truck, “Go have fun with the guys.”
He nodded and began to make his way to the driver side door, but turned back towards you before hopping in, “Sorry about the carnations.”
You laughed, “They’re perfect. Breakfast tomorrow?”
“Sounds great. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Have fun tonight.”
With that, you guys waved goodbye to each other and both hopped into your cars. You immediately turned your Civic on and blasted the heat on high, trying your best to warm up your numb extremities as quickly as possible. As you held your fingers up to the vents, you never once questioned whether tomorrow would happen. You never once questioned him.
Maybe that’s why the memory hurts so much now.
By the time you got back to your dorm, the emotional exhaustion finally started catching up with you.
You showered. You changed into an oversized t-shirt you’ve had since high school and a pair of Briar pajama pants with a hole near the right pocket. You spent ten minutes standing in front of the open refrigerator because you were hungry enough to want good but too tired to actually make any, so you eventually settled for doordashing some Taco Bell and eating whatever cake was left over from your roommate’s birthday earlier in the week. By the time you climbed into bed, your chest felt lighter than it had in weeks, even months, maybe. For the first time in a long time, you weren’t overthinking anything.
The realization would usually embarrass you, but your decision to curl up beneath your blankets and turn on Derry Girls stopped you before you could. Your roommate decided to go to Nashville to visit her sister for the weekend, so other than the occasional rumbling of a car engine outside of your window, the apartment was quiet around you.
After a few episodes, you grabbed your phone. You scrolled through Instagram absentmindedly. A girl from one of your classes went to some indie concert in Boston, your cousin in Ohio posted pictures from a high school football game, and one of Garrett’s teammates posted something about an NHL trade that meant absolutely nothing to you, so you skipped past it without a second thought.
Then Brooks’ story appeared, and when you spotted the picture of him kissing your cheek in the corner of your screen, you couldn't help but smile.
You watched it without thinking. It was normal at first—flashing lights, the Briar pennant hanging from the wooden ceiling, a crowd of college kids with all kinds of beer and seltzers in their hands—but then you noticed the girl standing in front of your boyfriend.
At first, you weren’t concerned. Why should you have been? He was at Malone’s on a Friday night, and the place looked crowded enough that 75% of the diner was probably standing shoulder to shoulder. But then he reached for her, and your heart dropped to your stomach as your brain tried to comprehend what you were seeing. The video seemed to slow down as you witnessed what happened next.
Brooks leaned forward. The girl did too.
And then he kissed her.
You swiped out of the story and immediately opened Brook’s profile. It was gone.
The realization settled over you like a wave gripping you around your ankles. He deleted it, but not before you saw it. Your eyes burned, but the first thing you thought about wasn’t the girl. It was the cemetery.
Only a few hours before, you had brought him to the one place you’d never brought anyone else. You’d shared a piece of you that was so fragile and important, and he’d handled it so carefully that you sat at her grave thinking about how much you trusted him. In the same night, he brought coffee and flowers for your mom and kissed a random girl.
That’s how you’ve ended up in Garrett Graham’s driveway.
A mixture of the contradictions and amount of tears you’ve cried makes your head spin. You’ve spent the better part of the last hour replaying the day over and over again, trying to figure out where everything went wrong. Every time you think you’ve reached some kind of conclusion, another memory surfaces and erases all of your progress. So, eventually, you stop trying.
For a second, you just sit in the driver’s seat with your head pressed against the steering wheel. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous this is.
Garrett’s not your best friend. He’s just Garrett. The guy who sat next to you in foreign policy and stole your notes because his handwriting resembled that of a doctor’s. The guy who always remembered to wish you luck before your exams. The guy who would always tease you for being four days younger. The guy who you only talk to when you see him while walking to class now.
He’s just Garrett, but he’s exactly who you want right now.
Your eyes drift back to the porch light again. You have been staring at it for almost the entire time you've been sitting in this driveway. Every time your thoughts spiral, your gaze finds that same warm yellow glow spilling across the front steps and black railing. The light itself isn't remarkable. It's just a porch light attached to a house you've seen plenty of times before. But tonight, after everything that's happened, it feels like the only steady thing in your field of vision. Brooks's story disappeared. Your plans for tomorrow disappeared. Your certainty about him disappeared. The porch light hasn't changed.
You let your head fall back against the seat and close your eyes for a second. The silence inside the car presses in around you, broken only by the soft rumble of the engine and the occasional hiss of the broken speaker. You've spent the last fifteen minutes trying to convince yourself to get out, then trying to convince yourself to leave, then trying to convince yourself to stop thinking about any of it. None of those things are working. Your chest still hurts. Your eyes still burn. The memory of Brooks leaning toward that girl still keeps flashing through your head no matter how hard you try to push it away.
When you open your eyes again, the porch light is still on.
That is what finally pushes you into motion.
Not because it suddenly feels easy, and not because you suddenly know what you're going to say. It doesn't feel easy. You have absolutely no idea what you're going to say. But the light means the house is awake. It means Garrett is inside. It means that if you walk up those steps and knock on the door, someone will answer.
The realization settles in your chest slowly. You don't need a perfect explanation right now. You don't need to know what happens tomorrow. You just need to stop sitting in this car pretending that staying here is somehow easier than going inside.
You reach for the keys and turn the engine off. The sudden quiet feels almost shocking after the constant growl beneath you. For a moment, you just sit there listening to your own breathing. Then you grab your phone from the passenger seat, shove it into the pocket of your sweatshirt, and push open the driver's side door.
The cold air hits your face immediately. You pull your sweatshirt tighter around yourself as you step out onto the driveway. The gravel crunches softly under your shoes while you make your way toward the house, and with every step your stomach twists a little tighter. Part of you still wants to turn around. Part of you still wants to get back in the car, drive home, and deal with all of this tomorrow. But another part of you knows that if you do that, you'll spend the entire night alone with the same thoughts that have been tearing through your head for hours.
By the time you reach the bottom of the porch steps, the light that had been keeping your attention all night is directly above you. The warmth of it spills across the porch and catches the edges of the railing, making the front door look almost inviting. You climb the steps one at a time, your heartbeat growing louder with each one. When you finally stop in front of the door, you hesitate for a second, suddenly aware of how absurd this is. It's one-thirty in the morning. You're standing on Garrett Graham's porch with swollen eyes and a broken heart, about to interrupt whatever he was doing because you couldn't bear to be alone.
The second your knuckles hit the door, regret settles heavily in your stomach.
Not because you don't want Garrett to answer. If that were true, you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't have driven across town in the middle of the night, crying so hard that you had to pull into a gas station just to get yourself under control before getting back on the road. But standing on the porch and actually hearing the sound of your knock echo through the house are two very different things.
Suddenly, the reality of what you're doing catches up to you. You are standing on Garrett Graham's front porch at one-thirty in the morning because the guy you’ve been dating for two years cheated on you.
The thought sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.
For a second, you consider leaving, but then you hear movement inside the house, and your stomach immediately drops.
The footsteps are muffled, but they're getting closer. Every second that passes makes it harder to run. You stare at the door, then at the porch floor, then back at the door again, suddenly feeling stupid for coming.
What exactly are you supposed to say? Hi, Garrett. Remember the guy I trusted enough to introduce to my dead mom today? Turns out he cheated on me six hours later. The thought is so absurd that under different circumstances it might actually be funny, but tonight it makes your throat tighten.
The lock clicks and the door opens.
Garrett appears in the doorway wearing a white Briar t-shirt and gray sweatpants, looking exactly like someone who wasn't expecting company. His curls are a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up on the other, and his eyes still have that heavy, tired look of somebody who'd either been planning to go to bed or had already been in bed.
For a moment, he just stares at you from the doorway, his eyes moving across your face as if he’s trying to figure out what happened. You can practically see him trying to figure out why you're standing on his porch at one-thirty in the morning. Whatever he'd expected when he opened the door, it definitely wasn't this.
One thing you've always liked about Garrett is that he's terrible at pretending not to care. If something is bothering him, you know it. If he's worried about someone, you know that too.
Right now, the concern on his face is impossible to miss, "Y/N?"
The way he says your name almost undoes you.
It's such a normal thing. He isn't dramatic about it. He just says your name the way anyone would when they're surprised to see somebody standing on their porch in the middle of the night.
“Hi, Garrett.” you whisper, doing your best to shoot him a small smile, but the attempt lasts two seconds before
Garrett watches whatever expression you'd been trying to make disappear the second it reaches your face, and the concern in his eyes deepens. He looks exhausted, confused, and increasingly worried all at the same time, "Are you okay?" he asks.
The question is simple, but it completely destroys you. Your eyes immediately fill with tears. You try to answer him but the second you try to speak your throat closes up, and a strangled sound escapes instead. You look away, pressing your lips together as though that might somehow stop the tears from falling.
It doesn't.
Garrett's expression changes the second he realizes you can't answer him. The confusion disappears, replaced by something much closer to panic. He takes a small step forward onto the porch, his eyes moving over your face as though he's trying to find an explanation hidden somewhere there. For a second he just watches you struggle to pull yourself together, and then something seems to occur to him. You can practically see the thought cross his face.
"Y/N, hey. Did somebody touch you?" he asks.
The question catches you so off guard that you actually look up at him.
Garrett swallows hard. "Did somebody hurt you?"
The concern in his voice makes everything worse. You realize exactly where his mind has gone and why. As far as Garrett knows, one of his friends has shown up at his house in the middle of the night crying so hard she can't speak. He has no context or explanation. He has nothing except the sight of you standing on his porch looking completely wrecked.
Fresh tears spill over immediately.
"Y/N," Garrett mutters, dragging a hand through his already messy curls. His eyes never leave your face, "Y/N, talk to me."
You try, but the effort lasts all of two seconds before another sob catches in your throat. Garrett's entire expression tightens. One thing you've always known about him is that he cares loudly. He isn't good at pretending something doesn't bother him. If he's worried, everybody knows. If he's angry, everybody knows. Right now, every bit of concern he feels is written all over his face.
Something about hearing that finally breaks whatever fragile control you'd been holding onto for the last hour.
You suck in a shaky breath, "I took Brooks to meet my mom today."
The words come out so quickly they almost run together. Once they start, they don't stop, "I took him to the cemetery because I trusted him and I've never brought anybody there before and he brought flowers and coffee and sat there for hours listening to me talk about her and then he went out with his friends tonight and posted himself kissing another girl."
Garrett's shoulders drop just enough for you to realize where his mind had gone before this.
For the last several minutes, he'd clearly been imagining every possible scenario that could explain why you were standing on his porch crying so hard you couldn't speak. The relief that flashes across his face isn't relief that you're hurting. If anything, seeing how devastated you are seems to make him even more upset. It's relief that nobody touched you. Nobody assaulted you. Nobody put you in a hospital. The awful possibilities he'd been building in his head disappear, only to be replaced by a different kind of anger, “He cheated on you?”
You nod, and the movement feels embarrassingly small after everything you've just confessed.
For a moment, Garrett doesn't say anything. He just looks at you. The concern never leaves his face, but now it's tangled up with disbelief. You've spent months talking about Brooks—not constantly, but enough that Garrett knew who he was. You can practically see him trying to reconcile the guy you described with the story you just told.
Then he opens the door wider, “Please come inside.”
There isn't any hesitation in his voice. Garrett doesn't ask if you want to come in. He just takes one look at you and decides you're not standing on his porch crying in forty-degree weather any longer.
The warmth of the house hits you immediately when you step inside. It should feel ordinary. You've been here before. You've sat on this couch before. You've eaten pizza at that coffee table while listening to Garrett complain about professors and hockey and group projects in his other classes. But everything suddenly feels strangely distant, like you're observing it through glass. The strange thing is that you're grateful for it. You are so tired of thinking.
You sink into the couch cushions while Garrett disappears into the kitchen. You can faintly hear the sound of water running from the faucet and a glass tapping lightly against the counter. The normalcy of it almost makes you cry again.
When he comes back, he hands it to you gently before settling onto the couch next to you, but he doesn’t crowd you. Garrett has always had an oddly good instinct for when people need space and when they need company, and right now he seems to understand that you need both.
For a few minutes, neither of you says much. You stare down into the water while Garrett watches you with the same worried expression he had on the porch. The TV is still playing some NHL highlights somewhere behind him, but neither of you are paying attention to it. Eventually, the silence becomes too heavy to ignore.
“I've never brought anybody there before,” the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Garrett's expression softens immediately.
You stare at the glass in your hands because looking at him suddenly feels impossible, “I've never brought friends. I've never brought a boyfriend. I've never brought anybody. I spent the entire drive there wondering if I was making a mistake, and then he showed up with flowers and coffee and remembered all these stories I'd told him. He sat there for hours listening to me talk about her, and I just…I thought I'd been right about him. I shouldn't have brought him, Garrett.”
Garrett's reaction is immediate, “No.”
You blink at him, confusion written on his face.
“No,” he repeats, gentler this time. “You don’t get to do that.”
The concern in his voice is almost worse than if he'd gotten angry.
“But if I hadn't—”
“If you hadn't brought him there, he still would've been the guy who cheats on his girlfriend.”
The words settle heavily between you. Garrett says them without harshness or frustration. He just sounds sad that you're even trying to carry this responsibility in the first place.
“You bringing him to the cemetery didn't make him do anything,” he continues. “You trusting him didn't make him do anything. The stories about your mom didn't make him do anything. All that happened is that you trusted somebody you cared about, and he turned out to be an idiot.”
Your eyes immediately fill with tears again.
Garrett notices (of course he does), but he doesn't backtrack, “You keep talking about the cemetery like that's the moment you messed up,” he says quietly. “It isn't. If you hadn't brought him there, he'd still be exactly who he is. You just would've found out later.”
The room falls silent again, and Garrett lets the silence sit for a few minutes before speaking again, "What was your mom like?"
The question catches you so off guard that you actually look up at him for what feels like the first time that night, “What?”
"Your mom,” his voice softens, “You've spent the last half an hour talking about Brooks and what he did. I want to hear about her.”
For a moment, you just stare at him. All night, every conversation in your head has revolved around Brooks. Every memory from the day had somehow become tangled together with the image of that Instagram story until you couldn't separate them anymore.
Now Garrett is sitting across from you asking about your mom, not because he's trying to distract you, but because he genuinely wants to know.
The answer comes out before you can overthink it, and a small smile pulls at your mouth just thinking of her, “She was funny. Really funny, actually.”
Garrett leans back slightly in the chair, the concern still written on his face but softer now, “Yeah?”
You laugh quietly, “She was one of those people who could make friends with anybody. It didn't matter where we were, but we'd leave twenty minutes after we were supposed to because she wanted to know somebody's life story. Half the time I’d be standing there wondering how she got into another conversation with a complete stranger.”
Garrett smiles, “That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
You spend a few minutes telling him about her obsession with French vanilla coffee and the way she'd sing along to songs despite never actually knowing the lyrics. Half the words were wrong, but she'd commit to them so confidently that nobody ever bothered correcting her. Garrett laughs at that, and before long you're laughing too.
Garrett grins, “That sounds familiar.”
You narrow your eyes, “Are you comparing yourself to my dead mother?”
“I'm saying confidence is a valuable skill.”
“That's not what you're saying.”
“It is absolutely what I'm saying.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. For a few seconds, the conversation settles into a comfortable silence. Then Garrett leans back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest, “My mom was kind of the opposite.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, and the fondness in his voice is immediate, “She wasn't shy or anything. She just didn't need to be the center of everything. My dad was always the loud one. My mom was usually the person sitting back watching everybody else.”
You'd heard Garrett mention his mom before, but not often. But you can’t help but note that a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when talking about her, “When I was little, she'd sit through every practice and game. It didn't matter if it was six in the morning or three hours away. She was always there. Half the time I'd get off the ice and she'd already have hot chocolate waiting.”
Your chest tightens just enough to remind you why Garrett understands more than most people probably realize.
And because of Garrett Graham, for the first time since you opened Instagram, you’re remembering your mom without immediately remembering Brooks too.
Next to you, Garrett knows that tomorrow morning you're going to wake up exhausted. Your eyes will be swollen from crying, you'll probably have a headache, and if he's being honest, you'll almost definitely pretend you're fine when you aren't. Garrett knows that because that's what you do.
His eyes drift toward the kitchen for a second.
He has no idea whether there's any French vanilla creamer in the house, but he knows that as soon as you fall asleep, he’s going to check.
Because every time you talk about your mom, the sadness is still there, but it isn't consuming you the way it was when you first showed up. The stories seem to pull you out of your own head for a little while, and with each one, you look a little more like the girl he met in his foreign policy class.
And if a cup of French vanilla coffee gets you talking about her again tomorrow morning, then he'll figure out a way to make sure there's one waiting for you.
a/n: thank you so much to @folkloure for helping me figure out this fic! wouldn't have been able to figure out how to start it without her, and her works are amazing, so go follow her and read her fics!
If you’re making posts about the Off Campus boys and purposely excluding Jalen/Tucker, you’re weird. I’ll even take it a step further and say you’re sinister
Summary: Beau has hid his best friend Y/N from the group for years. She and him had been friends since middle school, living next to one another growing up, and now the pair were in the same college. Then the day happens, when Beau finally decides to introduce them to her. They all immediately are entranced by her and her personality, John Logan especially…
Warning(s) throughout the series: strangers to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, mentions of softball plays/games, mentions of abuse, mentions of PTSD, angst, fluff, smut (18+)
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The afternoon sun was brutal, and the large metal bleachers radiated heat, the air smelled like fresh-cut grass and dirt, and the sound of bats cracking echoed across the softball stadium.
The music was blaring loudly through the stadium speakers, players finished up their warmups, Y/n was finishing up with her pitcher. They were going through each pitch, discussing the gameplan, and how they were going to play it today.
"Remind me why we're here again?" Dean asked, stretching his legs out in front of him as they all sat in the front row right in the center.
"Because Beau threatened violence if we didn't come," Garrett snorted as he placed a hand on Hannah’s thigh. Beau’s head shot over towards Dean and Garrett.
"I didn’t say I'd be mad, I said I'd be disappointed," he shot back with his finger pointing at them both. Beau rolled his eyes and leaned against the fence.
"So where's this best friend of yours?" Logan says as he nods toward the field below, and Beau smirks.
"Just wait and you'll see."
"That's all you ever say,” Allie snorts, making the guys giggle. “Why can’t we meet her right now?” she asks, and he shakes his head immediately.
"Because I'm not introducing you ladies, and these idiots before the game,” he giggles, pointing at the girls nicely, and then swats over towards the guys. Allie crossed her arms. "Why?"
"Because she'll get distracted. She’s big into her pregame superstitions,” he explains, watching the girls run over a fielding drill together, both Allie and Hannah laughed.
"No, because you're possessive,” Logan jokes, and Beau purses his lips in amusement as he nods.
"That is also correct,” he says back, causing everyone to chuckle.
Over the past year, they had heard countless stories about Y/N, because Beau talked about her constantly. Not in an annoying way, it was just naturally.
“Y/N did this.”
“Y/N said that.”
“Y/N beat some girl to first from the outfield, and made a play.”
“Y/N accidentally started an argument with a referee.”
“Y/N somehow convinced me to drive three hours for tacos, and two in the fucking morning. Don’t ask.”
They all knew she was important to him, but none of them had actually met her, and today would be the first time that they would all be seeing her. Hopefully meeting her.
It wasn’t long until the game had started, the Briar team taking the field first, and they emerged from the dugout. Players spread across the field towards their positions, and Dean immediately pointed.
"Which one is she?" he asks, and Beau doesn’t let him finish before shaking his head.
"Nope,” he hums, Dean still trying to get something out of him. "That one?"
"Nope."
Tucker smirked, and joined in. “Is she a blonde?"
"Nope."
Garrett groans, and Logan speaks this time. “Dude, just spill. You’re killing us here,” he laughs, and then Beau nodded toward home plate.
"There."
Everyone looked, watching as the girl wearing her full catcher gear walked up from the dugout, headed towards home plate. She had her mask hanging from one hand, glove on the other.
Her hair was long, her high bubble ponytail with a bow tied at the bottom with Briar’s colors swung back and forth. The moment she stepped to her spot behind the plate, she looked completely different from how Beau described her.
She looked confident. Focused. It was like she owned that field.
Logan's eyes followed her instantly, and not once did they leave her.
Beau noticed immediately, smirking right away as he noticed something interesting. Y/N tossed her mask down and started warming up her pitcher.
The first throw hit her glove with a loud crack, and so did the next one. Every catch looked effortless, her throws were nothing but straight cannons.
"Okay," Tucker admitted, leaning back against the bleachers. "She's kinda badass."
"Kinda?" Hannah said, she chuckles, raising a brow before motioning to her. "Look at her."
Y/N was squatted down when throwing down to second base, only dropping to her knees as she fired a throw to second. The ball looked like a missile as it reached the bag before the infielder even finished setting up.
Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Oh."
Garrett laughed, nodding towards him as their eyes never left her. "Oh is right."
Logan was still staring, caught up in his own mind. His own world. He was mesmerized. He couldn’t see the way Beau was smirking. The game started a few minutes later.
Y/N crouched behind home plate, the umpire getting set behind her, as the opposing team's leadoff hitter stepped into the batter's box.
The entire group had never left her, watching how smart she was behind the plate. Y/N immediately caught the batter on first, who tried to delayed steal.
She adjusted, getting ready to throw it down, faking a play. She faked a throw to the pitcher, seeing that the runner took the bait, Y/N didn’t hesitate to zip that ball straight to shortstop, to get the tag at two.
“Yes! Good shit, Y/N! Beauty!” Beau yelled as he stood from his spot, hooting, whistling, and hollering.
Her team cheered as the runner was declared out, her pitcher coming to do their handshake, Y/N tossed the ball back to her pitcher with a grin.
"She's annoying, isn't she?" Hannah asked, mainly saying that because she just knew she was so entranced in her sport, she had to talk about it quite a lot.
"The worst," Beau said proudly, chuckling lightly as he clapped.
The second inning got even better, with a runner on first, there was one out. The batter slapped a ground ball through the infield, and the runner rounded second aggressively, going and trying for third.
Big mistake.
Y/N received the relay throw, she spun, and immediately fired. The ball arrived before the runner was halfway into her slide.
“She’s out!”the umpire hollers from the baseline, holding a fist up to signal the out, and the crowd erupted.
Dean stood up, letting out a hoot. "What a throw!" he cheers, Beau going to grab his bicep to pull him back down.
"Sit down," Beau said.
"I will not!"
Logan was grinning now, clapping and cheering too as he was completely invested.
By the third inning, Briar's offense started rolling, as Y/N walked toward the batter's box.
The crowd immediately got louder.
"She's one of Briar’s highest sitting averages, and best hitters," Beau explains to them, her teammates doing cheers from the dugout.
“Really? What’s her average?” Tucker asks, and Beau just nods towards her.
"Just watch."
The pitcher threw the first pitch, too high in the strike zone. Ball.
The next pitch came in quick. Fastball. Y/N crushed it, as the crack of the bat echoed across the entire complex.
Everyone's heads snapped up, watching the ball soar deep into left-center, and it hit off the back of the stadium cushioning.
Y/N exploded out of the box with no hesitation, no wasted time on watching where the ball went, no waste on her movement.
She was fast, flying around first, her eyes tracking where the yelling and action was, spotting the outfielder finally recovering the ball.
Most players would've stopped, but not Y/N. She was already rounding second, going to try for third.
Allie laughed, shaking her head. "She's insane."
The throw came in, almost a millisecond too late as Y/N slid safely into third.
The Briar dugout exploded, doing a cheer they created for each player, singing hers out loud and proud. Beau was cheering for her loudly, pointing down at her, seeing her eyes find his when she stood up. She raised her arms, cupping one in front of her face, as the other made an eating motion.
Beau looked completely unsurprised, pointing over at her with a knowing smirk, seeing her smiling widely with a laugh. She puts her hands on her hips as her coach tells her something.
"See?" Beau says, sitting back down. “Told you she is someone worth watching.”
Tucker shook his head, his eyes wide. "How in the world is she so fast?"
"No idea."
Y/N stood up, brushed dirt from her pants, her eyes laser focused back onto the upcoming pitch.
Logan couldn't stop smiling. Every few seconds his eyes drifted back toward third base, not realizing that Beau saw everything.
The game continued, and Y/N scored moments later. Then in the fifth inning she threw out another runner trying to delayed steal, and in the sixth she nailed a line drive double into right field.
"She's nasty," Garrett said, his tone in complete awe. “I always forget how good Softball players are. They truly are a different breed.”
Beau shrugs as he flicks his gaze to look back at Garrett. "I've been telling you."
But Logan barely heard them. He was staring, and Beau noticed instantly as a slow smile spread across his face. "Oh, this is getting bad."
Logan blinked, snapping out of his daze. "What?"
Beau folded his arms, sighing playfully. "You are, buddy."
"What about me?"
"Dude, you've watched every at-bat she's had,” he giggles, making Logan look away.
"No I haven't,” he says as his voice gets quieter.
"Oh you absolutely have."
"I have been watching everybody,” he argues back, but his answer came back too quickly, making Beau snort.
"Name our shortstop."
Logan paused, opening his mouth only to close it a few seconds after. Beau smiled ear to ear. "Exactly."
The guys nearby burst out laughing, causing Logan to roll his eyes. "Shut up, I hate you all."
But Beau wasn't letting him off the hook.
Instead, he leaned forward, his gaze still checking to see Logan, who would continue tracking Y/N as she adjusted her batting gloves at second base.
"So,” he says once again, Logan looking at him with a confused expression.
"So what?"
"You like her, huh?” he says a little softer, not wanting to catch the rest of the group’s attention.
Logan nearly choked, saving it to sound like a cough. Which failed completely. "No."
"Logan."
"No."
"Logan."
"No."
Beau pointed toward the field. "You literally haven't looked anywhere else, but her, for two innings."
Logan opened his mouth, only to close it. Then he opened it again. "She's just-" he lost his words, making Beau squint his eyes.
"Just what?"
"She's impressive." Logan sighed.
"Good save," Beau snorts with sarcasm dripping from his lips. Logan ignored him for a bit, but after a few moments, he spoke up again.
"How long has she been playing?"
Beau immediately laughed, nodding in understanding. "There it is."
"What?"
"The questions."
"What do you mean the questions?"
"The 'I totally don't like her but suddenly need her entire life story' type of questions."
Logan groaned, before Beau was already counting on his fingers.
"How old is she? What's her favorite color? What music does she listen to? Does she like dogs or cats-"
"I wasn't gonna ask any of those!" which made Beau give him a look with a raised brow.
"You were absolutely gonna ask those,” he says back as he watches Logan rub a hand over his face. Deep down Beau was enjoying this way too much.
He turned back to watch the game, but smirks when he hears Logan talking again. "How long has she played?"
Beau lets out a dry laugh. "Since she was little. Four or five if I remember correctly."
"Really?"
"Yep."
"She's good."
"Better than good."
Logan watched as Y/N clapped on base, voice loud as she was cheering on her teammate up at bat. "Best hitter on the team?"
"One of the top on their leaderboard."
Logan nodded, knowing after her hits, that it had tracked. Everything she'd hit today had been crushed. A few moments passed, Beau cheering as her teammate took a pitch to the shin, taking her base.
"She's their main catcher every game?" Logan asks, his eyes still on her, not realizing how he was looking at Y/N. Beau immediately turned.
"There it is again."
"What?"
"Question number two."
"It's a normal question."
"Sure,” Beau chuckled as shook his head, then answered after a few seconds. “But yes. Every game."
Logan looked genuinely impressed. "That's rough on the knees."
"She’s got strong legs. Stronger than ours probably,” Beau answers, turning to look at Logan for a second. “You're learning softball now?"
"I like to learn about other sports."
Beau laughed. "No, you like to learn about Y/N."
Before Logan could respond, the next batter brought her home with a line drive, the crowd cheering excitedly as she crossed the plate.
Y/N pointed toward her dugout, smiling wide as her team exploded, knowing she was the tie breaker to bring in.
Logan couldn't stop smiling, and Beau saw it. He honestly saw all of it.
The way Logan's eyes followed her, and the way he picked up every little thing. It wasn't subtle anymore, but he knew Logan wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself.
Beau nudged him. "So when are you talking to her?"
Logan looked horrified, leaning back in his seat as she disappeared from view, into the dugout. Almost like his body was physically relaxing. "What?"
"When are you talking to her?"
“I’m not,” Logan looked back toward the field. “She’s your best friend. You’ve kept her hidden for a reason,” he stutters out, creating excuses. “I don’t even think I’d know what to say.”
Y/N had removed her helmet and was laughing at something one of her teammates said. When the sunlight caught her face, Logan completely forgot Beau was standing there. He bit his lip as he couldn't get her out of his now, trying to hide the smile on his face.
Beau saw that too. "Oh, wow. It's worse than I thought,” Beau giggles. Logan finally tore his eyes away. "What is?"
"Dude,” Beau pointed dramatically. “You're gone."
"I'm not gone."
"You are absolutely gone. You’ve got the hots for my best friend, don’t you?"
"No,” he was too quick with his answer.
"You watched her smile and it looked like somebody just handed you a winning lottery ticket,” he joked back and Logan groaned while trying to hide his face.
"Can you stop?"
"Nope."
"Please, I’m even asking nicely."
"Not a chance,” Beau laughed, but then lowered his voice. "You know she likes people who actually talk, right?"
Logan looked through his hands at him, an expression of confusion and interest. "Huh?"
"I'm serious."
Now he had Logan's full attention, making him grin. Somewhere across the field, completely unaware, Y/N was jogging back toward home plate to warm-up her pitcher for the next inning.
The final inning arrived with Briar ahead, there were two outs with a runner on first, and the opposing team desperately needed something.
The batter connected with a sharp line drive into shallow center, making the runner take off, trying to force something.
Y/N immediately started directing traffic. "Cut four! Cut four!" Her powerful and loud voice echoes throughout the cheers from the other team, her mask being whipped off as she steps up to the plate.
The ball was quick to come in, being thrown her way, Y/N immediately snagged it into her glove and turned down to apply the tag.
The Umpires had come to look closer, before signaling up with a fist. Out, and that meant game over.
The crowd erupted, and the players cheered with one another as Y/N went up to shake hands with the umpires, and then rushed up to do her handshake with her pitcher.
She was sweaty, covered in dirt while smiling. Logan couldn’t help but still think she was absolutely beautiful. That was apparently the exact moment Logan got himself into trouble, because he couldn't stop staring.
Beau folded his arms.
"Oh, no."
Logan jumped, turning to see Beau’s shit-eating grin. "What?"
"Oh, absolutely not,” Beau shook his head as they all began to stand up from their spots.
"What?" Logan asks again, his voice an octave higher, and Dean immediately looks between them. Then burst out laughing.
"Oh no."
Garrett caught on next, not like it was hard to miss. "Oh yes!"
Dean wheezes out. "Looks like Logan had a massive crush on your bestie, Beau!"
"I- What? No! I do not," Logan sputters out, feeling the way his face was heating up as he tried to argue back with the allegations.
"You do,” Hannah chuckles, and he shook his head immediately.
"I don't."
"You absolutely do!” She laughed even more, and Logan looked horrified staring back down at the field while Y/N was still celebrating with her teammates, completely unaware. Beau looked genuinely offended.
"That's my best friend,” he trails off slowly, crossing his arms.
"So?"
"So?" Beau stared at him in shock, Logan rubbed a hand over his face.
"I literally haven't even met her,” he scoffs, still stuttering over his words as he felt his heart beating quicker. Beau leans forward with a knowingly smug smirk. "And yet?"
Logan groans, running a hand through his hair. "I can't help it!"
Everyone exploded into laughter, Dean fell back a bit while Tucker nearly fell off the bleachers.
Beau groaned dramatically. "This is a nightmare."
"It's been thirty seconds," Dean said.
"Thirty seconds too fucking many."
Down on the field, Y/N finally looked toward the stands, her eyes immediately found Beau. A huge smile spread across her face, and she waved, seeing as Beau waved back automatically.
Then Y/N noticed the group beside him, seeing the friends she'd heard so much about. She gave them all a curious smile, a few quick waves, and then disappeared back toward her teammates.
Logan watched her go, and Beau caught him yet again.
"John Logan."
"What?”
"Behave."
Dean nearly choked laughing, as Garrett slapped Logan's shoulder. Hannah and Allie were both grinning, and for the first time all afternoon, Logan looked nervous.
Because seeing Y/N from a distance had been one thing, but actually meeting her after the game?
That was going to be a completely different challenge. He felt like he might shit his heart out. The second Y/N looked toward the fence and smiled at them once again, the entire group noticed.
Unfortunately for Logan, “”Ohhh shit,” Dean's voice rang out immediately, and Logan closed his eyes as his head fell backward. "No."
"She smiled at you."
"She smiled in this direction, dumbass."
"At you."
"Dean, I swear-"
"At. You,” he sings out, and Garrett was already laughing. "Dude's been staring at her for two hours and got rewarded,” he adds in, hands on his knees as he is laughing.
"I have not been staring at her,” he tries to argue, only for the entire group to look at him.
"You literally were asking every single stat about her to Beau," Tucker deadpanned, and Logan looked at him in shock, making Tucker nod. “Yes, we all heard it.”
Logan pointed at him. "That's normal."
"No, it isn't,” Beau giggles back, sticking his hands into his pockets. "Not unless you're scouting for a pro team," Hannah added as Allie nearly doubled over laughing while Logan groaned.
Meanwhile, Beau stood with his arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold. "See? It isn't just me,” he answers, watching as Logan shot him a look.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Oh, immensely."
Beau wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. The funny thing was that while he was clearly entertained, there was also a very obvious protective edge to him whenever Y/N came up.
It was the kind of energy that came from years of friendship..
A moment later, Beau leaned casually against the netted protection from the stadium. "So."
Logan narrowed his eyes.
"So?"
"Why exactly do you like about her?"
The entire group instantly got quiet. "Oh this is good," Tucker said. Dean hisses afterwards with a cringe. “Here comes papa Beau, rest in peace Logan.”
Logan looked horrified at both Beau’s now intimidating expression and Dean’s words. "I'm not answering that."
"Why not?"
"Because, just, not in front of these hooligans,” he says but then looks at the two girl. “Besides you two. Love you both,” then turns back to look at Beau with a curt shake of his head. “No."
Beau was trying, and failing, not to laugh. Then his expression shifted slightly as he looked back toward the field, watching her shake hands with the opposing team. "Just so we're clear."
Logan immediately recognized that tone. It was his protective one. The big-brother tone. Beau pointed toward Y/N. "She's my best friend. She’s family."
Logan nodded, knowing that this was coming. Beau has never played around when it came to Y/N. It took them how long to finally meet her because he knew how the guys would act, and he was being protective for many reasons. "I know."
"I mean it Logan. I will absolutely make your life miserable. I don’t play when it comes to her."
"Protective Beau has arrived,” Dean wheezes out, patting Logan’s back as the other friends in the group laughed with him.
Beau ignored them, knowing it was bound to happen, still staring at Logan. "I'm serious,” he says with no sign of jokes or sarcasm. Dean looked between them.
"Did we just witness a weird brother approval interview?"
"Before they've even gone on a date?" Hannah added, and Allie was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.
A few minutes later, he pushed away from the netting, nodding at his friends. "I'm gonna go say hi, and see what her plan is. She gets busy post game, so I’ll see what she’s thinking.”
Dean pointed dramatically. "Tell your secret superstar friend we have complaints."
"What complaints?"
"You kept her hidden."
Beau laughed. "She's a person, not a treasure map."
"Well that’s debatable, because you have never brought her around, Goose."
Beau shakes his head with a snort at Dean, and then heads down to the field. Y/N was finishing a quick conversation with one of her coaches when she spotted Beau approaching the opening on the far side of her dugout.
A grin immediately appeared on her lips, bidding goodbyes to her coaches before heading his way. "There he is,” she chuckles, Beau laughs back with a sarcastic wink.
"There she is."
They met halfway, Beau not hesitating to lean against the opening as Y/N bumped her shoulder against his.
"You watched?"
"Unfortunately,” he hums out a huff, giving her a fake pout. She gasped dramatically, putting a hand on her chest.
"Rude!”
"You only got like four hits."
"Three. The fourth was a shitty one to shortstop."
"Wow, absolutely terrible. Do you even play D1?"
"Honestly so embarrassing."
They both laughed, knowing the ease between them was obvious. He nudges her and nods back. "You played great though, not a bad play made," Beau admitted, watching as Y/N made a face before scoffing and crossing her arms over her chest.
"I left two runners on."
"You had a triple."
"I still left runners on."
"There it is."
"What?"
"The catcher perfectionism,” he hums. “Always downplaying your hard work. You had one wrong move, but you solved it effortlessly. Look at it from that point of view.”
She rolled her eyes, trying to hide her smile of appreciation. Beau was always able to prevent her mind from going into the gutter. "Whatever."
Beau laughed as she pushed his shoulder playfully, then he nodded toward the stands above.
"So,” he trails off,
Y/N followed his gaze, seeing the entire group was still standing there.
Dean was waving both arms like an idiot, Garrett was yelling something incomprehensible, and Tucker was laughing.
Allie and Hannah were trying unsuccessfully to get everyone to act normal, Y/N immediately laughed. "Those your friends you’ve yet to let me meet?"
"Unfortunately," he grimaces with a nod, and she lets out a suspicious hum.
"Wow. They’re definitely your friends alright."
"Exactly."
She smirked. "They seem chaotic."
"They absolutely are."
"Should I be worried?"
"Probably."
Y/N laughed again while Beau shook his head. He gave her a distant look that caused her to squint at him.
"They want to meet you."
"Oh?"
"Apparently they're offended I've never introduced you,” he adds, shrugging his shoulders like it was nothing and she snorted.
"That's actually kind of funny," she giggles. “But that’s also because you’ve kept me hidden, my good sir.”
“Wow you and Dean will get along great. He just said the same thing.”
“Respect,” she nods. “Wise man,” she added before she heard her name, and glanced back toward her dugout. One of her co-captains were ushering for her to come join for post game stuff, making her nod and put up a finger while mouthing, ‘One second’
She looks back at Beau and nods. "I’m up for it, but I have interviews and team stuff first."
"That's fine, they get that.”
"But I'll come over before I change,” she suggests. “ Because it’s gonna take a bit before I leave the locker rooms. That way we can figure out what the plans are after."
Beau nods, bringing his hand up to do their handshake. "Amazing. Take your time."
Y/N pointed at him as she turned to walk away. "If they start a fight while I'm gone, that's on you."
"No promises!” he hollered back, causing a couple of giggles to leave her mouth.
Fifteen to twenty minutes had passed since Y/N had talked with Beau, her eyes would occasionally look up to catch them all mostly talking.
She didn’t know that they were also teasing Logan, which had become everyone's favorite activity. Logan was talking about something else to change the subject, Beau hearing the crunch of metal cleats jogging to their direction, making him hold a hand up with a smug grin.
"She's coming over."
Logan immediately sat up straighter. Dean saw it. “This is fucking hilarious,” he wheezes lightly, Logan frowning. "Now what?"
"You perked up. It was so obvious.
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
Garrett nodded, and added in, "That was immediate."
"I hate all of you."
"Oh yeah, look at him. He's nervous." Allie laughed, pointing over at the brown-haired boy from her spot under Dean’s arm.
“Try not to drop the L bomb on the first meeting,” Beau snickers while smiling widely over at Y/N. Before Logan could argue, a voice perked up. "There they are."
Everyone turned to see Y/N was jogging toward them. Still in uniform, her hair still pulled back, she had confidence practically radiating off her. She didn’t have her catcher’s gear on like she did when Beau stopped over.
“Hey guys,” she laughs once she makes it to their group, everyone was beaming and saying their greetings back, followed by some fun comments.
"Finally,” Beau exasperates, pulling into a side hug. She rolled her eyes. "Well jeepers, sorry. I kept being summoned."
"You kept the celebrities waiting."
Y/N laughed.
"The only celebrity here would be Garrett Graham," she shot back, nodding towards him, making Garrett laugh loudly.
“She knows her shit,” he laughs while pointing at her.
She smiles proudly, before shrugging her shoulders. “He’s said a thing or two. I also grew up in a hockey family, so it’s law to know hockey.”
“I like her. I like her very much,” Dean interrupts, making her chuckle. "So you're the mystery friend."
Y/N pointed at Beau, a fake look of confusion. "He tells people I'm mysterious?"
"Don’t start,” he whines, Dean cuts back in.
"We just couldn't believe someone this cool existed and he'd never introduced us."
"Beau, how could you?" Y/N gasped dramatically. “First you keep me in hiding, and then you go and tell them I’m some mystery girl? What is this, your bachelor pad?”
"I regret everything in this moment,” Beau purses his lips, and points at Dean. “I regret letting you both meet one another. Now I've got two versions of Dean.”
“So that’s Dean? The one I pretty much quoted line for line without knowing?” Dean and Y/N look at each other with smug expressions. “I knew we would get along just fine,” she laughs, and the group burst out laughing.
Garrett shook his head as he pointed to the field. "Seriously though? That was insane."
"It was alright,” Y/N shrugged, Garrett gave her a knowing grin. Every athlete nearby would recognize that kind of answer. The universal "I could've done better" response.
Hannah laughed. "That's such an athlete's answer.”
She shrugs. "Unfortunately,” she then adds. “Sorry you’re going to have to hear more athlete talk. You probably already hear too much from this load.”
“Oh no, after what we just watched? I’m invested,” Hannah answers, playfully swatting in her direction, Allie nodding. "You were on fucking fire. Seriously, I may have a girl crush on you," Allie added, making Dean let out a choked sound, causing the boys to snicker.
Y/N smiled as she laughed. “Why thank you. I work very hard to at least look like I’m doing something right,” she jokes, and then Dean jumps back in.
"I think the bigger question is why Beau hid you from us,” he trails off, and she slowly turns to look up at Beau with a look that says everything. Before she could say another snide remark, Beau shook his head and pushed her head away playfully.
"Don't encourage them,” he shot, making her push him back. “I can sense the wrong decisions coming from a mile away. Don’t start.”
"No, I think I will,” she throws back, smiling smugly. “They will definitely be joining in on my shenanigans.”
The group laughed again, all the while Logan stood slightly toward the back. He was trying to play it cool.
Because now that she was standing right here? It was somehow worse.
She was funny, and extremely confident. She made herself feel easy to talk to.
It was exactly like she'd seemed from the field. Then he felt himself almost buckle to the ground when Y/N looked directly at him. "You're Logan, right?"
His brain briefly stopped functioning. "Uh,” he muttered before he could stop himself, Dean immediately covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing. "Yeah."
Y/N smiled sweetly at him. Nothing snarky, snide or smug about it. She was giving him a softer, more gentle smile. Something flickered between her eyes. "Nice to finally meet you."
Finally?
Logan blinked a couple times, then snapped out of the haze. "Finally?" he asked her, finally finding his voice, and she nodded.
"Beau talks about all of you,” she admits, and Beau groaned immediately. “So I kind of felt like I already knew everybody."
"Hopefully only the good stories?” Logan laughed, trying to keep his composure looking cool and collected. He was definitely the opposite.
"Oh, definitely not,” she giggled, and the group erupted.
"YES."
"Thank goodness."
"She's good, I really like her."
Y/N grinned, and soon enough Logan found himself smiling too. A lot.
Which Dean noticed immediately. Of course he did.
"So," Dean said, trailing his voice off. "Logan's been very interested in softball today."
Logan nearly died, staring at Dean like he was ready to gouge out his eyes with the edge of his hockey stick. "Dean."
"What?"
Y/N looked amused, turning back to look at Logan. She was amused and he could slightly see the peak of interest in her face. "Oh?"
"He asked for your stats."
The group exploded, and Y/N turned toward Logan. One eyebrow raised. "My stats, huh?"
Logan pointed at Dean, looking over at him. "I'm gonna throw you into traffic."
Y/N laughed, and it was the sound that immediately made Logan smile again.
"Don’t be embarrassed,” she says softly. “That's actually kind of cute."
Dean nearly collapsed, while Allie hid her face in his chest. Hannah bit at her hand while leaning into Garrett’s back
Garrett doubled over, and Tucker looked like he was about to cry laughing. Logan stared, and saw that Y/N looked completely unbothered.
She was just smiling. She looked comfortable, and completely at ease. Then she tilted her head slightly. "So?"
"So what?"
"Were you impressed?" She asks like it was the simplest question ever. The grin she gave him was undeniably teasing, maybe even a little flirty.
The group immediately got quieter. They were watching. Waiting.
Logan somehow managed a smile. "I was."
Y/N nodded, her smile lit up even more, Y/N could feel her face heating up. "As you should be,” she answers back, the confidence in the answer made everyone laugh.
"Wow,” Logan chuckles. “ She's got the jokes and the confidence,” he shoots, his arms crossed over his chest, and Y/N pointed toward the field. "I earned my confidence."
"That is fair."
She looked back at Logan. "Good answer, though."
Logan laughed.
"Thanks? I think?”
"You're welcome,” she answers back. For a second, neither of them looked away from each other. Not until Dean dramatically stepped between them. "Okay, no mroe eye contact."
"What?"
"None."
"Dean."
"I'm protecting the group from whatever this is," Dean jokes, pointing at them both. “I’m protecting them from the eye fucking that was about to happen.”
The entire circle dissolved into laughter, including Y/N, who was now grinning directly at Logan. If Beau noticed the way both of them kept finding reasons to look at each other during the rest of the conversation, he absolutely noticed, but he just wasn’t saying anything about it.
holy shit this is slowly becoming a jalen && antonio love club (not that i’m complaining) but they both look so fucking good, it should a crime to be this fine!!!!!!!
author’s note 𓂃 requested by @myst3ryin0rperated 💌 this ended up being way longer than planned, but honestly? tuck deserves the attention. i love parts of this, but i’m also not fully sure how i feel about it yet, so i’d love to know what you think <3
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The first time Tucker saw you, you almost took out an entire row of glasses at Malone’s. Not one, not two, but an entire row.
It happened on a Friday night, which meant the bar was already packed with students pretending they didn’t have assignments due, hockey players pretending they weren’t exhausted from practice, and Della behind the counter pretending she wasn’t five seconds away from throwing someone out for ordering another round only to forget what they’d asked for immediately.
You were new, and that much was obvious. Not because you were bad at the job, exactly, but because you still had the bright, nervous energy of someone who hadn’t yet learned that Malone’s on a Friday night was less a bar and more a sticky-floored battlefield.
You came out from behind the counter with a tray balanced carefully in both hands, brows pinched in concentration as your bottom lip caught between your teeth. You were wearing black jeans and a Malone’s blue shirt, your hair pulled back messily, as if you’d done it in a rush, and Tucker found himself noticing you before he could think better of it.
He noticed the way you smiled at a customer who was definitely being too loud. He noticed the way you thanked Della twice when she moved around you. He noticed how hard you were trying to do everything right.
And then you set the tray down on the bar too quickly, caught the edge of a napkin holder, and sent three clean glasses tipping into each other with a loud, terrible clatter.
Everyone at the table flinched. Dean was the first to turn around, Garrett’s attention snapped away from whatever Hannah was saying, and Logan started laughing before he’d even fully figured out what had happened.
You froze immediately.
“Oh my god,” you said, hands flying up like you were surrendering to the glasses. “I’m so sorry. I swear I’m usually less of a disaster when no one’s watching.”
Della sighed, though there was already affection in it. “Sweetheart, nobody expects grace here. Just survival.”
Dean grinned from the booth where he sat with the boys. “Ten out of ten entrance.”
Garrett kicked him under the table without even looking at him.
You winced, cheeks burning, and immediately started gathering the glasses before any of them could fall off the bar.
Tucker was on his feet before he’d even thought about moving.
“Here,” he said, already grabbing a stack of napkins from the end of the counter and stepping closer. “I got it.”
You looked up at him, startled, like you hadn’t expected someone to help instead of laugh. Something weird shifted in Tucker’s chest.
“Oh,” you said, your voice softening. “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, steadying one of the glasses before it could roll off the edge. He gave you a small smile. “First Friday?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only a little,” he said, smile tugging at his mouth.
Your mouth curved into an embarrassed but sweet smile, and Tucker noticed the way your whole face seemed to warm with it.
Dean, because of course he did, leaned over the booth and said, “Careful, Tuck. She might make you work for free.”
You glanced between them, your smile still lingering. “Tuck?”
“Tucker,” he said, handing over the glass he’d rescued. “John Tucker.”
You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for half a second.
“I’m [Y/N],” you said. Then you looked down at the glasses, sighed, and added, “Apparently also a public safety hazard.”
Tucker laughed, not because it was that funny, though it was, but because you were smiling at him like you were happy he had.
That was the first thing Tucker noticed. Not that you were the prettiest girl in the room, though you were. Not that you were the clumsy new waitress, though the boys would absolutely bring that up later. Not even that you were the transfer student Hannah had mentioned once, the one who’d started working at Malone’s because she needed extra money, and Della liked hiring people she could boss around.
The first thing was that you looked at Tucker like he was the one you were talking to — not the guy beside Dean, not Garrett’s friend, not one of the hockey boys. Him.
It was a stupid thing to notice, so of course Tucker noticed.
Over the next few weeks, you became part of Malone’s the way some people became part of a song — slowly at first, then all at once.
You were there on Fridays and sometimes Saturdays, always with your hair tied back in a way that never lasted more than an hour before pieces started falling loose around your face. You learned the regulars’ orders faster than anyone expected. You learned Della’s moods, learned that Dean always said he wanted something different before ordering the same beer anyway, that Logan would steal fries from whoever sat too close, that Garrett was polite because Hannah elbowed him when he forgot, and that Allie always tipped too much because she knew what the job felt like.
And Tucker — you learned his drink by the third Friday. That shouldn’t have affected him. It did anyway.
“You want the usual?” you asked, already reaching for it as he and the boys slid into their booth after the game.
Dean stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly toward Tucker, wearing the most irritating smile imaginable. Logan looked absolutely delighted. Garrett looked like he was trying very hard not to seem delighted. Tucker ignored every single one of them.
“You remembered?” he asked, which was the wrong thing to say because it made him sound surprised.
You blinked at him, then smiled. “You order the same thing every time.”
“So does Dean,” Tucker said.
“Yeah, but Dean changes his mind three times before going back to the same thing. You have to prepare for that emotionally.”
Garrett laughed quietly into his drink.
Dean put a hand over his chest. “I feel attacked.”
“You should,” Allie said, appearing beside him like she’d been summoned by the opportunity to tease him. “It was accurate.”
You grinned and slid Tucker his drink first, and he hated how quickly he liked it—hated how his eyes followed you when you walked away to help another table. Hated even more that Dean noticed immediately.
“Oh, you’re so in trouble.”
Tucker glanced at him. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t even say anything specific,” Dean said.
“You didn’t need to.”
Logan leaned forward, as if this were crucial evidence. “She gave you your drink first.”
“Because I was sitting closest.”
“You weren’t,” Garrett said.
Tucker shot him a look. “Aren’t you supposed to be mature now?”
Garrett shrugged, his arm around Hannah. “I’m in a relationship, not dead.”
Across the room, you laughed at something Della said, nearly dropped a pen, caught it against your chest, and looked far too proud of yourself for saving it.
Tucker tried not to smile, and failed.
Dean pointed at Tucker’s face as he’d just found evidence. “That. Right there. That’s pathetic.”
Tucker picked up his drink, unimpressed. “You’re literally dating Allie.”
“Yes, and I became pathetic in public. It’s part of the process.”
“I’m not becoming anything,” Tucker said.
“Sure,” Dean said.
Tucker knew exactly what they thought.
He knew how it looked: new girl, pretty smile, sweet enough to make everyone in the room feel like she was happy to see them. Of course, he liked her. Everyone probably liked her. You were the kind of person people noticed because you made it easy for them. You asked questions, laughed without trying to seem cool, apologized to chairs when you bumped into them, and once gave a drunk sophomore a full pep talk because he looked sad over mozzarella sticks.
You were sunshine in a place that mostly smelled like beer and fried food.
Tucker told himself that was all it was: you were friendly, and he was interested because of it. It didn’t mean you were interested back.
Girls usually went for guys like Dean: loud, confident, easy to flirt with because he did half the work for them. Or Garrett, with the captain thing and that accidental golden-boy charm, even though Hannah would probably murder anyone who tried. Or Logan, who looked like trouble and knew exactly how to make it work.
Tucker was the nice one, the safe one, the one girls asked to hold their coats while they danced with someone else.
He’d made peace with that a long time ago — mostly. Then, on the fourth Friday, you proved you were going to be a problem.
It was later than usual, with the crowd thinning out around midnight and the booths left sticky and half-empty. Tucker had ended up at the bar while the others argued over whether to go back to the house or order food. You were wiping down the counter with your sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from the long shift.
“You’re staring again,” you said, not even looking up.
Tucker blinked at you. “What?”
You glanced at him, eyes bright with amusement. “I said you’re staring.”
“I wasn’t,” he said.
“You were,” you said.
“I was just thinking,” he said.
“About the counter?” you asked.
“It’s a very interesting counter.”
You smiled, and Tucker felt stupidly pleased with himself for being the reason.
“You always do that,” you said, still smiling.
“Stare at counters?” he asked.
“No,” you said, leaning your hip against the bar. “Make jokes when I catch you looking at me.”
Tucker’s throat went dry.
That wasn’t fair. You couldn’t look that sweet and then say things like that.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You hummed like you didn’t believe him, which was fair, considering he sounded ridiculous.
Dean appeared at Tucker’s shoulder at the worst possible time, because of course he did. “He never does.”
Tucker closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “Go away.”
Dean grinned at you because, apparently, subtlety had never been an option. “Has he asked you out yet?”
Tucker’s head snapped toward Dean. “Jesus Christ.”
You froze for half a second before your face went pink.
Dean looked like Christmas had just come early.
“Oh,” Dean said slowly, looking far too pleased. “Interesting.”
“Dean,” Tucker said, warning clear in his voice.
You cleared your throat and turned back to the counter, trying to hide your smile. “Does he need help with that?”
Tucker stared at you, Dean made a sound like he’d been shot, and Garrett yelled from the booth, “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Tucker said, far too quickly.
Dean turned back toward the table. “Tucker’s dying.”
“I’m fine,” Tucker said.
You were still smiling down at the counter like you hadn’t just caused chaos.
Tucker didn’t recover for the rest of the night.
After that, things changed. Not dramatically, and not enough that anyone else would’ve called it obvious — except maybe Dean, who called everything obvious if it helped him be annoying. But Tucker felt it.
You started lingering near him when the bar slowed down. You leaned across the counter when you talked to him, chin propped in your hand and eyes warm with focus. You asked about his classes. His practices. His stupid sandwich preference after Logan tried to convince you Tucker had “boring taste,” which somehow turned into a ten-minute argument about whether turkey counted as a personality flaw.
You also started touching him. Not much, just enough to ruin him.
Your fingers brushed his wrist when you set down his drink. Your knee bumped his when you sat beside him for five minutes during your break. Your hand landed briefly on his shoulder when you squeezed past him behind the bar, soft and apologetic and completely unnecessary.
Tucker told himself you were probably like that with everyone, right up until he watched you tell Dean to stop leaning over the bar because he was “ruining the ecosystem,” and decided maybe you weren’t.
By the sixth Friday, Della had started looking at both of you like she knew something neither of you had admitted yet.
That was also the night everything finally clicked into place.
The boys came in late after an away game, tired and loud, their faces flushed from the cold. Hannah and Allie were with them, bundled in coats and already claiming a booth while Dean declared he was starving with the drama of a man who hadn’t eaten in years.
You were working closing again, and Tucker tried very hard not to look too happy about that. Failed, probably.
From behind the bar, you caught his eye and smiled so brightly that his chest went warm.
“The usual?” you asked.
Dean groaned, as if he were personally offended. “This is disgusting.”
You laughed, confused. “What?”
“He’s smiling like an idiot,” Dean said.
Tucker elbowed him in the side.
You looked at Tucker, smile softening as you asked, “Are you?”
“No,” Tucker said.
“He is,” Logan called from the booth.
“He absolutely is,” Garrett added from the booth.
Tucker stared at Garrett. “You too?”
Garrett lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just observing.”
You set his drink down in front of him, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “For the record, I don’t mind.”
Tucker forgot how to speak, and you walked away before he could find a response.
Dean leaned closer, his voice low enough that only Tucker could hear. “If you don’t ask her out tonight, I’m doing it for you.”
“You are not doing anything,” Tucker said.
“Then do something,” Dean said.
Tucker looked toward the bar, where you were reaching for a stack of napkins and laughing at something Hannah had said. You nearly knocked over a bottle with your elbow, caught it just in time, and then looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Tucker had. You saw him seeing you, and your nose scrunched with embarrassment. He smiled before he could stop himself.
Dean sighed, as if this were personally exhausting. “God, you two are unbearable.”
Tucker looked away, like that settled it. “She’s just friendly.”
Dean stared at him.
“What?”
“Are you actually stupid?”
“Wow. Very helpful.”
“I’m serious,” Dean said, glancing toward you before looking back at Tucker. “That girl has been making heart eyes at you for a month.”
“She’s nice to everyone,” Tucker said.
“She threatened to pour soda on Logan last week,” Dean said.
Logan looked up from stealing Allie’s fries. “I deserved that.”
Dean continued, with the patience of someone explaining something painfully obvious, “She likes you.”
Tucker shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of the words. “You don’t know that.”
Dean’s expression softened slightly, which was somehow worse. “Tuck.”
“Don’t,” Tucker said.
“I’m just saying,” Dean started.
“I know what you’re saying,” Tucker said, his voice coming out lower than he meant. “But she’s new. She’s nice. And she has all of you literally sitting here every week. I’m not going to assume she’s looking at me like that just because I want her to.”
For once, Dean went quiet.
Tucker regretted saying it immediately. Not because it wasn’t true, because it was, but because he’d never said it out loud before. And, of course, because timing apparently wasn’t on his side, he looked up and saw you standing a few feet away with a tray in your hands, your expression caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.
Tucker’s stomach dropped. You had heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough.
You blinked once, then gave him a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Della said last call.”
Then you turned and walked back to the bar.
Dean leaned back slowly, the teasing finally slipping from his face.
Tucker dragged a hand over his face, guilt hitting all at once. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, quieter now. “That one might be on you.”
The next twenty minutes were horrible. You weren’t rude, and somehow, that made it worse. You were still sweet when you cleared the table, still smiling when Hannah hugged you goodbye, still telling Logan he couldn’t take the basket of fries with him because it was “not a souvenir.” But you didn’t linger near Tucker, didn’t brush his hand, didn’t smile at him first.
By the time the others left, Dean gave him one very pointed look from the door. Tucker ignored it, mostly because he deserved it.
He stayed behind while you wiped down the bar, sitting at the end with his coat folded beside him like he wasn’t sure where else to put himself. Della had disappeared into the back, clearly on purpose, and without the usual noise, the bar felt strange. Softer. Too quiet.
You didn’t look at him for a while, and Tucker let you have that.
Eventually, you set the rag down with a sigh. “Are you waiting for Della or me?”
“You,” he said. You glanced up, and he swallowed. “If that’s okay.”
You looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” You seemed surprised by that, so Tucker kept going before he could lose his nerve. “For what I said earlier. You weren’t supposed to hear it.”
“Would it be better if I hadn’t heard it?”
“No,” he said, looking down at his hands before meeting your eyes again. “Probably not.”
You crossed your arms and leaned against the bar. “Do you really think I’m just being nice?”
Tucker hated how gentle your voice was.
“I think you are nice,” he said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. “No, it wasn’t.”
You waited, giving him time to answer.
Tucker exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what I think. I guess I’m trying not to assume.”
“Assume what?” you asked.
“That you’d choose me.”
The words settled between you, quiet and honest and too exposed.
Your expression softened when you said his name. “Tucker.”
He let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I know. It sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” you said.
“It kind of does,” he said.
“No,” you said, walking slowly around the bar until you were standing in front of him. “It sounds like you don’t see yourself clearly.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was still flushed from work, hair coming loose around your cheeks, your eyes tired but warm. There was nothing teasing in them now.
“You keep acting like I’m looking past you,” you said, voice soft. “I’m not.”
Tucker went completely still.
You swallowed, a little nervous now, and somehow that made the words hit even harder. “I saw all of them first. I still looked at you.”
For a second, Tucker couldn’t speak. He’d imagined you saying a lot of things. Not that. Never that.
“[Y/N],” Tucker said quietly.
Your smile wobbled slightly. “Too much?”
“No,” he said, voice rough. “No, not too much.”
Della chose that moment to appear from the back, took one look at the two of you, and turned right back around. “I forgot absolutely nothing. Continue.”
You laughed, breaking the tension just enough for Tucker to breathe again.
He stood and grabbed his coat. “Let me walk you home.”
Your eyes lifted to his, softer now. “Okay.”
Outside, the cold air hit your face, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. Tucker walked beside you, close enough for your shoulders to brush every few steps, but not close enough to crowd you. The streets around Briar were quieter now, wrapped in the kind of late-night stillness that made every little sound feel louder — your shoes on the sidewalk, Tucker’s breath in the cold, the distant noise from another bar down the street.
For a minute, neither of you said anything, and then you laughed softly.
Tucker looked over at you. “What?”
“I just realized I basically confessed to you in front of a bar counter that still smelled like spilled beer.”
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Very romantic.”
“I’ve always been known for my elegance.”
“You did knock over four glasses the first night I met you.”
“Three,” you said, pointing at him. “It was three.”
“One almost fell off the counter,” he said. “I’m counting it.”
“You’re cruel,” you said, trying not to smile.
“I did help.”
“You did,” you said, your voice softening. “That’s why I remembered you.”
Tucker’s chest tightened at that.
You kept walking for a few more steps before adding, “Everyone else laughed. Not in a mean way, but still. You just helped.”
“It wasn’t exactly heroic.”
“It was to me,” you said quietly.
He didn’t know what to do with that, so he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked down at the sidewalk like it might tell him what to say.
You smiled at him, and somehow Tucker felt it even without looking.
By the time you reached your apartment building, the tension had changed shape again. It was still soft, still warm, but there was something electric underneath it now, something that had been building for weeks across bar counters, half-finished conversations, and every smile you’d given him like it wasn’t ruining his day in the best way.
You stopped when you reached the door.
“This is me,” you said.
Tucker nodded, like he knew that and still wasn’t ready to leave. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moved. Then you looked up at him. “Do you want to come in?”
His eyes lifted to yours. The question was quiet, but there was nothing unclear about it.
Tucker’s voice dropped when he asked, “Do you want me to?”
You stepped closer, your eyes still on his. “Yes.”
That was all Tucker needed.
The elevator ride was silent, broken only by your uneven breathing and the small ding of each floor passing. Tucker stood beside you with his hands at his sides, not touching you yet, though the restraint in him was obvious. You could feel it — in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your mouth before he forced them away, in the way he seemed to be waiting until you were somewhere private before letting himself want you properly.
Somehow, it only made you want him more.
Your apartment was small and warm, a little messy in a way that made you immediately wince as you unlocked the door.
“Don’t judge,” you said as you stepped inside. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Tucker looked around at the books stacked on the coffee table, the blanket slipping off the couch, the mug in the sink, and the tiny lamp glowing in the corner before looking back at you.
“I like it,” he said softly.
You smiled at him. “You’re very easy to impress.”
“Only when it’s you,” he said.
The words were quiet and simple, and they stole the air from your chest.
You closed the door behind him, then turned the lock.
Tucker’s eyes dropped to the movement, and his expression shifted. When he looked back at you, something had changed. He was still Tucker — still warm, still steady — but the softness in him had sharpened into something more focused.
You swallowed, voice suddenly smaller. “Hi.”
His mouth curved, just barely. “Hi.”
“You’re standing very far away,” you said.
“I’m trying to be respectful,” he said.
You stepped closer, eyes on his. “You can stop.”
His eyes darkened at that. “Yeah?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Tucker moved then, closing the small space between you in two steps. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle at first, like he was giving you one last second to lean away.
You leaned into his touch.
After that, the kiss wasn’t gentle. It was warm, deep, and immediate, like weeks of almosts had finally found somewhere to land. Tucker’s hand slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist as he pulled you close enough for your chest to press against his. A soft sound slipped out against his mouth, and Tucker’s grip tightened.
“There you are,” Tucker murmured against your mouth.
Your stomach flipped at the sound of his voice.
You kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest and feeling the solid warmth of him beneath his jacket. Tucker walked you back until your spine met the wall near the door, his body caging yours in without ever making you feel trapped.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he said, his mouth brushing your jaw.
Your head tipped back as his lips moved to your neck. “I wanted you to.”
His hand tightened briefly at your waist.
“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower. “Wanted me to walk you home?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Wanted me to come upstairs too?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
His mouth hovered near your ear, voice low. “Wanted me to touch you?”
Your breath caught before you could answer. “Tuck—”
He kissed the spot just beneath your jaw, pulling a sound from you that was almost a whimper.
His voice went rough. “Say it.”
You swallowed, your fingers curling into his shirt. “Yes. I wanted you to touch me.”
He groaned, low and restrained, before his mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. Your hands pushed at his jacket, clumsy with urgency, and Tucker helped you pull it off before shrugging out of it and tossing it somewhere near the couch.
You laughed breathlessly as it knocked into a chair.
“Sorry,” you breathed.
“Don’t care,” Tucker murmured, already kissing you again.
Your back hit the wall hard enough to make your whole body light up, but not enough to hurt. Tucker’s thigh slid between yours, and the second you rocked down against it without thinking, his hand tightened on your hip.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re going to make me forget how to be nice.”
Your lips curved against his. “Maybe I don’t want nice.”
His eyes lifted to yours, and there it was again — that quiet intensity.
“I can do both,” Tucker said, voice low.
The words went straight through you, sharp and warm all at once.
His hands slipped beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your skin. He touched you slowly at first, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Then your hips moved against his thigh again, and his control slipped just enough that his fingers pressed into your waist.
“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ve been thinking that since the first night.”
“When I dropped the glasses?” you asked.
“Especially then,” he said, like it was obvious.
You laughed, only for it to break into a gasp when his mouth found your neck again, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed the spot.
“Tucker,” you breathed.
“I know,” he murmured, his hand moving higher until his fingers brushed the underside of your breast through your bra. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You shook your head quickly, voice barely steady. “No.”
“No?” he asked, voice low.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered.
His eyes darkened at that, and then he kissed you like those words had undone something in him. The warm, steady Tucker from Malone’s was still there, but this version of him felt different — more confident, more direct. His hands knew exactly where they wanted to go, his mouth knew how to make you melt, and every quiet groan he gave you made your knees a little less reliable.
He pushed your shirt up slowly, and you lifted your arms for him. The second your shirt hit the floor, his gaze dropped to your chest, and his jaw flexed.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
You almost made a joke. Almost. But the way he looked at you made it hard to hide behind one.
His hands came up to cover your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing slowly over the thin fabric. Your back arched off the wall as a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it.
Tucker’s mouth parted slightly, his voice rough. “Don’t hide that.”
“What?” you breathed.
“Those sounds,” he said, his thumb moving again just to make your breath catch. “I want to hear them.”
Your cheeks warmed, but your body answered before your mouth could, another quiet whimper slipping out when he leaned down and kissed the top of your breast.
“Like that?” Tucker asked, voice low.
“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his shirt. “Like that.”
He undid your bra carefully, sliding the straps down your arms before letting it fall between you. His eyes moved over you more slowly this time, and something about the softness in his face made your chest ache.
Then his mouth closed around your nipple, pulling a moan from you as your head knocked back against the wall.
Tucker groaned against your skin, one hand firm at your waist while the other covered your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until you started shifting against him, needy and restless.
“You’re so responsive,” Tucker murmured, kissing across your chest. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
You swallowed, surprising yourself with how steady it sounded. “Tell me.”
His eyes flicked up, and for a second, he looked surprised. Then his expression shifted, a small, almost dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.
“It makes me want to take my time,” he said, voice low. “Makes me want to find out every way to make you sound like that again.”
Your thighs pressed together, and Tucker noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers pausing at the button of your jeans.
“Can I?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes,” you whispered.
He unbuttoned your jeans slowly, eyes fixed on your face as he pushed the denim down your hips. You kicked them off awkwardly, nearly tripping in the process, and Tucker caught you with a quiet laugh, his hands steady on your waist.
“Still clumsy,” he murmured.
“You’re very distracting,” you said.
“Good,” he murmured.
You were about to answer, but then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, and every thought disappeared.
He touched you over your panties first, two fingers pressing against the wet fabric, and his breath caught.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re wet.”
Your face burned at the way he said it. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not,” he said, fingers moving slowly over your clit through the soaked material. “Just trying to process the fact that you wanted me this badly.”
“I did,” you whispered.
The admission came out soft and honest.
Tucker’s eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze, even though it made you feel exposed.
“I wanted you,” you said again, softer this time.
Something shifted in his face. Then he kissed you hard, fingers pushing your underwear aside and sliding through your wetness. The first touch of his skin against your cunt pulled a gasp from you, your hips bucking toward his hand before you could stop them.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s what I wanted.”
His fingers circled your clit slowly, steady and precise, and you clung to his shoulders as pleasure sparked low in your stomach.
“Tuck,” you whimpered, fingers tightening on his shoulders.
“Right here,” he murmured, his forehead touching yours. “I’ve got you.”
He slid one finger into you, eyes fixed on the way your lips parted, then added another when your hips rolled against his hand. The stretch pulled a louder moan from you, and Tucker’s jaw tightened like the sound was testing every bit of his restraint.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough. “You sound so pretty.”
His touch grew deeper and more deliberate, his thumb finding you again as you stayed pressed against the wall, nearly bare while Tucker was still fully dressed. The imbalance should have made you embarrassed.
It didn’t. Not with him looking at you like that, not with his hand between your thighs, his mouth at your jaw, and his voice low in your ear.
“Tell me what feels good,” he murmured.
Your breath shook around the answer. “Your fingers.”
“Yeah?” he murmured.
“Yes,” you breathed, gripping his shirt tighter. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
His fingers curled again, and a moan broke from you into the quiet room.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”
The pleasure built faster than you expected, heat tightening through your stomach and thighs, but just before it could break, Tucker pulled his fingers away.
A frustrated sound slipped out of you. “Why—”
He dropped to his knees, and your mouth went dry as Tucker looked up at you from the floor, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs.
“I’m not done with you yet.” It should not have sounded as hot as it did.
Then he pulled your underwear down, slow and deliberate, before lifting one of your legs over his shoulder.
“Tucker,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair.
His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh. “Hold onto me.”
Your fingers slid into his hair, and then his mouth found your cunt.
The first stroke of his tongue made your whole body jerk, a sharp moan slipping out as his hands tightened on your thighs. He ate you like he’d been waiting weeks for it, slow and deep at first, tongue dragging through your wetness before flattening over your clit.
“Oh my god,” you gasped.
He hummed against you, the vibration making your knees buckle slightly, and Tucker held you up.
His mouth worked over you with a patience that felt almost unfair, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking softly while his fingers dug into your thigh every time you tugged his hair. You could feel how wet you were, could hear it too, and the sound made your face burn even as your hips started moving against his mouth.
“Tuck—fuck, right there,” you gasped.
He groaned like the words had gone straight through him, focusing there until the pleasure turned sharp and bright. Your head fell back against the wall, one hand still buried in his hair while the other braced beside you.
You were close, close enough that your thighs started trembling.
“Tucker,” you gasped. “I’m—”
He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He only held you tighter, mouth sealed over your clit until you came with a broken moan, hips jerking against him as pleasure rolled through you. He stayed with you through it, easing the pressure when you started to shake and pressing kisses to your inner thigh when you finally whimpered from the sensitivity.
When he stood again, his mouth was wet and his eyes were dark.
You could only stare at him.
He wiped his thumb across his lower lip before leaning in to kiss you. You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as Tucker made a rough sound against you.
“Bedroom,” he said, voice rough.
You nodded quickly.
The walk there was not graceful. You bumped into the side table, Tucker knocked into the doorframe, and you both laughed against each other’s mouths until the laughter turned into another kiss the second you reached your room.
Tucker pulled his shirt off, and you finally got to touch him properly.
He was warm beneath your palms, solid and broad, and his stomach tightened when your fingers dragged lower toward his belt.
“You okay?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
His eyes met yours, dark and unsteady. “I’ve been better.”
You laughed, but then your hand brushed over the hard outline of him through his jeans, and his smile vanished.
“Oh,” you whispered, your smile fading too.
Tucker caught your wrist gently, his voice rough. “Careful.”
You looked up at him, pulse jumping. “Or what?”
His expression shifted again, that quiet confidence settling over him like he knew exactly what you were doing.
“Or I’m gonna fuck you against that wall before we even make it to the bed.”
Your stomach dropped, but you held his gaze. “Maybe I’d like that.”
For a second, neither of you moved. Then Tucker kissed you hard enough that you stumbled backward.
Your back hit the bedroom wall, his body pressing close while his hands lifted you by the backs of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, and Tucker groaned when you rolled your hips against him.
“Condom?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Nightstand,” you said, breathless.
He carried you to the nightstand just long enough to grab one before returning you to the wall, laughing low when you kissed his neck impatiently.
“Eager,” he murmured.
“You’re the one who mentioned the wall,” you said.
“I did,” he said, voice low.
“Then stop talking,” you breathed.
Tucker’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Yes, ma’am.”
He shoved his jeans down just enough to roll the condom on, then stepped between your thighs again, one hand sliding over your hip while his other arm kept you steady against the wall.
The head of his cock brushed through your wetness, and for a second, both of you went quiet.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, voice barely steady. “Tuck.”
His forehead pressed to yours. “I know.”
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open while holding you like you were something precious and something he wanted badly enough to ruin all at once. The angle was intense, your back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, his body doing all the work as he filled you completely.
Your mouth fell open, breath catching in your throat.
Tucker groaned, the sound rough against your mouth. “Fuck, you feel good.”
“You too,” you breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You feel so good.”
His eyes squeezed shut for a second before he started moving. Slow at first. Controlled. Deep enough that every thrust stole your breath, his hips pinning you to the wall while his hands kept you steady. You were still sensitive from his mouth, still wet and aching, and every drag of his cock pulled another moan from you.
“Tucker,” you gasped.
“I know,” he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw. “I’ve got you.”
“You keep saying that,” you breathed.
“Because I do,” he said, voice steady.
Your chest tightened, but then his hips snapped a little harder, and the feeling turned back into heat.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasped.
“There?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes,” you gasped.
He adjusted his grip, holding you higher before hitting the same spot again, and your head fell back against the wall with a moan.
Tucker’s eyes locked on your face. “That’s it.”
His pace built slowly, not rushed but intense, every thrust dragging sounds from you that you couldn’t hold back. The wall was cold against your back, his skin hot against yours, and your whole world narrowed to Tucker’s hands, Tucker’s mouth, Tucker’s cock moving inside you like he’d been waiting weeks to prove exactly how well he could ruin you.
“You have no idea how hard it was,” he murmured against your throat, “watching you smile at me from across that bar.”
A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Thinking you were just being nice,” he said, hips driving into yours harder until you gasped. “Thinking I was making it up.”
“I wasn’t,” you breathed, clinging tighter to his shoulders. “I wasn’t looking at them.”
Tucker’s grip tightened, and you pulled his face to yours, kissing him messily. “I wanted you.”
He groaned against your mouth.
The next thrust nearly tore a cry out of you.
“Say that again,” he rasped.
“I wanted you.” The next thrust hit harder, stealing the rest of the sentence from you. “Tucker—”
“Again.”
“I wanted you,” you moaned, nails dragging down his shoulders. “I wanted you so badly.”
That broke something in him. His pace turned rougher, still controlled but less careful now, hips snapping into yours as he held you against the wall. You clung to him, moaning his name, letting him hear every gasp and broken sound because he seemed to need them as badly as you needed the way he moved.
“Touch yourself,” he said suddenly, and your breath hitched.
His eyes met yours, dark and intent.
“I want to feel you come around me.”
Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the first circle made your whole body jolt. Tucker cursed, forehead dropping to yours as you clenched around him.
“Fuck, that’s it.”
Your fingers moved faster, clumsy from how badly you were shaking, but the pressure built quickly with him still fucking into you, his voice low and constant in your ear.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your ear. “You’re so pretty. Doing so good for me.”
Your breath broke.
“Come on, baby.” His grip tightened. “Let me feel it.”
The orgasm hit hard, your body tightening around him as your moan broke into something helpless. Tucker held you through it, thrusting deep and uneven as you pulsed around him, until he followed with a rough groan, hips jerking as he came.
He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against your neck, holding you up like letting go was not an option. Then he laughed softly.
You opened your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, his mouth brushing your shoulder. “Just thinking Dean’s never going to shut up if he finds out.”
You laughed, still breathless and warm. “Then don’t tell him.”
“He’ll know,” Tucker said.
“Why?” you asked, smiling against his skin.
Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile softer now. “Because I’m not going to be able to stop smiling.”
Your heart did something stupid in your chest.
After that, he carried you to the bed and set you down carefully before disappearing to clean up. When he came back, he had a damp cloth in his hand, cleaning you gently and murmuring an apology when your thighs twitched from sensitivity.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded, still a little breathless. “Very okay.”
His mouth curved. “Good.”
He lay beside you, and for a second, a strange shyness settled between you again. Not awkward. Just new.
You turned onto your side to face him. “You can stay.”
His eyes softened at that. “Yeah?”
“If you want.”
“I want,” he said, without hesitation, and the answer came fast enough to make you smile.
Tucker pulled the blanket over both of you, and you curled into his side like it already felt familiar. His arm came around you, warm and steady, fingers tracing slow lines down your back.
For a while, neither of you said anything. Then you whispered, “I meant it, you know.”
His hand paused against your back. “What?”
“I saw all of them,” you said, tilting your head up to look at him. “I still looked at you.”
Tucker stared at you for a second, something tender and disbelieving crossing his face. Then he kissed you, soft this time, slow, like he finally believed you.
The next morning, Tucker woke with your leg thrown over his and your face tucked against his chest.
For a second, he didn’t move. He just looked at you — at the sunlight slipping through your curtains, your hair messy against his skin, the tiny crease between your brows like you were arguing with someone in your sleep.
He smiled before he could stop himself, which, as it turned out, was exactly the problem. Because when he finally left your apartment in yesterday’s clothes and walked into the hockey house just before noon, Dean was sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal.
Dean looked up. Tucker froze. The spoon stopped halfway to Dean’s mouth as a slow, terrible smile spread across his face.
“No way.”
Tucker sighed. “Don’t.”
Logan appeared from the kitchen immediately, because he had a sixth sense for chaos. “What? What happened?”
Dean pointed his spoon at Tucker. “Our boy didn’t come home last night.”
Garrett looked over from the table, his brows lifting.
Logan’s face lit up. “[Y/N]?”
Tucker tried to walk past them. “I’m leaving.”
“You just got here,” Dean said, delighted.
“Then I’m leaving again.”
Garrett laughed under his breath. “Good for you, man.”
That was somehow worse than the teasing. Tucker shook his head, but he was smiling, and Dean noticed, because Dean noticed everything that made life unbearable.
“Oh, he likes her likes her.”
“Shut up.”
Logan grinned, leaning in like this was the best news he’d heard all week. “Did she finally get tired of waiting for you to make a move?”
Tucker paused at the stairs. Thought about your smile, your apartment, your voice saying, I still looked at you. Then he turned just enough to say, “Actually, she made the move.”
The room exploded. Dean yelled, Logan swore, and Garrett laughed properly this time.
Tucker headed upstairs before any of them could ask anything else, but he still heard Dean call after him.
i miss the collective high from when luigi allegedly killed the healthcare ceo and also when charlie got kirked like can we have another round of something like that pls?
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
prguitarman
jbbartram-illu
stormborns
