Live Simply So Others Can Simply Live

[sunnydilaurentis]

you, me at fourty | 1k cabo celebration, found family au ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration masterlist!

⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration info!

summary: in which a quiet night in cabo leads to tears, honesty, and a much-needed reminder that y/n has never been as alone as she thinks.

notes: i love these girls with my whole heart. i hope you all enjoy, this was such a sweet request to write! <3

ꪆৎ

it’s late by the time the room finally quiets down.

the kind of late where exhaustion has settled heavily into everyone, where the adrenaline from the day has finally burned itself out, leaving behind nothing but pleasant tiredness.

the day had been long in the best possible way. sun all afternoon, dinner downtown, too much laughing, and somehow another completely unnecessary shopping stop on the walk home.

apparently none of you are physically capable of walking past a boutique without going inside.

grace had barely made it through brushing her teeth before announcing she was about thirty seconds away from passing out. following suit sabrina had laughed, mumbling a sleepy, “goodnight, love you all,” before disappearing not long after.

you and allie lay restlessly on the bed in your shared room.

the lights are off, the room bathed in soft darkness, lit only by moonlight slipping through the gaps in the curtains, the occasional glow from outside filtering across the walls.

the distant crash of waves drifts in through the balcony doors, warm air moves lazily through the room, stirring the curtains every so often.

everything feels softer now, quieter, slower.

allie lies propped comfortably against the pillows, legs stretched beneath the blankets, her phone loose in one hand.

you settle beside her, shifting until you’re comfortable, blanket pulled to your chest as you sink into the mattress. your body feels heavy with exhaustion, pleasantly so, the kind that results in sleep coming easily.

you watch as allie mindlessly scrolls through photos from the day.

one of grace asleep by the pool, one arm dramatically flung over her face.

another of sabrina holding frozen margaritas with a huge grin.

a blurry photo of all four of you laughing so hard nobody had stayed still long enough for the camera to catch anything clearly.

allie snorts quietly at one, before another photo appears.

it’s a photo from dinner. grace is caught mid-laugh, head tipped back completely, one hand pressed against her chest. sabrina is turned slightly to the side, clearly halfway through saying something. allie looks polished, effortless, comfortable in her own skin in the way she always is.

and you-

you’re smiling. not at the camera, not posed.

just… happy.

completely unaware the photo was even being taken.

your gaze lingers, something in your chest tightens so suddenly it catches you off guard. it isn’t sadness, not exactly, something warmer, something heavier, something achingly soft.

allie notices almost immediately, lowering her phone slightly.

“y/n?”

you shake your head, too quickly. “i'm all good.”

her eyes narrow slightly. “that’s usually not true.”

a tiny laugh escapes you, small, breathless. you close your eyes briefly, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat.

silence settles again between you both.

“i just-"

"thank you.”

allie goes completely still beside you, the kind of stillness that tells you she understands instantly. when she speaks, her voice is softer, gentler.

“for what?”

you swallow, your fingers tightening slightly around the blanket.

“for… everything.”

the words sound small, far too small, completely inadequate. you let out a quiet breath.

“i don’t know.” your voice is barely above a whisper. “i was just thinking.”

allie turns her head slightly toward you, still listening.

“about this trip.”

a pause.

“about you girls.”

emotion rises unexpectedly fast, so fast it almost makes you stop talking entirely.

“you’ve always looked out for me.” your voice wavers slightly, threatening to break. “you always know when something’s wrong.”

a tiny laugh slips out, soft and watery. “usually before i even do” you admit quietly.

“which can be a little annoying sometimes."

allie says nothing at first, but you can feel her attention settle fully on you now.

“you’ve helped me more than you probably realise.”

the words leave before you can stop them, honest in a way that makes your chest hurt.

your voice turns quieter, more fragile. “i barely recognise the girl i was freshman year. i was so much more scared back then.”

a small pause.

“less confident. less sure of myself.”

your throat tightens. “and somehow, over time… things just started feeling lighter.”

your breathing catches. “i started feeling lighter, happier.”

your voice softens even more. “more like myself.”

embarrassment follows almost immediately. you let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “god. this is so embarrassing.”

allie shifts beside you, lightly smacking your arm.

“don’t do that.”

“what?”

“don’t say something nice and then immediately make fun of yourself for it.”

despite everything, you smile. really smile. the silence that follows feels different now, softer, warmer. full in a way that’s hard to explain.

allie’s voice is quieter when she speaks again. gentle, but certain.

“you know why i get you so easily?”

your brow furrows slightly. “what?”

allie turns her head towards you. even in the dim light, you can make out her expression. soft, serious, entirely open.

“because i know what it’s like.”

a pause. her gaze remains on yours. “to feel too much. lose yourself"

emotion catches sharply in your chest. allie shifts, turning onto her side to face you properly, closing the distance between you.

her voice is impossibly gentle now. “from the second we met, i just-"

she exhales quietly. “…felt protective of you.”

a watery laugh escapes you. “why?”

she gives you a look. even half-hidden in darkness, it’s unmistakably allie. softly exasperated, completely fond. she raises her arms in your direction, as if she was pointing towards you.

“because you’re you, y/n.”

that broken little laugh escapes you again, your vision blurs. allie reaches over, grabbing your hand gently. her touch is warm, grounding, familiar.

“you feel everything so deeply. you care so much."

a pause.

“sometimes more than people deserve.”

your chest aches. she sees you, she always has, even the parts you try hardest to hide.

the parts that overthink, the parts that feel too much.

you move before thinking, closing the space between you. she catches you instantly, arms wrapping around you without hesitation, pulling you close beneath the blankets.

you cry quietly into her shoulder, soft tears and shaky breaths. the kind of crying that feels less like breaking, and more like letting go.

allie only holds you tighter. “i love you, y/n. you're literally like a sister to me."

emotion lodges painfully in your chest. allie shifts back just enough to look at you, her expression impossibly soft as you speak.

“you’re the best.”

allie huffs out a quiet laugh, though her expression stays soft. "i’m seriously just relieved that you’re finally starting to realise how incredible you are, y/n."

emotion rises sharply in your chest. before you can say anything, allie tilts her head slightly. “you know... i still remember the day you met garrett.”

despite the tears, a small laugh escapes you. “oh no.”

allie’s mouth twitches, amusement clearly laced in her expression. “oh yes.”

you let out a watery groan, burying your face against her shoulder again. “don’t remind me.”

that earns a quiet laugh from her. “y/n.”

her voice turns gentler now, more deliberate. you lift your head, allie’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“there were girls all around him.”

you go completely still.

“every single one of them looking at him.”

a pause.

“and the only person he was looking at”, her eyes stay locked on yours, ensuring you hear her next words, “was you.”

emotion catches painfully in your throat, you notice allie’s expression soften further.

“and you wouldn’t believe me when i told you.”

your chest tightens, she had told you, more than once. allie goes quiet, something shifting in her expression, something softer. then, slowly, the corner of her mouth lifts.

“now look at you.”

a tiny frown pulls at your brows, allie gives you a look.

“you’ve got him completely wrapped around your finger.”

despite everything, a small laugh escapes you. “allie-”

“no, i’m serious.”

her expression doesn’t waver. “that man is so ridiculously in love with you it’s almost painful to watch sometimes.”

your face warms immediately. allie snorts softly. “i’m talking disgustingly gone.”

another watery laugh leaves you. she smiles, but it fades into something gentler, more serious.

“and it’s not just him.”

her gaze stays steady on yours. “you’re hardworking.”

a pause.

“you care deeply. you show up. you work your fucking ass off.”

allie’s voice stays calm, completely certain of the truth behind her words.

“any firm would be lucky to have you.”

your throat tightens.

“you hear me?”

you blink quickly, fighting fresh tears, allie squeezes your hand in assurance.

“any internship. any job.”

her voice sharpens slightly. “they would be lucky to have you.”

you stare at her, silent, completely at a loss for words.

“if someone is stupid enough not to see that-”

she shrugs lightly, “then fuck them. they're the ones missing out. not you."

a wet laugh breaks from you, and allie’s expression softens once more in response.

“you need to back yourself more. you don’t see yourself the way everyone else does.”

your throat tightens.

“you especially don’t see yourself the way he does.” her thumb brushes over your knuckles.

"you've got to stop letting other people dictate your own value."

“back yourself, y/n.” she gently shakes your shoulders in encouragement, smiling.

“because the people who know you?”

her gaze doesn’t waver. “we already do.”

silence settles between you again. heavy, but gentle. you swallow, your voice is small when you finally speak. “you helped me do that.”

allie’s brows pull together slightly. “what?”

a small smile breaks through. “believe in myself.”

your voice trembles. “you made me want to.”

a pause.

“because you believed in me first.”

allie goes still. something shifts in her expression, something softer, like your words landed somewhere deeper than she expected.

"it was easy to y/n. all you needed was a little push."

you both smile. she goes quiet beside you, until something shifts in her expression. then, unexpectedly-

she lets out a small laugh.

you blink.

allie covers her face with both hands, shoulders shaking slightly as though she’s trying incredibly hard not to laugh harder. despite everything, confusion breaks through.

“what?” you stare at her, clearly confused. “allie?”

another laugh slips out of her.

“what’s funny?”

she drops her hands, still grinning now. “oh my god.”

you narrow your eyes. “what?”

allie shakes her head, laughing softly to herself. “nothing. i just remembered something.”

your brows pull together, allie looks back at you. “remember the deal we made first day at briar?”

“what deal?”

allie gasps softly. "y/n! you don't remember?!"

despite the tears, you laugh, still completely confused.

allie grins. “if we were both still single at forty we agreed to marry each other."

you laugh properly now, messy and wet. “oh my god.”

allie smiles, soft and fond. “i still stand by it.”

you sniff, wiping your face. “i don’t think dean would be very happy about that.”

allie snorts. “no.” her grin widens. “he’d be deeply offended.”

that makes you laugh harder. the weight of the previous conversation slowly fading away.

and then-

from the other room, grace’s sleepy voice cuts through the darkness, confused and groggy.

“why are you both still awake?”

a beat.

sabrina’s tired voice follows. “are you guys crying?" are you okay?”

there’s rustling from across the room, grace moves closer towards you both. sabrina sighs, before muttering, half asleep, “well now i have to join too.”

seconds later both of them are at your bed. grace throws herself dramatically onto the mattress, directly on top of you both.

you let out a startled squeal. “grace!”

“i heard crying,” grace mumbles, wrapping her arms around both of you.

“group hug.”

sabrina climbs in more carefully beside you, immediately curling into your side. her arm slips easily around your waist.

“love you guys” she murmurs, her voice soft, laced with sleep.

grace squeezes tighter, allie snorts. “this bed is way too small.”

“oh well” sabrina mumbles.

you laugh again, tears drying on your cheeks as warmth surrounds you from every side.

allie pressed to one side, sabrina curled against the other, grace somehow half sprawled across all three of you.

somehow all four of you fit, barely. it’s cramped, uncomfortable in a hundred different ways, grace’s elbow is definitely in someone’s ribs, sabrina is half asleep already, allie is trying not to laugh, but it feels perfect, safe.

✩.* taglist; @05gwyn | @alwaysclassyeagle | @casiiopea2 | @nexisphere | @imstressed17 | @legendarychrattgirl | @ethanthequeefqueen | @wiishies | @legendarychrattgirl | @tabisswag | @corvusmorte | @mariiibash| @stevesxwhore | @choppedpartymuffinwinner| @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns | @leilareads58 | @nikfigueiredo | @archxve | @s0ftdr1nks | @persasseajackson | @avengersheart | @brxght-world | @plants-w0rld | @hamilronweasley | @dyslexicepicfan | @livformadrid | @cosmosnkaz | @behindthescreenobsessed | @mothericraveviolence57 | @purplerainx1 | @dancerbailey3 | @kingshitonly | @melodypvnk | @mothericraveviolence57 | @danis-angels | @chronically-jess | @brekkershadowsinger | @run-for-the-hills | @rrosiitas | @nishiisdownbad | @angelnameddani | @simp4f1

[andy-15-07]

You Still Sleep With It?

Pairing: Beau Maxwell  x Reader

Word Count: 2601

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

You knew the stuffed rabbit was probably going to be found eventually.

It had survived a lot in its life. Childhood, moves, one unfortunate run through the washing machine when you were nine, and now a tiny Briar apartment with too many books, too many hoodies, and not enough storage. 

You usually kept it tucked under your pillow when Beau stayed over, because you weren’t embarrassed exactly, just private about the one thing that had comforted you through everything from thunderstorms to bad dreams to the weird loneliness that sometimes settled in your chest for no reason at all.

But this morning, Beau had woken up first.

That was the problem.

You were still half asleep when you felt the mattress shift beside you. A second later there was a pause, then the quietest little sound of surprise. You cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it, because Beau was sitting beside you with the stuffed rabbit in one hand, staring at it like he had just discovered evidence of a secret government operation.

For one horrible second, you were too sleepy to form a defense.

Then you sat up too fast. “Give that back.”

Beau blinked, then looked at you, then back at the rabbit. “So you do still sleep with it.”

You reached for it. “Beau.”

He held it up just out of your reach, grinning now in that slow, dangerous way that meant he was either about to tease you mercilessly or fall in love with you all over again. “You still sleep with it?”

“It is not a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You are definitely about to make it one.”

Beau’s grin widened. “I’m just saying, this is not what I expected to find in the bed with me.”

You groaned and dropped your face into your hands. “I hate you.”

“You do not.”

“I absolutely do, right now.”

He lowered the rabbit carefully into your lap, which was almost worse because it was so gentle. “I’m not making fun of you.”

You looked up at him suspiciously. “You’re saying that like you’re lying.”

“I’m not.” He leaned back against the headboard, one arm resting behind him, expression strangely soft. “It’s cute.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t say cute.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you when you say things like that.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

You crossed your arms over the rabbit. “You laughed.”

He put a hand over his chest, offended on principle. “I did not laugh at you. I laughed because you looked horrified.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, because he had absolutely no survival instincts whatsoever, he added, “Also because this rabbit looks like it has lived through three wars.”

You gasped. “He is ancient, not ugly.”

That got him. He actually laughed this time, and you couldn’t even be mad because the sound was warm and stupid and familiar and made the room feel too small for the amount of affection in it.

Beau leaned forward and poked one of the rabbit’s floppy ears. “What’s his name?”

You hesitated.

Beau caught it immediately. “Oh, come on.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Now I need to know.”

You shook your head, but your mouth was twitching. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Beau.”

He pointed at the rabbit. “He clearly has a name.”

You looked down at the stuffed animal in your lap. The faded fur, the stitched nose, the one slightly crooked ear from where one of your cousins had yanked it too hard when you were six. “His name is Thumper.”

Beau’s face went blank for exactly one beat.

Then he burst out laughing again, this time full-bodied, helpless, and very much not respectful.

You threw a pillow at him. “I knew it.”

“Thumper?” he repeated, still laughing. “That is the most rabbit name possible.”

“You are being rude.”

“I’m being honest.”

“You are being cruel.”

He caught the pillow and set it aside before looking at you with fake seriousness. “Thumper sounds like he pays taxes and has opinions about the stock market.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Stop.”

“I can’t.” He wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just very funny.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now too, which ruined the whole attempt at offense. Beau noticed, of course, and looked far too pleased with himself.

“You love that thing,” he said.

You glared at him. “Obviously.”

“How long have you had him?”

“Since I was four.”

Beau’s expression changed a little. Softer. Less teasing. “That long?”

You nodded, suddenly self-conscious in a different way. “My grandma gave him to me. He was hers first, apparently. She said he was too old to keep around, so she passed him on to me.”

Beau glanced at the rabbit again, thoughtful now. “That’s kind of sweet.”

You shrugged lightly. “I know.”

He was quiet for a second, and you thought that might have been the end of it. Instead, he reached over and gently smoothed one thumb over the rabbit’s worn ear. “He’s seen everything, then.”

You gave a small laugh. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Beau turned his head. “Like what?”

You pointed at him immediately. “Absolutely not.”

He grinned. “I’m part of everything now.”

“Not everything.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

You considered him for a second, then hugged Thumper to your chest and looked away. “He’s gotten me through a lot.”

The teasing eased out of Beau’s face entirely. He didn’t push. He just nodded once, like he understood there were some things that didn’t need a joke. “Yeah?”

You nodded, staring at the faded pink blanket at the foot of the bed. “Bad nights. Family stuff. The whole ‘I’m fine’ thing when I wasn’t fine. He was just… there.”

Beau’s voice came quieter. “You don’t have to explain it.”

You looked at him then. He was sitting with his knees bent, hair still a mess from sleep, a little crease between his brows that always appeared when he got serious about the people he loved. He had not laughed again. He had not made a single stupid comment.

It made your throat tighten, strangely enough.

“I know,” you said softly.

He smiled a little, but it was the gentle kind. “Besides, I’m not judging.”

“You’re definitely judging.”

“I’m not.”

“You made a face.”

“That was surprise.”

“At a stuffed rabbit.”

“At the fact that the stuffed rabbit has a name and a history.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re still making fun of him.”

“Not him,” Beau said, and his voice held just enough amusement to make you suspicious again. “Never him.”

You studied him for a moment longer, then looked down at Thumper. “You can stop pretending to be polite now. I know you think this is weird.”

Beau leaned back against the headboard and lifted one shoulder. “I think it’s sweet.”

That caught you off guard.

He saw it and smiled. “What?”

“You really mean that?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged, suddenly unsure where to look. “I don’t know. Most people would’ve made it a whole thing.”

Beau’s expression turned immediately certain, like the answer was obvious. “I’m not most people.”

You laughed under your breath. “That is the most Beau thing you’ve ever said.”

He looked pleased with himself. “Yeah, well.”

The conversation might have ended there too, but Beau was already reaching for his phone on the bedside table, squinting at the screen while you watched him with growing suspicion.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“That was the worst possible answer.”

He gave you a look. “I’m looking at something.”

“That is not better.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You leaned over and tried to peek at his screen. He moved it just out of range, smirking now. “Nope.”

“Beau.”

“Trust me.”

You stared at him. “That is a dangerous sentence.”

He grinned. “And yet, you’ve lived this long.”

Two days later, you found out what he had been doing.

It happened when you came back from class and found a small paper bag sitting on your pillow. No note. Just a brown bag with the top folded over neatly, like some kind of absurdly innocent surprise. You frowned at it for a second before opening it.

Inside were tiny clothes.

Not baby clothes.

Not normal clothes.

Tiny little stuffed-animal clothes.

A navy sweater no bigger than your palm. A miniature scarf. A pair of little overalls. And, at the bottom, folded with almost comical care, a pair of tiny socks.

You stared at them in total silence.

Then you turned sharply toward the doorway just as Beau walked in with two coffees and the faint expression of a man trying very hard not to look too proud of himself.

You held up the bag. “What is this.”

He paused. “A gift.”

You blinked. “For who.”

He looked at you like this was obvious. “Thumper.”

You just stared.

Beau set the coffees on the desk and crossed his arms, clearly enjoying the moment way too much. “You said he’d been through a lot. I figured he deserved a wardrobe.”

You looked down at the tiny sweater again, then back up at him. “Beau.”

“What?”

“Did you buy my stuffed rabbit tiny clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, suddenly more bashful than smug, which honestly made the whole thing worse. “Because I thought it would make you smile.”

It did, of course. Immediately. Against your will, in a way that made your eyes sting a little because the gesture was so ridiculous and thoughtful and completely Beau that it went straight through you.

He watched your face and softened. “Was that weird?”

You stared at the bag in your hands. “Yes.”

He winced a little. “Too weird?”

You looked up. “No.”

He blinked. “No?”

You laughed then, helpless and bright, and something in his face relaxed instantly. “It’s very weird. But in the best way.”

Beau’s grin came back, slow and satisfied. “That’s what I was going for.”

You sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the tiny sweater out again, holding it up by the sleeves. “You bought him a wardrobe.”

“I did.”

“You really went to a store and asked for this.”

“I went online,” he corrected. “I have standards.”

You covered your mouth, laughing again. “I can’t believe you did this.”

Beau came closer, dropping one hand lightly on the bed near your knee. “I can.”

You looked up at him. “You are ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“And weirdly sweet.”

“That too.”

You glanced down at Thumper, who was currently propped against your pillow like a small, dignified elder statesman. Then you looked back at Beau. “Did you get a whole outfit for him?”

He gave you a crooked smile. “Maybe.”

You reached into the bag and pulled out the overalls. “These are so stupid.”

“They are objectively hilarious.”

You laughed, then shook your head. “You are unbelievable.”

Beau leaned his hip against the desk and watched you with an expression so soft it made your chest ache a little. “So are you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.” He nodded toward the rabbit in your lap. “You’ve had the same stuffed animal since you were four. That’s kind of amazing.”

You looked down at Thumper again, suddenly much more quietly than before. “He’s not just a stuffed animal.”

“I know.”

That answer landed gently, but it still made your throat tighten.

Beau seemed to notice. He sat down beside you without asking, shoulder brushing yours. Then, with careful fingers, he took the tiny sweater from your hands and held it up to Thumper like he was taking measurements for a royal tailor.

“Think blue or gray?” he asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“For the first outfit,” he said, completely serious. “I’m thinking blue. He looks like a blue guy.”

You stared at him.

Then you laughed so hard you had to lean into his shoulder. Beau chuckled too, dropping the sweater into your lap and resting his head lightly against yours.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re smiling.”

You looked down at Thumper, then at the tiny clothes, then at Beau’s hand resting close to yours on the bed. Something warm and tender moved through your chest, familiar and new at the same time.

“I can’t believe you remembered I like him.”

Beau turned his head, looking at you with complete sincerity now. “Of course I remembered.”

Your smile softened.

He reached out and tapped the rabbit’s ear again, then glanced at you. “Besides, he’s part of the deal now.”

You arched a brow. “The deal?”

He nodded. “You, me, Thumper. Tiny wardrobe. Future dumb stories.”

You laughed again, but quieter this time. “You really thought this through.”

“I always think things through.”

“That is a lie.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling. “I thought this one through a little.”

You sat together for a while after that, rearranging the tiny outfits on the bed like they mattered as much as anything else. Beau had opinions on everything, naturally. He insisted the overalls needed a T-shirt. He claimed the scarf made Thumper look “distinguished.” He laughed when you put the little socks on backwards and said, “That rabbit has never looked more confused.”

You were still laughing when he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Thank you,” you said softly before you could overthink it.

He looked at you. “For what?”

You glanced down at the rabbit, then back at him. “For not making me feel weird about this.”

Beau’s expression turned tender in that way it only did when he knew exactly what you meant. “Baby, I’m dating a girl who sleeps with a stuffed rabbit. Weird is not the issue.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, laughing again. “You are impossible.”

He caught your hand before you could pull away, fingers warm around yours. “Yeah,” he said, smiling at you like he had all the time in the world. “But I’m your impossible.”

The room went quiet for just a second after that.

Not awkward quiet. Not empty quiet. Just soft, comfortable, full quiet.

You looked down at Thumper in his ridiculous new sweater, then at the tiny clothes spread across the bed, then at Beau beside you, and all at once the embarrassing little secret of your childhood didn’t feel embarrassing at all.

It felt loved.

And maybe that was the real reason the rabbit had stayed with you this long.

Not because you had needed a toy.

Because some things are part of you before anyone else knows how to call them by name.

Beau squeezed your hand once. “So. Does he get to wear the overalls first, or are you going to make me wait?”

You smiled at him and picked up the tiny blue sweater.

“Absolutely not,” you said. “He’s wearing the sweater first.”

Beau leaned back and laughed, already reaching for his phone. “Good. I want a picture.”

You looked at him in mock offense. “You are not posting this.”

He paused, then grinned. “No promises.”

You laughed and reached for Thumper, holding him close while Beau started arranging the tiny clothes like he was preparing for a fashion shoot. For the rest of the evening, the three of you stayed exactly like that,one childhood rabbit, one absurdly thoughtful boyfriend, and you, smiling so much it almost hurt.

And when you finally fell asleep that night, Thumper tucked under your chin in his new little sweater, Beau kissed your forehead and murmured, with the deepest seriousness in the world:

“Tiny wardrobe looks good on him.”

You laughed into the pillow, already half asleep.

So did he.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham blurb ❄︎ clinical observation.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – garrett discovers he has a thing for scrubs. unfortunately, tucker notices. warnings – suggestive content, implied smut, sexual references, minor injury mention, garrett being down horrendous. notes from me – thank u for the request, anon!! word count – 2.6k

navigation – masterlist

Garrett discovers the scrub thing at approximately six-thirty in the morning, which feels unfair on several levels, mostly because he's still only half a person at six-thirty in the morning and therefore not prepared to encounter new personal truths with any kind of dignity.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but sweatpants, one sock on, the other trapped somewhere under the twisted mess of sheets they’d destroyed a few hours earlier, when she comes out of his bathroom with steam still clinging to the mirror behind her and her hair damp at the edges of her face.

She smells like his body wash, because she keeps claiming she’s going to bring her own things over and then never does, which Garrett has chosen not to examine too closely because a girl smelling like him while brushing her teeth naked in his bathroom before placement is the sort of thing his brain likes to store somewhere warm and stupid.

He’s seen her in a lot by now. Less than a lot, too, which feels relevant and also deeply unhelpful. He’s seen her in tiny dresses at parties, in leggings with one of his hoodies swallowed around her shoulders, in the Briar sweatshirt she keeps pretending she didn’t steal from his laundry, in the little sleep shorts she wears when she stays over and then acts shocked when he gets distracted. 

He knows what her thighs feel like under his hands. Knows the spot low on her back where his palm fits too easily. Knows the exact sound she makes when he kisses behind her ear and the exact, slightly bossy way she says Garrett when she’s pretending not to like something she very much likes. So he really does think he has a decent handle on the situation.

Then she pulls on black scrubs, and apparently he’s never known anything in his life. It’s work clothes. Practical clothes. Clean black fabric, short sleeves, pockets, the top tucked neatly into the pants because she’s got to look presentable for placement. 

She ties her hair up as she crosses his room, pulling it into a high ponytail with one elastic between her teeth, face bare except for moisturiser and whatever lip balm she stole from his nightstand. There’s nothing especially dramatic about any of it.

Except the top pulls in at her waist when she tucks it. Except the pants sit right over her hips. Except her arms are bare and soft and still a little damp from the shower. Except there's something about the whole black-scrubs, clean-skin, hair-up, competent-little-frown thing that reaches directly into Garrett’s chest and yanks something primitive enough that his philosophy professor would probably have a miserable time explaining it.

She looks like she knows things, and that is dangerous.

She glances over while smoothing her hands down the front of the scrub top, half distracted, already in the mental place she goes before placement where her body is in the room but her brain is reviewing medication rights, wound dressings, patient notes, and whether she remembered to put her ID badge in her bag. 

“I’m gonna go make coffee,” she says. “Did you want one?”

Garrett opens his mouth. Nothing particularly useful happens.

Her brows lift. “Garrett?”

“Uh.” He clears his throat, because his voice has decided to arrive like a freshman being shoved into a locker. “Yeah. Yeah, coffee’s good.”

She pauses for half a second, eyes narrowing faintly like she’s noticed the glitch but hasn’t yet located the source. Then she smiles, small and sleepy and entirely too pleased with herself for someone who has no idea what she’s doing to him, and heads for the door. 

“Okay. Come down when you find your other sock.”

He looks down at his foot, then back at the empty doorway after she slips out.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, dragging both hands over his face.

The sock, when he finds it, is somehow under the fitted sheet because the night had been athletic in more ways than one. He pulls it on, grabs a clean shirt from the chair, and spends a full thirty seconds trying to convince himself he’s normal. 

Scrubs are normal. Medical people wear them. Nurses wear them. Doctors wear them. The entire premise is hygiene and pockets. There's nothing about hygiene and pockets that should make a man want to press a girl against the nearest wall and ask if she can be late to whatever educational institution has been cruel enough to schedule her before sunrise.

By the time he gets downstairs, he’s not improved.

The kitchen is already bright in that ugly early-morning way the hockey house gets when no one has cleaned properly but sunlight still insists on entering the room. Tucker's standing near the island in grey sweats and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, turning his shoulder toward her.

She’s beside him with Garrett’s travel mug in one hand and her own coffee half-made on the counter, leaning in just enough to look at the scrape high on Tucker’s shoulder. Her ponytail falls over one side of her neck. The black fabric of her scrubs shifts when she tilts her head. 

Her face has gone serious in that quick, focused way it does whenever someone presents her with a body problem, like the world gets smaller and cleaner once there's skin to assess and a practical answer to give.

Garrett stops in the doorway and immediately considers walking back upstairs and starting the morning over.

“Yeah, no, don’t put peroxide on it,” she’s saying, and Tucker’s nodding with the grave attention of a man receiving wisdom from someone who’s not Dean and therefore more likely to be trustworthy. “Just keep it clean, use an antiseptic if you’ve got one, and maybe get some non-stick dressings from the pharmacy.”

Tucker frowns. “Like CVS?”

“Yes, Tucker. The pharmacy section at CVS counts.”

“Okay, good, because for a second I thought you meant, like, a real pharmacy.”

She turns her head slowly and looks at him.

Tucker immediately nods. “That was a stupid sentence. I heard it.”

“Thank you,” she says, satisfied, reaching for her coffee. “And don’t let any of the guys mess with it.”

Garrett leans his shoulder into the doorframe, unable to help the grin that starts despite the fact that the rest of him is still having a private emergency. 

Tucker laughs, warm and easy, and says, “That’s fair. Logan tried to use duct tape on a blister last month.”

“It worked,” Logan calls from somewhere in the living room, voice still thick with sleep.

“No, it didn’t,” she calls back without missing a beat. “You limped for three days.”

A muffled pause. “Could’ve been unrelated.”

She huffs, shaking her head with a smile. “It was not unrelated.”

Garrett should probably enter the conversation like a normal person who lives here. Instead he stands there watching her wrap both hands around her mug, black scrubs tucked at the waist, hair up, face bare and awake now in degrees, and experiences a quiet internal collapse over the fact that she's standing in his kitchen explaining wound care to his roommate like she belongs there.

Not girlfriend, his brain supplies unhelpfully.

Sure. Right. Because girls who are not your girlfriend definitely spend the night after you make them come so hard they probably woke up half the house, shower in your bathroom, make coffee in your kitchen, tell your roommate to go to CVS, and look so good in your house before placement that your entire body starts reconsidering its position on long-term commitment.

She looks over then and catches him staring. She fully catches him. Her eyes land on his face, dip once down the front of him like she’s checking he’s dressed for practice and not about to leave without shoes, then return to his expression with immediate suspicion.

“You good, Graham?”

Tucker turns too, because Tucker’s unfortunately not stupid and has the observational skills of someone who’s spent years living with idiots. Garrett straightens off the doorframe.

“Yeah,” he says, too fast. Then, because that came out suspicious even to him, he nods once and tries again. “Yeah. Good.”

Her mouth twitches. “Convincing.”

Tucker's already grinning into his coffee with the expression of a man who’s found entertainment before seven in the morning and intends to milk it until death. 

She turns back toward the counter like this is all very amusing and not actively ruining Garrett’s ability to be normal in his own home.

“Did you need a lift to the clinic?” he asks, mostly to give his mouth a job that isn’t saying something insane about her waist. She glances at the clock on the microwave and makes a little face.

“That’d actually be great. Thank you.” Then she picks up the travel mug and crosses toward him, holding it out like she has any right to look that casual and competent while handing him coffee she made in his kitchen. “There you go.”

Garrett takes it. “Uh.” He looks down at the mug like it might explain him to himself. “Thank you.”

Her eyes stay on him for another beat. The suspicion softens into something more entertained. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“That was a weirdly sincere thank you.”

“Maybe I’m grateful.”

Tucker makes a noise into his mug that's definitely a laugh disguised as a cough. She ignores him beautifully, stepping a little closer to Garrett so she can reach past him for her bag where it’s hanging on the back of one of the chairs. 

Her shoulder brushes his chest on the way, quick and nothing, but she smells clean and warm and like his soap under whatever light perfume she put on after the shower, and Garrett’s hand tightens around the travel mug like it’s been assigned to keep him alive.

She slings the bag over her shoulder, then looks up at him with her brows raised. “C’mon. We’ll be late.”

We.

It hits so casually that he almost misses how good it feels. We’ll be late. Like his practice and her placement have become one shared morning problem. Like the two of them leaving the house together in the early light is not something that should trip every alarm in his head marked careful, Graham, this is starting to look like a thing.

She turns before he can answer, ponytail swinging, scrubs pulling just enough over her hips as she heads for the hall.

And Garrett, very suddenly, understands the full extent of the problem. It’s her ass too. He's not going to pretend to be a better man than he is. The scrubs sit ridiculously well from behind, and the tucked top only makes the shape of her waist and hips more unfair, and he has to actively not make a sound in front of Tucker like some cartoon wolf in a Tex Avery short. 

But it’s not only that, which is the part that makes the whole thing much worse. It’s the way she walks through the house with purpose, checking her watch, already shifting into the girl who can handle screaming patients and bored instructors and difficult doctors and whatever else placement throws at her. 

It’s the way she can be sleepy in his bed one minute and then clinically assessing his teammate's shoulder the next. It’s the way she's made herself part of the morning without asking permission. Garrett’s body wants one thing. His chest, traitorous and dramatic, wants approximately twelve others.

He takes one step after her and gets stopped by Tucker’s voice, mild and loaded enough to be illegal. “Your girlfriend’s nice, man.”

“She’s not—” He stops, because the first version comes out with way too much panic for a denial that's supposedly casual. He clears his throat. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Tucker looks at him over the rim of his mug. That calm Tucker look, steady and vaguely pitying, like Garrett has announced that the Earth is flat and Tucker is deciding whether it’s kind or cruel to let him continue.

Garrett points at him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That face.”

“Sure,” Tucker says, lowering the mug. “She’s definitely not your girlfriend.”

The agreement is so gentle it’s worse than arguing.

Garrett exhales through his nose, glancing toward the hall where she’s already pulling open the front door and calling, “Garrett, seriously, I have to be there before seven-thirty and I’m not sprinting into placement because you’re having a crisis in the kitchen!”

Tucker’s brows lift.

Garrett shuts his eyes for one second. “I hate this house.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Garrett flips him off with the hand not holding coffee and heads for the hall. The morning air slips in through the open front door, cool and pale and smelling faintly like wet grass and campus before the day gets loud. 

She’s standing on the porch with her bag on one shoulder and her phone in hand, looking down at something on the screen, already half-lit by early sun, black scrubs neat and clean against the messy backdrop of his life.

She looks up when he comes out. “Finally.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Tucker was being annoying”

She makes a soft, amused sound and starts down the steps. “That sounds about right.”

Garrett follows, locking the door behind them before catching up at her side. Their shoulders nearly brush as they walk toward his car. She takes a sip of her coffee, then passes him a quick sideways look, eyes still bright with the leftover suspicion from upstairs and the kitchen.

“What?” he says.

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“That face is never nothing.”

Her gaze shifts over his face. “I’m just trying to work out if you’re sick.”

He laughs. “I’m not sick.”

He opens the passenger door for her without thinking, and she pauses for half a second before climbing in, the tiniest flicker of something moving across her face. 

Garrett sees that too. Stores it. Because that's what he does now, he collects small reactions from a girl he's absolutely not dating.

She gets into the car, and he shuts the door, turning away quickly enough to miss whatever his own face is doing. Probably something stupid. Probably something Tucker would have a field day with if he were here to witness it.

By the time Garrett slides into the driver’s seat, she’s buckling herself in and already pulling a folded sheet of notes from her bag, coffee balanced carefully between her knees. “Do you know how bad it is that I’m doing placement on four hours of sleep?”

Garrett starts the engine. “Whose fault is that?”

Her eyes flick to him over the page. “Yours.”

His grin comes immediately, bright and helpless. “My fault?”

“You have no respect for academic scheduling.”

“That’s not what you were saying last night.”

She stares at him for one second, then looks back down at her notes, cheeks warming despite her attempt to remain unaffected. “Drive the car, Graham.”

Garrett pulls away from the curb, still grinning.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham blurb ❄︎ off the clock.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – garrett graham doesn’t do girlfriends. he does, apparently, do late-night hospital pickups, car doors, seatbelts, and hand-holding on the drive home. warnings – suggestive content, public-ish makeout, hospital placement mention, brief IV mention, strong language notes from me – just a little nursing student!reader blurb while i work through requests!! <3 word count – 1.6k

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The hospital spits her out just after eleven, blinking and half-frozen and still smelling faintly of antiseptic no matter how many times she’d washed her hands.

Behind her, the automatic doors sigh shut on all that bright linoleum and distant beeping and someone’s shoes squeaking down a corridor, and then she’s outside in the dark, where the cold hits so sharply she actually makes a noise about it. A wounded little exhale as she shoves her hands into her jacket pockets and tucks her chin down toward the collar of her scrub top.

“Jesus,” she mutters to herself, shoulders coming up around her ears.

It’s been a night. Long enough that her body feels like it’s been assembled incorrectly. Her feet hurt. Her brain feels soft around the edges. There’s pen on the side of her hand, her ponytail has slipped half-loose, and she’s still thinking about the patient in bay four who’d told her very seriously that nurses were the backbone of America before asking if she could please make the heart monitor beep quieter, as it was distracting him from his crossword.

She’s still smiling a little when she sees him.

Garrett’s leaning against his Jeep under the car park light, arms folded. His hair’s messy from a shower, dark curls still damp at the ends, and he has that whole Garrett Graham thing going on. Broad shoulders. Stupidly easy confidence. Mouth already curving like he knows exactly what she’s thinking and has decided to be annoying about it.

Her stomach does something small and embarrassing. Very professional. Very composed. Very student nurse of her.

He pushes off the car when he spots her, and his grin pulls wider, warm and smug all at once. “Hey.”

“Hey, you,” she says, and hates a little bit how soft it comes out.

His eyes move over her face, then down to her scrubs, her badge, her shoes. Quick enough to pass as casual if she didn’t already know him too well.

“You look like the hospital won.”

She huffs, but it turns into a smile because she’s missed him, which is humiliating. “That’s just what clinical excellence looks like.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Back pain. Emotional damage. Mild dehydration.”

“Sounds prestigious.”

“It is. Very competitive.”

His mouth twitches as he reaches past her for the passenger door and opens it before she can. He stands there holding it, eyebrows lifted like he’s daring her to say something.

She looks at him. “I can open a car door.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes flick briefly to her mouth. “I’m being impressive.”

“With doors?”

“I’m starting small.”

She laughs despite herself and slides into the passenger seat, immediately hissing when the cold leather touches the backs of her thighs through her scrub pants. “Oh my god.”

Garrett leans one forearm on the top of the door. “You good?”

“No. I’ve died.”

“You’re still talking.”

“Final reflex.”

He laughs, shuts the door, and rounds the front of the Jeep. She watches him through the windshield, the loose, easy way he moves, one hand dragging through his hair as he comes around to the driver’s side. 

They’ve texted constantly over the last two weeks. Stupid things. Tired things. Her half-delirious updates from placement. His pictures of Dean passed out on the couch or Tucker making dinner like a man personally betrayed by vegetables. 

But it hasn’t been this. Him in the same space as her. His car smelling like clean laundry and cold air and whatever body wash he uses that she has absolutely no business recognising this quickly.

He gets in and starts the car, immediately blasting the heat. She holds both hands in front of the vents like she’s trying to resurrect herself.

“It’s so cold,” she says.

“It’s November.”

She turns her head slowly. “Thank you. That helped.”

“Anytime.” He shifts toward her instead of putting the car into reverse, one hand coming up to her jaw with that easy, devastating confidence of his. His fingers are warm against her skin, thumb settling just below her cheekbone. “C’mere.”

She goes torward him easily. His mouth is warm, familiar, faintly minty, and the kiss is supposed to be quick until she smiles into it and he makes that low, pleased sound in the back of his throat like he’s won something. His thumb presses a little firmer at her jaw. The hospital car park drops away for a second.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. “How was it?”

She hums, because words take a moment. “Okay. Busy. Fun, kind of. My brain’s not really working. Like, I think if you asked me my birthday right now, I’d need a minute.”

“Good to know. I’ll keep it simple.” His thumb strokes once over her cheek. “You eat?”

She makes a face.

Garrett’s expression flattens. “That’s a no.”

“I had coffee.”

“Babe.”

“And half a granola bar.”

“Babe.”

The word lands too easily. Warm. Exasperated. Like he has any right to sound that domestic when Garrett Graham doesn’t do girlfriends. 

He only picks her up from hospital placements at eleven at night, texts her to make sure she isn’t walking out alone, remembers her schedule better than she does, and looks personally offended when she hasn’t eaten dinner. Completely different thing.

She lifts her brows. “Don’t babe me in your disappointed captain voice.”

“My disappointed captain voice works.”

“It’s bossy.”

He finally leans back, hand dropping to the gearshift. “You wanna go to yours? I can drop you. The guys are throwing something at the house.”

“Something?”

“Dean said low-key.”

“So loud.”

“Probably.”

“And sticky.”

“Almost definitely.”

She scrunches her nose, already imagining the music, the yelling, Logan saying something insane across the kitchen while Tucker tries to make sure no one breaks a lamp. Usually, she likes the hockey house. Tonight, the thought of it makes her want to climb into bed fully clothed and become unavailable to the public.

“No party,” she says. “I’d fall asleep standing up and someone would draw on me.”

Garrett nods. “Dean would.”

“Tucker would stop him.”

“Tucker would try.”

“Logan would take a picture.”

She grins, nodding very seriously. “Unsafe environment.”

Garrett smiles, softer this time. “Home, then.”

She nods, but instead of sitting back like a normal person, she leans over the console and kisses him again. Slower this time. Less hello, more something she’s not going to name because he’ll get unbearable about it and also because she’s tired enough to be honest by accident.

His mouth curves against hers. 

“You staying over?” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” he says, too quick to pretend he had to think about it. Then, quieter, “If you want me to.”

She rolls her eyes before her face can do something stupid. “You’re very easy.”

“For you?” His grin turns lazy. “Yeah. Little bit.”

That shouldn’t make her stomach flip. It does anyway. To recover, she slides a hand into his hair and tugs lightly at the curls near the nape of his neck. His breath catches, barely, but she hears it.

She smiles. “Interesting.”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

His hand lands on her thigh over her scrubs, big and warm and far too comfortable there. “You’re supposed to be exhausted.”

“I am.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You’re harassing me for sport.”

“I can multitask.”

He laughs under his breath and kisses her again, and this one gets away from them fast. Two weeks of missed schedules and half-asleep phone calls and pretending none of it counts as missing each other. 

His hand slides a little higher on her thigh. Hers tightens in his hair. The heat blasts over her knees, and she leans closer over the console, smiling into his mouth when he makes another low sound that’s going to be a problem for her later.

Then someone walks past the front of the Jeep. Close enough that when her eyes open, she catches the white coat, the badge, the tired doctor face, and the unmistakable glance into the car before he looks away with the grim professionalism of a man choosing not to involve himself.

She freezes. Garrett starts laughing.

“Oh my god.” She drops her forehead into his shoulder. “No.”

His chest shakes under her cheek. “Was that one of your doctors?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just asking.”

“That is so unprofessional.”

“You’re off the clock.”

“I’m in the hospital car park!”

He shrugs. “Completely different.”

She lifts her head to glare at him, but his face is bright and smug and delighted, and it only makes her want to laugh too, which is frankly rude of him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. That man watched me miss an IV yesterday.”

Garrett’s grin gets worse. “Good. New association.”

“What?”

He gestures with one hand. “Now he won’t think about the IV.”

“He’ll think about me making out with you in your Jeep.”

“Exactly.” He looks deeply pleased with himself. “Rebrand.”

She stares at him, then smacks his chest. “Drive.”

“Okay, okay.” He catches her hand before she can pull it back and kisses her knuckles, still smiling like an idiot.

She groans dropping her head back against the headrest. “I’m transferring schools.”

“No, you’re not.”

She points at the windshield. “Drive, Graham.”

He pulls out of the car park still grinning, one hand on the wheel, the other finding its way back to her thigh as soon as they hit the road. 

Outside, the hospital drops behind them in glass and light, the streets stretching dark and quiet toward campus. The heat keeps blowing over her legs. Garrett’s thumb moves slowly over her scrubs like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

She tips her head against the seat and watches him in the passing streetlights, the curve of his mouth still there, stupid and pleased and familiar.

“What?” he asks without looking over.

She shakes her head softly. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She turns her hand palm-up on her thigh, and after half a second, his fingers slide between hers like they were headed there anyway.

“Just drive.”

His hand tightens around hers. “Yes, ma’am.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ concussion protocol.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – logan ends up in the ED after a hit at hockey training, and garrett gets a front-row seat to nursing student mode. warnings – hospital setting, concussion symptoms, blood, split lip, minor hockey injury, medical treatment/medication mention, strong language notes from me – this is a lil combination of a couple nursing student!reader asks i've had!! <3 word count – 2.7k

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The emergency department has a particular kind of morning ugliness to it, the sort that isn’t dramatic enough to be interesting and isn’t calm enough to be kind.

It’s fluorescent light on tired faces, the faint burnt smell of coffee that’s been sitting too long in the pot, printer paper curling out of a machine no one has had time to swear at properly, someone coughing behind curtain three, the soft squeak of sneakers over linoleum, the distant beep of a monitor that has been going long enough to stop sounding urgent and start sounding like part of the building. 

She’s standing at the nursing station with one hip braced against the counter, trying to finish the last of her clinical notes while drinking a Red Bull at eight in the morning as if that’s a normal adult decision and not evidence that the system has failed her personally, when the ambulance bay doors open behind her.

She doesn’t turn around at first. That’s one of the first things the ED teaches you, in its harsh little way. People are always coming in. Doors open, wheels roll, voices sharpen, and the floor somehow makes room for whatever crisis has just arrived like it had been expecting it. 

Around her, everyone moves with that strange, practiced calm that still feels a bit like witchcraft to her, panic folded neatly into tasks, fear clipped down to the edge of a pen, hands already reaching for gloves and monitors and charts before the person on the stretcher has even fully crossed the threshold.

“What’ve we got?” Dr. Patel asks, already stepping toward the paramedics.

The stretcher rolls past the nursing station behind her, and one of the paramedics starts talking in that clipped, efficient rhythm that makes every sentence sound both ordinary and terrifying. “This is John Logan, twenty-one. He’s come in from Briar hockey training after a hit during drills. He’s taken contact to the face, gone down, and coach thinks he may have hit the back of his head on the ice. No loss of consciousness that anyone saw, but he’s been asking the same questions and can’t really tell us what happened. He’s got a headache, feels dizzy, bit nauseous. Nosebleed was active when we got there but it’s settled now, and he’s got a decent split to the inside of his lower lip. No neck pain, no vomiting. Obs have been stable.”

Her pen stops moving. For a second, the whole department seems to keep going without her. The wheels keep squeaking. The monitor keeps beeping. Someone laughs at the far end of the nurses’ station in that brittle way people do when the shift has already started to get weird.

But all she can hear is John Logan sitting in the middle of that handover like a puck dropped clean at her feet.

“Logan?” she says, too loud and too immediate, before she can smooth it into anything professional.

The paramedic glances back. Dr. Patel glances back. Maria, her charge nurse, gives her a look from beside the stretcher that manages, somehow, to say several things at once, the main one being whatever this is, please do not make it my problem.

She’s already pushing away from the counter, notes abandoned, Red Bull sweating a bright silver ring onto the desk behind her. “Sorry. I– sorry. I know him.”

Logan gets wheeled into bay four looking, frankly, far too pleased with himself for someone with dried blood crusted under one nostril and a split lower lip swelling on one side.

His hair’s damp from melted ice and sweat, sticking up in the back in a way that would be funny if his eyes weren’t doing that slightly unfocused thing she’s been trained to notice before she’s allowed to react to it. 

He blinks up at the ceiling like the tiles are being rude to him. She follows Maria in, pulling gloves on with fingers that only shake for half a second before she makes them stop, heart thudding once, hard, and then settling into the lower, steadier part of her body where she keeps all the useful things.

Logan turns his head when she comes into his line of sight. His brow creases, slow and dramatic, like recognition is having to fight its way through several layers of fog and hockey equipment. “I know you.”

“Hi, Logan,” she says, leaning in just enough that he doesn’t have to search for her face. Her voice comes out softer than she expects, but steady. Good. She’ll take steady. “You okay?”

His eyes narrow with the heroic concentration of a man trying to remember his own Netflix password under medical supervision. Then his face clears, delighted and bloody. “Garrett’s girlfriend! Hi!”

Every person in the room hears it. There are things a person could whisper in the ED and nobody would catch them over the phones and monitors and general human misery, but Garrett’s girlfriend has the acoustic reach of a trauma alarm.

Heat climbs straight up her throat. “I’m not–” she starts, because some stupid reflex in her still thinks this is the hill worth dying on, even though Logan is lying there with a possible concussion and blood on his teeth. She stops herself and reaches for the rail instead, lowering it so Maria can get in closer. “Okay. Lean back for me, yeah? Let them have a look at you.”

“Garrett’s gonna be so mad,” Logan mumbles, letting his head fall back against the pillow with the loose obedience of someone who has temporarily lost access to all his usual objections.

“Probably,” she says, gently turning his wrist so Maria can clip the pulse ox on properly. “But that’s more of a personality defect than a medical concern.”

Maria’s mouth twitches.

Logan looks at her with genuine, hazy admiration. “You’re funny.”

“You’ve told me that before.”

They get him settled with the strange, controlled choreography of people who know exactly where to put their bodies in a small room. Dr. Patel checks him over, asks the kind of questions that sound simple until the answers come back wrong. Name. Age. Where are you? What happened? Does your neck hurt? Any vomiting? Any vision changes? 

Maria repeats a few in a softer tone when Logan’s gaze drifts toward the curtain and his attention starts to slip off the edge of the room. He knows who he is. He knows he’s at the hospital. He doesn’t know what drill they were running, or why his mouth tastes like pennies, or why his coach apparently went full soccer mom and called an ambulance.

When she checks his temperature, he gives her a slow, solemn thumbs-up like she’s just done something worthy of ESPN coverage.

“Thanks, bud,” she says, fighting a smile.

“Professional,” he tells her, thickly, through the swelling.

“I’m a student.”

“Close enough.”

Dr. Patel orders more monitoring, meds for the headache and nausea, and imaging if he doesn’t settle the way they want.

The room thins out by degrees, people peeling away toward other beds and other problems, and she’s just reaching for the blood pressure cuff when a familiar voice cuts across the main department, too loud and too panicked and much too Garrett to be anyone else.

“Where is he?”

Her eyes close. Another voice follows, higher with stress and irritation. “Bro, you can’t just walk back there.”

Then Tucker, sounding like he’s trying to be polite while actively losing his mind. “Sorry– sorry, we’re with the idiot who got concussed.”

“Fuck,” she mutters.

Logan perks up immediately, which is not ideal. “Guys?”

She strips off her gloves and steps out before the entire Briar hockey team can commit a privacy violation in front of God, Maria, and three irritated nurses who have already had enough of today. 

Dean’s craning his neck over a privacy screen like he’s trying to spot someone across a party instead of an emergency department, Tucker has both hands shoved into his hair, and Garrett’s standing between them in his hoodie and sweats, curls flattened on one side like he’s dragged a hand through them too many times, face set in that awful careful way that means he’s much closer to freaking out than he wants anyone to know.

His eyes find hers, and something under her ribs does one bright, stupid little flip before she can stop it. “Oh, thank God,” Garrett says, already moving toward her. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay,” she says quickly, putting a hand out before he can walk straight past her and into a bay he absolutely hasn’t been invited into. Her palm lands against the front of his hoodie, solid heat and hard chest and the faint outdoor cold still clinging to him. “He’s in there. Stop yelling.”

“I’m not yelling.”

Dean points at him immediately. “You were absolutely yelling.”

Garrett doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay on her face, scanning it like she might accidentally give away something worse than her words. “Is he conscious? Did he know where he was? He couldn’t remember what happened.”

“He’s awake, he’s talking, he’s annoying, so all his major personality functions are intact.” She lowers her voice a little when the sharpness in his jaw doesn’t move. “Garrett. He’s okay. They’re assessing him properly.”

The tension in his face shifts, dragged out of panic and pushed into something he can carry without making it everyone else’s problem. He nods once, quick and tight. “Can I see him?”

“For two minutes,” she says. Then, because Dean’s already angling his body toward the curtain with the unearned confidence of a man who has never met a boundary he didn’t consider negotiable, she adds, “And if any of you crowd him, I’m kicking you out.”

Dean blinks at her. “Wow.”

Tucker, still pale under his tan, nods once like this has genuinely done something for him. “That was kind of hot.”

Garrett shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

She leads them in anyway, and Logan’s whole face lights up the second he sees them, like he hasn’t just been scraped off the ice and transported here in an ambulance. “Guys!”

The room immediately becomes too full in that specific way rooms become too full when hockey players enter them. Dean swears under his breath and leans over the bed, Tucker lets out a rough little laugh that sounds more like relief than humour and grabs Logan’s ankle through the blanket, and Garrett goes quiet. 

That’s the thing she notices most, he doesn’t crowd, doesn’t start talking over everyone, doesn’t perform the worry into something loud enough to hide behind.

He steps to the side of the bed and looks at Logan’s face, really looks, taking in the dried blood, the split lip, the unfocused eyes, the way Logan is smiling too widely because his brain has temporarily filed this whole morning under weird but fine.

“You scared the shit out of us, dude,” Garrett says.

Logan frowns. “Why?”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “Because you got bodied and then asked what day it was four times.”

“Oh.” Logan thinks about that, then looks at her. “What day is it?”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, dragging both hands down his face.

“Okay,” she cuts in, stepping between Dean and the monitor before he manages to trip over something expensive and attached to the wall. “Everyone back. Back, please. I actually have to work.”

Garrett moves first. He catches Tucker lightly by the sleeve, nudges Dean back with his shoulder, and somehow gets both of them away from the bed without making it a whole production. 

His gaze stays on her, though. She can feel the attention of him, steady and warm and much too direct, following her hands as she wraps the cuff around Logan’s arm, clips the pulse ox back onto his finger, asks him to rate his headache out of ten, asks whether the nausea is better or worse, checks the bleeding at his lip with gauze and the lightest pressure she can manage.

She knows she’s not doing anything extraordinary. It’s observations and questions and documenting what she’s told to document. It’s the kind of thing she’s been practicing for weeks, the kind of thing that still sometimes makes her feel like she’s wearing someone else’s competence and hoping it fits long enough to pass. 

But Garrett watches her like she’s doing magic. Like the girl who steals his hoodies and falls asleep with her anatomy notes open on her chest has been briefly replaced by someone sharper and calmer and terrifyingly capable, and he has no idea what to do with the fact that both versions are her.

Maria comes in a minute later with the meds, her eyes flicking once to the three enormous boys lined up against the wall in various states of poorly hidden distress. “Doctor put in orders for acetaminophen and Zofran,” she says, holding the chart out a little. “You want to give them? I’ll cosign and watch.”

Her mouth goes a little dry for reasons that have very little to do with the Red Bull still abandoned at the nursing station. She nods. “Yeah. Yep.”

Logan eyes the tablets suspiciously. “Am I dying?”

“No,” she says, scanning what Maria tells her to scan, double-checking the dose because Garrett’s watching and Maria’s watching and, more importantly, because Logan is a real patient and not just an idiot she’s seen drunk in Garrett’s kitchen eating cereal out of a mixing bowl. “This one’s for the headache, and this one should help with the nausea. Small sip of water, okay? Don’t sit up too fast.”

Logan takes the cup with exaggerated seriousness, like she’s handed him an ancient goblet. “Yes, nurse.”

“Student nurse.”

“Future nurse,” Tucker says from the wall, earnest enough that she has to keep her eyes on the chart or she’ll smile.

She points at him without looking up. “Waiting room.”

Maria gives a soft, approving hum from beside her. “Actually, honey, these boys do need to wait outside.”

“Yeah,” she says, peeling her gloves off. “I’ll walk them out.” She turns back to Logan, whose eyelids are drooping a little now that the initial excitement of having visitors has started to wear off. “Logan, say bye to your friends.”

He lifts one hand in a loose, tragic wave. “Bye, friends.”

Dean looks genuinely affected. “Why did that make me sad?”

“Head injury makes him nicer,” Tucker says. “Maybe we should keep him like this.”

Garrett doesn’t laugh, but his mouth twitches. That tiny break in him is enough to make the room feel a fraction less tight. He lets her guide them out, walking last, still glancing back through the curtain like Logan might vanish if he stops looking. 

When they reach the hallway, she turns and plants both hands on Garrett’s chest before he can hover there indefinitely and slowly turn into hospital furniture.

“I’ve got him,” she says, softer now, because Dean and Tucker are a few steps ahead and because Garrett’s face has gone quiet again. “It’s okay.”

His hands hover for half a second before settling at her waist, careful and brief, the way he touches her when he remembers there are people around and he’s trying very hard to be normal about it. 

His thumb moves once against the side of her scrub top, a small restless stroke that gives him away completely. “You’ll come tell me?”

“Yeah. When the doctor comes back and they know more, I’ll come out.”

His eyes search her face like he wants to argue and knows she’ll win, which is maybe one of the more satisfying developments of the morning. Finally, he nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoes, then gives his chest a gentle push. “Go wait. And keep Dean from charming his way into a restricted area.”

Dean, already halfway down the hall, calls back, “I heard that.”

“You were meant to.”

Garrett’s mouth curves then, small and tired and stupidly soft at the edges. For one second, with the ED moving around them and Logan concussed behind a curtain and her Red Bull still sitting open somewhere going warm, he looks at her like she’s done something much more impressive than take a blood pressure and bully his friends into behaving. Like the competence of her has hit him somewhere inconvenient and he’s trying not to make it her problem.

Then he leans down just enough to murmur, “You’re really good at this.”

The compliment lands too warm and too directly in her chest, especially with her badge clipped crookedly to her pocket and dried coffee on one sleeve and the faint medicinal smell of the room still clinging to her. 

She looks away first, because there are some things she can handle in front of three hockey players and a charge nurse, and Garrett Graham looking proud of her is not one of them.

“Waiting room, Graham.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and backs away with both hands raised, smiling like an idiot.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ line?! | 02

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – a few weeks after drunk shakespeare, a coffee shop run-in turns into the conversation garrett should’ve had months ago. warnings – second-chance romance, post-breakup angst, apologies, jealousy/insecurity references, emotional conversation, strong language notes from me – so so so many requests for this!! so here you go, loves!! enjoy <3 word count – 9.7k

navigation – part 01 | masterlist | taglist

The coffee shop near campus always smelled like burnt espresso, cinnamon syrup, and wet wool in the winter, the kind of damp, overheated little student place where the windows fogged at the corners and everyone inside looked faintly trapped under their own deadlines. 

Backpacks knocked against chair legs. Someone in a Briar sweatshirt was hunched over a laptop at the counter with the desperate, glassy focus of a man about to submit an essay he had not read back once.

The barista kept calling out names that sounded nothing like what people had ordered under, and every time the door opened, cold air slid across the floor hard enough to make her press closer into Garrett’s side without really thinking about it.

Garrett Graham had this stupid, unfair body heat that made him impossible not to lean into, especially when they were standing in line and he had one hand laced through hers, loose but secure, thumb brushing absently over the side of her finger like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

Her other hand was wrapped around his forearm, fingers resting over the thick sleeve of his hoodie, holding him in place with a kind of lazy ownership she would have denied if anyone pointed it out. 

He’d come from morning skate, hair still damp at the edges from the shower, curls drying messily over his forehead, the faint clean smell of soap and cold air clinging to him beneath the richer, steadier scent that was just Garrett. 

His cheeks were a little pink from the wind. There was a small nick near his jaw from where he’d shaved badly or taken an elbow or committed some other hockey-adjacent act of violence against his own face, and every time he looked down at her, his mouth did that little half-lift like he was privately pleased she existed within arm’s reach.

“You’re staring,” he murmured, not moving his eyes from the menu board.

“I’m reading your face.”

Garrett huffed a laugh through his nose, thumb dragging once over the back of her hand. “Yeah? What’s it say?”

She tipped her head against his arm, squinting up at him like she was studying something academically important and not just the ridiculous line of his jaw. “Mostly, ‘I’m Garrett Graham and I think I’m very charming because strangers clap when I skate in circles.’”

He looked down at her then, grin spreading properly, bright and immediate enough that it made the old lady in front of them glance over like she had felt the wattage shift in the room. “Skate in circles?”

“Fast circles.”

“Baby, I scored twice last night.”

“I know,” she said, because she’d been there in the stands with her hands shoved into her sleeves and her throat going raw from yelling, because she’d seen the whole student section lose its collective mind when he slammed the puck into the net and turned with that sharp, triumphant lift of his chin like he had heard them all and expected nothing less. “Congratulations on your circles.”

Garrett leaned down, mouth brushing the top of her head in a kiss that was barely a kiss, more a warm press of amusement into her hair. “Mean.”

“You like me mean.”

“Mhm.”

She smiled despite herself, cheek still tucked near his bicep, her fingers tightening around his forearm for one second before relaxing again. 

The line shuffled forward. Garrett moved with it, bringing her with him by their joined hands, and for a few minutes everything was ordinary in the softest possible way.

The hiss of milk steaming. The sharp grind of beans. Garrett bending slightly to hear her over the noise when she muttered that the seasonal latte sounded like something invented by a candle company. His laugh warming the space just above her ear. Their hands swinging once between them when the guy behind the register dropped a stack of paper cups and swore under his breath.

Then the door opened behind them again, letting in a gust of cold and a cluster of perfume and high voices, and she felt Garrett’s attention shift before she even knew why. His head turned a fraction. His hand stilled in hers. The thumb stopped moving.

“Oh my god, Garrett!”

The voice was bright and delighted and close enough that she felt it hit the back of her neck before the girls fully came into view. There were three of them, all bundled in nice coats and glossy hair and the kind of leggings that had never once been asked to survive a dryer cycle. 

One of them had a Briar hockey beanie pulled low over her ears, the logo sitting right above her forehead like a small, knitted declaration of loyalty. They slid into the space beside him with easy confidence, smiling up at Garrett as if the line had simply rearranged itself to accommodate them and anyone attached to his hand was a background character.

“That game last night was insane,” the girl in the beanie said, eyes wide, lashes doing athletic work of their own. “Like, actually insane. You’re so good.”

Garrett’s mouth kicked up automatically, not the soft smile he’d been giving her, but the public one. The one with more teeth. The one that knew how to stand in a hallway after a win and absorb praise without looking too hungry for it. “Thanks. Yeah, it was a good one.”

“A good one?” another girl said, laughing like he’d said something far more charming than he had. “You destroyed them.”

He laughed, easy and low, shoulders shifting under her hand. “Wouldn’t say destroyed.”

“I would,” beanie girl said immediately. “That second goal? Are you kidding? We were screaming.”

“Yeah?” Garrett said, and it was harmless. It was nothing. It was the same voice he used with half of campus because half of campus seemed to know him, or want to know him, or want to be able to say they had stood close enough to smell his shampoo in a coffee shop line. 

He wasn’t touching them. He wasn’t flirting, not really. He was just being Garrett, open and amused and casually lit up by attention, the way he had been built to be before she ever got there. Still, her fingers tightened where they rested against his forearm.

Nobody looked at her. That was the part that made the first thin crack open under her ribs, not even a quick polite glance, not even the little social flicker people usually gave when they realised someone was standing close enough to matter. 

Their attention moved over her and around her with the smooth indifference of water around a rock, all of them angled toward Garrett like he was the only person in the coffee shop with a pulse.

Garrett shifted his weight. One of the girls said something about the next game, about seats, about maybe bringing a sign, and he laughed again, shaking his head. “Please don’t bring a sign.”

“Oh, we absolutely are now.”

“Great,” he said. “Love that for me.”

The line moved. The girl in the beanie stepped half a foot closer to avoid someone squeezing past with a drink carrier, and Garrett, without looking down, without seeming to register the exact mechanics of it, let go of her hand.

His hand simply opened. Hers was there, and then it wasn’t. The warmth vanished from between her fingers so suddenly that her whole body seemed to notice before her brain caught up, palm cooling in the empty air, arm hovering stupidly for half a second beside her hip. Something in her stomach dropped hard and clean, like stepping onto a stair that wasn’t there.

She pulled her hand back and folded both arms across her body, tucking her fingers under her elbows because she needed them somewhere and she refused to let them hang there looking abandoned. 

Her throat tightened in a way that felt childish enough to make her angry. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. It was a hand. He’d dropped her hand, not pushed her into traffic. He was allowed to speak to people. Girls were allowed to compliment him. 

The world had not ended because three pretty girls in expensive coats had decided Garrett Graham deserved to be admired over coffee. Unfortunately, her body didn’t seem interested in the rational legal framework of the situation.

Garrett was still talking. “Yeah, playoffs are gonna be brutal,” he said, one hand lifting briefly to rub at the back of his neck. “But we’re good. We’ve got it.”

“Of course you do,” one of the girls said, soft and admiring in a way that made her teeth press together.

She stared at the chalkboard menu until the words blurred into shapes. Latte. Mocha. Dirty chai. Almond milk seventy cents extra, because even milk alternatives had decided to participate in the humiliation. 

Her eyes prickled and she blinked once, hard, willing the feeling back down into her chest where it belonged. She would not cry in a coffee shop because her boyfriend was popular. She would not become the sort of girl who stood beside Garrett Graham and made a scene every time someone wanted a piece of him.

“Okay, well,” beanie girl finally said, dragging the words out with a smile, “good luck this weekend.”

“Thanks,” Garrett said.

“Bye, Garrett,” they chorused, all sweetness and perfume and teeth.

“Bye,” he said, giving them a quick little nod as they peeled away toward the pickup counter, one of them glancing back over her shoulder before whispering something that made the others laugh.

For a second, neither of them moved. The line had crept forward again, the old lady in front of them placing an order with surgical precision, and Garrett’s attention came back to her in pieces.

First the side of her face. Then the arms crossed tightly over her chest. Then the way she wasn’t looking at him.

He exhaled through his nose, quiet but not quiet enough. “Can we not do this shit here?”

Her head turned sharply, and the motion made the wetness in her eyes feel dangerously mobile. “Do what?”

Garrett’s jaw worked once. He glanced toward the counter, then back at her, lowering his voice. “This. Can we not have this argument again in public?”

The words landed badly, tired in a way that made the hurt flare into something hotter because now she was not only pathetic, she was predictable. A familiar inconvenience. A weather pattern he could see forming from across campus.

She shook her head, once, small and sharp, her mouth pressing together because if she opened it too fast something ugly was going to come out. “Fine.”

“Don’t do that.”

She looked away, blinking again, furious with herself for the stupid shine gathering at the bottom of her vision. “I’m not doing this here.”

Garrett made a frustrated sound under his breath, dragging a hand over his mouth. “What, I’m not allowed to talk to anyone now?”

Something in her face must have cracked because his expression shifted almost immediately, the defensive edge catching on whatever he saw in her eyes. She hated that too. Hated that he could make her feel small and then notice she was small and soften before she had decided whether she wanted him to.

“You dropped my hand,” she said, and it came out quieter than she meant it to. Worse, somehow. Small enough to be honest.

Garrett blinked. “I didn’t–” He stopped, looking down like his own hand might provide testimony. His fingers flexed once at his side, empty. “I didn’t mean to.”

She swallowed, arms still locked tight across her body. “Okay.”

“Baby.” He sounded less annoyed now, more strained, like the fight had shifted under his feet and he was scrambling to find the right angle before it got bigger. “I didn’t even realise.”

“I know.”

“But you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

Garrett stared at her.

She looked at him then, eyes still watery, face arranged with all the dignity she could scrape together while standing under a chalkboard advertisement for peppermint syrup. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” he said, in the careful voice of a man who didn’t believe her but had, at some point, developed a survival instinct. He reached for her hand again, fingers sliding between hers, warm and familiar, thumb pressing over her knuckles like he could put the thing back exactly where it had been. “There. Better?”

It should have made her angrier. Maybe it did, a little, because there was something so Garrett about the quick fix, the half-teasing delivery, the assumption that touch could smooth the wrinkle if he caught it fast enough. 

But his hand was around hers again, secure now, and her body betrayed her with immediate, humiliating relief. The awful hollow place in her stomach eased by half an inch.

She sighed through her nose, looking down at their joined hands. “Kind of.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t let it become a full smile. “Kind of?”

She gave him a look.

“Okay. Taking the win.” He tugged her closer with their linked hands, and after one stubborn second, she let herself be moved. Let her shoulder brush his chest. Let her crossed arm unfold just enough for her free hand to settle against his hoodie again, lower this time, more hesitant. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the top of hers, soft and brief, his lips lingering for a beat like an apology he hadn’t figured out how to say yet. “Come on. We’re up.”

The barista looked between them with the dead-eyed discretion of someone who had seen five breakups, two proposal rejections, and an entire group project meltdown before noon. Garrett stepped up to the counter without letting go of her hand.

“Hey,” he said, easy again but quieter, like some part of him was still turned toward her. “Can I get a large black coffee, and then a medium iced vanilla latte with oat milk, extra shot, light ice?”

She looked up despite herself.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Didn’t ask. Didn’t check. Simply ordered it exactly right, down to the light ice she always forgot to ask for until the cup came out ninety percent frozen and she got mad about forgetting to ask. 

The barista typed it in. Garrett added a blueberry muffin because she hadn’t eaten breakfast and he knew that too because his ability to be an idiot and devastatingly attentive within the same five-minute window remained one of his least convenient qualities.

When they moved to the pickup area, Garrett kept her hand until they reached the little stretch of wall near the napkins and sugar packets. Then he let go only to turn toward her properly, both hands finding the belt loops of her jeans and hooking there with gentle, familiar confidence.

He pulled her in a few inches, enough that she ended up standing between the brackets of his feet with the toe of one sneaker touching his.

She kept her eyes on the centre of his chest because his face was currently a problem. “You’re going to stretch my jeans.”

“They’ll survive.”

“They’re vintage.”

Garrett’s smile softened, and because he was unfair, because he had always been at his worst when he got quiet, he lifted one hand from her belt loop and brushed her hair back from her cheek. 

His fingers were warm against the side of her face, careful where they tucked a loose piece behind her ear. The noise of the coffee shop kept going around them, milk screaming, cups knocking, somebody laughing too loudly near the door, but the space between his chest and hers seemed to hush.

“Sorry,” he said.

Her throat moved around nothing. “For what?”

His thumb rested lightly near her cheekbone, not quite stroking yet. “I shouldn’t’ve dropped your hand.”

The words were simple enough that they slipped straight under the part of her trying to stay braced. 

She nodded once, small. “Okay.”

Garrett’s eyes searched her face with more patience than he’d had three minutes ago, the crease between his brows barely there but visible if you knew where to look. “I’m serious. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

Her lashes flickered. “Like what?”

He gave her a look then, knowing enough to make her chest ache. “Like you weren’t there.”

The back of her eyes burned again, which was absurd because he’d already apologised and she’d already decided not to cry in a place that charged six dollars for coffee. 

She nodded again, quicker this time, and tried to make her mouth do something normal. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not, really.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” His thumb moved then, a slow pass over the apple of her cheek, catching the edge of whatever expression she had failed to hide. “I’m saying sorry. Let me be mature for, like, ten seconds. This is rare for me.”

A laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. Small, wet at the edges, but real enough that his whole face changed in response, warming with relief like he’d been waiting for that exact sound. “You’re so annoying.”

“I know.” He leaned down a fraction, his forehead almost brushing hers, voice dipping lower. “Still sorry.”

She breathed out. The fight hadn’t disappeared, it had gone somewhere softer, folded itself into the familiar shape of his hands on her waist and his face close enough that she could see the faint shadow of stubble near his jaw. 

There were still girls at the pickup counter laughing over something, still a whole campus outside that knew Garrett’s name too easily, still the old sharp little worry that loving someone like him meant learning to share the sight of him with everyone. But right here, with his fingers hooked through her belt loops and his thumb warm on her cheek, the hurt had less room to move.

“It’s okay,” she said again, and this time she meant it enough for now.

Garrett watched her for a second longer, like he was checking whether the words had landed properly or just been placed there to end the conversation. Then he tugged her forward, gentle but decisive, and tucked her into his chest.

She went without much resistance, which was its own form of surrender. Her cheek found the front of his hoodie, right over the solid warmth of him, and she slid her arms around his waist with a quiet, grudging little sigh that made him huff a laugh above her. 

He rested his cheek on the top of her head, one arm folded around her back, the other hand still loose at her hip as they stood pressed together near the pickup counter like every other annoying couple on campus.

“You’re still kind of mad,” he murmured into her hair.

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Fair.”

“You ordered me a muffin.”

“I did.”

“That helped.”

His hand moved once along her back, not even a full rub, just a steadying pass that settled between her shoulder blades. “You gonna eat the muffin or just pick at it and tell me you’re not hungry?”

She closed her eyes against his chest, listening to the dull, steady thump under his hoodie, the low vibration of his voice moving through him before it reached the air. “Depends how sorry you are.”

Garrett laughed softly, cheek still pressed to her hair. “So I’m buying a second muffin.”

“Maybe.”

“Extortion.”

She smiled against him where he couldn’t see it. “Mhm.”

Their names were called a minute later, mangled so badly that Garrett lifted his head and squinted toward the counter. “Did he just call me Gerald?”

She tilted her face up, chin still against his chest. “Gerald Graham.”

“Don’t.”

“Briar hockey legend Gerald Graham.”

“I’ll leave you here.”

“No, you won’t.”

He looked down at her, and the smile that came over his face was softer than the joke deserved. “No,” he said, thumb brushing once at her hip before he finally let her go to grab their drinks. “I won’t.”

The coffee shop near campus hadn’t changed enough to be fair. That was the first thing she thought when she stepped inside and the bell above the door gave its same thin, tired little jangle, barely audible over the hiss of milk steaming and the flat slap of someone dropping a notebook onto a table. 

Same foggy windows. Same uneven line curling past the pastry case. Same chalkboard menu with seasonal drinks written in careful, loopy handwriting. Same smell of burnt espresso and cinnamon syrup and damp coats warming too fast under bad heating.

Different month. Different coat. Different ache under her ribs.

She stood in line with her hands shoved into her sleeves, trying not to look at the stretch of wall near the pickup counter where she had once stood tucked against Garrett’s chest.

It was stupid, how places did that, held onto things without permission. A table wasn’t just a table if you had once sat there with your knee pressed against someone else’s under it. A corner wasn’t just a corner if someone had kissed the top of your head there while your coffee went cold.

It had been a few weeks since Drunk Shakespeare, which meant it had also been a few weeks since Garrett had driven her home while she sat glittering and drunk in his passenger seat, apologising with her fingers caught in his sweater like she could keep the night from ending if she held on hard enough. 

She remembered pieces of the drive more clearly than she’d expected to. The low warmth from the heater against her bare knees. Garrett’s hands on the wheel, steady, thumbs resting near the spokes. The quiet between them that didn’t feel empty so much as overfilled. 

His voice, once, asking if she was going to make it to her door without eating pavement. Her own voice, offended and slurred, telling him she had incredible balance. The way he’d smiled at the road and not pushed.

He’d walked her up. He’d waited while she found her keys. He hadn’t kissed her, which had somehow felt kinder and worse than if he had. He’d only said, “Text Allie before she murders me,” and stood there with his hands in his pockets until she got inside.

Since then, they’d existed in the strange, charged quiet of almost. A couple of texts about nothing much. One from her the next morning saying, got home alive, sorry if I was insane. One from him ten minutes later, saying, you accused me of whoring for theatre but otherwise pretty manageable. Then a pause. Then, seriously though, you okay? 

And she had stared at that one for too long before answering, yeah. hungover but okay. thank you for getting me home. He had replied, always, which was unfairly Garrett of him and therefore had been left unanswered for two full hours because she didn’t trust herself around the word.

After that, campus had become a series of almost-run-ins. Garrett across the quad with Logan and Tucker, head tipped back laughing at something Logan said with too much hand movement. Garrett outside the rink, hair wet from a shower, duffel bag over one shoulder, eyes catching on hers for one second before the flow of people separated them. Garrett in the back of a lecture hall she was passing, pencil between his fingers, looking down at his notes with a focus that made her chest hurt. 

And now she had three missed calls from Allie about rehearsal scheduling, a tote bag heavy with scripts and notebooks digging into her shoulder, and an iced vanilla latte waiting at the end of the counter with her name on the sticker, spelled wrong in a way that had begun to feel personal.

She grabbed it too fast, because the strap of her bag was slipping and the student beside her was reaching for their own cup and someone behind her said “excuse me” with the panic of a man late to a class he was already failing.

Her fingers closed around cold plastic. She turned and ran straight into Garrett Graham’s chest.

The lid popped under her palm. Coffee sloshed up against the inside of the cup, a thin beige wave nearly breaching the plastic rim before she jerked it back with a sharp, breathless, “Sorry!”

His hands came up immediately, not quite touching her, hovering in the space around her arms as if his body had started to catch her and his brain had hit the brakes. 

“No, no, my bad–” Garrett stopped so abruptly the sentence almost tripped over itself. His eyes flicked from her drink to her face, and then the back of his neck flushed faintly above the collar of his hoodie. “I was, fuck. I was standing too close to you. I wanted to talk to you, but I–” He let out a short breath, half laugh, half embarrassment, dragging one hand through his hair. “Sorry. That’s my bad.”

For a second, she just looked at him. He was close enough that the coffee shop noise seemed to soften into static around them. Navy Briar hockey hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Dark curls a little flattened at one side like he’d been wearing a cap recently and had taken it off without checking the damage. 

A faint shadow along his jaw. A healing bruise near one cheekbone, yellowed at the edges, barely visible unless someone had spent too many hours learning the geography of his face from too close. She had the stupidest urge to touch it.

Instead, she adjusted her grip on the cup and shook her head. “No, that’s… that’s okay.”

Garrett’s mouth pulled slightly, careful around the smile like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to use the full thing. His eyes dropped to the drink in her hand, and something softer crossed his face. “Iced vanilla latte. Extra shot?”

The smallness of it got her, like a finger pressed gently into an old bruise. She huffed a laugh before she could stop it, looking down at the cup because looking at him while he remembered things was dangerous. “Yeah.”

“Light ice?”

Her eyes closed briefly. “Fuck.” She looked at the cup, already mostly ice. “I forgot to ask.”

Garrett laughed under his breath, warm and immediate, the little thread between then and now pulling tight enough to feel. “Rookie mistake.”

“I’ve been ordering coffee by myself for weeks, Graham. I’m basically feral.”

“Clearly. No supervision at all.”

She laughed softly, enough that his shoulders loosened by a fraction. The space between them was awkward in that particular way that came after knowing someone’s body better than you knew how to talk to them. 

Too close felt reckless. Too far felt theatrical. They stood in the worst possible middle of it near the pickup counter while people moved around them with winter coats and laptops and paper cups, the whole coffee shop politely refusing to pause for the resurrection of anyone’s romantic history.

Garrett rubbed his thumb once along the side of his own cup, which she only noticed because she was trying not to stare at his mouth. “Um.” He glanced toward the door, then back at her. “How’ve you been?”

She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Good. Been… busy. But good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She shifted the tote bag higher on her shoulder. “Rehearsals have been kind of insane. Dexter decided we need to add another audience bit because, uh, chaos is cheaper than therapy.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “That tracks.”

“And one of my classes has decided the end of semester is a great time to discover group presentations, which feels illegal.”

“It should be.”

“Right?” She took a small sip of the coffee and immediately winced at the amount of ice crowding the straw. “Anyway. Busy. But good.”

Garrett nodded, eyes staying on her face like he was trying very hard not to miss any of it. “Same. Hockey’s been…” He paused, because hockey was not simply busy. “A lot. We’ve got playoffs coming up, so Coach is in that fun stage where every drill feels like a personal attack.”

She smiled despite herself. “So normal and relaxed.”

“Very. Love when a grown man with a whistle implies my moral character depends on backchecking.”

Something small moved in her chest. The whistle. She knew enough about that word to hear the edge buried under the joke, even if he smoothed it fast.

Garrett must have seen the flicker in her face because his expression shifted a little. He looked down briefly, then toward the cluster of worn couches near the front window. One was empty, the ugly brown one with the sagging middle and the little round table beside it carved with three sets of initials and what looked like a poorly drawn penis. 

He gestured toward it with his cup, casual enough that it was almost convincing. “Did you want to sit?”

The question hung there, stupidly huge for something so ordinary.

She looked at the couch. Then at him. “Sure.”

They moved together without touching, which somehow required more concentration than holding hands ever had. Garrett let her go first through the narrow gap between tables, turning slightly to block the path when a guy with a backpack nearly clipped her shoulder, and she pretended not to notice because noticing all the quiet practical things he did had always been bad for her. 

He sat on the far end of the couch, leaving space between them. She sat beside him with one leg tucked slightly under the other, coffee balanced between both hands, the tote bag at her feet. The cushion dipped toward him in the middle, gravity taking a side in the matter.

For a few seconds, they only drank coffee and watched campus move past the fogged glass. Outside, people hurried with their shoulders hunched, scarves pulled up, cheeks pink from the cold. A couple paused under the awning to share one umbrella so badly that both of them were getting wet and laughing about it. 

Garrett nodded toward the script peeking from her tote. “So what’s the next one? More public indecency with classical literature?”

She snorted into her straw. “Not this time. It’s technically contemporary.”

“Technically?”

“There’s no good way to explain it without sounding pretentious.”

“I watched a man in velvet call me pookie in front of half of Briar. I think I can handle pretentious.”

“Fair.” She leaned back into the couch, feeling the old shape of talking to him slide in before she could brace against it. “It’s this weird little black-box thing about a family dinner that goes completely off the rails. Everyone’s lying to everyone. Somebody finds out their dad has a second family. There’s a monologue about soup that makes no sense until the last scene, and then it somehow ruins your life.”

Garrett stared at her. “Soup?”

“It’s symbolic.”

“Of the second family?”

“No, of the mother’s emotional repression.”

“Obviously,” he said, nodding solemnly. “My bad.”

She bit back a smile. “I told you it sounded pretentious.”

“No, no, I’m following. Soup equals trauma.”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

“And you’re in it?”

“Yeah. I’m the younger daughter. So basically I spend two hours trying to keep everyone calm and then I scream at a roast chicken.”

Garrett’s eyes lit with amusement. “That feels right for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean that as a compliment.”

“You think I have scream-at-poultry energy?”

“I think you have very strong ‘I’ve been polite for too long and now everyone needs to suffer’ energy.”

She laughed then, properly, and Garrett’s face did that awful, lovely thing where he looked pleased before he could hide it. It softened the line of his mouth, took some of the caution from his eyes, and for half a second they weren’t exes sitting on a couch with weeks of bad history between their knees. They were just them, caught in the tiny relief of making each other laugh.

“What about you?” she asked, because the quiet after her laugh was too warm. “How’s hockey besides the moral backchecking?”

Garrett groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “Brutal. Logan took a puck to the thigh during practice yesterday and spent twenty minutes acting like he’d been shot in a war.”

“That sounds like Logan.”

“He made Tuck look at it.”

“Why?”

“Because he said Tucker has dad energy and would know if it was medically concerning.”

She looked at him over the lid of her coffee. “Did Tucker know?”

“Tucker poked it once and said, ‘That’s gonna bruise.’”

She smiled into her straw. “And Dean?”

“Dean suggested amputating.”

“Helpful.”

“Then he asked if we thought the scar would make Logan hotter.”

“And did you?”

Garrett looked at her, deadpan. “I said nothing because I’m a leader.”

“You absolutely said something.”

“I said scars are earned and whining subtracts sex appeal.”

She dissolved into another laugh, softer this time, one hand coming up to cover part of her mouth. “God, I forgot how stupid your house is.”

“Our house has layers.”

“Your house has mould.”

“We’re working on it.”

“You’ve been saying that since October.”

“Growth isn’t linear,” Garrett said, with such serious conviction that she had to look away before her face gave too much.

The conversation kept going after that, clumsy at first and then less so, like a machine clearing dust from its gears. Classes. Theatre gossip. Hockey gossip. Dean having decided he could cook because he made pasta once and then nearly poisoned the entire house. Tucker quietly throwing it out while Dean was distracted. Logan buying one of those massage guns and using it on his shoulder for approximately eight minutes before deciding it was too intimate and refusing to explain further. Allie texting her a photo of Dexter asleep on a prop couch with a half-eaten bagel on his chest and the caption our fearless leader has fallen.

Garrett laughed at all the right places. Listened at the right places too, which was more dangerous. He asked about the monologue she’d been nervous about, remembered the name of the professor she hated, made a face when she said her group project partner had used the phrase synergy in a theatre presentation. 

He talked about practice and team pressure without performing too much around it, one hand wrapped around his coffee, elbow on his knee, his shoulder angled toward her like he’d forgotten the space was supposed to stay neutral.

And she tried not to think about his hand in hers in this exact shop, the sudden empty air when he let go, the way her body had learned that loving Garrett in public meant being prepared to disappear without warning. The problem with trying not to think about something was that it tended to sit down beside you and order a drink.

She turned her cup slowly between both palms, watching the ice shift in the plastic. “I just wanted to say…” Her voice came out too quiet, and Garrett stopped mid-sip, eyes lifting to her immediately. That almost made it harder. “Properly, I mean. Not drunk in your car after calling you a stage whore.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t interrupt.

She breathed out, a careful little stream through her nose. The coffee shop felt too loud suddenly. Too bright. Someone near the window laughed at a video on their phone, tinny audio cutting through the room for two seconds before it stopped. The espresso machine shrieked. Her straw clicked against the lid once when her hand shifted.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking at the cup because the cup was safer. “About how everything went down between us. I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to end like that.”

Garrett didn’t say anything immediately. When she finally made herself look up, his expression had gone quiet in a way that made him look older than he usually did, less like the boy who could turn a whole rink toward him with one goal and more like the person underneath all that noise.

“You don’t have to–”

“I do,” she said, and the quickness of it surprised both of them. She softened her grip around the cup. “I do, Garrett. I was really hurt, and I think I made that your problem in ways that weren’t fair sometimes. Or… I don’t know. Maybe some of it was fair, but not all of it. I don’t think I knew how to tell you what was actually wrong without making it sound like I wanted you to become someone else.”

His jaw shifted once. He looked down at his own cup, thumb pressing lightly into the cardboard sleeve. “Someone less me.”

She swallowed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

A flicker crossed his face. A bruise accepting pressure.

“I didn’t want that,” she said, quieter now. “Not really. I loved you because you were you. The whole stupid Garrett Graham package. The hockey and the charm and the fact that bartenders and professors and elderly women all somehow think you’re delightful.” Her mouth pulled slightly, but the smile didn’t stay. “I just didn’t know how to be next to it without feeling like I was always one second away from being… I don’t know. Replaced? Embarrassed? Like everyone else knew some version of you I was supposed to pretend didn’t matter.”

Garrett looked at her then. Fully. No easy smile, no joke ready in his mouth.

She made herself keep going before she could lose the nerve. “And then I would get upset, and you’d get defensive, and I’d feel stupid, and then I’d be mean because feeling stupid made me want to bite something. So. Sorry.”

His mouth moved, almost. He huffed a breath, not a laugh. “You did bite.”

“I know.”

“Metaphorically.”

“Mostly.”

That got the smallest smile from him, there and gone. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, cup dangling loosely between his hands. For a second, he watched the traffic of people outside the window. Then he nodded, once, not like he was agreeing with everything, but like he was choosing where to begin.

“I’m sorry too,” he said. “For a lot of it.”

She looked at him.

Garrett kept his eyes on the window for another beat before bringing them back to her. “I think I acted like if I wasn’t doing anything technically wrong, then you weren’t allowed to be hurt. Which is…” He grimaced slightly. “Not my best work.”

Her throat tightened with a small, awful tenderness. “No.”

“No,” he agreed, and the corner of his mouth twitched without humour. “And I don’t think I always understood that something could be nothing to me and still feel like shit to you. Like girls coming up after games, or people talking about stuff from before us, or… whatever.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes dropping briefly to the table between them. “I thought if I said it didn’t mean anything, that should be enough.”

She turned the cup again, slower now. “Sometimes I wanted it to be.”

“Yeah.” His voice went softer. “Me too.”

The words settled between them, not fixing anything, but making the shape of the broken thing clearer. She felt herself breathing differently. Deeper, as if her ribs had been holding one position for months and had finally been allowed to move.

“I also got tired,” Garrett said, and the honesty of it made her eyes lift again. He looked careful, but not cruel. “Not of you. I don’t mean that. I just… I didn’t know how to keep proving I wanted you in a way that actually sunk in. And then I’d get frustrated because I felt like I was failing a test I didn’t understand, and I’d make it worse by being an asshole about it.”

She nodded, a small, painful thing. “You did make it worse sometimes.”

“I know.” He glanced at her, mouth softening faintly. “You made it worse sometimes too.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They sat in that for a moment, the kind of quiet that would have terrified her once because it wasn’t clean. Nobody had won. Nobody had produced the perfect sentence that made all the old versions of them behave better retroactively. There was only Garrett on the couch beside her, coffee cooling in his hand, telling the truth without trying to charm his way around the ugly parts.

She was opening her mouth to say something else – she didn’t even know what yet, only that it felt important, something about how the coffee shop had been one of the places she kept thinking about, how stupid it was, how small things had started to feel enormous because she had been too proud to ask for them directly – when a voice cut through the space beside them.

“Garrett!”

Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. The universe loved symmetry when it was being a bitch.

Garrett turned his head. Two girls had stopped near the edge of the couch, both holding drinks, one with a Briar hockey sweatshirt half-hidden under her coat. Pretty. Bright. Familiar in the campus way, faces she might have seen at games or parties or in the background of someone else’s Instagram story. 

One of them was already smiling like she had caught him at a perfect time because Garrett Graham sitting alone with a girl-shaped person didn’t register as occupied in the eyes of the general public.

“Oh my god, hi,” the girl said, stepping closer. “Sorry, we just wanted to say–”

Her fingers tightened around her cup. The conversation they’d been having folded in on itself immediately, delicate as tissue paper in a fist. Heat crawled up her neck, her body remembered before her mind had time to decide what was fair. The hand opening. The sudden empty air. Her arms crossing over her body in this same coffee shop while Garrett smiled for someone else.

Her gaze dropped to the table. That was it, then. Stupid, ugly, inevitable. He hadn’t changed. Not really. Maybe nobody did. Maybe people could apologise and mean it and still remain exactly themselves when the world came knocking. 

Garrett would smile politely, and the girls would gush about the game, and she would sit there holding a watery latte while the old humiliation slid itself neatly back under her skin like it knew the route.

Garrett’s voice came before the girl could finish. “I’m having a conversation.”

He didn’t snap it across the coffee shop or make some dramatic scene that would turn heads. He said it evenly, with a polite little smile still on his mouth, but his brow had drawn in just enough to make the words land solid.

The girl blinked. “Oh, but–”

Garrett shook his head once. “But nothing. I’m in the middle of a conversation.” His tone stayed calm, almost gentle at the edges, which somehow made it firmer. “Don’t interrupt.”

The second girl’s mouth parted slightly. The first went pink in the cheeks, eyes flicking for the first time toward the couch, toward the space, toward the drink in her hands and the conversation she had walked directly into like it had been invisible until Garrett made it visible.

“Oh,” she said, awkward now. “Sorry.”

Garrett nodded, not unkindly. “It’s alright.”

The girls retreated with the stiff, embarrassed quickness of people who had expected a fan-service moment and instead been handed a boundary in public.

Garrett turned back to her like nothing especially dramatic had happened, though there was a faint tension in his jaw and a carefulness in his eyes when he found her face again. “Sorry,” he said. “What were you saying?”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

The coffee shop was still noisy around them. The espresso machine still screamed. Someone by the door still laughed too loudly. Outside, students still moved past the window with collars turned up against the cold. Nothing had stopped, and yet the whole air around the couch felt different, rearranged around one ordinary sentence he had not managed to say back then.

I’m having a conversation.

Her fingers loosened around the cup. She looked down at it for a second because her face felt too open, like if she kept staring at him he would see everything move through her at once: surprise, relief, the small sharp grief of knowing he could have done that before but didn’t know how, the softer ache of watching him do it now.

She let out a breath that almost became a laugh but didn’t quite. “I think I forgot.”

His mouth softened. “Sorry.”

“No.” She shook her head, eyes lifting back to his. “No, it’s fine. I just…” Her voice thinned, and she hated it, so she swallowed and tried again. “Thank you.”

He looked down briefly, the tips of his ears going faintly pink in a way that was so stupidly sweet she wanted to be angry about it. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t have to be mean.”

“I wasn’t mean. Kind of proud of myself, actually.”

A laugh escaped her then, small and helpless, and Garrett’s smile appeared in response, cautious but real. The relief of it made her chest hurt. “You want a sticker?”

“Maybe. Depends what it says.”

“Congratulations on basic manners.”

“I’d wear that.”

“You would.”

“On my helmet,” he said. “Very intimidating.”

She shook her head, but the smile stayed this time, even as her eyes stung a little. His expression shifted, humour easing back into something quieter.

“I should’ve done that before,” he said.

The sentence went straight through the middle of her. She looked at him for a long second. “Yeah.”

“I know.” He nodded, taking it without flinching. 

There was no point in pretending that didn’t matter. It mattered too much, actually. It mattered in a way that made her want to reach across the space between them and also made her want to sit on her hands to keep from doing exactly that. 

Because if he had done it before, maybe some tiny pieces of them wouldn’t have gone wrong in the same way. But he hadn’t. And now he had. And both things existed at once, irritatingly, painfully, without cancelling each other out.

She drew a slow breath, then set her cup on the table because her hands needed freedom from the evidence of how much she was feeling. “I was going to say,” she began, voice more stable now, “that I think I wanted you to guess a lot of things I never actually said.”

Garrett’s eyes stayed on hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Which is unfair. I know that.” She picked at the edge of the cardboard sleeve he had peeled halfway from his cup and abandoned on the table, just to have somewhere to put her fingers. “But sometimes saying it out loud felt so humiliating. Like, please hold my hand when girls talk to you. Please don’t make me feel like I’m standing beside you with a big invisible sign over my head that says temporary. Please make it obvious that I matter before I have to ask and then feel insane for asking.”

Garrett’s throat moved. He didn’t speak right away.

“And then because I didn’t say it like that,” she continued, softer, “it came out sideways. Like I was mad you had a past, or mad that people liked you, or mad that you were…” Her mouth tilted faintly. “You know. Disgustingly social.”

“Disgustingly social,” he repeated, with a weak little smile.

“You are. It’s one of your illnesses.”

“I’ve been meaning to get that checked.”

She almost smiled back, but the rest of the words were still there, waiting. “And I think you heard it as me trying to punish you for things you couldn’t change.”

“Sometimes,” Garrett admitted.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“I know that now.”

Her eyes lifted. He leaned back against the couch, but not away from her. His hand was still on his coffee, his fingers tapping once against the lid before stilling. “Or I understand it better now, I guess. I don’t think I did then. I was so focused on the part where I felt accused that I missed the part where you were asking me to make room for you.” He paused, mouth pressing together like the next part did not come easily. “And I should’ve wanted to do that without acting like it was a burden.”

The words weren’t polished. They had little awkward edges. That made them worse, somehow, because she could hear him working through it instead of reciting something tidy.

She sat very still beside him. “I don’t think I made it easy.”

“No,” Garrett said, and the quick honesty of it pulled a startled laugh out of her. His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “You didn’t. You get mean when you’re scared.”

Her laugh faded slowly. She looked down at the table. “Yeah.”

“I get defensive when I feel like I’m failing.” His voice softened. “Great combo.”

“Terrible.”

“Historically bad.”

“People should study us.”

“They’d cancel the course.”

That made her smile, and the quiet after it was gentler than before. Garrett watched her for a moment, then shifted slightly closer, enough that the space on the couch changed by an inch. She noticed. He noticed that she noticed. Neither of them called attention to it.

“I miss you,” he said.

Her breath caught. She looked at him and found no performance in his face, no cocky half-grin waiting to rescue him if she didn’t answer. Garrett Graham, who could walk into any room and let it bend toward him, was sitting on an ugly coffee shop couch with a cooling drink in his hand, looking nervous enough that her chest went tender in self-defence.

“Yeah?” she asked.

His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. “Yeah.”

She nodded, once. “I miss you too.”

Garrett’s eyes closed for half a second. A blink that lasted too long, like something in him had unclenched and needed a moment before he trusted it. When he opened them again, they were warmer. Less guarded.

“Even when I was mad at you,” she added, because honesty had become contagious and she resented it.

“Same.”

“Even when I told Allie I hoped your next shot tasted like hand sanitiser.”

Garrett’s brows lifted. “That’s specific.”

“It was after Drunk Shakespeare.”

“Ah.” He nodded, solemn. “Honestly? Some of them did.”

“Good.”

“Deserved.”

She pressed her lips together around another smile. “You were very annoying that night.”

“I was kidnapped.”

“You thrived.”

“I adapted.”

“You got shirtless.”

Garrett gave her a look. “There was a chant.”

“Oh, well, if there was a chant.”

“I’m an athlete. Crowd energy affects my decision-making.”

“That explains so much about you.”

He laughed, and this time the sound didn’t hurt in the same way. Or it did, but differently, like blood returning to a sleeping limb, pins and needles and relief tangled together.

They stayed there longer than either of them probably meant to. Her coffee watered down. Garrett’s went lukewarm. The afternoon thinned at the windows, pale light sliding across the little table between them, catching the condensation rings and the tiny pile of sugar granules someone had spilled. 

People came and went. A study group took over the long table by the wall. The barista changed shifts. A guy in a hoodie knocked over a chair and apologised to it before realising furniture could not accept.

The conversation wandered again after the heavy parts, because neither of them could stand inside all that seriousness forever. 

Garrett told her Logan had been banned from using the phrase team morale after trying to justify ordering four pizzas at midnight on a Tuesday. She told him Allie had started referring to one of their castmates as the man with the emotional range of a damp sock and nobody could remember his real name anymore. 

Garrett admitted Dean had asked, with disturbing sincerity, whether theatre people did cast parties better than hockey players. She said yes, obviously, because theatre people had more glitter and fewer protein shakers. Garrett said Dean would take that personally. She said Dean took mirrors personally.

At some point, her knee had ended up angled toward his. At some point, Garrett’s hand had shifted from his cup to the couch cushion between them, fingers resting loose near the seam. At some point, she’d stopped planning every breath before she took it.

Eventually, Garrett looked at the time on his phone and made a face. “I’ve got practice in forty.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket but didn’t stand. His eyes came back to her, and the hesitation there made her stomach warm and nervous all at once. “Can I ask you something?”

She tried for casual and only half-landed it. “Depends.”

“Can we get dinner tonight?”

The words were simple. Almost too simple for the way they moved through her. Dinner. Dinner had a time and a table and the possibility of sitting across from each other without using a coffee shop accident as an excuse. Dinner meant choice.

Garrett must have read something on her face because he leaned in slightly, quick to clarify. “Doesn’t have to be a whole thing. I just… I’d like to keep talking. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like burnt milk”

Her mouth twitched. “You don’t find this romantic?”

“I do, actually. That’s the problem. I’m being vulnerable beside a drawing of a penis carved into a table.”

She glanced down despite herself. “It’s a very detailed penis.”

“We deserve better.”

She laughed softly, then looked at him, really looked at him. At the cautious hope he was trying not to let take over his face. At the bruise fading near his cheekbone. At the curls falling over his forehead. At the boy she had loved, the boy who had hurt her, the boy who had just told two girls not to interrupt because he was having a conversation with her.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe enough was the wrong thing to be asking for from one coffee shop conversation and one public boundary and one apology that had taken months to become possible. But something inside her had shifted, turned toward warmth.

“Yeah,” she said. Her voice came out quieter than she expected, but steady. “I’d really like that.”

Garrett’s smile spread slowly, like he was trying to behave and failing in increments. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“I would never.”

She gave him a look.

“I would try very hard not to,” he amended.

“Better.”

He laughed, then stood because he actually did have practice and because if they sat there too long, the moment would start growing extra limbs. He grabbed his cup, then hers, nodding toward the trash. “You done?”

“Yeah. It’s mostly ice now.”

“Tragic.”

“You could’ve prevented this.”

“I know.” He took the cup from her, fingers brushing hers for one tiny second. Warm and brief and a little devastating. “Dinner. Seven?”

She nodded, watching him toss both cups into the bin. “Seven works.”

“I’ll text you.”

“You still have my number?”

Garrett turned back to her with the kind of look that made her immediately regret giving him the opening. “Baby.”

The word landed before either of them could stop it. He froze for half a second. So did she. It was soft. Accidental. Familiar enough to hurt and warm enough to make the hurt complicated.

Garrett cleared his throat, his hand going through his hair. “Sorry. Habit.”

Her cheeks felt warm. She looked down, then back up, because pretending it hadn’t happened would somehow make it louder. “It’s okay.”

His eyes held hers for a second, careful again but not retreating. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

The door opened and cold air moved through the coffee shop, lifting the ends of her hair and making the napkins on the counter flutter. Garrett glanced toward it, then back at her, shifting like he genuinely hated leaving and was annoyed at practice for existing in the middle of his own life.

“I should go,” he said.

“You should.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He still didn’t move for another beat, and the smile that pulled at her mouth was small but real. Finally, Garrett backed up one step, then another, pointing at her as he moved toward the door. “Seven.”

“Practice,” she reminded him.

“I’m going.”

“You’re walking backwards in a coffee shop.”

“Because I’m charming.”

“You’re going to hit someone.”

“I’m very agile.”

He bumped lightly into a chair behind him. She raised her eyebrows.

Garrett steadied it with one hand, dignity only mildly damaged. “Chair came out of nowhere.”

She nodded solemnly. “Violent furniture.”

“Exactly.” He grinned then, full Garrett for one bright second, and her chest answered before she could tell it not to. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She nodded, fingers curling around the strap of her tote bag. “See you tonight.”

He turned and left before either of them could ruin it by adding one sentence too many. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped out into the cold, hoodie pulled up against the wind, shoulders broad beneath the navy fabric. 

Through the fogged window, she watched him pause on the sidewalk just long enough to pull out his phone. Hers buzzed a second later.

Garrett: Seven. And I’ll ask for light ice next time.

She stared at the message until her face started doing something dangerously close to smiling, then typed back with cold fingers and a heart that had no sense of self-preservation.

big talk from a man who got humbled by furniture.

The reply came almost immediately.

Garrett: Chair had bad intentions.

She laughed under her breath, small and stupid and impossible to stop, standing there in the same coffee shop where something had once gone wrong in a way neither of them had known how to fix. 

Then she slipped her phone into her pocket, picked up her bag, and stepped back into the afternoon with the strange, tender feeling that maybe not everything had to stay broken exactly where it broke.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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garrett graham ❄︎ line?!

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – one drunk shakespeare performance turns into old feelings, bad decisions, and garrett graham onstage where he absolutely does not belong. warnings – alcohol, drunk characters, jealousy, post-breakup angst, suggestive jokes, strong language notes from me – as voted!! thank u for the request, anon!! angst is not my strong suit – but i hope u enjoy!! word count – 12.3k

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The lobby’s already humming by the time she comes out. Coats sliding off shoulders, somebody laughing too loudly near the bar, plastic cups being passed hand to hand, perfume and beer and winter air and stage makeup all blurring together under the old gold wash of the sconces.

The crowd had arrived ready to be made part of something, which is always a little dangerous when the premise involves Shakespeare, liquor, and actors encouraged by applause to make increasingly worse decisions.

She stood near the far side of the room with the rest of the cast half-scattered around the floor, exactly where they’d been told to be for the pre-show mingling, smiling like her stomach wasn’t doing small, hostile little turns beneath all the pretty fabric. 

The outfit helped. There were worse ways to feel emotionally unstable than in a pink corset that made her waist look tiny and a sheer midi skirt that moved around her legs in soft, layered pieces, all gauzy and petal-thin whenever she shifted her weight. 

Glitter sat over the high points of her cheekbones, dusted down over her collarbones and the slope of her chest, catching every time she turned toward the lights. 

Allie had done it with the focus of a surgeon and the morals of a drag queen, leaning in close in the dressing room and saying, “If one person doesn’t accidentally walk into a wall tonight, I’ve failed.”

So, yes. The outfit helped. It didn’t, unfortunately, make her immune to Garrett Graham walking into a room.

Which was rude, honestly. Deeply rude. Months should have been enough time for a body to stop reacting to one specific man. Months should have been enough time for the sight of broad shoulders in a fitted sweater and dark curls and that stupid easy way he moved through a crowd to become a normal campus sighting, like a flyer for open mic night or a freshman crying outside the library. Something observed. Something passed.

Instead, the second the doors opened and Garrett came in with Tucker beside him and Dean a half-step ahead, her hand tightened around the plastic cup she wasn’t drinking from, the cheap rim biting lightly into her palm.

He looked good, of course. It would’ve been too merciful of the universe to let him come in looking tired or badly dressed or even slightly humbled by the winter. But no. Olive-green fitted knit, black pants, chain at his throat catching under the lobby lights in one small flash that felt frankly targeted. 

His hair was doing the annoying Garrett thing where it looked messy in a way she knew took no effort at all. He laughed at something Dean said as they came in, head tilting, mouth bright, shoulders loose, and the sound hit somewhere behind her ribs before she had time to brace for it.

Amazing. Fantastic. Great start.

She had broken up with him. This was a fact she kept returning to with the grim determination of a person trying to build a table out of wet cardboard. 

She had done it. She had said the words. She had decided she couldn’t keep standing in the middle of whatever they were, feeling like she was being measured against a whole campus of girls who had touched him before her, after her, near her, around her, in stories told too casually by boys who forgot she was in the room. 

She had been the one who got tired of swallowing the old hurt and pretending it wasn’t humiliating to know exactly how easily Garrett had been wanted before her. 

And he had been tired too, in his own way. Tired of needing her to be fine when she wasn’t. Tired of not knowing what to do with all the stuff in her that didn’t arrange itself neatly around his games, his schedule, his charm, his ability to walk into a room and be adored without seeming to ask.

They had loved each other badly for a while. Or maybe not badly, maybe just youngly. Messily. With too much pride and not enough skill.

Still, some ugly little part of her had thought they might circle back eventually. Maybe they’d talk one night after a party. Maybe he’d text. Maybe she would. Maybe they’d find each other in the line at the coffee place and it wouldn’t feel like stepping wrong on a bruised ankle anymore.

And then there was Hannah. Pretty, sweet Hannah, with the clear voice and the soft eyes and the kind of face that made jealousy feel especially tacky, because what was she supposed to do, dislike someone for being lovely? 

Garrett had been around her lately. Enough that people noticed. Enough that even if nobody had said anything directly, campus had done what campus always did and arranged a narrative out of sightings: Garrett and Hannah walking together after class, Garrett laughing beside her outside the music building, Garrett standing with his head bent toward her like he was listening properly. Garrett looking happy.

Now he’d barely made it three steps inside before his eyes found her. Hannah stood near the centre tables with Justin, hands wrapped around a cup, smiling up at him when he approached. Garrett’s face changed when he saw her. A small, immediate softening, a shift around the eyes, the kind of thing that had once made her feel chosen when it happened in her direction, and now made the inside of her mouth taste faintly metallic.

He crossed the room to Hannah like it was the most obvious place in the world for his body to go. She looked away before it could get humiliating.

“Careful,” Dean said beside her, not looking at Garrett, which meant he absolutely had been looking at Garrett. “You’re making the cup beg for mercy.”

She glanced down and realised the plastic had dented under her fingers. “It likes it.”

Dean’s mouth pulled into a grin. He looked almost offensively at ease in the lobby, all tall limbs and rich-boy posture, holding his drink with the lazy entitlement of someone who had never once questioned whether he belonged in a room. 

Dean Di Laurentis was a ridiculous person in many, many ways, but he had turned out to be a surprisingly decent friend once sex had been removed from the table with a large, permanent sign reading Garrett’s ex, do not touch unless you enjoy being murdered by a teammate and possibly also God. 

He still flirted as a reflex sometimes, but only in the harmless, atmospheric way he flirted with bartenders, professors, elderly women, and traffic lights. But mostly he’d just been a decent friend. He kept making stupid jokes. Kept inviting her into conversations when Garrett was around and things got weird. Kept pretending not to notice when she needed two seconds to recover from seeing her ex with his new girl.

“Very healthy dynamic you and the cup have,” Tucker said from Dean’s other side.

She looked at him, grateful for the dry landing. “Thank you. We’re working through some things.”

Tucker nodded solemnly. “Communication is key.”

Beau, who had been standing with them in the slightly dazed posture of a man who had agreed to come to theatre with hockey players and was now realising the bar had been a survival mechanism, lifted his drink. “I’m just excited to be culturally enriched.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “You are so brave.”

“I know,” Beau said. “Nobody talks about it.”

She laughed, and for a second the tight little thing under her sternum loosened. That was the problem with Dean, and Tucker, and the strange leftover orbit of Garrett’s world. She had meant to break up with one man and accidentally kept access to a whole ecosystem of idiots she had become fond of against her will. 

Dean had simply refused to leave the friend column. Tucker remained polite, steady, and impossible not to like. Logan wasn’t here tonight, thank God, because Logan in a theatre full of audience participation and alcohol felt like the kind of threat insurance companies wrote special clauses about.

Then, because the universe was committed to the theme of personal attack, Kendall walked in. She saw the hair first, glossy and perfect over a pink top, then the mouth, then the easy way Kendall scanned the room like she expected at least one person in it to have thought about her naked. 

Which, fine. Maybe statistically likely. Kendall had been one of those Garrett-adjacent girls before they’d dated, and then again after. Ex-fuck buddy? Fling? Girl who existed in the category of people who made her feel like a loser for caring about categories at all? Whatever the technical term, Kendall’s presence tonight was almost funny in its cruelty.

Her ex. Her ex’s new almost-girlfriend. Her ex’s former something. All in the audience of a show where she was dressed like a fairy slut and encouraged to make people drink.

Theatre, she thought, with an internal hysteria so clean it almost felt spiritual.

The lobby lights flashed once, then again, the signal bouncing over everyone’s faces in white little bursts. Her cue to move. Her body recognised it before her brain fully did, all the nerves that had been wasting themselves on Garrett snapping toward the familiar machinery of performance. 

Places. Breath. Smile. Shoulders back. Don’t trip in the heels. Don’t look at the man in the olive-green sweater like he took something with him and left a bruise.

She reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm, fingers closing around his sleeve, the grin coming on fast and bright because finally there was something to do with her face that wasn’t feel. “That’s my cue.”

Dean looked down at her hand, then at her, his grin softening in a way he would deny under oath. “Break a leg.”

“Thanks, guys.” She lifted her cup in a tiny salute toward Tucker and Beau. “Have fun. Drink up.”

“We’re here for the art,” Tucker said.

“No, you’re not,” she said, already backing away.

“Okay, fine,” Dean called after her. “We’re here for the hot girls in corsets.”

She flipped him off without turning around and heard him laugh as she slipped through the side door toward backstage.

The second the door shut behind her, the lobby noise turned muffled and thick, swallowed by black curtains and narrow hallways and the backstage smell of dust, hairspray, old wood, and bodies trying not to panic. 

Allie was already there in her blue corset, hair curled, glitter catching at her temples, looking both gorgeous and like she might bite anyone who wished her good luck too earnestly.

“You saw him?” Allie asked immediately.

She blinked. “Hello to you too.”

Allie gave her the flat look of a woman in blue satin with no time for lies. “Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And he has hair and legs and unfortunately remains three-dimensional.”

Allie made a sympathetic face. “Devastating.”

“And Hannah’s here.”

“Mm.” Allie’s eyes flicked toward the curtain like she could psychically locate every romantic complication in the room. “Saw that.”

“And Kendall.”

Allie’s mouth opened. Closed. Then she made a small, horrified sound of appreciation. “Oh, that’s camp.”

“It’s a fucking hate crime.”

“It is a little bit a hate crime.” Allie stepped closer, eyes sweeping over her corset with professional focus. “Okay. Tits?”

Blessedly, this was their actual ritual, and therefore required no emotional processing.

She looked down at Allie’s chest, tugged the centre of the blue corset a fraction, adjusted one strap, then gave a decisive nod. “Perfect. Mine?”

Allie leaned in, examined her like a very affectionate costume mistress, then hooked two careful fingers at the top edge of the pink corset and tugged it down half an inch. Enough to weaponise the garment as intended. “There. Sitting pretty.”

“Excellent. Teeth?”

Allie bared her teeth with all the elegance of a show pony and none of the shame. 

She checked quickly. “Good. Mine?”

Allie peered, nodded. “Perfect.”

They clapped hands once, sharp and familiar, palms landing with a tiny smack that steadied something under her skin.

“We got this,” Allie said.

“We got this,” she repeated, and for a second she almost believed it in every possible direction.

Out front, Dexter’s voice cut through the curtain, bright and obscene and already eating the room alive. “Come on, bitches. Let me hear you all scream for our gay show. A midsummer night’s… scream!”

The crowd erupted. Screams, clapping, whistles, someone banging on a table hard enough that the stage manager beside them closed her eyes as if praying for structural integrity. 

She slipped to the edge of the curtain and peered out through the narrow gap, not enough to be seen, just enough to let the room arrive in pieces. Dexter stood in the centre of the stage, arms thrown wide in glitter and velvet, grinning like he’d invented bad decisions. 

The audience had already given itself over, faces lit with anticipation and alcohol, chairs angled toward the stage, drinks raised.

Her eyes found Garrett before she meant them to. Middle row. Centre. Sitting with Dean, Tucker, and Beau, one ankle hooked out slightly, shoulders broad beneath the olive sweater, head turned toward Dean as if Dean had just said something deeply stupid. 

Dean looked far too pleased with himself for a man who had not yet committed his worst crime of the evening. Tucker sat beside them with his drink low in one hand, and a piece of fruit in the other, expression calm but alert, which was Tucker’s version of thrilled.

But Hannah wasn’t with them. Hannah was sitting with Justin, closer to the stage on a small couch, laughing at something he said, her body turned toward him. 

Weird.

Her pulse gave one irritating little misfire, not quite relief because she refused to dignify it with a name.

She stepped back from the curtain. No. Absolutely not. This mattered tonight. The show mattered. 

She had spent weeks memorising beats that would all go violently off-script the second audience volunteers got involved. She had sweated through rehearsals, bruised one knee during movement work, and spent half the afternoon in a dressing room getting glitter applied to her cleavage with the seriousness of a religious rite. She was not going to let Garrett Graham’s seating choices turn her into a stupid, lovesick girl before curtain.

Onstage, Dexter continued, voice ringing with manic delight. “Now, virgins oft find Drunk Shakespeare scary. If it’s your first time, I’ll pop your cherry.” The crowd whooped at that, because of course they did. “Now, there’s only one rule, my sweet, gentle twinks. When an actor calls ‘line,’ everyone drinks.”

The audience clapped.

She rolled her neck once, feeling the tiny stretch pull through the back of it, then shook her hands out at her sides. The nerves were still there, bright and quick, but they had shifted shape. Theatre nerves now. Useful nerves. The kind that sat in her fingertips and lungs instead of rotting behind her ribs.

The stage manager pointed. She went.

The heat hit first, that blunt stage-light warmth that made the glitter on her chest feel suddenly alive. Then the room, all those faces lifting toward her as she crossed into Dexter’s orbit in a swish of pink fabric and sheer skirt, heels clicking once, twice, three times across the boards. She leaned up and theatrically whispered into his ear, one hand cupped dramatically around her mouth.

Dexter gasped like she had told him the pope was pregnant. “No.”

She widened her eyes at the audience, hand pressed to her chest.

Dexter turned slowly back to them, face arranged in tragic solemnity. “I’m so sorry, everyone. It seems that the actors that were going to play our four young lovers have all been struck by a terrible affliction.”

Bec, who was sitting on the front of the stage, called out, all concern and sweetness. “True love?”

Dexter snapped his gaze to her. “No. Gonorrhea.”

The laugh that went through the room was immediate and generous, a wave of it rolling up toward the stage. She used the swell of it, the cover of everyone’s open mouths and clapping hands, to let her eyes cut once toward the middle row.

Garrett was looking at her. Full attention, quiet in the middle of all that noise, his mouth not quite smiling anymore. His gaze had caught somewhere between her face and the shimmer at her collarbones and the pink corset sitting exactly as Allie had arranged it, and the tiny satisfaction that moved through her was so petty and so human she almost forgave herself for it on the spot.

Good, she thought. Look.

Then she turned away before the look could do anything worse to her.

Dexter clapped his hands together, delighted with the room and himself. “Now, tragedy has stolen from us. Disease has humbled us. Theatre, as usual, has failed to plan responsibly. Which means we’ll be needing some brave volunteers from the audience.”

A ripple went through the crowd instantly. People sank in their chairs. People pointed at friends. One girl near the aisle visibly tried to become part of the wall.

Dexter shaded his eyes with one hand, scanning. “Oh,” he said suddenly, voice turning syrupy with threat. “Would you look at this couple?”

He pointed straight at Hannah and Justin. Hannah’s eyes went huge. Justin started shaking his head before Dexter had finished the sentence.

“No?” Dexter said. “You’re saying no? To art? To community? To me, personally?” He placed a hand over his heart as if wounded, then brightened at once. “Give it up for our Hermia and Lysander!”

The audience cheered with the relief of people watching someone else be sacrificed.

She moved down the steps and into the aisle before Hannah and Justin could fully disappear into the couch. Hannah was laughing now, nervous but game, one hand over her mouth. Justin looked like a man discovering, too late, that theatre people could smell fear. 

She reached Hannah first, offering her hand with the clean, stage-bright smile that made everything easier because it gave her a role to stand inside.

“Come on,” she said, low enough only Hannah could hear, and because Hannah was Hannah, sweet even while being publicly dragged into Shakespeare, she took her hand and laughed.

“I’m going to be so bad at this,” Hannah whispered.

“That’s the point,” she murmured back, helping her up.

Justin followed after with the helpless smile of a boy who had accepted doom because the crowd was clapping too loudly for pride. She got them both onto the stage and placed them where Dexter directed, Hannah flushing prettily under the lights, Justin blinking out at the audience like he’d been kidnapped by improv.

“Okay,” Dexter said, pacing with predatory glee. “Next, I need a big, strong man to play Demetrius.”

The words had barely landed before her eyes betrayed her. Just a flick. Just one stupid, automatic glance across the lights to Garrett in the middle row. A mistake, obviously. Fatal, theatrically speaking.

But Dean saw it. Dean Di Laurentis, who had been placed on this earth to make every delicate situation worse with astonishing commitment, sat up so fast Tucker’s drink nearly sloshed.

He cupped both hands around his mouth and called, in a voice so bright and clear it could have reached a neighbouring county, “Me, Garrett Graham, I want to be in the show!”

The room exploded. Garrett turned his head toward Dean so slowly it should have come with a warning sound. 

Even from the stage, she could see his mouth move around something furious and silent. Dean was grinning like an angel with a criminal record. 

Tucker had turned slightly away, shoulders shaking once, his hand pressed over his mouth in the weakest possible attempt at neutrality. Beau looked stunned and delighted, like he had accidentally attended a live execution and discovered he supported the death penalty.

Dexter spun toward the commotion with the instantaneous focus of a shark smelling blood. “Oh?”

Garrett was shaking his head before Dexter took a step. “No. That’s okay.”

Dean leaned into him, whispering aggressively. Garrett shoved him back with one hand, eyes narrowed, and Dean shoved right back with the delighted persistence of a man who had decided friendship meant physical betrayal.

Dexter held out his arms. “Come here, pookie.”

Another roar from the audience.

Garrett closed his eyes briefly. “No, I’m alright,” he said, loud enough to be heard and absolutely not loud enough to save himself.

“Oh, you’re ours now,” Dexter sang.

Dean gave Garrett one more firm push toward the aisle, and Tucker, traitor that he apparently was, shifted his knees just enough to make the route easier. 

The audience clapped and whooped as Garrett stood, dragging a hand over the back of his neck in that particular way he did when he was trying not to smile and trying very hard not to murder his best friend in public.

He looked up at the stage. At her, and for one second, the whole room narrowed around the line of his gaze and the warm stage lights and the stupid gold chain at his throat.

Then he came down the aisle. It was unfair, how much space he took up without trying. How the crowd reacted to him, the grin threatening at one corner of his mouth, the easy athlete’s confidence even under embarrassment. 

He climbed the stage steps and stepped into the light beside her, close enough that the scent of him reached her through hairspray and dust and other people’s drinks. Clean soap, warm skin, a faint trace of whatever cologne he used so casually it had once lived on her pillow for three days after he left.

Fuck.

He cleared his throat softly, dipping his head just enough that it looked casual to everyone else. “Hey.”

Her smile came tight-lipped and bright, the exact facial equivalent of a locked door with flowers painted on it. “Hi.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face, then down for the smallest, most controlled fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. Enough to be noticed by the part of her that had spent too many months trying to forget exactly what it felt like to have Garrett Graham look at her like he remembered her.

His mouth twitched, barely. “Nice outfit.”

Her heartbeat kicked in a way she deeply resented. “Nice kidnapping.”

“Dean’s dead after this.”

She hummed. “Get in line.”

Dexter slid between them like a glittery demon with perfect timing. “Now,” he announced to the audience, “we just need a Helena. She’s a real messy bitch who wants to get in Demetrius’ pants. Can anyone relate?”

Half the women in the room raised their hands. A chorus of “me!” and “over here!” and one very loud “I can fix him!” rose up so fast the stage nearly shook with it.

She scoffed before she could stop herself, rolling her eyes toward Allie in the wings, who was visibly biting her cheek to keep from laughing.

Garrett, unfortunately, heard it. She felt him glance at her, felt the question in it, but she kept her gaze forward with the grim dignity of a woman refusing to be emotionally undone by audience participation.

Then Kendall stood. She rose from the side section with terrifying composure, drink abandoned on her chair, hair falling over one shoulder, smiling like she had been waiting her entire life to be called a messy bitch by a man in velvet.

“Allow me,” Kendall said.

The audience lost its mind again. For one long second, she stared at the middle distance and considered the possibility that a chandelier might fall. Not on Kendall, or maybe on Kendall. But generally. A small technical emergency. Something with paperwork. Anything. Please, anything. 

Kendall climbed onto the stage without waiting for assistance, because clearly being picked was for people with shame, and crossed directly to Garrett’s other side. She stood close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his sleeve, smiling at him with the kind of familiarity that did absolutely nothing good to the inside of her body.

Garrett went still. She was close enough to catch it: the minute tightening around his mouth, the way his eyes flicked once toward her and then away, as if suddenly aware that every person from every messy little corner of his romantic history had been arranged on the same stage under theatrical lighting like an evidence board with cleavage.

Dexter looked Kendall up and down, delighted beyond measure. “Not even going to wait to be picked. That is messy.”

Kendall gave a little bow.

“She understands the assignment,” Dexter said, then threw both arms wide. “Let’s hear it for our four young lovers!”

The audience clapped and cheered, loud and bright and thrilled with the specific chaos they didn’t yet understand they had been handed. Hannah laughed into her hands. Justin raised one awkward arm like he was accepting election to a position he had never campaigned for. Kendall smiled like a cat in a warm window.

Garrett stood between the past and the present and whatever the hell Kendall counted as, looking for once like charm might not be enough to get him out of the room alive.

And she clapped with the rest of them, glitter catching at her chest, pink skirt shifting around her knees, smile fixed beautifully in place while something hot and awful and very, very funny curled under her ribs.

Drunk Shakespeare had decided to become personal.

Hannah turned slightly toward Kendall while Dexter fussed with the prop scrolls at centre stage, and because the stage was small and cruel and acoustics had chosen violence, she heard Hannah say, light and a little flustered, “Oh– No. He’s not… he’s not locked. He’s free to unlock anyone he wants.”

The words landed weirdly. Small and sideways, slipping beneath the laughter and clapping and settling under her skin with a cold little click. She glanced across before she could stop herself. 

Hannah was smiling like she meant to make it a joke, shoulders lifting in that sweet, awkward way of hers, and Kendall was looking back at her with one brow tipped up, amused, curious, maybe already smelling blood in the water because Kendall had the exact face of a girl who knew when information was about to become socially useful. 

Garrett, blessedly or horribly, didn’t seem to have heard. He was looking out into the crowd with the faintly strained expression of a man realising too late that volunteer theatre was distinct from hostage-taking only by tone.

He’s not locked. Free to unlock anyone he wants.

For a second she just stood there in pink glitter and stage lights and felt the phrase rearrange the last few weeks with humiliating speed. Garrett and Hannah walking together after class. Garrett bending his head toward her outside the music building. 

Garrett disappearing upstairs with her at Dean and Beau’s party, which had seemed, at the time, like the sort of thing a girl could absolutely survive elegantly if she was normal and mature and not already two vodka sodas past good decision-making.

She had not survived it especially elegantly. She remembered the kitchen at that party in flashes: Allie’s hand closing around her wrist when she reached for her phone; one of her theatre friends saying, “Nope, we love you, but absolutely not,” while physically sliding the device into her own bra like some kind of benevolent phone jail. 

Dean, of all people, appearing in the doorway and immediately clocking the entire emotional scene with one sweep of his eyes before saying, very carefully, “You good?” which had nearly made her cry because Dean being gentle was frankly an upsetting genre. 

She remembered insisting she was fine with the aggressive brightness of a woman who was visibly not fine. She remembered saying she wanted to call him and everyone in a three-foot radius saying, almost in chorus, “You broke up with him,” which was unfair because she knew that. She had been there. She had done the breaking. 

She simply hadn’t expected the broken pieces to keep behaving like they belonged to her.

And now Hannah, pretty sweet Hannah, apparently didn’t even have the lock. Great. Cool. The universe had mistaken her for a stronger woman.

Dexter clapped sharply, dragging everyone back to the next beat, and the cast began moving with practiced chaos around the volunteers. Hannah and Justin were led toward their first marks. 

Garrett and Kendall were swept half-backstage for the timing of the bit, and she went with them because that was the blocking and because theatre, unlike her personal life, had cues that people were expected to follow.

The backstage corridor was dim and narrow after the assault of stage lights, all black curtains and coiled cables and a folding table crowded with sweating bottles, plastic shot cups, cheap wine, and the kind of cut fruit someone had optimistically provided as if oranges could meaningfully alter the trajectory of a cast being encouraged to drink on command. 

From the stage, the play kicked off in full ridiculous motion, Dexter’s voice booming, Allie already chiming in with something bright and filthy enough to make the audience scream.

Garrett came to a stop beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him again, which was deeply unnecessary. Kendall leaned one hip against the wall like she had been born under a backstage cue light and immediately picked up a tiny bottle of something clear from the wet bar, examining it with interest.

She cleared her throat, because somebody had to be professional and apparently it was going to be the girl currently one Hannah sentence away from emotional combustion. 

“Um,” she said, looking mostly at the space between Garrett and Kendall rather than directly at either of them, “so, after this we’ve got, like, ten minutes of mechanicals. Just stay back here until we pull you again. Feel free to help yourselves to the wet bar.”

She turned to go, already reaching for the curtain edge, already grateful for the stage and the next line and the exact relief of becoming someone with a task.

Garrett’s voice caught her before she made it. “Hey– wait.”

Her hand tightened on the curtain. For a second she considered pretending she hadn’t heard him. The stage was loud enough. She could’ve sold it. But his voice did the same stupid thing it always did, slipped through the noise and found the part of her body that still answered before pride could get there.

She turned back, pink skirt brushing her calves, smile small and sharp enough to cut if handled wrong. 

“Sorry. I gotta go.” Her eyes flicked over him, then toward the stage. “I’m in a play, remember? It’s not all about Garrett Graham all the time.”

Kendall made a delighted little sound, the kind of reaction a person gave when they were thrilled to be standing close enough to drama without being asked to mediate it.

Garrett’s jaw shifted. He looked tired suddenly, or maybe just less protected by the lights and the audience and everybody wanting him to be easy. “That’s not fair.”

Her brows drew together before she could stop them. Enough for his eyes to catch on it. “Isn’t it?”

The silence after that was tiny. Barely half a second. Something moved across his face, quick and almost hurt, and the worst part was that it worked. 

Garrett had always had a face that could make a person start doubting the evidence in their own hands. She hated that. Hated that even now, with Hannah’s almost-not-a-confession still ringing in her ear and Kendall standing two feet away with a shot glass and the whole crowd waiting beyond the curtain, she could see him wounded and feel the old reflex to smooth it over.

But she didn’t. She turned and went back onto the stage before softness could become another mistake.

After that, the play did what Drunk Shakespeare always did and became, by degrees, less a performance than a ritual sacrifice to timing, alcohol, and the collective human desire to watch attractive people make terrible choices under lights. 

The first twenty minutes held together beautifully, which was always the danger period because it gave everyone false confidence. Then Dexter called line, the audience drank, Allie missed a cue because someone in the front row had yelled something obscene about fairies, and the whole room tipped into the exact kind of glorious disorder the show had been built to survive.

She got drunk in increments. The stage was hot and the crowd was loud and every time someone called line, the audience roared and drank and the cast drank with them, and each sip loosened a different little screw. 

The first made the lights softer around the edges. The second put a pleasant warmth behind her cheeks. The third arrived after she did a shot with a woman in the second row, and that one slid straight down into the part of her brain responsible for restraint and started rearranging furniture.

The crowd got worse too, which made them better. People who had arrived stiff-backed and curious were now leaning forward with elbows on knees, shouting suggestions, chanting for kisses, calling line whenever anyone even looked like they might forget something. 

Dean had become an issue in the middle row. Every time she crossed downstage, he found a new way to be loud about it. Tucker, beside him, kept attempting to look like he wasn’t amused, which was useless because his shoulders kept moving. Beau had committed to the evening with the serene panic of a man who had not expected Shakespeare to involve this much audience yelling.

At one point, she came out through the side entrance and climbed onto the little platform near the gold stripper pole, because some brilliant, sick mind on the production team had decided the fairy realm needed a metallic vertical feature and large detachable wings. 

She was meant to spin once, land, say something sharp and enchanted, and gesture toward the next entrance.

She remembered the spin. She did that part beautifully, actually. One hand around the pole, pink skirt lifting in a soft sheer flare around her legs, heels catching the light, glitter sparkling down her chest like she had been dipped in bad decisions by a very competent stylist. 

The crowd whooped. Someone screamed. The room tilted around her in a pretty, golden blur and for one perfect second she felt exactly as she was supposed to feel: ridiculous, lovely, untouchable, alive.

Then Dean wolf-whistled. It was loud. Horrifically loud. A piercing, obnoxious, jock-house wolf whistle that cut right through the cheers and hit her so unexpectedly she lost the line completely.

She snapped her head toward the middle row and saw him cupping his hands around his mouth, grinning like a demon. Her mouth opened. Nothing Shakespeare-adjacent arrived.

Instead she dissolved into giggles. The room loved this, obviously. The room loved anything that looked like the wheels coming off.

She pointed at Dean from the platform, trying very hard to gather dignity around the fact that she was clinging to a gold stripper pole in a pink corset. “Fuck you, Dean!”

The audience screamed. Dean clutched his chest like he’d been blessed.

She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, laughing too hard to recover the line, and finally threw her free hand up. “Line?!”

The response was immediate and feral. The whole room yelled with her. Cups lifted. Shots went down. The cast drank. The crowd drank. Somewhere in the back, the stage manager probably aged ten years. 

She took her own drink from Allie, who had appeared at the edge of the platform with the solemnity of a priest offering communion, and knocked it back while the audience chanted approval.

By the time Kendall and Garrett were brought back out, the room had fully abandoned subtlety. Hannah and Justin had gone through their early lover beats with surprising commitment, Justin somehow becoming funnier the more terrified he got, and Hannah turning out to have a very sweet, very deadly stage presence that made the audience adopt her almost instantly. 

Which was annoying, not because Hannah had done anything wrong, but because she was actually good. Game and bright and blushing every time Dexter flirted with her in character. 

It was just difficult to fully enjoy another woman’s charm when some small, gremlin part of your heart had already filed her under girl Garrett might have chosen.

Garrett and Kendall came out from the wings tipsy enough that the shift was visible before either of them said a word. Kendall stumbled on the first step, her heel caught and her balance tipped sideways. Garrett reached automatically, one hand closing at her waist to steady her.

They both laughed. It was nothing. It was literally nothing. A normal human reflex. Someone stumbled, someone else caught them. 

If Tucker had done it, she would have thought, oh good, nobody died. If Dean had done it, she would have assumed he’d been waiting for the chance. 

But Garrett’s hand was on Kendall’s waist, and Kendall was giggling up at him, and Garrett’s face had opened with that easy amused warmth he gave away like it cost him nothing, and her body reacted before any reasonable thought could intervene.

A small, ugly twist low in her stomach. A tightening in her throat. The stage lights, suddenly too hot.

Dexter swept in between them with a flourish before she could stand there and stare like an idiot. “I made this love potion special for the boys,” he announced.

That was her cue. She moved forward with two shot glasses, pink plastic catching under the lights, and handed one first to Justin, then to Garrett. 

When Garrett’s fingers closed around the cup, they brushed hers. Barely. A nothing touch. The kind of contact that could have been absorbed by the noise of the room if her skin had not been, apparently, a traitor with archival access.

His eyes were already on her. His gaze burned straight into hers, dark and steady beneath the stage lights, and for one second the whole drunken theatre seemed to thin out around the edges. 

She looked up at him through her lashes because the role let her, because the stage gave her permission to make things look deliberate that would have been unbearable anywhere else.

Garrett’s jaw clenched. Tiny and viciously satisfying. The muscle near his cheek jumping once like something in him had been pulled too tight.

Good, she thought again, meaner this time and more miserable underneath it. Feel something.

Dexter was still talking. She had no idea what he was saying for half a breath. Then the room surged around the line and she found herself stepping back into place while Garrett and Justin tossed back the shots.

Garrett swallowed his cleanly, throat moving, mouth tightening around whatever cheap sweet thing they had poured into the glass. His eyes flicked briefly to the shot glass with a look of disgust, and despite everything, despite Kendall and Hannah and the horrible circus of her own chest, she almost smiled.

Garrett Graham could take a check into the boards and keep skating, but one suspiciously fruity theatre shot had him looking betrayed by the arts.

“When they came to,” Dexter cried, “they only had eyes for Helena!”

He guided Kendall to the little throne set up stage left, all gold paint and fake flowers and one glittering cushion that had seen too many drunk volunteers in its lifetime. 

Kendall sat with immediate commitment, crossing one leg over the other, smiling as Dexter placed a crown on her head. The audience oohed obediently, the sound rising and falling like they had been waiting all night to worship messy women in prop crowns.

Dexter turned slowly, eyes wild with manufactured revelation. “But, fools and mortals. Who will win fair Helena’s hand? How is a buxom maiden ever to decide?” He pressed one finger to his lips, pretending deep thought. “Oh. I know.”

Two of the cast members came out from the wings and began removing the oversized wings from the gold stripper pole with the solemnity of stagehands handling sacred objects. 

The audience started murmuring before Dexter even said it, anticipation spreading fast and stupid through the rows.

Dexter threw one arm toward the cleared pole. “How about a good old-fashioned dance-off?”

The room detonated. Justin immediately pointed at Garrett.

Garrett pointed right back at Justin, shaking his head with a laugh already breaking through. “No. Nope. Him.”

Justin shook his head so hard his hair moved. “Absolutely not.”

The answer built from three voices to ten to half the room in under five seconds.

“Garrett! Garrett! Garrett!”

Dean was, of course, leading the chant with both fists in the air like he had founded a religion and Garrett’s humiliation was the first commandment. Beau had joined in with startling enthusiasm. 

Garrett dragged one hand over his face, laughing now despite himself. “Fuck you guys.”

The crowd only got louder. He flipped them off, which made everything worse. People screamed. Dean looked like he might actually ascend. Dexter clutched Garrett by the shoulder and spun him toward the pole with the kind of glee that suggested he had been waiting for an athletic man with public name recognition all night.

And Garrett, because he was Garrett, because he had never once been capable of doing anything halfway once a room started chanting his name, gave in.

A roll of his shoulders, a shake of his head, a laugh under his breath like he couldn’t believe this was his life. He stepped toward the open space, the olive sweater catching over the lines of his chest and arms, chain flashing once at his throat when he moved. 

The music shifted into something bass-heavy and obscene. The audience reacted before he’d even started properly, because anticipation had already made fools of them all.

He put one hand on the pole. Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t jealousy this time, or not only jealousy, at least. This was worse because it came from memory, hot and immediate and embarrassingly intact. 

Her body remembered before her mind could file an objection. Garrett on a dance floor with one hand at her waist and the other holding his drink above the crowd, laughing into her ear because she had accused him of having no rhythm and then immediately proving her wrong with the sort of casual hip movement that had made her lose the thread of her own insult. 

Garrett behind her at some party near Briar, mouth near her temple, his hand spread low on her stomach as they moved with too many people around them and not enough air between them. 

Garrett at three in the morning, waking her up in his bed with a kiss to her shoulder and his voice rough with sleep and want, murmuring something filthy and fond that had made her laugh into his pillow before he rolled her beneath him.

His hips. Fuck his fucking hips.

He hadn’t even done anything yet. That was the insulting part. One hand on the pole, one foot shifting into the beat, mouth still curved in that half-embarrassed, half-cocky grin, and already her brain had lit up with every inconvenient piece of him she had spent months trying to box away. 

His hands on her thighs. The chain against her mouth when she used to pull him down by it. The warmth of his chest under her cheek. His laugh in the dark after she told him he was insufferable and he said, yeah, but you’re awake.

The room kept chanting. Garrett moved his hips once, barely more than a test, and the audience screamed like they’d paid extra for the privilege.

She couldn’t breathe right. Which was dramatic and stupid because she was in public and tipsy and glittering and supposed to be part of the bit, not standing stage right with a fake smile and a real ache opening under it. 

The weird sick fold of jealousy and want and regret and alcohol, all going warm and sour together beneath the corset until the boning felt too tight around her ribs.

It wasn’t fair. That was the childish truth of it, and because she was drunk enough to be honest with herself but not drunk enough to enjoy it, the unfairness hit harder than anything else. 

It wasn’t fair that she had broken up with him and still wanted to be the only person allowed to miss him. It wasn’t fair that he looked good. It wasn’t fair that Hannah might not be dating him and somehow that made everything worse, because it took away the clean excuse and left only Garrett being Garrett and her being weak in his direction. 

It wasn’t fair that Kendall sat crowned on the throne, laughing like this was fun, like Garrett dancing for her was a joke and not a blade sliding neatly between old ribs.

Garrett glanced toward her. Maybe by accident. Maybe not. His hand still on the pole. Music crawling through the floorboards. Crowd screaming his name. His eyes found hers across the stage, and whatever he saw on her face made his grin flicker.

That was enough. Before he could start properly, before he could move in a way that would make the whole room lose its mind and make her hate every nerve ending she owned, she slipped backward into the wing.

The noise dimmed by half the second the curtain edge fell between her and the stage. The chant still thudded through the black fabric. Music pulsed through the floor into the heels of her shoes. The backstage air was cooler and dustier, smelling like hairspray and electrical heat and the cheap citrus of sliced oranges sweating on the wet bar table.

She took one breath. It did absolutely nothing. So she grabbed the nearest shot off the table and downed it.

It was tequila. Or vodka. Or something pretending to be one of those while failing several requirements. It burned down her throat and hit her empty-ish stomach with a hard bright slap, and she bent slightly at the waist for one second, one hand braced on the folding table, eyes squeezed shut.

From onstage, the crowd screamed louder. Garrett must have started dancing.

She laughed once under her breath, but it came out wrong. Thin and sharp and almost nothing.

“Fuck,” she whispered to the bottles, the cables, the indifferent black curtain. Then she pressed the heel of her hand lightly against the glitter at her chest, right over the too-fast beat underneath, and tried to remember which cue came next.

The curtain shifted. The black edge pulling back a few inches, enough for sound to leak in harder and stage light to cut across the folding table in a pale gold stripe, catching on the wet rings around the shot glasses and the glitter dusted over her knuckles.

For one stupid second, she thought it might be Garrett. Which was unfair of her body, honestly. Delusional. Embarrassing. The kind of reflex that should have been taken out back and put down humanely months ago.

But it wasn’t Garrett, it was Hannah.

Hannah slipped through the curtain, cheeks flushed from the stage lights, hair a little loosened from whatever Dexter had made her do three minutes earlier, looking so pretty and concerned that it somehow made the shot burn worse in hindsight. 

She blinked into the dim backstage space, eyes finding her by the wet bar.

“Hi,” Hannah said, just soft enough that the stage didn’t steal it. “Are you okay?”

The question was so genuinely asked that it hit her all wrong. There was no smugness, no little victory tucked under the sweetness. No hidden I win, you lose. 

Only Hannah standing there looking at a girl she barely knew like she had noticed something go sideways and had enough kindness or poor survival instincts to follow it.

She nodded too fast. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” The word came out bright and brittle and not remotely worth believing, so she picked up another shot glass because at least that gave her hands something less incriminating to do. “Sorry. You should… go back out to–” She swallowed, the stage noise pushing at her back like a wave. “To your boyfriend.”

Hannah’s brows pulled together immediately. “Garrett?”

The name did an annoying little thing in the air between them.

She lifted one shoulder, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around lightly poisoned. “Unless you’ve got another one out there.”

“No.” Hannah shook her head, a little laugh catching awkwardly in her throat. “No, he’s not– no. He’s not my boyfriend. Like, at all.”

The shot was already at her mouth, which was convenient because it meant she didn’t have to answer right away. She tipped it back. It was worse than the last one, or maybe her throat had just begun filing formal complaints. 

Her eyes watered slightly, which was humiliating, but not as humiliating as how quickly the sentence went through her.

He’s not my boyfriend. Like, at all.

She set the empty glass down with more care than it deserved. “Seems like it.”

Hannah’s face did something small, like she was figuring out where all the broken glass was on the floor and trying not to step in it. “Kendall… Kendall told me about you,” she said, and her voice gentled around the last word like it had become fragile without permission. “Just– just before. About you and Garrett.”

Fucking typical that Kendall, who had walked onto the stage like a human plot device in heels, had found time between accepting the crown and letting Garrett steady her waist to give Hannah the emotional program notes. 

Kendall had probably delivered the whole thing with the delicate sympathy of a woman enjoying herself enormously. Here’s the ex. Careful, she bites. Also she looks like she might cry if he takes his shirt off. Enjoy the show.

She sucked at her teeth, gaze dropping to the table because looking at Hannah was too much like looking at someone who had accidentally wandered into the aftermath of a storm and was now politely asking if the roof had always been in the pool. “What about us?”

Hannah hesitated. 

From out front, the crowd roared. Something heavy thumped against the stage. Dexter screamed, “Art!” like that was either a line or an emergency, and somebody in the audience started chanting Garrett’s name again with the persistence of people who had been given a hot athlete and no adult supervision.

Hannah glanced back at the curtain, then at her. “I mean… I think that he–” She stopped, mouth pressing together for a second as if she knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded to deliver emotional speculation in the wings of Drunk Shakespeare. “I mean, it seems like he misses you. Or I think he does.”

The words should have landed soft, but they didn’t. They hit something already bruised and made it flare, sharp and stupidly tender. 

Her fingers curled around the edge of the table. The glitter on her chest caught in the sliver of light from the stage, every breath making the shimmer move like her body had decided to keep performing even after she left the scene.

“You’ll miss your cue, Hannah,” she said, because if she gave that sentence even one inch of room it might start growing teeth. “You should be out there.”

Hannah didn’t move right away. “I’m not trying to–”

“No, I know.” She looked up, and the smile she gave her wasn’t unkind, which felt like a miracle considering the amount of alcohol and old heartbreak currently operating the machinery. “Seriously. You should go.”

The crowd screamed again. Louder this time. Filthy, delighted, entirely too invested. Against every good instinct she had left, she glanced through the gap in the curtain.

Garrett was shirtless now. Somewhere in the thirty seconds since she had fled the stage, theatre had found a way to remove his sweater and expose the broad, warm chest she once slept on more often than her own pillow to an audience already one group chant away from needing a priest. 

His olive knit was gone, probably flung over the throne or into Dexter’s evil little hands, and he was in the middle of the stage with the gold chain still against his chest, skin warm under the lights, hair messed from someone’s hand or his own or the general chaos of being cheered at by drunk college students.

Kendall sat on the throne, crowned and laughing, one hand braced on the armrest as Garrett, grinning now in full showman surrender, backed himself toward her lap with a ridiculous over-the-shoulder look that made the audience shriek. 

He wasn’t touching her in any real way. It was theatre. It was parody. It was drunk, stupid, harmless, exactly the kind of thing the show had designed itself to produce. Then he playfully ground back against her knees. Kendall threw her head back laughing.

The audience nearly came apart.

She picked up another shot and swallowed it before her body could decide whether it wanted to throw up, cry, or walk back out there and commit an act of artistic violence.

“Yeah,” she said, voice flat around the burn. “Really seems like he misses me.”

Hannah’s face fell a little. Understanding, maybe. The soft, useless kind.

“I should–” Hannah said, then stopped, glancing back toward the stage as her name was yelled by Allie with the kind of sharp backstage friendliness that meant get the fuck out here right now. “Okay. I’m going. But he’s not my boyfriend.” She stepped backward through the curtain, then paused for one second with the black fabric caught in her hand. “And I don’t think Kendall knows as much as she thinks she does.”

Then she was gone, swallowed by light and noise and the bright, drunken mess of the play.

The rest of the show happened in pieces after that. She hit her cues. Mostly. She said her lines or called line with enough timing to make the audience scream. 

She took another shot with a man in the front row. She watched Dexter nearly lose his balance on a prop stump and recover with such flamboyant rage that the crowd gave him a standing ovation for remaining vertical. 

Allie, drunk and radiant and too talented for the amount of chaos around her, at one point went entirely off script, seemingly rambling about Sean. But she performed it so wonderfully she got a standing ovation anyway. Kendall committed fully to being worshipped as Helena, which was deeply annoying and, if one were being fair under duress, objectively good stage instinct.

Garrett was good too. That part she hated most. He should have been awkward. A little stiff, maybe. A hockey player dragged onstage by his horrible friends, laughing through the embarrassment, throwing out just enough charm to survive. 

Instead he turned out to have the infuriating competence of a man whose body understood audience approval in any room. He was loose by the end, tipsy and grinning, leaning into Dexter’s prompts, making Justin break character twice, letting Allie drape a flower crown over his curls while he bowed with stupid solemnity. 

Shirt back on eventually, thank God, though not before half the room had wolf-whistled itself hoarse and Dean had nearly needed medical intervention from laughing so hard.

Every time Garrett looked toward her, she looked somewhere else.

The final scene arrived in the kind of glorious collapse only live drunk theatre could earn. The crowd was wasted. The cast was worse. Somebody had spilled red wine near stage left and covered it with a fake fern like that solved anything. 

Dexter’s closing speech had become half Shakespeare, half slurred nonsense, and by the time the last line landed, the audience was on its feet.

The applause was hot and huge and messy, rolling over the stage in waves. She stood with the cast, hand linked with Allie’s, pink skirt sticking lightly to the back of her knees, glitter still catching along her skin, the room swimming beautifully and terribly in front of her. 

She bowed and nearly overcommitted the angle, Allie tightening her grip just enough to keep her upright without making it obvious.

“Subtle,” Allie muttered through her smile.

“I’m a professional,” she whispered back.

They bowed again. The audience roared. Dean had both hands above his head, clapping like a lunatic. Tucker stood beside him, smiling despite himself. Beau looked sunburned from secondhand embarrassment and deeply changed as a person. 

Garrett, somewhere behind them with the volunteers, clapped too, and she didn’t look at him until the lights dropped enough to give her mercy.

Backstage afterward was a disaster of bodies, costumes, half-empty cups, and everyone speaking too loudly because their ears were full of applause and alcohol. 

People hugged each other with the sweaty urgency of survivors. Someone cried because they always did after a show, even a show where a man in fairy wings had yelled drink, sluts at a paying audience. 

Allie was dragged into a cluster of cast members near the mirror, blue corset flashing as she laughed with her head tipped back. Dexter had already acquired a bottle of champagne from somewhere and was calling it hydration for homosexuals, which nobody had the energy to correct.

She had just leaned against the edge of the dressing table, one heel half-slipped from her foot and her throat dry enough to make swallowing feel like an additional challenge on top of all the others, when Garrett appeared in front of her holding a cup of water.

Filled properly, condensation gathered along the outside. He held it out with a slightly awkward little lift, like he'd been carrying it for long enough to think too hard about how offering water to your ex after she watched you shirtlessly dance for another girl might be received.

“Uh,” he said. “Here.”

She looked at the water first. Then at him. His sweater was back on, though the neckline sat a little stretched from being pulled off and on in chaos, and his curls were a mess from the flower crown, from the stage, from the night. His chain was still there, sitting at his throat like an insult in gold.

She took the cup. Their fingers didn’t touch this time. “Thanks.”

He nodded once, eyes moving over her face in a quick, careful scan that made her chest feel worse. Not the sexy scan from the stage. Not the stunned little outfit glance. 

This was Garrett checking. Water, balance, pupils, whether she was smiling in a way that meant she was about to bite. Captain instincts, boyfriend instincts, ex-boyfriend instincts. Whatever they were, they hadn’t been switched off with the breakup, apparently.

“You were incredible tonight,” he said.

The compliment landed somewhere soft and inconvenient. She looked down into the cup because it was easier than looking at his mouth while he sounded sincere. The water wobbled slightly in her hand. “Um. Thanks.”

“I mean it.” His voice warmed a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I didn’t know you could do all that.”

She glanced up. “What, Shakespeare?”

“No.” His gaze moved over her face, careful and warm in a way that made the backstage noise feel suddenly farther away. “Being up there. Holding the room like that. You were really good.”

A laugh almost got out of her, a little disbelieving. She hated that too. Hated how close it sat under her ribs, waiting. “That was… quite a show you put on out there.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” She took one sip of water, mostly to prove she could, then immediately wished it were anything else because the sudden cold made her stomach realise how much alcohol it had been asked to process tonight. “Very Boys Gone Wild.”

He laughed then, quick and genuine, his head tipping down for half a second. “Thanks.”

“Not a compliment.”

“Felt like one.”

“Mhm.”

The smile stayed on his mouth, smaller now, still trying not to be too much. He looked almost pleased she was talking to him like this. Like sharp was better than silence. Like he would take a little blood if it meant she was still close enough to swing.

She shifted her weight and regretted it instantly when the room softened at the edges. “You should probably go–” she murmured, setting the water down on the dressing table with intense focus. “Go find Hannah.”

Garrett’s expression changed. “Hannah?”

“Yeah. Or–” Her heel caught wrong against the floor. She stepped back half a pace to correct it and the whole room made an unhelpful little tilt to the left.

Garrett caught her waist. One hand at her side, the other hovering near her elbow like he was trying very hard not to grab more of her than necessary. “Whoa.”

The contact went through her immediately, warm and humiliating. Her corset suddenly felt too tight again, or maybe that was just her lungs misplacing the next breath. 

She looked down at his hand, fingers spread carefully over the pink fabric at her waist, and then back at him with as much dignity as a tipsy girl in glitter could gather under difficult circumstances.

“Or Kendall,” she mumbled. The words came out before she could sand the edges down. “Or half… half the girls on campus.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. It was the wrong reaction, obviously. He seemed to know that, because he bit it back almost immediately, pressing his lips together like the smile had physically tried to escape against his will.

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“Usually.”

“Garrett.”

He looked down at her, and the smile softened into something worse. Something too fond to be fair. “You jealous?”

“No,” she said immediately. Too immediately.

Garrett’s brows went up.

She frowned at him with great concentration. “No.”

“Yeah, alright,” he said, and there was a laugh in his voice now, tucked low and warm where she could feel it even without letting him have the satisfaction of smiling back. 

She swayed again, enough that the hand he still had on her waist went from polite to necessary.

His amusement dimmed by a fraction. “Will you sit?”

“Nope.” She shook her head, which was a mistake. “No… no, I… will… not.”

Garrett stared at her for a beat, then sighed like he was calling on several reserves of patience he was very proud of himself for owning. He looked like he wanted to laugh and was trying to be decent about it, which somehow made him more unbearable. “Fine. Can I at least drive you home?”

“Nope. I’m–” A hiccup broke through, tiny and sharp, cutting the sentence in half.

Garrett’s mouth moved. He lost the fight for about half a second, smile flashing at the corner before he got it under control. “You’re?”

“I’m going out after.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Totally.”

“I am.”

“Yeah, no, that sounds like a great plan.” His eyes flicked down to her feet, then back to her face. “Can you even stand?”

She straightened with the wounded dignity of someone being slandered by physics. “I’m standin’ right now.”

Garrett nodded again, very serious. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

His hand left her waist. The betrayal was immediate, she hadn’t realised how much of her balance he’d been supporting. The room moved backward, or she did, or the floor had finally had enough of her and decided to make a point. Her body tipped before she caught up to it, shoulders going first, one hand flying uselessly toward the dressing table and missing the edge by an amount that felt personal.

Garrett caught her again with both hands, one at her waist, one wrapping around her back, pulling her gently but firmly upright against him.

“Yeah,” he said, voice warm with amusement right beside her ear. “Thought so.”

She shut her eyes for one second, partly because the room was spinning and partly because being held by him still felt good in a way she found to be incredibly offensive.

“Don’t be happy,” she muttered.

“I’m not happy.”

“You are.”

He tilted his head. “I’m a little happy you didn’t hit the floor.”

“Noble.”

“Thanks.” His hand moved once at her back, careful, steadying without rubbing. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift.”

She wanted to argue. Truly. A principled objection rose somewhere inside her, assembled itself out of pride and glitter and tequila, then collapsed.

She sighed. “Mhm.”

Garrett’s expression softened like he knew exactly how much surrender that little sound had cost her. He did not, thankfully, comment on it. 

He only turned slightly, one arm still under hers to keep her stable, and reached for the bag hanging over the chair beside the dressing table. “This yours?”

“Pink one.”

“The one with rhinestones?”

“Mm”

He slung the bag over his own shoulder without a hint of embarrassment, rhinestones flashing against his olive sweater, and shifted his arm around her again. “Ready?”

“No,” she grumbled. 

“Great.”

Getting out of backstage was a process. She said goodbye to people as they passed, or maybe people said goodbye to her and she waved in several wrong directions. 

Dexter blew her a kiss and called, “Petal, hydrate or perish.” Allie appeared briefly near the hall and immediately assessed the situation with one devastating glance.

“You good?” Allie asked.

“She’s good,” Garrett said.

She lifted one hand. “I’m good.”

Allie looked at Garrett’s arm around her, then at Garrett’s face, then at hers. Something sharp and protective passed over her expression, but she didn’t push. 

“Text me when you get home,” Allie said.

“I will.”

“Garrett,” Allie added, with the calm menace of a woman in a blue corset and glitter eyeshadow who could absolutely ruin a man’s life if motivated.

Garrett nodded once, not offended. “I’ll make sure she does.”

Allie held his gaze a second longer, then stepped aside. “Good.”

They made it into the side hallway and then out through the lobby, which had emptied into post-show clusters of drunk, overexcited people still quoting lines badly and taking selfies under the poster. Dean spotted them immediately from near the bar.

His eyes dropped to Garrett’s arm around her, then to the pink bag over Garrett’s shoulder, and his grin began to spread with the slow, terrible beauty of dawn.

“Not a word,” Garrett said without breaking stride.

Dean put both hands up, drink in one of them. “I said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

Tucker, standing beside him, looked her over with far more subtle concern. “You alright?”

She gave him a thumbs up that came out a little too close to her own face. “Thriving.”

“She’s drunk,” Garrett said.

She pointed at Dean as Garrett guided her past. “You wolf-whistled me.”

Dean placed a hand over his heart. “In support of the arts.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Garrett kept walking, which was probably wise, because Dean looked like he had at least four more comments loaded and none of them would have improved the evening.

Outside, the cold hit hard enough to make her gasp. The air smelled clean and wet, all pavement and campus trees and the far-off smoke of someone’s cigarette near the curb. 

Her bare shoulders prickled instantly under the thin straps of the corset, glitter cooling on her skin, and she folded a little closer to Garrett before she remembered she was mad at him or sad about him or whatever pathetic cocktail of the two had been sloshing around inside her all night.

Garrett noticed, his arm shifted a little, drawing her more securely against his side while they crossed toward the parking lot. His body angling to block the wind before she could ask. 

That was the sort of thing he had always done that made hating him properly difficult. The quiet practical stuff. The hand before the fall. The water before the headache. The careful thumb over a cup rim while he said something smug enough to make her roll her eyes.

She hiccuped again halfway across the lot.

Garrett glanced down. “You okay?”

“I did so many shots.”

“I saw.”

“You were a slut.”

His mouth pulled in at one corner so fast she almost missed it. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” She lifted her face toward him, very serious now because this was important. “A stage slut.”

“Is that a formal theatre term?”

“It is now.”

He huffed a laugh. “You danced on a stripper pole too.”

She stopped walking for half a second, offended enough that he had to adjust his grip before she tripped over her own heel. “Mine was for Shakespeare.”

Garrett nodded very seriously. “Right. Academic.”

“Yours was…” She searched for the word with great effort, brows drawn, then landed on it with grim satisfaction. “Being a whore.”

Garrett’s laugh came out properly this time, warm and startled in the dark. He ducked his head like he couldn’t help it, curls falling slightly over his forehead, and for one painful second he looked exactly like the Garrett she had once loved in easy moments. Laughing because she had said something stupid and he adored it before he remembered not to.

“Okay,” he said, still smiling as they reached his car. “Watch your head.”

He opened the passenger door and turned her carefully by the waist, one hand hovering over the top of the frame while the other helped her fold into the seat. 

She sat with a soft little collapse, pink skirt spilling over her thighs, one heel slipping loose again, the glassy edge of drunkenness turning the dashboard lights into a low blur.

Garrett crouched slightly to gather the sheer fabric before it got caught in the door, tugging the layers in with a focus that made something tender and awful press against the inside of her ribs. He tucked her bag near her feet, then reached for the seatbelt.

“I can do it,” she mumbled.

“Okay.”

She reached for the belt, missed it once, found it, pulled it halfway across herself, then got distracted by the way his chain flashed when he leaned in and forgot what the next step was.

Garrett waited about two seconds. “Can I?”

She handed it over with what she hoped was dignity. “Fine.”

“Thank you for your trust.”

“Don’t make this weird.”

“Oh, I would never.” He clicked the belt in and tugged once to check it, eyes flicking briefly to her face. “You gonna puke in my car?”

“No.”

He straightened, one hand still braced lightly on the roof of the car. She looked up at him from the passenger seat, at the sweater stretching across his chest, at his hair still messy from the stage, at his face half-shadowed by the parking lot light. 

The night had blurred so much at the edges, but he had gone weirdly clear. Annoyingly clear. Like every drink had washed out the background and left only Garrett Graham standing in front of the car door with her glitter probably on his sleeve.

He started to pull back. She caught his jumper before he could close the door. Her fingers closed in the knit at his stomach. 

Garrett looked down at her hand first, then at her face. His expression changed immediately, the smile fading into something cautious.

The words came before she could make them pretty. Maybe because pretty had been the problem all night. Pretty corset, pretty stage lights, pretty Hannah, pretty Kendall, pretty Garrett being adored by the room while her chest did something ugly underneath all the prettiness.

“I’m really sorry,” she said.

Garrett went still.

Her grip on his sweater tightened by a fraction. The wool was soft under her fingers. Warm from him. “For… everything.”

For breaking up with him. For not knowing how to stay. For wanting him to become less known, less wanted, less Garrett so she could feel safer loving him. For leaving and then resenting every space he filled without her. For Dean and the phone confiscation and the way she had looked at Hannah like happiness itself had wronged her. For tonight. For calling him a whore in a parking lot after a Shakespeare show where she had done shots with strangers and nearly cried into a wet bar.

She didn’t say all that, obviously. There were limits. Even drunk.

But maybe some of it sat in the air anyway, because Garrett’s face softened in that careful, unguarded way that made him look less like the boy half the campus wanted and more like the person who used to lie beside her at four in the morning and ask questions he didn’t always know how to hear the answers to.

He looked at her for a long second. Then he nodded once. “Me too,” he said.

Just two words, low and rough enough to make her fingers loosen in his sweater before she had fully decided to let go.

Garrett waited until her hand fell back to her lap. Then he closed the door gently, like the quiet mattered. Like slamming it would have broken something already cracked.

Through the glass, she watched him stand there for a second, head dipping, one hand dragging once through his hair. 

Then he walked around the front of the car, and she sat in the warm, dim passenger seat with glitter on her skin, tequila in her blood, and the horrible, tender knowledge that sorry had not fixed anything.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ second chance second date.

pairing – garrett graham x petal!reader summary – after running into garrett at the coffee shop, dinner feels like either a terrible idea or the first careful step toward something they both still want. warnings – exes to lovers, second chance, emotional tension, soft/flirty banter, alcohol mention notes from me – finally gave these cuties their dinner date!! hope u enjoy babes xx word count – 5.2k

navigation – masterlist |

The restaurant wasn’t fancy enough to make the whole thing feel terrifying, which she appreciated, but it was nice enough that she had spent twenty minutes standing in front of her closet like she was preparing for a court appearance. 

Small tables, warm lighting, a chalkboard wine list behind the bar, and that low evening hum of cutlery and conversation and people pretending not to listen to the table beside them.

The windows were fogged faintly at the edges from the cold outside, little beads of condensation collecting near the wooden frames, and the second she stepped through the door, the heat hit her cheeks hard enough to make her feel like she had already been caught doing something.

Which was ridiculous, because she was simply getting dinner. With Garrett. After a coffee shop conversation that had made her chest feel like someone had taken a key to a locked room she’d been avoiding and turned it very gently.

So, normal. Completely normal.

She paused near the host stand, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as she glanced across the restaurant. 

She had expected to beat him there. Garrett was many things – charming, annoying, unfairly good-looking in hoodies, apparently susceptible to hostile furniture – but punctual for emotionally loaded dinner plans hadn’t been a category she’d ever had to evaluate before. 

She’d imagined having at least a minute to sit down, smooth her skirt, order water, arrange her face into something casual and mostly sane before he walked in.

Instead, he was already there. At a small table near the back, one shoulder angled toward the door like he’d been watching for her without wanting to look like he was watching for her. 

Navy sweater this time, hair still a little damp at the ends like he’d showered after practice and then run his hands through it six different times while deciding whether that counted as styling. 

There was a faint bruise blooming low near his jaw, just enough yellow-green at the edge to make her eyes catch on it before she could stop them. His phone sat facedown beside his water glass.

Garrett looked up just as the host asked if she had a booking. His face changed immediately. His eyes finding hers and warming, the corner of his mouth lifting into a grin that started careful and failed within half a second.

“Hey,” she said when she reached him, her voice coming out softer than intended.

“Hey.” Garrett stood, and because he’d decided to become the sort of man who arrived early and remembered social manners, he reached for the back of her chair and pulled it out for her.

She blinked at him, then laughed under her breath because there was no universe where she could let that pass untouched. “Oh. Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead.”

Garrett’s mouth tipped. “Nope.”

She slid into the chair, setting her bag carefully against the leg of the table. “Should I be worried? Are you about to reveal you joined a secret society?”

“Can’t talk about it.”

“Mhm. First rule?”

“Compliment the lady’s coat and pull her chair out.”

“Disturbing.”

“Yeah, hazing’s gotten really refined.”

She smiled down at her menu before she meant to, and Garrett sat opposite her, looking pleased with himself in a way that would have annoyed her more if the sight of it didn’t settle something in her stomach. 

The table was small enough that his knee nearly brushed hers beneath it, and both of them seemed to notice at the same time. He shifted back a fraction. She shifted too. Then, because the mutual restraint was so visible it had become its own problem, she tucked one ankle behind the other and pretended to be very interested in the appetisers.

For the first few minutes, they were almost too polite. It was awful, honestly. Painful in the way only two people who had once known how to share a bed without negotiating space could be painful while discussing bread. 

Garrett asked how rehearsal scheduling had ended up after Allie’s missed calls, and she told him Dexter had decided to move a blocking session because one of the cast members had apparently lost emotional access to the dining table, which Garrett listened to with the grave expression of a man trying to understand theatre people as a species. 

She asked how practice had been, and he said, “Loud,” then clarified that Coach had used the phrase “discipline starts in the neutral zone” so many times that Logan had started whispering it like a prayer every time someone dropped a puck.

“That feels like something Logan would turn into a cult,” she said, fingers resting around her water glass.

“He already tried,” Garrett said. “Tucker told him cult leaders need better posture.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“No, he’s usually not. That’s what makes him insufferable.”

“You live with Dean.”

“Dean’s insufferable but, like, in a different genre.”

She laughed at that, small but real, and Garrett’s eyes flicked to her mouth like he had heard the sound and wanted to keep it somewhere safe. 

The look was quick. He didn’t linger. That somehow made it worse.

A server came over then, cheerful and slightly rushed, and Garrett looked at her before ordering like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to know what she wanted anymore. The hesitation was tiny, but she caught it anyway. 

He used to order for her when she was indecisive, used to nudge the menu down with two fingers and say, baby, you’ve read the same pasta description four times, you want the pasta.

Now his gaze moved from her face to the menu and back again, careful around the old familiarity like it might bruise if handled wrong.

She saved him from it by ordering first. A glass of wine, the pasta, the salad she didn’t really want but felt compelled to add because adulthood occasionally demanded leaves. Garrett ordered the steak and a beer, then added the bread for the table after glancing at her for half a second too long.

She narrowed her eyes as the server left. “Was that bread for me?”

Garrett leaned back, one hand around his water glass. “I like bread.”

“Garrett.”

“What? Wheat’s… good.”

She pressed her lips together, refusing to give him the laugh too easily. He saw it anyway. His grin deepened just enough to make the candle on the table catch in the little crease near his cheek.

“Fine,” he said. “Maybe it was for you.”

“I can order my own bread.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t.”

She looked at him across the table. “How would you know?”

His grin softened at the edges. His thumb moved once over the condensation on his glass. “Because you’d stare at the menu and say you didn’t need it, then steal half of mine and act like it was my fault for placing it within range.”

The accuracy of it slipped under her guard so neatly that for a second she had no response. The room kept going around them, forks against plates, someone laughing too loudly near the bar, the front door opening to let in a brief slice of cold air before it closed again. 

She looked down, pretending to adjust the napkin on her lap. “That sounds like slander,” she said.

“It’s documented behaviour.”

“By who?”

“Me. I lived it.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

She glanced up then, and the smile was waiting for her before she could stop it. Garrett caught it and smiled back, quieter this time, the two of them sitting with the little ache of it between them. The old ease had not come rushing back cleanly; it arrived in pieces, knocking politely first, checking whether the room was safe to enter.

The wine helped. One glass smoothing the edges of the table between them, warming the space under her sternum, making her hands less concerned with what they were doing. 

The bread arrived first, warm enough that steam rose when Garrett tore a piece open, and he pushed the plate toward her without comment. She took one piece, then another three minutes later, and he had the decency not to look smug until she pointed a butter knife at him. “Don’t.”

Garrett lifted both hands. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing… your face.”

“I only have the one.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Wow.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “At dinner? After I bought emotional support bread?”

“You haven’t bought it yet.”

He shot her a look. “I’m paying.”

“Wow. Very generous.”

“I know. People say that.”

“Do they?”

“Constantly. Mostly elderly women and bartenders.”

She laughed, and this time she didn’t bother hiding it. Garrett’s eyes lit in response, bright enough that she had to look at the bread for a second because his face when he made her laugh had always been one of her less survivable experiences.

By the time the food came, the tentative layer had thinned into something easier. It still lived underneath everything, that awareness of the months between them, the things said badly, the things not said at all. But the conversation had found its old rhythm around it. 

Garrett told her Dean had decided to start a pre-playoffs wellness protocol that involved buying a juicer off a guy from one of his classes and immediately using it to make something green enough that Tucker had asked whether it was meant to be consumed or poured into a lawn mower. 

She told him Allie had threatened to stage an intervention because one of their castmates kept saying he was discovering the character through breath while consistently forgetting every entrance.

Garrett paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Through breath?”

“Apparently.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he doesn’t know his lines.”

“Right.” Garrett nodded. “We have that in hockey too.”

“You discover the puck through breath?”

“No, Logan discovers backchecking through vibes and then Coach discovers yelling through rage.”

She covered her mouth with her napkin because the laugh came too fast and too sharp, and the table beside them looked over. A middle-aged woman in a red scarf glanced between them with mild, deeply judgemental curiosity. 

Garrett noticed immediately, because Garrett could feel an audience the way other people felt weather. He leaned slightly toward the other table, smile warm and obnoxiously innocent.

“Sorry,” he said. “She’s very disruptive.”

Her mouth fell open. “Me?”

The woman’s expression cracked despite herself. 

Garrett looked back at her, eyes dancing. “You’re causing a scene.”

“I’m eating pasta.”

“Loudly.”

“I hope you choke on your steak.”

“There she is,” he said, too fondly.

The words landed, and for one second the joking air between them thinned. There she is. Like he’d been looking. Like he’d missed her in all her sharp little turns and dramatic threats and refusal to laugh when he deserved it, and had found her again somewhere between the bread plate and the second glass of wine. 

Her fork paused against the edge of her bowl. Garrett’s smile faded by a fraction when he realised what he’d said, or maybe how it had sounded.

She saved them both by rolling her eyes. “You’re lucky I’m too classy to cause an actual scene.”

“Yeah, that’s always been your defining trait.”

“My elegance?”

“Your restraint.”

She gave him a look over her wine glass. “I once watched you try to open a bottle of champagne with a house key.”

Garrett pointed his fork at her. “That was Dean’s idea.”

“You were the one holding the key.”

“I was supporting a friend.”

“You dented the wall.”

“The wall was weak.”

She laughed again, helpless this time, and Garrett followed her into it, his shoulders loosening as he ducked his head. The woman at the other table looked over again. The man with her looked vaguely amused now, like he had started unwillingly following the plot. 

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek, trying to recover some dignity and failing when she whispered, “The wall was weak,” under her breath and set him off again.

“Stop,” he said, laughing into his hand. “Jesus.”

“You said it!”

“You’re making it worse.”

“I’m discovering the joke through breath.”

He groaned, head tipping back for half a second, and she laughed so hard her eyes watered. It felt embarrassingly good. Too good, maybe. The kind of good that came with a little warning label attached, because the body could forget what the brain had carefully filed away. 

Her ribs hurt from laughing. Her cheeks felt warm from wine and candlelight and Garrett looking at her like this, like every stupid thing out of her mouth was something he wanted to catch.

That was the part she had to be careful with. Garrett’s attention could make her feel chosen so quickly it almost frightened her, because she knew what it felt like when that attention shifted elsewhere. 

She knew the sudden cold where his hand used to be. She knew the humiliation of wanting proof and hating herself for needing it.

But tonight, when the server came over and asked if they wanted another drink, Garrett didn’t glance around the room, didn’t let his charm spray out carelessly in every direction. 

He was polite, because he was Garrett and would probably still be charming at a tax audit, but his body stayed angled toward her. 

His eyes came back to her before the server had even finished speaking. “You want another wine?”

She looked at her glass, then at him. “Do you?”

“I’ve got morning practice,” he said with a grimace.

She groaned. “So boring.”

“Hey,” he protested. “I danced shirtless in a Shakespeare production.”

“You were a hostage.”

“I adapted,” he reminded her.

“You stripped.”

“There was crowd pressure.”

“You had no moral backbone.”

“I had excellent rhythm.”

She stared at him.

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Okay. Decent rhythm.”

“You looked very pleased with yourself.”

“Because everyone was chanting my name.”

“That’s exactly the problem with you.”

His eyes held hers across the table, the teasing still there but softer beneath it. “Yeah?”

She swallowed a little around the sudden warmth at the back of her throat. The easy answer would have been yes, obviously, because Garrett Graham and crowd approval had been married long before she came along. 

But the wine had loosened too much, maybe. Or the night had. Or the way he had remembered the bread and turned his attention back to her every time the world gave him an opening not to.

“Not tonight,” she said, quieter.

Garrett’s face changed. He didn’t grin. Didn’t make it a victory. He only looked at her for a second, then nodded once. “Good.”

It shouldn’t have felt as big as it did. It was dinner. It was bread. It was Garrett behaving like a grown-up for longer than ten seconds at a time. It wasn’t the grand repair of everything they’d ever done badly. 

Still, the smallness of it was exactly what made it dangerous. Big promises could be distrusted. Small choices had weight.

She got another drink, and by the time their plates had been cleared, the restaurant had thinned into the later-dinner crowd: quieter tables, lower voices, the occasional clink of someone stacking glasses behind the bar. 

Garrett had pushed his empty beer bottle to the side and was telling her about a team meeting where Coach had tried to use a motivational video and accidentally cast it from his phone with his unread messages still visible at the top of the screen.

“No,” she said, delighted. “What did they say?”

Garrett rubbed a hand over his mouth, already laughing. “His wife texted, where are the lemons.”

She stared at him, waiting.

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s the whole message. But Logan whispers, ‘Coach has a lemon problem,’ and Dean loses it. Completely. Shoulders shaking, face red, trying to pretend he’s coughing. Then Coach pauses the video and goes, ‘Di Laurentis, do you need medical attention?’ and Dean, because he has no survival instinct, says, ‘No, sir, just thinking about lemons.’”

She made a sound that was unfortunately louder than planned and had to press her napkin to her mouth again. The red-scarf woman looked over for the third time, and this time she was smiling openly. 

She lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry. Sorry.”

Garrett leaned back in his chair, looking unbearably smug. “Told you. Disruptive.”

She pointed at him. “You’re telling stupid stories in public.”

“Private team business, actually. You should feel honoured.”

“I do. Deeply.”

“Good.”

The bill arrived tucked inside a little black folder, and she reached for her bag automatically. 

Garrett’s hand landed on the folder first. “Don’t,” he said.

She paused. “Garrett.”

“I asked you to dinner.”

“I can pay for my own food.”

“I know you can.”

“Then–”

“I asked,” he said again. “Let me.”

There was a version of her, one with a sharper pride and less wine and a worse memory of how things had ended, that might have argued on principle until the server came back and found them in a quiet financial standoff beside the remains of the bread basket. 

But his voice didn’t make it feel like a power move. It felt like him wanting to take care of one clean, simple thing after months of every other thing between them being complicated.

So she leaned back and let her hand fall away from her bag. “Fine.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked up. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I would never.”

“You always say that right before making it weird.”

“That’s part of my process.”

She smiled down at the table while he paid, tracing one finger through the faint condensation ring left by her glass. The room felt softer now. The kind of late-night restaurant softness that made time seem less strict. 

She should have been tired. She was tired, a little, but it sat underneath the warmer thing blooming carefully in her chest, the strange, tentative relief of an evening that had not collapsed under the weight of what it meant.

Outside, the cold came for them immediately. She had barely stepped onto the pavement before the air slid under the edges of her coat and found every bit of skin it could punish. 

The streetlights threw pale circles across the wet road, and the restaurant door shut behind them with a muffled thump, cutting off the heat and the low chatter. She folded her arms across herself on instinct.

Garrett noticed. “Cold?”

“No,” she said, because pride survived wine.

He looked at her. She held his gaze for half a second, then her breath fogged in front of her face and ruined the entire performance. “A little.”

Garrett huffed a laugh and was already shrugging out of his jacket before she could pretend she didn’t need it. “Come here.”

“Garrett, you’ll freeze.”

He stepped closer and settled the jacket around her shoulders, his hands lingering only long enough to tug the collar into place. The weight of it landed warm over her, heavier than her own coat, still carrying his body heat through the lining. 

And his smell. Clean soap, cold air, the faintest trace of whatever detergent the hockey house used when the machine wasn’t being abused by four men who thought fabric softener was fake. 

Under that, just him. Warm skin and something steady she’d spent weeks pretending not to miss with the full force of her dignity.

It hit so hard she had to look away.

“Warmer?” he asked.

She nodded, pulling the jacket closer with both hands. “Mhm.”

Garrett’s gaze stayed on her face for a beat, like he’d seen the tiny shift and was deciding, kindly, not to name it. Then he tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants and started walking beside her, angling himself slightly closer to the curb without making a thing of it.

The walk back toward her dorm was quiet at first, though it wasn’t bad. Their shoes moved over damp pavement, the campus streets mostly empty now except for a few students bundled in scarves and the distant sound of someone laughing too loudly near one of the residence halls. 

Wind moved through the bare trees, rattling the branches softly. Somewhere, a car rolled past with bass thudding low through closed windows.

She glanced at Garrett from inside the collar of his jacket. “Your jacket smells like you.”

His mouth lifted. “That a complaint?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“It also smells a little like hockey house laundry room.”

“That is a complaint.”

“It’s an observation.”

“Our laundry room has been through a lot.”

“I know. I’ve seen it.”

“Then you understand why we don’t discuss it in public.”

She smiled, tucking her chin deeper into the warmth. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

They reached the crosswalk at the edge of campus, the little red hand glowing on the signal. A few cars passed, headlights sliding over them in bright white strips. 

Garrett stopped beside her, close enough that his sleeve brushed the jacket he had put on her, and for a second they both stood there looking at the empty road like it required deep concentration.

The light changed. Garrett stepped off the curb and reached for her hand out of habit.

It happened so naturally that neither of them seemed to understand it until it was already done. His fingers slid through hers, warm and sure, palm closing around her hand as they started across the street. 

The contact shot up her arm with ridiculous, familiar precision, waking every small memory stored in her skin. Coffee shop lines. Cold walks after games. His thumb brushing over her knuckles while he talked to someone else, back when she still believed the touch meant she was anchored there.

Halfway across, Garrett realised. She felt it in the slight catch of his hand. Saw it in the way his head turned toward her, careful, asking without words whether he had overstepped. 

For one heartbeat, the old reflex rose between them – his hand opening, hers being left empty, the sudden air.

She tightened her grip before he could let go. Her fingers closed around his, firm enough to answer. 

Garrett’s eyes dropped to their joined hands, then lifted back to her face. The corner of his mouth softened, but he didn’t grin, he only held on.

They crossed the rest of the road like that. The whole walk shifted after. Barely. Completely. Their hands stayed linked between them, swinging lightly once when Garrett adjusted his stride to match hers. 

His thumb moved over the side of her hand, slow and absent, and the gesture made something behind her ribs ache in the softest, most inconvenient way. 

She wanted to tell him she had missed this. She wanted to tell him that holding his hand in public had never been about ownership, not really, even if it had come out that way sometimes. 

It had been about not disappearing. About his body saying, without fuss, she’s with me, while the rest of the world looked.

Instead, she said, “You walk very fast.”

Garrett glanced down, mouth twitching. “I slowed down.”

“For who?”

“For the tiny theatre girl in my jacket.”

She pouted before she could stop herself. “I’m not tiny.”

“No?”

“I am average height and, like, emotionally tall.”

He laughed, the sound slipping into the cold air between them. “Emotionally tall?”

“Yes.”

“Is that like discovering character through breath?”

“Exactly.”

“So you’re short through breath.”

She gasped. “Take me home immediately.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“Faster.”

Garrett shook his head, still smiling, and squeezed her hand once. That little squeeze nearly did more damage than anything else, because it was so ordinary.

Her hand fit in his exactly the same way it used to, and the knowledge sat low and warm in her stomach as they turned onto the path leading toward her dorm.

By the time they reached the steps, neither of them let go immediately. The dorm building rose above them in all its unromantic brick-and-fluorescent-window glory, a few rooms lit yellow, one window on the second floor cracked open despite the cold. 

Someone had stuck a half-peeled campus event poster crookedly near the entrance. The whole place smelled faintly like wet leaves and the terrible cafeteria coffee that lived permanently in the vents.

Garrett stopped at the bottom of the steps, his jacket still around her shoulders, her hand still in his. He looked up at the door, then back at her. “You good to get in?”

She nodded. “Mhm.”

“Good.”

Neither of them moved.

Their joined hands hung between them. Garrett’s thumb shifted once over her knuckle and then stilled, like he’d just realised he was doing it again. His face was half-shadowed by the light over the entrance, curls messy from the wind, cheeks faintly pink from the cold. 

He looked a little younger like this. Less golden boy, less rink captain, less campus-wide problem. Just Garrett, standing outside her dorm in a sweater without a jacket because his was around her shoulders, trying to choose the right words and looking almost annoyed at how much he cared about getting them right.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” he said finally.

Her chest warmed so quickly she almost hated him for it. “Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She tightened the jacket around herself, mostly to have something to do with her hands now that she had gently let his go. “Even with the lemon story.”

“Especially with the lemon story.”

“It was very vulnerable of you to share.”

He shrugged. “Team confidentiality means nothing to me.”

“I gathered.”

Garrett smiled, then looked down for a second, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. The movement was so familiar it made her mouth soften before she could stop it. 

“We should, um.” He cleared his throat, eyes coming back to hers. “After the game maybe? Get dinner again, or a drink, or just… hang out. I dunno.”

She stared at him for half a breath, then let the grin come because he looked so painfully earnest beneath the attempted casualness that not teasing him would have been cruel to both of them. 

“Are you asking me on a second date, Graham?”

Garrett huffed, but the tips of his ears went faintly red. “Uh, I guess so.”

“You guess?”

“I am asking,” he corrected, pointing at her lightly. “I’m just trying not to make it sound like I rehearsed it.”

“Did you rehearse it?”

“No.”

She lifted her brows.

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Not out loud.”

A laugh slipped out of her, soft and helpless, and he smiled back with the kind of relief that made her want to step closer. She stayed where she was, just barely.

He shifted his weight. “Does it count if it’s a…” His face did something uncertain, the humour flickering around the edges of something real. “A second chance second date?”

She looked at him, at the careful set of his mouth, the way he had clearly meant the joke to hold more of the weight than it could. Something in her chest opened a little, warm and sore. 

“Oh,” she said, trying to keep her voice light because if she didn’t, it would go soft enough to ruin them both. “We’re calling it a second chance, are we?”

Garrett blinked. The confidence dropped from his face so fast it almost made her regret it. “I mean, I thought that’s what it was.”

Her heart twisted. Fuck. Garrett Graham, temporarily humbled by sincerity. Somebody should have sold tickets. 

She stepped closer before the moment could bruise. “I’m teasing you.”

His shoulders loosened a fraction. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He let out a breath, then narrowed his eyes at her slightly, recovering himself piece by piece. “That was mean.”

“You like me mean.”

“Mhm,” he murmured, and it came out quieter than the joke deserved.

The air between them changed again. The cold pressed around her cheeks. His jacket was warm over her shoulders. 

He was close enough now that she could see the faint nick near his jaw, the tiny damp shine of his lower lip where he’d bitten it while thinking, the way his eyes kept moving over her face like he was still checking whether he was allowed to stay in this moment.

She rose onto her toes before she could overthink it and kissed his cheek. Warm skin, a faint brush of stubble, the clean familiar smell of him filling her lungs so quickly it made her chest hurt. 

Garrett went still. When she eased back down, his eyes had softened in a way that made him look entirely unprepared to be left on a sidewalk.

“I’ll see you this weekend,” she said.

He nodded once, slow. “Yeah. See you then.”

She slipped his jacket from her shoulders and held it out. For one tiny second, Garrett looked like he might tell her to keep it. She could see the impulse cross his face, could almost hear the casual line he would have used to make it sound easy. 

Keep it, baby. You’re cold. 

But he seemed to think better of it, or maybe he was learning when not to make a gesture do more than the moment could hold. He took it from her, fingers brushing hers lightly around the fabric.

“Text me when you’re inside?” he asked.

She gave him a look. “I’m going up three stairs.”

“Humour me.”

“You’re very bossy for a man asking for a second chance second date.”

“Concerned,” he corrected.

She smiled, shaking her head, then turned and climbed the steps. At the door, she glanced back. Garrett was still there at the bottom, jacket hooked over one arm now, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants against the cold. 

He looked up at her with that small, almost-private smile, the one that had always been more dangerous than the bright public grin.

“Goodnight, Garrett,” she said.

“Goodnight,” he said, then added, because he could not help himself, “Try not to get taken out by any furniture on the way in.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it nearly counted as cardio. “One chair humbles you and suddenly you’re projecting.”

“That chair had bad intentions.”

“Goodnight.”

He grinned then, full and warm and stupidly pleased with himself, and she had to pull the door open before her face gave away too much. The lobby heat wrapped around her as she stepped inside, smelling faintly like carpet cleaner, radiator dust, and someone’s microwave popcorn. 

The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the cold, muffling the street, leaving Garrett on the other side of the glass under the dorm light.

Her phone buzzed before she had even reached the first stairwell.

Garrett: You made it inside. Heroic.

She stopped on the landing, biting down on a smile that came anyway. She typed back with cold fingers and a heart doing something soft and stupid beneath her ribs.

barely. the stairs were aggressive.

His reply came almost immediately.

Garrett: Campus furniture problem. I’ve been saying this.

She laughed under her breath, quiet in the empty stairwell, and for the first time in weeks, the sound didn’t feel like it had to fight its way out of her. 

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ continuity of care.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – a suspicious number of shoulder checks leads garrett to finally ask for dinner. warnings – fluff, sports injury mention, athletic training setting, flirting, suggestive jokes notes from me – based on this ask!! such a cute idea, thank u babe!! word count – 0.7k

navigation – masterlist |

Garrett Graham’s shoulder is, by all professional measures available to a work-study student in the Briar athletic training office, absolutely fine. Not perfect, maybe, but fine enough that she’s starting to take his repeated appearances personally. 

The first time, he’d needed ice after taking a hit into the boards. Fair. The second time, he’d wanted someone to check the mobility because it felt weird, which had been suspicious mostly because he’d demonstrated full range of motion while explaining it, arm moving smoothly through the air while she stared at him over the top of her clipboard. The third time, he’d come in for tape before practice, even though there were three rolls in the locker room and at least two actual trainers capable of using them.

Now he’s sitting on the edge of the treatment table again, shirt off, hair still damp from the shower, one hand braced behind him like he’s posing for some very niche campus safety brochure on shoulder instability. 

The room smells like antiseptic wipes, athletic tape, and that cold rink smell that seems to cling to him no matter where he goes. She stands between his knees with a roll of tape in one hand, her thumb pressing lightly along the front of his shoulder as she checks the angle, and Garrett, who’s been hit by men twice his size without blinking, goes very still.

She glances up. “That hurt?”

His eyes come to her face, mouth already threatening a grin. “No. I’m being brave.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Those can overlap.”

She huffs a laugh and tears off a strip of tape with her teeth because the scissors have vanished again, probably into whatever black hole also consumes pens and dignity in this office. Garrett watches her do it with an expression that’s trying for casual and missing by several miles.

“You know,” she says, smoothing the tape down over his skin, “at some point, people are going to start thinking you’re getting injured on purpose.”

Garrett’s brows lift. “People?”

“Me. I’m people.”

“Pretty serious accusation.”

She laughs softly before she can stop herself, and Garrett’s grin softens into something stupidly pleased, like getting that sound out of her has been the actual rehab goal all along. 

It makes her look back down too fast, fingers pressing the edge of the tape into place with more care than strictly necessary. His skin is warm under her hands, solid and distracting, and she can feel him watching the concentration settle over her face.

“There,” she says, stepping back half an inch. “You’re good.”

Garrett looks at his shoulder, then back at her. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“So I’m cleared?”

“For practice? Yes.”

“For dinner?”

Her hands pause around the tape roll. Garrett’s grin wavers just slightly, which is the first interesting thing he’s done all afternoon. 

“With me,” he adds, like she might think he’s asking her to dinner with the entire men’s hockey roster and a bag of ice packs.

She looks at him for a second too long. The office hums around them, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, someone laughing down the hall, a skate blade clattering somewhere in the equipment room. Garrett sits there half-taped and too handsome for anyone’s academic focus, trying to look like this doesn’t matter when the tips of his ears have gone faintly pink.

Her mouth curves before she can make it behave. “Is your shoulder going to survive that?”

His grin comes back, bright and relieved. “Might need supervision.”

“Mm.” She reaches out and presses one last firm piece of tape down, mostly because his face does something lovely when she steps close again. “One date, Graham.”

“One date,” he says, nodding like he’s negotiating a contract he already intends to renew. “Very medical. For continuity of care.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now, warm all the way through her chest. “Pick me up at seven.”

Garrett slides off the table, careful not to brush her and absolutely aware of how close he comes anyway. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And stop faking injuries.”

He pauses at the door, looking back over his shoulder with that stupid golden-boy grin doing terrible work in the middle of his face. “After dinner?”

She throws the empty tape core at him.

He catches it, because of course he does, laughing as he backs into the hall. “Worth a shot.”

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[kooksandpearls]

nursing student!reader ❄︎ extra.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader notes from me – just a little tiny extra following i've got you. enjoy babes xx word count – 0.7k

navigation – masterlist |

Garrett falls asleep quicker than she’s ever seen him fall asleep before. One minute he’s mumbling something into her stomach about not needing ice, his arms locked around her hips like she’s responsible for keeping him from doing something stupid with stairs, and the next his breathing goes thick and even, warm through the front of her shirt. 

She stays there for a while with both hands in his hair, listening to the house below them settle into the ugly, hungover version of quiet. A door shuts. Someone laughs too loudly and gets immediately shushed. The bass cuts out at last, leaving behind the thin ringing silence of a party that’s died badly.

Her throat feels dry, so she eases out of Garrett’s hold slowly, freezing when his fingers flex once at her waist, but he only frowns in his sleep and turns his face into the pillow. His taped hand is tucked against his chest. His mouth is softer now, all the fight gone out of it. It makes something in her ribs pull tight enough that she has to look away.

Downstairs, the kitchen light is still on.

Dean’s at the counter when she gets there, one hip braced against the cabinet, a bag of frozen peas pressed to his right hand and a beer sitting unopened beside him. He looks up when she comes in, hair mussed, mouth split at one corner, shirt wrinkled like he’s been dragged through three separate bad decisions and voted most likely to enjoy it.

“Jesus,” she says quietly. “You look terrible.”

Dean looks down at himself, then back at her. “That’s rude. I’ve looked charming through worse.”

“You have blood on your shirt.”

“Not mine.”

“Comforting.”

He grins, but it’s smaller than usual. She crosses to the sink and fills a glass, the tap running too loud in the quiet room. For a second neither of them says anything. The kitchen smells like spilled beer, stale chips, and the metallic edge of blood someone missed when wiping down the counter.

She takes one sip, then another. 

“Thank you,” she says, because if she doesn’t say it quickly, she might not say it at all.

Dean’s eyes flick to her. “For what?”

“In the kitchen. Earlier.” Her fingers tighten around the glass. “You heard him. And you didn’t make it… bigger.”

Dean looks at her for a beat, then shrugs with the kind of casualness that has clearly been assembled from spare parts. “Yeah. Well. Didn’t seem like my thing to hand over.”

Her chest does something small and painful. “Still.”

He nods once, eyes dropping to the peas against his knuckles. “He’s a dick.”

“Yeah.”

“Like, not in a fun way. In a should-be-launched-into-traffic way.”

A laugh slips out of her before she can stop it, thin and tired and real enough that Dean’s mouth twitches. She sets the glass down and reaches for his hand. “Let me look?”

Dean pulls it back immediately. “Nah. It’s fine.”

“You’re icing it with vegetables.”

“They were available.”

“Dean.”

“What? You already patched up one idiot tonight. Don’t overachieve.”

She gives him a look.

He holds it for maybe three seconds before sighing and offering his hand with theatrical suffering. “God. Fine. But if you tell Garrett I accepted medical care, I’ll deny it.”

“Your masculinity is safe with me.”

“Thank you.”

His knuckles are red and swollen, but nothing split badly enough to need more than cleaning and ice. She turns his hand gently under the light, and Dean lets her, watching her face with an expression that’s almost too careful for him.

“You know,” he says after a minute, “you’re G’s girl.”

Her fingers still.

Dean lifts his brows. “I mean, you’re not officially. Apparently. Because he’s emotionally constipated and you’re both doing whatever little avoidance situation this is.”

She stares at him.

“But,” he says, shrugging again, softer this time, “you’re his girl. So. We got you.”

The kitchen goes blurry at the edges for half a second. She looks down at his hand again, thumb brushing lightly around the bruised skin. “That’s a very big-brother thing to say.”

Dean makes a face. “Ew. Don’t say that. I’m hot.”

“You’re injured.”

“Still hot.”

She laughs, and this one sits easier in her body.

Dean takes the peas back and presses them to his hand. “Go back upstairs before Garrett wakes up and thinks you’ve been kidnapped.”

She picks up her glass, warmth sitting low and strange under her ribs. “Night, Dean.”

“Night, future nurse.” He pauses as she reaches the doorway. “And hey.”

She turns.

His grin is faint but real. “Next time, let me hit him first. Graham’s got a draft to protect.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling when she goes. “Got it.”

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[flannelshirts-and-fingerguns]

We Listen and We Don’t Judge… WTF Y/N?!

Summary: You play a game of ‘we listen and we don’t judge’ with Hannah and Allie. Except when they find out your secret they have to judge

Pairing: John Logan x Reader

Warning: Don’t try this at home

Notes: This was created after looking at all the wonderful JL gifs. Specifically any of the ones where he has a cutoff shirt showing his biceps or where he is fixing things. 😋 Also I’m working on a Dean fic and I cannot nail his f-boy energy. If anyone has request send them my way while I fight my muse. Anyway hope y’all enjoy 🫶

The living room of the girls' dorm was dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the sudden, synchronized drop of Hannah and Allie’s jaws.

The three of you were sitting in a circle on the floor, playing a sacred game: the “We listen and we don’t judge” game. It was supposed to be a safe space for silly confessions. Hannah had already confessed that she accidentally submitted a recipe for chocolate chip cookies instead of her philosophy essay (and somehow got a B-). Allie had gleefully admitted to hiding Dean’s favorite hair gel because he told her she takes to long to get ready.

Then, it was your turn. And you had just blown the roof off the place.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Hannah held up a hand, her eyes wide. “Rewind. You’re telling us that you are the dorm spirit we’ve been complaining about for the past few months? There is no poltergeist? You’ve been deliberately sabotaging our apartment?”

“Let her cook, Han,” Allie interrupted, leaning forward with sudden, intense fascination. “I want to hear the logistics of this. Go on, Y/N. Explain the sordid details.”

You blushed furiously, pulling your knees to your chest. “Okay, look! It’s not that bad I swear! You know how I take mostly online classes and work from home? I have a lot of free time. And you know I have a massive, hopeless crush on John Logan. But I didn’t know how to get him to notice me!”

“So your grand solution was property damage?” Hannah asked, a grin twitching at the corner of her lips.

“Yes!” you squeaked. “He’s a literal mechanic! It’s his love language! I figured, if things randomly break, he’ll come over to fix them. And oh my god, girls… the cutoff shirts he wears when he works? The sweat? The biceps? It is doing wonderful things for my mental health.”

Allie giggled, “Brilliant. I respect the hustle.”

“You guys were losing your minds wondering why the plumbing and the cabinetry were failing on a weekly basis,” you mumbled into your knees. “I felt a little bad. So, I tried to ‘help’ him when he came over. But… I have zero handy skills.”

Hannah snorted. “Oh, we know. Remember when you tried to hang that picture frame and put a hole through the drywall?”

“Exactly!” you cried. “So whenever Logan’s fixing something, I try to hand him tools or hold things, and I just end up making it so much worse. Last week, I accidentally messed up the screws on the cabinet hinges so badly he had to re-drill the whole frame. I literally added two hours of work to his day. My heart was breaking for him!”

“And what did he do?” Allie cooed.

“He just smiled this devastatingly cute smile, looked at me with those blue eyes, and said, ‘Wow! Thanks for helping, pretty girl. I couldn't have done it without you.’ Meanwhile, I could see his soul leaving his body because I’m a walking disaster. But he’s just so sweet!”

Hannah shook her head, laughing. “Y/N, you are completely ridiculous. You don't need to commit minor acts of vandalism just to see him. You should just tell him how you feel! The guy clearly likes you.”

“No way,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “He’s John Logan. He probably thinks I’m just your clumsy, weird roommate.”

Meanwhile, across campus at the hockey house, John Logan was pacing the living room, a wildly whipped expression on his face. Garrett Graham sat on the couch, watching his friend with a mixture of amusement and genuine concern.

“I’m telling you, G, she’s an angel,” Logan gushed, throwing his hands in the air. “A beautiful, clumsy, perfect angel. The campus spirits are blessed, man. Every time something breaks in her apartment, I get to go over there.”

Garrett took a sip of his drink. “Right. Because the plumbing in a university dorm just spontaneously combusts every Tuesday.”

“I don't care why it breaks, I’m just glad it does,” Logan said, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “Ever since the day I met her—when I literally tripped over my own hockey bag and faceplanted right in front of her gorgeous face—I’ve been hooked. And she’s so shy, G. But she tries so hard to help me.”

Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Is she actually helpful?”

Logan’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A brief flash of phantom pain crossed his mechanic’s heart. “...She’s enthusiastic. Last time, she tried to help me fix the sink trap and accidentally wrenched the main valve the wrong way. Water sprayed everywhere. We were soaked. It took me three extra hours to clean up her ‘help’.”

“Logan,” Garrett said slowly. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“No, you don't get it!” Logan defended, his eyes shining. “She looked so cute and guilty, dripping wet and apologizing. I just looked at her and I had no choice but to say, ‘Great job, pretty girl!’ because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I’d let her break every pipe in that building if it means she stays near me. She’s just… god, she's so gorgeous.”

Garrett stared at his best friend for a long, quiet moment. Finally, he shook his head.

“Man, I am seriously concerned for your mental wellbeing. You’re enabling property damage for a smile,” Garrett said, standing up and clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Man up, Bob the Builder. Stop waiting for the toilet to overflow. Just ask her out on a proper date.”

Logan blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think? What if she just thinks of me as the handyman?”

Back in the girls dorm, Allie was practically mapping out your next move on a small whiteboard. “Okay, so next is the bathroom door lock. You 'accidentally' get stuck inside, Logan has to break the door down, he carries you out—”

“Allie, stop encouraging her!” Hannah laughed, throwing a pillow at her. She turned to you, her expression softening. “Seriously, Y/N. You don’t need a broken door lock. Just talk to him next time he comes over. No sabotage required.”

You blushed, looking at the toolkit you had hidden under the sofa. “Maybe… but the cutoff shirts, Han. I have to consider the cutoff shirts.”

[matt-murdockk]

On Sundays, we everything shower

Garrett Graham x platonic! reader words: 900 summary: You educate Garrett about the highs and lows of your extensive skincare routine warnings: literally nothing lmaoo it's all fluff a/n: based on this request <3 i loved writing this :') thank you so much!!!

Garrett showed up at the apartment Hannah, Allie, and you shared with a bouquet of flowers, some snacks, and a packet of gummy worms that he knew Hannah loved. He stood at the door after ringing the bell with confidence and determination only a man so in love could muster.

He expected Hannah to open the door; he'd come in, they'd exchange pleasantries and some kisses; a lot of kisses; they'd watch whatever movie she had picked out, and they'd go to sleep. Simple, normal, regular, a very routine Hannah-Garrett hang out.

What he didn't expect was for you to open the door in nothing but a bath robe, hair wrapped neatly in a towel, and your face covered in some kind of paste he had no intention of knowing more about. You smelled fresh, like something floral, and only after a few seconds did either of you notice that no one had said anything in a while.

"Garrett, hey, what's up?"

"Yeah, ...hi," he answered, sounding unsure. "Is, uh, Hannah around? We were supposed to watch a movie together."

"She didn't tell you? She had to pull an extra shift at Malone's. Something about Della's nephew getting sick; I don't know. She should be back in a little bit, though," you explained, hands folded, leaning against the doorframe.

"Oh, alright."

"Yup," you confirmed, popping the 'p'.

No one said anything again. Garrett was still getting used to being around you and Allie without Hannah around, and it was adorably awkward. You waited for him to say something, anything, if he was leaving, staying, or whatever, but he just stared in confusion. You decided to put the poor boy out of his misery.

"Do you wanna come in?"

He thought for a couple of seconds before nodding. You moved and waved him inside. Ever the gentleman, he offered a single rose from the bouquet to you before putting it in a vase. He took his jacket off, threw it against the couch and sat there, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead at the TV playing some random episode of Friends.

You were sitting at the loveseat next to the couch, waving your hands in front of your face, waiting for the mask to dry. Garrett was trying his very best to concentrate on the TV and not make it weird, and he was failing miserably. Every now and then, his eyes would land on your face, and he'd stare for longer than necessary before looking away. Curiosity killed the cat.

"Okay, I have to ask, what's with the whole...," he trailed off, hand gesturing to his face.

"I'm glad you asked, Graham. Prepare to be educated," you proclaimed and immediately shifted to sit next to him on the couch. Your enthusiasm made him chuckle as he turned to face you.

"This is a clay mask. It draws out toxins, absorbs excess sebum, and unclogs pores to prevent breakouts in the skin!"

"Okay, so here's the thing. I know all of those words separately," he admitted, eyes scrunching in confusion. You laughed at his confession before you dumbed it down for him.

"It's a part of my skincare routine; it's great for the skin."

"Routine? There's more?"

"Oh, you sweet summer child."

You then explained your entire day-and-night skincare routine, and he listened intently. He nodded at all the right times and paid close attention, like you were explaining strategy. You had to give it to him; when Garrett was interested, he genuinely did listen, and he liked to ask questions. What does niacinamide do? What's a retin oil? Retinol, oh okay.

Once you were done, he just looked like he had witnessed an intergalactic event.

"And you do this every day?"

"Well, the clay mask? I do it like twice or thrice a week; sometimes I just steam and exfoliate, but the routine itself? Yeah, every day. And night, technically," you explained. He just stared in bewilderment.

"Wow. No wonder your skin is, like, glowing. Being a girl is not for the weak, huh?" he laughed.

"You know you can do it too, right? Everybody has skin, Garrett."

"Well yeah, but..."

"But what?" you asked, but your tone sounded more like I dare you to say it.

"Yeah, screw it."

Hannah stumbled into the apartment after about twenty minutes. She was beyond exhausted at that point and couldn't wait to just cuddle Garrett and go to sleep. She sighed as she walked in and threw her bag on the counter.

She noticed you and Garrett on the couch watching Friends, and something warm filled her heart. She couldn't really explain it, but the thought of Garrett getting along well with her closest friends, especially in her absence, just made her love him more. She had made the right choice in friends and family. She just smiled, holding a hand to her heart.

"I'm home," she called out to the two of you, her voice all high-pitched and excited.

"Hey, Wellsy!" "Hello, you!"

Only when neither of you turned to her did she notice how still the two of you were sitting. And the band on Garrett's head. He turned to her slowly, revealing his clay mask-clad face in the process. No one said anything. Hannah was fighting for her life as she slowly pulled up the camera on her phone.

"She said it's great for the skin."

*click*

[seventiesaces]

I looookve your Logan fics, but Garrett has my heart. Could you write something like Garrett and the reader having a casual relationship, because he don't do girlfriends and she don't do boyfriends. But he gets jealous of her because he's starting to fall in love, and acts like a boyfriend at various times!

Loved writing this! Thank you for your request!

Ahead: Mentions of smut, Garrett Graham x Reader, jealous Garrett

Relationships were nothing but unnecessary drama. That was something both you and Garrett Graham agreed upon when you met.

You met at a party. Garrett was peeved because his recent hook up, Kendall, had used an array of expletives after he turned down being her boyfriend. You were have a similar night. After hooking up with a baseball player named Cole Miller for a few weeks, he wanted to make things "real".

You firmly rejected this idea, even asking him, "Aren't baseball player suppose to me sluts? How did I get the one monogamous one?" Which he did not like at all.

You're a big fan of easy. Casual sex leaves you with enough time to spend on your real commitments. You're the president of your sorority, a full time student and you volunteer at a local animal shelter. Overall, a pretty good amount of you time is spent not on boys, and you prefer it that way.

Meeting Garrett Graham was like all the stars were aligning. You were like two non-monogamous puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly. It was fantastic.

Garrett Graham was a beast in bed. He had a reputation for his skills, but actually experiencing it was a whole other thing. He was strong, throwing you around like a ragdoll in the sheet in a way that made your breath catch and adrenaline pumping. He was the perfect way to blow off steam after a hard day.

As time went on, you got to know each other a bit better. The more you knew about each other, the better the sex was. It wasn't about becoming closer for sappy reasons, at least that's what you told yourself.

You started coming to his games. Not because you were being supportive, but because he was so high on the win he was likely need you to take it out on. He would show up to sorority events, buying raffle tickets and whatever else you were selling, giving you that dashing smile and a wink as he did so. Obviously, he wasn't doing it for you. He was donating to a good cause, that's all.

There were no labels. Not even when both of you stopped seeing other people subconsciously. Not even when he would sneak into your sorority house to spend the night. Not even when you wore his jersey to a game. Not even when you spent entire parties in his lap, playing with his hair and him playing with your fingers. You were not dating, and that should be obvious to anyone with common sense.

It was until you were setting up your most recent philanthropist event with your Vice-President.

She casually asked you, "Isn't your 6 month anniversary coming up soon? What are you guys doing?"

You were in the middle of hanging the balloon arch and didn't fully register her question, humming a quick. "With who?"

She scoffed, looking at you like had sprouted a second head. "With Garrett?"

You froze, the arch slipping out of your hands. It had not only been 6 months, but even one of your close friend thought you were dating. This wasn't supposed to be happening. You weren't supposed to be so attached to one guy that you have an unofficial anniversary.

That night you came to a conclusion that made you stomach flip. You convinced yourself the queasy feeling you had was due to some bad sushi from earlier. You had to convince the rest of the student body you were not dating Garrett Graham.

The next day was a major philanthropist event for your sorority. You were raising money for a local organization that supports at-risk youth, and you needed it to be a success.

There was live music, lots of socializing and few spiked drinks floating around as donation fluttered in.

As usual, Garrett and the other hockey boys showed up fashionably late. They likely had practice before this, you thought, as Garrett's curls were damp from a recent shower. He looked good with his hair not perfect and a fitted tee shirt defining his chest.

"You're drooling." Your Vice-President whispered, a smirk on her face.

You scoffed, turning away quickly and focusing on the refreshments in front of you. Some guy from the football team approached you, a big dumb grin on his face like he knew he was hot shit. It made you eye twitch.

"Ladies," He nodded at the two of you. "Looking good, as usual."

Your Vice-President gave him a thin lipped smile and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. You caught Garrett's eye over the meathead's shoulder. He was watching you, his own lips pursed in a way that worried you. Was that jealousy?

You forced back you disgust, plastering a smile on your face would put a beauty queen to shame and held out a cup of punch. "Thanks, Jeff."

He looked surprise at your reaction, eyes widening as he took the cup. "It's Jake."

"Uh huh." You lightly acknowledged, glancing at Garrett again. His fists were clenched around the neck of his beer bottle so hard you feared it would shatter.

Jeff left, accepting your pitiful excuse for conversation. You weren't done though. Everyone had to know you were still out there, as free as ever to flirt and fuck whoever you wanted. Despite this mission, none of the guys appealed to you. They were good looking, sure. But everytime your eyes scanned the room for you next victim, they landed on Garrett.

Even though you couldn't find someone to peak your interest, you seemed to have caught the eye of someone else. A tall guy approached you, his floppy dark hair and eyes were at least appealing. You spoke to him for a while, letting him eye you up like you were a slab of meat being served to him. Did you used to like this? Being eyed this way? Maybe you did, but right now your brain was screaming at you to find an excuse to slip away covertly.

A crash came from somewhere in the room make some people gasp. Although you didn't know where it came from, and didn't care about it in general, you used as a get out quick scheme, "Excuse me." You said, smiling gently. You walk away like a lady, wiping your sweaty palm on your pink dress as your expression shifted to one of annoyance.

You escaped into the back of the kitchen by the pantry, taking the moment to breath. You hated this. Why did you hate this?

Footsteps approached, slapping on the hard tile of the room and echoing off the walls. You prayed it wasn't whatever his name is, following you into the pantry like you were implying wanting a quickie.

You let out a sigh of relief as Garrett came into view, his hands in his pockets. You couldn't help yourself. You threw your arms around his neck, holding him tightly.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you." You promised, letting the scent of his woodsy body wash float around you.

Garrett's big hand held you, but he was tense. "You sure? You seemed determined to talk to every guy here but me."

You pulled back, studying his face. He was angry, but was great at masking it. "Are you jealous?" You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

He took in a deep breath, pacing in a little circle in deep thought. "I didn't like seeing you with other guys."

You bit your lip, the statement making you buzz with an odd happiness. "Why? We're casual-"

"I know," Garrett interrupting, putting a hand out to stop you. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, "I'm not sure I want that anymore."

You cocked your head, "You're a boyfriend-girlfriend guy now?"

Garrett shook his head. "No."

You snorted, crossing your arms. "Then why-"

"Only for you," He was developing a habit of interrupting you. "I only want to a boyfriend for you."

You felt like someone knocked the wind out of you. As you stared at the brunette before you, something clicked. You didn't want to talk to those guys because you wanted to talk to Garrett. You didn't find any of them attractive because you only found Garrett attractive. Just like when you met, all the puzzle pieces were fitting together perfectly.

"Oh honey," You breathed, stepping forward to hold his hand. He took in a deep breath, anticipating your rejection. "I only want you be your girlfriend too."

Garrett's cold exterior cracked, a grin appearing as his hand grabbed your waist, picking you up with ease. You always loved when he picked you up like a ragdoll, but now it was for that sappy romance stuff. He kissed you, a soft sweet kiss that made your brain feel all floaty. Maybe you could like all this sappy romance stuff.

[petertingle-yipyip]

LOOK AT MY LIFE - JOHN LOGAN

//apparently i forgot how to write a one-shot bc it damn near went like a chapter to a full on series. anyways, enjoy. i got a lil too into the softball scenes// i had one positive response to this so here you go//

Pairing: John Logan x Softball!Reader // Word Count: 6,830

Summary: The break-up was not the cleanest but also not the worst. Asking for him and the rest of the guys to come to the game shouldn’t be too bad, right?

Walking up that familiar path, you blew out a rough sigh.

You regretted coming. It wasn’t even your idea… Okay, maybe it was your idea.

The softball team had a rivalry game the next day and your co-captain thought it would really boost attendance if the dearly beloved hockey team came. Ordinarily, you had no issues recruiting the other teams to come support or even rallying your own girls to support your fellow Briar U athletes. The problem was that your ex-boyfriend was on the hockey team.

You pulled your phone, hoping for an abort text from your co-captain. Maybe she had been able to catch Beau after class and ask him to take care of it. He was close friends with Dean, surely he could get him to say yes.

Instead, all she sent was a good luck text and fingers crossed emojis. You sent a middle finger emoji in return and walked up the short steps. The last time you were on the porch, you were leaving a box of John’s things. You hadn’t even knocked that day.

After learning the hard way, you picked up the habit of knocking before entering that house. You once walked in without and saw more of Dean Di Laurentis than you had ever wanted to.

You opened the door slowly with your head down as you knocked four times.

“Everyone decent?” You called out.

“Hey!” Dean answered. “You’re good!”

“Thank god.” You mumbled and fully walked in, pushing the door shut behind you. “Just you?”

“Nah, G’s upstairs and Logan’s out back I think. I can get him if you-“

“No!” You said. Dean’s eyebrows raised and he smiled at your reaction, making you realize you had given that answer too fast and too loud. “I don’t need John, I mean. I didn’t come to talk to him. I can just ask you.”

“No?” Dean laughed. “What’s wrong with Logan?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him.” You rolled your eyes slightly.

“You came all this way to not talk to him?”

“Can you stop being a dick for like five minutes? I would’ve called but I kinda figured it’d be better to ask multiple of you guys at once.”

“So we do need Logan!” He snapped his fingers and pointed at you.

“Ohmygod.” You ran a hand down your face. “Missa wanted me to-“

“What about Logan?” The familiar voice came into the room and a familiar heat flushed your body.

You hadn’t spoken much to John since you two broke up. You saw him on campus or when you went with Hannah to the hockey games or their parties, but that didn’t mean you two held a conversation. It was mainly just awkward nods or clipped sentences.

“Hey.” You breathed.

John hesitated slightly once he saw you.

—

“I have a real shot at captain this season.” You laughed nervously. “This is major!”

“Yeah, that’s great.” John smiled. “You’ve been working hard lately.”

“Johnnycake, this is huge. There’s hardly ever been a walk-on named captain.”

“I’m proud of you. You earned this.”

You smiled a little wider and John threw his arm around your shoulders.

–

“Are you seriously mad at me right now?” You laughed in disbelief.

“No, I’m not mad.” John answered, his voice tight.

“Really? Do you hear yourself or…?”

“Seriously, Y/N, it’s fine. Let’s just forget it.”

“No. That’s not fair.”

John laughed slightly and made a face to himself before meeting your eyes. “That’s what you think isn’t fair? Not that we hardly see each other anymore?”

“You’re the one who told me to go for captain!” You yelled, throwing your hands forward. “I don’t make the fucking schedule, John! Coach thinks we can make a serious play-off run with this squad so yes, we’re practicing a little more but it’s hardly any different than your schedule. Jesus, half the time you don’t even ask how anything with the team is going! And I never held that against you!”

“I never let it keep me from you!”

“It did. It fucking did and you know it.”

“I always made time for you.”

“Physically, sure, but mentally you were checked the fuck out on me more often than not.”

“But I was fucking there!”

“Because everything was planned around your schedule! Around your practice, your games, your parties even.”

“You never had an issue with my schedule before.”

“Cause I didn’t care!” You insisted.

“Apparently you did!”

“How is all of this my fault now?”

“I never said it’s your fault.”

“You didn’t have to! ‘I never let it keep me from you’ obviously means that I’m not doing enough for you.”

“That’s not what I fucking meant.”

“Please.” You threw your hands forward. “Tell me what you fucking meant then.”

He covered his face with both hands as he mumbled something you couldn’t understand. He looked at you again but you simply crossed your arms and stared expectantly.

“I’m allowed to want to spend time with my girlfriend, right?” He began and you nodded quietly. “That’s all this is, okay?”

“I’m trying, John. Really, I am, but I can’t rearrange every aspect of my schedule to match yours. I don’t set our lifting times or our field times or film days or any of it. Between that and classes, I’m running myself in circles and I would love it if I could get just a little bit of grace from my boyfriend.”

“If you weren’t happy, you should’ve said something sooner. We could’ve figured it out sooner.”

“I wasn’t gonna push on something you can’t quite control.”

“You’d rather just be miserable?” He scoffed. “Why?”

“Because I just wanted to make it work! I thought you wanted that, too…”

“I do.” He nodded. “Fuck. I do, I’m sorry. I’m just- I’m just tired, okay? Can we not fight about this?”

“We can’t just ignore it.” You countered. There was no anger in your voice, just the hurt realization that your relationship had come to a screeching halt. “Neither of us are gonna wake up tomorrow and suddenly not be busy and tired. John, if we can’t figure this out now, what does it mean for us later on?”

“Y/N…” He sighed. He knew you were right. He was probably thinking the same thing.

You took a guess as to what that tone meant.

“Right…” You nodded slowly. “I should go then.”

“Don’t do that.” He reached for your hand.

“No, it’s-“ You took a step back, just out of his reach. “You’re right. I’m never around and it’s not fair to you. We’ve both got a lot riding on this season so…”

“That’s it then?”

“I guess so… Makes sense why you guys don’t really do relationships.” You laughed sadly. The tears were burning your eyes but you looked up, trying to blink them away.

“Garrett and Hannah make it work.” John countered softly. “Kinda thought we could, too.”

You looked back at him and sniffled. He hadn’t moved any closer but you saw the way his fingers twitched, like he wanted to hold your hand or just reach for you. He thought better of it.

“I guess they just wanted it more.” You mumbled, more to yourself than for John to hear, but the house seemed to fall silent on the other side of his bedroom door.

“Don’t say that.” His voice broke.

“It’s too late for me to change my jersey number back, though.”

—

“Earth to Y/N.” Dean said, moments before a couch pillow hit your stomach.

You snapped from your thoughts and looked over at the blond. You snatched the pillow and whacked him over the head with it. As you pulled your arm back for a second shot, you heard John laugh.

“What part of-“ Another whack. “-stop being a dick-“ Another. “-did you not hear?” One final whack before you tossed it out of his reach. “Anyways. What are you guys doing tomorrow?”

“Like me and him specifically?” John pointed between himself and Dean.

“You, him, Garrett, Tucker, Beau. Everyone.” You shrugged.

“You’ve already forgotten our schedule, Y/N/N?” Dean asked innocently. “I’m hurt.”

You looked over at the previously weaponized pillow in contemplation.

“Okay, okay.” Dean laughed, his hands up in surrender. “Just usual practice stuff, why?”

“Will you guys be done by 3:10?”

“Game tomorrow?” John asked.

“Yeah… If we win, we take over first place. This could be huge for our playoff run.” You nodded slowly. “Missa thought having the hockey team there and if Jules posted on the Fifth Line account about you guys being there, we could rally some home field advantage.”

John flashed a smile that faded as soon as it came. You shoved your hands awkwardly in your back pockets. You didn’t want to say that you threw out the idea first, specifically thinking about getting John to the game. Something felt like you needed him there to get your season back on track.

“You don’t have to.” You offered. “I know softball isn’t really your guys’ scene but-“

“It’s not that.” John cut in. “We’ll be there.”

“We will?” Dean looked to John, but John didn’t seem to notice. He was still looking at you.

“Thanks.” You smiled. “The girls will be thrilled… Just try not to make them nervous.”

“How so?”

At that, you stared pointedly at Dean. “Last year, he came to a game and I distinctly remember Alysia, Chey, and Nicki tripping over third on their way to score. They were all thrown out at the plate and when I asked what happened, the answer was all the same. Dean Di Laurentis.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” Dean defended.

“He’ll behave.” John promised. “Where are you at for this year?”

“Infield.” You nodded. The awkward attempt at small talk left you feeling out of place. “Yeah, second base mostly.”

“Really?” John’s eyebrows raised as he nodded. “That’s great.”

“I still get some outfield reps but Missa’s got centerfield on lock. Most games are a no-fly zone if she’s out there.”

“You’re holding down your spot though. I’m proud of you.”

That simple sentence made your heart beat harder than it should’ve.

“Yeah, I mean… Some days I DH, just kinda depends on how the glove’s working that week.” You shrugged, rocking slightly on your feet. You watched John’s expression change to one of confusion but you didn’t want to stick around to find out why. “Uh, well, thanks again. We’ve gotta review some film before hitting so I better get going. See you guys tomorrow.”

Dean waved, shouting a goodbye as you left. You didn’t hear anything from John. Part of you wanted to believe Dean was just too loud, but you knew the more likely answer.

John didn’t say anything, just as he had said nothing when you walked out of his room that night.

You got into your car, locked the doors on habit, and pulled out your phone. You texted Missa with a relieved emoji and a thumbs up. As you went to start your car, your car had other ideas.

It stuttered, refusing to turn over and you sighed. You turned the key back off and dropped your head to the steering wheel. Everything was on inside the car, lights and stereo and dash display. You could hear the inner workings of the engine and had already talked to your dad about it. He had an idea and ordered the part for it. Before you could try your key again and use the trick your dad offered, a light tap came from your window. You jumped and shouted “ohmygod!” before turning and seeing John waiting and laughing.

You opened the door and he took it as an invitation to fill the space. He had one arm slung over the door as he leaned against your car.

“Need a ride?” He offered, a smile still on his face.

“No.” You answered plainly. “What makes you say that?”

“The defeated little head drop.” He nodded. “Does it always do that?”

“On warmer days, yeah… My dad already has a plan. We just need the part.”

“You know I can take a look at it for you.”

“I don’t need you to.”

“Yeah, I know but-“

“John.” You cut in. “We’re both too busy. Remember?”

“Definitely remember… That doesn’t mean I can’t give you a hand.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I know, I know… Doesn’t mean I can’t offer, right?”

You looked away to watch your dashboard and focus on your car’s sound as you stepped on the brake and shifted your car to neutral. You turned the key with a silent plea that it would turn over. Thankfully, it did. You threw it back into park and turned back to John.

“See? Car’s fine. I have to go.” You spoke simply.

“Real quick, what did you mean in there when you said ‘if your glove works’?” He asked, those big brown eyes showing a familiar concern.

“I didn’t say that.” You shook your head. “I said it depends on how my glove works.”

“Okay, fine, but your glove always works.”

“Not lately.” You mumbled. “This season’s been rougher than usual. It’s not a big deal.”

“You sure?” His voice was low, a gentle prodding to try and get you to confess more. For a moment, it nearly worked and you almost told him that whenever you put your jersey on and saw your number - his number - your head and heart were yanked out of the game. Half of your plays were auto-pilot and the other half was your teammate saving your ass. “Talk to me, Gorgeous.”

The old nickname made your cheeks feel hot.

“I have to go.” Was all you said instead. You reached past him and tugged lightly on your door.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asked, clearly not wanting to leave.

“Look at my life.” You gestured vaguely around you. “I got what I wanted.”

Without another word, only a small tap to the roof of your car, he walked away.

—

The next day at the game, you had to stay focused. If Briar could win, they would take first and win the series. It would all but guarantee first place. You owed it to yourself and your teammates to keep your head.

You and Missa led the usual warm-up routine and were throwing together.

“Who’s all coming again?” She asked.

“He said everyone so…” You shrugged.

“There’s a few ‘he’s in that house, Twos.”

Twos. The nickname all your teammates used for you. It was new, only starting this past year when you and John got together and your number changed from 13 to 22.

“John.” You answered as your throw came up short. “Fuck.”

“Hey…” She jogged in to meet you halfway. “Are you gonna be good today?”

“I have to be.” You nodded once towards the other dugout. “I can’t afford to lose it today.”

“Okay, sure, but if you’re not in it, we can ask Coach to DH you today, narrow your focus to your at-bats.”

“I want to play the field.”

“You sure?”

“Trust me.”

“Alright.” She smiled. “Be a dog today, yeah?”

You patted her back and barked once, which got her to bark back, before you two returned to your throwing distance. As you picked up where you left off, one of your coaches was at your shoulder.

“How’s the arm, Twos?” Coach Kelsey asked.

“Feelin’ good.” You nodded.

“Great, cause we need you behind the dish today.”

You nearly dropped the throw coming back to you. “I haven’t caught since-”

“I know it’s been a while but Missa’s in the circle and Alysia’s elbow is done. She needs to be at second for the shortest throws and you work best with Missa. You know the infield plays.”

“Who’s in center? Without Missa, we need speed. Those girls are aggressive at the plate so I want to maintain a no-fly zone.”

“Are you gonna do it or not?” Kelsey asked firmly. “You wanted to be a leader. This, stepping up right now, is part of it.”

“Right.” You nodded once. “My gear’s in the clubhouse.”

“Go get it. Meet Missa in the pen.”

You nodded, waved Missa in, then jogged off the field. When you got to your locker, you pulled your phone first. Immediately, you texted John.

dont sit behind the plate today plz

You didn’t have time to wait for a response. You collected your catcher’s bag then headed back out.

Warm-ups in the pen went well and before you knew it, your team was taking the field. After your throwdown, you met your infield at the circle.

“They’re aggressive on the bases so always work ahead. Annie, you and me on a steal. Let’s talk today, alright? Know where we’re going with the ball.” You hyped everyone up.

“Hell yeah, big dogs. Big dogs.” Missa nodded, giving high fives around the group.

Your infielders each barked accordingly and you couldn’t help but laugh a little. Each girl patted your helmet before taking off to their spots.

“First place.” Missa held her glove towards you.

“Challenge ‘em.” You knocked her glove with your own. “Win or lose, make ‘em fucking earn it.”

The first three innings were a stalemate. No one scored, no one reached base. The crowd was loud, voices all blending together into a massive wave of sound. You were thankful you couldn’t hear any specific voice, even if part of you was listening for it.

The game’s momentum began shifting in the top of the fourth. Their lead-off batter struck out, the next batter grounded out to your third baseman, then a double. You moved in front of the plate to call the play and adjust your outfielders. Missa’s eyes met yours with a question of what to throw.

You nodded once towards the grass. Her brows furrowed and you flashed your glove once.

She tilted her head in protest. You wanted her to challenge this hitter to something to draw a play at the plate. The runner on two was fast and was going to try to score, but you knew your left fielder was leading the conference in assists. If anyone was getting that out at the plate for you, it was her.

You nodded once and she relented. As you retook your position, you found a familiar crew in the crowd. A crew that was far too close to home plate.

Jules waved and gestured to the phone that was now pointed at you. Dean and Beau were hollering in the row behind Jules, waving frantically. Garrett and Hannah were beside them, Garrett clapping while Hannah gave a thumbs up. Allie was standing and facing the crowd, trying to rally some sort of chant. Tucker was trying to get Beau off of his head and John was also standing, clapping and nodding towards you. You gave a single nod in his direction before facing the field again.

You called a fastball down and in, and the batter yanked it down the line, exactly where you shifted your outfield. Quickly, you jumped in front of the plate and a few feet up the line. Your mask was discarded into foul territory as you started yelling to align your third baseman for the cut.

“Left! Left!” You floated one step back. “Leave it!”

Your third baseman fell off as the throw came in on a perfect line. You caught it and dropped to a knee in a near perfect spot, leaving a path to the plate. The runner dove in but your knee was already down. Her shoulder hit your leg as the tag was made but her momentum swiped your leg out from under you. As you went down to your back, your other hand reached to secure the ball in your glove.

From the ground, you showed the umpire the ball and he called the out.

“Fucking bitch.” The runner muttered, kicking some dirt in your direction.

The entire crowd and your team erupted in cheers, Missa running over to haul you to your feet.

“What did she say to you?” Missa asked.

“She called me a fucking bitch.” You laughed.

Arguments came from both dugouts as you retrieved your mask. You heard ‘malicious contact’ and ‘unsportsmanlike conduct’ but you shrugged it off, not really sure which side the arguments were coming from.

“Fucking big dawg!” Dean yelled when you looked his way, then he started barking.

Beau and Garrett soon joined in on the barking, making Hannah laugh and whack her boyfriend. John was smiling as Tucker clapped him on the back.

You returned to your dugout, where your own team was waiting with celebrations of their own.

In the bottom of the fourth, you were leading off. You changed out of your gear quickly and were taking swings on deck when you heard the barking again. You closed your eyes and tried not to smile. They had no idea where it started but they were definitely quick to play along. Not long after, your dugout started joining in.

“WHO LET THE DAWG OUT!?” Missa shouted, prompting loud barks from your teammates and your friends in the crowd. “WHO LET THE DAWG OUT!?”

You walked backwards towards the batter’s box to face your dugout. They quieted in anticipation, waiting for your response. You smiled widely and barked twice before hurrying to the box.

The opposing catcher mumbled something but before you could register it, a fastball slammed your ribs. You managed to turn away so it caught the back of your ribcage but that didn’t make it hurt any less. You tossed your bat with a small curse before ditching your elbow guard.

“We eat those! We eat those!” Garrett shouted, nodding and clapping aggressively.

“Put her on the fucking hockey team, dude.” Beau laughed.

“Ow.” You mouthed to John, who offered an apologetic look in response.

“YOU KNOW WHY WE CALL HER TWOS?!” Annie yelled as you made your way down the line.

“WHY!?” Your dugout responded.

“CAUSE SHE LOVES TO BE ON TWO SO SAAAAAAVE YOOOOOUR AAAAAARM!!”

“SAVE YOUR ARM!!”

“SAAAAAAAVE YOUUUUUUUUR AAAAAAARM!!”

“SAVE YOUR ARM!!”

“You good?” Kelsey asked as you met her at first.

You twisted slightly, blinking back the tears in your eyes.

“She fucking got me good.” You laughed a little. “I’ll be alright.”

“22.” The base umpire asked. “Need time?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.” You smiled.

You looked across the field at your other coach in the third base box. He flashed you a quick series of signs that all amounted to one thing. Delayed steal on the second pitch.

You took a short lead on the first pitch, a ball outside and down.

You looked out into the crowd again as you stood back on the base. John was still standing, leaning forward on the back of Jules’ seat as they talked about something. He met your eyes and jerked his head slightly. You looked at second base then back at him. You smiled, adjusting your helmet by the face mask. That was your signal to each other, a way of telling the other ‘Watch this’ during your games. He flashed you that signal often and he always made good on his attempts. Now it was your turn.

On the second pitch, you took a slightly bigger lead. It was a strike, bottom half of the zone, and your teammate stayed in the box, kicking some of the clay around. As soon as the catcher’s arm pulled back to throw the ball to the pitcher, you ran. Ahead of you, you saw the shortstop hustling to beat you to the base but you knew you were going to be safe. You dropped into a slide around the base, twisting to avoid her sweeping glove and get your hand on the bag. As expected, you were called safe.

You faced your dugout first, doing that celebration together. You pointed over to first then circled your wrists to point at the base beneath you. Some of your teammates yelled to take third but you waved them off.

It was Missa up to bat, after all.

The next pitch was smacked into right center, a ringing double that brought you in to score and take the lead. You collected her bat as you yelled praise to her, now taking over your spot on second base, before spinning towards your friends in the crowd.

“First place, baby, let’s fucking go!” Garrett cheered.

“Way to get ahead, fuck yeah!” Dean added.

“Big dog, WOOF!” Beau shouted.

Jules was too busy recording the guys to add anything.

“Way to work, Twos!” John yelled.

You tucked Missa’s bat under your arm and held up two fingers on each hand. You flashed your twos then used both to point at John. He laughed slightly but returned the gesture, your guys’ small scoring celebration.

Your team managed to tack on another run in that inning and held the other team to zero. The fifth inning was scoreless, as was the sixth, but things shifted in the top of the seventh. Missa hit a batter, the one who had called you a bitch prior, and then a well placed bunt got a second runner on. Strikeout, strikeout, then a no doubt three run homerun to left field. Missa came right back with another strikeout, an embarrassing one if you were being honest.

“Everybody on me, come on.” You called your team together. “We have three outs to get at least one run. We can beat them, right now. You guys want that?”

A small chorus of yes came from around the circle.

“I said do you want that!” You urged.

“YES!”

“Let’s fucking do it, then. We have Alysia, Kam, Nicki, then me and Missa. Sounds like hits to me. Get it back and more, let’s go.”

Alysia did her job and got on base. Kam moved her over, but was the first out. Nicki hit a single to put a runner on first and second for when you came up to bat.

Various chants came from your personal cheering section.

The first pitch came up and in, making you spin away and nearly took you off your feet.

That caused a stir among your friends and dugout.

You simply laughed as you stepped back in the box. Next pitch was a ball, down and in. It nearly got your back foot but you stepped out of the way just in time.

“Starting to feel a little personal.” You mumbled, rolling your bat in your hands.

The third pitch you saw was your money pitch, middle height but the outside half of the plate. You connected with the sweet spot of your barrel, sending a rocket down the first base line. The crowd erupted as the ball was called fair.

Alysia scored, Nicki was rounding third, and you were in at second. You wanted to make it a triple but Nicki was too damn slow. The throw was cut off and Nick got back-picked at three. You called for time to remove your elbow guard as you stood on second again.

When it was granted you took off the guard and met Kelsey halfway to leave it with her. As you went back to two, you pulled your helmet off to fix your headband. You also took a second to do your celebration.

You pointed your helmet to the dugout and then drew the other arm back like an archer drawing a bow. Habitually, you looked over to John in the crowd as you replaced your helmet. When he caught your eyes, he did a smaller version of the same celebration.

His celly, you realized when you saw him do the familiar movement. Your double celly was his goal celly.

Well shit.

Two outs, tie game, bottom of the seventh. You could practically hear how Jules would be narrating it. They’d probably be zoomed in on you, talking about how physical the game was for you that day. Or they’d be locked on Missa and how big of a moment that was for her.

First pitch was in the dirt, but blocked well, keeping you in place. Next pitch was fouled straight back and judging by Missa’s reaction, it was one she didn’t want to miss. Third pitch was a called strike, top half of the zone that Missa didn’t agree with. The next pitch, however, was interesting.

It was ruled an illegal pitch, claiming her hands came together after her motion was started, and you advanced to third. When you reached Coach, you had to laugh.

“Y/L/N represents the winning run, just 60 feet away.” You mimicked a commentator’s voice. “What will Coach Tim do?”

He leaned in and turned towards the outfield grass as he spoke to you. “That ball gets by her, you score. Don’t hesitate. Don’t think. Just fucking score.”

You nodded once and focused on the next pitch.

Foul ball. Foul ball. Foul ball. Ball inside. Foul ball. Then it was your chance.

A ball in the dirt kicked away towards your dugout. You broke for the plate immediately, Missa jumping out of the way and yelling for you to slide. You listened and went head first for the plate. Why you went head first, you didn’t know. Usually, you hooked or slid straight into the bag. In truth, the dive knocked some of the wind out and the pitcher who came in to cover the plate stepped on your arm, but you were safe.

You had just won the game for Briar.

As you were celebrating with Missa, the other team asked to challenge. While the umpires reviewed the play, you and Missa leaned against the fencing. Coach came down the line to stand with you two, but you were listening to your friends.

Jules was giving the usual commentary, and you had to commend the knowledge of the game. You assumed Jules only knew hockey.

Garrett was explaining to Hannah and Allie what was going on. Dean was yelling that there was no review, just call it safe and move on. Beau was yelling to stick to the call. Tucker said nothing, but John’s voice sounded closer than it had before.

“Did she tag you?” He asked.

“Never touched me.” You answered without looking at him. “ Stepped on me but…”

You glanced down at your arm and saw the red marks from her cleats on your skin.

“After reviewing the play, the call is confirmed. The runner is safe and the run will score. Ball game.” The umpire announced.

After cleaning up and changing, you and Missa left the locker room together.

“So…” She trailed off. “You and John Logan are back together.”

“No, we’re not.” You laughed.

“That’s not what Fifth Line has to say.” She replied smugly, tilting her phone in your direction. She showed you a post on the account, a video of your double celebration with the caption ‘birds of a feather’.

“Okay.” You pushed her phone away. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Y/N, you did his celebration.” She insisted.

“It’s the same one I did when I threw that runner out.” You reasoned.

“No, the leg was different.”

“The leg?”

“Yes, the leg. Logan does it off one leg, just like you did for your double.”

“I was in stride!”

“When you throw someone out, you do it from your knees and swipe your glove in the dirt. Plus he was cheering for you the whole game.”

“They were cheering for all of us.”

“Fine.” She shrugged. “But they’re not waiting for all of us, are they?”

“No one’s waiting.” You rolled your eyes.

“Y/N!” Tucker yelled and you saw your friend group a few feet away. When they saw you looking, they waved you over.

“Case and point.” Missa sighed contently. “Go get your man, Twos.”

“It’s not gonna be any-“

“Before you get on your soap box.” She cut in. “I talked with Coach. He’s on you too much, more than he has been on any other captain, including me. I told him he had to treat us the same, that he’s only doing it to you cause you were a walk-on and he’s just mad he didn’t recruit you himself.”

“Missa!”

“It’s true.” She defended. “Anyways, he’s gonna pull back on the responsibilities he throws on you. Your schedule’s gonna lighten a little. You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t need you to do that.”

“I know but you’re my co-captain. I’ve got your back, same as you’ve got mine. Now go, be happy. You’ve been shit since you guys broke up anyways.”

“Okay, rude.” You laughed. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Love you, ice those bruises. I’ll see you later.”

You two split and you made your way to your friends. On your approach, Dean and Garrett immediately began barking.

“Big dawg!” Beau announced.

“Why does your team bark at you?” Hannah asked with a laugh.

“Yeah, where did that come from?” John added.

“I got it from my dad. He calls the boys he coaches big dogs or tells them to be a dog. I brought it over here by accident and it just kinda stuck.” You explained.

“I like it.” Allie said.

“You do?” Your brows raised. “Out of all of them, you?”

“It’s fun!”

“You did good today, Y/L/N.” Tucker said, reaching around John to pat your shoulder.

“Thanks.” You smiled.

“Kinda got the shit kicked outta you though.” Garrett commented, which got him elbowed in the ribs by Hannah.

“Yeah.” You laughed, rubbing your ribs. “After that first play at the plate, I had a feeling I’d be a target.”

“Hey, it was a fair play!” Jules defended. “Y/N left a path to plate, even when she had the ball.”

“Respectfully, Jules, how do you know softball?” You laughed a little. You winced slightly, the pain from that fastball to the ribs now kicking in. “I figured with Johnnyboy, you only knew hockey.”

“It was surprisingly easy to pick up, actually. Mr. Lonely over there was obsessing over it when you two got together so he made me learn it, too.”

“Lonely.” Dean sang, throwing an arm over John’s shoulders. You took a step back and tried not to smile. “I’m Mr. Lonely. I have nobody…”

You couldn’t avoid it and laughed, ducking behind Hannah to try and regain your composure.

“Laugh all you want, Y/N.” Garrett added. “That song was all Logan played after you two split.”

“Alright, fuck you guys.” John defended. You managed to stop laughing but the smile still threatened. “It’s a good song.” He shrugged.

“Right, right.” You nodded. “Just weird timing.”

“Exactly! See? She gets it.”

“She always ‘gets it’ with you.” Allie teased.

“Hey, are we gonna stand around here giving Logan shit all night or are we going to celebrate a first place win the right way?” Beau asked.

“I definitely need to shower and change first.” You shook your head. “I’m covered in dirt and I’m fairly certain I swallowed some.”

“Yeah, that dive wasn’t your cleanest.” Tucker nodded, almost regretfully.

“Fuck off, like you could do better.” You defended.

“It’s just like a slip and slide.”

“If you go home, Y/L/N, you’re not coming back out.” Garrett countered before you could continue to argue with Tucker. “I know you. You’re gonna lay on your floor and not get back up.”

“That’s not…” You tried to argue but then realized he was right. You did nap on your floor after games often. “Okay, fair point… Can I least go get clothes to change? Hannah can come with me if you guys don’t trust me.”

“I’ve got an extra shirt in the truck if you want.” John offered. “Just to save you some time…”

You took a moment before answering, thinking about what Missa had said before leaving. Go get your man, Twos.

“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.” You sighed. “I didn’t drive anyways so I was gonna have to bum a ride with someone regardless.”

“Don’t you just love it when things work out?” Jules smiled, guiding you forward with both hands on your shoulders.

“Yeah, funny how that happens, huh?” You gave a pointed look.

The next thing you knew, you and your friends were at Malone’s. Your warm-up shirt was left in John’s truck, leaving you in his t-shirt instead. It was plain, a bit too big for you, but it had the faint smell of his cologne still. It made your heart thump hard in your chest.

You started to think that if you didn’t at least ask about getting back together, your heart would break out of your ribs and wander off.

“Hey.” John nudged you out of your thoughts. You snapped your head up, having zoned out staring at the dirty Shirley Temple in your hands. When you looked over at him, he chuckled slightly. “You still with us? Or did you hit your head today, too?”

“The way today went, I very well could have.” You laughed. “No, I’m fine, just thinking.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You nodded, looking down at the table. Your free hand was tapping slightly against the surface as you considered what to say. Should you tell him the truth? Could you make it through the night if you didn’t? Could you take the rejection if you did? Before you could form a conclusive thought, John’s hand was under your chin to gently lift your attention back to him.

“What about?”

Dear God were you still in love with him.

“You.” You confessed.

“I’m gonna assume that’s a good thing.”

“Can we talk somewhere away from tweedle dee, tweedle dum, and TMZ?” You jerked your head towards Dean and Garrett’s conversation, along with Jules.

John offered you his hand as he scooted out of the booth. You accepted, quickly swallowing the last of your drink, and followed his lead. He took you to the other side of Malone’s, to a quieter booth near the corner. He didn’t sit, just stood in a way that blocked everyone else out. Like he could be some sort of shield and keep you safe.

“What’s going on?” He asked lowly, crossing his arms.

“Look at my life.” You gestured vaguely. “I bet you can’t tell but it’s actually a pretty bad time.”

“No, trust me. I could tell.” He nodded.

“I got what I wanted, softball captain, Starting lineup every game, great grades, great friends… But it doesn’t sit right. Something’s been off until today… Today, I realized something.” You began. “This season, I’ve been shit. My teammates have been picking up my slack and making up for my mistakes but I haven’t been playing like a captain should.”

“Everyone goes through slumps, Y/N. That doesn’t change who you are as a player.”

“Yeah, but this wasn’t just a slump. This has been routine balls being flubbed, embarrassing strikeouts, base running mistakes that kids in Little League don’t even make.”

“I didn’t see any of that today.”

“Exactly.” You nodded, reaching forward to put your hands on his arm. “You. John, I haven’t felt comfortable in my jersey all year, but then you show up today and it’s like… It’s like the game makes sense again.”

“Has nothing to do with me.” He shook his head slightly. “That’s you getting your confidence back. Y/N, that light in your eyes? I don’t remember the last time I saw it. You were alive out there.”

“Can’t I just say that I missed you and I missed seeing you in the stands without you trying to be all sweet and motivational?” You laughed a little and he smiled.

He smiled that stupid smile that made your knees weak, that made you want to kiss his stupid face.

“Everything felt right for the first time in a long time, Johnnyboy.” You said softly. “Even the stupid fucking cellys.”

“I did notice you stole mine.” He joked.

“I figured we share jersey numbers, we can share cellys.”

“I really thought you were gonna push Tim to let you get your old number back.”

“After the fit I threw to get him to change it in general, there was no way I was gonna be able to wear 13 even if I asked.”

“You didn’t?”

“No…”

He chuckled slightly in disbelief before cocking his head slightly. “Why?”

“Can we try again?” You asked suddenly. There were no other thoughts in your head than a blaring siren of “BOYFRIEND!!” as you looked at him. “One more chance.”

“I thought you were too busy.” He countered and it felt like your heart fell to your feet. Your expression must’ve done something similar because John’s hands were suddenly on your cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I am busy and so are you but… But I want to make it work if that’s still what you want.”

“You are all I want.”

[pxob]

Morale Boost

Boyfriend!John Logan x Fem!Reader

warnings: fluff, Boyfriend!John Logan loves his girlfriend to death, must I say more?

summary: in which Boyfriend!John Logan dropped off a care package for his girlfriend who’s been working so hard in the library

wc: 767

a/n: I’m sitting at a cafe, writing this, and have just been watching all these couples take care of each other for the upcoming uni semester. This is for my academically inclined readers who strive for the best (I wish) xx

Finals were only two weeks away, and the grind had truly begun.

Almost every uni student had claimed a spot in the libraries surrounding Briar, turning the hunt for a comfortable seat into a daily battle where the winners earned the privilege of studying for hours without being disturbed.

You'd settled into the main library, tucked away in the perfect corner where the rest of the world seemed to disappear, leaving nothing but your notes, textbooks, and the looming final exams demanding every ounce of your attention.

You'd maintained high distinctions throughout the year and planned to carry that momentum through finals.

When you and Logan first started talking, you'd quietly worry that he wouldn't understand. The endless hours, the discipline, the relentless drive to be the best. It was how you'd been raised, to chase excellence and never settle for anything less than your full potential. As it turned out, he understood better than anyone. As long as you remembered to eat, take breaks, and send him the occasional message whenever you had a spare moment, he was more than happy to cheer you on from the sidelines.

Besides, every night ended the same way. Logan would drive you back to the Hockey House, where you'd crawl into his bed together, never once falling asleep before stealing a proper cuddle with your boyfriend.

The memory of this morning crept into your mind, leaving you smiling like an idiot over a physics textbook.

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, warming your face just enough to coax you awake.

Still half asleep, you reached across the bed, expecting to find the familiar warmth of Logan beside you, only for your fingers to meet nothing but cold sheets.

A slight frown settled on your face as you pushed yourself upright, your eyes wandering around the room in search of him, only to realise he was nowhere to be found.

The bedroom door sat slightly ajar and the faint sound of approaching footsteps reached your ears before it slowly creaked open, Logan carefully slipping inside as quietly as possible, balancing a breakfast tray in both hands in an attempt not to wake you.

"You’re awake." He grinned, making his way over to the bed. “Good morning, baby.”

Your heart squeezed painfully at the sight. Logan never failed to make you feel appreciated, especially during the times when stress threatened to consume you, always finding little ways to remind you that you never had to carry it all alone.

You were convinced the Gods themselves had blessed you with a man who instinctively knew how to love you properly. The only arguments you ever seemed to have were over missing each other too much.

Your phone buzzed against the table, pulling you back to reality.

You picked it up and glanced at the notification.

Johnny Boy: wya cutie

A smile tugged at your lips as you checked the time. It was already lunchtime, and your stomach was beginning to remind you that surviving on caffeine alone wasn't exactly sustainable before another marathon study session.

You: library, but I lowk need to grab some food so I'll be at the campus cafe in a bit

His reply appeared almost instantly.

Johnny Boy: don't worry, I'm walking in now

You frowned at the message, wondering what he meant by don't worry, only for the library doors to swing open moments later.

Logan stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you, immediately lighting up as the biggest grin spread across his face.

He lifted a plastic takeaway bag in one hand before making his way over to your table.

"Got you some food, baby. Thought you might need a little care package."

He set the bag down before carefully unpacking everything inside.

Your heart clenched all over again, a grateful smile spreading across your face as you fought the very real urge to cry right there in the corner of the library. You honestly didn't know what you'd done to deserve a boyfriend this thoughtful.

He lined everything up neatly in front of you. A container of Chinese takeaway, an iced vanilla latte, and the block of chocolate you were constantly talking about whenever you needed something sweet after studying.

You were genuinely going to die from happiness.

He stood back with his hands resting on his hips, admiring his work with a grin that practically screamed how proud he was of himself for taking care of his girl.

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss against your forehead.

"You've got this, baby."

God, you loved this man.

[sunnydilaurentis]

shopping spree | 1k cabo celebration, found family au ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration masterlist!

⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration info!

summary: in which a few harmless purchases in cabo spiral wildly out of control, leaving the girls buried in shopping bags and out of suitcase space.

notes: love this idea, thank you so much for your request!! despite what the boys may think, shopping is an essential part of any girls trip. i hope you all enjoy this one! <3

ꪆৎ

it starts innocently enough.

which, in hindsight, is probably the worst part. none of you had intended for this to happen. completely losing control had definitely not been part of the plan when you boarded your flight to cabo.

if anything, the damage had started weeks earlier, back home.

it had begun with just a few things. a couple of new bikinis because allie insisted none of your old ones felt 'cabo enough', a few dresses for dinners because sabrina had declared everyone needed options.

sandals. cover-ups. jewellery. sunglasses.

small things, reasonable things.

except somehow, every shopping trip turned into another.

there had been endless groupchat debates over dresses, bikinis, heels, and bags. photos were sent at all hours of the day. opinions demanded immediately. links dropped with zero context. impulse purchases encouraged far too easily.

grace had been the voice of reason for approximately three days before giving up entirely, purchasing three new dresses herself. allie had zero shame from the beginning, while sabrina somehow justified each purchase with alarmingly convincing logic.

you had convinced yourself it was the lawyer in her, no reasonable person should have been capable of making such a compelling argument for why another pair of sunglasses was, apparently, essential.

and you-

you had tried to be sensible, tried being the key word.

by the time all four of you had actually landed in cabo, there had already been an unspoken agreement that maybe, just maybe, the spending needed to calm down a little.

unfortunately, the unspoken agreement fell apart immediately.

the first day had been harmless.

a few bikinis from a boutique near the marina after allie insisted the resort options were overpriced. one dress each for dinner after sabrina took one look at the outfits you packed and declared them “cute, but not enough.”

the second day had been worse, yet the third day is what officially ruined all of you.

by the time you make it back to the resort that afternoon, your room looks less like a luxury suite and more like the aftermath of a shopping-related disaster.

shopping bags cover nearly every available surface.

the couch has completely disappeared beneath them. half the dining table is unusable. heels lie abandoned near the balcony doors, dresses hang off the backs of chairs, and jewellery boxes sit open across the kitchen counter.

it looks catastrophic.

you stand in the middle of it all, sunglasses pushed into your hair, staring at the mess in silence. slowly, you turn towards the others.

“we have a problem.”

allie, carrying three shopping bags in one hand and an iced coffee in the other, raises an eyebrow.

“do we?”

you gesture vaguely at the destruction around you. “yes.”

grace drops her bags near the couch, finally taking in the full extent of the mess. her expression shifts, slowly. “oh.”

sabrina closes the door behind her and exhales. “wow.”

allie remains completely unconcerned. “guys, relax.”

you blink at her. “relax?”

she shrugs. “it’s fine.”

sabrina gives her a flat look. “allie.”

“what?”

grace folds her arms. “you bought four bikinis today.”

allie points immediately. “and y/n bought two dresses.”

you point towards sabrina. “she bought heels.”

sabrina clutches one of her bags protectively against her chest, “those were a necessary purchase.”

grace lets out a quiet laugh. “how are we already justifying our purchases?”

allie shrugs, as though the answer is obvious. “because we’ve worked our asses off all semester.” she gestures vaguely between all four of you, “we’re on holiday. we deserve to treat ourselves.”

“and because the alternative is feeling bad about it,” you add lightly.

sabrina nods once. “exactly.”

there’s a beat of silence, then all four of you quietly reach the exact same conclusion.

time to see if your suitcases had enough room.

the room fills with the sounds of zippers, rustling fabric, shifting shopping bags, dramatic sighs, and sabrina muttering under her breath.

you crouch beside your suitcase and begin reorganising things, carefully folding clothes tighter, moving shoes, trying to create space where there very clearly isn’t.

for a while, nobody speaks, everyone is too focused, too determined. eventually, after a solid ten minutes of effort, you sit back on your heels.

okay.

maybe this is manageable, maybe it will all fit.

you take a breath and pull the zipper. it makes it halfway before refusing to budge. you frown and pull harder, nothing. you try again, still nothing.

“ah...guys.”

no one answers, which feels concerning. unease curls low in your stomach.

allie sits cross-legged on the floor beside her suitcase, staring at it in silence. grace is kneeling beside hers, looking deeply unimpressed. sabrina is lying flat on her back on the carpet like she’s given up on the task entirely.

you blink once, slowly. “oh shit.”

sabrina turns her head towards you. her expression is blank, completely emotionless. “my stuff doesn’t fit.”

you look at grace, she exhales through her nose. “neither.”

then allie, her gaze finding yours. “mine doesn't either.”

silence, before suddenly all four of you are talking at once.

“no, because how-”

“we were only gone for two hours.”

“i didn’t even buy that much.”

your gaze shifts slowly to the remaining mountain of shopping bags still waiting to be packed, then to your suitcase, before back to your friends. a laugh escapes before you can stop it, small at first, barely there, then stronger, until allie is laughing beside you too.

sabrina groans dramatically into the carpet, while grace pinches the bridge of her nose, visibly fighting a smile.

“this is ridiculous" sabrina states.

“it’s a little funny,” you manage through laughter.

“it is not funny.”

“it’s definitely funny.”

sabrina lifts one hand dramatically from the floor. “we’re stranded in cabo because none of us know the meaning of restraint."

allie snorts. “that’s dramatic.”

“is it?”

“yes.”

grace sighs, glancing between all of you. her voice comes out soft, barely audible. “we could just buy another suitcase.”

silence, complete silence.

you stare at her, allie stares at her, sabrina sits upright so fast it’s almost alarming.

then-

allie points. “that.”

you point too, finishing allie's sentence. “is brilliant.”

sabrina nods immediately. “that’s the solution.”

allie is already reaching for her phone. “there has to be somewhere nearby.”

grace's eyes are wide, clearly filled with amusement. she reaches for her phone, typing in her password. you narrow your eyes instantly, suspicious. “what are you doing?”

grace smiles, nothing good ever follows that smile. “updating the boys.”

your eyes widen. "no.”

allie’s head snaps up. "grace.”

sabrina points. “don’t you dare. they're never going to let us live it down."

grace is already typing.

you lunge across the carpet. “grace-”

too late, the message sends. within seconds, all four of your phones buzz, the groupchat immediately flooding with messages.

you all crowd around grace, staring at her screen.

dean

what do you mean slight issue

dean

what issue

logan 💓

are you okay

tucker

did someone lose a passport

garrett

what happened

you press your lips together, laughter already threatening. allie leans in beside you, while grace continues to scroll.

another message appears.

dean

grace

dean

elaborate right now

sabrina loses it first, laughing so hard she nearly falls sideways. of course one vague message sends all four of them into an immediate spiral.

allie wipes under her eye. “oh my god.”

grace is fully smiling now. “they’re stressed.”

you shake your head. “they’re insane.”

your phone buzzes in your lap, warmth blooming in your chest at the notification.

'baby 🤍 just sent you a message'

you open it immediately.

baby 🤍 you okay?

another message.

baby 🤍 dean’s pacing

you laugh softly to yourself, of course he was. another message follows.

baby 🤍 what’s the issue

you glance down, one more message appears.

baby 🤍 did you buy too much stuff

you freeze, blink, then laugh harder.

allie notices instantly. “what?”

you turn your phone towards her. sabrina gasps, grace groans. “oh my god.”

allie looks deeply offended. “how did he know?” a smile pulls at your mouth as you type.

you:

maybe

three dots appear almost instantly.

baby 🤍 unbelievable

baby 🤍 buy another suitcase

you stare at the screen, smiling. his response is practical, completely unsurprised, very garrett.

you type back.

you

grace already said that

his reply comes seconds later.

baby 🤍 of course she did

you can practically hear the dry amusement in his voice before another message appears.

baby 🤍 get one with wheels that actually work this time

your smile grows.

somehow, despite the distance, despite being in an entirely different country, despite the chaos unfolding across both groupchats, everything still feels exactly the same.

warm, easy, familiar. just like home.

✩.* taglist; @05gwyn | @alwaysclassyeagle | @casiiopea2 | @nexisphere | @imstressed17 | @legendarychrattgirl | @ethanthequeefqueen | @wiishies | @legendarychrattgirl | @tabisswag | @corvusmorte | @mariiibash| @stevesxwhore | @choppedpartymuffinwinner| @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns | @leilareads58 | @nikfigueiredo | @archxve | @s0ftdr1nks | @persasseajackson | @avengersheart | @brxght-world | @plants-w0rld | @hamilronweasley | @dyslexicepicfan | @livformadrid | @cosmosnkaz | @behindthescreenobsessed | @mothericraveviolence57 | @purplerainx1 | @dancerbailey3 | @kingshitonly | @melodypvnk | @mothericraveviolence57 | @danis-angels | @chronically-jess | @brekkershadowsinger | @run-for-the-hills | @rrosiitas | @nishiisdownbad | @angelnameddani | @simp4f1

[lushfruit]

we can’t be friends- john logan (3)

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader

summary: No matter how hard you two try to stay friends, the truth is—you never were.

read previous part here

content: the timeline might be off just a little. but same content warnings as all the other fics. also, the boys are having practice on new year’s eve, which doesn’t make sense—something i realized after writing it, so just ignore that lol. google told me they do, so im honestly not sure anymore.

note: i’m so sorry this took forever! i’ve been in my head about giving them a perfect ending and i am still a bit unsure about how i feel about this so if you don’t like it, lie to me please! thank you all so much for the support you’ve shown during this series, i truly appreciate it and i love you all so much. it’s helped me a lot in my confidence! i hope you enjoyed this series and i concluded it well for you all :) also apologies if i forgot to tag you! there was a lot of comments so i feel i may have forgotten some 😭😭

wc: 8.3k

How awful would it be if you ignored Logan for the entirety of summer break?

Because that’s exactly what you did.

Okay, okay, not exactly ignored. More like cautiously avoided. It was impossible for the two of you to completely cut contact since you shared the exact same inner circle, but you certainly never mentioned the kiss after it happened. And true to his word about not pushing you, he didn't bring it up either.

You didn’t know what that kiss meant to him. Honestly, you didn’t want to know. You didn't want to decipher if he was just feeling lonely and pathetic on that particular night and you happened to be there, or if it came from a genuine place. You especially didn’t want to explore the possibility of the latter. You had spent a long, exhausting time being in love with John Logan. You finally thought you’d gotten over the most gut-wrenching and impossible parts of it, but then you made out on his desk and it was like a dam broke. Everything came rushing back.

Worst of all, it was all you could think about. The way he clung to you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—it was a feeling you couldn’t shake no matter how hard you tried.

When the school year finally resumes and everyone lands back on campus, a tiny part of you thinks Logan might actually hate you now. You’ve probably driven him completely insane by letting the silence stretch for months. But you're also well aware that he hadn’t forced the issue because he was terrified of cornering you, especially since you were the one who panicked and ran out of his room.

"You and Logan confuse me so deeply."

Allie’s voice pulls you sharply from your thoughts as she slides into the chair across from you. The two of you had agreed to meet up at the library during the very first week back to map out your semester syllabi in one sitting, saving yourselves months worth of mental breakdowns. Hannah was meant to join you in an hour or two, currently caught up in a panel meeting for a potential senior-year internship.

Allie sets a plastic iced coffee cup down in front of you, placing the second one in front of it. You glance at the printed receipt taped to the side, realizing it’s your exact, highly specific, perfect order.

You deliberately ignore her comment about Logan, reaching for the plastic cup instead. "Thank you. I needed this to survive the day."

Allie sighs, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "Don't thank me. It’s from Logan."

You freeze, your straw halfway to your lips.

"I passed by him near the quad on my way over here," Allie explains, watching your expression closely. "I casually mentioned I was meeting you for a library date, and he handed me one of the coffees in his hand and said it was for you. He gave me the other, but I think it was for him. That’s why I say you two confuse me. Were you guys supposed to meet up today or something?"

"No," you say quietly, staring at the melting ice in your cup. Your stomach does a nervous flip. "But he was probably on his way to having a conversation that I've been successfully putting off for months."

Allie quirks an eyebrow, a keen, observant look taking over her features. "Is there something you’re not telling me?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek, looking around the quiet library rows before letting out a defeated sigh. Making a face, you lean across the table and tell Allie everything since St. Patrick’s Day. It’s nice to get out, you have to admit. You hadn’t really told anybody the specifics of it.

"Shut up!" Allie yells, her voice echoing off the high ceilings.

Several students at nearby tables immediately turn around and glare, issuing annoyed shushes. Allie quickly raises her hands, mouthing a breathless “Sorry, sorry," to the room before lunging back over the table toward you, her eyes wide and vibrating with excitement.

"Okay, so why the awkwardness?" she whispers in confusion. "If you guys finally crossed that line, why have you been acting like passing acquaintances all summer?"

"Because I ran out on him, Allie," you admit, the vulnerability cracking through your voice. "I’m scared of what it could mean. I'm terrified that it meant absolutely nothing to him—that it was just a fluke because we were close and emotional. Honestly, I’m even more scared if it does mean something to him."

Allie’s excited expression softens, shifting into one filled with empathy.

"Logan hurt me bad," you continue, your throat tightening. "It was hard enough trying to rebuild a basic friendship with him while carrying around the ghost of the love I used to feel. If that kiss was a mistake to him, it’ll kill me. But if he actually wants something more, it puts him in a position to hurt me worse than he ever has before. If we ruin it a second time, there’s no coming back from it. I just don't know if I can risk it. There’s no win for me here."

Allie studies you for a long moment, nodding slowly. As someone who knows exactly how intense and complicated the boys in that hockey house can be, she understands you perfectly.

"Look, you are well within your rights to never want to give him that type of access to your heart again," Allie says gently, reaching out to give your hand a supportive squeeze. "Protecting yourself is smart. But I also want you to know. . . he’s been drowning in it. All summer, whenever your name came up, he looked like he was physically aching. He’s been trying so hard to make up for his mistakes, even from a distance."

You look down at your color-coded planner, letting out a long, heavy breath. "I'll sleep on it."

"You do that," Allie smiles softly, tapping the cover of your textbook to break the depressive mood. "Now, let's get started on this syllabus breakdown, because at the rate we're going, we won't be leaving this library until two in the morning."

The beauty of September always manages to make Briar look like a beautiful postcard, even when your chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a vice.

A few days have passed since your conversation with Allie in the library. You’ve slept on it—or rather, tossed and turned over it—and decided that you refuse to let the ghost of a four-month-old kiss dictate the trajectory of your entire senior year. You want a clean slate. You want to start this school year anew.

You pull out your phone, navigating to your contacts. His name is still saved in your phone under a remnant of your freshman year—johnny boy 🦭—a silly inside joke from a weekend trip you’d completely forgotten about until now.

can we talk? you type, the screen glowing against the overcast afternoon.

You barely have time to lock your screen before your phone buzzes in your palm.

that sentence is never followed by anything good

An unbidden laugh escapes you. Before you can even type a snarky reply back, his contact photo fills your screen and your phone starts vibrating with an incoming call. You slide the green bar to answer, pressing the phone to your ear.

"Hey," his voice comes through the receiver. You can hear that he’s slightly breathless, almost unnoticeably, but you pick up on it, able to tell that he’s already moving. "Yeah, we can talk. Where are you? I’ll meet you."

“Where are you?" you counter, adjusting your tote bag.

"I’m walking."

"Well, I’m walking too."

"Are you on my trail?" he asks, a hint of a tease in his voice.

You roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at your lips. "No, that’s my trail that you stole and started using, John."

Logan chuckles through the line, the sound cutting through all your lingering anxieties. "Fair enough. Guess I’ll meet you in the middle."

The campus around you perfectly encapsulates early-semester energy—freshmen traveling in packs, girls in oversized university sweatshirts carrying iced matcha lattes, and a lone guy near the physics building trying, and failing, to ride a bicycle. You don't look at any of them. Your eyes are fixed entirely on the gravel path that snakes toward the edge of campus, the direction that invariably leads toward Malone’s.

He comes into view soon after that.

He’s wearing a black compression shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing the tan forearms you know far too well. He slows his pace as he closes the distance, his intense gaze locking onto yours.

"Hey," he greets quietly, stopping a few feet away.

"Hey," you reply.

Without a word, you both turn and resume walking side by side. Neither of you explicitly states where you’re going, but your feet know the route by heart. The midday sun peeks through the turning maple leaves, casting dappled, golden shadows across the pavement.

You take a breath, trying to calm yourself, before tilting your head up. "How was your summer?"

Logan lets out a sudden, amused huff, shaking his head. "Is that really what you wanted to talk about?"

You shrug, shifting your gaze back to the path ahead. "Just breaking the ice. Things have been. . . weird. And thank you for the coffee the other day, by the way. Allie gave it to me."

He nods, his expression turning a little more serious. "No problem. Glad it was right." He walks a few more paces, then raises a dark eyebrow at you, his eyes searching your face. "Weird because of. . .?”

"Because you ran over my cat," you remark, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You huff, forcing the elephant out of the room. "The kiss, dork."

The ghost of a smile flits across his face, but it quickly fades into something attentive. He doesn't immediately jump in with a defense. He seems to be purposefully waiting on you to speak, deliberately granting you control over how to navigate the wreckage of that night.

You deeply appreciate the gesture—it proves he's trying to respect you—but a stubborn part of you was secretly hoping he’d be the one to lay his cards on the table first. But then again, if he didn't say what you wanted to hear, you know exactly how badly it would sting. So, you take the leap.

"I think the weirdness is just because we didn’t address it," you say honestly. "We just let it sit there all summer."

Logan stops walking completely, turning his body to face you. The sunlight catches the amber flecks in his eyes. "I know I crossed a line," he acknowledges, his tone lacking everything but sincerity. You wonder how long he’s been waiting to speak to you about this. "You trusted me to just be your friend again, and I. . . I couldn't control myself. I failed you on that. And the last thing I ever want is for things to be permanently broken between us, because I can’t imagine my life without you in it. But the ball is in your court. Whatever you need from me, I'll do it."

You look at him, translating his words through the protective filter you built around your heart over the winter. It was a lapse of judgement. He wants to stay friends. He wants to make sure he hasn't ruined the safety of the group, the comfort of the house. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe protecting yourself means keeping him exactly where he is.

"I'd really like to be friends again," you tell him, a raw smile finally breaking through your defenses. "But the proper way. The way where we can actually be honest with each other without holding anything back. I don't want to spend the rest of senior year making you feel like I'm just waiting on you to fuck up again." You tilt your head, a playful spark returning to your eyes. "I mean. . . you don't intend to fuck up again, do you?"

A flash of his classic, witty charm returns to his eyes, a soft smirk breaking through his serious expression. "Not exactly part of the plan, no."

You giggle, the tight knot of anxiety that has lived in your stomach for months finally unraveling. "Good."

Standing there on the trail, you look at Logan and realize how exhausted you are of keeping him at a distance. You slowly raise your arms, opening them up in a silent, clear signal.

Logan doesn't hesitate for a second. He steps into your space, his large, solid arms snaking securely around your waist as he pulls you flush against his chest. He buries his face directly into the crook of your neck, his chest letting out a long, shuddering exhale as if he’s finally allowed to breathe after months of being underwater. He holds you tight, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of your jacket, completely drunk on the familiar scent of your perfume. He hadn’t realized he’d been starving for it.

You bring your hands up, your fingers automatically finding the short, soft hairs at the nape of his neck, massaging the skin in a rhythm that is so deeply ingrained in your muscle memory it feels like breathing.

"I missed us," you whisper into his shoulder.

The real us, you think. The version of you that remained untouched by the sting of unrequited love, and the version of him who hadn’t yet learned the torture of being so close, yet holding so little.

The depressing scent of roasted turkey, expensive cologne, and forced pleasantries always lingers in the carpets of your childhood home, long overstaying its welcome.

Christmas has always been a complicated beast. Usually, if Jules and Logan’s mother is in rehab—which she is again this year—Logan and Jules migrate over to your place. You hate coming home. There’s an unspoken rule between you and Logan, a mutual understanding he has anticipated since you were kids. Every holiday spent under this roof invariably ends the exact same way: the two of you slipping away to the quiet sanctuary that was the roof, talking about things that don't matter in the slightest just to drown out the things that do.

You had broken that decade-long tradition last year when you packed a bag and left the country, fleeing the aftermath of your fallout. At the time, you had been so far away, so completely suffocated by your own hurt, that you hadn't let yourself think about what he was doing. But tonight, the guilt is all you can feel. Your older sister had been the one to give you that final push to take the vacation, swearing that you deserved it. She’d handled your parents alone so you wouldn't have to.

Your parents aren't bad people. You know you're luckier than most. But they possess a rare talent that is sweeping everything under the rug. They’ve done it to their marriage for decades, and inevitably, they do it to you. The house is always charged with unresolved resentment that you can only stomach for a few hours before you feel yourself teetering on the edge of actual insanity. To make matters worse, they love to host, packing the dining room with distant relatives and neighborhood acquaintances for a meal.

But you and Logan are back to normal now. Not the normal that lasted a few weeks after St. Patrick’s Day, but the bond you shared before the STEM showcase. The friendship has rebuilt its walls, sturdy and comfortable.

Still, you didn't think he’d be up for the roof tonight. Things are different now. Two years ago, you hadn't fallen out. You hadn't made up. You hadn't made out against his desk until your lungs burned. You weren't even sure if you wanted to go up there, afraid the ghosts of those memories would choke you. But by ten o'clock, the laughter downstairs is too loud, the adults are draining the life out of you, and the guests show absolutely no signs of leaving.

You climb out the hallway window, fully expecting the dark expanse of the roof to be empty.

Instead, someone is already lying flat on his back against the slope.

"You're in my spot," you say, your voice cutting through the crisp November air.

Logan doesn't lift his head, his eyes fixed on the stars. "I was here first."

"This is my house," you counter, crossing your arms against the chill.

He tilts his head toward you, a slow, familiar smirk tugging at his lips in the moonlight. "Touché."

He scoots over, making room on the thick wool blanket he’s already laid down. You kick off your shoes, the cold air biting through your socks, and lie down right next to him. The proximity is natural, his shoulder nearly brushing yours.

"What’s got you up here?" Logan asks quietly.

"The usual," you sigh, staring up at the dark sky. "Not to mention a dozen different adults asking me if I'm still a STEM major. They keep hitting me with that patronizing look, telling me it's 'super hard' and that I should switch to something simpler. Like a nurse or a teacher." You let out a dry, irritated chuckle. "Which is completely wrong in itself, because I tried being a substitute teacher once to make extra cash and that shit was horrifying. I don’t know how they do it. Don’t even get me started on nurses. I’ll take coding over the stuff they deal with any day."

Logan lets out a hearty laugh, the sound warming you. You glance over, suddenly realizing how fast the words had poured out of you.

"Sorry," you murmur, a slight flush hitting your cheeks. "I guess I’m surprisingly passionate about the labor conditions of nurses and teachers."

"Don't be sorry," he says, his eyes turning to meet yours in the dark. "It’s a respectable passion. And a true one."

You let out a soft breath, your shoulders dropping. "I'm just so tired of the interrogation. Last year was a serious relief."

A sudden, uncomfortable silence falls over the two of you, the mention of last year hanging in the cold air like frost. You hesitate, the question slipping past your lips before you can stop it. "Were you up here alone last year?"

Logan is silent for a long moment, his chest rising and falling slowly. "Yeah," he confesses. "My mom was downstairs, but. . . it got to be too much. Jules is always way more forgiving with her, so it's easier for them to just smile through it. But at a certain point, I felt like I was completely pretending. I needed some air. Your parents were out on the balcony with some family friends, so your sister saw me. She read my face and let me up."

Your heart aches, a sharp pang of regret hitting you. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

Logan immediately shakes his head, his jaw clenching slightly. "Nothing for you to be sorry about. You deserved that trip after everything. It was the only thing that made me feel better that night. That you were away from me, from everything.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, turning your head to look at his profile. "Well, you’ve made up for things. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time you’ve actually said no to me."

"I’m a changed man," he says, a faint, melancholic edge to his voice.

"I'm still not entirely convinced," you tease with a grin.

"Ah, but look at what I swiped from the kitchen."

You sit up on your elbows, watching as he reaches towards something to the side of him, pulling out an unopened glass bottle of sparkling cider.

A rush of pure nostalgia hits you so hard it makes you sick. In a good way. When you were ten years old, the two of you used to spend both Christmas and Thanksgiving hiding in your parents' bedroom upstairs, watching television while the adults conversed downstairs. Your older sister and Jules would always fall asleep on the rug, and the two of you had snuck a peek at Adult Swim. There was a clip of two characters passing a bottle of wine back and forth, sharing the deepest, heaviest secrets of their lives.

Naturally, at ten, you couldn't drink alcohol. So, you had successfully smuggled a bottle of Welch's sparkling cider from the pantry as your stand-in booze, migrated out onto this exact same roof, and talked about your lives. Back then, your tragedies consisted of stupid elementary school crushes and how badly your hands blistered from the monkey bars. You still had the beginnings of your familial issues, of course, but they hadn't yet grown into the giants they are today.

And even as the years went by, you knew Logan was wary about drinking because of his mother's alcoholism. He never said it, but you just knew. So, you had never upgraded the tradition to real alcohol, even when you both became heavily accustomed to drinking at Briar parties. The cider stayed.

It was an intimate tradition, but it had always been your normal. Yet, looking at the glass bottle now, the history of this past year presses heavily between you. Passing a bottle back and forth, sharing mouthpieces—it feels dangerously close to kissing. Which is a terrifying thought, considering the fact that you had actually kissed now. It shouldn't feel weirder, but it does.

Logan carefully peels off the shiny gold wrapping from the top of the bottle, the metallic crinkle loud in the quiet night. He pops the top and extends it toward you, his eyes glimmering.

"Ladies first," he murmurs.

A soft smile finally breaks across your face. You reach out, your fingers briefly brushing against his warm hand as you take the heavy glass. "A changed man and a gentleman."

You tilt your head back, taking a long swig of the sweet, bubbly liquid, letting the familiar taste wash over the residual bitterness of the evening. You lower the bottle, wiping your lip with the back of your hand, and pass it right back to him.

There is a silence that blankets the roof after that. You both just lay there, staring up at the starry sky, listening to the hollow rustle of the wind. It’s mostly quiet since it’s late December and the insects have long since died off. There is nothing but the two of you and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It’s painfully intimate.

So much so, that a question you’ve been keeping locked behind your teeth for months finally slips past your lips.

"Why’d you kiss me, Logan?"

He doesn’t turn his head, but in the corner of your eye, you see his chest hitch. The bottle of cider pauses halfway to his mouth.

"Why do you ask?" he asks, attempting to keep his voice level but failing.

"We talked about it. We closed that case," you whisper, your eyes tracing a constellation. "But I avoided asking you why. I didn't want to know."

"But now you want to?"

"I think I have to." You reach out, your hand brushing his as you take the glass bottle back from him. It’s halfway empty now. You two grew, but the bottle didn’t. It always got emptier quicker now. You don’t drink it yet, you just hold it tightly against your stomach. "You know. . . I was in love with you."

You feel the exact moment his gaze snaps to you, heavy and burning, but you refuse to look back. You keep your eyes glued to the sky.

"I had it bad," you continue, a reminiscent smile on your lips. "And it was really no help that I happened to realize those feelings right when you started becoming this hot-shot athlete. You suddenly grew seven inches in the span of a few months, and suddenly everyone’s eyes were on you. And then we both got into Briar. It was just you and me again in a completely new place. We were terrified, but we had each other. Then you made the starting line. I was so incredibly happy for you, Logan. But I felt invisible again. It wasn’t your fault. Well. . . not until. . . you know."

Sometime during your rambling, your hands had found each other. It was an act so deeply instinctual, so practiced over a decade of shared life, that you couldn't even remember who had reached out first. But it felt entirely right. His large thumb slowly swipes across the top of your knuckles, a tender, soothing caress that coaxes a shaky breath from your lungs. The touch gives you the courage to finally take another sip of the cider.

"I’m saying all this to tell you why I was so distant after the kiss," you murmur, passing the bottle back. "I’d gotten over it. I’d gotten over you. Then that night in your room happened, and the levee completely broke. I didn’t know how to feel. If I let you in like that, I’m putting you in a position to hurt me again. More than ever before. And I just. . . I wasn’t sure if it was worth it." You swallow hard, feeling him shift beside you. "Please don’t say anything. I’m not asking you to. I think I’ve just been needing to say it out loud."

Logan stares at your profile, the words cutting straight through him, leaving an ache in his chest that feels entirely too large for his midsection. He never truly understood how long you’d been waiting on him to finally open his stupid eyes. Hearing the timeline straight from you—realizing you had loved him through his awkward growth spurts, through the uncomfortable transition to college, through his own blind selfishness—leaves him entirely breathless.

Whether or not you blame him for the timing, he blames himself entirely. He wants nothing more than to roll over, cup your jaw, and tell you exactly how he feels. He wants to tell you that his year of being desperately in love with you feels like a drop in the ocean compared to the years you spent waiting for him. He wonders if it felt as suffocating for you as it does for him now, a relentless squeeze that leaves him completely breathless at the most random times of the day. He wonders if your chest used to tighten to the point of pain whenever he smiled at someone else, or if your voice used to catch in your throat whenever he walked into a room, your heart performing a violent, erratic dance that you had to frantically mask behind a casual eye-roll.

He wonders if you spent your nights staring at your bedroom ceiling, completely consumed by the memory of a fleeting, accidental touch—a hand lingering a second too long on a shoulder, a knee brushing against yours under a crowded table—wondering if it meant everything or absolutely nothing at all.

Logan wonders because that’s all he feels with you. He knows what it feels like to have your entire world narrow down to a single person, to have your happiness entirely tethered to the slight curve of their lips or the tone of their voice. He knows the terror that comes with wanting to offer someone everything you are, while simultaneously knowing they are the one person who possesses the exact power to ruin you.

It’s an absolute haunting, he realizes. To love someone this deeply is to be entirely stripped of your armor. He wonders if you felt that same frightening vulnerability every time you looked at him over the last few years, and he hates himself a little bit more for making you carry that weight all by yourself for so long. He hates that you felt as though you could never tell him.

He wants to look into your eyes and tell you that he does think it’s worth it—that love is always worth the risk, if it’s the right one.

But he can't do that to you. Not tonight. Not when you've just handed him your rawest vulnerability and explicitly asked him to just listen.

Instead, Logan takes the cider from your fingers and takes a large gulp of it, using the fizzy liquid to swallow down his confession.

"I miss when our biggest problem was getting to the swings during recess before everyone else," you say, shifting the conversation to steer you both back to safer ground.

A chuckle escapes his chest. "Tiffany Stone always did get there first."

"Yeah," you reply. "But then she’d give it up the second you asked."

"To be fair," he glances over at you, his eyes crinkling, "I’d give it to you right after."

"That didn’t land very well with her," you note, the memory of it painting itself in your mind.

"No," he agrees, rolling your head on the blanket to face you fully. "No, it did not. It landed pretty well with you, though. We stayed friends for another ten years."

"Thank you, Tiffany Stone," you whisper to the night sky.

Logan smiles, a quiet, comfortable silence falling between the two of you once more as the bottle passes back to your hands.

You had told him that it didn't feel worth the risk. And maybe Logan could be content with just having your hand in his for now. But deep down, as the warmth of your fingers laced through his settled into his bones, he knew that love—loving you—was worth every single petrifying risk the universe could throw at him.

By the time your friends finally decide enough is enough, it’s New Year’s Eve. The hockey house is destined to host a massive, sweeping rager to close out the year, but the real countdown isn't for midnight—it’s for the two of you.

For the past month, both the boys and the girls had been forced to watch you and Logan pretend that things weren’t radically different. To your credit, you sold the "just friends" act incredibly well. Maybe you even believed it. But knowing how you two actually felt about one another and trying to let nature take its course was beginning to get exhausting for the audience. It was a classic case of miscommunication. If left alone, it would either end with one of you breaking the friendship because staying "just friends" was too painful—most likely you—or the silence would just swallow you both whole.

It was senior year. They needed to orchestrate a collision.

So, they devised a multi-step plan. Phase one: isolate and implant the thought.

Phase one began with Logan.

He tended to zone out during practice. Not in a way that affected his play—he was still a lethal starting forward—but if you planted an idea in his head right before a drill, he would chew on it like a dog with a bone for the next two hours.

The team is running a grueling line-change scrimmage, skates slashing against the ice, the thud of hockey pucks hitting the boards echoing through the rink. They’d been talking about the party, and naturally—the conversation drifts over to you.

Logan skates hard off the ice, chest heaving, and slams his stick against the bench as he sits down next to Dean.

Dean doesn’t even look at him, casually squirting water into his mouth, and saying, "Hear she’s planning on kissing someone tonight."

Logan freezes, his water bottle hovering inches from his face. He blinks, the sweat dripping from his forehead. "What? Who?"

"Dunno," Dean shrugs, staring blankly out at the ice. "Heard it from Allie. Apparently, she’s trying to find a New Year’s kiss."

"Why the hell are you telling me this?" Logan snaps, a sudden, ugly flare of panic rising in his throat.

Garrett skates up to the bench, spraying shaved ice over their skates, and leaned over the boards. He catches the tail of Logan’s reply, but he’s well aware of what the discussion had been about. "Don't be dumb, Logan. We all know you’re head over heels for her. You look like a kicked puppy every time she leaves a room."

"Shut up, Garrett," Logan speaks through a clenched jaw.

"Line two, out!" Coach Jensen bellows.

Dean stands up, tapping Logan’s shin guards with his stick. "Look, man, the friendship is gonna crash and burn anyway if you don't tell her how you feel. You can't keep doing this half-and-half bullshit." Dean hops over the boards and glides into the play.

Logan sits back, his heart hammering against his ribs. When the next whistle blows, Tucker skates off, taking Dean's place on the bench. He doesn’t waste any time. "You can’t keep using the missed window as an excuse, man.”

"It’s too late, Tuck," Logan mutters, staring at his gloves. "She told me that a few days ago. She used to be in love with me. Used to."

"The wording was loose, bro," Tucker counters, unstrapping his helmet to wipe his face. "Feelings like that don't just evaporate into thin air. What did she actually say to you on the roof? That she wasn't sure if love was worth the risk?"

Garrett chimes back in from the other side, leaning back. "Exactly. She didn't say no. She said she was scared. I feel like she’s basically giving you a roadmap, idiot. She’s telling you to show her otherwise."

"And if not," Dean shouts as he skated past the bench on a line change, "at least you won’t have this heavy weight on your shoulders until you’re gray and old because of what could have been!"

Tucker slaps Logan hard on his shoulder pads, pushing him toward the ice. "Go. Kiss the girl, Logan. Before someone else does."

Logan hops the boards, his skates hitting the ice with a weighty clack. As he glides into the offensive zone, his mind is entirely somewhere else. His friends are right. The realization drills into his skull with every stride. He has to do something tonight.

The second part of phase one ends with you.

While the boys are completing their hockey-bench therapy session, Allie and Hannah are executing their half of the operation.

They had invited you out for a casual brunch at a cafe near campus. You, bless your sweet soul, genuinely thought it was just a kind, stress-free girls' day to kick off the holiday. You are happily tearing into a croissant when the conversation shifts toward the rager scheduled for that evening.

"So, how are we spending the midnight countdown?" you ask, wiping a bit of jam from your thumb. "I’m probably gonna have to be eating grapes by myself this time around.”

A guilty look passes between Allie and Hannah. Two years ago, the three of you had crammed yourself under a dining table at midnight, eagerly shoving twelve grapes into your mouths for good luck in love. The tradition seemed to have a two-thirds success rate, considering Allie and Hannah had locked down six-foot-plus hockey players the following year, while you’re still single.

"Look," you laugh softly, stirring sugar into your coffee. "I won't be offended if you guys want to spend midnight with your boyfriends this year. I can survive the countdown alone."

Allie and Hannah’s faces light up so fast you’d think they had won the lottery.

You pause, your spoon hovering. "Damn. You guys really wanted to get away from me, huh?"

"No! Oh my god, no," Hannah brushes it off quickly, waving her hand a little too frantically. "We love you. It’s just. . . you know, New Year’s romance and all that."

"Right," you murmur, squinting at them. They’re acting incredibly weird.

Allie clears her throat loudly, leaning forward and casually playing with her plastic straw. "You know. . . the upstairs balcony at the house has a beautiful view of the campus fireworks. Hardly anyone goes up there because everyone assumes the second floor is totally off-limits during parties."

Hannah nods rapidly, taking a bite of her avocado toast. "Totally. You should really spice things up this year. If, by some random chance, a cute guy wanders up there. . . you should make him your midnight kiss."

They’re awful at being subtle. Lucky for them, you’re awful at picking up on their ulterior motives.

You stare at them, completely deadpan. "You want me to kiss a total stranger?"

"You only live once, girl," Allie says, shrugging with a practiced air of casualness.

"Yes, a total stranger," Hannah continues, leaning in. "As long as he’s cute. It’s a good way to start the new year—a clean slate."

"Absolutely not," you laugh, shaking your head. "Do you guys not fear mono? Because I definitely fear mono. I am not locking lips with some random frat guy who has spent the last four hours drinking jungle juice out of a trash can."

"Don't write it off yet," Allie teases, kicking your foot under the table. "The grapes under the table are a total cop-out. You need real luck."

"Easy for you two to say," you joke, gesturing between the two of them. "You’ve successfully locked down starting line athletes."

"Who knows?" Hannah offers a mysterious, cat-like smile. "Maybe you’ll catch a real prize on the balcony tonight."

"Yeah," you roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair. "Or a very drunk guy who is trying to find a quiet place to puke."

Even though you don’t explicitly say it, Allie and Hannah exchange a quick, victorious glance across the table. The thought has been planted. You’re officially considering the balcony. Now, they just have to make sure the right guy is waiting for you when the clock strikes midnight.

Phase two is the kiss.

You’ve spent the last few hours of the night silently debating Allie and Hannah’s ridiculous brunch pitch. It is slightly pathetic, but then again, a New Year’s kiss is a completely normal tradition. You had one last year during your solo vacation with some attractive European guy. It had been a phenomenal kiss, you’d never spoken to him again, and the world hadn't ended. Who was to say you couldn't just replicate that effortless, zero-stakes energy tonight?

Downstairs, Logan has spent the exact same hours doing everything in his power to ensure his staring isn’t incredibly obvious. Every time you cross the living room, his eyes track you. You seem focused, hyper-fixated on the crowds, and it is driving him absolutely insane wondering if you’re scouting out the person you plan on kissing. He spent the night sizing up every guy in your vicinity, concluding under a heavily biased lens that not a single one of them is worthy of being near you.

Logan is trapped in a brutal internal war. Is it nobler to be selfless and let you move on, or to be selfish and finally tell you how he feels, knowing it could open a can of worms? But then he realizes the ultimate irony: isn’t it actually selfish not to grant you the right to make that choice yourself? To assume he knows what’s best for your heart without even asking? His head is spinning.

By 11:50, the countdown is turning the house into a pressure cooker of anticipation. Your European-stranger plan has officially lost its appeal; you just want a familiar face to ring in the midnight slot. You start scanning the crowd for Tucker, figuring a comfortable, safe friend is exactly what you need.

But Tucker is nowhere to be found.

Unbeknownst to you, the entire friend group banished Tucker to the freezing garage. They know your exact habits. They knew that instead of heading to the balcony, you would try to find a safety-blanket friend to sit out the countdown with. If Tucker vanishes, and Allie and Hannah are locked at the hip with their respective boyfriends, your only remaining option for quiet air is the upstairs balcony. Tucker, extremely loyal to the cause, had willingly sacrificed his warmth, clutching a beer bottle under the garage rafters.

At 11:52, you finally give up the search and head up the stairs.

From across the kitchen island, Logan watches your retreating back. Garrett and Dean soon flank him, watching the conflict twisting his features. Logan sits on the arm of the couch, twitching uncomfortably for two solid minutes while the clock ticks closer to midnight. Garrett looks ready to physically throw him up the staircase by his collar.

Finally, with a low curse, Logan stands up and makes a break for the stairs.

Once given the green light, Tucker slips back inside from the garage, lifting his beer toward the group. "Here’s to hoping this actually works."

The circle clinks their cups in a tight, triumphant circle. Allie takes a sip of her drink, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. "If they don’t come downstairs holding hands, I’m literally gonna go insane.”

You have to admit, Allie hadn't lied to you. It is beautiful up here. The bass of the house thumps beneath your shoes, reminding where you are, but the air on the balcony is fresh, and best of all, entirely free of people.

You lean your forearms against the wooden railing, your fingers mindlessly tracing the woven knots of the friendship bracelet on your wrist. On your trek up here, you passed Logan’s bedroom. His door had been flung wide open—another deliberate piece of staging by your friends that you completely overlooked. You slipped inside, your eyes landing on the desk, and you’d swept the bracelet into your pocket before your brain could talk you out of it.

Logan had never asked if you wanted it back after everything. You didn't blame him, considering the emotional detonation that had occurred the last time you held it. Yet, here you are, wearing it anyway. You can feel the truth press itself into your chest as it sinks into your brain: you don’t want to kiss a stupid stranger tonight. You want Logan up here. You want him looking at the city lights beside you.

Below the balcony, the massive crowd in the backyard is beginning to gather, faces tilted toward the night sky, waiting for the clock to run out.

At 11:55, the click of the balcony door cuts through the cold air. Someone joins you.

Your shoulders tense. You keep your eyes locked strictly on the distant horizon, refusing to look over. You’re under absolutely no obligation to kiss whoever this is, but a stubborn, pathetic part of you is terrified of confirming that it isn’t the one person you actually want. The unknown person steps up to the railing next to yours.

Instantly, a familiar, comforting wave of body heat wraps around your left side. There’s no overwhelming reek of stale jungle juice or cheap liquor—just the familiar scent of cedarwood, winter air, and the exact soap you’ve smelled on his skin for the last ten years. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.

At 11:56, his voice breaks the silence.

"I didn't think you’d be alone out here."

Your head snaps around, surprise instantly painting your features. John Logan is standing there, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his hair slightly rumpled by the winter wind. It’s the exact thing you just wished for, but seeing him in the flesh makes your throat instantly go dry. It’s a hell of a lot harder to execute a casual New Year’s plan when the boy in question is Logan.

You quickly force your eyes back toward the city skyline, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. "Allie and Hannah told me the view up here was beautiful. Turns out they were right. It’s stunning.”

Logan doesn’t look at the sky. He just stares at the side of your face, his eyes set on you. "Yeah," he murmurs, "They were."

The moment you turn your head to meet his gaze, he sharply tears his eyes away, suddenly looking out at the horizon as a sudden realization begins to dawn on him. He starts tracing the math of the evening—the guys’ sudden on-ice warnings, Allie and Hannah recommending this intimate space to you, Tucker’s abrupt disappearance.

You’re tracking the exact same breadcrumbs in your own mind. The wide-open bedroom door. The insistence on the balcony.

The realization hits you both at the exact same time.

"They set us up," you both say, your voices speaking in a synchronized harmony.

A sudden, laugh breaks from Logan’s chest, and the crushing pressure of the night finally fractured. You let out a soft chuckle of your own, shaking your head at the odd yet admirable creativity of your friends.

"Tucker’s in the garage, isn't he?" you mutter, leaning back against the railing.

"One hundred percent," Logan smiles, though the humor quickly fades from his eyes as he looks back down at you.

It’s 11:59. The countdown is vibrating through the very floorboards beneath your feet, and with the humor gone, the proximity between you becomes all the more apparent.

He’s well aware that it’s now or never.

Logan takes a single step closer, completely closing the gap until his shoulder is brushing against yours.

"I don't want to be selfless anymore," Logan whispers suddenly, the words rushing out of him as if he’s running out of time. He reaches out, his large hand warming yours where it rests on the railing. "I spent the whole night trying to convince myself that letting you go was the right thing to do. But I can't. I'm too selfish."

Your heart suddenly begins to thump frantically against your ribs, your breath hitching in your throat. "Logan. . .”

The backyard below erupts into a deafening, unified roar, the collective voices of a bunch of people beginning the final descent of the year.

“TEN! NINE! EIGHT!"

"I'm in love with you," he confesses, the raw truth finally out in the air. He steps fully into your space, his other hand rising to gently, desperately cup your jaw, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone just like he had before. Only this time, he isn’t trembling. He seems entirely solid. "I loved you when you offered your friendship back. I loved you when we kissed that night in May. I loved you when you poured your heart out to me on that roof as we passed a bottle back and forth. And I know you're scared. I know I put that fear in you. But I swear to god, I will spend every single day of my life proving to you that it's worth the risk. Just let me show you."

“THREE! TWO! ONE!"

The sky above explodes into a magnificent, deafening canopy of brilliant whites, greens, and golds, the thunder of the fireworks echoing across the roof.

But you don’t look at the sky.

You look at John Logan, the boy who has held your heart in his careless hands for years, the boy who is currently looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. The fear is still there, a tiny ache in your chest—but looking at the vulnerability in his eyes, you realize you don’t want to be safe anymore.

"Show me," you whisper against his lips.

Logan doesn’t waste another second. He leans down, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that completely obliterates every single month of silence, separation, and yearning that had built up between you.

It isn’t like the slow, tentative kiss on his desk. This is consuming, intense, but completely devoid of uncertainty. Logan lets out a ragged groan into your mouth, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you so tightly against his chest that the air leaves your lungs. His fingers massage the back of your neck, holding you there, deepening the kiss as the fireworks thunder overhead.

The familiar taste of him, the safety of his embrace, the desperate way his hands hold onto you—it was everything you had been drowning without. You reach up, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you at all. You’re kissing him back with all you have left, completely surrendering to the emotions that have long made their mark on you.

When he finally breaks the kiss for air, he doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead against yours, both of your breaths coming in short, ragged puffs of white mist in the winter air. His hand remains on the back of your neck, his thumb soothing your lower cheek.

Logan lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, a massive smile breaking across his face in the flashing light of the fireworks. "I guess that means you like me too.”

You look up at him, a radiant smile of your own finally clearing away the last of the shadows. You hit his chest. “Don’t push it, dork.”

Logan chuckles, the sound cozy against your mouth, his eyes squinting. But as the laughter dies down, his gaze softens. He captures your hand—the one that just hit his chest—and laces his fingers through yours, pressing your knuckles right over his heart.

"I mean it," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere."

You look at your intertwined hands, the last of your fears melting away into the cold night. You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes with a serious but soft look. "I'm giving you my heart, John Logan. Don’t break it."

Logan leans down, pressing one more soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your smile. "I wouldn't dream of it."

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