pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader
summary – nerves bring the night to a pause, only for trust, curiosity and garrett’s complete lack of pressure to turn it into something even more intimate.
warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, mutual masturbation, nudity, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple piercing stimulation, consensual dominance, manhandling, masturbation discussion, orgasm, aftercare
notes from me – as requested here!!! i am s o o o down bad for them 🙂↕️
word count – 5.6k
The hockey house is too quiet for what they’re doing. There’s no Logan yelling at a video game, no Tucker opening and closing cupboards, no Dean wandering into Garrett’s room without knocking because he’s never accepted that doors are intended to prevent entry.
They’re all still at the Sigma house, where the party is probably entering the stage of the night involving broken furniture and someone insisting they can perform a backflip.
She should feel relieved. Instead, the absence of everyone else seems to have made the room smaller.
Garrett is sitting against the headboard with one leg stretched over the mattress and the other bent slightly beneath her, his hand warm against the back of her neck while he kisses her like the last thirty minutes have been leading to this rather than the two of them abruptly abandoning a frat party under separate, extremely unconvincing pretences.
She had told Claire she was tired. Garrett had told Dean he needed to check whether the back door was locked.
Now she’s kneeling beside Garrett on his bed, her bare knees sinking into the comforter, sneakers abandoned near his desk and the short skirt of her cream dress gathered dangerously high around her thighs.
The dress has tiny black polka dots and a halter neckline tied behind her neck in a soft bow. It had looked sweet in her dorm mirror, feminine enough to make her feel polished despite the fact that the back barely covered the top of her underwear.
Garrett had stared at it when he picked her up. He’s considerably less subtle now.
His mouth moves over hers slowly, his tongue catching against her own while his fingers slide through the hair at the nape of her neck. She has one hand twisted into his shirt and the other against the hard plane of his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath her palm with the same fast, uneven rhythm as hers.
It feels so fucking good. That’s part of the problem.
She’s kissed men before. She’s kissed a lot of men, actually, some of them long enough that she learned the precise point where their technique would stop improving and she could begin calculating how much sleep she would get if she left immediately afterward.
She knows how to have sex. She knows how to make the right noises, move at the right moments and smile afterward as if the whole thing has been mutually transformative rather than something she endured with polite enthusiasm. She knows how to fake an orgasm convincingly enough that nobody has ever requested additional evidence, then collect her clothes and move on with her life.
Garrett already knows the noises she makes when she actually comes. He knows the difference.
The thought sends another nervous flutter through her stomach, irritatingly delicate compared to the heat gathering lower down.
Garrett’s thumb strokes beneath her jaw. His lips catch her lower one and tug gently before releasing it, drawing a soft sound from her that he answers with a quiet hum. He shifts his weight and catches her around the waist.
She moves without resisting when he pulls her over his thighs, settling astride his lap while his back presses more firmly into the headboard. The position brings her directly over the hard shape beneath his jeans. Her breath catches.
Garrett’s hands disappear beneath her dress. His palms slide up the bare skin of her waist, broad and warm, gathering the soft fabric as they go until the skirt bunches around his wrists. He traces the curve above her hips, then tucks both thumbs beneath the thin elastic sides of her underwear.
He doesn’t pull them down. He only strokes there, small movements against the delicate skin at the front of her hips while he kisses the corner of her mouth.
Her stomach tightens beneath his hands. Garrett pauses. The kiss breaks slowly. His face remains close enough that his nose brushes hers, dark eyes moving over her expression while his thumbs go still inside the waistband.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she insists, although the words emerge too quickly and slightly breathless, which means they sound exactly like every other time she has said she’s fine while visibly not being fine.
Garrett draws one hand from beneath her dress and cups her chin. His thumb passes over her bottom lip, smoothing across skin already swollen from kissing. “Princess.”
She looks at his shoulder instead of his face. His black shirt is slightly wrinkled beneath her fingers, the collar pulled sideways from where she has been holding him. “I’m just a little nervous,” she admits.
Garrett nods once. There’s no laugh. No smug comment about her being the one who dragged him out of the party or climbed into his lap. His thumb moves over her lip again, gentler now. “Baby, we don’t have to have sex tonight.”
Her gaze lifts to his. “We don’t?”
His eyebrows pull together. “No.”
“But…” She glances toward his closed bedroom door, as though Logan, Dean and Tucker might materialise behind it if she references their absence too directly. “The house is empty.”
“That doesn’t mean we need to have sex.”
“Oh.”
Garrett studies her face. “Okay?”
She nods slowly. “Okay.”
His brow remains furrowed. He strokes the centre of her lower lip once more, watching the small drag of his thumb as if he’s trying to smooth the uncertainty out of her by hand. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She huffs, but her chest loosens enough for a little more air to enter it. “I don’t know. I thought you’d be annoyed.”
“Why would I be mad?”
She shrugs, the movement small beneath his hand. “I dunno.”
Garrett’s expression changes in a way she cannot name without becoming uncomfortable. Something soft and unhappy crosses his face before his mouth curves, not quite into his usual grin but something close enough to make the room feel familiar again.
“I’m not mad,” he says. “I like having you half-naked in my bed whether or not there’s a scheduled activity.”
Her mouth twitches. “Scheduled activity?”
“Sex.”
She presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “I understood.”
“Good. Didn’t want to overwhelm you with the terminology.”
She rolls her eyes, properly this time.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
She leans forward and kisses him. Garrett makes a pleased sound and settles his hand back at her waist, allowing her to choose the pressure, the pace, the slow movement of her mouth against his.
The butterflies don’t disappear, but they loosen, turning warmer and less frantic beneath her ribs. She kisses him again, then once more because his mouth is soft and hot and his lower lip fits perfectly between hers.
“I like kissing you,” she whispers.
Garrett’s eyes remain closed for half a second after she pulls back. “Yeah.”
She waits.
He opens one eye. “What?”
She huffs. “That’s all?”
“What do you want, a written review?”
She pinches his side.
He laughs, catching her wrist before she can do it again. “I like kissing you too, princess.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Perfect.”
“Glad we cleared that up.”
She presses her smile into his mouth. Knowing he’s not waiting for anything seems to have removed the imaginary timer ticking somewhere in the room. She can kiss him without wondering when the kissing is supposed to become something else. She can sit on him and feel his erection beneath her without believing it’s become her responsibility.
Which, naturally, makes her want to get naked. She keeps kissing him as she reaches behind her neck and catches one end of the halter tie. The bow slips loose beneath her fingers. Garrett notices when the front of the dress begins to soften against his chest.
His hand closes around her waist. She draws the ties forward and pulls the dress up. The cream fabric slides over her hips, catches briefly at her breasts, and then disappears between them in a soft, polka-dotted heap.
Garrett stares. She’s left sitting in his lap wearing only a tiny pair of cream underwear, her nipples already hard in the cool room, the silver bars glinting faintly beneath the light from his bedside lamp.
“Hi,” she says.
Garrett’s eyes drag upward with visible effort. “You’re evil.”
“You said you liked having me half-naked.”
“That was before you launched a targeted attack.”
She smiles, pleased, and reaches for the hem of his shirt. Garrett grips the fabric himself and drags the shirt over his head in one impatient movement. His hair catches in the collar and springs free in complete disarray. She laughs.
“What?”
“Your hair.”
“You’re naked,” he mumbles. “I don’t care about my hair.”
He tosses the t-shirt toward his desk without looking. It lands nowhere near it.
She places both hands against his bare chest. Garrett’s warm beneath her palms, skin smooth except for the faint roughness of hair beneath his navel and the small marks hockey has collected across his body without permission. A fading bruise sits over one rib. There’s a pale line near his shoulder she has seen a hundred times at pools and practices, although touching it now feels like learning it again.
Garrett’s hands return to her hips. She kisses him harder. The relief of having nowhere to get to makes everything more intense. His mouth opens beneath hers. His fingers spread over the bare curve of her ass, drawing her forward until the damp centre of her underwear rubs over the hard length trapped inside his jeans.
Her lips part on a moan. Garrett does it again.
She begins moving without waiting for him, rolling her hips into the pressure, arms winding around his shoulders as she grinds against him. The denim is rough through the thin fabric between her legs. Every slow drag catches against her clit and sends another bright pulse of pleasure through her.
Garrett groans into her mouth. “Fuck,” he breathes.
His head lowers to her chest. He catches one breast in his palm and closes his mouth around the piercing.
Her entire body jolts. “G.”
He hums around the metal, the vibration moving straight through her. His tongue traces the bar before he sucks carefully, one hand holding her hip steady while she continues grinding over him.
Her forehead drops against his curls. The room contracts around the wet pull of his mouth, the heat of his body beneath hers and the heavy friction building between her legs.
This is what she likes most about him. Not only that he knows what he’s doing, although he does, which remains both deeply satisfying and personally irritating. It’s the way he makes the constant noise inside her head go quiet.
Garrett puts his hand somewhere and her body stays there. He tells her to look at him and she does. He catches her jaw, her hips, her wrists, and suddenly she doesn’t have to manage the angle or the rhythm or what expression belongs on her face. She doesn’t have to orchestrate her own pleasure while guiding a man toward the conclusion that he caused it.
She can simply let him handle her. Garrett releases her nipple with a soft, wet sound and moves to the other. His thumb circles the one he has abandoned, keeping the metal slick beneath the pad while his tongue finds the second bar. She whimpers and tightens her thighs around his hips.
“That good?” he asks against her breast.
“Yes,” she gasps.
His teeth graze her nipple. The rest of the complaint dissolves. Garrett laughs softly and turns them.
One second she’s above him, fingers twisted into his curls, and the next her back meets the mattress. He follows her down, fitting himself between her thighs while his mouth travels over the centre of her chest.
She stares at the ceiling as he kisses beneath her breasts, along her ribs and over her stomach. His hands hold her hips in place, thumbs moving absently along the elastic of her underwear.
By the time his mouth reaches the skin below her navel, she’s breathing too quickly again. She pushes herself upright, and Garrett glances up.
His face between her thighs does something dangerous to the rhythm of her heart, but her hands have already reached for his jeans. She catches the button and begins working it open.
Garrett straightens immediately. One hand closes around her jaw, fingers firm beneath her cheeks, and he kisses her. Deep. Slow. Thorough enough that the button remains trapped uselessly beneath her thumb while his tongue slides against hers and the hand at her face keeps her exactly where he wants her. Her thoughts blur.
When he finally pulls back, her lips chase his before she can stop them. Garrett’s thumb presses gently at the corner of her mouth. “Thought you didn’t want to.”
“I…” She glances down at his open fly, then back at him. “I don’t know.”
He watches her. She hates how easily he can see the confusion inside her, the desire winding itself through relief and nerves until she cannot tell where one stops and another begins.
“I want you,” she says, because that part is true. “I just don’t know if I want to, like…”
“Have sex.”
She nods.
“Okay.”
Her brow furrows. “But I don’t want to stop.”
“I didn’t say we had to stop.”
She blinks at him. Garrett’s head tilts slightly. His gaze shifts over her face, then down the length of her body, lingering where her thighs remain open around his hips.
“I have an idea.”
She nods immediately.
His mouth twitches. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“I trust you.”
The words leave her without ceremony. Garrett goes still for one quiet moment. Then he bends and kisses her, softer this time, once against her lips before sitting back on his knees. “You get yourself off, yeah?”
Heat crawls across her chest. “Yeah.”
“Mhm.” He drags the sound out, visibly pleased with the information. “Well, show me.”
Her arms loosen. “What?”
“Show me.”
Her stomach drops pleasantly. Garrett holds her gaze. There’s no mockery in his face, though his eyes have darkened and his mouth keeps threatening a grin.
“And I’ll show you,” he adds.
She looks down at the shape straining against his jeans. Her thighs press together without permission.
Garrett notices. “Interested?”
She nods.
“Words.”
“Yes.” Her voice comes out softer than intended. “Okay.”
He kisses her again as if rewarding the answer, his hand sliding into her hair while his mouth opens over hers. She feels him reach between them and push his jeans down, fabric dragging over his thighs before he breaks away long enough to stand at the edge of the bed.
She watches him strip. His jeans pool around his ankles. He steps out of them, then hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband of his black boxers and pulls those down too. Her breath catches.
She’s seen his cock before, held it and taken it into her mouth in the bathroom at Malone’s, but the cramped stall and the urgency of kneeling between his legs hadn’t allowed her to properly consider the fact that he’s… big.
Garrett’s proportionate to the rest of him, which isn’t comforting when the rest of him is built to drive grown men into plexiglass.
Garrett catches her staring. “Problem?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “Just observing.”
He grips himself loosely, giving one slow stroke that makes his stomach tighten. “Observing what?”
She looks at him. “You know.”
His grin appears. “I’d still like to hear it.”
“Absolutely not.”
He drags his bottom lip through his teeth. “Worth a shot.”
She shakes her head, but her hand has already found the side of her underwear. She lifts her hips and shimmies the fabric down her thighs, kicking it toward the foot of the bed. Garrett’s grin disappears. His gaze travels between her legs and remains there.
The attention makes her want to close them, because nobody has ever looked at her as though the sight itself is doing something to them. Garrett reaches down, catches both her ankles and pulls her toward him. A startled laugh escapes her as her body slides over the comforter, stopping at the edge of the mattress with her knees bent and Garrett standing between them.
“Bossy,” she says.
He wraps one hand around himself. “You love it.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but Garrett strokes once, slowly, and the words disappear. His fist moves from the base to the head, thumb sweeping through the wetness already gathered there. The muscles in his forearm tighten. His lower lip catches between his teeth for half a second before he releases it.
Her mouth goes dry.
“Go on, baby.”
She lets her knees fall wider. Her hand slides down her stomach, fingertips brushing over skin still sensitive from his mouth. Garrett watches every inch of the movement.
She finds her clit and begins circling slowly. Pleasure moves through her at once, less sharp than Garrett’s fingers but familiar, controlled. Her body knows her own touch. She knows the exact pressure to use, the rhythm that will carry her there if she keeps it steady.
The difference is Garrett. Garrett standing over her naked, stroking his cock while his eyes remain fixed between her thighs.
“Fuck,” he says quietly. Her fingers falter. He gives himself another slow stroke. “Don’t stop.”
She resumes, cheeks hot.
“That’s how you touch yourself?”
She nods.
“Words, princess.”
“Yes.”
“Show me properly.”
The instruction sends heat pouring through her. She presses more firmly, circling in the rhythm she uses alone beneath her blankets. Garrett’s breathing changes.
His fist moves faster, not much, but enough to make the muscles low in his stomach flex with each stroke. She watches the head disappear into his hand and emerge again, wet beneath the lamplight.
“You think about me when you do this?” he asks.
Her eyes lift to his. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” he repeats.
She bites the inside of her cheek.
Garrett tilts his head. “How many times is sometimes?”
“Garrett.”
“Every week?”
She says nothing.
His grin grows slowly. “Every day?”
“No.”
“That answer came suspiciously fast.”
She speeds up her fingers, partly because pleasure has begun coiling low inside her and partly because it’s becoming difficult to maintain an argument.
Garrett watches her thighs twitch. “What do you think about?”
“You know what.”
“I know what you told me before.” His thumb brushes over the head of his cock. “My hands on your tits. My mouth.”
Her breath stutters.
“What else?”
She shakes her head.
“Come on, baby. You can lie in my bed with your legs open and touch yourself while I jerk off, but you can’t tell me what you think about?”
The words move through her like another hand. She circles herself harder. “You holding me down.”
Garrett’s fist tightens. “Yeah?”
She nods.
“Moving you around?”
“Yes.”
“Putting you where I want you?”
Her hips lift faintly into her own hand. “G.”
“Thought so.” His voice has dropped lower, the amusement thinning beneath something rougher.
She watches his hand slide over himself. His shoulders are tense, broad beneath the low bedroom light, curls falling over his forehead as he looks down at her. He wants to touch her. She can see it in every small movement he refuses to make – the way his free hand flexes at his side, how his body leans toward the mattress before he corrects himself, the dark concentration in his eyes whenever her fingers slip lower and gather more wetness.
But he doesn’t reach for her. He gave her an idea. He gave her a boundary inside the moment, and he keeps it even while his breathing turns uneven. The restraint is so much hotter than touching would have been. She drags her fingers through the wetness and returns to her clit.
Garrett groans. “Jesus Christ.”
Her head presses back into the mattress. “You’re staring.”
“You’re putting on a show.”
“You told me to.”
He huffs. “Best decision I’ve ever made.”
She laughs breathlessly, but the sound breaks when she finds the right pressure again.
“That’s it,” Garrett murmurs. “Keep doing that.”
Her eyes drift closed.
“No, look at me.” They reopen immediately. Approval flashes across his face. “Good girl.”
Her stomach clenches so sharply that her thighs shake.
Garrett sees it happen. “There we go.”
“Shut up,” she mumbles.
“You’re lying there touching yourself because I told you to, and you still think you’re in a position to boss me around?”
She makes a soft, frustrated noise.
“Yeah,” he says, stroking himself faster. “That’s what I thought.”
Pleasure builds steadily beneath her fingers, every circle tightening the coil inside her. She watches Garrett’s fist move, watches the muscles in his thighs tense and the bead of sweat beginning to shine faintly at his temple.
His bottom lip disappears between his teeth again. She’s never seen him like this. Not in the bathroom, where she had been too focused on doing everything correctly, and not the morning he fingered her, when he had kept all his attention fixed on her.
Now she gets to watch pleasure move across his face without disguise. His jaw loosens when his hand twists near the head. His brows draw together whenever he strokes down more firmly. His breathing leaves him in quiet bursts through his nose until she moves her fingers faster and a rough sound breaks from his chest.
“Fuck, princess.” She whimpers. “Look so pretty like this,” he says. “All spread out for me.”
Her fingers slip slightly.
Garrett’s eyes sharpen. “Keep going.” She obeys. “That’s my girl.”
The pressure climbs higher, her stomach tightening beneath the remains of his release-free touch. She bends one knee farther, heel digging into the edge of the mattress as her hips begin moving faintly beneath her hand.
Garrett watches.
“What would you usually do?” he asks.
She pants through the next circle. “What?”
“When you’re alone. What else do you do?”
She shakes her head, unable to organise an answer.
He tilts his head. “You use a toy?”
“Yes,” she breathes.
“What kind?”
Her face burns. “A vibrator.”
“Where is it?”
“My dorm.”
“Shame.” She lets out a broken laugh. Garrett strokes himself harder. “Next time, bring it.”
The phrase next time sends another pulse through her.
“You’d like that, huh?” His voice has become rougher, words breaking slightly around his breath. “Letting me watch you use it?” She nods. “Maybe I’ll hold it for you.” Her fingers press harder. “Keep you still while I make you come with it.”
“Garrett.”
“Or make you hold it and tell you when you’re allowed to finish.”
The pleasure spikes. Her back arches slightly from the mattress.
Garrett groans. “Fuck. You like that.”
She cannot pretend otherwise. “Yes.”
“Course you do.”
She’s never been spoken to like this without finding it embarrassing. Other men have tried. They have repeated phrases clearly acquired from pornography, asked questions they didn’t wait for her to answer and called her names that felt disconnected from everything happening inside her body.
Garrett knows where the words need to land. His bossy best friend, who wants control over every detail until his hands close around her and take the responsibility away.
Her fingers move faster. The orgasm begins approaching in heavy, gathering waves, her muscles tightening around nothing while the wet sound of Garrett’s fist fills the space between her breaths. “G,” she whimpers.
“I know.”
“I’m close.”
“Yeah?”
She nods quickly.
Garrett’s head tips back for half a second, throat working. “Me too.”
His hand speeds up. She watches him, mesmerised by the slight loss of control in his body. His hips begin meeting his fist in small, involuntary movements. His free hand grips the edge of the mattress beside her thigh hard enough that his knuckles pale.
He still doesn’t touch her. “Don’t stop,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“Come on, baby. Let me watch.” Her body tightens. “That’s it.”
She circles herself faster, no longer capable of maintaining the slow performance of showing him. Her thighs shake, knees drawing inward before she forces them open again.
Garrett notices. “Keep those legs open.”
She moans.
“Good girl.”
The orgasm breaks through her. Her mouth opens around his name as pleasure pulses hard beneath her fingers, hips jerking upward from the mattress. She half rolls onto her side automatically, curling away from the intensity while a broken moan leaves her.
Garrett catches her. His free hand closes around her hip and pulls her flat onto her back again. “No, stay there.”
The firm movement sends another aftershock through her. She gasps, fingers still pressed uselessly between her thighs while her body continues fluttering around the remains of the orgasm.
Garrett steps closer. His fist moves once, twice, faster now, eyes fixed on her face as his breathing fractures. “Fuck.”
His body tightens. Warm release spills across her stomach, landing in thick streaks over the soft skin below her navel. Garrett groans, head dropping forward, his hand slowing as the last of it pulses over her.
For several seconds, neither of them moves. Her chest rises beneath the silver bars through her nipples. Garrett’s does the same above her, shoulders shifting with every unsteady breath. The room smells like sex despite the fact that, technically, they have still not had it.
A laugh bubbles out of her. Garrett looks down. She presses the back of her wrist to her mouth, but another giggle escapes anyway, loose and delighted from the endorphins still moving through her.
His mouth curves. “Good?”
She nods, hair shifting against his mattress. “So good.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Garrett wipes his hand against the inside of his discarded boxers, then drops onto the mattress beside her with all the grace of a man whose legs have temporarily resigned.
The bed bounces beneath his weight. She turns her head toward him. His face is flushed, curls damp near his temples and chest still rising too quickly. He stares at the ceiling like it’s witnessed something life-changing.
She shuffles closer and settles the side of her head against his shoulder. Garrett’s arm lifts automatically around her. Neither of them speaks for a moment. His fingers move slowly over her upper arm while their breathing returns to normal. Downstairs, the refrigerator makes a loud mechanical hum and then stops.
She glances down at her stomach. “G.”
“Mhm?”
“You’ve got to clean me up.”
Garrett closes his eyes. “Gimme a second.”
She giggles again. “You made the mess.”
“I’m aware.”
Her nose scrunches up. “It’s getting cold.”
His eyes open. “That’s disgusting.”
“It’s true.”
“Can you give me thirty seconds to recover from the most intense mutual-masturbation experience of my life?”
She tips her face toward him. “The most intense?”
Garrett looks down at her, completely serious. “By a humiliating margin.”
Her smile spreads.
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m not.”
He nudges his nose into her hair. “You are. I can feel it happening.”
She traces one finger absently over the centre of his chest. “You were staring at me.”
“You were naked and touching yourself,” he mutters. “What did you expect me to look at? The curtains?”
“They’re nice curtains.”
“They came with the house.”
“You should wash them.”
“There she is,” he says, laughing softly as he catches her hand. “Back for twelve seconds and already assigning chores.”
She threads her fingers through his. “You like me bossy.”
Garrett brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. “I like you all the time. The bossiness is an extra.”
The softness of the answer catches beneath her ribs. She looks back down at her stomach so he cannot watch it land. Garrett notices that too. His arm tightens around her briefly before he sits up with a groan and reaches for the tissues on his nightstand.
“Elegant,” she says.
“You want a warm towel?”
“Yes.”
He pauses with the tissue box in his hand. “Seriously?”
“You asked.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
She waits. Garrett stares at her. Then he drops the tissues and climbs out of bed. Her grin widens. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Nobody likes cold tissues.”
“Nobody else orders room service after getting come on them.”
She grins. “I’m your best girl.”
He points at her as he pulls on his boxers. “Weaponising my own words against me is low.”
“You love me.”
Garrett stills for barely a fraction of a second. It’s nothing. A tiny interruption in the movement of his hand as he pulls the waistband over his hips. So brief she could almost convince herself it didn’t happen.
Then he shakes his head and reaches for the door. “Unfortunately,” he says.
She throws a pillow at him. Garrett catches it against his chest, grinning, then tosses it back onto the bed before slipping into the hallway.
She listens to his footsteps move toward the bathroom. Her dress remains crumpled near the headboard. Her underwear has landed beside one sneaker, while the other shoe is somehow beneath Garrett’s desk. His clothes are scattered across the floor. The lamp casts everything in warm, uneven shadows.
Nothing has happened the way she expected. There was no awkward attempt to pretend Garrett’s size didn’t make her nervous. No pressure to continue because the house was empty and they had already taken their clothes off. No need to monitor his pleasure while manufacturing her own.
Garrett had watched her come and known it was real. The thought should leave her feeling exposed. Instead, she sinks deeper into his pillow and smiles at the ceiling.
He returns a minute later with a warm washcloth in one hand and a bottle of water tucked beneath his arm.
“You took forever.”
“I had to wait for the water to heat up.”
“Excuses.”
Garrett climbs back onto the mattress and catches her knee when she starts to close her legs. “Hold still.”
She goes still. His eyes flick toward her face, amusement warming them, but he doesn’t comment. He cleans her stomach carefully, the cloth soft and warm against oversensitive skin. Then he folds it and wipes gently between her thighs where her own release has dried tacky against them.
Her stomach turns over at the quiet intimacy of it. Nobody has ever cleaned her up before. Most men have barely noticed there was anything to clean.
Garrett finishes, tosses the cloth toward his laundry basket and hands her the bottle of water. “Drink.”
She twists the cap and takes several obedient swallows.
He shakes his head. “More.”
“You’re very demanding for someone who claims I’m bossy.”
“Drink your water, princess.”
She drinks again, mostly because the low instruction does something pleasant to the remains of her nervous system. Garrett lies beside her and pulls the comforter over them. She sets the bottle on his nightstand, then curls into his side, one bare leg sliding over his.
His hand settles on her hip. “You okay?” he asks.
She nods against his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“No regrets?”
She thinks about it. “I regret that you know how often I masturbate.”
“I don’t know how often. You refused to provide figures.”
She grins. “And I’ll continue refusing.”
“We’ll see.”
She smiles into his skin. Garrett’s thumb begins moving in slow strokes over her hip, exactly where it had rested inside the waistband of her underwear before he noticed she was tense.
“You still nervous?” he asks.
“A little.”
“About what?”
She lifts her head. He’s looking at her seriously, curls pushed away from his face and all the sharp hunger from earlier softened into patient attention.
She could say his size. She could say their friendship. The deal. The unsettling fact that sex with him will not allow her to hide inside a performance because Garrett will keep looking until he finds the truth.
Instead, she touches the small gold hoop in his ear, turning it lightly between two fingers. “You pay too much attention.”
His eyebrows rise. “That’s a complaint?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Garrett studies her face for a moment, then turns his head and kisses her fingertips. “Take your time.”
The answer settles through her more deeply than anything dirty he said earlier. She lies back down and presses a kiss against his shoulder.
Outside, a car passes along the road, headlights briefly sweeping across the curtains. Somewhere across campus, their friends are still drinking inside a crowded fraternity house, entirely unaware that Garrett is naked beneath his comforter with her polka-dot dress tangled near his pillow.
The secrecy sends a final, lazy spark of excitement through her. She smiles against him. “Dean’s going to know.”
“Dean thinks he knows everything.”
“He saw us leave.”
“I told him I was checking the door.”
“You left a frat party to check the door at your own house?”
Garrett frowns toward the ceiling. “It sounded better when I said it.”
She begins laughing. Garrett catches her around the waist and rolls her beneath him, pinning her lightly into the mattress while she squeals.
“You’re becoming irritating,” he informs her.
“Becoming?”
His mouth twitches. She looks up at him, bare chest warm above hers, one forearm planted beside her head and his knee resting carefully between her thighs. The nervous flutter remains, but it no longer feels like something warning her to leave.
She slides both arms around his neck. “I like kissing you.”
Garrett’s expression softens. “Yeah?”
She nods. He lowers his mouth to hers, slow and warm and smiling slightly when she kisses him back.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because that’s all you’re getting tonight.”
She catches his lower lip between her teeth. Garrett groans. “We’ll see,” she whispers.
His eyes narrow with immediate understanding. “Bossy.”
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pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – black lace, pink lace and one failed shower seduction leave kitty demanding an explanation for garrett graham’s deeply offensive new self-control.
warnings – 18+, strong language, sexual rejection fears, jealousy references, lingerie, explicit sexual discussion, nudity and suggestive touching
notes from me – oh i love this song and oh i love them!!
word count – 4.4k
navigation – masterlist | MBF masterlist
For the first few days, she assumes Garrett is tired. It isn’t an unreasonable theory. He has practice before most of the campus has accepted that morning exists, classes arranged around hockey with the precision of a military campaign, captain meetings, film sessions, lifting, assignments he remembers approximately six hours before they’re due, and now a second unpaid occupation involving the construction of every object in her apartment.
The dresser is finally standing. One drawer sticks if pulled too quickly and another sits slightly higher than the rest, but Garrett has declared both defects structural and forbidden her from criticising them until she has successfully assembled something containing more than four screws.
The coffee table is upright. Two of the prints have made it onto the wall. Her bed frame no longer creaks with the haunted complaint of furniture aware it was built incorrectly, because Tucker came over, looked at Garrett’s work for seventeen silent seconds and rebuilt one corner without saying a word.
Garrett has been busy. So when he kisses her forehead instead of her mouth on Monday night, she lets it go.
When she changes beside him on Tuesday and catches him looking very seriously at the television while she pulls her shirt over her head, she assumes he’s trying not to distract her because she has an assignment due.
By Wednesday, he has started doing things that feel almost insulting in their tenderness. He brings dinner without turning it into an excuse to bend her over the kitchen island. He sits beside her on the couch with one arm around her shoulders, thumb moving slowly against her upper arm.
When she climbs into his lap halfway through a movie, Garrett kisses her temple, adjusts the blanket around her bare legs and continues watching a documentary about an unsolved bank robbery as though she hasn’t deliberately placed her ass over his dick.
Thursday is suspicious.
Friday is a declaration of war. She wears the black set because it has always worked before.
Calling it pyjamas is generous. It contains less fabric than one of Garrett’s socks and provides roughly the same protection against a Massachusetts winter. The tiny lace shorts sit low against her hips, scalloped edges skimming the tops of her thighs, while the matching camisole has thin straps, a deep neckline and enough transparency to make the continued existence of Garrett’s self-control feel less like maturity and more like a personal attack.
Normally, she cannot cross his room wearing it without being grabbed. Once, she had made it as far as the foot of his bed before Garrett caught the back of the shorts with one finger and dragged her toward him, grinning when she stumbled into his lap.
Another time, he had walked directly into his desk because he claimed he was checking where he had left his phone while watching her adjust one of the straps in the mirror.
Tonight, he looks up from the cardboard box beside her wardrobe, says, “That’s cute,” and returns to sorting a collection of tangled charging cables.
Cute. Her eye twitches.
She stands there for several seconds, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Something about taking it off. Something filthy enough to restore natural order. At minimum, an indication that he’s noticed the lace and that her nipples are visible beneath it.
Garrett picks up an old phone charger. “Is this yours?”
She stares at him. “No.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t own anything that ugly.”
Garrett studies it, considering whether electrical equipment can have aesthetic failings. “Think it’s Dean’s.”
She blinks at him. “Throw it away.”
“He’ll complain.”
She huffs. “Throw him away too.”
His mouth twitches. He places the charger in a small pile near his knee, then reaches into the box again. She remains in the middle of the bedroom in her sluttiest pyjamas, arms hanging loosely at her sides, experiencing what she can only describe as rejection.
Eventually, Garrett looks up. His eyes move over her face rather than anywhere useful. “What?”
She narrows hers. “Nothing.”
“Okay,” he murmurs.
Everything is gentle now. His voice. His hands. The brief kisses he leaves on her hairline before going to practice. He touches the small of her back when passing behind her but never lets his palm wander lower. He’s slept in her bed four nights this week and treated it like a protected wildlife sanctuary.
Before the scare, Garrett had been physically incapable of behaving himself around her. She could wear an old t-shirt and complain about the weather and still end up pinned beneath him because, apparently, the way she said humidity had been provocative. He used to look at her like he had been given access to something rare, dangerous and specifically designed to ruin his schedule.
Now he has willpower. It’s disgusting.
By the following evening, the black lace has been replaced by a pale pink set with a bow between her breasts and shorts so small they ride up when she walks. Garrett arrives after practice with damp curls, grey sweats, a duffel over one shoulder and two takeaway bags balanced in one hand. He kisses her cheek. He asks whether she’s eaten. He takes the rubbish downstairs without being reminded.
He doesn’t fuck her.
Sunday morning, she showers while he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and spends several deeply humiliating minutes positioning herself beneath the water like an expensive shampoo advertisement. Garrett hands her the conditioner when she asks for it, presses one kiss to her wet shoulder and leaves to make coffee.
She considers drowning him.
By Sunday night, exactly one week after the pregnancy test declared her uterus free from immediate responsibility, she’s stopped believing any of this is accidental.
Garrett’s lying beside her on the bed with his back against the headboard, one knee bent beneath his phone and the other stretched over the comforter. He showered at her apartment after practice, which means his hair is still damp at the ends and he smells like the body wash she bought because he liked it, though he continues referring to it as hers whenever someone points out that a bottle has also appeared in the upstairs bathroom at the hockey house.
The television is playing something neither of them has followed for twenty minutes. Garrett is scrolling with one thumb, expression relaxed and mildly interested, while she sits beside him in dark red lace that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination except how quickly it might tear.
She’s been waiting for him to notice for eleven minutes. He noticed. She knows he noticed because his eyes had dropped when she came out of the bathroom, then immediately lifted to her face with the kind of deliberate control usually required when speaking to somebody’s mother at a funeral.
He’d said, “You cold?”
She’d nearly thrown herself through the window.
Now his phone glows over his face while one hand rests innocently against his stomach. Not on her thigh. Not beneath her shirt. Not even close enough to suggest he might accidentally brush her. The restraint is offensive. Worse, it’s beginning to hurt.
The first few days had made her irritable. The rest have done something quieter. Something that sits beneath her sternum and tightens each time Garrett kisses her forehead like she’s precious and sexless.
She’s checked herself in mirrors more than she would ever admit. Turned sideways. Looked for changes that do not exist. Wondered whether the pregnancy scare had taken whatever filthy, hungry thing used to spark between them and made it feel dangerous to him.
Maybe the thought of her pregnant had rearranged the way he saw her. Maybe he had pictured a child inside her and could no longer separate that body from the one he used to drag toward him by the hips. Maybe all his talk about not leaving had come with some new, terrible version of respect where she became something to look after rather than want.
Garrett’s thumb moves over the screen. Her jaw tightens. He smiles faintly at whatever he’s reading. Something inside her snaps with remarkable cleanliness, so she smacks the phone out of his hand.
It flies sideways, bounces once against the comforter and lands facedown near his thigh.
Garrett blinks. His empty hand remains suspended in front of him. “Hey–”
She climbs into his lap before he can finish. His back hits the headboard with a quiet thud as her knees settle on either side of his hips, lace shorts dragging over the soft cotton of his sweats. Garrett’s hands come up automatically, catching her around the waist while she takes his face between both palms and kisses him.
There’s no gentle beginning, she catches his bottom lip between hers, sucking hard enough to steal the small surprised sound from his throat before pushing her tongue into his mouth.
Garrett kisses her back on instinct, head tipping beneath her hands, lips parting, breath warming as she tangles one hand into his damp curls and holds him exactly where she wants him.
For one bright second, everything rights itself. His mouth gets rougher. His fingers flex at her waist. His body tightens beneath her, familiar and responsive enough that relief moves through her with almost painful speed.
She rolls her hips down, letting him feel the thin lace between them, and Garrett groans softly into her mouth. Her fingers tighten in his hair. His hands slide from her waist toward her hips, palms following the curve until they stop.
Garrett exhales against her lips and moves both hands back up. She kisses him again, harder, convinced he’s simply miscalculated. Then she releases his hair, catches his wrists and deliberately places his hands on her ass.
Garrett leaves them there for perhaps half a second. Then, with the careful patience of a man returning a misplaced object to its correct shelf, he lifts them to her waist again.
She pulls back.
Garrett’s lips are swollen. His breathing is a little rough. His curls stand up where she gripped them, and his eyes move over her face with open confusion. “What?”
She looks down at his hands, then at him. “What the fuck?”
His brows draw together. “What?”
“Why are your hands there?”
Garrett glances down. “On your waist?”
“Yes.”
His expression doesn’t become more enlightened. “That’s generally where I put them.”
Her eyes sharpen. “No, it isn’t.”
“Baby–”
“You haven’t fucked me in a week, Garrett.”
The words land between them with significantly more volume than she planned. Garrett’s mouth closes. His hands remain at her waist, warm and broad and infuriatingly respectful.
He lets out a breath. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Her voice climbs. “That’s not an okay statement.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
Her eyes widen while her brow furrows. “You said okay.”
“Because you said I haven’t fucked you in a week.” A crease appears between his brows, like he’s trying to approach the conversation logically despite the half-naked woman currently straddling him and looking prepared to commit a felony. “Which is true.”
She stares. “Great. I’m glad we’ve established the timeline.”
Garrett’s mouth twitches at the wrong moment.
“Oh, don’t.” She climbs off him so quickly her knee catches the edge of the comforter. Garrett reaches out, but she slaps his hand away and stands beside the bed, furious enough that her bare feet feel too hot against the timber floor. “Do not smile at me.”
“I’m not smiling.” Garrett sits straighter. “I’m just looking at you.”
“No, you don’t. Not properly.” She gestures down at herself, the movement making the bow between her breasts bounce with humiliating cheerfulness. “I am standing in front of you in this, Garrett.”
His eyes drop because she has forced them to. They travel over the red lace, the deep line of her chest, the narrow strip of skin between the camisole and shorts. His throat moves.
She points at him. “Do not start pretending now. I’ve conducted an experiment.”
Garrett’s eyes lift slowly. “An experiment?”
“Yes. Multiple. Black lace, pink lace, shower, no bra, sitting on your dick during an entire documentary about bank fraud– nothing.”
His brow furrows. “That wasn’t about bank fraud.”
“I don’t give a fuck what it was about!”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay!”
He presses his lips together. She starts pacing because standing still requires a level of control she no longer possesses. Three steps take her toward the dresser Garrett built, then four return her to the bed because the room isn’t large enough for the scale of her outrage.
“You used to be obsessed with me,” she says. “Literally obsessed. I couldn’t bend over in your general vicinity. I wore your old shirt once and you acted like I’d personally invented tits.”
Garrett rubs one hand over his mouth. His shoulders move suspiciously.
“This is not funny!”
“It’s a little–”
“Do you know how lucky you are to get to fuck me?”
His hand drops. “What?”
“No, seriously. Do you understand?” She gestures at herself again, more broadly now. “Look at me. I’m hot. I’m flexible. I let you do things that would make a priest leave the church. I bought us a vibrator and let you name him Douglas even though that’s a name for a divorced dad.”
His bottom lip pouts slightly. “You liked the name.”
“That’s completely irrelevant.”
“Okay.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Sorry,” he says immediately.
She resumes pacing. The lace shorts have started riding up on one side, but stopping to adjust them would undermine the argument, so she continues with one cheek marginally more exposed than the other.
“And now what? You’re in touch with your emotions?” she demands. “You’ve developed restraint? You’re behaving like I’m some fucking nun you’re helping cross the road.”
“I don’t think nuns–”
“Garrett.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“You’re being so fucking gentle with me. You keep kissing my head.” She points accusingly at her forehead. “This part. Constantly. Do you know how insulting that becomes after the sixth time?”
His brows lift. “I didn’t.”
“Well, now you do.”
“I was trying to be nice.”
“Since when?”
The question leaves her sharper than the rest, slicing cleanly through the room. Garrett goes quiet.
She feels the difference immediately. The rant loses some of its momentum, but not enough to stop. Her chest is moving too quickly beneath the lace, each breath catching faintly against her ribs. “Seriously. Since when do you care this much about being respectful? You’ve fucked me against this kitchen counter before there was a chair in the apartment. You tried to negotiate access to my ass while I was giving you a house tour.”
“I accepted the ruling.”
“Not the point!”
His hands settle against his thighs. He watches her pace once more toward the dresser, then back, his expression no longer amused. There’s something careful in it now, but not the awful tenderness she’s spent the week resenting. This is attention. Full and steady and fixed entirely on her.
She hates that it makes her eyes sting. “You made me feel like shit,” she says, quieter than everything before it. “I’m right here, and you won’t touch me with a twenty-foot pole.”
Garrett’s jaw tightens. “That’s not true.”
“You literally removed your hands from my ass.”
“I was trying not to–” He stops.
“To what?”
His gaze shifts briefly toward the floor. He drags one palm over the back of his neck, fingers catching in the damp curls there. “You done?”
Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
“Are you finished yelling at me?”
She considers the question with genuine seriousness, cataloguing the remaining insults at her disposal. There are several. Most lack the emotional precision of the earlier material. “Yes,” she says eventually. “For now.”
“Sorry.” A faint, exhausted breath leaves him. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that.”
The immediate sincerity is irritating. She folds her arms over her chest, which pushes everything upward enough that Garrett’s eyes flick down before returning to her face.
“I wasn’t trying to avoid you,” he says. “Or make you think I don’t want you.”
“You have a very confusing way of communicating desire,” she mutters.
“I know.”
“You brought me garlic bread and organised my cables.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You needed both.”
“I needed your dick.”
Garrett’s eyes close for half a second. When they open again, something warmer has entered them, though the tension around his mouth remains. “Yeah. I’m getting that now.”
She gives him a flat look.
He leans forward, forearms braced against his thighs. “It’s been weird since…”
“The scare,” she finishes.
Garrett nods. Outside the bedroom, the apartment hums with all its small new noises: the refrigerator motor, a car passing below, one of the pipes ticking faintly inside the wall. The same apartment where they sat with a cushion between them and waited three minutes to find out whether the rest of their lives had already changed.
Garrett looks down at his hands. “I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
“So you decided to become celibate?”
“I didn’t decide anything.” His thumb moves over the faint scrape near his knuckle. “I just kept thinking about what I said to you. About how I made you feel. And then every time I touched you, it felt like…” He exhales, frustrated by the sentence before it exists. “Like maybe that’s all I know how to do with you.”
Her arms loosen by a fraction. “What?”
“You were scared, and I was a fucking asshole. Then the test was negative, and we hugged, and the next thing I wanted to do was kiss you.” His mouth twists. “Which felt shitty.”
“Why?”
“Because you were standing there crying after I accused you of sleeping with someone else.”
“And you think kissing me would’ve been… the offensive part of that evening?”
“No.” He rubs both hands over his face. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just didn’t want to act like sex fixed it.”
She looks at him.
Garrett’s hands drop. His face is open in that reluctant, uncomfortable way it becomes when he’s run out of places to hide without physically leaving the room. “I didn’t want you thinking I was only being nice because I wanted something. Or that I was just waiting for enough time to pass before I started grabbing you again.”
“You could’ve asked.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve said, hey, I’ve become weirdly complicated and may need written permission to touch your ass.”
He gives her a look. “That would’ve gone well.”
“It would’ve gone better than treating me like somebody’s grandmother.”
His mouth twitches. “You don’t dress like anybody’s grandmother.”
“Then why weren’t you looking?”
“I was looking.”
“No, you weren’t.”
His eyebrows raise lazily. “I was trying not to get caught.”
The answer arrives so simply that she stops.
Garrett lifts one shoulder, almost embarrassed. “You kept changing in front of me and walking around in these little…” His gaze drops again, slower now, taking in the lace where it clings to her waist and disappears high over her thighs. His jaw shifts. “Things.”
“Pyjamas.”
“Those aren’t pyjamas.”
Her mouth threatens to move. She fights it. “You said the black ones were cute.”
“I was fighting for my life.”
“You sorted cables.”
He huffs. “I needed something to do with my hands.”
The laugh escapes before she can stop it, quick and unwilling. Garrett watches her face soften, his shoulders loosening by a degree. She uncrosses her arms. “So you still want me.”
His eyes settle on her, dark and steady, the humour leaving his mouth while something heavier takes its place. “Baby,” he says, “I’ve wanted you every second of this week.”
The words move beneath her skin slowly, warmth spreading into all the places that had gone tight and cold. She picks at the edge of one lace strap. “You have an extremely stupid way of showing it.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought the pregnancy thing made you see me differently.”
Garrett’s brows draw together. “It did.”
Her stomach drops.
He sees it. “Not like that.”
“Choose your next words very carefully.”
“I mean…” He looks briefly toward the ceiling, searching for whatever language has avoided him all week. “I don’t know. It made everything feel more… real.”
The back of her neck warms. “Everything?”
“Us.” He says it quickly, then continues before either of them can examine the word too closely. “This apartment. You. How much I’m here. How much of my shit is here. The fact that you weren’t sleeping with anybody else.”
“You weren’t either.”
Garrett’s eyes flick to hers.
She lifts her chin. “Were you?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate enough that the last small knot inside her loosens.
He rubs his palms once over his thighs. “I realised I’ve been walking around saying this isn’t anything while treating it like it’s…” His jaw works. “Not nothing.”
She waits, but Garrett doesn’t give her more. He looks like the sentence has already cost him a functioning organ.
The realisation arrives quietly anyway. He’s frightened because the pregnancy scare made them real in a way jealousy and toothbrushes and furniture never quite had. Frightened enough to try becoming a better man through the deeply flawed strategy of refusing to put his hands on her ass.
Her chest tightens, but this time the pressure is warm. “You’re such an idiot,” she says.
Garrett nods. “Yeah.”
“And I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“And you should’ve spoken to me.”
He nods again. “I know.”
“I didn’t ask you to respect me into celibacy.”
That finally breaks him. Garrett drops his head, laughing into both hands while she stands between his knees trying not to smile. His shoulders shake once beneath the thin grey shirt.
When he looks up, his face is softer. “I’m sorry.” Garrett’s eyes move over her face. “Can you come here?”
She nods. The distance between them is only a few steps. Garrett watches each one, his gaze dropping openly now to the lace shorts, then climbing back to her face when she stops in front of him.
His hands settle against the backs of her thighs, and for one second, neither of them moves.
Then Garrett slides his palms upward, slowly enough that she feels every inch of the path, warmth dragging over bare skin until his thumbs reach the lace hem. He looks up at her while his fingers curl around her thighs, drawing her closer until she stands between his knees and the soft cotton of his shirt brushes her stomach.
“There,” she murmurs. “Was that so difficult?”
“Extremely.” His mouth touches her just above the waistband of the shorts.
The kiss is gentle, but this time it doesn’t feel cautious. It feels intentional. His lips press to the soft lower curve of her stomach, then move slightly to one side, warm breath spilling over her skin as his hands continue their slow journey upward.
Her fingers find his curls. She doesn’t pull yet. She only lets them settle there, combing lightly through the damp strands while Garrett kisses her again.
“You look so fucking sexy,” he murmurs against her stomach.
She bites her bottom lip. “I know.”
His laugh brushes over her skin. “Yeah. I know you know.”
“You could’ve mentioned it earlier.”
He presses another slow kiss to her stomach. “I was worried encouragement would make the outfits smaller.”
“They can get smaller.”
Garrett’s hands tighten beneath the curve of her ass before he catches himself.
She looks down. “Don’t you dare.”
His eyes lift.
“Leave them there.”
Something shifts in his face. The last trace of restraint gives way , his hands spread properly over her, palms filling with lace and warm skin as he pulls her forward until her stomach presses against his mouth.
“Better?” he asks.
“Marginally.”
Garrett kisses the centre of her stomach again, then lower, mouth dragging along the lace waistband. “Marginally?”
“You’ve caused significant emotional damages.”
His teeth catch lightly near her hip. Her breath stutters. “I’ll fix it.”
“You’d better.”
He turns his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss over the point of her hip, just above the lace. Then another lower, where the shorts curve high over her thigh. Each one is slow enough to feel like an apology and hot enough to make the meaning significantly less respectable. Her fingers tighten in his hair.
Garrett looks up at her through his lashes, mouth resting against the exposed skin beside the tiny bow. “I really am sorry, baby.”
She swallows. The humour thins around the ache beneath her ribs. “I know.”
His thumb moves once over her ass, no longer pretending not to. “I don’t want you thinking I don’t want you.”
“Then don’t make me conduct another week-long lingerie study.”
He pouts against her skin. “Think I need to review the data.”
“You had your chance.”
He smiles against her skin. “Take these off.”
A warm pulse moves low through her stomach. “Is that a request?”
“Mm.” His fingers hook carefully beneath the lace at her hips but do not pull. “Can I?”
She watches his face. The dark focus in his eyes. The humour still sitting at the edges without hiding the sincerity beneath it.
“Yes.”
Garrett drags the shorts down slowly, his knuckles skimming the outside of her thighs. She steps out of them when they reach her ankles, one hand braced against his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to her waist before lifting his gaze again.
“The top too?”
She catches the hem herself and pulls it over her head. Garrett exhales. The sound is quiet, almost disbelieving, and significantly more satisfying than any prepared compliment. His eyes move over her without restraint now, taking in every part of what she has spent a week placing directly in front of him.
Garrett turns his face and kisses her lower stomach again. “Been thinking about this all week.”
The confession sends a fine shiver over her skin. “You’re going to make it up to me?” she asks.
His mouth moves over her hip. “You know I will.”
“Mhm.” She curls her fingers into his hair and tips his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “And Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you have an emotional breakthrough, you still have to touch my ass.”
His grin spreads beneath her hand, warm and boyish and finally familiar again. “That a rule?”
“It’s a condition of continued access.”
He drags his bottom lip through his teeth. “Very restrictive.”
She tugs his hair harder. “You’re lucky to be here.”
“I know.”
This time, when she climbs into his lap, Garrett’s hands go exactly where they belong.
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
pairing – garrett graham x briar media!reader
summary – garrett takes filming duties very seriously, especially when the content involves his face between his girlfriend’s thighs.
warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, consensual filming and homemade pornography, oral sex, fingering, penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, praise kink, overstimulation, strong language
notes from me – i mean..... y'all can read the warnings......
word count – 4.4k
The camera was hers. It was older and smaller, a black handheld thing she’d bought second-hand during freshman year because the screen flipped out sideways and made everything look faintly like a home video from 2007.
The battery door had to be pressed shut until it clicked twice, the zoom toggle stuck if she pushed it too hard, and there was a tiny scratch across the corner of the lens that only became visible when light hit it directly.
She loved it with the irrational protectiveness normally reserved for pets and childhood blankets.
Garrett had once called it her emotional-support camcorder and then spent an entire Sunday afternoon carrying it around the hockey house, filming Tucker meal-prepping and Logan losing a fight with the vacuum cleaner.
She had footage of Garrett, too. Hours of it, probably, spread across memory cards and folders with names she kept deliberately vague in case her laptop was ever stolen.
Garrett in the passenger seat of her car, squinting into the sun while he told a story that had no conclusion. Garrett falling asleep over a textbook with a highlighter still in his hand. Garrett emerging from the rink with wet curls, pink cheeks and the heavy, loose-limbed exhaustion that followed a good practice. Garrett at the grocery store holding two boxes of cereal and asking the camera to settle a dispute neither of them remembered starting.
There was significantly less footage of him with his face between her thighs. Until now.
“Don’t laugh,” she warned, although the warning had already lost most of its authority because laughter was pressing beneath every word, warm and bright and dangerously close to spilling out.
Garrett looked up from where he knelt between her open legs, one forearm braced across her lower stomach and his mouth shining in a way that made her grip tighten around the little camera. “I’m not laughing.”
“You’re doing your face,” she breathed.
“What face?”
“The one where you think you’re very funny.”
His eyebrows lifted, deeply innocent despite the fact that two of his fingers were still curled inside her, moving lazily enough to feel insulting. “I usually am.”
The picture trembled on the flipped-out screen when her wrist weakened. She was propped against the headboard with one pillow crushed behind her back and another somewhere beneath her right thigh, her shirt pushed up under her breasts and her underwear hanging from one ankle because Garrett had hooked it there instead of taking it off properly.
His bedroom was dim except for the lamp on his desk and the soft rectangle of light spilling in from the hallway beneath the closed door. The camera compensated badly, turning the room grainy and warm, Garrett’s shoulders broad and shadowed between her knees.
It should have looked ridiculous. Instead, the screen showed his dark curls disordered from her hands, his eyes lifted directly toward the lens and the slow, satisfied curve of his mouth before he lowered it to her again.
Her breath snagged hard enough to shake the frame.
“There,” Garrett murmured against her, the word vibrating through skin already too sensitive for the drag of his voice. “That’s better.”
“Cocky fuck,” she managed.
His mouth closed around her clit, and the insult broke apart into a sound she would deny under oath. Garrett’s shoulders shifted when he settled closer, one hand gripping the inside of her thigh and holding it open while the other worked steadily beneath the camera’s narrow field of view.
He knew exactly what he was doing without needing to watch himself do it, knew the small upward curl that made her legs pull tight around him and the pressure that turned her next breath into a thin, helpless whine.
He had learned her body with the competitive dedication he brought to anything he considered worth doing properly, which meant he remembered everything: what made her hips chase him, what made them jerk away, when to slow down and when slowing down would get him kicked.
Tonight, unfortunately, he had an audience. His gaze returned to the lens while his tongue moved through her, dark eyes amused and intent enough that heat climbed all the way into her face.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, half laughter and half something much less stable. “Stop looking at the camera like that.”
Garrett pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing the wet skin beneath them. “Thought you wanted content.”
“You’re performing.”
His thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing slowly while his fingers pressed deeper. “Baby, I perform every time.”
She made an incredulous noise that dissolved when he crooked his fingers again. The muscles low in her stomach pulled tight, then tighter, the feeling spreading outward in bright, pulsing waves that made it difficult to hold the camera level and even more difficult to remember why she had thought this was a good idea.
“You are so fucking annoying.”
“And you’re shaking.”
“I’m holding a camera,” she mumbled.
“You need both hands for that?”
She looked at the screen and realised her other hand had left the bedsheet at some point and closed around the camera strap like it might save her life. “Shut up.”
Garrett laughed softly, warm air passing over her before he put his mouth back on her and stopped pretending he had any interest in helping her maintain composure.
He ate her out with the particular combination of patience and greed that always made her suspect he would happily stay there until one of them died. There was nothing hurried about it, even with his fingers moving inside her and her thighs beginning to tense around his head.
He kept the pressure steady, holding her where he wanted her while her body softened and tightened beneath him in alternating waves, every muscle forgetting its own purpose.
The camera recorded all of it. The wet sound of his mouth. Her breath turning shallow. Garrett’s low, approving hum when her heel dug into the back of his shoulder. The small laugh that escaped her when he glanced up again and visibly adjusted his angle for the lens.
“You’re unbelievable,” she gasped.
He spread her with two fingers and looked directly into the camera before dragging his tongue slowly over her.
Her head knocked back against the wall. “Garrett.”
“What?” His voice was rougher now, amusement dragged low beneath it. “Can’t hear you, baby.”
“You’re–” She lost the rest when his fingers pushed back inside, two firm strokes that made her hips lift from the mattress. “Fuck. Fuck, okay.”
“Okay what?”
She aimed the camera down at him with what remained of her concentration. His face filled the little screen, cheeks flushed, curls falling over his forehead, mouth wet and smug and unfairly pretty. “Okay, you know what you’re doing.”
“That hurt to admit?”
“Yes.”
“Poor thing.” He kissed the inside of her thigh, soft enough to feel obscene after everything else. “Keep filming.”
Her grip tightened. Garrett lowered his mouth again and stopped talking, although silence from him didn’t make the room quieter. Her moans grew ragged, every one of them caught too clearly by the camcorder’s cheap microphone. She tried biting them down and Garrett responded by curling his fingers into the spot that made her knees jerk against his ears.
“Don’t,” he said, mouth barely leaving her. “Wanna hear it.”
The camera dipped. “You’re going to hear it later,” she whispered.
His eyes lifted. “Yeah?”
The way he said it – pleased, almost boyish beneath the filth of the moment–made a laugh bubble out of her even as pleasure wound tighter through her stomach.
“Maybe.”
“Baby,” he hummed.
“Depends on your performance review.”
Garrett’s mouth curved. “I’ll give you something to review.”
“Oh, Jesus Chr–”
He sucked her clit into his mouth and drove his fingers deeper, and whatever she had been about to say vanished beneath the sharp white rush that tore through her. Her hand jerked, the screen swung wildly toward the ceiling, and the camera slipped from her fingers as her entire body locked around him.
It landed beside her hip with a muffled thump, still recording a sideways view of the sheets. Garrett didn’t stop.
Her legs tightened hard around his shoulders as the orgasm moved through her in heavy, pulsing waves, his tongue keeping pace with every helpless jerk of her hips.
She grabbed blindly at his hair, fingers tangling near the crown, holding him there until holding him there became unbearable.
“Garrett– fuck, wait–”
He gave her one more slow stroke with his tongue. She smacked the side of his head.
Garrett pulled back laughing. “Ow.”
“You didn’t stop,” she breathed, still panting as she shoved weakly at the side of his head.
“You didn’t say stop,” Garrett said, lifting his face with a laugh caught beneath the words.
“I said wait,” she shot back, staring down at him in breathless disbelief.
“You hit me before I could process it,” he argued, catching her wrist loosely before she could swat him again.
“You were trying to kill me.”
His grin was bright and filthy, his chin shining while he pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. “You’re welcome.”
She lay there panting, one forearm thrown over her eyes and every nerve beneath her skin still trembling. The room had gone strange around the edges, soft and far away except for Garrett’s hand sliding over her stomach and the cool air moving across wet skin.
“Get away from me,” she muttered without conviction.
“No.”
She pushed lightly at his face. “Your face is all… smug.”
“You came on it.”
“Garrett.”
He climbed over her before she could gather enough strength to kick him, kissing the soft place beneath her belly button and then her ribs, dragging his mouth upward until his weight settled over her.
His boxers were still on, the hard length of him pressed against her thigh, and the contrast between that and the pleased softness in his eyes made something low inside her pull tight all over again.
“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmured.
She opened her eyes, but Garrett wasn’t looking at her. He had reached beside her and picked up the camera.
The screen was flipped toward him now, the lens aimed directly at her face while he thumbed the zoom toggle with far more care than he had ever shown the device before. The tiny motor whirred as the frame tightened around her flushed cheeks, swollen mouth and the damp hair clinging to her temple.
Her laugh came out breathless. “Don’t you dare.”
“Too late.” He adjusted the angle, studying the screen with exaggerated professionalism. “Wow.”
“Give it back.” She reached for it and he leaned away, holding the camera safely beyond her grasp while keeping himself planted between her legs. “Garrett.”
“Postgame interview,” he said, voice dropping into the composed tone he used when athletics shoved a microphone toward him after a win. “Talk us through that final sequence.”
She stared at him for one long second and then started laughing so hard her stomach cramped. “I hate you.”
“Interesting. Didn’t sound like hate,” Garrett said, his mouth still curved with smug satisfaction.
“Delete that,” she breathed, reaching toward the camera.
“Which part?”
“All of it,” she said, although there wasn’t much conviction left beneath the laughter still catching in her voice.
His grin softened around the edges, and he lowered the camera slightly. “You actually want me to?”
She looked at him, at the ease with which he had shifted, one hand still warm against her hip while the other held the camera loosely rather than possessively. Garrett could turn anything into a joke until the exact second it mattered; then the humour moved aside and left something steady in its place.
“No,” she said, reaching up to push one damp curl away from his forehead. “Keep it.”
“Still no cloud?” he checked.
“Airplane mode. No backups. Memory card stays with me.”
“Yes, boss,” Garrett murmured.
“And if we break up, I’m setting it on fire,” she added.
Garrett’s expression flattened. “We’re not breaking up.”
“It’s a hypothetical,” she argued.
“It’s a stupid hypothetical,” he said immediately.
She hooked two fingers into the waistband of his boxers. “Do you want to argue or do you want to take these off?”
His gaze dropped. The camera zoomed abruptly toward her hand.
“You’re such a creep,” she said through another breathless laugh.
“I’m documenting,” Garrett defended.
“Document faster,” she told him, tugging impatiently at the elastic.
Garrett set the camera down long enough to strip his boxers off, kicking them somewhere near the foot of the bed before reaching into the bedside drawer. She watched his shoulders move as he tore open the condom wrapper, the lines of his body familiar enough to settle something warm beneath her ribs even while desire began rebuilding through the pleasant soreness between her thighs.
He rolled it on, then caught her watching. “What?” he asked.
She curled one leg around the back of his thigh and pulled him closer. “Maybe I just like you.”
His mouth curved. “Maybe?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
Garrett reached for the camera again. “Say it for the video.”
She grabbed his wrist before he could aim it. “I will throw that thing out the window.”
“You love this thing more than you love most people.”
He was right, which was irritating enough that she took the camera from him and turned it toward his face instead. Garrett was kneeling over her, flushed from exertion and pleased with himself, his curls completely ruined now and his mouth still wet from her.
The screen made him look grainy and warm, less like the star forward whose face appeared across Briar athletics and more like the boy who stole her blankets and drank orange juice directly from the carton when Tucker wasn’t looking.
“Say something useful,” she told him.
Garrett leaned closer to the lens. “I love my girlfriend.”
Her mouth betrayed her immediately. He saw the smile and smiled back, softer, the cockiness fading for one second beneath something that pressed sweet and heavy against the inside of her chest. Then his eyes dropped toward her body and the softness sharpened again.
“And I’m about to fuck her,” he added.
“There he is.”
“You love me.” He took the camera from her, turned it back toward her face and lowered himself between her thighs.
The head of his cock dragged through her once, the contact enough to pull a shaky breath from her.
Garrett looked away from the screen. “Still good?”
“Yes.”
His mouth twitched. “Words you’d like entered into the official record.”
“Garrett.”
“Okay, okay.”
He pushed into her slowly, watching her rather than the camera as her body stretched around him. The first inch made her breath catch; the next drew a low sound from deep in her throat. Garrett stopped halfway, one hand gripping her hip, his expression tightening with the effort of holding still.
“Good?” he asked.
She nodded, then remembered who she was in love with. “Yes. Keep going.”
His eyes darkened at the answer. He pressed the rest of the way inside until his hips met hers, both of them going quiet for a moment beneath the dense, full pressure of it. Her legs shifted instinctively around him, heels sliding along his back, and Garrett exhaled through his nose like the sound had been forced out of him.
“Fuck,” he murmured, camera forgotten near her shoulder. “You feel–”
“Careful,” she said, already smiling. “You’re on tape.”
He glanced at the lens and something wicked returned to his face. “Good.”
Garrett pulled almost all the way out and drove back into her. The camera shook. Her laugh broke into a moan as he found his rhythm, deep and steady, each thrust moving through her with enough force to press her farther into the pillows. He held the camera angled down now, catching her body beneath him and the place they joined before moving back to her face whenever her expression changed.
“You like watching yourself?” she asked, breathless.
“I like watching you.”
He flipped it sideways enough that she could see. The image showed her spread beneath him, shirt still bunched beneath her breasts, mouth open and cheeks pink, Garrett’s forearm flexed beside her head while his hips moved between her legs.
The sight sent a fresh pulse of heat through her. Garrett noticed. “Oh,” he said softly. “You like that.”
“Shut up,” she mumbled.
“You do.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Nothing weird about it, baby.” He pushed deeper, watching the exact moment her eyes fluttered shut. “Pretty girl likes seeing how good she looks taking me.”
The laugh that left her was thin and wrecked. “Your dirty talk gets worse when there’s a camera.”
“Better.”
“Debatable.”
He hooked one arm beneath her legs and lifted them higher, guiding both ankles over his shoulders. The new angle folded her open beneath him, his next thrust landing so deep that the camera caught nothing but ceiling when his hand jolted.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped.
Garrett steadied the frame and looked into it. “That one?”
She clenched around him deliberately. His face changed. The smugness broke for half a second, mouth parting and brows drawing together as a rough curse left him. The camera dipped toward her again.
“That,” she said, breathing hard. “Get that face.”
“You’re funny.”
“You’re pretty.”
“Yeah?”
“So pretty.”
His hips snapped forward harder. The impact dragged a sharp cry from her, then another when he repeated it. Garrett caught one of her thighs against his chest, his mouth pressing to her ankle before his eyes returned to the screen.
“There she is,” he murmured, voice thick and low. “Look at you.”
Her body tightened around him in response, every word feeding the pressure gathering again through her stomach. She could feel the edge returning more slowly this time, built beneath the relentless drag of him and the sight of his focus split between her body and her face.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Garrett said, the camera close enough to catch the strain in his voice. “Jesus Christ, baby. You always this greedy?”
“You’re inside me.”
“Mm.”
“You wanted this.”
“Yeah.” His next thrust was slower, deeper, his pelvis grinding against her at the end of it. “Always want this.”
The camera drifted nearer to her face. She stared into the lens while Garrett fucked her, the strange intimacy of it making her chest ache beneath the heat – his hand holding the thing she loved, his body moving through hers, his voice roughened by wanting her and his eyes refusing to leave her for long.
“Tell them,” he said.
She tried to laugh. “Tell who?”
“The camera. Tell it how good I’m fucking you.”
“You’re such a–” Her words collapsed when he shifted one hand between them, thumb finding her clit. “Oh, fuck you.”
“Working on it.”
“Garrett.”
“C’mon, baby.” His thumb moved in slow circles, completely at odds with the force of his hips. “Use your words.”
She stared at the camera, face burning and body trembling beneath him. “He’s doing okay.”
Garrett stopped, not completely, but enough to make her whine. “Okay?”
“Garrett, don’t,” she breathed, the warning thinning into a needy little sound when he slowed almost to a stop.
“Say it right,” he told her, far too calm for someone holding her exactly on the edge.
“You’re holding my orgasm hostage for a review?” she demanded, staring up at him in breathless disbelief.
“I take feedback seriously.”
She tightened her legs around his shoulders. “You’re doing so good. Feels fucking amazing, baby.”
His grin returned immediately. “Yeah?”
“So fucking good,” she assured him, voice cracking as she pulled him closer. “Now move before I kill you.”
“There’s my girl,” he murmured, and finally gave her what she wanted.
He started again with enough force that the camera finally became impossible. The frame jerked with every thrust, Garrett’s control fraying as her body pulled tighter around him. She watched his grip loosen, watched the lens dip toward the mattress, and reached up to push it aside.
“Put it down,” she breathed.
His eyes moved to hers. “Yeah?”
“Come here.”
That was all it took. Garrett dropped the camera onto the pillow beside her, still recording nothing useful except the edge of her hair and a sliver of his shoulder. He lowered her legs from his shoulders and came down over her, the full heat and weight of him pressing her into the mattress as she wrapped both legs around his waist.
His mouth found hers immediately. The kiss was wet and clumsy, tasting faintly of her and mint gum and the laugh she couldn’t quite stop making when their noses knocked together. Garrett smiled against her mouth, one arm slipping beneath her shoulders while the other braced beside her head.
“What?” he murmured, his mouth still brushing the corner of hers while his hips moved in slow, heavy strokes between her thighs.
“Nothing,” she breathed, although the smile pulling helplessly at her mouth made the lie useless. Her arms were looped around his shoulders now, fingertips damp against the back of his neck, and every shift of his body pressed her deeper into the mattress.
“You’re laughing at me,” Garrett said, lifting his head just enough to look at her. His curls hung messily over his forehead, his breathing uneven against her lips, and there was something almost offended in his expression beneath the satisfaction still sitting there.
“I’m not,” she insisted, biting down on another laugh as his chest dragged warm against hers.
“You are,” he said, narrowing his eyes while one hand tightened beneath her ass, keeping her lifted into the lazy roll of his hips.
“You dropped the camera,” she reminded him, her voice breaking slightly when he pushed deeper. The stupid little red recording light was still blinking from the pillow beside them, capturing little more than the edge of his shoulder and the wet, breathless sound she made into his jaw.
“You told me to,” Garrett said, like that settled everything, pressing a kiss beneath her ear. “I’m distracted.”
“By what?” she asked, even though the answer was already written through every hard line of him pressed against her.
Garrett drove into her hard enough to steal the question from her mouth. Her breath caught somewhere behind her teeth, legs locking tighter around his waist as pleasure struck hot and deep through her stomach. Garrett stayed buried there for a beat, forehead falling against hers while he watched the understanding move across her face.
“That,” he said.
She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down, kissing him again while her hips lifted to meet his. Without the camera between them, everything went loose and familiar, the performance dissolving into the private mess they knew best: her fingernails pressing crescents into his shoulders, Garrett losing his rhythm when she clenched around him, their mouths finding and missing each other between laughter and broken breaths.
He kissed along her jaw, then down the side of her neck, every word pressed warm into her skin. “So perfect,” he murmured, hips rolling deep. “My perfect girl. Fuck, you feel good.”
Her arms tightened around him.
Garrett kissed beneath her ear, then the corner of her mouth when she turned toward him. “Love you.”
The words came out without ceremony, tangled in his breath and the sound of the mattress shifting beneath them. She felt them everywhere anyway.
“I love you too,” she whispered, and Garrett made a rough, almost wounded sound against her jaw.
His hand slid beneath her ass and lifted her into the next thrust, keeping her close while the pleasure inside her sharpened toward something unbearable. Her legs locked around his waist, heel digging into the back of his thigh, every muscle turning tight and hot.
“Gonna come again?” he asked.
She nodded against his cheek. “Yes.” Her voice broke. “Yeah, baby, I’m close.”
“Good girl.” He kissed her once, slow despite the way his body was beginning to shake. “Give it to me.”
Her orgasm hit with less warning than the first, pulling through her in deep, rolling pulses that made her gasp his name into his mouth. Garrett held her through it, thrusting twice more before his own control snapped, his forehead dropping against hers as he came with a low, wrecked groan.
For several seconds there was nothing but breath. Garrett stayed over her, chest rising hard against hers, his weight held carefully through his forearms even while his muscles trembled. She ran one hand through the damp hair at the back of his head, smoothing it without purpose. His nose nudged hers once, then again, and she smiled before opening her eyes.
He was already looking at her. His face had gone soft in the aftermath, all the cockiness washed out of it beneath exhaustion and affection and the kind of satisfaction he would become unbearable about in approximately thirty seconds.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Mhm.”
“Good?”
“Very.”
He kissed her. Once, lazily, then again when she followed his mouth. The camera’s little red recording light blinked from the pillow beside them. Garrett noticed it over her shoulder, and his mouth started curving.
She saw it happen. “No.”
He shifted his weight, still inside her, and reached one arm toward the camera.
She caught his wrist. “Leave it.”
“We should make sure it recorded.” He managed to grab the camera anyway, lifting it over her shoulder and turning the lens toward their flushed faces. The framing was terrible. Half his head was cut off and her hair filled one corner, both of them sweaty and dazed and pressed too close together to resemble anything remotely produced.
Garrett looked into the lens.
“So,” he said, his voice hoarse but bright with incoming stupidity, “we reviewing that footage?”
She stared at him, then she shoved her palm over the camera. “Garrett!”
His laughter filled the room, loud and helpless, the picture shaking violently behind her hand while he kissed the heel of her palm and tried to pull it away. “For quality control,” he insisted.
“You are never touching my camera again.”
He grinned at her. “That seems extreme.”
“You filmed my face from three inches away after eating me out!”
“You looked pretty.”
“I looked concussed.”
“You looked happy.”
She lowered her hand just enough to glare at him through the screen. Garrett’s grin softened.
“There’s my pretty girl,” he said again, quieter this time.
Her irritation lasted exactly as long as it took him to kiss her. The camera slipped sideways between them, recording the edge of his shoulder, her muffled laugh and Garrett murmuring something filthy into her mouth before the battery finally died.
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pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader
summary – a ruined family dinner turns into a rain-soaked drive, an improvised prom rehearsal and one perfect night worth remembering.
warnings – teenage romance, strong language, parental pressure, references to aggressive behaviour, heated kissing
word count – 3.1k
navigation – masterlist | series masterlist
Ward’s voice follows them through the gates of Tannyhill. The exact words get swallowed once Rafe shuts his door hard enough to rattle the glass and reverses down the driveway without fastening his seatbelt, but the shape of them stays inside the car, stretched tight across his shoulders and caught in the hard line of his mouth.
Words Ward has been using so often lately they’ve started sounding less like plans and more like charges being read aloud. Rafe takes the first corner too fast. Gravel snaps beneath the tyres, scattering into the grass, and she braces one hand against the dash while the other keeps hold of the skirt of her dress so it doesn’t ride any higher over her thighs.
“You know there’s nobody chasing us,” she mumbles.
“Could be.”
She shoots him a look. “Your dad’s wearing loafers.”
That gets the smallest pull at the side of his mouth, not quite a smile but enough that she settles back into the seat. He drives one-handed toward the main road, the other dragging roughly through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead.
Ward had made him gel it neatly for dinner. Something about representatives from Chapel Hill. Something about looking serious if he expected anyone to take him seriously. Rafe had come downstairs in a pale button-down with his hair combed into place and his family ring sitting heavy on his right hand, looking like the version of himself Ward kept trying to press him into.
It had lasted less than forty minutes. Now he runs his fingers through it again and again until the careful side part disappears completely. The gel gives up in pale, stiff pieces, his hair falling loose across his forehead and curling slightly near his ears from the heat.
She watches another piece of Ward come undone beneath his hand. “Better,” she says.
Rafe looks over. “What?”
“Your hair.”
His palm pauses against the top of his head. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing now.”
He narrows his eyes at her, then scratches absently through one eyebrow with his thumb before putting his hand back on the wheel. “You liked it before.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I said it looked nice.”
“Same thing.”
“No.” She reaches across the console and catches his free hand before he can start pulling at his hair again. “Nice is what I say when Sarah asks whether a top looks good and I don’t want her to cry.”
“She cries about clothes?”
“Of course she does. She’s fourteen.”
Rafe makes a low sound that might be a laugh, attention still fixed on the dark road ahead. The windows are down, letting warm evening air rush through the car, thick with marsh water and cut grass and the first faint warning of rain.
His hand stays in hers. It always surprises her how easily he gives it over once she takes it, as though the rest of him can be rigid and angry and impossible but his hands have never learned to lie to her properly.
His fingers loosen between hers. She traces the rough little mark beside his knuckle, then turns his hand so the Cameron ring catches the passing light. The gold is warm from his skin. Too old-looking for him, really. Heavy and square and stamped with the family crest Ward treats like it came down directly from God instead of an expensive jeweller somewhere in Charleston.
She twists it gently around his finger. Rafe’s thumb moves against the side of her hand, once, then again. Completely unconscious. He does it while driving and while half asleep, while pretending not to listen and while waiting for her outside class. That slow little drag of his thumb like he’s counting the bones beneath her skin.
It does something unfair to her every time. So does the way he touches his mouth when he’s thinking, pressing the pad of his thumb against his lower lip before worrying lightly at the corner. The way he knocks his ring against the steering wheel in time with songs he claims to hate. The way he rubs one hand down his thigh when he’s trying not to lose his temper, like anger is something physical he can wipe from himself before it reaches anybody else.
All these small pieces of him nobody seems to notice because they’re too busy watching for the explosion. She notices.
The car slips beyond the last cluster of houses, headlights stretching pale across the road. Rafe finally breathes out, long and tired, his grip loosening around the wheel.
“Where’re we drivin’?” he asks.
She looks through the windscreen at the empty road falling away beneath them. “I don’t know.”
“You made me leave.”
“You were about three minutes from throwing your dad’s scotch through a window.”
Rafe scratches at his eyebrow. “He shouldn’t have put it that close to me.”
“Terrible planning on his part.”
Rafe huffs. “Seriously.”
She tips her head against the seat so she can watch him properly. His collar is open now, the top two buttons undone and one side sitting crooked from where she’d grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out of Ward’s office before the conversation became a police matter.
The dashboard lights paint the underneath of his jaw blue-green. His hair keeps falling into his eyes, and every few minutes he pushes it back only for the wind to undo him again.
“Till we run outta road,” she says.
Rafe glances across at her.
She shrugs one shoulder. “Then we turn around.”
His gaze stays on her for half a second too long before returning to the road, but something in his face eases. Not much, Rafe doesn’t let go of things cleanly. Anger sticks to him, finding places beneath his tongue and between his ribs, but now his fingers curl properly around hers.
“Okay,” he says. “Till we run out.”
She looks down at their joined hands, at the ring turning slightly beneath her thumb. Senior year has made everybody unbearable about time. Every teacher speaks as though May is a cliff edge. Every adult asks where they’re going next, what they’re studying, who they intend to become, as if the people they are now have already started expiring.
Sometimes she feels it too. A low, strange panic beneath ordinary afternoons. The knowledge that their lockers will belong to somebody else next year. That the football field and the back steps of Tannyhill and the parking space beside the science building are already becoming places they’ll one day describe using past tense.
But here, with Rafe’s hand warm around hers and the road open ahead of them, time seems briefly less organised. She wants to keep it. Not in a photograph. A photograph would flatten everything important.
It wouldn’t hold the soft knock of his ring against her nail or the smell of rain coming in through the windows. It wouldn’t catch the way he presses his lips together before changing gears or how his knee keeps brushing hers because he drives too close to the centre console.
She wishes she could press the whole night somewhere behind her ribs and leave it untouched. Rafe seventeen beside her, furious at Ward and gentle with her hand. The loose hair, the untucked shirt, the future still far enough away to pretend it hasn’t found them.
“What?” Rafe asks.
She blinks. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m looking.”
His mouth curves. “Road’s up there, baby.”
She smiles, pressing her head into the head rest. “I’m not driving.”
“Thank Christ.”
She pinches the side of his hand. Rafe laughs under his breath, properly this time, and the sound opens something warm through her chest.
It’s ridiculous, probably, how brave he makes her feel. Rafe, who’s afraid of almost everything that matters and disguises it as anger. Rafe, who drives too fast and punches first and still checks three times that her feet are steady before helping her out of a tree.
Somehow being loved by him has made the rest of the world seem less fixed. With him, she climbs out of windows. She skips class. She tells people no without rehearsing it first. She says things she would usually swallow because Rafe looks at her like there’s nothing she could confess that would make him leave.
The first drop strikes the windscreen hard enough to startle them both. Then another.
Rafe looks upward through the glass. “The fuck?”
Rain hits all at once. One second the road is dry beneath the headlights; the next, water is hammering the bonnet so loudly it swallows the radio. Rafe jerks the windows up while she scrambles to rescue her hair from the sudden spray coming through the passenger side.
“Oh, shit,” he mutters, leaning forward to see through the blurred windscreen. “That came outta nowhere.”
The wipers drag once across the glass, then again, barely keeping pace. Rainwater shines silver over the road, gathering too quickly in the shallow dips near the shoulder.
Rafe slows, scanning ahead. The marina appears through the storm as a smudge of yellow lights and dark boat masts. He turns into the empty car park and pulls beneath one of the lamps, stopping crooked across two spaces.
She smooths both hands over her hair, which is already frizzing near her temples. “Very nice parking.”
“Can’t see shit.”
She peers through the window. “You’re kind of between the lines.”
“Good enough.”
Rafe kills the engine. Without the wipers, the windscreen disappears behind sheets of water. Rain pounds over the roof, trapping them inside a small, dark pocket of breath and dashboard glow.
For a few seconds, neither of them speaks, and then Rafe unfastens his seatbelt.
She looks at him. “What’re you doing?”
He opens his door.
Rain explodes into the car. “Rafe!”
He climbs out, laughing when the water hits him, one arm lifting automatically over his head even though it does absolutely nothing. His shirt darkens across his shoulders in seconds, hair collapsing over his forehead.
She leans across the console. “Get back in!”
Rafe bends toward the open door, rain running from his hair onto his nose. “C’mon.”
“No way.” She grabs the bottom of her skirt protectively. “My dress!”
He looks at it, then at her. “It’s already ugly.”
Her mouth falls open. “You said I looked hot.”
“You do.” He grins. “Dress is ugly.”
She grins, shaking her head. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He reaches into the car and catches her ankle before she can kick him. “Get your ass out.”
She tries to pull her leg away, laughing despite herself. “Rafe, it’s pouring!”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“My shoes are gonna be ruined.”
“Take ’em off.”
“I’m not walking barefoot in a marina car park. I’ll get tetanus.”
“You don’t get tetanus from rain.”
“You don’t know that. You failed biology.”
He laughs. “I passed.”
“You copied off me.”
“Still passed.” Rafe straightens and holds out his hand. “Come on, baby.”
She stares at him through the open doorway. He’s soaked already, shirt stuck against his chest and stomach, dark hair hanging over his eyes. Water runs down the bridge of his nose and gathers briefly at his mouth before he licks it away.
That little movement ruins the last of her good sense.
She groans, kicks off her shoes and places her hand in his. “If I step on glass, I’m suing your family.”
“Get in line.”
Rafe pulls her out. The rain is colder than she expects, striking her bare shoulders and soaking through the thin fabric of her dress before both feet are properly on the ground. She shrieks and tries to climb back into the car, but Rafe catches her around the waist, hauling her against him.
“Rafe!”
“What?”
“It’s freezing!”
He’s laughing too hard to answer. A real one, head tipped back slightly beneath the rain, his arms locked around her while water streams over both of them.
She shoves both palms against his chest. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yeah,” he says, grin bright and young across his face. “C’mere.”
He bends and catches her beneath the thighs before she realises what he’s doing. Her feet leave the ground with a startled yell, arms flying around his neck as Rafe lifts her against him. “Put me down!”
“No.”
“Rafe, I swear to God–”
He spins. The empty car park tilts around them, marina lights streaking gold through the rain. Her wet hair lashes across her face. She buries it against his neck, laughing so hard her stomach hurts while Rafe turns them again, one hand broad beneath her thigh and the other locked around her back.
“You’re gonna drop me!”
“Never dropped you before.”
Rafe slows, still laughing, and lowers her until her bare feet slap onto the flooded asphalt. His hands remain around her waist while she grips both of his shoulders, breathless and dizzy and soaked straight through.
Water runs into his eyes. He blinks it away, then takes one of her hands.
“What now?” she asks suspiciously.
Rafe steps backward, lifting their joined hands above her head. “Turn.”
She stares at him. “What?”
“Spin around.”
“Why?”
He blinks through the rain. “Just do it.”
She lets him guide her beneath his arm, stumbling slightly when her wet feet slide over the paint of a parking line. Rafe catches her elbow, laughing again as she comes back around.
“What’re you doing?” she asks.
“Practicin’.”
“For what?”
He spins her again, worse this time, his technique consisting mostly of raising her arm and hoping the rest of her follows. “Prom.”
The laugh bursts out of her. “This isn’t dancing.”
“Sure it is.”
“You’re just rotating me.”
“Same thing.”
She laughs, shaking her damp hair off her face. “You’re gonna dislocate my shoulder before prom.”
“Then we don’t have to go.”
She comes back against him, palm flattening over his chest. “You wanna go.”
Rafe’s nose scrunches. “Do not.”
“You bought a tux.”
“Ward bought a tux,” he corrects.
She grins up at him. “You asked what colour my dress is four times.”
“Need to know what tie to wear.”
“You booked the car.”
Rafe looks away toward the dark boats, caught. “Topper said mine looks like shit in pictures.”
She grins. “You’re excited.”
“Shut up.”
She pokes his stomach. “You wanna dance with me.”
“I’m dancing with you now.”
“This is a storm drain.”
He takes both of her hands and pulls her closer. “You complain a lot.”
“You planned terribly.”
“Yeah, well.” His hands slide around her waist again, warm despite the water between them. “Usually works.”
She jumps before he can lift her this time, arms curling around his shoulders and legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. Rafe catches her with a surprised grunt, boots shifting once against the wet asphalt before he finds his balance.
“There,” she says, breathless.
His grin is slow and helpless, eyes moving across her wet face.
She nudges her nose against his. “You ruined my dress.”
“Still ugly.”
She tightens her legs around him in warning. “Careful.”
Rafe’s hands spread beneath her thighs. “Still hot.”
“Better.”
Rain catches in her eyelashes. Her hair is plastered across her cheek and down the side of her neck, and Rafe lifts one hand to peel a strand away, fingertips brushing slowly over her skin.
The laughter changes inside her. Softens into something she feels lower, beneath the cold dress and the hard hold of his arms. She rests her forehead against his.
Rafe’s breathing is warm against her mouth. For once, there’s no gel forcing his hair into place, no family ring catching beneath a polished sleeve, no Ward nearby to tell him where to stand or what expression belongs on his face.
Just Rafe. Wet and smiling and holding her in the middle of an empty car park like he has nowhere else to be.
“Hi,” she whispers.
His mouth twitches. “Hi.”
“You feel better?”
Rafe’s eyes move over hers. The question sits between them under the rain, too direct for him to answer without flinching. His grip tightens instead. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Now.”
She kisses him before either of them can make it heavier. Rafe’s mouth meets hers hard enough to rock her slightly in his arms, one hand moving from beneath her leg to the back of her neck. Rain slips cold between their faces, over her lips and beneath his thumb, but his mouth is warm and familiar and immediately greedy.
She laughs into the first kiss. Rafe kisses the sound away, turning his head and taking her mouth again, slower this time but no less thorough. Her fingers push into his wet hair, finding it soft without the gel, and he makes a quiet sound when she pulls slightly near the roots.
“Thought you liked it,” he murmurs against her lips.
“I do.”
“Yeah?”
She kisses him again instead of answering. They stay like that far longer than they should, making out in a marina car park during a storm while water gathers around Rafe’s boots and her dress becomes steadily less salvageable. His hand moves from her neck to her jaw, thumb brushing over her cheek before slipping absently against her lower lip when they separate for breath.
Her chest tightens so suddenly she has to kiss him once more, softer now, holding his face between both hands while his smile presses faintly against her mouth. One day, she thinks, she’ll want this night back.
Not because anything important happened. No promises. No dramatic decision. Only Rafe’s car parked badly beneath the marina lights and the two of them drenched through, senior year waiting at home with unfinished applications and parents who keep asking questions neither of them knows how to answer.
But right now, his arms are around her. The road hasn’t ended. Prom is still weeks away. Whatever comes next hasn’t happened yet.
Rafe nudges his nose against hers. “What’re you thinking about?”
She looks at him, at the rain gathered on his lashes and his hair falling across his forehead exactly the way she likes it. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrow. “Liar.”
She smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Take me somewhere.”
Rafe looks over her shoulder toward the car, then back at her. “Till we run outta road?”
She nods.
His expression shifts, something pleased and private settling into it. Then he puts her down carefully, keeping hold of her hand when her feet touch the ground. “C’mon,” he says. “Before you get tetanus.”
She huffs. “That isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
She follows him back through the rain anyway, laughing while he opens the passenger door and tries to shield her with one arm despite both of them already being soaked beyond help.
The inside of the car will smell like wet clothes for days. Ward will probably notice the water damage. Her dress will never recover.
Rafe starts the engine, pushes his dripping hair out of his eyes and reaches across the console without looking. She places her hand in his. Then they pull out of the marina and keep driving.
notes from me –
this is the last fic before we move onto their college days, my loves!! so so excited 🙂↕️
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for my fics.
pairing – rafe cameron x maybank!reader
summary – an oyster-bed injury, an understaffed country-club shift and one infuriating kook turn an already terrible night into something considerably messier.
warnings – strong language, drug use, poverty and financial stress, objectification by older male customers, bleeding injury, minor medical care, class-based insults, possessive behaviour, kissing and ass grabbing
notes from me – as requested here!! thank you baby!
word count – 4.8k
The oyster bed had been John B’s fault until JJ remembered he was the one who had told her to jump. After that, it became nobody’s fault. An unfortunate maritime event. An act of God. A freak accident.
The actual sequence had been fairly simple. They had taken the HMS Pogue out after lunch with enough weed to make the afternoon feel soft around the edges and no plan beyond finding somewhere to swim where nobody from Figure Eight would complain about the music.
Pope had been arguing with Kiara about whether the tide was coming in or going out. John B had been standing at the stern attempting to untangle a rope that had somehow formed a knot. JJ had taken a running leap off the side, surfaced with both hands raised and yelled that the water was perfect.
She had believed him because she was high. Under ordinary circumstances, she might have remembered the oyster beds hidden beneath that particular stretch of marsh. Under ordinary circumstances, she might also have remembered that JJ considered water perfect as long as it was deep enough to prevent his skull from striking the bottom.
Instead, she had jumped. Her right leg caught the oyster shells on the way down.
The pain arrived bright and immediate beneath the water, several sharp lines tearing from below her knee toward her ankle before the marsh closed cold and murky over her head. By the time she surfaced, JJ was laughing because he thought the sound she had made was dramatic.
Then she lifted her leg against the side of the boat and blood started threading down her shin in thin red streams, and the laughter dropped out of his face so quickly it might have been switched off at the wall.
Kiara had cleaned it with bottled water while Pope explained, with unbearable accuracy, how easily oyster cuts became infected. John B had apologised even though he hadn’t told her to jump. JJ had called the oysters cheap-shotting little bitches and offered to go back under with a hammer.
She had still come to work. Every little bit counted. That was how life worked. JJ picked up shifts washing dishes and occasionally bussing tables. John B had been working on Ward Cameron’s boat for months now, sanding, scrubbing, hauling equipment and accepting whatever little jobs Ward found when he wanted to feel generous without committing to anything expensive. Kiara brought food when she could get away with it. Pope sometimes arrived with groceries and pretended Heyward had ordered too much.
She had begged the country-club manager for the bartending job after overhearing that two girls had quit in the same week. She had stood in his office in her cleanest shorts and told him she had experience, which was true if pouring warm beer at keg parties counted, and that she could work any shift he gave her, which was true because desperate people rarely possessed scheduling conflicts.
The fact that she was technically too young had become an administrative problem solved by never writing anything down too clearly.
Now she stood behind the polished mahogany bar in a fitted black polo, a black skirt ending halfway down her thighs and white sneakers she had scrubbed in the Chateau sink the previous night with an old toothbrush.
Her hair was pulled into a high blonde ponytail that made her scalp ache beneath the elastic. The country club required female staff to look neat and approachable.
Her injured leg throbbed every time she shifted her weight. The cuts were shallow enough that she hadn’t needed stitches and deep enough that the skin pulled open whenever she bent her knee. Kiara had wrapped the worst of them before the shift, but the gauze had soaked through during the dinner rush and begun peeling away.
Still, the bar was busy. Busy meant money.
She smiled at a man named Chip while making his third gin and tonic, though Chip had spent the last ten minutes explaining that women her age no longer understood eye contact while staring directly down the front of her polo.
“Extra lime,” he reminded her, tapping two fingers against the bar.
“I remembered,” she said brightly.
She placed three wedges against the rim because generosity occasionally resembled citrus. Chip smiled like she had done something exclusively for him and left a twenty-dollar note under the empty bowl of bar nuts.
Worth it.
She swept the cash into her apron before turning away and letting her face collapse toward the shelves of liquor. Her stomach performed one dry, revolted little turn. Then she rolled her shoulders back, caught the next order and became charming again.
Rafe was seated near the far end of the bar. He had arrived with Topper and Kelce just over an hour earlier, freshly showered and wearing a pale blue polo that stretched cleanly across his shoulders. His hair had grown enough over the top of his buzz cut to cast a faint shadow when the overhead lights struck it, though it remained completely useless for grabbing.
She had already complained about this. He had already refused to grow it. Their relationship, if somebody became reckless enough to call it that, was built from several similarly productive negotiations.
The country club was one of the few places they could speak in public without immediately inviting suspicion. She worked there. He practically belonged to the furniture.
Rafe Cameron asking the bartender for another drink was normal. Rafe Cameron collecting JJ Maybank’s twin sister from the Chateau after dark would result in at least one broken window and possibly a body in the marsh.
Topper hated her with the focused, uncomplicated purity of somebody who had been raised to understand that Pogues existed largely to damage property values. He didn’t flirt with her like the older men or ignore her like some of the women. He watched her with open irritation, as though she had climbed over the back fence and diluted the bloodline.
Kelce was easier. Kelce mostly wanted his drink filled and everybody around him laughing, and he possessed the rare social intelligence to understand that insulting the person holding the tequila was poor planning.
She poured two fingers of scotch into Rafe’s glass and slid it across the bar. “Thanks,” he muttered, catching it without looking away from whatever Topper was saying.
“You’re welcome, sunshine.”
His eyes flicked toward her at that. The smallest warning crease appeared between his brows before Kelce asked him something and pulled his attention away again.
She smiled to herself and reached for a used glass. The movement sent heat dragging down her shin. Not the manageable pulse she had been ignoring all evening, but something wetter. Cooler.
She glanced down, and a thin line of blood had escaped beneath the already half lifted bandage, and travelled along the inside of her calf, slow and glossy beneath the bar lights. It had already reached halfway to her white ankle sock.
“Shit,” she whispered.
The other bartender, Emily, was stacking clean glasses near the register. She was twenty-one, perpetually tanned and kind in the uncomplicated way of people who had never needed kindness to be treated as a limited resource.
She caught the direction of her stare and winced. “Oh my God. What happened?”
“Oysters,” she muttered.
Emily’s mouth opened.
“Don’t ask.” She grabbed two folded cocktail napkins and pressed them against the blood. “Are you okay for a minute? I’ve gotta fix this before it gets on my shoes.”
Emily looked at the customers waiting along the bar, then back at her leg. “Yeah, go, babe. I’ve got it.”
“Love you.”
“Please don’t get sepsis.”
She huffed a laugh. “Pope already gave that speech.”
She slipped through the small swinging door before anybody else could order something. The service hallway behind the bar was narrow, cool and lit with fluorescent panels that made everyone look vaguely deceased. She moved quickly despite the pull in her leg, passing the kitchen doors and disappearing into the staff room before her manager could see her leaving the floor.
The first-aid kit lived on top of a metal locker beside several employee schedules and a laminated poster about handwashing. She dragged it down, collected a wad of paper towel from the sink and dropped into one of the plastic chairs.
The bandage looked worse once she peeled it away. Three ugly scrapes crossed the outside of her shin, surrounded by smaller cuts and thin red scratches. Raw, swollen skin that objected to movement and continued bleeding out of spite. She wet the paper towel and cleaned the blood away, jaw tightening when the water touched the open skin.
“Fuck,” she hissed.
The first-aid kit contained twelve alcohol wipes, two pairs of gloves, triangular bandages and approximately six hundred tiny adhesive strips designed for paper cuts. Nothing large enough to cover an injury caused by a whole colony of shellfish.
She cleaned everything as well as she could, stuck three of the useless little bandages across the worst spot and sat there for another moment with her hands resting between her knees.
The walls vibrated faintly with music from the dining room. Somewhere beyond them, glasses knocked together and somebody laughed too loudly. She imagined the till filling in her absence, every unserved drink becoming money sliding politely out the door.
“Good enough,” she muttered.
By the time she returned, Emily was taking three separate orders while Chip attempted to catch her eye again. Rafe’s head turned the second the door moved. His gaze went first to her face, then down.
She stepped behind the bar before he could examine the leg properly and took over the nearest order, smiling at a silver-haired man who requested a vodka martini and then told her she had dangerous eyes.
“What makes them dangerous?” she asked, reaching for the vermouth.
“Look like they might get a man in trouble.”
The answer lodged somewhere between her shoulder blades like a dead insect. She smiled anyway, tipped vodka into the shaker and said, “Only if he’s lucky.”
The man laughed and placed a twenty beneath his empty glass before she had even finished the drink.
Behind her, Emily made a tiny gagging noise while slicing lemons.
She turned with the shaker and murmured, “That’s our electric bill.”
Emily’s face sobered respectfully. “Godspeed.”
The night dragged forward in orders, tips and the persistent sting in her leg. The country-club men grew louder with every round, their voices gaining confidence as their balance deteriorated. She let them call her sweetheart. Let them ask what time she finished. Let one of them tell her she would make somebody a very distracting wife someday.
Each time, she smiled. Each time, money appeared beneath a glass. Rafe watched more than he spoke. She felt his attention catch whenever one of the men leaned too close or made her laugh with the bright false sound she used for tips. Once, when Chip put his hand flat against the bar and asked whether she had a boyfriend, Rafe’s gold ring clicked sharply against the side of his glass.
She didn’t look over. Looking would make it something.
Near ten, the crowd thinned enough that she could wipe down the counter without somebody immediately placing a wet napkin on it. Topper and Kelce had moved to a table behind the bar area with two other boys. Rafe remained standing near his stool, finishing the last of his drink.
He came closer while she worked, positioning himself on the other side of the bar where their voices wouldn’t carry. “Am I takin’ you home tonight?” he asked.
She pushed the damp cloth beneath a stack of coasters. “I know where I live.”
“T’Tannyhill.” He glanced toward the dining room before looking back at her. “No one’s home.”
The offer moved warm and familiar through her body despite the pain in her leg. Clean sheets. His shower. A kitchen containing actual food. Rafe’s hands around her hips while he told her to stop talking, usually moments before making it impossible. Any other night, she would have made him work harder for the yes.
She shook her head. “Not in the mood tonight.”
His face tightened at once. “You kiddin’ me?”
“Nope.” She sprayed another section of the bar and scrubbed at a ring left by somebody’s glass. “I just wanna go home.”
“To that dump?”
The cloth stopped beneath her hand. She looked up slowly. Rafe had the sense to keep his face neutral, but not enough sense to take the words back before they reached her.
“Yeah, asshole,” she said. “To that dump.”
He sucked briefly at the inside of his teeth and looked away. “Right.”
She resumed wiping the counter, harder now. “Can you not be a dick? I’ve had a shit enough night without you being a fucking asshole too.”
His eyes came back to hers, sharpened by the challenge. “Watch how you talk to me.”
“Or what?” She leaned one hand on the counter, lowering her voice into something sweet enough to curdle. “You won’t fuck me anymore? Shame.”
A short laugh left him, rough and disbelieving. He tipped his head as if reassessing her from a more interesting angle. “Mm. You say that now. Remember last night when you were beg–”
“Shut up.”
Rafe’s mouth curved.
“I mean it.”
“Yeah?” His voice had gone lower. “Sounded pretty serious last night too.”
Heat climbed beneath the collar of her polo. She glanced toward Emily, but the other girl was occupied at the far end of the bar and unaware that Rafe Cameron was attempting to describe her private behaviour within hearing distance of the ice machine.
“You’re disgusting.”
His smile widened by a fraction before flattening again. “Whatever. Have fun in the Cut.”
“Planning on it.”
He held her gaze for another second, annoyance and something else moving beneath his expression too quickly for her to separate them. Then he pushed away from the bar and returned to Topper and Kelce without saying goodbye. Good. Excellent. She hated him.
Her body, which had spent much of the previous night enthusiastically disputing that claim, could keep its opinion to itself.
She worked for another twenty minutes before the blood started again. This time she felt it reach her sock. The wetness gathered beneath the fabric at her ankle, small but unmistakable. She looked down and saw a red stain beginning along the white ribbing.
“Oh, come on,” she muttered.
Emily followed her gaze and grimaced. “Go.”
“I already went.”
Emily gave her a look. “And now you’re bleeding into your sock.”
She put the cloth down with a sigh. “I’ll be two minutes.”
The service hallway was empty when she slipped through the door again. She had almost reached the staff room when her manager stepped out from the office beside it.
Mr Collins was a narrow man in his late forties who wore his belt too tight and treated scheduling like a branch of military command. His expression tightened the instant he saw her. “Where are you going?”
“Staff room. I just need to–”
“You’ve already taken a break tonight.”
“It wasn’t really a break. I cut my leg and it’s–”
“We’re short-staffed, and I cannot have employees disappearing whenever they feel like it. Emily’s been covering your section twice now.”
Her mouth opened. The blood inside her sock felt suddenly hotter, irritation rising with it, fast and clean. “I’m not disappearing. I’m literally bleeding.”
“You should have addressed that before your shift.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll let the oysters know for next time.”
His face hardened. “Excuse me?”
Before she could decide whether losing the job would be worth the next sentence, Rafe’s voice came from behind them. “Hey, man.”
Mr Collins turned. The change was immediate enough to be embarrassing on behalf of the entire country club. His shoulders lowered. His mouth reorganised itself into something professionally concerned. “Mr Cameron.”
Rafe walked toward them with one hand in the pocket of his shorts, posture easy in the way only rich men could manage while interrupting somebody else’s employment dispute. His gaze touched her face for half a second before settling on the manager.
“Sorry,” he said. “My fault. Asked her to grab somethin’ for me.”
Mr Collins blinked. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Rafe smiled. It wasn’t his real smile. It was the clean polite one he used around people who worked for Ward, all teeth and nothing warm behind them. “Should’ve asked somebody else. Didn’t realise you were busy.”
“No, no. Of course.” Mr Collins gave a small laugh that made her want to strike him with the first-aid box. “I apologise, Mr Cameron. I was only ensuring the bar remained properly staffed.”
Rafe nodded like the explanation deserved consideration. “No, yeah. Doin’ your job. I understand.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
“We’re good.”
Mr Collins looked at her once, some leftover warning compressed into the glance, then smiled at Rafe again. “Enjoy your evening.”
“Thanks, man.”
They watched him disappear into the office and close the door. The second it clicked shut, she turned and smacked her palm against Rafe’s chest. It didn’t move him. Nothing ever did unless he chose to be moved, which was one of the more irritating things about him physically.
“I don’t need you fighting my battles for me, asshole.”
Rafe looked down at the place she had hit, then at her. “You’re welcome.”
“I had it handled.”
“Yeah.” His gaze dropped to her sock. The red mark was visible now, staining the white just above her sneaker. His brows pulled together. “Clearly.”
She shifted her foot behind the other. “Stop looking.”
“What the fuck happened to your leg?”
“Nothing.”
Rafe gave her a flat look. She attempted to move past him toward the staff room. His arm came across the hallway, palm flattening against the wall beside her before she could get by. “That why you’re not comin’ over tonight?”
She looked at the line of his forearm, then up at his face. “Yeah.”
His expression changed slightly, irritation losing its clean edge. “It hurts?”
“It fucking hurts, and it won’t stop bleeding.” She glanced toward the office door and lowered her voice. “So unless you’ve developed some deeply specific medical kink, tonight’s not happening.”
Rafe ignored that. “The fuck did you do?”
She sighed because the explanation only grew less intelligent each time she gave it. “We were out on the water.”
“Who’s we?”
“You know who we is.”
His jaw shifted.
“JJ, John B, Kie, Pope.” She waved one hand impatiently. “We were swimming and I was stupidly high, and the guys forgot to tell me where the oyster beds were. Fucked my leg.”
For a second Rafe said nothing. He looked down at the injury again, mouth pressing into a hard line. The faint muscle beside his jaw jumped once. “They forgot.”
“Yeah.”
“Your brother let you jump into an oyster bed.”
“He jumped first.”
His eyes flashed. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“I’m aware.”
“Fuckin’ idiots.”
She leaned her shoulder against the wall. “I was also there, Rafe. Participating. Nobody pushed me off the boat.”
His nostrils flared faintly as he breathed out. “Yeah, well, they should’ve been watchin’.”
The words landed somewhere inconvenient. Rafe rarely supplied anything soft without first wrapping it in annoyance and swearing. Still, something inside her chest shifted enough that she looked away toward the staff-room door.
“I’m alive.”
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”
“Pope cleaned it.”
“Pope,” Rafe repeated, visibly unimpressed by the medical credentials involved.
“He knows things.”
Rafe rubbed one hand over the back of his head, the short hair making a faint rasp beneath his palm. “How’re you gettin’ home?”
She shrugged. “Walking.”
His hand dropped. “Yeah. Uh, fuck that.”
She almost laughed at the sheer offence in his face. “It’s not far.”
“No.”
“I can walk fine.”
“You’re bleeding through your fuckin’ sock.”
She sneered up at him. “I’ve got another sock at home.”
Rafe stared at her as if she had deliberately misunderstood the concept of blood loss to annoy him. “I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
His brows drew together harder. “What?”
“I said no. I don’t need you taking me anywhere.”
Somebody came through the kitchen doors carrying a crate of empty bottles. She and Rafe both moved sideways to let him pass, their shoulders brushing in the narrow hall. The employee nodded quickly at Rafe and continued toward the loading entrance without looking at her leg.
Rafe watched him disappear. Then his hand closed around her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“C’mere.”
She tugged at her arm. “No.”
He ignored the refusal and pulled open the storage-room door beside them, steering her inside before anybody else could enter the hallway. She stumbled after him, more from surprise than force, and hissed when the movement pulled at her shin.
The room smelled like cardboard, cleaning chemicals and citrus syrup. Shelves crowded both walls with napkins, bottles, spare glasses and enough cocktail straws to support the country club through a natural disaster. Rafe shut the door behind them.
She yanked her wrist free. “What the fuck?”
“Lower your voice.”
“You dragged me into a cupboard.”
Rafe stood between her and the door, broad enough to block most of it without trying. “I’m driving you home.”
“I’m not going home with you.”
“Fine.” His patience snapped around the word. “Then I’ll take you to your fuckin’ shack, Jesus Christ. You’re not walkin’.”
She crossed her arms. “Oh, because you care about me so much?”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. He took one step closer, enough that the shelving pressed near her shoulder and the air between them warmed with him. “I like fuckin’ you.” He glanced down at her injured leg. “And I don’t wanna fuck you when your leg’s all fucked up.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, dry and sharp. “Oh. How romantic.”
“Fuck you.”
“You want to.” She tilted her chin. “I won’t let you.”
Rafe’s mouth twitched once, then his hand came up and closed around her jaw.
His palm fit warm against one cheek, fingers settling beneath her ear, the pressure firm. He drew her forward until the front of her polo brushed his chest and looked at her for half a second with that heavy, irritated focus he usually got immediately before proving an argument physically.
“You’re such a brat,” he murmured.
“You’re such a–”
He kissed her before she could finish. Slowly, which was unfair. If he had kissed her hard, she could have shoved him away. Called him a dickhead. Reminded him they were standing in a room containing industrial quantities of napkins while her manager sat less than twenty feet away.
Instead, Rafe pressed his mouth to hers once, warm and unhurried, thumb resting near the corner of her lips. Then again, deeper this time, his head angling as her mouth opened beneath his.
Her body betrayed her so quickly it felt rehearsed. The tension left her shoulders. Her hand caught the front of his polo. Her face tilted into his palm while his tongue moved against hers, tasting faintly of scotch and mint and the cigarette he had probably stolen from Kelce outside.
Rafe made a quiet sound in his throat, almost satisfied. His other hand slid down her side and cupped her ass beneath the edge of her skirt. She sucked in a breath against his mouth.
His fingers tightened, squeezing once before dragging her closer until her hips met his. Somewhere beside her head, a plastic packet of napkins crackled softly under the movement.
She tugged at his shirt, needing something to hold because his hair remained useless and his shoulders were too broad to grip properly with one hand. Rafe kissed her deeper, thumb shifting along her jaw while his palm worked over her ass again, slow and possessive enough to send heat curling low through her stomach.
Her injured leg throbbed. The rest of her barely noticed.
Rafe pulled back just far enough for their mouths to separate. His breathing touched her lips. His eyes moved over her face, dark and faintly accusing, as though she had personally caused whatever had just happened.
“You are so fuckin’ annoyin’,” he said.
She nodded, still gripping his polo. “I fucking hate you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She pulled him back in and kissed him. His hand returned to her ass immediately, squeezing harder this time as his mouth opened under hers. She sighed into the kiss before she could prevent it, body pressing closer while his thumb dragged once along the curve beneath the skirt.
Unfortunately, her body had never developed the ideological discipline required to hate Rafe properly. He kissed like every conversation had gone on too long. Like words were irritating obstacles people invented because they couldn’t place their hands correctly.
Even now, annoyed and half drunk and pretending the concern was about future access to her body, he knew when she softened. Knew the exact second her grip changed from pushing him away to holding him there.
He slowed again. That was worse than anything. His mouth moved over hers with enough patience to make the storage room disappear at the edges, until there was only the warm grip at her jaw, the broad hand beneath her skirt and the solid line of him against her. Her thighs tightened instinctively, friction catching beneath the thin fabric of her underwear and producing a whole new problem she didn’t have the resources to address during a shift.
Rafe broke the kiss first. She followed for half an inch before pride caught up and stopped her. His eyes dropped to her mouth. A small, smug curve touched his.
“Dickhead,” she whispered.
He hummed. His thumb brushed once over her lower lip, almost gentle. “Pain in the ass.”
“Take your hand off mine, then.”
He squeezed it once more before obeying. She glared at him while tugging her skirt back into place, though the effect was weakened by her swollen mouth and the fact that she hadn’t properly released his shirt.
Rafe looked down at her hand. She let go immediately.
“I’m drivin’ you home,” he said. “When’re you done?”
“Eleven.”
“I’ll be outside.”
She crossed her arms. “No.”
“If you try and leave, I’ll follow your ass.”
She narrowed her eyes up at him. “That’s kidnapping.”
His tongue pressed briefly into his cheek. “Uh-huh. Whatever.”
“You can’t just decide to drive me places.”
“Just did.”
“I’ll get JJ to pick me up,” she argued, because there was no way she was giving in after one kiss.
“On what?” Rafe asked. “The dirt bike? You gonna sit on the handlebars with your leg bleeding?”
She opened her mouth. Nothing arrived.
Rafe nodded, satisfied. “Right.”
“I could call John B.”
Rafe sucked at his teeth. “He’s probably high.”
“You’re drinking.”
He held up two fingers. “Had two.”
“Three.”
His eyes narrowed. “You countin’?”
She tilted her head. “I poured them.”
“Been here three hours.”
She hated when he introduced mathematics into an argument. It made the whole thing feel unnecessarily formal.
Rafe opened the storage-room door, then glanced back at her leg. “Go clean that up.”
“Yes, doctor,” she scoffed.
He pointed loosely at her leg. “Need more than those little Band-Aids.”
“Thanks. I hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ve got a kit in the truck.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
His expression went blank in the particular way it did whenever a question brushed too close to an answer he disliked. “Just do.”
Rafe Cameron kept cigarettes he claimed not to smoke, condoms in his wallet, a blanket in the truck and enough medical equipment to treat a roadside casualty. Nothing meant anything. Every object had simply appeared there through natural causes.
He stepped into the hallway, then paused. “Eleven.”
“I heard you.”
“Don’t leave.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Go away.”
His gaze travelled once over her face, then down toward the hem of her skirt before returning to her eyes. “Fix your leg, baby.”
The endearment came out low and absent, stripped of the mocking edge he usually placed around it in public. Before she could react, he walked away toward the dining room.
She remained in the storage room for another second, listening to the fading sound of his steps. Her mouth tingled. Her ass still carried the shape of his hand. Blood had reached the edge of her sock, and the ache in her shin continued pulsing with every heartbeat.
She looked down at herself. Horny, bleeding and still on the clock. Great.
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for my fics.
pairing – Petal!Reader x Garrett Graham
summary – Garrett Graham has a ten-step plan to get his girl back.
warnings – Strong language, alcohol consumption, lingering concussion symptoms, jealousy and relationship insecurity, discussions of unhealthy past relationship dynamics, references to parental abuse, family trauma, financial hardship, and an argument between friends
word count – 9k
navigation – Masterlist | « Chapter Four | Chapter Six »
Chapter Five.
Kisses On Cheeks.
Malone’s had never looked this good in its life. Usually, the place carried the exhausted dignity of a bar that had survived too many Briar students believing a sticky floor was an invitation rather than a warning.
Tonight, though, the tables had been pushed back from the little stage, the worst of the old beer smell had been bullied beneath lemon cleaner and hot food, and paper Hurricanes swept in uneven little trails along the exposed brick walls.
The posters they’d made yesterday stood near every entrance, framed by fairy lights Hannah had found in the theatre storage cupboard and sworn had been officially decommissioned rather than stolen.
Silent-auction sheets covered the long table near the rear wall beneath signed sticks, restaurant vouchers, game tickets, and the aggressively scented candle that had somehow developed its own three-foot exclusion zone.
Red and white balloons floated over the tables. QR codes had been taped to every menu holder so people could request songs and donate without needing to approach another human being, an innovation Dean had praised as revolutionary despite having contributed nothing to it.
The photo-booth still stood near the bathrooms, even though the actual booth had died twenty minutes before doors opened and currently displayed a handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign Tucker had produced while Dean advocated for replacing it with PHOTOS ARE TEMPORARY, DONATIONS ARE FOREVER.
The place was packed. Families from the Hurricanes programme had taken over the tables nearest the stage, kids in little team hoodies darting between chairs with the dangerous speed of people who had discovered nobody would tackle them at a charity event.
Briar students crowded the bar three deep. Local business owners hovered near the auction sheets with drinks in hand, quietly trying to outbid one another on dinner vouchers and signed equipment while pretending money had nothing to do with it.
Freshmen moved through all of them carrying donation buckets, raffle strips, and the frantic purpose of young men who had been informed by their captain that failing to raise money for children was both morally indefensible and likely to result in extra conditioning.
On the little stage, After Hours were halfway through Dirty Little Secret, Justin’s voice scraping pleasantly over the guitars while the drummer hit hard enough that the glasses behind the bar trembled faintly against one another.
It was a fucking vibe. She stood near the side of the dance floor with Logan on one side and Garrett on the other, nursing a vodka cranberry that had become mostly ice while Logan tried to persuade a group of girls that placing cash directly into his red donation bucket was more meaningful than using the QR code.
“It has atmosphere,” Logan said, lifting the bucket toward them with both hands. He had written FOR THE LIL ’CANES across the front in black marker, then surrounded it with small hurricanes that looked suspiciously like commas. “You can feel the donation happen.”
One of the girls dropped in a five. “There.”
Logan peered into the bucket. “That’s it?”
She choked on her drink. Garrett laughed beside her, warm and low, one hand briefly catching the back of Logan’s neck before Logan could continue fundraising through public shaming.
“Thank you,” Garrett told the girl, dragging Logan half a step backward. “He’s very grateful.”
“I am grateful,” Logan protested. “I’m also encouraging generosity.”
“You asked her if that was it.”
“She looked rich.”
The girls dissolved into laughter and moved toward the bar, leaving Logan to watch them go with the wounded expression of a man whose charitable methods had been unfairly constrained by leadership.
Garrett released him. “You’re not allowed to profile donors.”
“I wasn’t profiling,” Logan grumbled.
She tipped her cup toward Logan. “Maybe try saying thank you before asking whether they’ve concealed more money elsewhere.”
Logan pointed at her with the donation bucket. “I raised eighty bucks in twenty minutes.”
“Through fear.”
“Money spends the same.”
The song ended beneath a final crash of drums. The room erupted immediately, clapping and shouting while Justin stepped back from the microphone with a grin and lifted his guitar neck in acknowledgment.
She clapped too, the cold side of her cup pressed into one palm while the other stung faintly from how hard she brought it down. Beside her, Garrett put two fingers between his lips and produced a sharp whistle that made her flinch and laugh at the same time.
Dean climbed onto the edge of the stage before the applause had properly finished, taking the microphone from Justin with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned whether a room wanted more of him.
“Give it up for After Hours, everybody!”
The cheering rose again. Justin bowed theatrically, dark hair falling forward, while one of his bandmates spun a drumstick between his fingers and nearly lost it into the crowd.
Dean waited until the noise dipped, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He had dressed for the fundraiser as if there were a possibility charity might lead directly into a magazine shoot: watch catching the stage lights every time he moved the microphone.
“And give it up for my buddy John Logan,” he continued, turning toward them with his free arm extended. “The man responsible for putting this whole thing together.”
Logan froze. The applause came harder this time, spreading through the room as people turned toward him. Someone near the back shouted his name. One of the Hurricanes kids lifted both fists above his head.
Garrett grabbed Logan by both shoulders and shook him with enough enthusiasm to make the donation bucket rattle.
She whooped beside them, laughing as Logan tried to maintain the solemn expression of a competent event organiser while Garrett physically rearranged him.
Dean leaned toward the mic. “Look at him. It genuinely does not get better-looking than that.”
The room laughed. Logan’s face went slowly red.
“And he’s single, ladies.”
The whooping became immediate and ugly. Garrett threw his head back and contributed a long, rising wolf howl directly beside Logan’s ear. She laughed so hard her drink sloshed over the plastic rim and onto her thumb.
Logan lifted one hand toward Dean and spun his finger in a tight circle. Wrap it up.
“Alright, alright.” Dean looked down briefly at whatever figures had been written on the card in his other hand. “We’ve already raised two grand for the Lil ’Canes tonight.”
The cheer that followed felt different. Less drunken, more surprised. Logan’s expression shifted before he could stop it, the embarrassment loosening around something warmer as Garrett’s hands gave his shoulders one last firm squeeze.
“But we want a hell of a lot more for those guys,” Dean said. “So get drunk, hit the silent auction, and get some cool shit. Sadly, the photo booth is out of order, but there’s still a lot of fun to be had. The band is taking requests, so scan those QR codes and let them know what songs you want to hear. Make them regret agreeing to this.”
Justin leaned toward his own microphone. “Too late, mate.”
His Australian accent rolled easily through the speakers. A group near the stage screamed for him. Hannah, working behind the bar beside Allie, looked up so quickly the cocktail shaker in her hand stopped halfway through a movement.
Dean’s mouth pulled into a grin. “You guys ready?”
The answer nearly lifted the roof.
After Hours launched into a hard instrumental fill, guitars cutting through the shouting while Dean raised both hands. “Let’s have some fun.”
He handed the microphone back to Justin and came off the stage in one easy drop. He fist-bumped Tucker first where he stood near the silent auction, caught Logan’s hand next and pulled him briefly into his shoulder, then did the same to Garrett.
When he passed her, Dean’s hand landed warmly at the top of her shoulder, giving one quick squeeze before he continued toward the bar. Allie watched him approach without smiling.
Interesting.
Garrett’s attention had already shifted across the room. He looked toward the booth where six freshmen had gathered around two pushed-together tables, all of them wearing expressions that suggested they had been ordered to socialise but had not received further instructions.
“You good?” he asked her.
She looked up. The stage lights caught faintly in his eyes. He wore a black shirt beneath an open dark green jacket, curls falling in the irritatingly soft way they did whenever he showered and then pretended his hands had played no role in the result.
“Fine,” she said.
Garrett studied her face for half a second longer. Not searching for the answer he expected. Checking the one she’d given. He nodded. “Come grab me if you need me.”
“It’s all good.”
“Okay.” His hand brushed lightly against the back of hers, there and gone before it could become a question. “I’m gonna make sure none of them have donated their rent.”
She glanced toward the freshmen. One of them was studying the silent-auction sheet with the grave focus of a man considering financial ruin for a signed Bruins puck. “That feels possible.”
“Exactly.”
Garrett crossed toward them. The change arrived before he reached the booth. His shoulders settling, expression sharpening, easy warmth reorganising itself into something quieter and more focused.
Captain Garrett.
He slid onto the bench beside Tucker, pulled out his phone, and angled the screen toward the freshmen. Within ten seconds, all six were leaning in while Garrett pointed at something and spoke with one hand moving over the table, probably explaining positioning, line changes, St. Anthony’s power play, or why nobody under his command was permitted to bid more than forty dollars on memorabilia signed by a player currently sitting eight feet away.
Briar played St. Anthony’s tomorrow night. Garrett had mentioned it twice today in the calm voice he used when a game was important enough that talking too much about it might expose something. St. Anthony’s played mean, fast hockey and had spent the last two seasons treating every Briar matchup like a personal invitation to test the structural limits of the boards.
She knew that now. She knew who Garrett would likely line up against. Knew St. Anthony’s took too many penalties but made teams pay for getting frustrated. Knew Logan was expected to see more time on the second line and Tucker had spent most of yesterday muttering about defensive coverage while gluing auction sheets to poster board.
She had learned his shit too, apparently.
Dean joined the table a moment later, followed by Beau, while she moved toward the bar where Allie was filling plastic cups with ice at a speed suggesting each cube had personally offended her.
“This is sick,” she said, leaning one forearm on the polished wood.
Allie glanced up and looked around. The room glowed warmly beyond her, packed bodies moving beneath the paper Hurricanes, donation buckets cutting red paths through the crowd. “We did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.”
She grinned. “Agree.”
Allie’s eyes shifted over her shoulder. The change was small. A hard little tightening at one corner that immediately made her turn. The booth had filled.
Two freshmen sat pressed closest to the wall on one side, Dean beside them with one arm stretched across the backrest. Opposite them sat Tucker, then Garrett, then Beau on the edge. Around the open ends of the table and along the aisle stood a whole collection of girls in tiny tops, hockey jerseys, glossy hair, and expressions bright with interest.
Puck bunnies, if a person wanted to be uncharitable.
Garrett barely seemed aware of them. His phone remained flat on the table between himself and Tucker, one finger tracing something across the screen while Tucker nodded. One of the girls bent closer to see. Another rested her hand against the booth behind Garrett’s shoulder.
He didn’t turn toward her. Didn’t give the full campus smile. Didn’t begin gathering attention simply because it had arrived within reach. He remained focused on the freshmen and whatever hockey problem he had opened for group analysis.
Still, something tightened low beneath her stomach. The old bodily preparation for it, muscles bracing before anything had actually struck.
Allie had taken out her phone. She looked down as Allie opened the camera, then realised she was scanning the QR code taped to the bar.
“What are you doing?”
“Requesting a song.”
“What song?”
Allie didn’t answer.
Hannah appeared at the other end of the bar with a stack of empty trays pressed against her hip. A loose strand of blonde hair had escaped the clip at the back of her head, curling faintly from the heat. “We need more pigs in blankets, napkins, and–”
Allie’s eyes remained fixed on her phone. “That really doesn’t bother you?” Allie tipped her chin toward the booth.
Hannah turned. Her gaze moved over the girls, Garrett at the centre of the table, then returned with no visible change beyond mild curiosity.
But the question wasn’t directed at Hannah.
She swallowed. Her eyes went back to Garrett. One of the girls had said something now. Garrett glanced up long enough to answer, polite and brief, then looked toward Tucker again.
“I don’t know if I have a right for it to bother me,” she said.
Allie’s attention finally lifted from the phone. “What?”
“Honestly, after the shit I said to Garrett yesterday…”
Allie frowned. “What did you say yesterday? Other than publicly castrating four hockey players at morning skate, which Dean told me about. Incredible, by the way.”
A huff of laughter escaped her, but it didn’t move properly through her chest. “No. Um. Last night.”
She wrapped both hands around her cup even though the ice had already numbed her fingers. Hannah remained near the bar, trays forgotten against her side.
“I was at Garrett’s,” she said. “We were working on that Martin assignment and then we were making out, and it got… heated.”
Allie’s brows rose slightly.
“Not that heated,” she added quickly. “Just enough that his hand moved and then I completely lost my fucking mind.”
She looked at Hannah, suddenly aware she was spilling the internal wreckage of her relationship to a girl she had properly spoken to for the first time while hanging fairy lights six hours ago.
Except Hannah didn’t feel like a stranger now. Not entirely. They had spent the afternoon balanced on chairs, untangling extension cords and trying to stop Logan from taping decorations directly over a fire-exit sign.
Hannah had been easy. Funny in a quieter way than Allie, warm without demanding immediate intimacy. She had told stories about Justin’s band practices and the fact that he texted like punctuation cost him money.
She had rolled her eyes when Allie accused her of dressing too nicely for setup, then admitted she and Justin were going somewhere after the fundraiser if he survived three hours of requests from drunk hockey players.
At one point, while they were arranging auction sheets, Hannah had brought up Garrett herself. Only a careful, “I just want you to know there’s nothing happening there. There never really was.”
The fake dating had been Garrett and Hannah’s stupid, mutually convenient arrangement during the breakup. Hannah wanting Justin to react. Garrett wanting campus – and maybe one specific person – to believe he had moved on. As well as needing to pass philosophy. A few public kisses, some staged exits, photographs people were meant to misunderstand. Then friendship left over when the performance ended.
Hannah had said she liked Justin. Properly. They had been on a few dates, and she was trying not to scare herself by deciding what they were before either of them had survived ordering food together more than twice.
She had believed her. Believing Hannah hadn’t removed every little image her body had stored of Hannah kissing Garrett. It had only taken the poison out of them and left the bruise.
Now Allie and Hannah were both looking at her. She had already begun. The rest pressed forward before she could rebuild the wall.
“I freaked out about what the fuck we’re doing,” she said. “Whether we’re together or not, whether this is becoming the same thing without anybody saying it. And I just…” Her thumb rubbed at the condensation on her cup, spreading it into a cold streak beneath her palm. “Allie, you remember how I was with him the first time.”
Allie’s expression softened.
“I adored him,” she continued. The words left quietly enough that the music nearly swallowed them. “Like, completely. He was everything to me. Everything. And I’ve never been in love like that with anyone, ever, and I don’t know if I can be that girl with him again.”
The booth blurred faintly beyond Hannah’s shoulder. Garrett’s head bent near Tucker’s while Dean gestured too aggressively at one of the freshmen with a cocktail straw.
“I don’t think I want to be,” she admitted. “Not like that. I didn’t know where I ended and he started half the time. Everything depended on whether we were okay, whether he was looking at me, whether I felt chosen that day. It was fucking exhausting, and I still would’ve done anything to stay.”
Allie’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“So I snapped,” she said. “I told him I’d never love him like that again. That he would never have me like that ever again.”
The memory moved over her body with ugly precision. Garrett standing shirtless between the bed and the rolling chair. His mouth red from kissing her. Tears brightening his eyes while he bit down on his lip and refused to throw anything back.
“He just stood there,” she said. “He had tears in his eyes and he just… took it. Then he told me he didn’t want me like that either. That he thought we were trying to do it differently.”
She rubbed one thumb against the rim of her cup.
“I felt like the biggest dick alive. Then I cried into his chest for a while, we finished most of my assignment, I fell asleep in his bed, and this morning I basically said goodbye and fled before class.” Her laugh came small and joyless. “So. Really strong emotional clarity all around.”
Neither girl answered immediately. Behind them, the blender started with a violent mechanical scream. Allie reached back and switched it off without looking, deciding whoever ordered the frozen drink could survive uncertainty.
“There’s just too much going on,” she said. “The audition’s in two days. My head still feels weird if I stare at a screen too long. I don’t know what Garrett and I are. I know I want him, which is completely unhelpful because my body has never once been fucking asked to contribute.”
Hannah’s mouth curved faintly.
“I’m confused,” she finished. “That’s all.”
“For what it’s worth,” Hannah said carefully, shifting the trays to the counter, “I think Garrett’s a really trustworthy guy.”
She turned her head.
Hannah lifted one shoulder. “Not perfect. Obviously. He’s a man and a hockey player, so statistically he’s facing challenges.”
A laugh slipped out of Allie.
“But he was always honest with me,” Hannah continued. “Even when we were doing the fake-dating thing. He never made promises he couldn’t keep, and he never tried anything. Not once. Half the time he was asking me whether a post looked believable while staring at your Instagram.”
Her brows lifted. “He what?”
Hannah grimaced. “I maybe wasn’t supposed to say that.”
She blinked hard. “That feels extremely relevant.”
“He was pathetic,” Hannah said, with a warmth suggesting the insult had been earned fondly. “But trustworthy.”
Her gaze returned to Garrett. He was looking down at the table. One of the freshmen had taken the phone now, apparently presenting his own theory while Garrett listened.
Then Garrett’s head lifted, as if something had moved lightly against the side of his face. His eyes found hers immediately. He simply looked up and found her at the bar.
Garrett smiled. Small, private, nothing like the one he used when a stranger praised a goal. He lifted one hand from the table and gave her a little wave.
Warmth moved beneath her ribs before she could defend against it. She waved back.
The old Garrett might have left her standing across a room while girls gathered around him, trusting that she knew what he felt because he had told her privately. This Garrett looked for her without being asked and made the looking visible.
The tight place in her stomach eased by a fraction.
Allie sighed beside her. “He knows what he wants.”
She and Hannah both turned.
“Huh?” Hannah asked.
Allie was no longer looking at Garrett. Her gaze had fixed on Dean, who had abandoned the booth and was now leaning near the end of the bar, laughing at something Beau said while two girls stood beside them.
“God,” Allie muttered. “It’s so hot when people know what they want.”
Hannah frowned. “Are you and Dean okay?”
Allie gave a short, offended huff and dropped her phone onto the bar. “He’s being an asshole.”
She stared at her. “What?”
“Dean is obsessed with you,” Hannah added.
“That’s not the issue.”
“What did he do?” she asked.
Allie opened her mouth. The band finished the song before she could answer, cymbals crashing through the bar while Justin stepped toward the microphone again. His face was flushed from the lights, guitar strap cutting darkly across his shirt.
“Alright,” he said, vowels softened by the Australian accent Hannah had spent the afternoon pretending she didn’t find hot. “We’ve got another request. This one goes out to Maverick.”
Allie turned away from the girls and grabbed the towel from her shoulder. “Let’s go dance.”
She and Hannah looked at each other.
“Maverick?” Hannah asked.
Allie had already rounded the bar. “Come on.”
They followed because Allie in that mood had the momentum of weather. The opening guitar of U + Ur Hand hit as they reached the little patch of floor in front of the stage.
Recognition moved through the room at once. A cluster of girls screamed near the first chord. Justin grinned down at the request sheet taped near his microphone while the drummer counted them into the beat.
Allie started moving before either of them had properly found space. She rolled her shoulders, hips catching the rhythm, mouth shaping every word while her gaze remained fixed with almost violent precision across the room. At Dean.
“Oh,” Hannah said.
She began laughing. “What the fuck did he do?”
Allie ignored both of them.
They danced anyway. The song had too much bratty momentum to resist. Hannah loosened first, laughing as she bumped her hip lightly against hers.
She moved back, vodka warmth settling pleasantly beneath her skin now, chest and shoulders following the bass while the three of them formed the kind of shifting little circle women created instinctively when dancing was meant for one another rather than the room.
Allie remained committed to psychological warfare. Every line was delivered toward Dean with a smile sharp enough to leave structural damage.
She turned her head to see whether it was working. Dean had gone still beside the booth, cup halfway toward his mouth, eyes locked across the room with the expression of a man realising he had become the subject of a request and might not survive the chorus.
Beside him, Tucker had noticed too. His mouth moved near Garrett’s ear. Garrett followed his gaze, first toward Allie and then toward her.
The moment his eyes landed, his jaw tightened. It was small. A single hard shift beneath his cheek while his gaze travelled down and back up, catching on the movement of her hips, her shoulders, the pink top she had chosen because it made her feel good and definitely not because Garrett once told her that colour should be illegal on her without elaborating.
She grinned at him. Then she mouthed along to the song, not enough to deliver any full lyric, only the shape of it directed across the room with deliberate sweetness.
Garrett’s mouth curved. He shook his head once, slow and disbelieving, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek while he watched her. The look travelled straight through the pleasant warmth from the vodka and settled lower.
Her heart, brain, and body had apparently formed three separate committees. None were communicating. One wanted distance, one wanted to crawl directly into Garrett’s lap, and the third was still composing a formal apology for words said yesterday while his hand had been on her ass.
Extremely functional system.
Allie checked her phone before the final chorus had fully ended. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her. “Okay,” she announced. “Back to work.”
She left.
Hannah stared after her. “Was that…?”
“A threat?” she offered.
“Maybe.”
They looked toward Dean. He had already taken out his phone.
Hannah’s eyes widened. “Oh, she requested it.”
“Absolutely.”
Both of them laughed.
Hannah glanced toward the bar where three people were waving for service, then toward Justin onstage. “I should go before someone starts pouring their own vodka.”
She nodded. “Probably.”
Hannah touched her arm lightly as she passed. “For the record, you’re allowed to be bothered. You just don’t have to assume it means something’s wrong.”
The sentence caught her slightly off guard. Before she could answer, Hannah had disappeared behind the bar and started apologising to a man holding an empty glass with the solemnity of someone awaiting medical treatment.
She stood near the edge of the dance floor for another second, music vibrating up through the soles of her boots. Then her eyes found Garrett again.
He was still watching. When she stepped toward the booth, he shifted immediately. Beau stood to let him out before she reached them, unfolding his long body from the end of the bench.
“Hey, Beau,” she said.
His grin arrived easily. Beau Maxwell carried himself with the relaxed confidence of someone born into money, good bone structure, and a family where at least one sibling had become theatrical royalty before he finished high school.
“Hey, you.”
She liked Beau. Or half-liked him, in the low-maintenance way people became friends through Dean, repeated parties, and the fact that Beau’s sister Joanna remained a name spoken around Briar theatre with the reverence usually reserved for saints and women who secured agents before graduation.
“You good?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah.” He stepped aside while Garrett rose behind him. “You?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Heard about the audition.”
Garrett came to stand beside her. Close enough that the warmth from his body reached through the thin sleeve of her top. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t immediately put a hand on her or pull the conversation toward himself.
He only looked down at her face with the steady, quiet attention that had begun feeling more dangerous than any amount of public charm.
She kept her eyes on Beau. “Yeah. Couple days.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Okay.” She considered the word. “Terrified, but in a controlled, very artistically useful way.”
“I mean it. Joanna still talks about that thing you did last year.”
Her brows lifted. “She does?”
“Yeah. Said you were the only person in the cast who understood when not to move.”
She stared at him. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Beau laughed. “Theatre people are weird.”
“Deeply.”
Garrett’s hand settled against her lower stomach. Broad and warm over the soft fabric beneath her ribs, fingertips resting lightly near her side to draw her attention without cutting across Beau’s sentence.
Every thought in her body scattered. She looked up.
“You want another drink, baby?” Garrett murmured.
The endearment landed softly and publicly. His hand remained still against her, giving her every opportunity to step away.
His eyes moved over her face, checking the glass in her hand, the faint tiredness she knew still sat beneath her makeup, probably counting what she had eaten without daring to ask directly after yesterday’s near-death experience at the hands of his schedule.
She wanted to kiss him. The want came hard enough that her fingers tightened around her cup. His mouth was right there. She could see the slight dampness along his bottom lip from his drink, the faint shadow near his jaw, the curl resting near one eyebrow.
Two feet behind him, several girls still occupied the booth. Tomorrow night he would play St. Anthony’s. In two days she would walk into the most important audition she had ever had.
Yesterday she had told him he would never have her again, then slept with her back pressed to his chest and his hand loose around her waist.
Her body leaned faintly into the warmth of his palm before she stopped it.
She shook her head. “I’m okay.”
Garrett nodded. No argument. “Alright.”
“You having fun?” she asked.
His shoulder moved in a small shrug. “Mm.”
Before she could question it, Garrett lifted his free hand and brushed her hair back from her shoulder. His knuckles skimmed the side of her neck. The touch was slow without becoming deliberate enough to accuse, familiar without assuming the whole history attached to it.
Her lungs tightened. Garrett’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth. His hand on her stomach flexed once, almost imperceptibly, then loosened again.
The noise around them blurred at the edges. Justin said something into the microphone. Somebody laughed loudly near the auction table. A freshman walked past holding a donation bucket and nearly collided with a chair because he was staring at the amount inside.
She cleared her throat.
“I’m gonna…” The sentence arrived without an ending. She glanced toward the bar where Allie was shaking a cocktail with far more aggression than the drink required. “Go hang with Allie.”
Garrett’s eyes returned to hers. For half a second, something disappointed moved across his face. He didn’t use it. Didn’t ask whether she was avoiding him or curl his fingers tighter to keep her there.
He nodded. “Mhm.”
His hand slid from her stomach. The loss of heat moved through her immediately.
She stepped backward. “I’ll see you.”
“I’m right here,” Garrett said, mouth curving faintly.
“Right.”
“Come grab me if you need me.”
The same thing he had said before. No pressure hidden underneath it. No implication she was supposed to need him to prove anything.
She nodded. “Okay.”
Garrett let her go. She turned toward the bar with her drink still held between both hands, painfully aware of his eyes remaining on her back for several steps before captaincy, freshmen, and tomorrow’s game pulled him into the room again.
Her chest felt crowded. Full of too many versions of the truth.
She trusted Hannah. She believed Garrett. She had watched him look for her across a crowded bar and make sure she knew he had. She still felt the old reflex every time another girl stood too close.
She wanted him so badly her body kept stepping toward him before her fear caught up. She was terrified of loving him carelessly again and equally terrified that caution might become another way to never let him reach her.
She had almost made it back to the bar when Logan intercepted her with the donation bucket tucked under one arm and the particular set to his mouth that meant he had discovered a problem requiring other people’s labour.
“Hey.”
She smiled. “Hey.”
“I need those freshmen selling raffle tickets and not listening to GHA over there talk strategy.”
Her head turned automatically. Garrett had reclaimed the booth after she left him. Two freshmen sat opposite, shoulders angled toward the phone he held between both hands.
Garrett was gesturing over the screen with one thumb, dragging whatever video he had opened backward before tapping hard near the top. Both freshmen watched with the tense, obedient concentration of men being shown footage from an active crime scene.
Dean had disappeared. Tucker was at the auction table. Beau was talking to someone near the stage. Which meant Garrett had somehow converted a charity fundraiser into an emergency film session in under three minutes.
She looked back at Logan. “GHA?”
“General Hard Ass.”
A laugh escaped her. “That’s what you call him?”
“Among other things.”
“Does he know?”
Logan tilted his head. “He knows the hard-ass part.”
She glanced toward the booth again. Garrett had stopped the clip and was now drawing some invisible shape across the table with one finger, brows pulled together while the freshmen nodded.
“What’s so important about this game tomorrow?”
He sighed and shifted the bucket against his hip. “Ever since St. A’s beat Eastwood, they’ve been gunning for our top spot in the conference.”
She frowned. “Are they close?”
“They’re on a ten-game streak.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “So they’re close.”
Logan tipped his head to one side, mouth twisting. “If we lose tomorrow, they’ll be number one in the conference.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” He gestured toward Garrett with the bucket. “That’s what’s in his head right now.”
Garrett had moved on from the phone and was using two coasters to demonstrate something. One freshman leaned closer. The other looked faintly afraid of disappointing the coasters.
“Plus, the St. A’s guys are all kind of pieces of shit,” Logan continued. “Dirty players. They love getting under your skin and then acting shocked when someone reacts.”
“Sounds healthy.”
Logan shrugged. “It’s college hockey.”
“That didn’t answer me.”
“It answers most things.” Logan exhaled and looked around the room. A family near the stage was buying raffle tickets from one of the other freshmen. Three people stood at the auction table. Somebody had begun dancing alone beside the speaker with the solemn commitment of a person three drinks beyond self-consciousness. “There’s nothing we can do about tomorrow tonight. We need people drunk and happy and spending money.”
He laughed softly at his own phrasing. She did too.
“Can you help?” Logan asked. “Get them out of there before Graham starts assigning line combinations on napkins?”
She pressed her lips together and gave him a small nod. “Yeah. I got you.”
His expression loosened. “Thanks.”
He started to turn, then stopped.
“And thanks again,” he said. “For all your help with this.”
The sincerity caught her more than it should have. Logan rarely lingered inside gratitude long enough for anyone to notice it, usually burying the whole thing beneath an insult before it became embarrassing.
She smiled. “What’re friends for?”
Logan grinned, gave one quick nod, then moved back into the crowd with the bucket raised and immediately called after a passing group, “You guys look like you support youth sport.”
She watched him go, then leaned over the bar until Hannah noticed her between drink orders. “Can I grab a sandwich?”
Hannah reached automatically toward the platter beneath the counter. “Yeah. You hungry?”
“No. Not me.” She tipped her head toward the booth. “GHA over there.”
Hannah followed the gesture. “GHA?”
“General Hard Ass.”
Understanding moved over her face. “Ah.”
She looked toward Garrett again. He had put the coasters down and returned to the phone. Both freshmen were still trapped opposite him while three unopened rolls of raffle tickets sat beside one of their elbows.
“Yeah,” Hannah said. “Give me one second.”
She disappeared into the narrow service space behind the bar, stepped around Allie carrying a tray of drinks, and returned with a white plate holding a thick sandwich cut diagonally through the middle.
Turkey, cheese, lettuce, something mustardy near the edges. It looked like the sort of food Tucker would approve of and Garrett would consume without ever noticing whether he liked it.
Hannah passed it over. “There.”
She grinned. “Thanks.”
She balanced the plate in one hand and crossed back toward the booth. The room moved around her in warm little collisions. Music pushing through the floorboards, laughter breaking near the bar, the smell of beer and hot pastry and whatever candle had opened a second front in its campaign against breathable air.
Garrett didn’t see her immediately.
“They’ve scored at least three goals by the end of the first in six of their last ten,” he was saying. “Their zone is suffocating if you let them settle. You can’t give them time to close the walls in. The second you recover possession–”
She set the plate down between the phone and the coasters. “Garrett.”
His eyes lifted.
“Let the freshmen be free.”
One of the freshmen looked down very quickly. The other stared at the sandwich.
Garrett leaned back against the booth. “Baby, I–”
She turned to the freshmen. “Go do your jobs. Sell tickets.”
Both of them looked at Garrett. Garrett shook his head once. They looked back at her.
She nodded toward the aisle. “Go.”
Their eyes returned to Garrett with the frantic coordination of spectators at a tennis match.
Garrett exhaled through his nose. “Fine. Go.”
The freshmen scrambled up before he could reconsider. One caught his thigh against the underside of the table, swore quietly, gathered the raffle rolls, and followed the other into the crowd with the speed of someone escaping an academic conference.
She watched them disappear. “They’re going to tell people I rescued them.”
“They’re going to lose tomorrow,” he grumbled.
She slid into the space they had vacated, opposite him. The booth seat was still warm through her skirt. Garrett picked up one half of the sandwich without inspecting it, took a bite, and returned his eyes briefly to the abandoned video on his phone.
For one second, the confidence she had carried across the room vanished. It was stupid. He had told her to come grab him if she needed him. Logan had asked for help. She had brought food.
Nothing in Garrett’s face suggested anger, but her body had already begun reading the old version of the room. The clipped answer. His attention returning to hockey. The small irritation of being pulled away from something he considered more important.
She shifted against the seat. “You know this is supposed to be a party.”
Garrett chewed, swallowed, and looked up. “And?”
“And parties are supposed to be fun.”
He lifted one shoulder. “So is winning.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.”
The unease remained tucked beneath her ribs, made more embarrassing by the fact that Garrett was simply eating the sandwich she had brought him and waiting for her to say something else.
He noticed. His brows drew together. “What?”
She looked down at the damp ring her cup had left near the edge of the table. “Nothing.”
“Baby.”
The word came quieter.
She rubbed her thumb against the side of her index finger. “I just… um.”
Garrett put the sandwich down. The movement made her chest tighten harder, because now she had interrupted him twice: first the hockey, then the food. An entirely self-created emergency.
“Normally, when I would…” She stopped and looked toward the crowd instead. Logan was handing a raffle strip to a woman near the stage. One of the freed freshmen had already cornered three people beside the bathrooms. “When I’d interrupt you, I just–”
Her throat felt unexpectedly dry.
“I don’t want to piss you off.”
Garrett’s forehead creased, confusion softening his mouth while he watched her try to make the sentence smaller after it had already arrived between them.
He picked up the sandwich again, not because he had stopped listening but because apparently eating prevented him from turning everything into a crisis.
“Baby,” he said after another bite, “you’re sitting with me and you brought me food. Those are, like, my favourite things. Why would I be pissed off?”
She blinked at him. “I don’t know.”
Garrett chewed slowly, eyes staying on hers. There was something almost painful in how genuinely he didn’t understand the fear and how quickly he seemed to understand where it had come from.
His free hand moved across the table. He turned his palm over and covered her fingers, giving them one warm squeeze. “It’s okay.”
She stared at their hands.
Garrett’s thumb brushed lightly over her knuckle. “Come here.”
She hesitated. The booth suddenly felt large, despite the table between them and the noise pressing in from every side. Going around to him would mean choosing the closeness in public. Sitting where the puck bunnies had just stood. Letting everybody see she belonged there before either of them had worked out what belonging meant.
Garrett didn’t tug. He didn’t repeat himself. His hand stayed around hers, loose enough that she could pull free without resistance.
She slid out of her side. Garrett stood while she rounded the end of the table. Beau’s abandoned drink sat near the edge, and she pushed it aside before sliding into the booth, Garrett sliding in after her.
The bench dipped beneath their combined weight. For a moment, she remained upright with a careful inch between their thighs. Garrett picked up the plate again as if he hadn’t asked her closer for any reason more complicated than wanting her there.
The restraint made it easier. She let her shoulder settle against his. Then a little more. Her body folded into the warmth of his side until her knee rested against his beneath the table and the hard line of his arm pressed along hers.
Garrett’s mouth shifted at one corner. He didn’t look down at her, which she appreciated. “You want a bite?”
She looked at the sandwich. “Mhm.”
He held it toward her. She leaned in and took a bite from the corner, teeth catching through bread and turkey while Garrett kept it steady. A little mustard pressed against her bottom lip. She caught it with her tongue before sitting back.
“Mm,” she said around the bite. “S’good.”
“Right?” Garrett took another bite from the same place without hesitation.
She watched his mouth close over the edge she had bitten and immediately regretted having eyes.
The band started another song. Something louder, bass moving faintly through the table. Garrett balanced the plate in one hand while his other arm rested along the back of the booth behind her, not quite touching her shoulders. She could feel the shape of him anyway.
Two girls approached from the aisle. She recognised both before they reached the table. Sarah and Michaela. Girls she knew in the vague, campus way people knew one another through parties, shared classes, mutual follows, and Garrett Graham.
Sarah smiled first. “Hiii, Garrett.”
Michaela stretched the word into a soft chorus beside her. “Hey.”
Garrett glanced up. His smile was small and polite, no different from the one he had given the girl who donated five dollars to Logan.
Then he said her name. The sound of it in his mouth pulled her attention fully toward him. “You know Sarah and Michaela, right?” he asked.
He didn’t introduce them only to her. Didn’t make her stand beside him while someone else controlled the shape of the conversation. He turned the whole thing toward her as naturally as passing the plate.
She nodded. “A little. Hey.”
Both girls smiled back.
“Hey!” Sarah’s eyes moved between them, then down toward the narrow space that no longer existed between her thigh and Garrett’s. “Wait. Are you guys back together?”
She and Garrett both made the same useless sound.
“Oh, uh–”
“Sorry,” Michaela said immediately, lifting both hands. “Sorry for interrupting.”
Sarah’s smile widened. “So cute. Enjoy your night, guys.”
They were already moving away before either of them managed to correct anything.
“Your earrings are so cute,” Sarah added over her shoulder.
“Thanks,” she called, half a second too late.
The girls disappeared into the crowd without waiting for an answer to the question they had dropped onto the table. She sat very still.
Garrett took another bite of the sandwich. No visible panic. No frantic need to clarify that they weren’t together, technically. No searching glance around the room to see who had heard. No annoyed exhale because someone had made the situation complicated.
He chewed, looked down at the sandwich with genuine concentration, and said, “Fuck, this is good.”
She blinked.
Garrett lifted the other half as though checking whether the bread contained an explanation. “What’s on this?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Is that mustard?”
“Um, probably.”
He took another bite. Something warm rose through her chest too quickly to stop. It pressed at the back of her throat, moved beneath her ribs, and softened every place that had spent the last year preparing to be left standing beside him.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Garrett went still beneath it. Only for a second. Long enough for her lips to register the faint scrape of stubble, the warmth of his skin, the tiny movement in his jaw when his teeth caught the inside of his cheek.
Then his face turned slightly toward hers, not enough to find her mouth, only enough that the corner of his smile brushed near her temple.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. The sandwich stayed lifted halfway between the plate and his mouth while something soft and dangerous settled into the narrow space they shared in the booth.
Then a cymbal crashed through Malone’s. One loud, ugly metallic collision that made half the room flinch and the other half cheer automatically because Dean Di Laurentis had climbed back onto the stage and apparently seized percussion as part of his hosting responsibilities.
Justin recoiled from his own cymbal. “Mate.”
Dean handed the mallet back without remorse and took the microphone. “Thank you.”
The band’s guitarist strummed a sarcastic little flourish behind him. People began turning toward the stage, drinks lifting, conversations folding down into scattered shouts.
Garrett placed the remains of the sandwich onto the plate and slid out of the booth first. He held one hand toward her automatically. She took it before thinking about whether the cheek kiss had changed the terms of anything.
It hadn’t. Or it had, but quietly.
He drew her to her feet, fingers tightening once around hers as the crowd shifted toward the stage. They moved to the rear of it, where Tucker had taken up position with his arms folded and the expression of a man trying to calculate how many laws Dean might violate before the fundraiser ended.
Garrett stopped beside him. She stayed close enough that her arm rested along his, their hands still loosely joined between them.
Dean tapped the microphone twice. The speakers complained.
“Okay, party people.” He looked over the room with the satisfaction of someone who had personally invented public gatherings. “A few of our silent-auction items are currently going for way undervalue, so if you act fast, you could get them for a steal.” He paused, eyebrows lifting. “A steal.”
The room laughed and cheered. Somebody near the auction table immediately turned to check a bid sheet as though Dean had revealed confidential market information.
“Now, um…” Dean glanced down at the card in his hand. “I know there are mostly Boston fans in the house.”
The response rose instantly. Whoops, whistles, several aggressive declarations of Bruins loyalty from people who had probably been born in Connecticut.
“That’s right!” Logan called from beside the stage, one arm raised around the donation bucket.
She joined in, whooping as she caught Garrett’s forearm with both hands and shook it. His body moved barely an inch, but the smile tried to happen anyway. He bit it back, glancing down at her while the noise rolled around them.
Dean waited for everyone to settle. “And as a born and bred New Yorker, I happen to think those people are living a sad, desperate existence–”
Beau threw both arms into the air. “Ow! Ow! New York!”
The cheers broke into boos.
“Get outta here!” Della shouted from behind the bar, pointing a wet tea towel toward the stage.
Dean pressed his free hand over his heart. “Hey! Della! We love you.”
The room laughed again.
“But this one…” Dean drew the phrase out, lifting the card between two fingers. “This one…” His grin widened. “This one’s part of the family.”
Her brows pulled together. Beside her, Garrett stopped moving. It was so small at first that she might have missed it if she hadn’t spent half the night checking the shape of his face across rooms.
His hand went slack inside hers. The warmth remained, but every part of him behind it seemed to draw inward at once.
Dean looked toward the auction table. “I have box seats to a New York Rangers game and a meet and greet with the legend himself, Phil Graham!”
The room exploded. People shouted. Someone whistled so sharply it cut over the speakers. A cluster near the front began clapping before Dean had even finished raising the auction sheet above his head.
Her own body turned before her thoughts caught up. Garrett’s face had emptied. The expression he wore was almost polite, the kind of careful neutrality people mistook for calm because nothing visible had broken through it yet.
His mouth sat flat. His shoulders had risen beneath his jacket. His eyes stayed fixed on Dean for one hard second before dropping to the card in his hand.
She tightened her fingers around his. “Did you–?”
Garrett shook his head once. “Nope.”
The word came clipped enough to leave no room around it. She followed his gaze when it moved past the stage.
Logan stood beside an older man near the donation table, nodding while the man spoke close to his ear over the noise. One hand remained wrapped around the bucket. The other held a folded sheet of paper. Garrett let go of her hand.
“Garrett, don’t–”
She reached for his arm, but he moved before her fingers made contact, cutting through the back of the crowd with his shoulders set hard beneath his jacket.
Tucker’s head turned. “What happened?”
She didn’t answer. There wasn’t time, and there was no version she could offer without opening something Garrett had never given her permission to share.
The cheering had begun to fade behind Dean’s next announcement, but the band had started playing underneath him again, low chords filling the room while people resumed talking. Garrett reached Logan before she did.
The older man saw his face and stepped away immediately, muttering something about checking the auction sheet. Logan looked up, faintly distracted at first.
Then Garrett spoke. She couldn’t hear the opening over the music. Only saw Logan’s brows pull together and Garrett’s hand move once between them, palm cutting sharply toward the stage.
Logan’s expression changed. The donation bucket hit the table beside him with a hollow plastic thud. He said something back.
Garrett shook his head. The tight control in his body began slipping, not into shouting yet, but into the restless, contained anger she knew too well. His fingers opening and closing near his side. His jaw working between sentences.
By the time she reached them, Logan’s voice had climbed high enough to break through the music.
“Are you kidding? All we ever do is think about what you want. Do you know how much hockey costs? Genuine question. ’Cause the kids need the money. I needed the money.”
Garrett stared at him. Logan’s face had gone red, not with embarrassment now. Something older had climbed through it. His shoulders were rigid. The bucket stood between them, already heavy enough with donations that the handle bowed faintly beneath the weight.
“This fundraiser is the only fucking reason I’m here.”
Garrett’s mouth opened. For one second, nothing came out. The anger seemed to catch against something lower in his throat, leaving him looking younger and more exposed than he had any right to in a room this full.
“It’s not all about money.”
Logan scoffed. “Spoken like a person with a shit ton of it.”
Garrett’s face tightened. Phil’s money had paid for equipment, private coaching, camps, travel, every expensive inch of the path that brought him here. It had also purchased access to him, expectation, silence, and whatever else Phil believed came included with the bill.
Logan knew only the first half. She stepped beside Garrett and caught his wrist. The pulse beneath her fingers was fast and hard, tendons pulled tight beneath warm skin.
“Logan, c’mon,” she murmured.
His eyes snapped toward her. “Stay out of it.”
She blinked. The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They landed with the ugly surprise of a door shutting where she hadn’t realised one stood open.
“Hey–”
“Dude–” Garrett started at the same time, his body shifting half a step in front of hers.
Logan scoffed again, dragging one hand roughly through his hair. For a second he looked as though he might say something else. His mouth opened, jaw tight, eyes moving between them.
Then he grabbed the donation bucket and walked away. People parted without looking directly at him. He disappeared toward the far side of the bar, shoulders cutting a hard line through the crowd until the moving bodies swallowed him.
She stared after him. “What the fuck?”
Garrett exhaled. The air left him all at once, taking the fight out of his shoulders without removing any of the tension beneath them. He turned toward her, eyes dropping to the hand she still had around his wrist.
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be.”
“He shouldn’t have said that to you.”
“He’s upset,” she murmured.
“That doesn’t mean he gets to–”
“I know.” Her thumb moved once over his pulse. It had not slowed. “I know.”
Behind them, Dean’s voice carried through the speakers as he moved onto the next auction item, completely unaware that the words part of the family had opened something raw near the edge of the crowd.
She looked up at Garrett. “You okay?”
He nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”
His eyes had already moved past her, finding the stage, the auction table, anywhere that didn’t require him to hold her gaze while he said it. She kept her hand around his wrist.
notes from me – WHEWW how are we feeling? a kind of purely 'canon' chapter, but still some important progress for our babies.
as always lemme know all your thoughts, shit hits the fan next chapter :)
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
pairing – drew starkey x evangeline monroe
summary – when exes drew starkey & evangeline monroe get cast as the leads in an intimate new film, they now have to convince the world they’re in love on screen, while trying very hard not to remember what it felt like when they were in love for real.
warnings – rpf, strong language, marijuana use, nicotine use, emotional distress, dissociative symptoms, prescription medication, cocaine and casual sex.
word count – 12.2k
By six-twelve in the morning, Evangeline has established that combining a gummy with half a brownie doesn’t produce sleep, so much as trap a woman inside her own skull while every thought acquires surround sound.
The brownie had made her limbs heavy and her mouth dry. The gummy had made the ceiling interesting. Together, they had decided the best use of several expensive milligrams was to keep her awake beneath the hotel duvet while she reconstructed tomorrow’s choreography from every available angle, including several angles no camera had requested and one deeply unhelpful point of view from inside Drew’s mouth.
She had considered the pressure of his hand at her waist. The exact distance between their noses. Whether he would taste like coffee or Zyn or the mint Rina kept on the intimacy table. Whether he remembered how she kissed when she was frightened. Whether she remembered how to kiss him without letting her body confess to crimes her mouth had no intention of discussing.
At some point after two, she had opened the call sheet and read SCENE 29 – EXT. BEACH – KATE/TOM until the words separated from meaning. At three-ten, she had eaten two room-service chips cold from the plate beside the bed because Poppy would ask what she’d eaten, and Evangeline wanted enough plausible evidence to survive cross-examination. At four-something, consciousness had left without saying goodbye.
Now she’s sitting beneath the bright bulbs of the hair-and-makeup trailer with a stomach that feels lined in wet newspaper and the unmistakable impression that her own tongue has been stored overnight in a sock.
Dani is working a soft brown pencil beneath her lower lashes while Maribel stands behind the chair dividing Evangeline’s hair into sections for the loose braid that will fall down her back. The style is deceptively undone, which means it’s already involved twenty-seven pins, two kinds of texturising spray and a discussion about whether one face-framing piece looks romantic or merely escaped.
Her blonde curtain bangs have been curved softly over her brows, the lengths around her cheeks left airy and warm, while the rest is drawn back without losing the big, expensive-looking volume Kate’s hair department considers essential to her emotional credibility.
Evangeline looks beautiful. She knows because three professionals have arranged the evidence directly in front of her. She also looks, in her own opinion, like somebody who might vomit into an Hermès bag.
Her right knee has been bouncing for the better part of twelve minutes. The movement runs through the black vinyl chair, into the little metal footrest and back up again in a quick, relentless rhythm she no longer notices until Cailee reaches across from the next station and lays two fingers briefly against the exposed skin above her kneecap.
“Dude,” Cailee says, watching the leg continue beneath her hand. “Your knee is going insane.”
Evangeline looks down as though the limb belongs to somebody else and has only recently entered her field of vision. It is, in fact, moving with the concentrated urgency of a sewing machine. “Oh.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” She presses her heel firmly into the floor. The knee stops for approximately three seconds before beginning again, smaller now but no less committed. “I just need a cigarette. I was late this morning, so I didn’t get one with my coffee.”
Cailee studies her through the mirror. She’s already most of the way into Lila, curls pinned up while someone works concealer near her chin, wearing an enormous grey sweatshirt over costume trousers and eating dry cereal from a paper cup with her free hand. “You were late?”
“Four minutes.”
“That’s not late.”
“It is in Poppy time.”
“You’d slept through two alarms,” Poppy says from near the wardrobe rack, where she is holding Evangeline’s phone, her own phone and a folded call sheet against her chest.
“I was sedated.”
Poppy reaches into the small zip pouch she carries with the bleak preparedness of a field medic and retrieves a silver blister pack. She pushes one square through the foil, crosses the narrow trailer and holds the piece of gum beneath Evangeline’s mouth. “This might help.”
Evangeline takes it immediately. “Thank you.”
“Don’t swallow it.”
She looks at Poppy. “I know how gum works.”
“You ate a lip mask last month.”
Evangeline’s brow furrows. “It had a peach flavour.”
“It wasn’t food.”
She narrows her eyes at her. “Then why did it taste like food?”
Poppy gives her the same expression she usually reserves for emails beginning Just circling back, then returns to the wardrobe rack before Evangeline can mount a defence of edible cosmetics.
The gum is aggressively minty. Evangeline bites down twice, and nicotine blooms sharp against her tongue, medicinal and almost sweet, making the empty centre of her stomach shift in warning. She stops chewing and tucks it between her cheek and teeth the way the packet instructs, then looks at herself again while Dani softens the liner with a tiny brush.
The makeup is prettier than Kate’s usual face. Still lived-in, still brown and smoked around the eyes, but warmer today, with a muted rose pressed into her cheeks and a glossy brown-pink mouth shaped carefully enough that Evangeline feels vaguely accused by it.
Dani has kept the skin luminous rather than polished, the blush high over the cheekbones and bridge of the nose as though Kate has been outside longer than she intended. The whole thing makes her look awake, which Evangeline privately considers one of the morning’s more ambitious acts of fiction.
Behind her, wardrobe has begun unzipping garment bags. The outfit emerges in pieces. The burgundy top first, structured through the body with a soft folded neckline and the faint sheen of fabric that catches light without becoming satin.
Then the tartan mini, dark green, navy, cream and the same deep wine threaded through the check, cut short enough to require several emails and one meeting about wind. A faded denim jacket hangs beside it, old-looking in the expensive, carefully distressed way that means somebody has spent days sanding the seams by hand.
The dark red leather boots are last, tall and narrow with a squared toe, a slim buckle around each ankle and heels high enough to make Evangeline’s balance tomorrow’s insurance problem.
Poppy steps closer to the rack and looks down the length of one boot. “Are those going to be tall enough?”
Nina, kneeling beside an open case of jewellery, glances over. “They’re the approved height.”
“For the blocking, I mean. Her hand was still kind of…” Poppy lifts her own arm and makes an inelegant reaching motion toward an imaginary man several feet above her. “Here yesterday.”
Evangeline continues staring at the mirror, mouth barely moving around the gum. “I always used to make it work just fine.”
The trailer goes quiet in exactly two places. Cailee stops with a cornflake halfway to her mouth. Poppy’s hand remains suspended near the boot. In the mirror, their eyes meet over Evangeline’s shoulders with such immediate, appalled comprehension that the meaning of her own sentence reaches Evangeline a full second late.
Her eyes widen. The gum presses sharply beneath her tongue.
“Oh,” she says.
Cailee lowers the cereal very slowly. Poppy blinks once.
Evangeline’s gaze darts first toward Dani, then Maribel, then Nina and the two wardrobe assistants near the rack. Dani is selecting between two nearly identical lip glosses with the focus of a bomb technician. Maribel has three pins between her lips and both hands buried in the middle of Evangeline’s braid. Nina and wardrobe are arguing quietly about whether the watch should sit over the jacket cuff or beneath it. Nobody has heard.
Evangeline lets out the breath trapped beneath her ribs.
Cailee’s mouth pulls inward, fighting an expression that could end several friendships before breakfast.
“Don’t,” Evangeline murmurs.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Poppy looks down at the boots again with the grave interest of someone examining evidence at a scene. “So they’ll be tall enough.”
Evangeline closes her eyes. “Poppy.”
“What? I’m confirming.”
“Confirm silently.”
“Okay,” she mutters.
Cailee puts the cereal into her mouth and looks toward the opposite wall while chewing, shoulders moving once with the effort not to laugh. Evangeline points at her through the mirror.
The nicotine finally begins doing something. The frantic little itch under her skin dulls by half a degree. Her knee slows. The empty nausea remains, though it now has mint around the edges.
Dani asks her to relax her mouth. Evangeline hadn’t realised it was tense until the instruction arrives. She loosens her jaw, lets Dani paint gloss over the lower lip, and watches the colour complete the face in the mirror.
Hands move around her. Maribel’s fingers work through the braid, tugging sections loose by careful fractions so it falls soft rather than bridal. Dani blots one edge of the mouth. Someone behind them runs a steamer down the burgundy top, the fabric sighing faintly beneath the heat. Radios murmur near the open door.
Outside, the studio lot is beginning to pale into morning, production carts moving through the cold, coffee carriers passing between people in quilted jackets and wool hats.
Evangeline remains in the middle of it and begins to disappear. The trailer continues at full volume while something inside her steps half a pace backward. Her own face holds still in the mirror. The pink in the cheeks. The brown mouth. The pale blue eyes fixed slightly above themselves.
She sees Dani’s hand cross near her jaw and doesn’t connect it to touch. Maribel says something about the elastic at the end of the braid and the words reach Evangeline flattened, stripped of urgency. Cailee laughs at somebody near the sink. A drawer closes. A hairdryer starts at the opposite station and fills the trailer with warm white noise.
Evangeline looks at her mouth. Tomorrow has been changed into today while she wasn’t paying attention. Today she will kiss Drew again. The tiny demon inside her lifts its head.
It isn’t a dignified demon. It has none of the gothic grandeur the situation perhaps deserves. It’s a stupid little thing with bright eyes and no sense of self-preservation, sitting somewhere behind her ribs and kicking its heels because, beneath the nausea and rage and four years of scar tissue, it’s excited.
She gets to kiss him again.
Evangeline imagines producing an enormous cartoon hammer from behind her back and striking the thought repeatedly until it becomes a dark little stain on the floor of her brain.
It survives, of course. Wanting him has survived worse.
She tries to remember their last kiss instead. The attempt produces nothing at first. She knows there had been one. There must have been. People don’t spend nearly a year in love and then simply stop mouths without a final occurrence.
But Sicily has swallowed the weeks around it, compressed the last part of the relationship into unanswered photographs, calls with bad timing and the sound of Drew saying yes after she asked whether he was leaving.
After White Lotus wrapped, Iris had taken her away for several days because staying alone in Sicily had become impossible and returning immediately to any place Drew had visited felt worse.
Evangeline remembers pieces of that trip without order. A hotel corridor with dark red walls. Sunlight entering through shutters she couldn’t close properly. Iris pouring pills from a prescription bottle into her palm and asking whether she had eaten. Evangeline saying probably.
There had been wine in the morning because morning had ceased carrying moral distinction. Joints on balconies. Somebody’s little packet passed across a bathroom counter while music pushed through the walls from a party she hadn’t wanted to attend until being alone became more frightening.
There had been people. Men, one person whose name Evangeline forgot while their hand was still beneath her shirt. Mouths in lifts, against tiled walls, in the back seat of a car Iris had ordered and then abandoned after one look at Evangeline’s face. She had kissed strangers with a kind of punitive enthusiasm, trying to create enough new sensation that Drew would be crowded out through lack of space.
Every unfamiliar mouth made his more precise. The curve of his lower lip. The small sound he made when she kissed him without warning. His fingers finding her jaw, because he liked holding her face when the rest of the world became less important.
She had woken beside people and felt lonelier than she did alone. Showered until the water turned cold, scraped at lipstick near the corners of her mouth, swallowed painkillers and told Iris she was fine with enough venom to make the word radioactive. None of it had worked.
Evangeline looks more closely at herself in the mirror and searches backward beyond Sicily. Before the call. Before the unanswered gold dress. Before every conversation became a small failed negotiation around time.
The last kiss must have happened in Los Angeles. The memory arrives gently enough that she almost misses the door opening.
Morning light through Drew’s apartment. The particular weak silver of too early, blinds still half closed, his kitchen untouched behind her except for a glass near the sink and a packet of cigarettes beside the balcony door. Her suitcase waiting in the hallway. Shoes on, coat over one arm, car already downstairs because she was flying to Sicily and would miss him before the lift reached the lobby.
Drew had walked her to the door shirtless in grey sweats, still soft with sleep, hair flattened at one side and his face rough because he hadn’t shaved. He had one hand around her waist from behind while she tried to check whether her passport was still in the outside pocket of her bag, his body curved over hers with the useless attachment of a man pretending departure was not occurring if he made movement difficult enough.
“You’re making me late,” she had said, laughing through a yawn.
“Mm.”
“Baby.”
He had buried his face in the side of her neck instead of responding, mouth warm against skin still cool from the apartment. One kiss beneath her ear. Another over the slope of her shoulder where her top had shifted. Then her jaw, lazy and half asleep, his stubble catching enough to make her squirm.
Evangeline had tipped her head away, grinning. “You’re scratchy.”
Drew made a low sound of disagreement directly against her throat and kissed her there again with exaggerated offence.
She turned inside his arms. He looked tired and beautiful and entirely hers. No costume, no careful public face, no room full of people requiring either of them to behave. Just her Drew in the doorway with sleep still lowering his eyes and his hands warm beneath her shirt.
He had bent farther, one hand coming beneath her chin. Thumb near the corner of her mouth. Guided her up rather than pulling her in, because even then he had always made the movement feel like something they completed together.
The kiss was slow. Sleepy. Nothing desperate in it because they had both believed another would follow. His mouth moved against hers with the unremarkable intimacy of routine, lips warm, nose brushing hers when he changed the angle, his other arm drawing her close enough that the edge of her suitcase pressed into the back of her calf.
When he lifted his head, he nudged his nose once against hers. “Fly safe, baby.”
Evangeline had nodded, still close enough that her mouth caught his on the movement. “I’ll call when I’m there.”
“Okay.” Drew kissed her once more, brief this time, and opened the door. “Bye, sweet girl.”
“Love you.”
His whole face changed. A grin, quiet and certain, the one that used to make her feel as though she had given him something rather than admitted something dangerous. “Love you more.”
Evangeline stepped into the hallway backward, one hand still around the suitcase handle. “Not possible.”
Drew laughed. The door had remained open while she reached the lift. She remembers that suddenly. Him standing in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, watching her with his arms folded loosely over his bare chest. Evangeline pressing the button. Looking back. Smiling because there was no tragedy in the room yet, only distance with a return attached to it.
The lift opened. She went inside. That was the last kiss. A quiet doorway in Los Angeles, his thumb beneath her chin, both of them certain love would still be there when she landed.
“Evangeline.”
The name reaches her from far away. She keeps looking at the mirror. The woman there has gone very still. Her lips are parted slightly, gloss catching beneath the bulbs. One loose piece of blonde hair rests against her cheek. Her eyes appear focused but aren’t attached to anything currently inside the trailer.
“Ev.” A hand moves near her shoulder without touching. “Evangeline.”
She blinks.
Poppy’s beside the chair. The trailer returns around her in one abrupt, inelegant piece: the hairdryer, the steamer, Cailee’s cereal cup, Maribel securing the final pin near the braid, Dani wiping down the counter. The nicotine gum has gone bitter between her teeth.
Evangeline looks up at Poppy. “Hey.”
Poppy’s face is arranged carefully. The soft attentive expression she uses when Evangeline has missed a schedule update or several consecutive seconds of her own life.
“Hey.” Poppy crouches beside the chair, lowering herself until their faces are nearly level without making the interaction visible to the whole trailer. “Drew’s freaking out.”
The brick inside Evangeline’s throat returns so quickly it feels dropped. “What?”
“Not, like, crazy freaking out.” Poppy lowers her voice further. “I just overheard him talking to Rina outside. He confirmed the same stuff about the kiss over and over and over. The first contact, the break, where his hand goes, whether the second one is still three seconds. Then he asked if you’d changed anything and she said she hadn’t spoken to you yet, and he asked her to check.”
Evangeline stares at her. The demon voice inside her goes quiet. Not dead. Merely listening.
Poppy continues carefully, “He looked nervous.”
Something small and unpleasantly warm shifts behind Evangeline’s ribs. She crushes it immediately beneath irritation because irritation remains available and has already put shoes on.
“Good,” she says. Her voice comes flatter than intended. “He should be nervous.”
Poppy watches her for one beat. Then she nods. “Okay.”
The answer contains no argument, which somehow irritates Evangeline more. She uncrosses her ankles and stands before anybody can ask whether the sudden movement is wise. The chair rolls backward by an inch. Maribel catches the end of the braid automatically, saving it from the metal hinge with a small sound of alarm.
“You’re done,” Maribel tells her, bringing the braid gently over one shoulder for inspection before letting it fall again. “Just don’t sleep on it, fight anybody or get into an open-top car.”
“No promises.”
Dani steps in front of her and presses one finger lightly beneath Evangeline’s lower lip, checking the gloss. Poppy has risen beside her. Evangeline looks toward the wardrobe rack, where Nina is holding the burgundy top against the skirt while an assistant clips the watch and earrings onto a labelled card.
“Those clothes for me?”
Nina turns. “Unless Drew’s decided he wants the skirt.”
“Wouldn’t fit his hips.”
The reply comes without thought. Poppy’s eyes close briefly. Cailee coughs into her cereal cup.
Evangeline points toward both of them without looking. “Nobody speak.”
Nina, blessedly unaware of the surrounding emotional debris, lifts the garment bag from the rail. “They want you dressed and ready before we head down to the beach. Boots last, because I don’t want you walking around the trailer steps in those heels.”
“Fair.”
“The jacket’s part of the costume, but Celeste wants it off before the first kiss. We’ll walk it once when you get down there.”
Evangeline’s stomach contracts around nothing. She takes the garment bag. The clear plastic crackles in her grip.
“Jewellery is in the pocket. Bag will go with props once we’re on location. Don’t put anything personal in it.”
The changing room at the back of the trailer is barely large enough for Evangeline and the garment bag. She closes the narrow folding door, hooks the outfit against the wall and stands there for a moment with both hands around the hanger.
Beyond the partition, the trailer continues as though she hasn’t stepped into a smaller box to prepare for disaster. Cailee asks somebody whether there’s more coffee. Dani tells her not until the lip colour sets. Poppy responds to an email. A wardrobe assistant searches for the second gold hoop and finds it where she left it.
Evangeline removes her oversized sweater and the soft black shorts she wore from the hotel. Her skin rises instantly beneath the cold trailer air. There are faint creases across her stomach from sitting, a small bruise near one knee she doesn’t remember earning, the pale mark at her hip from the elastic of her underwear.
The burgundy top pulls on over her head and fits close through the ribs, softer than a corset but structured enough to alter the way she holds herself. Nina has lined the interior so nothing scratches, every seam sitting flush beneath the fabric. The neckline folds low over her chest without becoming fragile, the colour making her skin look warmer than she feels.
The skirt fastens at one side. Short, yes. But cut with enough weight that it falls properly over her hips rather than floating away from them. Dark tartan, neat and slightly severe, the wine stripe picking up the top. Kate dressed like a woman who has decided being looked at is not the same as asking permission.
Evangeline slides on the gold hoops, then the rectangular watch with its dark leather band. When she opens the changing-room door, everyone looks up. Cailee smiles. Dani tilts her head. Maribel’s eyes go immediately to how the hair sits against the top. Poppy looks over the full outfit once and then down toward Evangeline’s bare feet.
“Cute,” Cailee says.
Evangeline steps fully into the trailer. “I feel like a very expensive substitute teacher.”
“A hot substitute teacher,” Cailee corrects.
“The most dangerous category.”
Nina kneels to smooth the skirt at one hip, then has Evangeline turn. The braid lies loose down the centre of her back, reaching just below the shoulder blades, sections pulled soft enough that it looks as though somebody with a very gentle hand made it in a moving car. The faded denim jacket goes over the top next. Its shape is boxy and worn, heavier through the shoulders, the collar lifting around the hair.
“Arms,” Nina says.
Evangeline raises them. The jacket moves cleanly without dragging the top. Nina checks the skirt, steps back and nods. “Good.”
Poppy appears with the boots. Up close, the leather is even darker, somewhere between oxblood and old wine, polished along the calves and dulled slightly near the toes so they look owned rather than delivered. Evangeline sits again while Poppy unfastens the narrow ankle buckles and Nina eases the first boot over her foot.
The heel changes everything. One boot, then the other, and Evangeline rises several inches into a version of herself with longer legs and slightly fewer excuses. She stands slowly, testing the balance. The boots come almost to her knees, fitted through the calves, the squared heels stable enough to walk in and tall enough that when she lifts her hand toward an imaginary neck, the angle no longer resembles maintenance work.
Poppy watches the demonstration. “Tall enough?”
Evangeline lowers her arm. “Shut up.”
Cailee, now standing near her own chair while somebody removes clips from her hair, looks Evangeline over and gives a small approving nod. “You look really good.”
“Thank you.” Evangeline pulls the jacket closed over the top. “I feel like roadkill.”
“You don’t look like roadkill.”
“Most roadkill doesn’t have Dani.”
Dani points one brush at her. “Correct.”
Someone knocks against the open trailer door and calls that transport is ready to begin moving cast toward the beach. The words alter the air around Evangeline. A tightening beneath the burgundy fabric, the body drawing inward against something it knows is coming.
Poppy steps closer and holds out Evangeline’s sunglasses. “You need anything before we go?”
A cigarette. A different life. The ability to perform a controlled memory wipe with household objects.
“No.”
“Water?”
“I’ll throw it at someone.”
Poppy nods, accepting that. “Okay. Later.”
“Gum’s helping.”
Poppy looks toward her mouth. “You need to throw it away before set.”
Evangeline takes the gum from between her teeth, wraps it in the little paper Poppy produces from nowhere and presses it into her hand. “Happy?”
“Deeply.”
The steps outside the trailer are narrow. Evangeline takes them carefully, one hand on the rail, boots landing with small hard sounds against the metal. Morning has fully arrived across base camp now, pale sunlight slipping between cloud and ocean while production moves in every direction at once. The beach lies beyond the line of trucks and tents, water silver in the distance.
Wind catches the end of her braid. The denim jacket shifts around her waist. Someone from wardrobe approaches with a long coat to keep her warm between takes, but Evangeline barely sees them.
Drew is standing near the edge of the sand with Rina.He’s already in costume. Dark trousers, black boots, a worn shirt beneath a long jacket. Theo stands several feet away holding Drew’s phone and sunglasses, giving the conversation privacy without pretending he isn’t there to collect anything Drew drops.
Rina is speaking. Drew is listening with his head lowered, then asks something. Rina answers. He asks again, one hand moving toward the ring on his finger before stopping halfway, as if he has remembered the rings belong to costume and cannot be used the way his own usually are.
Poppy had been right. He looks nervous. It exists in the fixed line of his shoulders, the way his jaw moves before Rina finishes speaking, the extra nod he gives after understanding something the first time.
Evangeline watches him for one second too long. The demon inside her sits up again. She brings the comically large hammer down.
It misses.
The drive to the beach takes forty-three minutes and feels like a punishment designed by somebody who hates both actors and coastline. Evangeline sits in the second row of the black SUV with one boot braced carefully against the rubber floor mat so the heel doesn’t catch when the car turns, sunglasses over her eyes despite the morning remaining grey and Poppy beside her answering messages with the soft, furious tapping of a woman already managing six problems nobody else has noticed.
The garment bag containing Kate’s coat hangs from the hook behind the driver. Her prop handbag sits buckled into the seat opposite like a very small, burgundy passenger with better boundaries than anyone else in the vehicle.
The beach appears through the tinted windows in brief, taunting flashes and then disappears again behind houses, cliffs, parked cars, a landscaping truck occupying most of one lane and one cyclist committed to travelling directly through the centre of production’s schedule.
By the time they reach base camp, Evangeline has swallowed half a bottle of water despite telling Poppy she would throw it at someone, and read the same four lines of scene twenty-nine enough times that the words have begun looking borrowed.
The location is already alive when she steps out. White tents pulling at their ropes in the wind, carts tracking over boards laid across the sand, crew carrying equipment toward the water with their shoulders hunched against the cold. The sky is a soft flat grey above the Pacific, brighter near the horizon without committing to sun. Everything smells like salt, diesel, damp canvas and coffee.
Evangeline lasts nine minutes. That is, technically, impressive. Nine full minutes of standing near wardrobe while Nina checks the fall of the skirt beneath the jacket, letting Maribel pin the loose section beside her ear more securely, pretending to listen while Poppy tells her which trailer contains the heated toilet and which contains the toilet that merely looks heated on the map.
Then she says, “I need a cigarette,” with the quiet conviction of someone announcing an organ transplant.
Poppy glances toward the clock on her phone. “They want you down for blocking in twenty.”
“I can smoke in four, I’ve timed myself.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
Evangeline’s already walking toward the narrow side of the wardrobe tent where the wind breaks slightly against a stack of folded barricades. She takes the cigarette from the packet, catches it between her lips and cups both hands around the lighter. The first flame goes out. The second catches, bright and warm near her fingers, tobacco drawing inward with one hard orange breath.
The relief is immediate and deeply annoying. Her shoulders lower beneath Kate’s faded denim jacket. Smoke fills the back of her throat, bitter and familiar, taking some of the sharpness out of the nicotine hunger while leaving every other problem entirely intact.
Poppy stands several feet away with both arms folded, looking toward the water with the deliberate privacy of somebody who is absolutely keeping count.
Evangeline inhales again. “Stop supervising me.”
“I’m cold.”
“Then get a cigarette.”
Poppy looks at her then. “Drew’s quitting.”
Evangeline’s eyes narrow over the filter. “I’m aware.”
She’s aware because the Zyn tin appeared on the balcony in his hand where the cigarette should have been. Because she has spent the last week noticing every time he presses his tongue briefly against the inside of his upper lip. Because her brain remains committed to cataloguing Drew Starkey’s oral habits while claiming it would prefer him dead.
She finishes only half the cigarette. The ember dies beneath her shoe in the portable metal tray, and before the smoke has fully left her lungs she’s unwrapping two pieces of gum.
Poppy looks down at her hand. “Two?”
“I don’t want to taste like a nightclub pavement.”
“You’ll make yourself sick.”
“I’m already sick,” Evangeline mumbles.
“That doesn’t mean you should try and make it worse.”
Evangeline puts both pieces into her mouth and begins chewing with punitive force. Mint floods over the smoke, cold enough to sting behind her eyes. She reaches into Poppy’s pouch without permission, takes another strip and receives a slap against the wrist.
“No.”
“One more.”
Poppy holds the pouch behind her back. “You’ll have a mouth full of gum when you’re meant to be kissing someone.”
The sentence lands badly. Evangeline stops chewing for half a second, jaw suspended while the ocean moves in and out somewhere beyond the tents. Then she holds out her palm. “Fine. Tissue.”
Poppy gives her one.
By the time Rina calls both actors toward the water, Evangeline has disposed of the gum, rinsed her mouth twice, accepted a mint and become convinced her tongue is now too cold to belong to her.
Drew is already near the first mark. The long jacket hangs open over Tom’s shirt, dark trousers moving around his boots when the wind comes across the water.
His hair has been shaped into that slightly grown-out, spiked thing Tom wears at this point in the film, short enough near the temples to expose the little hoop, longer at the crown and back in a way that should suggest poor judgement and instead makes Evangeline want to commit a crime against the hair department.
Rina stands between them with the binder open despite knowing every beat. Celeste is farther back beside camera, speaking to the DP while shielding the monitor with one hand from the light. Crew are still making final adjustments around the track. Somebody kneels near the wet sand to replace a marker the tide has already tried to claim.
Everything takes forever. A sound check. A wind check. Hair steps in, then out. Wardrobe adjusts the back of Evangeline’s jacket, then decides the jacket will come off before the first position because Kate has already thrown it toward the sand in the preceding section of the argument.
The hem of the skirt is inspected for continuity. One of Drew’s boots has collected something pale near the sole and must be brushed clean despite the fact that they’re standing on a beach.
Evangeline remains on her mark in her stupid beautiful boots, bouncing faintly through her knees to keep warm. A small up-down movement inside the leather, her toes flexing against the soles while the wind slips over the bare skin above them.
Drew watches her. His gaze lands near her feet while Rina speaks, then travels up the line of the boots, the tartan hem moving at her thighs, the burgundy top, her face. Evangeline looks back before he can pretend otherwise.
He looks nervous. His shoulders are held too carefully beneath Tom’s jacket, and his mouth has flattened slightly at one side. His fingers close once near his thigh before finding nothing to occupy them. No rings today beyond costume, none familiar enough to turn without thought.
Evangeline doesn’t know why he’s nervous. He broke up with her. Over the phone. While she was half dressed for a press dinner with one earring in. He made a decision involving both their lives and completed it from another fucking country. Surely a three-second closed-mouth kiss on a controlled set should sit somewhere beneath that on the emotional difficulty scale.
The fucker.
Rina closes the binder. “Same choreography as yesterday. First contact is three seconds, separate, breath, second contact. No tongue. Wrist pressure remains light. Drew, guide through the waist, not the jaw. Evangeline steps into the movement. If either of you wants to stop, say stop and we stop.”
They both nod.
Rina looks at Evangeline first. “Still good with the wrist?”
“Yes.”
“Waist?”
“Yes.”
“Jaw?”
Evangeline feels the remembered shape of his hand before he’s moved. “Yes.”
Rina turns to Drew. “Upper arm, neck and hair remain approved as discussed. Still comfortable?”
“Yeah.”
His voice is rough. Evangeline looks at him again. Drew’s eyes stay on Rina until the question is finished, then shift to Evangeline with an attention that seems to arrive all at once. The crew around them fades into practical movement: slate being prepared, a reflector turned, somebody pressing a hand to their headset.
He studies her face. The wind has reddened the end of her nose despite makeup. One strand near her cheek keeps lifting and settling. Her body has stopped bouncing now that he’s looking at it.
“Still okay?” he asks.
The question is quieter than Rina’s. Something he needs separately. Evangeline nods. “Yeah.”
His shoulders lower by an amount so small she resents being able to see it.
“Alright,” Rina says. “I’ll be beside camera. We stop at cut, even if Celeste lets the beat hold. Keep the agreed duration.”
Celeste walks toward them, coat open and expression bright with the dangerous calm of someone about to acquire footage she has wanted for months.
“First one is only for shape,” she says. “Don’t chase anything. Kate thinks she can turn away. Tom thinks pulling her back is funny until she’s actually there. Let it surprise both of you a little.”
Evangeline looks at the ocean. “Nothing like planned surprise.”
Celeste smiles. “Exactly.”
They take their beginning positions. Kate is several steps ahead, shoulders tight beneath the argument, chin lifted toward the path leading away from the water. Tom stands behind her on the darker sand, close enough to follow and far enough that following must become a choice.
The slate snaps. “Action.”
Evangeline walks. One step, then another, heel pressing cleanly into the firm sand. Kate’s anger holds her upright, the rhythm quick but not hurried. She hears Drew move behind her at exactly the point they rehearsed.
His hand closes around her wrist. Light pressure. Warm fingers around the narrow bones. The contact turns her before the thought of turning arrives. Drew tugs, controlled and quick, and Evangeline lets her balance travel backward with a small performed stumble that brings her against his chest.
Tom grins. The expression catches her wrong-footed despite being in the scene: pleased with himself, breathless from the argument, warmth moving beneath the arrogance because he has her near him again.
A little laugh escapes Kate. Barely more than air. Evangeline lets it happen. Drew’s left hand comes to her waist and steadies her. His palm settles through the thin fabric of the top, broad and warm at her side. His right releases the wrist and rises along the blocked route to her jaw, fingertips beneath the ear, thumb still beneath the cheekbone.
Evangeline tilts her face upward. Her right hand finds his upper arm. Her left reaches behind his head, fingers settling lightly into the short, soft hair near the back.
Drew lowers his face. The first contact is gentle enough to feel almost formal. His mouth presses to hers, warm through the mint she’s spent ten minutes manufacturing, lips fitting with an accuracy so immediate her body goes rigid beneath the costume.
Evangeline tries to leave. Kate remains exactly where the blocking placed her, one hand at Drew’s arm and the other behind his head. But Evangeline steps backward inside herself and reaches for somebody else.
Jacob. A costar. A man she kissed at a party in Paris and never spoke to again. Anyone whose mouth has no history attached to it.
It’s useless. This is Drew. Her Drew, some stupid buried part of her supplies before she can strike it. He feels the same.
The exact same pressure at the centre of his mouth, the softness of the lower lip beneath hers, the tiny adjustment he makes after the first beat as if confirming the fit. The warmth of his hand at her jaw. The way his breath catches low through his nose when she tilts slightly closer.
Three seconds. They separate on count, mouths parting cleanly while the rest of their bodies remain held in place. Their foreheads settle near one another, not fully touching, breath sharing the narrow air between them. Evangeline keeps her eyes lowered. Drew’s hand remains at her jaw until the beat ends.
“Cut.”
Both step back. The movement is immediate and mutual, enough space opening between them for crew to enter. Rina’s attention moves over their faces. Hair and makeup hover without approaching yet. Celeste stares at the monitor for several seconds, one hand pressed near her mouth.
“Good,” she says eventually. “Yeah. Okay.”
Evangeline’s lungs finally finish the inhale they began before the kiss.
Celeste looks up. “Let’s go again. First kiss, I get it. There’s a little awareness of doing it correctly. Make it look more comfortable, okay?”
A tiny sound moves through the crew. Not laughter exactly, but close.
Drew nods. “Yeah.”
Evangeline swallows. “Sure.”
Comfortable. Excellent.
She returns to her starting mark while somebody smooths the back of her skirt and Rina confirms the pressure remains good. Drew takes his own place. He rubs one thumb once across the side of his index finger, searching for a ring that isn’t there, then drops both hands.
The second take begins. Again, Kate walks. Again, Tom catches her wrist and draws her back. This time Evangeline allows the stumble to soften earlier, body turning into him instead of arriving against him with that first fraction of resistance.
Drew steadies her waist. His fingers spread more naturally, less conscious of each individual contact point. When his hand comes to her jaw, Evangeline doesn’t brace before it lands.
She lifts her face. Her fingers move behind his head. Their mouths meet. The kiss is still choreographed. Still counted. No tongue, no improvisation, nothing the agreed frame cannot contain. But Evangeline lets her lips soften beneath his instead of holding them in place like equipment. Drew responds immediately, the pressure changing by one careful degree, his mouth moving once against hers rather than merely resting there.
Her body recognises the difference and opens around it. The hand at his upper arm stops performing contact and begins holding. Her thumb shifts against the fabric near his sleeve. The breath she meant to keep controlled leaves faintly through her nose and touches his cheek.
Drew’s palm settles more fully at her waist. Three seconds pass much faster this time.
They break. Foreheads near. Their breathing mingles once before Celeste calls, “Cut.”
Evangeline steps back before her mouth can object.
Celeste is smiling at the monitor. “Much better. Much, much better.”
The praise moves through Evangeline without finding anywhere useful to land.
“Can we do one more?” Celeste asks, already knowing the answer. “Let’s take a moment to reset.”
Crew flood the space between them. Dani reaches Evangeline first with lip colour and a cotton bud. Maribel comes behind, lifting the loose braid away from the back of the burgundy top and smoothing the strands near her cheek. Somebody drapes a puffer over Evangeline’s shoulders without putting her arms through it because wardrobe still needs access to the clothes.
“Press your lips together,” Dani says.
Evangeline obeys. Her mouth feels too large. Or too awake. The gloss has shifted slightly at the centre, enough that Dani uses the cotton bud to clean beneath the lower lip before repainting it with a fine brush.
“Don’t chew them,” she murmurs.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Evangeline releases the lower lip from between her teeth. A few feet away, Drew is receiving the same repair. A makeup artist presses powder near his nose, then uses one finger to check the corner of his mouth. Hair steps in after her.
His spiked hair has been disturbed where Evangeline’s fingers went into it. The strands at the back are pushed the wrong way, one section near his temple lifted slightly. The hairstylist dampens her fingers and moves it back into Tom’s controlled disorder.
Drew stands still through it, gaze lowered toward the sand, and then he looks up. Their eyes meet over the shoulders of the people repairing them.
Neither smiles. The air between them has acquired a strange density, as though the kiss remains there after their mouths have been separated and powdered. Evangeline can feel the exact place his hand held her waist beneath the jacket resting over her shoulders. Heat in a five-fingered pattern, impossible through fabric and apparently unconcerned with physics.
Drew’s chest lifts beneath Tom’s shirt. His jaw tightens once. Maribel asks Evangeline to turn her head. The look breaks. The puffer is removed. Wardrobe smooths the skirt again. Rina comes in close enough that neither actor has to raise their voice.
“Any changes?” she asks.
“No,” Evangeline says.
Drew answers a fraction later. “No.”
“Pressure okay?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
Rina looks between them, simply checking that both answers belong to the present rather than momentum. “Good. Same choreography. Same boundaries. Hold to the counts.”
They reset. Evangeline walks back toward her first mark and feels every part of her body move separately. The boots pressing into sand. The skirt brushing high against her thighs. The pulse low in her throat. Her fingertips tingling from Drew’s hair as though the strands have left static behind.
Something has changed. Nothing anybody could write into a production report. But every molecule in Evangeline’s body appears to have turned toward him. Skin, muscle, breath, all of it leaning internally in one stupid direction while she stands several feet away pretending to be a woman trying to leave.
Drew feels altered too. She can see it in the way he holds himself at the starting mark, shoulders no longer rigid but charged, hands loose at his sides because any other position would reveal too much. His gaze rests on her back before action has been called. It feels like his whole body is reaching.
Celeste settles beside the monitor. The beach quiets. “Action.”
Kate walks away. One step. Two. Tom catches her wrist.
The grip is still light, still exactly approved, but Drew draws her back with more confidence this time, the movement quick enough to put the wind through Evangeline’s braid. She turns into him and lets the grin arrive before she can decide whether it belongs to Kate.
It curves slowly, private and bright at one corner as she looks up through her lashes. Her teeth catch her bottom lip. Neither action is in the script.
Drew sees both. His gaze drops to her mouth with such clean immediacy that the space beneath Evangeline’s ribs contracts. Drew looking at the place his mouth has already been twice and visibly losing one useful thought.
His hand closes around her waist. The fingers settle harder than before, no longer cautious enough to feel impersonal. His other hand comes to her jaw, palm warm along the side of her face, fingers spreading beneath her ear.
Evangeline’s hand goes to his upper arm. Her left reaches behind his neck. Drew lowers his head. Their mouths meet, and the third kiss isn’t comfortable. It’s familiar. That’s worse.
The first pressure lands and their bodies answer it before either actor can complete the planned shape. Evangeline’s arm curls more securely around the back of Drew’s neck, no longer fingertips resting in his hair but her forearm drawing him nearer. His hand tightens at her waist, pulling her fully against him until the front of her body meets his through wool, cotton and whatever remains of professional judgement.
The hand at her jaw changes too. His fingers press with the old pressure she liked, firmer near the hinge, thumb held beneath the cheekbone so her face feels supported rather than restrained.
Her body knows what it means. Her mouth opens only in the small natural movement of changing pressure, nothing crossing the no-tongue boundary, but the kiss deepens anyway through angle and force. Drew’s lower lip catches between hers. She releases it slowly.
A sound slips from him. Tiny. Involuntary. Low against her mouth, more breath than voice. Evangeline swallows it.
The sensation travels through her with a violence entirely disproportionate to its volume. Her heels lift from the sand inside the tall boots, bringing her higher against him. She presses closer without needing the hand at her waist to guide her now, chest fitting against his, stomach drawn tight beneath the burgundy top.
Drew holds her there. His fingers flex around her side, the heel of his palm pressing more fully through the fabric. The hand at her jaw remains careful even while the rest of him forgets to look controlled.
Their mouths move again. No tongue. No boundary crossed. Only lips, pressure, breath and the devastating fact that restraint can still contain too much.
Drew makes another small sound against her. This one catches faintly at the back of his throat. Evangeline sighs into his mouth before she can stop herself. It feels so fucking good.
The admission arrives physically rather than in language. A warm collapse beneath her sternum. The muscles along her spine giving up their tight little protest. Her fingers closing at the back of his neck and drawing him down as though the past four years have been one long, stupid interruption between kisses.
She hates that it feels good. Hates his mouth for being exactly right. Hates the old instinctive turn of his head, the way he accommodates her height without thinking, the steadiness of his hand holding her where he brought her.
He broke up with her. He left her on a hotel floor with one earring and a dead phone. She should not want this. She wants it so badly her body has become a single continuous ache moving toward him.
The count has passed. Neither of them stops.
The set notices before they do. Silence gathers beyond the kiss, not the ordinary working quiet but something more complete, every practical sound withdrawing from the space around their bodies.
Drew kisses her once more, slow and firm. Evangeline answers with the same pressure, rising higher into the boots, her nose brushing his when the angle shifts, then they break.
Only because breath becomes necessary. Only because some remaining professional instinct yanks the cord. Their mouths separate by less than an inch. Evangeline follows his. The movement is tiny and immediate, chin lifting, lips reaching after the warmth before she catches herself. She stops with the tip of her nose nearly touching his.
Drew sees it. His eyes open fully. Evangeline’s do too. They remain held together everywhere else. His hand at her waist. His palm against her jaw. Her arm around his neck. Their chests lifting hard against each other while both breathe into the narrow space between their mouths.
Drew’s pupils have gone wide enough to darken the blue. His gaze moves over her face with no attempt at disguise now. Her eyes. Her mouth. Back again. Searching, startled, almost frightened by whatever answer he thinks he’s just received.
Evangeline searches him too. She feels his breath against her damp lower lip. Mint, coffee, something warm and bodily beneath both. His mouth is slightly parted. The lower lip looks darker where hers has pressed against it.
Neither remembers the forehead position. Neither remembers anything.
“Cut,” Celeste says. The word enters late. For half a second, nobody moves. Then her voice rises, delighted and genuinely stunned. “Holy shit! That was incredible.”
Drew steps back. Immediately. His hands leave Evangeline so quickly that cold air strikes every place at once. Waist. Jaw. Chest. The arm around his neck falls through empty space before she lowers it to her side.
Drew lifts one hand and wipes his thumb over his bottom lip. The gesture is probably practical. Lip colour. Moisture. An actor checking what has transferred before makeup reaches him.
Evangeline sees rejection. It arrives whole, no hearing offered, no evidence admitted in defence. His body leaving hers. His thumb erasing the place she touched. The same retreat repeated in a new language, faster now because she followed his mouth and he noticed.
Her chest closes around the interpretation. Drew looks at her. Whatever is on his face doesn’t reach her in time. Concern, shock, want, panic – it all arrives blurred behind the clean fact of distance.
Evangeline steps back too. She blinks once. The wind catches beneath her lashes, useful enough to blame. A second blink moves the wetness but doesn’t clear it. She presses her lips together, tasting him and the brown-pink gloss and the faint medicinal remains of nicotine gum.
Crew begin moving again. Celeste is saying something to the DP about the final beat, about the silence afterward, about how neither of them should change a fucking thing. Rina watches both actors from beside camera, attention sharpening when Evangeline’s hand curls near her thigh.
Someone arrives with the puffer jacket. Evangeline takes it before they can help her into it. “Thanks.”
Her voice is steady enough. She pushes one arm into the oversized sleeve, then the other, dragging the warmth around herself until the burgundy top and the place Drew held her disappear beneath black quilting.
“Ev–” Poppy begins from several feet away.
“I need the bathroom.”
Drew says her name at the same time. “Evangeline.”
She doesn’t look at him. The puffer hangs nearly to her knees, leaving only the dark red boots visible beneath it as she turns toward base camp. Her heels sink slightly in the softer sand away from the mark. She walks carefully, because running in these boots would be humiliating and falling would bring his hands back to her, and she cannot survive either possibility with thirty people watching.
Behind her, the beach resumes its work. Voices. Camera resetting. Somebody discussing whether the lipstick transfer needs continuity photographs. Evangeline keeps walking.
Drew gets the trailer door shut before his right hand starts shaking badly enough to rattle the latch. He keeps it there for a second, palm flattened against the thin painted wood, head lowered, listening to the mechanism settle into place beneath his fingers.
Outside, the beach continues without him. Radios cracking through static. Somebody calling for a lens case. Wind striking the side of the trailer in broad, uneven pushes that make the blinds tremble against the window.
Celeste’s voice carries faintly from somewhere near the monitors, still bright with what they have just given her, while a production cart reverses through base camp with a cheerful electronic beep entirely unsuited to the morning.
Inside, Drew cannot get his fucking hands to stop. He turns away from the door and tries flexing them. Opens both palms, closes them, opens them again. The tremor runs through the tendons anyway, small and fast, strongest in the right hand – the one that had been at Evangeline’s jaw, thumb beneath her cheekbone, fingers pressed near her ear exactly the way she used to like.
Still likes.
The thought reaches him with enough certainty to make his stomach pull tight. He crosses to the little sink at the back of the trailer and grips the edge with both hands. The fake wood is cool beneath his palms.
He leans forward, shoulders raised, trying to breathe through his nose the way Rina has told them to between contact. In. Hold. Out slower. Simple enough when the other person’s mouth is not still sitting against his.
His reflection in the mirror looks like Tom Reed. Hair pushed up again by department, except for the section near the back Evangeline’s fingers had reached before somebody fixed it. Mouth darkened faintly where her lip colour transferred and then got wiped away. Eyes too open. Pupils still wide enough that the blue looks thin around them.
Drew turns on the tap and puts his wrists beneath cold water. It does fuck all.
He can still feel the first kiss. The way she had gone rigid for half a beat before making herself soften into the scene, her mouth careful and familiar in the same impossible second. He can still feel the second, when she stopped treating the contact like something fragile and let her lips move against his. And the third–
He closes his eyes.
Bad idea. The whole thing comes back without the buffer of sight. Her grin when he pulled her in. Teeth catching her bottom lip. Her lashes lowered while she looked up at him, doing something neither of them had rehearsed and knowing, surely, exactly what it would do.
The small rise of her body inside those ridiculous boots. Her arm tightening around his neck. Her chest against his. The shape of her waist beneath his hand, narrow and warm and so familiar that his fingers had closed before he could remember they were surrounded by thirty people and a camera worth more than his first house.
Then the sound he made.
Jesus Christ.
Drew lets his forehead drop toward the mirror and stops an inch before hitting it. The noise hadn’t belonged to Tom. There’s no argument available there. Tom might want Kate. Tom might have spent years wanting her. Tom might make a hundred different sounds in Celeste’s head depending on the cut, but the one caught between Evangeline’s lips had come directly from Drew’s chest without stopping for professional approval.
She had swallowed it. The memory of that is worse than the sound itself.
His fingers tighten around the sink. Water runs pointlessly over his knuckles and splashes against the small metal basin, cold droplets catching near the cuffs of his costume. He shuts the tap off with more force than necessary and stands there while the silence becomes full of his own breathing.
She followed his mouth. Barely. An inch at most, perhaps less. The kind of movement nobody else might have noticed if the whole set had not gone so completely still around them. But Drew noticed. He had felt her lips lift after his when he pulled back, had seen the tiny interruption in her face when she caught herself.
Then Celeste called cut, and he stepped away like an idiot. No. Not an idiot. A man making the only available choice before he kissed her again without the choreography to hide behind.
He had wiped his mouth because her gloss was there and because his hand needed somewhere to go that wasn’t back around her waist. Because if he had remained inside that inch of shared air for another second, he would have lowered his head again.
There would have been no three-second count. No planned break. No room for Rina to say release before his body made a decision neither of them had discussed.
Evangeline’s face had changed when he stepped back. He had seen it too late. The quick blanking of her expression, like a curtain being pulled across a lit window. The shine gathering before she blinked it away. Her mouth pressing closed around whatever she had almost allowed him to see. She thought he rejected her.
Drew drags both hands over his face and immediately smells her. Salt air. Makeup. The faint sweet-brown product from her mouth and mint laid aggressively over cigarette smoke.
He freezes with his palms near his jaw. She smoked before the kiss. He knows the taste too well not to recognise it. Newport beneath several pieces of gum, probably chewed hard enough to hurt.
Evangeline had hated nicotine gum when they were together. Said it tasted like somebody had sweetened a hospital corridor. She must have smoked and then tried to erase it because he was quitting.
The knowledge presses somewhere soft and deeply inconvenient beneath his ribs. She hates him. She has made that clear in a dozen careful ways. She had spent years avoiding rooms he entered, events he attended, names attached too closely to his. She looks at him now like the past is a blade she keeps hidden behind her teeth. Still, she had tried not to taste like smoke for him.
Drew lowers his hands and looks at himself again. “Fuck,” he says quietly.
The man in the mirror offers no useful response.
His hands begin shaking harder once he notices them again. He presses them flat against the counter, fingers spread wide, watching the tremor move beneath the skin. There are practical explanations available. Adrenaline. Cold. The physical drop after a take. He has filmed fights, underwater sequences, stunts that left bruises for weeks. Bodies do things after pressure. This doesn’t have to mean anything.
It means everything.
He should want a cigarette less by now. That’s presumably how quitting is supposed to work. Each day a little cleaner, every craving less convincing than the last, until one morning you wake and the habit has packed its shit quietly and moved out.
Instead, Drew wants one with an intensity that feels personal. Wants to stand outside with a Newport between his fingers and let smoke roughen the taste of her until his mouth becomes his own again.
The packet isn’t in the trailer. He stopped carrying them because carrying cigarettes while claiming to quit is just paying rent on a relapse. The Zyn tin sits beside his phone on the little table.
He looks at it and doesn’t move. His head is too full. Evangeline’s mouth. Her eyes afterward. Sicily, though he’s worked for years not to let the word arrive unless he’s prepared to lose the rest of the day. Her saying, You love me and you’re still leaving me, in a voice he can recall more clearly than his own answer.
The calls afterward. Thirty, maybe more. His thumb hitting her name until Ben took the phone from him and said, quietly, “You need to stop for a minute,” because Evangeline had turned hers off and Drew was one unsuccessful call away from booking a flight he knew she wouldn’t let him take.
Ending it had been the right thing. He still believes that. He has to.
Drew pushes himself away from the sink and sits on the edge of the narrow sofa, elbows braced against his knees. His hands hang between them, still shaking. He watches the fingers move as though they belong to somebody he’s been hired to understand.
By the end, he had been making her miserable. He had missed calls. Forgotten to respond. Called when she was working and resented the hurt in her voice when he had to leave two minutes later. Every conversation began with him apologising and ended with Evangeline apologising for needing the thing he had failed to give.
She had started sanding herself down for him. He heard it happening without knowing how to stop it. Fewer questions. Shorter calls. No mention of Odessa. No complaints about time. Sure, baby. Sleep well x, arriving where the truth should have been while he accepted the easy version because the difficult one frightened him.
Then Sicily. Evangeline at twenty-two years old and becoming something enormous while he sat thousands of miles away making every call feel like another task she had to fit between hair, makeup, scenes, dinners, press and the whole life opening ahead of her.
He had watched it happen in real time. The way rooms began turning toward her. The offers getting bigger. The names around her changing. Glass Onion, The White Lotus, Priscilla, Challengers. Venice. Awards season. A Golden Globe nomination for Priscilla, then another for Challengers, because one year of being impossible wasn’t enough for her.
She had become exactly what everybody could see she was going to become. Drew had been in the way.
He had felt it then. He feels it now. A weight attached to her ankle while she tried to climb, needing more than she had time to give and giving less than she deserved in return. She loved him enough that she would have made herself smaller before admitting the relationship no longer fit around the life she had earned.
When you love somebody that much, you let them go. That was the line. The principle. The one he had carried through every year after, using it whenever regret became too physical to ignore.
Love wasn’t supposed to be a hand around somebody’s future. Love wasn’t asking Evangeline Monroe to become easier so Drew Starkey could keep feeling like he was enough for her.
He ended it because he loved her. He ended it over the phone because he was weak. Those truths have always sat beside each other without becoming the same thing.
He knew if he flew to Sicily and saw her, he wouldn’t do it. He would walk into whatever beautiful hotel room HBO had placed her in, see her face, touch her hair, hear her call him baby, and every reason he had rehearsed would collapse before he reached the second sentence.
He would hold her. She would cry. He would promise to try harder. She would promise to need less. They would kiss and call the whole thing love because love was true even when everything built around it had become unstable.
Then another month would pass. Another set of missed calls. Another night with Evangeline crying alone while telling him she was fine. He couldn’t look into her eyes and end it. So he chose not to look.
That had been cowardly. There’s no prettier version. No noble framing capable of changing the fact that Evangeline had begged him not to leave her through a phone while he sat on the edge of a bed in Los Angeles with both feet on the floor and his hand pressed over his mouth so she wouldn’t hear him crying.
He had done the right thing badly. That is what he has believed.
Her career afterward became proof. It had to. Venice photographs on his phone at two in the morning, Evangeline in a dress that made every person near her look faintly unfinished. Award nominations. Directors speaking about her like she had altered the temperature of their film. Interviews where she looked tired and funny and entirely out of reach.
Every success became another piece of evidence he hadn’t ruined both of them for nothing.
The alternative is unbearable. The alternative is that Evangeline would have become all of that anyway. That perhaps she had never needed him to remove himself for her life to expand. That maybe the thing holding her back had not been Drew but the silence they both kept mistaking for mercy.
He rubs his thumb against the side of his index finger and finds bare skin instead of his ring. Costume has taken his own jewellery. The absence makes his hand feel more exposed.
He tried to reach her. In the first weeks, constantly. Calls that went nowhere. Messages marked delivered and never answered. An email he wrote at four in the morning and sent to Tess because Evangeline’s address had either blocked him or begun filtering everything into some digital graveyard.
Tess had replied once.
She is safe. Do not contact her again right now.
Right now became months.
Iris blocked him first. That part had been almost funny in its efficiency. One day her number existed; the next, nothing went through. She removed him from social media, from shared group chats, from the practical perimeter around Evangeline’s life with the cool focus of somebody sealing a building after contamination.
Mara handled it professionally. His team received a request that all communication regarding overlapping events be routed through representation. Seating plans changed. Guest lists became complicated. Evangeline withdrew from a dinner in New York after his attendance was confirmed. At another event, Drew was quietly moved to a different arrival window.
Even his own people intervened eventually. “She doesn’t want contact,” Ben told him. “You have to respect that.”
So he did. Respect and cowardice have always looked too similar from a distance.
He stopped calling. Stopped sending messages. Wrote them anyway and left them unsent. Happy birthday. Saw the film. You were incredible. Your dress looked like something out of a fucking dream.
He watched every film. Sometimes in cinemas alone at weird weekday hours. Sometimes on hotel televisions with the volume too low while everybody else slept. Sometimes with his sisters, which was a mistake because sisters aren’t built to permit private suffering when public humiliation is available instead.
After Priscilla, one of them had looked across the couch and said, “You’re an idiot.”
Drew kept his eyes on the credits. “Thank you.”
“No, seriously.”
“I heard you.”
Their mother was worse because she never needed volume. She had watched Evangeline accept an award nomination on television, hands folded in her lap, then glanced toward Drew in the kitchen doorway. “That girl loved you,” she said.
Drew opened the fridge despite wanting nothing inside it. “Yeah.”
His mother waited. “Mm.”
That was all. Somehow worse than a full prosecution.
He coped with the shit because they were right about losing her and wrong about why. Or maybe he was wrong about why too.
Drew leans back against the sofa and covers his face with both hands again. The shaking has reduced to a fine movement in the fingertips, but his chest remains tight enough that each breath feels borrowed from a smaller body.
Evangeline ignored him for years. She avoided him. She made sure every door stayed closed. He understands why. He doesn’t understand the way she looks at him now.
The anger makes sense. The hurt. The suspicion whenever he does something kind, as though kindness from him must contain a second mechanism designed to injure her later. Her in his jacket yesterday, pulling it closed around herself while pretending the cold was the only thing in the world with access to her body.
The laugh over the fake bridge. Her hand in his hair. Her mouth following his when he stepped back.
He cannot get a read on her. He used to read Evangeline without trying. The set of her shoulders. The breath before a joke. Which version of fine meant leave it and which meant ask again before she started bleeding internally out of spite. Now every signal arrives wrapped in four years of damage and professional training.
She wants space. She hates when he gives it. She wants him to ask. She resents that he has to. She looks at him like she might cry, kiss him or tell him to go fuck himself, and Drew has begun believing the only correct response may be all three in a specific order nobody has provided.
Still, he knew she was lying yesterday. He knew the second she said she was fine. Because her right shoulder lifted. Because her mouth flattened before the words came. Because she pulled his jacket tighter around herself while insisting the whole thing meant nothing.
He knows her. That truth doesn’t grant permission. It doesn’t make him safe. It doesn’t mean she owes him another chance or even another conversation. It remains true anyway.
Drew lowers his hands and looks at them again.
Stepping away after the third take had been the right thing too. He can see how it looked. From outside, from her side. He kisses her like that, makes two sounds he will probably hear in the final edit until he dies, feels her follow his mouth – and then drops his hands and wipes her from his lip.
Christ.
But if he had stayed close, he would have kissed her again. Not Kate. Not for camera. No count. Evangeline.
He would have taken her face in both hands and put his mouth back where it had spent four years trying not to remember it belonged. He would have done it in front of everybody. Celeste, Rina, crew, Cailee, Poppy, God and whichever insurance representative would later receive the incident report.
Professionalism had been the only thing left between wanting and action. He cannot lose that too.
Someone knocks against the trailer door. Two quiet taps followed by Theo’s voice. “Drew?”
He sits straighter. “Yeah.”
The door opens only after the answer. Theo steps inside with Drew’s phone in one hand and his sunglasses folded in the other, pausing when he sees him on the sofa. His gaze goes briefly to Drew’s hands, then his face, then away with the decent restraint of somebody who knows exactly when not to turn observation into a question.
“They’re ready for the next setup,” Theo says. “Camera’s moving down the beach. They want you in five.”
Drew nods. “Okay.”
Theo waits. The silence stretches just enough that Drew looks up. “You need ten?” Theo asks.
“No.”
“You sure?”
Drew almost says fine. The word reaches the back of his teeth wearing Evangeline’s voice and stops there. “Yeah,” he says instead. “I’m good.”
Theo’s expression suggests he knows both sentences are bullshit but prefers the second. He places the phone and sunglasses on the table beside the Zyn tin. “Rina said she’ll check in again before you start.”
“Alright.”
“And wardrobe wants the jacket back on.”
Drew rubs both palms down his thighs once. “Got it.”
Theo turns toward the door, then pauses with one hand near the latch. “For what it’s worth, nobody seemed upset with the take.”
Drew stares at him.
Theo lifts one shoulder. “Just saying.”
Drew lifts one hand vaguely. “Don’t.”
“Yep.”
The door closes. Drew reaches for the Zyn tin. His fingers slip once against the metal lid before he gets it open. The pouches sit in their neat little circle, pale and dry and deeply inferior to a cigarette. He takes one, presses it beneath his upper lip and holds it there with his tongue until the bitter chemical sting begins spreading over his gum.
Mint again. Evangeline’s mouth returns immediately.
“Great,” he mutters.
He stands and reaches for Tom’s jacket hanging near the wardrobe rail. The tremor in his hands has mostly stopped now, or become small enough to disguise through buttons and fabric. He puts one arm into the sleeve, then the other, rolls his shoulders until the jacket settles correctly and checks his reflection.
Tom Reed looks back at him. Controlled. Guarded. A man who has spent years convincing himself restraint and wisdom are the same thing. Drew understands the costume better than he wants to.
He picks up his sunglasses, leaves the phone where Theo can collect it and reaches for the trailer door. His hand rests on the latch for one second.
Outside, Evangeline is somewhere near the water. Probably in the puffer jacket with her arms folded, pretending the wind has reddened her eyes. She may not look at him. She may look directly at him in that terrible, searching way and make the next scene feel like another question neither of them knows how to answer safely.
Drew takes one slow breath. The Zyn burns beneath his lip. His pulse remains too fast, but the hands are steady.
Professionalism is a narrow thing. Marks. Counts. Permission. Cut meaning cut. It’s also the only structure still standing between Drew and the selfish part of him that wants to find Evangeline without cameras, put both hands around her face and kiss her until neither of them can pretend four years changed the shape.
notes from me – HEY HI
so we finally got an insight into drew's thought process!! what are our thoughts... do we kinda get where he's coming from or like ....fuck him....
as always love u all a lot and thank u for reading and all ur asks and comments etc etc it means the world i love this fic down BAD and i'm glad u all do too!!
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – six shifts are more than enough to love someone, and one devastating loss leaves garrett holding his girlfriend through the worst night of her placement.
warnings – infant death, premature birth, neonatal intensive care, detailed medical procedures, neonatal deterioration and resuscitation, parental grief, emotional distress, guilt, panic, nightmares, crying
notes from me – um well u guys asked for angst but i am never breaking my babies up so 🧍🏼♀️ here we are. but based on these requests combined!
word count – 6.9k
The NICU makes medicine feel like magic performed by people with lanyards.
It’s breast milk measured into syringes instead of bottles, skin protected with dressings cut into pieces barely wider than her thumbnail, medication doses containing enough decimal points that she checks them three times before showing the nurse and then watches the nurse check them twice more.
The blood-pressure cuffs look like toys. The nappies seem physically impossible. The first time she changes one, she holds it between both hands and laughs because surely no human being is small enough to require something that could comfortably fit around her wrist.
Then she looks through the incubator wall at the baby waiting inside it, one pink foot no longer than the top joint of her thumb, and stops laughing.
The entire unit exists in a strange, permanent half-light. Curtains pulled around expressing mothers. Small lamps glowing beside incubators. Sunlight softened through blinds because some of the babies have not developed enough to tolerate the ordinary brightness of a hospital corridor.
There are alarms constantly, but never the same brutal chaos as emergency. Here, every sound seems to mean something specific. A heart rate creeping too high. Oxygen saturation dipping. A feeding pump finished. A sensor losing contact because somebody has kicked one astonishingly tiny leg with enough determination to dislodge it.
She loves it almost immediately. She loves the little name cards clipped to the incubators and the knitted blankets donated in colours no commercial nursery would ever select.
She loves watching parents learn how to change nappies through the side ports without disturbing six different wires. She loves the careful choreography of nurses turning babies whose bodies are still too fragile to decide their own position for very long.
She loves that a person can be born months before they are meant to be, skin translucent and lungs unfinished, and instead of everyone quietly accepting that the world has made a mistake, an entire team gathers around and says, alright. We’ll help.
There’s something almost obscene about the faith of it. Caffeine to remind an immature brain to keep breathing. Surfactant to help lungs stay open. Nutrition sliding through lines narrower than sewing thread. Warm air, filtered light and hands scrubbed clean moving through plastic doors to give a body weighing less than a bag of flour enough time to become ready for the world.
She has been on placement for six shifts when she decides the NICU might be the closest thing medicine has to a miracle.
For most of those shifts, she has been assigned to June. Not independently, she’s a student, not delusional.
Every movement she makes around June happens beneath the eye of Claire, the primary nurse who has worked neonatal intensive care long enough to change a line dressing while simultaneously calming an anxious father and reminding a junior doctor that the blood gas result he is searching for has been open on the screen in front of him for several minutes.
But June is hers in the strange, temporary way patients sometimes become yours during placement. She checks the monitors when she arrives. Helps with her cares. Watches Claire draw up medications and follows every calculation on paper until the numbers stop looking like a threat.
She records wet nappies with the seriousness of somebody documenting matters of national importance and learns which corner of June’s mouth lifts before she begins objecting to being handled.
June was born at twenty-four weeks and five days, weighing six hundred and eighty grams. She has lungs that require constant negotiation, a duct in her heart that has refused to close properly, and a list of complications long enough that her parents keep the consultant’s explanations written inside a small notebook because exhaustion has made memory unreliable.
Maya and Daniel arrive every morning carrying takeaway coffees and looking like they haven’t slept properly since June was born.
By her third day, she knows Maya drinks oat milk and Daniel forgets to eat until someone puts food directly beside him. By the fourth, Daniel starts bringing her a coffee too, despite her insisting students cannot accept gifts from patient families and Daniel pointing out that the coffee costs three dollars and tastes like burnt cardboard, which barely qualifies as a gift.
Maya sits beside the incubator for hours with one hand resting through the port, her smallest finger curled beneath June’s palm.
“She squeezes,” Maya tells her on Tuesday, eyes bright with tiredness and pride. “It’s not a reflex. Everyone keeps saying it’s probably a reflex, but she knows it’s me.”
She looks at the impossibly tiny fingers wrapped around Maya’s. “She probably does.”
“You’re meant to be neutral,” Maya smiles.
“I’m a student. We’re still allowed a little whimsy.”
Maya laughs quietly so she doesn’t disturb June. Daniel looks up from the notebook and says, “Write that down. Medical confirmation.”
She looks forward to seeing them. That’s perhaps the first mistake, although calling it a mistake feels ugly after everything.
She looks forward to Maya showing her the photograph of the nursery they finished while June was still meant to be inside her. She looks forward to Daniel announcing every weight increase in grams like a stock market closing figure.
She looks forward to June’s whole face scrunching when Claire changes the tape near her cheek, fury gathering in a body too small to produce any meaningful noise around the breathing support.
On Thursday, June tolerates an entire skin-to-skin cuddle against Maya’s chest. Forty-three minutes without her oxygen saturation dropping enough to end it early.
Maya cries. Daniel takes twelve photographs. She stands behind Claire with one hand wrapped around the side rail and feels something warm expand beneath her ribs as June settles against her mother’s skin, no larger beneath the blanket than a loaf of bread.
“That’s good, right?” Daniel asks for the fourth time.
Claire smiles. “That’s very good.”
She nods too, though nobody asked her. “She looks comfortable.”
“She likes her mom,” Daniel says.
Maya looks down at the little hat resting over June’s head and begins crying harder.
The following morning, her first observation of June is normal for June. Not normal in the broader sense. Almost nothing about a neonatal intensive care unit fits comfortably within the broader sense.
But her heart rate sits where it usually does. Her oxygen requirement is slightly higher than the night before but not dramatically. Her temperature is fine. Her abdomen appears mildly distended, though Claire checks it and says they will keep watching.
Maya arrives at eight-fifteen. Daniel follows ten minutes later after moving the car because the parking app had stopped accepting his payment and threatened to make an already impossible week much worse.
June is unsettled during her cares. Her oxygen saturation dips twice while they change her nappy, then recovers with repositioning.
Claire’s mouth tightens slightly while looking at the monitor, but when Maya asks whether that happens often, she answers honestly.
“It can,” she says. “She’s taking a little longer to come back up today, so we’re keeping a close eye on her.”
Maya nods. The hand holding her coffee tightens around the cardboard cup.
They send bloods. The registrar reviews June. Antibiotics are adjusted while the team waits for results, every decision made quickly but without panic, the people around the incubator speaking in that quiet, clipped rhythm healthcare workers use when concern hasn’t yet become an emergency but is beginning to move in that direction.
She stays close to Claire. She checks equipment. She helps reposition the saturation probe when it stops reading properly and watches June’s oxygen numbers climb again.
Eighty-one. Eighty-six. Ninety.
Everyone exhales without acknowledging they had been waiting.
Maya sits beside the incubator, one hand inside against June’s leg. “She’s being difficult today.”
“She’s allowed,” she says softly. “She’s got a lot going on.”
Maya’s mouth lifts, but the smile barely forms before the monitor begins alarming again. The saturation drops first. Ninety-one to eighty-two so quickly the numbers appear to skip between them. June’s heart rate follows, falling out of the one-fifties.
Claire straightens. “Come on, sweetheart.”
She opens the incubator port and places a careful hand against June’s back while Claire adjusts her breathing support. The numbers continue falling.
Seventy-four. The alarm changes tone.
The sound is sharper now, cutting through every other noise on the unit. Claire’s hand moves to the emergency button.
The registrar is already turning from the workstation before she calls him. “Heart rate’s ninety.”
Maya stands so abruptly the chair catches against the floor behind her. Daniel is beside her immediately, one hand hovering near her waist without touching.
“What’s happening?” Maya asks.
Nobody answers quickly enough. The consultant comes through the curtain, followed by another nurse and the respiratory therapist. The space around the incubator contracts, bodies filling every available gap while the monitor keeps sounding above them.
“Heart rate sixty.”
Claire looks at her. Focused enough that her voice loses every unnecessary word. “Can you take Mom and Dad to the family room, please?”
She looks at Maya.
Maya has already understood enough to shake her head. “No. No, I’m staying.”
“Maya,” Daniel says, though his own voice has begun breaking.
She moves toward them because Claire has asked her to and because standing still feels like choosing something worse. “I just need you to step outside with me for a minute.”
“What’s happening?” Maya catches her forearm. Her fingers are cold even through the scrub sleeve. “What’s happening to her?”
Behind them, someone says, “Heart rate forty,” and the room changes completely.
The sides of the incubator open. A resuscitation board appears beneath June’s body. Hands begin compressions with two fingers against a chest so small the motion looks impossible.
Maya hears it. She makes a sound that does not belong in any hospital corridor. “Is she dying?” she asks.
She cannot answer that. She cannot lie either. Her whole throat seems to close around every word she knows.
“The doctors need room to help her,” she manages, covering Maya’s hand with her own. “I need you to come with me right now, okay? They’re doing everything they can.”
“I can’t leave her.”
“I know.” Her own voice is shaking now. She forces it lower. “I know. You’re not leaving. We’re going right outside.”
Daniel wraps one arm around Maya and helps turn her away. She walks with them through the curtain, one hand still gripping Maya’s, while the alarms continue behind them.
Maya keeps looking over her shoulder. “June,” she cries. “June, Mommy’s here.”
The family room is less than twenty feet away. It feels like a different building. Two grey chairs. A box of tissues. A painting of the ocean selected by someone who believed blue water might soften whatever was said beneath it.
Daniel lowers Maya into one of the chairs. She doesn’t sit properly. Her body folds toward the door, every muscle trying to return to the room they have just left.
“What are they doing?” Daniel asks.
“Resuscitating her.”
The word leaves her mouth before she can find something gentler. Daniel shuts his eyes.
Maya’s fingers close around hers so hard the little bones grind together. “She was okay yesterday.”
“I know.”
“She was on my chest.”
“I know.”
“I felt her breathing.”
She cannot say anything to that. She crouches beside Maya’s chair because standing over them feels cruel and keeps holding her hand while another nurse arrives to stay with them.
“Go,” the nurse says quietly. “They’ll need you inside.”
She returns through the curtain. For the next several minutes, time becomes a series of instructions.
Bring the medication tray. Open another packet. Move the light. Record the time. Pass the syringe to Claire. Step back. Come closer. Hold this. Move that line. Watch the clock.
She does everything she’s told. Her hands work even while the rest of her body feels several seconds behind them. The doctor intubates. The respiratory therapist checks placement. Compressions continue.
Medication moves through the line in amounts so small they still require a syringe, even now, even while everyone in the space is willing June’s heart to remember its job.
The monitor remains wrong. A number appears, falls, disappears beneath the movement of leads and hands. The room smells like plastic, sanitiser and the faint sweet trace of milk from the feed that had been stopped earlier.
Someone calls another time. The consultant listens. The compressions stop.
The silence afterward isn’t complete. There are still machines in the room. Pumps running. Ventilation equipment hissing. Another baby alarming from the next bay because the world hasn’t agreed to pause.
But June’s monitor no longer demands anything. The consultant looks at the clock and says the time aloud. Every person around the incubator becomes still.
She stares at June. Without all the hands moving over her, she looks smaller than before. Smaller than a body should be allowed to look. Her knitted hat has shifted upward slightly. One leg rests bent beneath the edge of the nappy she had changed that morning.
Claire turns off the alarm. The quiet sound of the button clicking seems to enter directly beneath her ribs.
Maya’s cry reaches them from the family room before anyone opens the door.
The parents are brought back in. The equipment that can be removed is removed. A blanket appears, soft and pale yellow. Claire wraps June with the care she used when June was alive, supporting her head, smoothing the hat back into place, tucking the blanket beneath her feet even though she can no longer become cold.
Daniel stands near the wall with one hand over his mouth. Maya takes her baby.
She doesn’t collapse dramatically. That might have been easier to witness. Her body only folds inward around June, shoulders curving, cheek lowering slowly against the little knitted hat while a sound keeps leaving her in pieces.
“My girl,” she says. “My beautiful girl.”
She stands near the door because she cannot make herself go farther away and cannot imagine she belongs any closer.
Maya lifts her head eventually. Her face is wet, almost unrecognisable beneath the grief moving through it. Her gaze finds her across the room.
“Thank you,” Maya says.
The words make no sense. She blinks. “I–”
“You looked after her.” Maya tightens the blanket around June. “She knew you.”
Her throat closes. She shakes her head once because she doesn’t know what she’s refusing. Daniel crosses the small space between them and pulls her into a hug.
It’s brief. One arm around her shoulders, his other hand still pressed against his own face, his body shaking hard enough that she feels it through both layers of scrubs.
“Thank you,” he repeats.
She stands there after he releases her, arms hanging by her sides, and understands that she will never forget the weight of being thanked by two people whose baby has just died.
Claire sends her on break.
She makes it to the staff bathroom, locks the door and grips the edge of the sink with both hands. For several seconds, nothing happens. Her reflection stares back at her beneath the fluorescent strip above the mirror. Scrub cap still sitting crooked over her hair. Mask pulled beneath her chin. A faint pressure mark across the bridge of her nose.
Then her mouth twists. She bends forward so quickly her forehead almost hits the mirror. One hand flies over her mouth before the first sob can come out properly, the sound trapped hot against her palm while her shoulders begin shaking.
There’s nowhere for it to go. The room is too small. Her body is too tight around it. She presses both palms against her eyes until colours burst behind them, trying to stop the image of June beneath two fingers, June wrapped in yellow, Maya saying my girl like the words could still keep her tethered.
She cries until her breathing becomes painful. Until her throat is raw and her nose runs and her knees feel unreliable beneath her. Then she turns on the tap, splashes cold water over her face and waits for herself to look approximately employable again.
She doesn’t feel better. She looks less visibly ruined. Hospitals often accept that as an adequate substitute. The rest of the shift passes through her without leaving much behind.
Claire offers to send her home. She says no because there’s only an hour and twenty minutes left and because the idea of leaving the unit while June’s parents are still inside feels like walking away from a sentence before it’s ended.
So she restocks feeding syringes. Folds blankets. Checks expiry dates on supplies she knows are nowhere near expiring. She documents what she’s asked to document and reads every line three times because the words keep refusing to stay in their correct order.
Near the end of the shift, she helps Claire press June’s foot into ink for the memory card. The footprint is scarcely larger than the pad of her thumb.
At five-thirty, Claire takes the pen out of her hand. “Go home,” she says.
She nods. She changes in the locker room, though she has no memory of removing her scrubs. Her hands put on jeans, a jumper, shoes. Her badge disappears into the front pocket of her bag. Someone says goodbye near the door.
Garrett’s car is parked beneath the far light in the staff car park. He had handed her the keys that morning with the same explanation he always uses now, that she’s not wasting her own petrol driving to unpaid placement when he has a perfectly good car.
She reaches the driver’s door and stops. The keys are already in her hand. She could unlock it. Sit inside. Reverse out. Follow the familiar roads back toward campus.
Her body will not move.
She looks through the window at the steering wheel, and the thought of putting both hands onto it makes something cold slide beneath her skin. Traffic lights. Pedestrians. Lane changes. Braking distances. Decisions arriving one after another while June’s monitor drops from ninety to sixty to forty inside her head.
She sits on the curb instead. The concrete is cold through her jeans. Garrett’s car rises beside her, dark and clean beneath the parking-lot lights, his Briar pass still hanging crooked from the mirror.
The hospital glows behind her. People come and go through the staff entrance, talking about dinner and rosters and whether the rain will hold off tomorrow.
She takes out her phone.
Garrett answers on the second ring. “Hey, baby.”
The sound of his voice almost undoes the work of the bathroom. She presses her thumb into the seam of her jeans and stares across the car park at nothing.
“Can you come get me?”
“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, more carefully, “What’s wrong?”
She opens her mouth and discovers she cannot put the day inside it. “I can’t drive.”
The words come out flat. Numb enough that they barely sound like hers.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” She swallows. Her throat aches. “Physically, yeah. I’m fine.”
Another small pause. She can hear movement now. A cupboard closing. Garrett saying something away from the phone, too muffled to make out.
“Okay,” he says, voice returning close to her ear. “I’ll be twenty minutes, baby.”
She nods before remembering he cannot see her. “Okay.”
“You still at the staff car park?”
“Mhm.”
“Stay there.”
“I am.”
“I’m coming.”
The call ends. She lowers the phone into her lap and waits. She doesn’t check the time. It could be twelve minutes or eighteen or half an hour.
The light above Garrett’s car hums faintly, attracting small insects that circle it without ever finding what they want.
Dean’s car turns into the lot hard enough that its headlights sweep across three empty spaces before settling on her.
It pulls up beside Garrett’s car at an angle that would probably irritate Dean under any other circumstances. The engine cuts off. Garrett is out before the headlights fully dim, one hand still holding Dean’s keys and his expression already changing as he takes her in.
She gets to her feet. For one second, she only stands there. Bag hanging from one shoulder. Phone loose in her hand. Garrett in grey sweats and a Briar hoodie, curls disordered like he dragged his fingers through them the entire drive.
Then he says, “Baby?”
Her body moves. She reaches him fast enough that her bag slides from her shoulder. Garrett catches her as it hits the ground, one arm wrapping around her back and the other coming up behind her head as she throws herself into his chest.
The first sob tears out of her without warning.
Garrett’s whole body tightens around it. “Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.”
She grips the back of his hoodie in both fists. Her face presses beneath his jaw, breath catching against his throat while the crying comes harder now than it did in the bathroom because nobody is waiting outside the door, because she doesn’t have to return to the unit, because Garrett’s arms are around her and her body has finally decided it’s safe enough to stop pretending.
“What happened?” he asks, his palm moving over the back of her head. “Baby, what happened?”
She tries to answer. The first attempt disappears into a gasping breath. Garrett holds her tighter, one hand smoothing down her hair again and again even though it has already come loose around her face.
“Take your time,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”
“The baby.” Her voice breaks completely. She presses her face harder into him like she can force the words back inside. “June.”
Garrett goes still. He knows June through every story she brought home. June gained twenty grams. June hated cares. June held her mum’s finger. June did skin-to-skin for forty-three minutes and didn’t desaturate once.
“June?” he asks quietly.
She nods against him. “She died.”
Garrett’s breath leaves him. The whole sentence is outside her now, but it doesn’t make the weight of it smaller. Her knees weaken. Garrett adjusts without comment, one arm dropping lower around her waist to take more of her weight while the other keeps her face against his shoulder.
“Oh, baby.” His mouth presses into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“They did everything.” The words begin coming in broken pieces, each one dragged through another sob. “They were there, and her numbers just– they just kept going down, and Maya wouldn’t leave. She kept saying June’s name, and I had to take them out, and then we–”
Her breath catches too sharply to continue. Garrett rubs one hand between her shoulder blades, slow and firm.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. There’s nothing else sensible to say, and Garrett does not try to improve it. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
“She was so little.”
“I know.”
“She was fine yesterday.” Her hands tighten in his hoodie. “She was on her mom’s chest. She was breathing.”
Garrett shuts his eyes. His cheek rests against the top of her head while she cries into him beneath the hospital lights.
“I couldn’t drive,” she gasps after a while. “I’m sorry. I tried to– I looked at the car, and I couldn’t–”
“No.” Garrett pulls back only far enough to hold her face between both hands. His thumbs move beneath her wet eyes, catching tears that are replaced almost immediately. “Don’t apologise.”
“It’s your car.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the car.”
“I made you come all the way here,” she mumbles.
“Baby.” His forehead presses to hers. “You called me because you needed me. That’s it.”
Her mouth trembles.
Garrett’s hands slide from her face, one returning to the back of her neck while the other holds her at the waist. “I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “I always have you.”
She closes her eyes. June is still dead. Maya is still inside the hospital holding a body that had been warm beneath her hand that morning.
But Garrett is here. His hoodie is damp beneath her cheek. His fingers are moving through her hair. His heart beats steadily against the side of her fist.
“I know,” she whispers.
The words break in the middle, but Garrett hears them. His arms tighten around her again, and she clings harder, letting him hold everything her body cannot keep upright alone.
They stay that way until her breathing begins to slow. Lengthening enough that each inhale stops scraping on the way in.
Garrett kisses the top of her head. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”
She nods against him.
“We’ll leave my car.” His hand moves down her back. “I’ll get it tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He eases away carefully, keeping one hand around her arm like he doesn’t trust the ground beneath her yet. He picks up her bag, hangs it over his own shoulder and walks her toward Dean’s passenger side.
She stops when he opens the door.
Garrett looks at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes burn again. She wipes beneath one with the heel of her hand. “Dean let you take his car?”
“Didn’t exactly present a balanced argument.” Garrett guides her down into the seat. “I said hospital and he threw me the keys.”
A small sound catches in her throat. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that Garrett’s face softens.
“There she is,” he murmurs, then seems to regret asking anything more of her expression. His hand cups the side of her head instead, thumb smoothing once over her temple. “You want the seat back?”
She shakes her head.
“Heat?”
“Mhm.”
Garrett reaches across and pulls the seatbelt over her because her hands have gone useless in her lap. The belt clicks into place.
He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and looks over her face once more, not searching for an explanation now, only making sure she is still with him.
“I’ll get you home,” he says.
She curls one hand around the sleeve of his hoodie before he can move away. Garrett stops immediately. “Don’t go yet.”
His expression changes so quietly it hurts. “I’m just going around the car, baby.”
She nods, but her fingers don’t release him. Garrett leans in and presses his mouth to her forehead, staying there for several seconds while one hand rests warm against the side of her neck.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs.
Only then does she let go. Garrett closes the passenger door gently and walks around the front of Dean’s car, his shape briefly passing through the headlights still shining over the empty parking spaces.
He climbs into the driver’s seat, turns the heat high and reaches for her hand before starting the engine. She gives it to him.
His fingers close around hers, warm and sure over the centre console, and when the hospital begins disappearing behind them, she doesn’t look back.
The hockey house has never been good at being quiet. Even asleep, it produces noise with the restless commitment of something built over old pipes and occupied by four men.
The radiator beside Garrett’s desk clicks every few minutes. Someone turns over in the room across the hall and makes an entire bedframe complain.
Downstairs, the refrigerator begins one of its long mechanical groans, followed by the soft clunk of the ice maker dropping three cubes nobody asked for.
Tonight, though, the house is trying.
Dean had turned the television off without being told when Garrett brought her through the front door. Logan had taken one look at her face and moved the shoes blocking the stairs instead of asking what happened. Tucker had reheated soup, set it in front of her and accepted without argument when she managed only four spoonfuls before staring into the bowl like she had forgotten what it was for.
Nobody made a joke when Garrett carried the bowl away. Nobody complained when he closed his bedroom door before nine.
She had showered because hospital smell had become something she needed off her skin immediately, though Garrett had stood outside the bathroom the whole time after she went silent beneath the water for long enough that he nearly knocked.
She emerged in one of his shirts with her eyes swollen and her hair damp against her shoulders, climbed into bed without speaking and let him arrange himself around her.
Garrett had stayed awake longer than she did. He watched the back of her head against his pillow and kept one arm locked around her waist, palm spread beneath the shirt over her stomach.
Her breathing had taken a while to settle. Every few minutes, it would snag and her body would tense faintly against him, like some part of her had remembered where she had been and needed to check whether it was still happening.
Eventually, exhaustion took her properly. It takes Garrett too, one second he’s watching the shadows from the blinds sit across his wall; the next, the room has gone black and shapeless around him, his face pressed into the back of her hair and one leg trapped between both of hers.
The noise wakes him sometime later. It’s small. Barely enough to reach through sleep. A soft, breathy sound from somewhere directly in front of him, followed by another that catches strangely at the end.
Garrett’s eyes stay closed. For one slow, profoundly unhelpful second, his half-conscious brain decides she’s moaning.
His hand shifts instinctively at her waist before the rest of him has agreed to become involved. His mouth presses sleepily near the back of her neck, and he’s somewhere in the process of thinking that this is inconveniently hot for what feels like the middle of the night when she makes the sound again.
It breaks this time. Not pleasure. Not even close. Garrett’s eyes open.
The room is dim enough that he can only see the pale outline of her cheek against the pillow at first. Her body has gone stiff within the curve of his, shoulders pulled tight and both hands gathered near her chest beneath the blanket.
Another little sound leaves her, thin and frightened, while her head moves once against the pillow as if she’s trying to turn away from something that keeps following.
“Baby?”
She doesn’t wake. Garrett lifts himself onto one elbow. Sleep falls away from him all at once.
There are tears running across her face. They have collected at the bridge of her nose where her cheek is pressed sideways, slipping steadily over the skin and darkening the pillow beneath her.
Her brows are drawn together. Her mouth opens around another broken breath, and the sight of it makes something cold move through his stomach.
“Fuck.” Garrett reaches for her face, then stops himself before grabbing her too quickly. “Hey. Baby.”
He slides one arm beneath her shoulder and rolls her gently onto her back. She comes without resistance, still asleep, head tipping toward him while another tear slips into her hair.
Garrett moves over her, one knee pressing into the mattress beside her hip. “Baby, wake up.”
His thumb catches the wetness beneath one eye. More replaces it immediately. He wipes that away too, then cups the side of her face, keeping his touch steady even while his pulse begins kicking much too hard beneath his ribs.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He says her name, quietly at first, then again with more force when her breathing stutters. “Wake up for me. You’re dreaming. That’s all. Wake up, baby.”
Her face twists.
Garrett’s stomach drops. “Hey. Hey, you’re okay. Come on.”
He strokes his thumb over her cheek and says her name again. Once. Twice. A third time, close enough that his breath moves over her mouth.
Her eyes fly open. She jerks upright with a sharp gasp, nearly catching Garrett beneath the chin. Her hands come up between them without direction, fingers grabbing at the blanket, his arm, the front of his shirt, anything they can find while she drags in another breath that seems to stop before reaching the bottom of her lungs.
“Hey.” Garrett catches both sides of her face. “It’s me.”
Her eyes move around the room too quickly. The lamp he had left on low beside the bed. The dark window. The jersey hanging over his desk chair. Garrett above her, hair flattened from the pillow and heart trying to punch its way through his chest.
For a second, she only stares, then recognition reaches her and her whole body comes forward.
Garrett barely has time to sit back before she throws both arms around his neck and buries her face beneath his jaw. The force of it knocks him against the headboard, one shoulder striking the wood with a muted thud while her hands knot in the back of his shirt.
He folds around her immediately. “Okay.” One hand cups the back of her head. The other closes around her waist, pulling her tight enough that there’s no room left between them for whatever she woke from. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”
She nods against his neck, though her breathing says she hasn’t entirely returned to the room yet. Each inhale comes fast and shallow against his skin. Her fingers grip harder, pressing into the muscles along his back until it starts to hurt.
Garrett doesn’t loosen them. “Just a dream,” he repeats, quieter. His palm moves slowly over her hair, smoothing it down the back of her head despite the pieces already sticking damply to her cheeks. “You’re here. You’re with me.”
Another shudder passes through her. It starts near her shoulders and moves through the rest of her body, small enough that somebody not holding her this tightly might have missed it.
Garrett presses his mouth to her temple. “What happened?”
She doesn’t answer at first. Her face turns farther into his neck, nose cold against his skin, lips moving once before any sound emerges.
“June,” she whispers.
Garrett shuts his eyes. The name sits differently now than it had when she used to say it over dinner. No amused little story attached. No update about grams gained or oxygen tolerated or the knitted hat somebody had donated in a colour she claimed made June look like a tiny retired golfer.
Only June.
“Just–” Her breath catches. “Nightmare.”
“Oh, baby.”
Garrett’s hand spreads more firmly over the back of her head. There’s nothing useful he can do with the picture his mind supplies. A monitor falling. A baby small enough to fit along his forearm. Her standing in the middle of it while two parents begged her for an answer she couldn’t give.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”
She shifts suddenly, trying to get closer despite already being wrapped completely around him. One knee moves across his thigh. Then the other. Garrett adjusts before she can lose her balance, sliding both hands beneath her hips as she climbs into his lap and settles astride him with no trace of anything sexual in the movement.
She only needs more of him. Her arms lock behind his neck. Her face returns to the same place beneath his jaw, and her whole body folds against his chest as if sitting over his hips has finally removed the last unsafe inch between them.
Garrett leans back against the headboard. The wood is cold through his shirt. He draws the blanket around her shoulders with one hand and keeps the other broad over her back.
“Got you,” he says into her hair. “You can stay right there.”
She gives a tiny nod. He begins scratching lightly along her spine, up beneath the loose fabric of his shirt and down again, his nails barely catching against warm skin. It’s something she usually likes after sex, or when she’s pretending not to be tired on the couch and needs help losing the argument.
Tonight her back remains tense beneath his palm for several passes before the muscles start to soften.
Garrett keeps talking because silence feels too much like leaving her alone with whatever is waiting behind her eyes.
“You did everything right, baby.” Her fingers tighten faintly at his nape. “You stayed. You helped them. You did what Claire asked you to do.” His hand travels down the centre of her back, then up again with the same slow pressure. “You got her parents somewhere safe while everybody worked. You went back in. You helped.”
A breath leaves her into his neck, warm and uneven.
“There wasn’t something you missed,” Garrett continues. He doesn’t know if that’s the exact shape of the thing hurting her, but he knows her. Knows the brutal little inventory she will already be taking through the whole shift, checking every number and movement for evidence that a better nurse might have changed what happened. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He feels her swallow.
“She was too sick,” he says softly. “That’s not the same as you not doing enough.”
The words sound almost too neat once they leave him. Garrett hates neat explanations for things that have torn somebody open. He presses his mouth to her hair and tries again.
“Her mom thanked you.”
Her body goes still.
“You told me that in the car,” he says. “She thanked you because you looked after her baby. Because she knew you cared about her.”
A wet breath catches against his throat.
“They loved you,” Garrett murmurs. “Her parents did. June probably did too.”
He can practically hear her objecting to the scientific integrity of that claim on any other night. Telling him premature babies aren’t capable of filling out student evaluations. Asking whether he has conducted a peer-reviewed study on neonatal affection. Nothing comes.
Garrett strokes his hand over her back again. “You’re such a good nurse.”
Still nothing.
His brows draw together. He tips his face down toward the top of her head, trying to see whatever portion of her expression is not hidden against his neck. “Baby?”
She remains heavy against him. For one brief, stupid second, alarm tightens beneath his ribs again. Then a soft little breath warms his throat.
The next one carries a faint snore. Garrett goes still. He waits. Another tiny, congested snuffle escapes her nose, followed by the slow release of her whole body as sleep takes the final tension from her spine.
Her fingers are still tangled loosely behind his neck, but the grip has gone slack. Her cheek rests warm against his skin, mouth parted slightly near his collarbone.
Garrett looks toward the ceiling. A quiet laugh leaves him through his nose, too soft to disturb her. “Okay.”
He shifts carefully, testing whether he can lower them both without waking her. The second he moves, her arms tighten on instinct and one dissatisfied noise catches in the back of her throat.
Garrett stops immediately.
“Right,” he whispers. “Here it is.”
The headboard isn’t especially comfortable. One of its narrow wooden edges is already pressing into the centre of his shoulder blade, and her full weight has begun settling over one of his thighs in a way that promises circulation will become a future concern.
He doesn’t care. Garrett reaches behind himself one-handed, drags the pillow upright against the headboard and wedges it between the wood and his spine.
The movement earns another sleepy sound from her, but she doesn’t wake. She only nuzzles closer, nose brushing once against his neck before her breathing evens out again.
He pulls the blanket higher around her. The clock on his nightstand says 2:43.
Across the hall, somebody gets out of bed. A door opens with unusual care, followed by the quiet pad of feet toward the bathroom. Garrett listens until the pipes begin groaning in the wall, then looks down at the girl asleep in his lap.
Her face is mostly hidden. He can see the damp curve of one cheek, the swollen edge beneath her eye and the lashes still clumped slightly from tears. One hand lies loose at the back of his neck, palm warm against his skin.
Garrett slides his own hand into her hair and holds her there. He doesn’t know how to make tomorrow better. June will still be dead when the sun comes up. Her parents will still wake somewhere without the monitors they have been listening to for weeks.
His girlfriend will probably open her eyes and begin taking herself apart over a baby she had known for six shifts, because six shifts had apparently been more than enough to love somebody that small.
He cannot fix any of it.
The thought presses against an old, ugly place in him. The part that still believes love should make him capable of getting through every locked door before something happens on the other side. The part that hears pain and immediately starts searching for something he can hit, carry, stop or solve.
There’s nothing here for his hands to fight. Only her. Her breathing against his neck. Her knees tucked around his hips. The soft weight of her asleep on his chest because, even after the worst day she has had in a hospital, some exhausted part of her still knows exactly where to go when she cannot hold herself up anymore.
Garrett lowers his cheek onto the top of her head. His leg starts going numb ten minutes later. He stays exactly where he is.
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pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader
summary – six teenage boys make the unfortunate mistake of discussing mrs cameron within rafe’s hearing range.
warnings – strong language, teenage rule-breaking, sexual comments, lowkey objectification, possessive jealousy, suggestive.
notes from me – oh my god i love them so bad!!!!!! based loosely on these requests, thank u my babies!! <3
word count – 2.7k
navigation – masterlist |
Rafe has been home for eleven days, which is long enough for the house to stop treating him like a guest and begin assigning him work again. The first three days had been almost pleasant.
Lila followed him from room to room with the solemn devotion of a small, talkative shadow. Marlowe pretended she hadn’t missed him and then spent forty minutes sitting on the floor of his office while he answered emails, offering unrequested commentary about every person who called. His wife slept later than seven twice, which felt like an achievement worthy of champagne.
Banks lasted until day four before getting caught skipping his last class to take somebody’s dirt bike down a maintenance road near the dunes. So Rafe stayed home.
He moved meetings, ignored three increasingly anxious messages from Charleston and told the office he was taking two weeks, possibly three, depending on whether his son rediscovered basic survival instinct. His wife had looked at him across the kitchen island with one eyebrow lifted and asked whether he was taking time off or establishing martial law.
“Time off,” he’d said.
Banks, standing beside the fridge with his car keys newly confiscated, had muttered, “Feels like martial law.”
Rafe had pointed toward the stairs without looking at him. “Keep talking.”
Banks had stopped.
Now, on a bright Saturday morning, Rafe stands over the grill with a wire brush in one hand and six sixteen-year-old boys sprawled across the back deck behind him like laundry nobody has folded.
Their shoes are abandoned near the sliding door. Three empty cans of soda sweat rings into the outdoor table. Somebody has brought a speaker and is playing music low enough that Rafe has chosen not to complain, mostly because the boys have forgotten he exists.
It’s unexpectedly useful.
They talk differently when they stop performing for adults. The conversation rolls between school, somebody’s terrible new haircut, a rumour about the lacrosse coach and an argument over whether Tyler actually kissed two girls at the same party or only told two different girls that he had.
Rafe scrapes another line of burned grease from the grate and listens without turning around. His wife is going to love this.
She calls it tea, which Rafe finds embarrassing for everybody involved, but she also once sat cross-legged on their bed for nearly an hour while he relayed an argument he’d overheard between Marlowe and two girls from dance.
She’d asked follow-up questions. She’d made him repeat exact wording. At one point, she’d put down her moisturiser and said, “No, no, go back. What did Ava say after Marlowe called her exhausting?”
Rafe hadn’t known what that meant at thirteen. He’s fairly certain he only knew three emotions at that age, and two of them were anger.
Behind him, one of Banks’ friends laughs hard enough to choke on his drink. “Bro, no chance she said that.”
“She did,” another boy insists. “Right in front of everybody.”
“Who?”
“Steph.”
Rafe’s hand slows against the grill. There’s a tiny pause behind him. The sudden, collective awareness of boys who have stepped near information one of them doesn’t want examined.
Then somebody says, “Banks, bro, how is Steph goin’?”
Rafe turns his head just enough to catch his son cutting a quick look toward him.
Banks is stretched low in one of the patio chairs, long legs kicked beneath the table, sunglasses pushed into his hair.
At sixteen, he has begun taking up space the way Rafe does without noticing it – shoulders broadening, knees always in somebody’s way, one arm draped along the chair beside him like the world was built slightly too small.
His expression closes the second he sees Rafe looking.
“Shut up,” Banks mutters.
The boys erupt.
Banks shoves one of them in the shoulder and says, “I’m serious, dude. Shut the fuck up.”
Rafe turns back to the grill before his mouth gives him away. Steph. Interesting.
He files it away for later, somewhere between Tyler lying about his sexual history and Banks having referred to somebody named Cooper as a desperate little freak for posting gym selfies.
His wife will enjoy all of it. She’ll probably ask what Steph’s surname is, and Rafe will have no idea, and then she’ll accuse him of gathering incomplete intelligence.
The back gate clicks below the deck. A second later, Lila’s voice carries up the stairs before the rest of her does. “Daddy!”
Rafe sets the brush down just in time for six years of wet limbs and tangled towel to come flying toward him.
She’s wrapped in a faded pink beach towel from her shoulders to her ankles, her damp hair slicked backward from her face and her feet leaving little dark marks over the boards.
Rafe catches her beneath the arms when she launches, lifting her against his chest while the towel loosens.
“Hey, baby girl.” He settles her onto one hip and pulls the towel higher over her shoulders. Her skin is cool and pebbled beneath his hand despite the heat. “How was the water?”
Lila nods so violently her wet hair slaps against her cheek. “So good. I went splash, and then the water went sploooosh–” Her arm shoots out from the towel, nearly catching Rafe beneath the chin. “–and then Mama had to come get me because I went too far, but I wasn’t too far. Mama just couldn’t see because the wave was big.”
“Right,” Rafe says, looking down the steps. “Sounds responsible.”
His wife reaches the top as Lila begins reenacting the wave against his shoulder. She has a canvas beach bag hanging from one elbow and Lila’s sandals hooked through two fingers.
A pale sarong is knotted low around her waist over a black bikini, damp hair pushed back from her face and drying in uneven bends over her shoulders. There’s a faint strip of sand along one shin and a pink flush high over her chest from the sun.
Rafe forgets the grill. It happens with humiliating regularity. He’ll be in the middle of something normal – opening mail, finding a missing shoe, explaining why the pool company has overcharged them – and she’ll walk into the room looking like that, like three children and half a lifetime have somehow only given her more places for his attention to catch.
Her stomach is softer than it was when they were eighteen. Her hips curve beneath the sarong in a way his hands know better than his own.
There’s a thin silver stretch mark near one side of her waist that he can see when the fabric shifts, left by Banks or Marlowe or Lila; he doesn’t remember which anymore, only that each of their children changed her and somehow made her look more specifically his.
Every version of her body has held some part of their life.
She looks up and smiles at him, attention moving first to Lila shivering in his arms and then to his face. Rafe’s chest pulls tight in the familiar place.
Unfortunately, Banks’ friends have eyes.
He notices because they all go quiet in stages. One boy stops halfway through opening a bag of chips. Another sits up. Tyler, the liar, looks at her for one second too long before glancing quickly toward the ocean as though he has developed a sudden interest in tides.
Rafe’s grip tightens around Lila. Not because he’s jealous of teenage boys. He’s a grown man. A husband. A father. He owns property and has employees and understands at least seventy percent of his mortgage.
Still. Little fucks.
His wife either doesn’t notice or chooses not to. Her entire focus remains on Lila as she steps closer and rubs both hands over the child’s towel-covered arms. “Come on, sweet girl. Let’s get you into a warm shower, yeah? Then I’ll make you some lunch.”
“Yes, please!” Lila immediately begins wriggling out of Rafe’s hold with no concern for gravity.
He lowers her to the deck, catches the towel before it falls and wraps it around her again. “Walk. Boards are slippery.”
“I know, Daddy.”
She runs anyway.
His wife watches her disappear through the sliding door, then comes to him, one hand flattening against the centre of his chest. Her fingers are cool from the water. The contact settles something in him before he has decided it needs settling.
“Hi, baby,” he murmurs.
His hand closes around the back of her neck, thumb fitting beneath her ear as she rises onto her toes and kisses him. It’s brief and warm and tastes faintly like the sunscreen she always gets too close to her mouth.
“Hi, honey.” Her smile brushes his lips. “You want food too?”
“Yeah.” He slides his other hand around her waist, palm flattening over the damp knot of the sarong. “Thank you, baby.”
She looks past him toward the table. “Banks? Boys? Food?”
The response is immediate and absurdly polite.
“Yeah, thanks, Mom,” Banks says.
“Yes, Mrs Cameron.”
“Yes, please, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mrs Cameron.”
Rafe glances over his shoulder at them. Tyler is looking directly at the table now with the concentration of somebody sitting an exam.
She only nods. “Won’t be long.”
She follows Lila inside, leaving the smell of salt water and coconut sunscreen behind her. Rafe watches until she disappears up the stairs.
Then he turns slowly toward the boys. Every face is arranged into innocence.
Rafe picks up the grill brush. “Something wrong?”
Six heads shake.
“No, sir,” one of them says.
Banks closes his eyes briefly.
Rafe hums and goes back to cleaning.
He waits another five minutes before carrying the brush and drip tray into the kitchen. The window above the sink has been cracked open to let the breeze through, facing straight across the deck toward the ocean. From inside, the boys are mostly hidden by the frame, but their voices carry perfectly through the gap.
Rafe turns on the tap. Behind him, the floorboards upstairs creak as his wife walks Lila toward the bathroom. Pipes groan inside the wall. Outside, a chair scrapes.
Then Tyler says, in the low, urgent voice of somebody sharing state secrets, “Banks, bro.”
Banks sighs. “What?”
“Your mom is so fucking hot.”
Rafe’s hand stops beneath the water. There’s an immediate collision of voices.
“Dude, shut up.”
“No, seriously.”
“Full MILF, man.”
“That’s my mom, you fucking freak.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Don’t.”
Another boy laughs. “No way your old man can handle all that.”
The metal tray slips in Rafe’s hands and hits the sink with a sharp clang. Outside, the conversation dies. Rafe stares through the window at the ocean, jaw locked hard enough that something aches near his ear.
Old man. He’s thirty-eight, not dead. And handle all that? He’s been handling all that since before these little assholes were even a thought.
He handled her at seventeen when she used to climb through his bedroom window because Ward hated sleepovers. He handled her through college, through a breakup, through three pregnancies, two mortgages, four houses, one wedding and more arguments than he could count.
He knows exactly where she likes his hand when she falls asleep and which side of her neck makes her knees weaken and how to calm her down without telling her to calm down.
He knows she hates tomatoes unless they’re cooked, that she cries when she’s angry enough, that she pretends not to want the last bite and always wants the last bite.
No way your old man can handle all that.
Rafe shuts off the tap. Stupid fucking children.
Footsteps move down the stairs before he can decide whether throwing six teenagers into the ocean would technically violate his time off. Lila appears first in clean yellow shorts and a shirt with a glittering dolphin across the front, hair brushed and beginning to curl as it dries.
His wife follows more slowly, still in the bikini and sarong, gathering her damp hair into a loose knot.
Lila runs toward the pantry. “Can I have chips?”
“No,” both parents say at once.
She stops. “Why?”
“Because lunch is coming,” his wife says.
“But chips are lunch.”
Rafe reaches for his wife as she passes, catching her around the waist and drawing her between his body and the counter. She comes without resistance, arms folding around his shoulders, her whole weight settling into him with a small, tired hum.
There it is. The thing those idiots outside couldn’t begin to understand. She melts for him.
Her stomach softens against his, cheek tipping near his collarbone while his palm moves slowly up the warm line of her back. She smells like salt and shampoo from helping Lila, though she hasn’t showered yet herself.
“I can make lunch,” he says against her hair. “You wanna go shower?”
“Don’t mind,” she murmurs, fingertips scratching lazily at the back of his neck. “I can do it.”
Rafe lets both hands slide lower, settling over her ass through the thin sarong. He taps lightly once, then again, a quiet rhythm beneath his palms. She makes another soft sound and presses closer.
The sliding door opens. Six boys begin filing into the kitchen, loud until they see him.
Rafe looks over his wife’s shoulder. Every single one of them becomes deeply interested in something else. The fridge. The floor. Lila’s abandoned towel. One boy studies the bowl of fruit as though he has never encountered an apple.
“Little shits,” Rafe mutters.
His wife lifts her head. “What, baby?”
“Nothin’.” He pats her ass again, eyes still on the boys.
Her brows pinch faintly, but then she tilts her chin toward him in the familiar, wordless request she’s made for more years than any of these kids have been alive.
Rafe smiles. She has no idea. His hand comes up to hold her face, fingers spreading along her jaw as he bends and kisses her.
Slow this time. Deliberate. His mouth moves over hers until she opens with a surprised laugh, and then his tongue catches hers just enough to make the laugh melt into a warm, pleased sigh against him.
Lila groans with her whole body and slaps both hands against his thigh. “Yuck! Daddy, stop! Mama!”
From beside the island, Banks says, “Oh my God. Really?”
His wife pulls back laughing, cheeks warm and eyes shining. Rafe steals one more kiss before she can get far, short but thorough enough to make Lila shout again.
“I’ve got lunch,” he tells her, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “Go shower, Mama. Tell Marlowe to come down on your way up for me.”
“‘Kay.” She kisses his cheek this time, then slips from his arms and heads toward the stairs. “Lila, don’t touch the chips.”
Lila freezes with one hand already inside the pantry. “I wasn’t.”
She disappears upstairs.
For several seconds, the kitchen stays quiet. Rafe turns toward the boys. They stare anywhere except at him. Banks looks like he wants to crawl beneath the island and stay there until adulthood.
Rafe takes a cutting board from the drawer and sets it on the counter with calm, measured care. “Tyler.”
The boy near the fruit bowl goes pale. “Yes, sir?”
Rafe looks at him, then he nods toward the fridge. “Get the burger meat out.”
Tyler moves immediately. “Yes, sir.”
Rafe glances at the rest of them. “You boys want lunch, you can help. Buns are in the pantry. Plates outside. Banks, cheese.”
They scatter through the kitchen with the efficient panic of unpaid staff during an inspection. Rafe reaches for the knife, mouth pulling slowly to one side.
Old man. Fuck that.
Upstairs, the shower turns on. Marlowe calls something unintelligible through her bedroom door. Lila begins explaining to one of the boys why dolphins are smarter than him.
Banks opens the fridge and mutters, “You’re so embarrassing.”
Rafe looks over at his son, then toward the ceiling where his wife is moving through the house above them, still humming faintly to herself.
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pairing – garrett graham x briar media!reader
summary – twelve days with briar football leave the hockey team emotionally abandoned and garrett increasingly determined to remind everyone where loyalty belongs.
warnings – strong language, jealousy and possessiveness, flirtatious comments, workplace teasing, public kissing, neck kissing, mild sexual tension
notes from me – FINALLY getting something for these two out!! as requested here! thank u lovely xx
word count – 3.1k
By the twelfth day of her temporary reassignment to Briar football, the hockey team had stopped pretending they were coping.
They hadn’t coped especially well before that, either, but there had at least been some dignity during the first three days.
Tucker had sent her a polite text asking how long she expected to be helping out. Logan had reacted to one of her football practice stories with a thumbs-down. Dean had stood in the doorway of the athletics media office while she packed a second camera battery into her bag and informed her that football content lacked emotional complexity of hockey content, which was an argument she had refused to entertain before nine in the morning.
Garrett had said nothing. Garrett had instead begun appearing wherever she was with the silent, increasingly oppressive regularity of a large cat whose preferred person had committed the unforgivable offence of going to work.
He came to the media office between classes and leaned in the doorway while she edited player interviews, arms folded over his chest, watching her drag colour sliders back and forth with a crease between his eyebrows.
He waited outside the dining hall after her lunch meeting with their head coach. He dropped onto the mattress beside her at night and immediately hauled her across the sheets until her back was pressed to his chest, one heavy thigh wedged between hers, his face buried in the back of her neck as if she might be reassigned again if he left any space between them.
When she had laughed and asked whether he was planning to let her breathe, he’d tightened his arm around her waist and muttered, “You breathe too much at football practice.”
Which was both irrational and, unfortunately, cute enough that she had kissed his bicep instead of arguing.
The hockey team’s restraint had disintegrated completely by the second week.
She made the mistake of stopping by the rink that afternoon to collect a lens she’d left in the media cabinet and was intercepted before she reached the bench.
“Boss,” Logan called from the ice, skating straight toward her with the urgent relief of a man spotting rescue after weeks at sea. “Tell me you’re back.”
“I’m collecting equipment.”
Dean swung over the boards instead of using the open gate three feet away, landing on the rubber mat with his gloves still on and his helmet shoved back enough to reveal damp hair plastered across his forehead. “We’re experiencing a severe leadership vacuum.”
“You have a captain.”
Garrett, standing near centre ice with one glove resting over the top of his stick, looked directly at her. His expression said that he had been experiencing something, certainly, and would be happy to explain it privately with the door locked.
“I mean creatively,” Dean said. “The new guy has no vision.”
“The new guy has a name.”
“Does he?”
She shot him a look. “Yes.”
Dean waited.
She sighed. “Evan.”
Dean shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
“He filmed you this morning.”
Tucker coasted to a stop beside Logan, breathing hard but still managing to look more reasonable than the rest of them. “He posted the same warm-up clip twice.”
“I saw. The second one had different music,” she pointed out.
“It was worse music,” Logan said.
“Way worse,” Dean agreed.
She pressed her lips together, because laughing would only encourage them, and looked past their shoulders to Garrett. He hadn’t moved. He was still watching her with that narrow, unreadable focus he wore during games when something had started getting under his skin and he was deciding whether it deserved restraint.
She lifted her eyebrows. “You don’t have anything to add?”
Garrett pushed away from the stick and started toward the bench. “They covered it.”
“That’s very mature of you.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m growing.”
“You told me last night that football should hire its own employees.”
“It should.”
“They have employees.”
“Then one of them should stop being sick.”
She had only been given fragments of the actual explanation. Influenza, possibly. Tonsillitis. Some rapidly spreading illness that had taken out the football media coordinator and both student assistants within the same four-day window.
The athletics department had asked her to cover temporarily because she already knew the university’s posting system, had access to all the equipment and was the only person on campus who could make twenty-year-old athletes answer a question without saying bro every third word.
“They’ll be back Monday,” she reminded him.
Garrett reached the boards and leaned his forearms across them, close enough now that she could see the damp curl stuck beside his temple and the faint red mark his helmet had left over one cheekbone. “That’s what they said last Monday.”
“Are you keeping a calendar?”
Dean looked between them, delighted. “He is. He asked me this morning whether today was day eleven or twelve.”
Garrett didn’t turn. “Nobody asked you.”
“It’s twelve,” Logan supplied.
“I know,” Garrett grumbled.
Tucker made a sympathetic noise. “He misses his girlfriend.”
Garrett’s eyes remained on her. “I see my girlfriend.”
“Barely,” Dean said. “She’s been fraternising with the enemy.”
She looked at all four of them, their jerseys damp from practice and their faces arranged into varying degrees of theatrical misery, and something warm pressed outward beneath her ribs.
It had been less than two weeks. Twelve days of different schedules, unfamiliar players and afternoons spent on grass instead of ice, and they were acting as though she had abandoned them for another country.
Sweet, ridiculous boys.
“I miss you too,” she admitted.
Logan’s entire face brightened. Dean put a glove to his chest. Tucker smiled like he had known she would crack eventually.
Garrett just said, “Good,” with quiet satisfaction.
She pointed at him. “Don’t make that smug.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her pointing finger, then returned to her face. “Come here.”
She looked at the clock over the scoreboard, then at the camera bag over her shoulder. Football practice started in twenty-six minutes. She should have left four minutes ago. She went to him anyway.
Garrett’s hand closed around her wrist as soon as she reached the boards, guiding her between the open gate and his body until she stood against the cold padding, his chest close enough that the front of her jacket brushed his practice jersey.
He smelled like ice, sweat and the sharp, plasticky scent of his gear, familiar enough that the football field suddenly felt much farther away than the six-minute walk across campus.
“You’re clingy,” she murmured.
“I’m neglected.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You slept with your head on my tits last night.”
“Bare minimum.”
His hand slid from her wrist to her hip, fingers settling there with an ease that made her stomach draw tight beneath her sweater. Around them, the team had gone conspicuously silent.
She glanced over his shoulder. “Do none of you have a drill?”
“Water break,” Tucker said.
Coach Jensen’s whistle shrieked from the far side of the rink. “It was a water break thirty seconds ago!”
Dean lifted his bottle in vague acknowledgement. “Hydrating!”
Garrett bent and kissed her once, firm and brief, then pulled back without releasing her. “What time are you done?”
“Six-thirty, maybe seven. They want some sunset shots.”
His jaw shifted. “I’ll pick you up.”
“You have film review.”
“I’ll be there.”
There was no point telling him he didn’t have to. That hadn’t been the question, and both of them knew it. He wanted to be there, standing somewhere she could find him once she finished, reclaiming the small pieces of routine football had disrupted.
She softened despite herself, reaching up to tug the loosened strap of his helmet back into place. “Okay.”
His thumb pressed once into the side of her hip. “Okay.”
Coach’s whistle went again, angrier this time. She stepped away before Garrett could decide twenty-six minutes was actually an acceptable amount of time to spend holding her beside the bench, collected the lens from the cabinet and left to a chorus of, “Come back soon, boss.”
Football practice was warmer, louder and inexplicably more crowded. The hockey rink made noise feel contained. It bounced off glass and metal, packed itself into the cold until every whistle and impact felt sharp enough to touch.
The field spread sound in every direction: coaches calling formations, cleats tearing at dry grass, shoulder pads knocking together, music leaking tinny from somebody’s speaker near the sideline. The late-afternoon sun sat low enough to catch in the edge of her lens every time she turned west, throwing amber light across helmets and bare forearms.
She was lying on her stomach near the end zone, elbows planted in the grass while she photographed a receiving drill, when someone stopped close enough that a shadow passed over her viewfinder.
“Careful, Mrs Graham.”
She lowered the camera. “Careful of what?”
Nate Cole, one of the wide receivers and possibly the biggest flirt she had ever met who didn’t live in Garrett’s house, nodded toward the cleats planted beside her elbow. “Wouldn’t want our media girl getting stepped on.”
She stared at him. “I’m not your media girl.”
He smiled down at her, all white teeth and shamelessness. “You should stay.”
“I’ve told you eight times that I’m not staying.”
He tilted his head. “Nine might be the one.”
“Go catch something.”
“Your heart?”
She couldn’t help the small laugh that huffed out. “The ball, Nate.”
He jogged backward with both hands raised in surrender, laughing when she lifted the camera again. “That sounded like encouragement.”
The problem was that they were all like that. Relentlessly, competitively charming in the way groups of young men became when they had discovered a new person who laughed at their jokes and knew how to make them look good online.
They called her Mrs Graham because Garrett had appeared twice during the first week and glared so hard from the sideline that one of the linebackers had asked whether they were already married.
They called her boss when they wanted a photo approved, their girl when they wanted to irritate her, and occasionally traitor when she reminded them that she belonged to hockey.
“Permanent transfer,” Malik said later, leaning down beside her camera screen as she checked a burst of action shots. “We could make it happen.”
“You don’t control staffing.”
“I know people.”
She swiped to the next photo. “This one makes you look slow.”
Malik’s confidence disappeared. “Delete it.”
By the end of practice, her knees were grass-stained, the strap of her camera had rubbed a sore line across the side of her neck, and the sun had fallen behind the trees bordering the far edge of the athletics complex.
The field lights flickered on one bank at a time, harsh white replacing the softer gold she had been chasing for the last forty minutes.
She was crouched near the sideline photographing a cluster of players sorting equipment when she noticed Garrett.
He stood beyond the painted boundary with his hands shoved into the pockets of his Briar hoodie, hockey bag dropped beside one sneaker and his backwards cap pulled low over his curls.
He had changed out of his team clothes but not showered; there was still a tired heaviness sitting through his shoulders, the kind that came after practice and film review and too many hours in rooms that smelled like stale coffee and dry-erase markers.
He was watching her. More accurately, he was watching the three football players gathered around her while they attempted to convince her that hockey had terrible lighting, inferior uniforms and no appreciation for her work.
Garrett’s mouth was a straight line. She smiled before she could stop herself.
Nate followed her gaze and lit up with the terrible enthusiasm of someone discovering a fresh target. “Graham!”
Garrett lifted his chin once. It wasn’t a greeting so much as acknowledgement that sound had occurred.
“Come talk some sense into your wife,” Nate called. “She’s pretending she doesn’t want to stay with us.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened. She could see it from thirty feet away.
Malik slung one arm over the shoulder pads tucked beneath his other arm. “We’re offering advancement opportunities.”
“You offered me a protein bar and control of the aux cord,” she said.
“Benefits package.”
Another player, Ellis, pointed at Garrett and called, “Share your girl, man. Hockey’s had her long enough.”
The muscles along Garrett’s cheek pulled taut enough that she genuinely wondered whether teeth could fracture from irritation alone.
Her body reacted before the sensible part of her mind did. A fizzy little warmth slipped low through her stomach, spreading beneath her skin as she watched him stare at Ellis with the flat, controlled expression he usually reserved for opponents who had crossed a line and referees who had failed to notice.
It wasn’t that she needed Garrett to prove anything. There was nothing fragile between them to defend, no real threat hiding inside a football player’s joke. She knew exactly who she was going home with. So did everyone on the field.
But Garrett wanted the fact understood anyway. She tucked the camera into her bag, zipped it and walked toward him while the football team continued offering unhelpful commentary behind her.
“Don’t scare him!”
“He’s definitely counting to ten.”
“Mrs Graham, blink twice if you need asylum.”
Garrett didn’t take his eyes off the players until she stepped into reach. Then his gaze dropped to her, moving quickly over her face, the camera bag, the grass streaking both knees of her jeans.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” The word came out clipped.
She curled her fingers into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Baby, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever’s happening in your head,” she said, .
“Nothing’s happening.”
Behind her, Nate called, “That’s our girl, Graham. Be nice to her.”
Garrett’s hands left his pockets.
“Oh,” she murmured, already smiling. “There it is.”
He caught both of her belt loops and pulled her forward in one easy motion, the small surprised sound that left her swallowed when his mouth came down over hers.
The kiss was warm and immediate and much less restrained than anything he normally gave her in the middle of an athletics complex. One hand left her jeans to slide around her waist, holding her flush to the solid length of him, while the other came up to cup her jaw.
His thumb settled beneath her ear; his fingers spread into her hair. She tasted the mint gum he always chewed after film and felt the quiet irritation still wound through him in the pressure of his mouth, thorough enough that the football field disappeared for two long seconds behind the heat creeping into her cheeks.
When he finally let her breathe, she stayed tucked against him, blinking up.
“Garrett,” she whispered, trying for reprimand and getting something much softer. “I’m working.”
“Looked done.”
“I was saying goodbye.”
“To them?”
His eyes moved past her shoulder. She didn’t need to turn to know every football player within shouting distance was watching.
Garrett dipped his head again, pressing one kiss to the corner of her mouth, then another beneath her jaw. His hand tightened around her waist as his lips travelled slowly down the side of her neck, warm against skin cooled by the evening air.
A laugh caught inside her chest. “You’re being ridiculous.”
He hummed against the place where her neck met her shoulder, then kissed it once before lifting his head. His chin remained close to her, his arm firm around her middle while he looked directly over her shoulder at the men who had spent two weeks calling her theirs.
The satisfaction moving through her was embarrassingly physical. It loosened her tired shoulders and curled low in her stomach, left her mouth helplessly curved as she smoothed both hands over the front of his hoodie.
“Hey, Graham,” Malik called. “You know possessiveness isn’t a substitute for communication, right?”
Garrett’s palm spread wider at her waist. “We communicate great.”
“She tell you we’re keeping her permanently yet?”
“No.”
“Because she hasn’t accepted the offer,” Nate said.
Garrett looked down at her. “What offer?”
“A protein bar and aux privileges.”
His expression remained entirely serious. “Competitive.”
“It was chocolate peanut butter.”
“Fuck.”
She laughed and tucked her face briefly against his chest, feeling the answering movement of his quiet laugh beneath her cheek. Some of the rigid tension finally left his body, draining out beneath her hands now that she was there, bag packed, practice finished, pressed against him where he’d been waiting to put her all afternoon.
Ellis cupped his hands around his mouth. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs Graham!”
“No, you won’t,” Garrett called back.
She lifted her head. “They will. I work tomorrow.”
His face fell.
“Last day,” she reminded him.
“You said that three days ago,” he whined.
“No, athletics said that. I said probably.”
He bent to collect her camera bag before she could reach for it, slinging it over his shoulder beside the hockey bag already dragging down the opposite side.
She watched him adjust both straps with the grim determination of a man carrying evidence away from a crime scene.
From the field, Nate yelled, “At least let her finish our season!”
Garrett took her hand. “She’s busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Hockey!”
The football team began booing.
Garrett looked down at her, his earlier jealousy eased into something warmer now, smugness returning by slow degrees at the corners of his mouth. “You ready to go, wifey?”
Her smile spread until her cheeks hurt. “Mhm.”
Garrett tugged her closer by their joined hands and kissed her temple before leading her toward the car park, carrying both bags despite her repeated attempts to take the camera from him.
Behind them, Nate shouted, “This isn’t over!”
Garrett didn’t turn around. “It is for you!” He lifted one hand without looking and gave him the finger.
She laughed, sliding her arm around Garrett’s waist as they crossed the car park. He shifted the bags onto one shoulder so he could pull her properly into his side, fingers hooking through the belt loop he had used to drag her into that kiss.
“You’re very pretty when you’re jealous,” she told him.
“I wasn’t jealous.”
“No?”
“No.” He glanced back toward the football field, where several players were still waving at her beneath the harsh white lights. His hand tightened at her hip. “They were confused.”
“About what?”
Garrett looked down at her, dark eyes warm, his mouth curving with that bright, intolerable confidence she had missed almost as much as the rink. “Whose girl you are.”
She should have rolled her eyes. She did roll them, technically, but she was smiling too hard for it to carry any real criticism.
“And?” she asked.
“And they know now.”
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pairing – garrett graham x kitty!reader
summary – an empty apartment, a cold kitchen island and garrett graham’s complete lack of self-control bring the house tour to an early end.
warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, multiple orgasms, rough sex, consensual manhandling, biting, hair pulling, anal-play discussion and repeated boundary testing, strong language
notes from me – I MEAN ANYWAYS U READ THE WARNINGS. none of this is a metaphor!
word count – 2.2k
navigation – masterlist | MBF masterlist
The kitchen counter is colder than she expected. That’s the first coherent thought she has managed in several minutes, and even that one feels loosely assembled, dragged through the heat collecting beneath her skin while Garrett’s hand stays firm around her hip and the other braces beside hers against the pale stone.
Her new apartment is still empty enough that every sound carries. His breathing against the back of her neck. The sharp little slap of her palm when she loses her grip and catches herself again.
The obscene complaint of the counter beneath her bracelets. Her own voice coming back from the bare living-room walls sounding higher and less dignified than it ever does inside Garrett’s bedroom, where a mattress and several layers of hockey-house filth usually absorb the evidence.
Here, the apartment gives everything back. She grips the counter harder, nails clicking helplessly against the stone while Garrett moves behind her with the focused, punishing rhythm of a man who had arrived twenty minutes ago to inspect square footage and has somehow managed to bend her over the kitchen island.
“Never–” Her breath disappears when his hips drive forward again, the words scattering before she can collect them. “Even got– fuck, Garrett– to play tour guide.”
His laugh breaks warm and rough near her ear. He bends over her, chest pressing along her back, one hand sliding from her hip to her waist as though he needs to hold more of her at once. “You’re a very hot tour guide, baby.”
She tries to laugh. It turns into a thin, breathless sound when he moves harder, her forehead nearly touching the counter before she catches herself on trembling arms. “You saw one room.”
The words come out thinner than she intends, broken slightly by the way Garrett’s hand tightens around her hip. Her nails skid over the counter before finding purchase again, glossy tips clicking against the pale stone while she tries to glare back at him over her shoulder.
It would probably be more effective if her breathing weren’t already wrecked and if the look on his face didn’t say he knows exactly how little authority she currently has.
Garrett bends over her until the warm weight of his chest presses along her back, his curls brushing her temple when he turns his mouth toward her ear. He sounds unbearably pleased with himself when he says, “Great room.”
“It’s the kitchen.”
She means it as a correction. It comes out closer to a gasp when his hips press firmly against hers again, driving her farther over the counter until the cold edge catches beneath her stomach.
The apartment gives the sound back to her from every bare wall, louder and more humiliating than it would be in his bedroom, where blankets, furniture, and three inconsiderate roommates usually absorb some of the evidence.
Garrett’s laugh is low against the side of her neck. “Love what you’ve done with it.”
His free hand slides over her waist, palm broad and warm beneath the bunched fabric of her shirt, as though he’s inspecting the place through touch alone.
There’s nothing to inspect. The kitchen contains two takeaway coffees, her handbag, a packet of screws that may or may not belong to the bed frame being delivered tomorrow, and the keys she dropped onto the island approximately thirty seconds before Garrett kissed her hard enough to end the tour at the entryway.
“There’s nothing in here.”
“There’s you.”
The answer is so stupidly pleased with itself that she twists her head to glare at him, except Garrett catches her jaw and kisses the corner of her mouth before she can arrange the expression properly.
His curls brush her temple. He tastes faintly like the gum he had been chewing in the elevator, which is now stuck to the wrapper of the takeaway coffee he abandoned near the sink.
She bites his bottom lip. Garrett makes a sound against her mouth and straightens, grip tightening at her waist. The next movement knocks the rest of the air out of her in one startled rush.
“Asshole,” she gasps.
“You bit me.”
“You deserved it.”
“For complimenting your apartment?”
His laugh turns into a groan when she shifts against him, and satisfaction flickers through her despite the fact that her thighs are shaking badly enough to make standing a questionable long-term plan.
She has already come twice since he followed her through the front door, once against the wall beside the intercom because Garrett had insisted the entryway counted as part of the tour, and once bent over this exact counter while her apartment keys dug into her palm.
That’s without accounting for last night, when he had turned up at her dorm claiming he needed to discuss tomorrow’s moving logistics and then contributed absolutely nothing to the discussion beyond taking her clothes off and telling her Dean could carry the couch.
Her body feels warm and overused in that heavy, molten way she’ll complain about later while climbing directly into his lap. Every hard movement drags another helpless noise from her, and Garrett keeps reacting like each one is new information, breath roughening, fingers flexing into her skin.
His hand begins to wander. She feels the shift immediately. The slow sweep of his palm over the curve of her ass, his thumb tracing experimentally lower while the rest of him keeps her pinned securely between his body and the counter.
Her eyes narrow even though he cannot see them. “Garrett.”
“Mm?”
“No.”
His mouth touches her shoulder, suspiciously affectionate for a man attempting a border incursion. “Just once.”
“No.”
“Let me.”
She twists as much as his grip allows, staring back at him over her shoulder with genuine offence. Garrett’s face is flushed, curls falling into his eyes, mouth damp and swollen from kissing her. He looks unfairly pretty for someone proposing crimes against the established order.
“Never,” she says.
His brows lift.
“You will never, ever enter the back door.”
Garrett sighs with the long-suffering disappointment of a man whose rights have been denied. “Fine.”
“Don’t sound like that.”
She feels his sigh more than she hears it, the warm push of his breath against the back of her shoulder while his chest remains pressed along her spine.
Garrett’s hand is still spread over her ass, fingers flexing in a slow, absent squeeze that would almost seem innocent if his thumb weren’t resting exactly where it has no permission to be.
“Like what?” His voice is rough with exertion and completely false confusion.
He drags his thumb downward by another fraction, tracing the sensitive crease between her cheeks until her whole body tightens around him and her nails scrape sharply across the counter.
She looks back at him, cheeks hot and breathing uneven, which significantly undermines the severity of her glare. Garrett’s curls are damp at the temples, his mouth parted, and his eyes keep dropping to where his hand disappears behind her as though he’s genuinely struggling to accept the limits of the property.
“Like I cancelled Christmas.”
“You’re very restrictive.”
He says it with a wounded little crease between his brows, but his hips keep moving, hard and steady enough that the next breath catches painfully high in her throat. His thumb presses once – not inside, not technically doing anything she can prosecute, but close enough that her stomach clenches and Garrett’s mouth curves against her shoulder when he feels the reaction run through her.
“I’m protecting national security.”
His mouth twitches. “Your national security?”
The words brush hot over her skin while he lets his hand wander again, palm sliding down, thumb teasing the place she has already explicitly removed from negotiations. Her legs tremble beneath her, partly from the last orgasm and partly from the humiliating fact that Garrett’s persistence is making every nerve in the area feel alert enough to testify.
“My borders are closed.” She punctuates it by reaching behind herself and smacking blindly at his wrist. Garrett catches her hand before she can do any real damage, pins it gently against the small of her back, and gives one more deep movement that makes her mouth fall open against the counter.
“Jesus Christ.” The exasperation would carry more weight if he didn’t sound half wrecked saying it.
He turns his face into the side of her neck, laughing breathlessly there while his grip tightens around her wrist and his other hand finally retreats to the safer territory of her hip.
“You’re acting like I denied you basic human rights,” she pants.
“You did.”
“I denied you access to one entrance.”
“Best entrance.”
Her head whips around as far as it can. “Garrett.”
“What?” His grin flashes against her skin, filthy and boyish and entirely too pleased with the way she clenches around him when he drives forward again. “I said fine.”
“You’re still campaigning.”
“I’m allowed to be disappointed.”
“You’re allowed to shut the fuck up and use the entrance you already have.”
Garrett goes still for half a beat. His eyes sharpen, amusement burning immediately into something heavier, and the hand on her hip clamps down hard enough to pull her back against him.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
She grins against the counter, but it disappears when Garrett suddenly pulls away. The loss makes her body follow before her pride can interfere, a soft, wounded whine slipping from her as she looks back. “Oh, now what?”
Garrett takes her by the waist and turns her before she can finish complaining. His hands fit beneath her thighs, lifting her with humiliating ease, and she barely gets her arms around his shoulders before he sets her on the edge of the counter.
The stone is cold beneath her again. Garrett is not. He steps between her knees, dragging her closer until there is no room left for reasonable thought, then eases her backward across the island with one hand cupped protectively behind her head.
He catches both her ankles and lifts them over his shoulders. The new angle makes her breath catch before he has even done anything, her thighs trembling visibly on either side of his head.
Garrett notices. His eyes move slowly down her body, then back to her face with an expression that makes heat crawl up her throat. He turns his head and bites gently at the inside of her ankle.
“So fuckin’ hot,” he murmurs.
Her laugh breaks apart into a shaky moan when he moves against her again. “My legs are literally malfunctioning.”
“Yeah?”
“You sound proud.”
“I am proud.”
She reaches up and grabs his curls, tugging hard enough to wipe the grin from his mouth. Garrett’s eyes darken. His hand closes more securely around her thigh, thumb pressing into the shaking muscle as though testing the evidence. He laughs, then drives forward hard enough that the sound vanishes from both of them.
Her head tips back against the cold counter. The empty apartment blurs around the edges: high windows letting in late-afternoon light, two coffee cups near the sink, her handbag abandoned beside a packet of screws Garrett had found on the floor and declared load-bearing despite having no idea what they belonged to.
Tomorrow, Dean and Logan will bring the couch. Tucker will arrive with tools because Tucker understands that enthusiasm is not a substitute for a drill. Garrett will complain about the dresser instructions, insist one of the walls is structurally fucked, and quietly put her bed together first because he knows she will be exhausted by lunchtime.
Right now, though, there’s only his hand beneath her knee, his mouth against her ankle, and the rough break of his breathing every time she tightens her legs around his shoulders.
His gaze lifts to hers. “Where?”
The question comes low and direct, cutting cleanly through the haze. Even like this, even with her nails scraping his scalp and his control visibly hanging by a thread, Garrett waits.
She swallows, chest rising too fast. “Inside.”
His jaw tightens. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” She tugs his hair again, impatience returning now that he has made her use a complete sentence. “And don’t make me repeat myself in my own kitchen.”
“Bossy homeowner.”
“Homeless hockey player.”
“I have a house.”
“Then go fuck on the counter there.”
Garrett stares at her for half a second, then laughs so hard he has to drop his forehead briefly against her shin. The sight of him like that – flushed, wrecked, grinning against her skin in an apartment that still smells like fresh paint and cardboard – pulls something warm through her that has very little to do with the way her body is trembling beneath him.
She strokes one thumb beneath his eye. “You okay, hockey boy?”
His smile fades into something softer and more focused. He turns his face and kisses the centre of her palm. “Yeah,” he murmurs.
Before she can make fun of him for sounding accidentally sincere, Garrett catches her wrist, kisses it once more, then bends over her and steals whatever she might have said directly from her mouth.
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pairing – frat!rafe cameron x psych student!reader
summary – after being humiliated at a frat party, one balcony escape turns into a blunt, an expensive uber, and rafe cameron being unexpectedly careful.
warnings – toxic situationship, public argument, emotional distress, crying, alcohol, weed, frat party setting.
notes from me – based on this request here!! a lil intro to how psych student!reader and frat!rafe meet 🙂↕️
word count – 2.5k
navigation – masterlist |
The argument’s been happening long enough that the party has learned to move around it. People squeeze past them toward the kitchen without looking directly at either of them, performing the particular social kindness of pretending not to hear a girl yell, “I want to go home,” for the fourth time while a senior fraternity brother grips a red cup hard enough to dent it.
Somebody reaches between them for a bottle of vodka. Two girls hover near the stairs with their heads bent together, whispering into each other’s hair.
The music is too loud for privacy but somehow not loud enough to swallow Jake’s voice when it climbs again. “You’ve been acting fucking insane all night.”
“I haven’t been acting insane.” Her own voice comes back sharp and wet around the edges, louder than she means it to be. The room seems to tilt slightly when she gestures, vodka and warm punch moving sluggishly through her blood, making her hands feel half a second behind the rest of her. “I asked you not to leave me by myself for an hour while you disappeared with your friends.”
“I live here.”
“I know you live here, Jake. You remind me every five fucking minutes.”
His mouth twists. “Jesus Christ.”
That lands worse than the yelling somehow. The dismissive little laugh beneath it. The way he glances toward the people pretending not to watch, as though she’s something embarrassing happening to him rather than a person he invited over and then ignored until she went looking for him.
Her face is hot enough to hurt. There’s a pressure behind her eyes she keeps trying to blink away, because crying in the middle of a fraternity living room would be unbearable, and crying while Jake looks at her like that might actually kill her.
“I want to go home,” she says again, lower this time. Her throat catches around the words, forcing her to clear it. “Take me home, Jake.”
“I’ve been drinking.”
“You said you’d take me home.”
He gestures at her loosely. “Yeah, before you started all this shit.”
“All what shit?”
“This.” He waves a hand at her again, broad and careless, like the entire problem can be summarised by the fact that she’s standing in front of him feeling something inconvenient. “The crying and the fucking interrogation and following me around all night.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re about to.”
Her mouth presses shut. For one ugly second, nothing in her works properly. She can feel every person within ten feet becoming deeply fascinated by their drinks. Jake rubs a hand over his jaw and looks toward the kitchen. He’s already done with the conversation. She can see it happen in real time, the switch flipping behind his eyes now that she has become too much work to be attractive.
“Figure it out,” he says.
She stares at him. “What?”
“Get an Uber. Call your roommate. I don’t know.” He takes a step back, shoulders lifting in a shrug that makes something inside her go cold despite the heat packed into the room. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”
Then he leaves. He turns and slips into the crowd, one hand landing on another brother’s shoulder as he passes, already leaning in to say something close to his ear. Within seconds he’s absorbed back into his own party, laughing at something she can’t hear, while she remains beside the beer pong table with her arms hanging uselessly at her sides.
The tears come so quickly it feels physical, like being shoved.
She gets to the stairs before the first one spills properly, ducking her head so her hair falls around her face as she climbs. The hallway upstairs is dimmer and quieter, though not by much. Music still punches through the floorboards. A closed bedroom door rattles faintly in its frame. Somewhere nearby, a girl is laughing in short, breathless bursts.
She keeps walking until she finds a glass door at the end of the hall. The balcony beyond it is washed in weak yellow light from a rusted fixture mounted above the frame, the night humid and thick around the edges.
There are two outdoor chairs with cracked cushions, an overflowing ashtray balanced on the railing and an old couch shoved beneath the overhang, upholstered in a colour that might once have been beige before years of rain, cigarette ash and men with no respect for soft furnishings.
She drops onto it anyway. The cushion exhales dust beneath her. Her knees turn inward automatically, hands twisting together between them as she cries with her face angled toward the dark lawn below, trying to keep it quiet and failing in humiliating little breaths.
The party continues behind the glass without her. Shapes move through the hallway. Light flashes blue, then pink, then green each time someone opens one of the bedroom doors.
She wipes beneath her eyes with the heels of her palms, smearing mascara she can already feel collecting beneath them. Her chest keeps hitching after the worst of it passes, body refusing to accept that the argument is over just because Jake has wandered away from it.
The balcony door slides open several minutes later. She sits up so quickly the room sways. Her hand flies to her face, wiping hard at whatever evidence remains as footsteps cross the concrete.
“Sorry,” she says immediately, voice rough and embarrassingly nasal. “Is this– am I allowed to be out here?”
Rafe Cameron pauses with one hand still resting on the doorframe. She knows him vaguely. Everybody does. He’s one of those people who seems less like a student than a fixed part of campus architecture, always leaning against something expensive, always surrounded by boys who laugh too loudly when he does.
She’s seen him around the house twice before, once carrying a case of beer under one arm while arguing with someone on the phone, and once asleep in an armchair at noon with sunglasses still on his face.
He looks different up close. Taller, mostly. Prettier in a way that feels vaguely rude. His hair falls in a loose middle part around his face, slightly damp at the ends from the heat inside, and his polo is unbuttoned low enough to suggest either deliberate effort or complete indifference. His eyes flick across her face, catching on the swelling beneath them and the dark mascara at one corner.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re allowed.”
She nods like this is formal approval she desperately needed, then turns back toward the lawn. “Okay. Thanks.”
Rafe closes the door behind him, muting the party to a dense, distant thud. For a second she expects him to choose one of the chairs, but he drops onto the couch beside her instead, leaving enough space that their legs don’t touch. The cushion sinks beneath his weight and tips her slightly toward him before she braces one hand against the armrest.
He doesn’t ask whether she’s okay, which makes her like him more immediately than she wants to. Instead, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic tube, working the lid loose with his thumb. The blunt inside is already rolled, neat and slightly flattened at one end. He puts it between his lips, cups a hand around the lighter and draws in until the tip glows orange against the dark.
The smell settles around them slowly, warm and earthy, cutting through the sour beer drifting from inside. Rafe takes one drag, exhales toward the railing and holds it out to her without looking directly at her.
She glances at it. Then at him. “You sure?”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”
She takes it between two fingers, careful not to touch his hand, though the pads of their fingers brush anyway. It’s nothing. A tiny, accidental point of contact. Her skin notices it with an enthusiasm she finds deeply inappropriate under the circumstances.
She takes a drag that’s slightly too ambitious, holds it for half a second and coughs into her wrist while passing it back.
Rafe’s mouth pulls at one corner. “You good?”
“Perfect,” she croaks.
“Look it.”
She gives him a wounded glance, which only deepens the small curve of his mouth. He takes the blunt back and rests one arm along the top of the couch, looking out over the lawn while he smokes.
There’s something oddly still about him away from the noise of the house, like everything restless in him has drawn inward where nobody else can touch it.
“Jake’s a dick,” he says eventually.
Her nose stings again. She presses her lips together and nods. “Yeah.”
Rafe glances sideways. “Like, generally. Not just tonight.”
A small, damp laugh catches in her throat despite herself. “That’s good to know.”
“Thought you should have all the information.”
“Little late.”
“Yeah.” He turns the blunt slowly between his fingers, ash threatening to fall onto his jeans. “Probably.”
She watches him lift it to his mouth again. His fingers are long, a gold ring flashing briefly beneath the yellow light. The smoke leaves his lips in a thin stream, softening his face for a second before disappearing into the dark.
It’s unfair, really, that somebody can look like that while doing absolutely nothing useful.
“He shouldn’t yell at you like that,” Rafe says. His voice has lost the faint amusement from before, gone flatter around the edges. “Especially in front of everybody.”
Her gaze drops to her hands. One thumbnail has dug a crescent into the side of her finger. “I was yelling too.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs one shoulder. “He’s still bigger than you.”
The sentence catches somewhere low in her chest. Rafe says it like it should be obvious, like physical size creates a responsibility Jake has been too selfish to consider.
Rafe holds the blunt out again. “M’sorry he did that.”
She takes it, blinking quickly at the ember. “You don’t have to apologise for him.”
“M’not.” His jaw shifts. “I’m apologising that you had to stand there while he acted like that.”
She inhales, this time more carefully, letting the smoke sit warm behind her ribs before breathing it out. The alcohol has begun to soften at the edges, anger losing its sharp points while the weed settles over it, making the lights from the house look blurrier through the glass.
When she passes the blunt back, Rafe’s fingers close around it beside hers. Their hands remain there for a fraction too long, joined around the paper, neither of them moving first.
His eyes lift to hers. They really are startlingly blue. Clear in a way that makes looking directly at him feel more intimate than it should. His gaze moves briefly across her face, down to her mouth and back so quickly she could almost decide she imagined it.
She releases the blunt.
Rafe leans back, stretching one arm behind her again as though nothing happened. The tension remains anyway, faint and electric beneath her skin, made stranger by the fact that she has mascara on her cheeks and has spent the last fifteen minutes crying over another man.
“You want me to order you an Uber?” he asks.
She nods, then remembers he’s looking at the lawn and clears her throat. “Yes, please.”
“Yeah.”
He takes out his phone. His thumb moving over the screen while he asks for her address and enters it without comment. She gives him the dorm building rather than her room number, then watches him select the more expensive option when the first car is twelve minutes away.
“You don’t have to get that one.”
“It’s four minutes.”
“It costs more.”
Rafe looks up at her, expression blank. “Okay?”
She almost laughs.
He confirms the ride and sets his phone on his thigh. “Black Honda. Stephanie.”
“Thank you.”
“Mhm.”
They sit in the quiet for a while longer, passing the dwindling blunt between them while the sounds of the party rise and fall behind the glass. Her body has finally stopped bracing. The knot in her stomach remains, but it feels further away now, something happening in another room.
Rafe watches the ash collapse into the tray before saying, “He’ll be gone in a couple months.”
She looks over. “What?”
“Jake.” He rubs his thumb along his lower lip, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the railing. “He graduates. Then he’ll move somewhere and start wearing quarter-zips to work and telling everybody he used to be cool.”
Her laugh escapes before she can stop it, small but real.
Rafe’s mouth tilts. “Probably marry some girl who hates him.”
“That’s bleak.”
“Accurate, though.”
She tips her head back against the couch, staring at the water stain spreading across the balcony ceiling. “He said we’d keep seeing each other after he graduated.”
Rafe makes a quiet sound that is neither agreement nor disbelief, but contains a fairly insulting amount of both.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
He glances at her. “You really want me to?”
She waits.
Rafe studies her face for a second, perhaps deciding how honest he’s allowed to be with somebody he barely knows. “Guys like Jake say whatever keeps things easy until they leave.”
The words should hurt more than they do. Maybe because she’s already suspected it. Maybe because hearing it from someone who lives with him strips away the last flattering possibility.
She looks down at her lap. “Right.”
“But then he’s gone,” Rafe continues, his voice quieter now. “And it doesn’t matter anymore.”
She rubs beneath one eye with her fingertip. “Feels like it matters now.”
“Yeah.” His knee shifts, denim brushing lightly against the bare outside of hers before he moves it away again. “Now’s temporary.”
Something in the way he says it makes her turn toward him. Rafe’s watching her already, face half-shadowed beneath the weak balcony light, one hand loose around his phone. He looks too beautiful and too damaged for the simple sentence he has just given her, though she can’t explain what about him makes damaged seem obvious.
Maybe it’s the tightness around his mouth. Maybe it’s the way he talks about temporary things like he has built an entire religion around surviving them.
His phone buzzes in his hand with the Uber notification. Rafe looks down at his screen. “She’s here.”
“Okay.”
Neither of them moves immediately. Then he stands, holding the glass door open for her. The party rushes back around them at full volume, hot and bright and ugly after the cool dark of the balcony.
She pauses before stepping inside, turning just enough to look up at him. “Thanks, Rafe.”
He nods once, eyes dropping over her face as if checking that all the pieces are still where they should be. “Yeah.”
She takes two steps into the hallway before he says her name. It stops her more than it should. She turns, surprised he knows it.
Rafe rests one shoulder against the open door, smoke still curling faintly from the balcony behind him. “Don’t let him make you feel stupid for caring,” he says, then his mouth shifts into something dry and almost mean enough to protect the softness underneath it. “Just maybe pick somebody less shitty next time.”
Her lips part around a laugh. “Goodnight, Cameron.”
His eyes hold hers across the hallway, blue and bright beneath the low lights. “Night.”
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pairing – rafe cameron x maybank!reader
summary – hostility is familiar. a cold beer pressed against swollen knuckles and a question left respectfully unanswered are not.
warnings – strong language, alcohol and pill use, marijuana and cocaine references, severe intoxication, references to drowning, physical intimidation, trauma response, punching, blood and facial injury, implied childhood abuse, casual sexual relationship references
notes from me – based on that scene from lucky 🤤 my man my man my man
word count – 4.5k
Music spilled from two different speakers at once, one somewhere near the fire playing something with too much bass and the other farther up the dunes making a sincere attempt at classic rock.
Empty cans had begun collecting in the sand. Somebody had dragged half a wooden pallet into the flames despite Kiara yelling that the nails were going to end up in a sea turtle, and now she was standing beside the fire with one arm raised, explaining marine ecosystems to three boys who were listening exclusively because she was wearing a bikini top.
She had been listening too, technically. At least until the pills reached that gentle, cottony place behind her eyes and the rum made the whole conversation begin arriving several seconds late.
JJ had noticed her wandering toward the water. “Don’t go in!” he yelled from somewhere behind her.
She turned while continuing to walk backward, nearly stepping on a girl making out with somebody on a towel. “I know how the ocean works!”
“No, you fucking don’t!” JJ called. He had one hand around a beer and the other tucked beneath the chin of a brunette she vaguely recognised from the Wreck. “You drowned in a pool when you were six!”
“I didn’t drown!”
“You stopped breathing!”
“For, like, a second.”
JJ huffed, his arm thrown wide. “That’s drownin’!”
The brunette laughed against his shoulder. JJ looked pleased with himself, which meant any remaining concern had already been displaced by the possibility of getting laid. He pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then at her in an attempt to suggest continued surveillance, though he was walking backward toward the dunes while doing it.
She gave him the finger and turned toward the water again.
John B had disappeared at least twenty minutes ago with a girl wearing his bandana around her wrist. Pope had left before ten because school was technically tomorrow and Pope remained the only person in their social circle troubled by concepts such as attendance. Kiara was still arguing about turtles and treated the fact that nobody had asked her to stop as proof of widespread support.
Nobody needed her for anything. It was nice. The sand became firmer beneath her feet as she moved away from the fire, cool and damp where the tide had packed it flat.
Music softened behind her, the bass turning into a distant pulse that seemed to travel through the ground rather than the air. Moonlight broke across the water in badly joined pieces. Every incoming wave gathered silver along its edge before flattening itself over the shore.
Her shoes were gone. She had abandoned them near the fire after someone spilled beer over one, and the hem of her shorts had picked up enough sand to scrape lightly against her thighs. A cigarette sat unlit between two fingers because she had lost the lighter and hadn’t asked anybody for another.
The first wash of water curled over her toes. Cold enough to wake a small section of her brain. She stopped there, swaying faintly while the sand softened beneath her feet. The ocean pulled backward, carrying the ground out from under her in a thin, sucking layer. She stepped after it without deciding to. One foot, then the other, water reaching her ankles as the next wave folded in.
Someone caught her hard by the elbow and hauled her backward. She stumbled, twisting immediately with her free hand already raised to shove JJ in the chest. “Get the fuck off–”
It wasn’t JJ.
Rafe stood behind her with his hand still wrapped around her arm, face half shadowed beneath the night. A dark polo sat open at the throat, sleeves fitted around his upper arms, the whole thing annoyingly clean for somebody standing barefoot on a beach where at least four people had already vomited.
There was nothing harmless about him. Particularly when his eyes moved once over her face and sharpened.
“Oh,” she said, every trace of surprise collapsing into disappointment. “You.”
His grip tightened when another wave reached for her feet. “You’re gonna fuckin’ drown.”
She looked down at the water, which had barely reached her ankles. “Devastating. Send flowers.”
“I’m serious.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what makes you annoying.” She pulled her arm free.
Rafe let her, though only after his thumb dragged once across the inside of her elbow, the brief pressure catching in her body with the same stupid familiarity as his mouth.
They had been sleeping together for several weeks, though not frequently enough to qualify as routine and not deliberately enough to suggest either of them had made a decision.
It had started at Barry’s. Most bad things did. She had been sitting in one of the plastic chairs behind the trailer, sharing a blunt with Barry beside a fire built from damp timber and an old dining chair, when Rafe arrived with too much cash and the particular restless energy that meant he’d been thinking about cocaine for hours before getting there.
Barry had taken one look between them, laughed for reasons he refused to explain and left to make a drop. Rafe had stayed. They had argued about the blunt. Then about whether she was old enough to know what she was buying. Then about his truck, because he had told her to stop leaning against it and she had climbed into the tray out of principle.
Twenty minutes later, he had her pressed against the back seat with her shorts around one ankle and his hand over her mouth.
It had felt good. That remained the entire justification.
Afterward, they kept finding themselves in the same places. Barry’s yard. The parking lot behind a closed bait shop. Once in a downstairs bathroom at a Figure Eight party after she climbed through a window and discovered Rafe already inside cutting a line over the sink.
Nobody made plans. Plans implied anticipation. Sometimes they saw each other and fought. Sometimes they saw each other and fucked. Occasionally, they achieved both in the same ten-minute period.
Now Rafe glanced toward the party, then back at her. “Where’s your brother?”
“Why?” She tucked the dead cigarette behind her ear. “You looking to hit him with a golf club again?”
“He hit me first.”
She gestured loosely toward the dunes. “He’s with some girl.”
Rafe’s mouth tightened. “And he just left you down here?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not six.”
“You’re fucked up. You can barely stand.”
“I’m standing,” she muttered, swaying slightly.
“You almost walked into the ocean.”
“I was looking at it.”
He tilted his head. “From inside it?”
She gave him a bright, ugly smile. “You know, this concern thing is really working for you. Almost makes people forget you’re a fucking cokehead with daddy issues.”
Rafe’s jaw shifted sideways. His nostrils flared once, and something behind his eyes clicked into a colder position. “Careful.”
“Oh, scary.” She widened her eyes, pressing one hand dramatically to her chest. “Big bad Kook might call his father.”
His head tipped. “You think you’re funny?”
“Sometimes.” She looked him over slowly, letting her gaze drag down the clean polo and expensive shorts before returning to his face. “Mostly when I’m standing beside somebody who dresses like their mother still shops for them.”
Rafe laughed once through his nose, though there was no humour in it. “Least my mother could afford clothes.”
The familiar little blade slipped neatly between her ribs, sharp because it had been sharpened by years of people who knew exactly where Pogues kept their softest parts.
Her mouth curved anyway. “Yeah? Shame she couldn’t afford a personality.”
His eyes flashed. “You wanna keep goin’?”
“Not particularly.” She dragged the side of her foot through the wash of water retreating around her ankles, carving a crooked line through the wet sand before looking back up at him. “You’re the one who grabbed me.”
“Because you’re fucked up.”
He said it flatly, like he was identifying a mechanical problem rather than insulting her, but his hand remained half lifted between them as though some part of him still expected to catch her again.
The fire behind him threw brief orange edges along one side of his face and left the other in shadow, sharpening the line of his jaw into something that made her want to either bite him or throw a drink at his head. Possibly both.
She laughed without humour and folded her arms, mostly to stop herself from swaying where he could see it. “So are you. Difference is, nobody asks why your pupils look like dinner plates because you’ve got a nice last name.”
Rafe’s mouth tightened. His tongue pressed once against the inside of his cheek while his eyes travelled over her face, slow enough to make the examination feel deliberate. “I’m not high.”
“No?” She leaned forward slightly, squinting into his eyes with theatrical concentration. The movement made the beach tilt pleasantly beneath her feet, so she widened her stance before he could notice. “Could’ve fooled me. You’ve got that whole twitchy, deeply unwell thing going on.”
“Maybe I’m twitchy because I’m standin’ here arguing with you.”
“Aw.” She pressed one hand to her chest, fingers spread over the thin fabric of her top. “And here I thought it was chemical.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the movement before snapping back to her face. “You always this fuckin’ annoying when you’re wasted?”
“Only around Kooks.” Her smile sharpened. “Something about boat shoes makes me hostile.”
Rafe looked toward the water again, then moved in front of her when she started drifting sideways along the shore. He didn’t touch her this time. He simply placed himself there, broad enough to block the route back toward the waves.
“You need to go sit down.”
He said it without raising his voice, which somehow made it worse. That low, flat certainty he sometimes used when he had already decided the conversation was over and everybody else simply hadn’t caught up yet.
She stared at him for a second, then laughed, the sound dropping out of her low and disbelieving. “You don’t tell me what to do.”
“I just did.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers. He stood with his weight settled evenly through both feet, shoulders loose, one hand hanging at his side while the other flexed once near his thigh. Casual, if someone didn’t know him. Casual, if someone couldn’t see how carefully he was holding himself still.
She could.
“And I ignored you.” She tilted her head, mouth pulling into a sharp little smile. “Seems like a pretty unsuccessful order.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Noticed that.”
“Then we’re both learning.”
Rafe’s jaw moved. “You think this is funny?”
“I think you standing here trying to supervise me is funny.” She glanced past him toward the fire, deliberately dismissive, though the movement made the lights smear briefly at the edges. “Don’t you have some Kook girl to go bother? One with a trust fund and enough self-esteem to mistake this for flirting?”
His eyes narrowed. “You can’t even walk straight.”
“I’m walking fine.”
“You’re swaying.”
“The ground’s uneven.”
For half a second, neither of them spoke. The water slid cold around her feet and pulled back again, leaving a thin shine over the sand. Rafe looked down at her wet feet, then at the cigarette tucked uselessly behind her ear, then finally back to her face.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
She gave him a slow once-over. “And you’re ugly. We all have burdens.”
His mouth twitched, but not enough to become a smile. “Go sit by the fire.”
“No.”
“Maybank.”
“Cameron.”
“I’m not fuckin’ around.”
“Congratulations. Neither am I.”
Something in his expression hardened at that. He stepped closer. He closed the distance at a pace that made the intention unmistakable, one foot sinking into the wet sand before the other followed, until the space between them narrowed to almost nothing.
The fire disappeared behind the width of his shoulders. Up close, he seemed to take up more room than he had any right to, chest broad beneath the dark polo, chin tipped slightly down as he looked at her. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. The point was that he could.
She lifted her chin before her body could do anything embarrassing. “What?”
Rafe looked down at her, eyes cold and steady. “You gonna keep runnin’ your mouth?”
“Probably.” Her voice came out lighter than the tightness gathering under her ribs. “You gonna keep looming like some overgrown country-club bouncer?”
“I’m trying to stop you doing something stupid.”
“That must be exhausting for you.” She smiled up at him, all teeth. “Considering your personal history.”
His nostrils flared. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“I know plenty.” She let her gaze drop to his chest and back up again, making the gesture insolent enough to disguise the way her pulse had started beating too hard in her throat. “I know you think getting in somebody’s face counts as winning.”
Rafe moved another half step closer, and her heel slid in the wet sand. He saw it. His eyes dipped once, then returned to hers, and the faint shift in his mouth said he thought she had finally understood the situation.
That was the mistake.
“Sit down,” he said again, quieter now. “Before you fall down.”
She should have stepped back. Instead, every muscle in her body drew tight beneath her skin.
It was probably meant to intimidate her. Rafe did that without thinking sometimes, used his body like other people used volume. Shoulders forward. Chin lowered. Filling whatever space had existed between them until the air became crowded with him.
Usually, she liked it. In the back seat of his truck, in dark rooms where the argument had already changed shape, his size became something hot and useful. A hand around her jaw. His chest pressing her into a wall. The weight of him holding her exactly where he wanted her while she told him she hated him and opened her legs anyway.
Tonight something misfired. The alcohol and pills softened the beach at the edges, but his movement arrived horribly clear. One second he was several feet away. The next he was close enough to blot out part of the fire behind him, one arm shifting as he reached toward her.
A large man entering her space had meant something long before it meant Rafe. Her body made the decision without consulting the rest of her, and she swung. Her fist caught him clean on the nose.
The impact travelled backward through her knuckles with a thick, ugly jolt. Rafe’s head snapped back, shoulders twisting as he staggered half a step into the wet sand.
For one suspended second there was only the water moving around their ankles and the strange silence that followed violence before sound remembered how to return.
Then blood spilled beneath his nose. It gathered quickly along the edge of one nostril, ran over his upper lip and reached his mouth before he lifted a hand. Rafe stared at the red streak across his fingers.
“Jesus fuck,” he breathed.
“Well, don’t fucking come at me!” she yelled.
His head lifted.
“I told you to leave me alone, and you keep–” Her voice caught strangely, too high at the edge, which only made her angrier. “You don’t get to fucking corner me because you think you own the whole goddamn island.”
Rafe wiped his nose again. More blood came away. He pressed his tongue briefly to his lip, tasting it, eyes fixed on her with an expression she couldn’t read through the dark and the chemicals running interference inside her skull.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You broke my nose?”
“I hope so.”
It probably wasn’t broken. The line still looked straight, though blood had reached his chin now in one narrow trail. He should have been furious. Rafe Cameron treated far smaller offences like declarations of war. A spilled drink. A wrong look. JJ existing within fifty feet of him.
She waited for it. Her fingers had curled around the fist she used to hit him. The hand had begun throbbing in deep, regular pulses, each heartbeat travelling through the knuckles and into her wrist. She tried to hold it still against her stomach, but it trembled anyway.
Rafe’s eyes dropped.
She tucked them closer to her body. “What?”
He looked at her face again. Whatever had been building across his expression stopped. His anger rearranged itself, shifting behind his eyes until the dangerous part no longer seemed directed at her.
He lifted his bloody hand and pointed vaguely at the sand beside her. “Don’t– don’t fuckin’ move.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Stay there.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Rafe turned before she could say anything else and started back toward the party.
She watched him go, broad shoulders cutting through the darkness until the bonfire began swallowing him into the crowd. For one stupid second, she expected him to return with Topper and Kelce.
iMaybe a group of Kooks eager to turn the whole thing into something bigger. Rafe had never required much encouragement, and she had just punched him in the face.
She could leave. The thought reached her legs, but her knees felt strangely loose. She took one step and the pain in her hand flared bright enough to stop her.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
She held it toward the moon. Her knuckles were already swelling, skin stretched tight and shiny across the first two. A small split had opened over the middle one where it must have caught his teeth or the hard ridge of his nose.
“Fuuuuck. Ouch.” The words came out embarrassingly small.
She pressed the hand against her shirt and closed her eyes. Behind the lids, the beach changed shape, pieces arriving without permission.
The scrape of a chair across the floor. JJ’s shoulder hitting the wall. Luke’s boots dragging sand through the kitchen. The little warning movement men made before a hand became something else.
Her stomach pulled tight. She opened her eyes immediately and stared at the water until it became water again. Black, restless, dragging foam over her toes. The fire behind her. Music. Somebody cheering because another person had fallen over. Nothing happening. JJ was somewhere in the dunes letting a girl put her hand down his shorts.
Her eyes burned anyway. She blinked hard, furious with them. The pills had made her stupid. Alcohol made people cry about television commercials and lost shoes. It didn’t mean anything.
A shadow moved down the beach. She stiffened before recognising Rafe’s walk, loose through the shoulders and slightly uneven where the wet sand gave beneath his feet. He had wiped most of the blood from his face. A dark smear remained above his lip, and one nostril had begun swelling faintly.
Something silver glinted in his hand. She squinted at it. “What’s that?”
Rafe stopped in front of her and held out a beer can. Condensation ran over the aluminium and down across his fingers. “For your hand.”
She stared at him, then at the can. Condensation had already gathered thickly across the aluminium, beading over his fingers and slipping between his knuckles in cold little tracks. Of all the things she had expected him to come back with, a beer had not made the list.
“Are you serious?”
His gaze dropped pointedly toward the hand she had tucked against her stomach. “Looks fucked.”
The swelling had climbed quickly, skin stretching pink and tight over the first two knuckles, and she curled her fingers inward as though hiding it now might somehow undo the fact that he had noticed.
“Your face looks fucked.”
“Yeah, whose fault’s that?”
“You were asking for it.”
Rafe sucked lightly at the inside of his cheek, the movement making him wince when it pulled at his nose. The reaction was small, little more than a brief tightening around his eyes, but she caught it anyway and felt an unhelpful spark of satisfaction move through her.
His nose was still bleeding faintly, one thin red line drying toward the corner of his mouth. He looked irritated, slightly stunned and offensively good for somebody she had hit less than five minutes ago.
He pushed the beer toward her again. “Take it.”
She scoffed and smacked at the can with her good hand. It was a stupid movement, immediate and childish, performed before the quieter part of her could point out that he had walked all the way back to the fire with blood running down his face to get it for her.
Rafe’s fingers tightened before it could fall, catching the can against his palm. Cold water sprayed lightly across both of them, darkening a few spots over the front of his polo and landing in sharp droplets across her bare arm.
His eyes narrowed. “The fuck is wrong with you?”
The question came out with genuine offence, as though she had violated some universally accepted rule of first aid rather than rejected a warm gesture from the last person on the island she wanted one from.
“Plenty.”
“Yeah. Got that.”
His answer was so immediate that her mouth almost twitched. Almost. She bit the inside of her cheek instead and looked away toward the water, where the tide kept sliding in and out without requiring anything from anybody.
He held the can out again. This time his arm remained extended between them, elbow locked with the stubborn patience of somebody prepared to stand there all night rather than admit he had brought the wrong thing. She glared at it. Then at him. Then at the blood drying near his mouth.
Rafe raised his brows impatiently. “C’mon.”
“I don’t need–”
“It’s a beer, Maybank. Not a kidney.”
Her mouth tightened. Rafe was easier when he was being awful. Easier when he was laughing at the Chateau or calling her a Pogue like the word came with a smell. She knew how to meet cruelty. Cruelty had rules.
This sat in his hand cold and uncomplicated, leaving her nowhere useful to put the anger still moving under her skin.
“Put it on your hand.”
“I know how ice works.”
She said it sharply, lifting her chin as though he had accused her of never encountering refrigeration. Rafe looked down at the can, then back at her, his expression flattening with exhausted disbelief.
“S’not ice.”
“Then why’d you bring it?”
“Because there’s no fuckin’ freezer.” He shoved the can nearer. “Take it.”
The can nearly touched her chest this time. She looked at his hand around it, damp fingers curled against the silver, the Cameron ring catching a thin slice of moonlight. His patience had clearly reached its end, but he still hadn’t dropped the beer or walked away.
She snatched it from him. The cold bit instantly into her palm and sent a bright ache through the swollen knuckles before beginning to dull it. She hissed and pressed the can against the back of her hand, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking relieved.
They stood there without speaking. The party carried on behind them with the total indifference of a party that had not noticed anything important happen. Firelight climbed and collapsed over the dunes. Kiara’s voice rose briefly above the music – “No, because they literally can’t digest plastic” – before being swallowed again by somebody shouting for another song.
Rafe pinched one nostril shut and breathed carefully through the other. “Think it’s broken?”
She glanced at him. “How would I know?”
“You hit it.”
“That doesn’t make me a doctor.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Seemed real fuckin’ confident.”
She looked back at the water, but a small laugh moved once through her nose before she could stop it. “It’s still straight.”
“Was it straight before?”
“Debatable,” she mumbled.
Rafe’s head turned slowly.
She pressed the beer harder to her hand to hide the beginning of a smile. “Little crooked.”
“Fuck you.”
“You keep saying that.”
His mouth shifted at one corner before he remembered he was bleeding and stopped. “Yeah, well.”
The silence returned, easier this time.
Her pulse had slowed. The shaking in her fingers faded beneath the cold can, leaving only the heavy ache of impact and the unpleasant knowledge that she had probably done more damage to herself than to him. Rafe remained beside her without trying to touch her again. That might have been the strangest part.
Most people asked questions when silence became visible. JJ asked them loudly. John B pretended not to ask while hovering in doorways. Kiara watched with her whole face until lying became exhausting. Rafe looked at the ocean.
Eventually, she cleared her throat. “Sorry for…” She moved the can slightly against her knuckles. “Punching you in the nose.”
Rafe shrugged one shoulder. “Good punch.”
She glanced at him. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The answer was so automatic that she almost laughed again. Instead, she nodded once with the solemnity of somebody accepting an award.
Rafe wiped carefully beneath his nose with the heel of his hand. No fresh blood appeared. “Where’d you learn to hit like that?”
Her body tightened before her face could. She stared down at the can. The label had begun peeling slightly beneath her damp fingers. “Don’t ask.”
Rafe’s expression didn’t soften into anything unbearable, and he didn’t start speaking in the gentle voice people used when they wanted pain explained neatly enough to feel useful.
His eyes moved once across her face, then toward the hand curled around the beer. Something passed through them – recognition, maybe, though she had no idea what Rafe Cameron could possibly recognise in a thing like that.
He nodded. “Okay.”
That was all. The quiet afterward settled over her shoulders without weight. She breathed out slowly and watched it disappear into the wind.
“Thanks for the beer,” she said after a while.
He huffed once and looked back toward the party. “Maybe go find your brother, yeah?”
She followed his gaze. JJ was nowhere visible near the fire, which meant he had either successfully disappeared into the dunes or fallen asleep beneath something flammable. “Yeah,” she said.
Rafe nodded toward her hand. “Keep that on there.”
“Bossy.”
“Stupid.”
“Kook.”
“Pogue.”
The words lacked enough venom to work properly. They dropped into the sand between them and stayed there, familiar and almost useless. She started back toward the fire, beer pressed flat across her knuckles. After several steps, she looked over her shoulder.
Rafe remained near the water. One hand rested on his hip while the other wiped once more beneath his nose. He was watching her go with an expression that changed the instant he realised she had turned, flattening into irritation as if he had caught her doing something embarrassing.
“What?” he called.
She faced forward again. “Nothing.”
“Go find JJ.”
“Go snort something.”
“Fuck you.”
She lifted the beer over her shoulder in a vague salute and kept walking, the cold can numbing her hand while the bonfire grew larger ahead of her.
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pairing – drew starkey x evangeline monroe
summary – when exes drew starkey & evangeline monroe get cast as the leads in an intimate new film, they now have to convince the world they’re in love on screen, while trying very hard not to remember what it felt like when they were in love for real.
warnings – rpf, strong language, relationship breakdown, breakup over the phone, abandonment fears, jealousy and insecurity, intense emotional distress, panic attack, hyperventilation, uncontrollable crying, nausea and dry heaving
word count – 10.6k
Sicily is so beautiful it begins to feel malicious. The hotel rises above the Ionian Sea in pale limestone and warm old brick, terraces cut into the cliff beneath striped umbrellas, gardens spilling bougainvillea over walls built by men who almost certainly never imagined television actors would one day smoke beneath them while wearing production robes and discussing per diems.
Every corridor seems designed to make Evangeline stop walking. Arched ceilings. Painted tiles. Dark wooden doors with brass handles polished soft by several centuries of other people’s hands.
Sun pouring through open windows and laying itself across the stone floors in great bright rectangles, as though light has been given a budget and a department head.
From her balcony, the sea looks unreal. Several separate blues arguing beautifully with one another: turquoise where the water thins over rock, navy farther out, silver where the afternoon catches it.
Boats move below without appearing to make sound. The air smells of salt, citrus and something flowering near the garden wall, and at dinner the horizon turns pink behind the cast while waiters carry wine through candlelight and everybody says some version of how lucky they are to be here.
Evangeline agrees every time. She is lucky. Ridiculously, obscenely lucky. She has wanted this since she was a child staging scenes in her bedroom mirror, turning her face toward imaginary marks and accepting awards into a hairbrush.
She’s twenty-two years old, filming an HBO show in Sicily, eating pasta, working with actors she has watched for years and waking each morning inside a former convent above the fucking Mediterranean.
Her life has become the sort of thing magazines describe as meteoric when they want success to sound as though nobody involved spent years vomiting from nerves before auditions.
The only problem is that the person she wants to tell about it has become almost impossible to reach.
It happens slowly enough that neither of them can identify the first missed step. Drew calls while she’s in hair and makeup, and Evangeline answers with her chin held still beneath somebody’s brush, whispering because the trailer is full.
She calls back after wrap, but he’s already on set or asleep or in a car with Ben beside him answering emails. He promises to ring when he gets in. She wakes at four in the morning with the phone hot beneath her cheek and a message sent two hours earlier.
Drew: Sorry. Long day. Love you.
She sends one back before her eyes have opened properly.
Evangeline: love you. call me tomorrow?
Tomorrow becomes a small, poorly managed country neither of them is ever permitted to enter at the same time.
At first, their missed calls remain affectionate. He leaves voice notes from quiet production corridors, voice low because somebody is sleeping in the next trailer.
She sends him videos of the sea and complains that the hotel breakfast has made ordinary yoghurt permanently unusable. He photographs bad coffee, his shoes beneath folding tables, the view through the windscreen on the way to work.
Evangeline sends photographs from costume fittings, pages spread across her bed, a lizard sunning itself on the balcony wall with the caption met your replacement. Drew replies that the lizard looks emotionally unavailable. She tells him the resemblance is unsettling.
Then even the jokes begin arriving late. A message sits unread until the subject has expired. A photograph that should have made him call earns a heart reaction six hours later. Evangeline begins asking, Can you talk tonight? with enough frequency that the question acquires the atmosphere of an accusation before Drew has even answered it.
One night, she calls from the tiled edge of her bathtub with wet hair dripping cold between her shoulder blades. It’s close to midnight in Sicily, early evening for him, though his schedule has become impossible for her to follow without a production calendar and a working knowledge of North American traffic.
He picks up after the sixth ring. “Hey.”
There are voices behind him. A door closing. Somebody laughing farther away.
“Hi.” She presses the phone more closely to her ear, smiling despite the lateness and the ache beginning between her brows. “Can you talk?”
“For a minute. They’re waiting on me.”
Her smile disappears before she can protect it. “Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He goes quiet. Evangeline hears a car door open, then the dull rustle of him shifting the phone against his shoulder. “Vangeline.”
“I said nothing,” she murmurs.
“You did that thing.”
“What thing?”
He sighs. “That voice.”
She looks across the bathroom at her own reflection in the dark window, faint and pale over the lights below. “I just thought we could actually talk.”
“I am talking to you.”
“You’re getting into a car.”
“Because I have to go somewhere.”
She picks at her thumb nail. “I know that.”
“Okay.”
The okay reaches her exhausted and already defensive. She closes her eyes. “I’m not attacking you.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You sound like you think I am.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I don’t want you to say anything particular.” Her fingers tighten around the edge of the bath. “I want to speak to my boyfriend for more than three minutes without somebody calling your name in the background.”
The car goes quiet around him. Or perhaps Drew has covered the microphone with his hand. When his voice returns, it’s lower. “I called you yesterday.”
“While I was working.”
“And you said it was fine.”
“It was fine.”
He huffs. “Then why are you pissed off now?”
“I’m not pissed off.”
He lets out a breath through his nose.
The sound moves through the phone and lands directly beneath her sternum. Evangeline sits straighter. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
She gestures with her hand, though he cannot see her. “Do that like I’m being unreasonable.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Evangeline, I have to go,” he says firmly.
“Of course you do.”
There’s a pause. She hears herself after the words have left and hates the cheapness of them, the way hurt has turned her voice into something designed to make sure he leaves feeling guilty enough to remember her.
Drew hears it too. “See? This is what I mean.”
Her throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
“Every time I call, I’m already apologising.”
“You don’t have to apologise. I just miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“Then act like it,” she snaps.
The silence after that becomes the whole conversation. Evangeline apologises first. She always tells herself she will not, then hears the tiredness in his breathing and begins trying to take the weight back out of every sentence she placed there.
“I’m sorry,” she says, pressing her fingertips to her forehead. “I’m tired. I had a long day and I wanted to hear your voice.”
Drew’s own voice softens, but not all the way. “I know.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” Somebody knocks against his window. Ben says something too muffled to understand. “I gotta go.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight, pretty girl.”
The old name should fix it. Sometimes it does for the length of one heartbeat.
“Night, baby.”
The call ends. Evangeline remains beside the bathtub with the phone against her ear until the empty line returns to the screen.
The trouble with distance is that almost anything can begin looking like proof once fear has been asked to entertain itself for long enough.
Odessa is still in the photographs from Serbia, though Hellraiser has wrapped and everyone involved has theoretically moved on. She appears in old cast dumps, behind-the-scenes posts, dinners uploaded weeks late, fan accounts assembling moments into little digital court cases nobody has requested.
Sometimes she tags Drew in something. Sometimes she comments beneath an old photograph. Sometimes Evangeline opens an app and finds Odessa’s face beside his before she has even remembered she was meant to be evolved.
Nothing happened. Drew has told her that. Evangeline believes him. The belief does nothing useful to her body.
Odessa had become too familiar too quickly, wearing his jacket, leaning into photographs, laughing beside him in rooms where Evangeline’s existence remained a vague somebody he was seeing.
Drew called it work. Friendship. A cast becoming close after months in another country. Evangeline heard every explanation and still felt something small and feverish begin moving beneath her skin whenever Odessa appeared.
She became colder because warmth had started feeling humiliating. She stopped asking who was at dinner. Stopped asking whether the cast knew about her.
Stopped mentioning the photographs at all after Drew said, “I don’t know what else you want me to tell you,” in a voice so exhausted that Evangeline spent the rest of the night feeling like something difficult he had been forced to carry.
Drew interpreted the new silence differently.
“You seem good,” he tells her during another call, the words arriving through a patch of bad reception while Evangeline stands near an open hotel window in her robe.
“What does that mean?”
“You just… seem busy.”
She blinks. “I am busy.”
“Yeah.”
She waits. “Are you angry that I’m working?”
“No. Jesus, no.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing.”
Evangeline presses one hand against the warm stone sill. “Drew.”
“You’re doing the show. You’re booking all this stuff. You’re in fuckin’ Sicily.”
His voice sounds strange. Not resentful, smaller than that, something rubbed raw beneath the pride.
“Okay?”
“You don’t need me calling and makin’ you feel like shit every night.”
Her brow pulls together. “You don’t make me feel like shit.”
“You’re miserable every time we talk.”
“Because I miss you.”
“Right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he mutters.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Saying things and then deciding I’m not allowed to ask what they mean.”
He laughs once. No warmth in it. “That’s rich.”
Evangeline goes quiet.
Drew seems to regret it immediately. She hears the rustle of his hand moving over his face. “I didn’t mean–”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Vangeline.”
“I said it’s fine,” she snaps.
“And then you’re gonna be mad tomorrow because I believed you.”
Her eyes burn. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so eager to believe me when I say things are fine.”
He groans. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Know me.”
The words leave before pride can dress them properly. Drew says nothing.
Outside the window, the sea keeps moving. Afternoon light flashes white against one distant boat. Somewhere below, cutlery is being placed across tables for dinner, silver touching linen in small clean sounds.
When Drew finally speaks, his voice is exhausted. “I’m trying.”
Evangeline closes her eyes. “I know.”
But the trying has begun hurting both of them. That’s the part neither says because naming it might require them to decide what happens next.
She still plans around him as though there’s no next without Drew in it.
The plan is embarrassingly detailed for something they have barely discussed beyond soft, late-night jokes.
A house somewhere quieter than Los Angeles or New York. North Carolina, if that’s where he wants to return. Evangeline has no loyalty to geography strong enough to compete with him. She would move into some old place with bad pipes and a porch that needs repairing if Drew stood in the kitchen barefoot and complained about the coffee she bought.
She imagines his sisters close enough to visit. Her parents taking flights and pretending not to mind. A spare room first, then a nursery later, though the image of Drew holding a baby is so tender she usually turns away from it inside her own mind before the wanting becomes physically embarrassing.
She wants to marry him. Eventually, with an ordinary certainty that has never felt dramatic enough to require announcement. She wants to choose china with him and fight about where to spend Christmas and know which shirts have become too soft to throw away.
She wants children with his eyes and his quietness and perhaps, if the universe is merciful, somebody else’s ability to answer a telephone.
She wants the unphotographed machinery of a life. Drew’s trainers near a door. His hand reaching across the mattress in sleep. Grocery lists. Airport collections. The little irritated noise he makes when a jar refuses to open. She wants years long enough for both of their faces to alter gradually and without permission.
Wherever he is, some stupid internal part of Evangeline has already labelled it home.
This is why his distance doesn’t feel like missing a boyfriend. It feels like the future has begun quietly removing furniture while she is still inside the house.
The morning of the press dinner, Evangeline films from six until shortly after one. The day is all white heat, old stone and a bathing suit that looks effortless only because three people have spent forty minutes securing it against accidental movement.
They shoot near the pool first, then beneath a shaded terrace where the air barely moves and the script pages begin softening in everyone’s hands.
Between takes, Evangeline drinks water, lets someone blot the shine from her upper lip and checks her phone without allowing the action to look like checking.
Nothing from Drew. There’s a message she sent two nights earlier still sitting above the empty text box.
It’s a photograph from the dress trial for tonight: Evangeline standing on a fitting platform in a narrow dark-gold dress that falls from her body like poured metal, one hand holding her hair off her shoulders while the tailor crouches at the hem.
Evangeline: too much?
Then, twenty minutes later:
Evangeline: or not enough actually
Drew has not answered. He’s busy. That’s all. The simplest explanation remains simple regardless of how often Evangeline has to repeat it.
He could be asleep. Working. Driving. Talking to family. Existing for several hours without his phone arranged directly in his palm.
She understands. She understands so much lately that understanding has begun feeling like another word for swallowing something before it can choke anybody else.
By the time production releases her, the hotel has entered the drowsy brightness of early afternoon. The stone corridors are cool beneath her sandals. Open doors reveal little flashes of housekeeping carts, white bedding, dark furniture and the sea framed in every available gap as if the building has been constructed around a view nobody could bear to lose.
Evangeline carries a plate of fruit back to her room and eats two pieces of watermelon over the sink because sitting down for lunch would require admitting she has time.
The press dinner is not until later. She has a couple of hours before hair and makeup arrive, enough space to shower, sleep, read, call Iris, perhaps stare at Drew’s unanswered message.
The room is cool after the corridor, shutters angled against the strongest part of the light. The balcony doors remain open enough for the sea to make itself heard below, a low repetitive rush beneath distant voices and the occasional bell from somewhere in town.
Evangeline showers. The water pressure is offensively good. She stands beneath it until the sunscreen, makeup and studio dust leave her skin, then wraps herself in a white robe and sits cross-legged at the end of the bed with wet hair combed over one shoulder.
Jewellery options for the dinner have already been delivered in a black velvet case. Evangeline opens it because she needs something harmless to decide.
Two pairs of earrings, one necklace, three rings. The first earring is long and gold, narrow enough to move against her neck without becoming costume. She puts it into her left ear and turns her head toward the mirror. The other remains in the case.
Her phone begins vibrating on the duvet.
For half a second, she assumes it will be Iris. Then she sees Drew’s name. Everything inside her moves at once.
She lunges badly enough that one knee catches in the robe and nearly sends her off the edge of the mattress. The velvet jewellery case tips sideways, one ring rolling into the crease between the bed and the headboard, but Evangeline barely sees it.
She catches the phone before the call can disappear and answers with breath already high beneath her collarbones. “Hi, babe!”
The brightness comes instinctively. Warm and easy and perhaps half a pitch too high, the voice of a girlfriend determined to be lovely because lately being honest has produced nothing but apology.
There’s a small pause. “Hey,” Drew says.
The single word touches her everywhere. Evangeline smiles, pressing the phone closer. “Early for you, right? Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. She hears sheets move or clothing or a hand dragging over stubble. “Yeah, I just thought I’d call before I started my day.”
“Oh.” Relief opens through her so quickly she has to put one hand against the mattress to steady it. “Thank you, my baby. I miss you so much.”
Drew hums. A small sound caught somewhere in his throat.
Evangeline’s smile remains for one extra second because her face hasn’t yet received the information. Then it begins leaving slowly, first at the corners of her mouth. “Drew?”
“Yeah.”
The sea moves beyond the balcony. A gull cries once in the distance, harsh and metallic against all that expensive quiet.
Evangeline looks down at her bare knees inside the robe. “What’s wrong?”
He breathes in, and she knows. There’s no reasonable basis for it yet. But her body understands before language arrives. The skin across her chest goes cold. Her fingers tighten around the phone until the edge bites beneath her thumb.
“Drew,” she says again, softer now.
“I can’t…” He stops. Clears his throat a second time. “I can’t keep doin’ this to you, Evangeline.”
Her gaze lifts toward the mirror. One gold earring hangs from her left ear. Her hair is still wet, darkening the shoulder of the robe. The right side of her face looks unfinished.
“What?”
“You’re miserable.”
She blinks. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No, I’m not.” The answer comes quickly enough to trip over itself. “I’m just– we’ve both been busy. It’s been hard. I know I’ve been difficult lately, and I’m sorry, but I’m not miserable.”
“I’m always disappointing you.” His voice is low and uneven now, the words coming faster as though he has rehearsed them and still cannot get through without losing breath. “Every time we talk, it’s another fuckin’ apology because I missed your call or I didn’t answer right or I said the wrong thing, and I just– I don’t know how to keep being this person for you.”
Evangeline stands without deciding to. The movement makes the room shift strangely around her, blood draining from her head before returning in one thick pulse. “You’re not disappointing me.”
“I am.”
“No.” She walks two steps toward the balcony and stops because her legs feel unreliable beneath the robe. “No, baby, you’re not. I miss you. That’s all. I love you and I miss you, and sometimes I don’t say it properly, but that doesn’t mean you’re not– Drew, you are good enough for me.”
He makes a sound. Something pained and disbelieving.
“You’re everything to me,” she says. The words are too large to deliver through a phone and entirely true. Her voice catches around them anyway. “You are. You’re everything. I don’t care about the calls, I don’t care that it’s hard. We can fix hard.”
“Vangeline–”
“Are you breaking up with me?”
The question leaves her standing in the middle of the room with one hand pressed hard against the front of her robe. She can feel her heartbeat through the terrycloth, too fast and strangely heavy, each beat landing separately as if the body has forgotten rhythm and is now completing the task manually.
“Drew?”
He breathes. Tears reach her eyes before he answers. They rise in a hot, immediate sheet, vision bending around the balcony doors until sea and sky merge into one bright blur.
“Please answer me.”
“I…” His voice breaks at the edge, and for one impossible second hope moves through her because he cannot say it, because perhaps the whole call is only another misunderstanding they will be embarrassed by later.
Then Drew exhales. “Yes.”
Evangeline’s mouth opens. Nothing happens. The room remains exactly as it was. Bed unmade from her brief attempt at sleep. Jewellery case tipped sideways. One ring lost near the headboard. The plate of fruit sweating faintly on the desk. Sunlight moving across the stone floor with no visible reaction to the fact that her life has just split cleanly through the centre.
“No,” she says. The word is quiet. Almost conversational.
Drew says her name.
“No.” She shakes her head, though he cannot see it, one hand rising toward her mouth. “No, no. Don’t– don’t do that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t.” The tears spill properly now, warm over both cheeks, gathering near her jaw before dropping onto the robe. “Drew, please. Please don’t leave me.”
His breathing changes through the phone.
Evangeline presses the heel of one hand beneath her sternum, trying to make space where there suddenly is none. “Baby, don’t. Please. We can fix it. I’ll stop– I’ll stop getting upset about the calls. I won’t ask you to call so much. I know you’re busy, I know. I can be better about it.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Then don’t leave me.”
“Evangeline–”
“Is there somebody else?” The question tears out of her so quickly the words collapse into one another. She turns toward the desk, gripping its edge because the floor has begun feeling too far away.
Her nose is running now. Her mouth tastes of salt and the watermelon she ate over the sink. “Then what is it? What did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“People don’t just leave when nobody did anything.”
“I’m not saying nobody–” He stops, voice cracking with frustration or grief or both. “We keep hurting each other.”
“I don’t care.”
“You do care.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t care if it’s hard.” Evangeline’s knees begin shaking. She presses both thighs against the desk to hold them still. “I want hard with you. I want whatever it is. I don’t need it to be easy.”
Drew goes quiet. She hears a faint sound from his side of the call, a swallow, perhaps the heel of his hand dragging over his mouth.
“Do you still love me?” she asks.
The question is smaller than everything else. It comes from somewhere low and young inside her, beneath all the anger and sarcasm and practised self-possession. Drew doesn’t answer immediately.
Evangeline folds forward over the desk, one arm crossing her stomach. “Do you not love me anymore?”
“That’s not the problem.”
The sentence is worse than no. It enters her body and removes the last useful structure. Her knees buckle sharply enough that one catches the side of the chair before she reaches the floor. She lands badly on one hip, shoulder striking the desk as the phone nearly slips from her hand.
A sound leaves her. Raw and startled, as if the pain has been pulled through somewhere too narrow to remain language.
“You love me,” she sobs. “You love me and you’re still leaving me.”
“I don’t know how to make you happy anymore.”
“You make me happy.”
“I make you cry.”
“So does everybody!” The answer breaks apart in the middle, half scream and half plea. “That doesn’t mean you get to leave.”
Drew breathes hard into the phone. “We have to end this now before we become crueler to each other.”
Evangeline presses her forehead into the carpet. The fibres are soft and expensive against her skin, patterned in faded reds and golds chosen to make centuries-old luxury feel inviting. Her tears disappear into them immediately, darkening small irregular places nobody else will ever notice.
All she hears is that Drew has decided his life will improve once she’s removed from it.
Not that he is frightened. Not that he thinks he is saving either of them. Not that he may be crying too in some room thousands of kilometres away while dawn begins outside his window.
He has looked at a future containing Evangeline and decided to close it.
“Please don’t leave me,” she says into the carpet. Her phone is trapped between her cheek and one shaking hand, Drew’s voice pressed so close it might be inside her head. “Please, baby. Please don’t do this. I’ll come home. I’ll fly to you. I don’t care. Tell me where you are and I’ll come.”
“No.”
She sobs harder. “Why?”
“Because it won’t fix it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t!” Her voice rises and breaks, breath catching so violently after it that she cannot draw the next one. She pulls away from the carpet, mouth open, chest moving without air. “You don’t get to decide that by yourself. You don’t get to–”
Her lungs close around the sentence.
Drew hears it. “Slow down.”
She shakes her head. One hand claws at the collar of the robe, suddenly intolerable against her throat.
“Evangeline, breathe.”
“Don’t tell me to breathe.” The words scrape out thinly. “You’re leaving me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t do this to me over the phone.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” She manages a breath, small and useless. “You don’t know. You’re not here. You don’t have to look at me.”
Drew goes silent.
“Come here,” she begs. “Please. Or I’ll come to you. Just don’t end it like this. Don’t make this the last time I hear your voice.”
“It won’t be the last time.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Evangeline.”
“Don’t.” She presses the phone away from her ear and then brings it back immediately because even his breathing is still something she cannot bear to lose. “Don’t say my name like that.”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Say you changed your mind.”
He doesn’t.
The pause lasts only a few seconds. It becomes large enough to contain every future Evangeline had built without asking whether the ground beneath it belonged to both of them.
The porch. The children. Christmas flights. Drew’s shoes by a door. His hand resting on the back of her neck while she cooks badly. His face changing slowly with age across breakfast tables and airport lounges and ordinary Wednesday nights.
All of it remains vivid for one final, vicious moment before the phone turns it fictional.
“I’m so sorry, Evangeline,” Drew says.
She hangs up. Her thumb finds the red button without permission, and then he’s gone.
Gone in the clean digital way phones remove people, his name replaced by the call duration and her own wet face reflected faintly in the darkening screen. Evangeline stares at it.
The first sob after the silence folds her entirely. Her forehead hits the carpet again. Both hands come around the phone and pull it beneath her chest as though she can protect what remains inside it through pressure.
Her body draws tight around the loss, knees curling beneath the robe, shoulders shaking so violently one gold earring strikes faintly against the side of her neck.
She cannot make enough air. Every attempt catches high and stutters back out, forcing small broken noises from her throat. Saliva gathers beneath her tongue. Her nose runs onto the carpet.
There’ s no graceful version of grief once it becomes physical enough. It leaves her face swollen, mouth open, ribs pulling painfully against muscles that cannot understand why they are being asked to keep moving.
The phone begins vibrating beneath her.
Drew.
The name fills the screen. Evangeline makes a sound and shoves it away. It slides several inches across the carpet, stopping near the leg of the bed. The call ends, then begins again before the screen has gone dark.
She covers both ears. It does nothing. The vibration travels through the floor and into her bones, a soft mechanical pulse repeating near her face.
She knows exactly how far away the phone is without looking. Knows Drew is calling because she hung up, because he doesn’t want the final sound between them to be the line going dead, because perhaps he’s frightened she will do something, because perhaps he loves her.
He loves her. That’s still the worst part.
Evangeline crawls toward the bathroom because her body has begun insisting she might vomit. One palm slips against the stone where the carpet ends. Her knee knocks the doorframe. She barely feels it.
The bathroom is white marble veined faintly with grey, impossibly clean, sunlight bouncing from the mirror onto the polished floor. Evangeline reaches the toilet and grips the closed lid without opening it, forehead pressed against her own wrist while her stomach contracts emptily beneath the robe.
Nothing comes up. Only another sob, pulled so hard through her chest that a sharp pain catches behind her right eye.
She sits back against the bath and drags both palms over her face. Makeup isn’t an issue yet. She has none on. No protection at all beyond one earring and the wet hair drying badly across one shoulder.
The phone continues vibrating in the other room. It stops. Begins again before the silence has time to settle.
Evangeline stares through the bathroom doorway at the strip of bedroom carpet visible beyond it, sunlight lying across the fibres in one clean golden bar. The phone is somewhere near the bed.
She can hear the soft mechanical pulse against the floor, persistent and restrained, the sound of someone attempting to reach her without being able to enter.
Her legs don’t want to hold her. She gets up anyway. One hand catches the edge of the bath. The other slides over marble, fingers leaving damp, uneven marks where her palms have become slick.
She rises in pieces, first onto one knee, then both feet, body bent forward as another sob presses suddenly through her chest and folds her nearly in half again.
The phone stops.
“Fuck,” she whispers, though the word barely forms. It leaves her as air and pain rather than language.
She stumbles out of the bathroom with one hand held against the wall. Her knee catches the doorframe. Her shoulder clips the side of the desk, shaking the plate of fruit and sending one cube of watermelon slipping wetly onto the floor. She watches it land without understanding what it is.
Drew’s name fills the screen again. She stops several feet away from it. His photograph is still attached to the contact.
An old one, taken outside somewhere in North Carolina, Drew looking down and laughing with one hand half-raised toward whoever held the camera. Toward her. Evangeline remembers taking it. Remembers telling him to stop moving. Remembers him saying, “Then take the picture faster,” before she took six because his face kept changing and she liked every version.
The call rings until it doesn’t. Her knees give a small warning tremor. Evangeline drops beside the bed, reaches for the phone and nearly misses it, fingertips skidding over the glass before closing around the edges.
She doesn’t call Drew back. Her vision is too wet to read properly. She opens her favourites, presses Iris’s name because it sits where her thumb knows to find it, and lifts the phone to her ear with both hands.
Iris answers on the second ring.
“Hiiii, sexy girl,” she sings, voice bright and warm and completely unprepared. There’s traffic around her, a car indicator clicking somewhere beneath the sound. “How’s Sicily? Are you having sex with a fisherman yet, or is HBO keeping you oppressively employed?”
Evangeline tries to answer, but nothing comes out.
Her throat closes around the first sound, turning it into a small, broken choke. She presses the heel of her hand beneath her sternum and tries again, but another sob forces its way through before any word can gather behind it.
The brightness leaves Iris’s voice immediately. “Evangeline?”
She can’t breathe properly. Each inhale catches in the centre of her chest and fractures into several smaller attempts. Her mouth remains open, jaw shaking, but the air refuses to travel far enough to become speech.
“Hey. Hey, what happened?” Iris’s voice sharpens, not panicked, but awake now in every direction. “Babe, talk to me. Are you hurt?”
The phone vibrates against Evangeline’s cheek. Another call trying to come through. Drew’s name flashes across the screen, briefly replacing Iris’s, then disappears when she doesn’t answer. The little banner remains above the active call for one second longer, his name sitting there like an accusation.
Evangeline folds over her knees. “He–”
The word catches. She coughs around it, saliva thick beneath her tongue.
Iris says her name again, softer this time. “What, baby?”
“He– he left me.”
There’s a silence so complete that even the traffic behind Iris seems to disappear.
“What?”
Evangeline presses her forehead against the mattress. The duvet is cool and smooth beneath her skin, smelling faintly of hotel detergent and the citrus hand cream she used before bed.
“Drew left me,” she manages, and the name breaks open everything the first sentence had only loosened.
Her whole body pulls tight around the sob. One hand fists in the duvet. Her feet slide uselessly against the carpet as she curls nearer to the bed, trying to make herself small enough for the room to stop touching her.
“That motherf–” Iris stops so sharply Evangeline can hear her teeth come together. “Okay. Okay, no. I can be on a flight in thirty minutes.”
Evangeline’s head lifts faintly.
“I’m only in Rome, baby. I can be there in a couple of hours. I’m getting in a car now.”
There’s movement on Iris’s end. A door opening, heels against pavement, a man saying something she dismisses immediately. Evangeline nods.
Iris waits half a second. “Are you nodding?”
Another nod, more desperate, as if force might make it visible through the phone.
“I can’t see you, honey.”
“Yes,” Evangeline sobs. “Yes, please. I can’t– I can’t breathe.”
“I know, baby.” Iris’s voice lowers until it seems to sit directly beside her on the carpet. “I know. Don’t try to talk for a second. Just listen to me.”
The phone vibrates again against her ear. Another incoming call. Drew. Evangeline pulls it away for one frightened second and sees his name, then presses Iris back to her cheek without touching anything else.
“Put one hand on your stomach,” Iris says.
Her fingers release slowly. She places her palm against the soft front of the robe, low beneath her ribs. Her stomach contracts sharply under the pressure, as though even being touched by her own hand has become too much.
“I did,” she whispers.
“Good. I want you to breathe into your hand. Not a huge breath. Don’t force it. Just enough that you can feel your stomach move.”
Evangeline tries. The inhale stops high in her chest. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have to do it well.” Iris says this while climbing into a car, the door shutting firmly behind her.
Evangeline draws air through her nose. It catches, trembles and reaches perhaps an inch lower than the one before.
“There,” Iris says immediately. “That one counted.”
A sob tears through Evangeline, but the edge of it catches strangely against something that might have been a laugh in a different body.
Iris hears it. “Good. Again.”
The car begins moving. Evangeline can hear Rome around her friend in blurred, familiar pieces: horns, scooters, Iris telling the driver aeroporto in a voice that suggests the entire country has been informed this is no longer a negotiation.
Evangeline keeps breathing because Iris tells her to. Each inhale still arrives uneven, snagging beneath the breastbone before dropping lower by slow degrees.
Her hand moves faintly beneath the robe. Up. Down. Enough to prove the lungs have not stopped, though they seem personally offended by continued employment.
Drew calls again. Then again.
The phone vibrates repeatedly against her face, each interruption briefly splitting the screen between the person holding her together and the person who has just pulled her life apart.
“Is he calling?” Iris asks.
Evangeline closes her eyes. “Yes.”
“Don’t answer.”
“What if he–”
“No.” The word comes firm and clean. “He said what he wanted to say. He doesn’t get to keep you on the line while you break open around it.”
Evangeline’s mouth trembles. “He loves me.”
“I know.”
“He said that wasn’t the problem.”
The sentence comes out with a little stunned shake still inside it, as though she has been repeating it silently and each time expecting the meaning to change.
Iris breathes in through her nose. Evangeline knows the sound. The pause where her best friend chooses what will help over what she wants to say.
“That doesn’t make what he did kinder,” Iris says eventually.
Evangeline presses her face into the side of the mattress. “I begged him. I said I’d be better.”
“Oh, baby.”
“I told him I wouldn’t ask him to call.” Her voice cracks so hard the last word dissolves. “I said I’d stop getting upset.”
“You were scared.”
“I sounded fucking pathetic.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I didn’t have to be.” Iris’s voice becomes quieter. “I know you. You were trying to keep the person you love from leaving. That’s not pathetic. It’s just awful that he let you think making yourself smaller could’ve fixed it.”
Evangeline presses both lips together. Tears continue falling anyway, sliding over them, gathering beneath her chin before disappearing into the white collar of the robe.
For several minutes Iris speaks about nothing that needs an answer. Which airport she’s going to. How quickly she can get a bag sent after her. The fact that she’s wearing shoes completely unsuitable for running through a terminal and will be invoicing Drew for any podiatric consequences.
Evangeline breathes around the words.
By the time Iris says she can see the airport signs, the sharpest part of the panic has begun loosening. Her chest still aches. Her face feels enormous and hot, every feature swollen by pressure. But the breaths reach farther now, each one no longer immediately chased by the fear that another will not come.
Evangeline pushes herself upright slowly and leans against the side of the bed. The room tilts once before settling. She wipes beneath her nose with the sleeve of the robe, then looks down at the wet mark and starts crying harder for reasons that have nothing to do with fabric.
Evangeline closes her eyes. “I should…” Her voice trails away. The idea of speaking any longer, even to Iris, has begun feeling like holding something too heavy with fingers already numb. “I’m gonna go.”
Iris is quiet for a beat. Behind her, a car door opens and airport noise spills through – rolling luggage, distant announcements, voices layered beneath a high ceiling.
“Okay,” she says. “Turn your phone off, babe.”
Evangeline looks at the screen. Another banner appears while Iris is speaking.
Drew Starkey – incoming call.
Her stomach turns.
“I’ll be there soon,” Iris continues. “A couple of hours. I’ll come straight to you, okay?”
Evangeline nods. “You’ll be here soon.”
“Lock the door. Get in the shower if you can. Don’t answer him. Don’t read anything until I’m there.”
Evangeline swallows. “Thank– thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know.”
“No, you clearly don’t, because you just did.”
Another little sound escapes Evangeline, weak and wet and almost human.
Iris’s voice softens again. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The call ends.
Evangeline remains against the bed with the phone resting loosely in her lap. The screen fills immediately with everything the call with Iris had been covering. Thirty missed calls.
The number looks absurd. Obscene. Too large to belong to the quiet man who had just told her they needed to end things before they became crueler. As if thirty attempts can somehow soften the first decision. As if persistence after the fact can count as staying.
Below them are messages stacked close enough that only pieces show on the lock screen.
Drew: Please answer.
Drew: I’m sorry.
Drew: Just tell me you’re okay.
Drew: Vangeline please.
Evangeline stares until the words blur. Her thumb moves over them once, not opening anything, only hovering near his name with the old reflex toward him still operating beneath all the damage.
Then she holds down the side button. Her hand is shaking hard enough that she presses the wrong combination first and the volume indicator appears. She makes a frustrated sound, tries again and waits while the shutdown slider fills the screen.
The phone asks whether she’s sure in the same clean little design language used for every consequence too large to fit inside glass.
Evangeline slides her thumb across. The screen goes black.
She watches her own reflection appear faintly in it. Swollen eyes. Wet mouth. One earring catching the light while the other side remains bare. A face interrupted midway through becoming beautiful for somebody else’s evening.
Evangeline places the dead phone on the bed and gets up. Her balance is better now, though her legs still move with the slow, detached care of someone learning the room after illness. She walks into the bathroom and turns toward the mirror.
The woman there looks struck. Her whole face has puffed around the grief, cheeks blotched deep pink, eyelids swollen until the shape of her eyes has altered.
The right is worse. The white has filled with broken red near the inner corner, blood spread beneath the surface in a bright, ugly bloom that reaches farther than irritation should.
Evangeline leans closer. She must have burst something crying. A tiny vessel surrendered beneath the pressure while the rest of her body was occupied with larger failures.
Her hand rises toward it but stops before touching. Tears continue moving down her face without changing her expression now. They slide quietly from both eyes, crossing the swollen skin, gathering near the corners of her mouth.
She watches them in the mirror as though they belong to the woman on the other side and might stop if neither acknowledges them.
The gold earring moves faintly when she breathes. Behind her, sunlight fills the hotel room. The sea remains blue beyond the balcony. Somewhere below, somebody laughs.
Evangeline turns away from the mirror and reaches into the shower. Her fingers close around the brass handle. She turns the water on.
The banging begins while Evangeline is on the bathroom floor again.
Iris’s fist lands against the hotel door in three hard bursts, pauses just long enough for the corridor to breathe, then starts again with enough force that somebody in the room next door opens their own door and says something irritated in Italian.
“Evangeline!”
The shower is still running behind her. It’s been running long enough for steam to collect across the mirror and water to begin creeping beneath the glass partition in a thin, clear line.
Evangeline has showered already. Technically. She stood beneath the spray until the water went from hot to merely warm, washed her hair twice without remembering the first time and then sat down against the tiled wall because her legs had stopped participating in the day.
She has been dry for almost an hour now, wrapped in another white hotel robe with damp hair cooling down her spine. The nausea began shortly after Iris’s flight landed. No warning beyond a sudden flood beneath her tongue and the sharp collapse of her stomach around absolutely nothing.
Now she’s kneeling beside the toilet with one hand gripping the porcelain beneath the seat and the other pressed flat against the wall, body contracting around another dry heave that tears painfully through her ribs and produces only a thin string of saliva she wipes away with the sleeve of the robe.
Hair and makeup are due in thirty-one minutes. The fact sits somewhere in the room like an unpaid bill.
Iris hits the door again. “Baby, open the door.”
Evangeline lifts her head. The movement makes the bathroom pitch faintly to one side. She shuts her eyes until the tiles hold still, then pushes herself upright using the edge of the sink.
Her knees have gone pink from the floor. One foot catches in the hem of the robe as she walks, forcing her to grab the wall and shuffle the remaining distance through the bedroom with the small, undignified steps of somebody wearing a bridal gown in a public toilet.
“I’m coming,” she attempts.
The words barely leave her throat. Iris bangs again anyway.
Evangeline reaches the door and fumbles the lock twice. Her fingers feel thick and badly attached. The brass latch slides halfway, sticks, then gives with a metallic snap that seems impossibly loud inside her head.
The door opens. Iris is standing in the corridor with sunglasses pushed into her hair, one black carry-on behind her and a cream coat folded over one arm despite the Sicilian heat.
Her face changes when she sees Evangeline. Her eyes move once over the swollen face, the burst vessel filling the inner half of Evangeline’s right eye, the damp hair and robe and bare feet planted badly against the floor.
“Oh, honey.”
Evangeline’s mouth folds before the words can reach it. She turns away quickly, one hand flying toward her stomach. Iris steps through the doorway just as Evangeline stumbles back across the room, nearly catching her shin on the corner of the bed before making it into the bathroom and dropping in front of the toilet.
The heave comes hard enough to pull a broken sound from her chest. Iris shuts the hotel door behind her, kicks it once to make sure the latch catches and follows without removing her coat or bag.
She lowers herself beside Evangeline in one smooth movement, gathering the wet hair away from her face with one hand while the other settles between her shoulder blades.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Okay, honey. Come here.”
Evangeline coughs into the bowl. Her whole body trembles around the useless contraction, shoulders jerking beneath the robe while tears drip from the end of her nose and disappear into the water.
“There’s nothing left,” Iris murmurs, rubbing slow circles over her back. “Your body’s being an attention-seeking little bitch now.”
Another dry heave grips her.
“I know. Rude.”
Evangeline makes a sound that might be an agreement. Iris waits until the spasm passes before reaching for the hand towel beside the sink. She wets one corner beneath the tap, wrings it out and cups Evangeline’s chin lightly.
“Sit back for me.”
Evangeline obeys because Iris has arrived with a voice that assumes obedience will be the path of least resistance. She sags against the side of the bath, knees drawn up beneath the robe, while Iris wipes carefully at the wet skin beneath her mouth and then along her jaw.
The towel is cool. Evangeline closes her eyes.
Iris folds the clean side over and presses it beneath her nose. “Blow.”
Evangeline does. Weakly.
“Beautiful,” Iris says. “Very Grace Kelly.”
The towel lowers. Iris uses her thumb to wipe one remaining tear from the swollen skin beneath Evangeline’s left eye, then looks properly at the right.
Her expression stills. “Oh, your eye.”
Evangeline’s gaze drops.
“Does it hurt?”
She shakes her head.
“Can you see properly?”
Evangeline swallows. Her throat feels flayed from crying, every movement scraping. “I can see.”
“Okay.” Iris takes her face gently between both hands and tips it toward the bathroom light. “You’ve burst a blood vessel. It looks worse than it is.”
The reassurance should settle somewhere. It does not. Evangeline stares past Iris’s cheek toward the fogged mirror, where the two of them exist only as pale shapes.
Iris releases her. “Where’s the ice roller?”
Evangeline blinks.
“You have one. You’re obsessed with skin care. Where is it?”
“Fridge.”
“I’ll be back.”
The absence of Iris’s hands makes the bathroom colder. Evangeline hears her cross the suite, open the small fridge near the desk and begin moving things with the blunt efficiency of someone uninterested in the minibar’s organisation.
Glass bottles knock together. A drawer opens. Iris mutters, “Why is there a cucumber in here?” followed by, “Actually, never mind.”
She returns holding the little pale-green roller wrapped in a washcloth and a bottle of water beneath one arm.
“Drink.”
Evangeline takes the bottle. Her hand shakes against the plastic, causing water to jump against the sides.
“Slowly,” Iris says, sitting down opposite her again. “Tiny sip.”
The water tastes faintly metallic against her mouth. Evangeline swallows once and gives the bottle back.
Iris presses the roller to the centre of her own wrist first, checking the temperature, then begins passing it gently over Evangeline’s cheek. Upward. Slow. The cold bites so sharply that Evangeline flinches.
“I know,” Iris says. “You’re going to hate me for approximately twelve seconds.”
“I don’t,” Evangeline mumbles.
“Give it time.”
The roller moves along the swollen skin beneath her left eye, across the cheekbone, then down near her jaw. Iris avoids the blood-filled eye itself, working carefully around the outer corner before crossing to the other side.
They sit on the bathroom floor like this, Iris in travel clothes with one knee pressed awkwardly against the marble, Evangeline folded inside a robe while her best friend depuffs her face with a tool kept beside minibar prosecco.
The absurdity should help. It doesn’t quite reach her.
“He said he was leaving,” Evangeline whispers.
Iris’s hand slows but doesn’t stop.
Evangeline watches the roller travel through the fogged mirror. “Even though he loved me.”
Her voice remains flat for the first half of the sentence, almost steady, then loses its shape around the final word. She presses her lips together.
“He said that wasn’t the problem.” Her eyes lower toward Iris’s knee. “So he’s leaving because he loves me, I guess.”
Iris gives a slow nod. The roller passes once more beneath her cheekbone. “I don’t think that’s what he meant.”
“I know.”
“But it’s what it sounded like.”
Evangeline nods. Tears gather again, slower now, too heavy to blink away. One slips over the left side of her face and interrupts the roller’s path. Iris wipes it with her thumb.
“I wish he loved me less,” Evangeline says.
The sentence opens Iris’s face. All the management disappears at once. The practical mouth, the measured eyes, the cool anger she has carried from Rome into this bathroom.
For one naked second, Iris looks stricken. “Oh, baby.”
Evangeline folds into her before either of them makes a decision. The water bottle tips over beside the toilet and rolls against the bath. The ice roller drops into the washcloth.
Iris catches Evangeline around the shoulders, one arm closing firmly across her back while the other cups the rear of her head and holds the wet hair away from both their faces.
Evangeline sobs into the grey fabric at Iris’s chest. Her mouth opens against the shirt. Breath comes wet and broken, catching in small involuntary cries she would hate if enough of her remained available for embarrassment. Her fingers twist in the back of Iris’s top, pulling fabric hard enough to strain the seams.
Iris rocks her once, barely. A small transfer of weight from one hip to the other, keeping Evangeline’s body from having to hold itself upright.
“I know,” she says against her hair. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t–” Evangeline pulls in a breath that turns sharp halfway down. “I can’t live like this.”
Iris’s arm tightens. The words aren’t a threat. They don’t contain a plan or even an idea. They’re only the most literal description Evangeline’s body can produce.
The pressure in her chest is too large for the space available. Something vital has been removed without anaesthetic, and the remaining parts continue working around the absence as though nobody has informed them they are no longer arranged correctly.
“I feel…” She presses one hand against the centre of herself, fingers digging into the robe between their bodies. “I feel empty. Like he took something out. I can feel where it was.”
Iris closes her eyes.
Evangeline drags in another breath. “It hurts.”
“I know.”
“No, it really–” Her voice breaks again, frustrated by the inadequacy of it. “It hurts everywhere. My arms hurt. My teeth hurt. I think I’m going to die.”
“You’re not.”
“How do you know?”
Iris smooths her hand over her hair. “Because I won’t let you.”
Evangeline cries harder into her shirt.
Iris holds her through it, one palm moving slowly along the back of her damp hair. “You’re not dying. Your body’s panicking because it thinks the worst thing that could happen has happened.”
“It has.”
“I know it feels like that.”
“It has.”
Iris doesn’t argue again.
Eventually, the sobs become less violent, though not because anything has eased. Evangeline’s body simply begins running out of force. She remains pressed against Iris’s chest, breathing through her mouth, cheek hot against the place where her tears have soaked the grey fabric dark.
Iris looks over her head toward the bedroom clock. “Okay,” she says, softly enough that the word doesn’t feel like abandonment. “We need to get ourselves together.”
Evangeline’s fingers tighten in her shirt. She waits until Evangeline lifts her head.
“You have the event tonight, right?”
Evangeline’s eyelids feel too swollen to open fully. She nods. “Yeah,” Evangeline whispers.
“And there’ll be photographers.”
Another nod.
“Photos everywhere by morning.”
Evangeline looks down at her lap.
Iris reaches for the fallen ice roller and wraps it again in the cloth. “Imagine how shit he’ll feel when you show up looking fucking gorgeous.”
There’s no smile attached to the sentence. Iris doesn’t mean beautiful enough to punish him in the shallow, easy way heartbreak advice usually arrives. She means visible. Standing. Still capable of stepping into a room after Drew has removed himself from the version of her future where he was meant to stay.
Evangeline nods because her body understands instructions better than comfort.
“Good,” Iris says. “We’re going to reduce the swelling, put expensive things on your face and let HBO’s lighting department commit fraud.”
“I don’t want to go,” Evangeline sniffles.
“I know.”
“I don’t want people looking at me.”
Iris nods. “I know.”
“What if I cry?”
“Then I’ll stab anyone who photographs it.”
The corner of Evangeline’s mouth moves without becoming a smile.
“Excellent,” Iris says. “Smiling is good.”
She gets Evangeline off the floor carefully, first onto both knees and then upright with one arm around her waist. The bathroom tilts, steadies. Iris guides her to the sofa and arranges her there beneath a blanket despite the Sicilian heat, then returns with eye masks, the roller, a clean towel and tea ordered through room service in a voice so calm the person on the other end appears to understand lives are at stake.
The eye masks are cold and jelly-soft beneath Evangeline’s swollen eyes. Iris positions the left normally and cuts the edge of the right with tiny manicure scissors so it doesn’t press too close to the burst vessel.
“Resourceful,” Evangeline murmurs.
“I watched three seasons of Project Runway.”
The tea arrives moments before hair and makeup. Iris answers the door, takes the tray and tips the waiter enough that he stops trying to look past her into the suite.
She brings Evangeline a pale herbal thing that tastes of mint, lemon and hot disappointment, then sits at her feet while Evangeline holds the cup between both hands.
“You need sugar,” Iris says.
“I’ll throw up.”
“Half a biscuit.”
“No.”
Iris shoots her a look. “One bite.”
Evangeline takes one because Iris has crossed countries and seems capable of putting it directly into her mouth.
Hair and makeup arrive exactly twenty-nine minutes later. There are three of them. The makeup artist, the hairstylist and an assistant carrying cases large enough to contain emergency medical equipment. Their chatter enters first, warm and professional, then falters by a fraction when they see Evangeline on the sofa.
Nobody comments. The mercy of it almost makes her cry again.
The makeup artist only says, “Hey, gorgeous,” in the same voice she would have used if Evangeline were standing at the balcony drinking champagne instead of wrapped in a blanket with gel masks beneath both eyes.
The hairstylist sets down her case near the mirror. “We’re doing the up-do, yeah?”
Evangeline nods.
“Perfect. It’ll be stunning.”
Iris removes the eye masks carefully and passes them to the assistant. The makeup artist studies Evangeline’s face under the lamps without reacting to what the grief has done there.
She asks whether the right eye is painful, whether Evangeline can see properly and whether she is comfortable wearing contacts.
“No contacts,” Iris says from beside the sofa.
The makeup artist nods. “No contacts.”
They move Evangeline into the chair near the window.
The work begins with cold. Another roller. Chilled spoons beneath her eyes. A damp cloth pressed lightly over the cheeks. The makeup artist massages something clear into her skin with careful fingertips, moving fluid away from the centre of the face while explaining nothing Evangeline is required to answer.
Her hair is dried section by section. The sound of the dryer fills the suite, giving everyone permission not to speak. Evangeline watches herself in the mirror while hands move around her: one lifting damp hair from the roots, another pressing moisturiser across her forehead, the assistant laying products in clean rows over the table.
Tears continue leaving without warning. They don’t arrive with sobs now. They simply gather until gravity takes them, sliding from the corners of her eyes while her face remains completely still.
Each time, the makeup artist pauses and catches them with the point of a tissue before they can cross the prepared skin.
“That one didn’t count,” she says once, quietly.
Evangeline’s chin trembles. The woman presses the tissue beneath her eye and waits. Then work resumes.
The swelling retreats only enough to become plausible. Concealer neutralises the purple-red shadows near her nose. Foundation evens the blotched skin. The blood vessel cannot be covered, not safely, so the entire look reorganises around it.
The hairstylist builds a low, intricate up-do, glossy sections twisted and pinned near the nape while longer pieces remain soft around Evangeline’s face. The right side falls farther forward, one carefully shaped wave crossing near her temple and partially veiling the ruined eye without looking as though it has been asked to hide anything.
“It’s old Hollywood,” the hairstylist says, adjusting the strand by millimetres. “Very Sophia Loren.”
Evangeline looks at the woman in the mirror. She doesn’t recognise her.
The mouth has been painted dark rose with a softened brown line. The cheeks are sculpted back into existence. Gold shadow catches faintly when she lowers her eyes. The up-do exposes the long line of her neck, leaving the front section near the right eye as the only deliberate imperfection.
She looks expensive. Beautiful. Faintly bored. None of it reaches the place where she’s sitting.
The final tears come while the makeup artist is applying mascara to the left eye. She stops, waits for Evangeline to blink them clear, wipes the skin beneath with a cotton bud and repairs the concealer without saying anything.
After that, Evangeline stops crying. Her body seems merely to have sealed itself somewhere beyond access. The pain remains, dense and cold through the centre of her, but it no longer moves. Even breathing near it feels optional.
When the team finishes, Iris thanks them with a warmth Evangeline cannot currently manufacture. They pack slowly, leaving a small emergency kit on the table and instructions for blotting, powder and the precise lip colour.
The gown waits inside the garment bag. Dark gold. The dress from the photograph Drew never answered.
They remove the robe. Iris helps her step into the dress one foot at a time, guiding the narrow fabric over her hips and settling it carefully along her body. The silk is cool at first, then warms against the skin. It clings through the waist and falls heavily toward the floor, the colour shifting between bronze and muted gold whenever she moves.
Iris fastens the back. “You sent him a picture of this, didn’t you?”
Evangeline looks at herself in the mirror. “Yeah.”
“Did he answer?”
She shakes her head.
Iris’s fingers stop briefly at the clasp, then finish closing it. “Coward.”
“He was busy.”
The defence comes automatically. Iris meets her eyes through the mirror but doesn’t argue.
She puts in both earrings, long narrow gold pieces that brush the side of Evangeline’s neck when she turns. A ring over one finger. The necklace is rejected because the neckline doesn’t need it. Shoes next, gold heels with straps that Iris fastens while kneeling at her feet.
The hotel door opens before she has stood. Tess enters with her phone in one hand and a folder tucked beneath the other arm, already speaking. “The first car is downstairs in fifteen, they’ve moved the cast line to the east terrace because the sun is–”
She looks up and the sentence stops. Tess’s gaze moves over the room, the open cases, Iris kneeling near Evangeline’s shoes, Evangeline sitting perfectly still in the dark-gold dress with one eye partially hidden by her hair and the visible half of the other too red to mistake for fatigue.
“Evangeline?” Tess’s voice drops. “What the–”
Iris rises and crosses toward her before the question can fully exist.
“Drew,” she murmurs.
Tess blinks once. Her mouth closes. The folder lowers against her thigh. She looks back at Evangeline with the swift, contained recalculation of someone whose job involves turning private catastrophe into the next workable fifteen minutes.
“Today?”
Iris nods.
“Phone?”
“Off.”
“Good.”
Tess approaches slowly and crouches in front of Evangeline, careful not to touch the dress. Her expression has lost every trace of publicist brightness.
“Can you do this tonight?”
The question contains no pressure disguised as sympathy. No reminder of contracts, photographers, studio expectations or cast obligations. Tess only watches her closely and gives the answer somewhere safe to land either way.
Evangeline looks toward the balcony. The sea has begun changing colour outside, blue darkening near the horizon while late sunlight pours gold over the hotel walls. Down below, chairs are being placed for dinner. Glasses arranged. Flowers adjusted. An evening preparing to happen as though nobody needs to be consulted first.
She looks back at Tess. “Yes.”
The word arrives quietly, but it doesn’t shake.
Tess studies her face for another second, then nods. “Okay.”
She reaches up and moves the loose section of hair near Evangeline’s right eye by half an inch, checking how much of the burst vessel remains visible from the front. Satisfied, she lowers her hand.
“Good girl,” she says.
Something inside Evangeline nearly breaks again.
Tess stands and straightens the folder beneath her arm. Iris picks up the emergency makeup kit, Evangeline’s clutch and her own coat. The whole room moves into formation around her.
Evangeline rises. The dress settles along her legs with a soft metallic whisper. Her heels make her taller, steady enough. Iris smooths one hand over the back of the gown. Tess checks the corridor through the open door and says the car will be waiting at the private entrance.
In the mirror, Evangeline looks like the photograph she sent Drew, only finished now. He never told her whether it was too much. She turns away from her reflection.
Tess holds the door. “Let’s go.”
notes from me – oh... hi...
this chapter hurt so fucking bad to write man like holy shit i wrote it so long ago but couldn't bring myself to edit it like DAMN. but i hope this explains a little of everyone's hurt. drew genuinely believed he was doing the right thing, and then to see her out that night all dolled up and then watch her career skyrocket after him? he truly believed that she was better off without him.
meanwhile evangeline had imagined their whole life together and would've happily followed him anywhere, and then he ended it and she was beyond devastated. he was her first (and only) real love. it shattered her.
and they also never spoke again until the table read for people we were 😃😃😃😃 this was their last conversation before that!! OUCH!!!!
pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader
summary – garrett has always been hands-on. lately, being placed exactly where he wants feels far too good.
warnings – strong language, suggestive content, heated kissing, face grabbing, praise kink
notes from me – as requested here! MY BABIES!!!
word count – 1.5k
The problem, she realises, is that Garrett Graham has been moving her around like furniture for years. Not disrespectfully. Garrett would never survive disrespecting her, and they both know it.
It’s simply woven into the practical rhythm of their friendship, so ordinary that she has never thought to examine it before.
His palm settling against the small of her back when a doorway gets crowded. His fingers catching the belt loop of her jeans when she starts wandering in the wrong direction while talking.
The way he takes hold of the back of her chair in the dining hall and drags it six inches closer to his without pausing whatever argument he’s having with Dean.
He does it everywhere. At the rink, when she stands directly in the path of three players carrying equipment bags, Garrett hooks an arm around her waist and lifts her cleanly out of the way, depositing her beside the bench while she continues complaining about the vending machine swallowing her dollar.
At Malone’s, he puts both hands on her hips and shifts her between himself and the bar because somebody keeps bumping into her from behind.
At the hockey house, if she stretches across him for the remote, he catches her around the middle and pulls her into his lap rather than allowing her to block the television.
She has always responded by rolling her eyes, correcting his grip or informing him that she’s perfectly capable of moving independently.
Lately, her body has begun disagreeing. Garrett’s hand lands on her back, and heat follows the shape of his palm through her shirt. He catches her waist, and her stomach tightens beneath his fingers. He pulls her closer by the chair, the ankle, the hips, and some small, humiliating part of her settles immediately, pleased to have been placed exactly where he wants her.
It’s deeply inconvenient information.
Tonight, they’re spread across the hockey-house living room watching an action movie Logan chose because, according to him, the explosion-to-dialogue ratio is scientifically perfect. Nobody asks which branch of science measures that.
She’s curled into the middle of the couch in a matching pale-pink set she bought because the tank made her waist look nice and the sweatpants sat low and soft across her hips.
Garrett occupies the corner beside her, broad enough to take up more than his allotted cushion, one arm stretched along the backrest and both socked feet planted on the coffee table despite Tucker having told him twice that people eat there.
Logan has claimed the armchair. Tucker is sitting at the other end of the couch with the expression of a man attempting to enjoy himself despite living among animals.
Onscreen, somebody drives a motorcycle through the window of a moving train.
“That’s not possible,” Tucker says.
Logan gestures toward the television with both hands. “You don’t know that.”
She shifts, trying to tuck her legs beneath herself, but Garrett’s feet are blocking half the space. One of them brushes the side of her thigh. She nudges his ankle away. It returns less than ten seconds later.
“Move your feet, G,” she complains, pushing at his shin with both hands. “You’re taking up the entire couch.”
Garrett does not look away from the screen. “I’m sitting in one seat.”
“Your legs are in another fucking country.”
“They’re long.”
“Your feet are gross.”
That earns her a glance. “They’re in socks.”
“I know what’s underneath.”
Garrett’s mouth twitches. “You’ve thought about what’s underneath?”
She glares at the side of his face, which only makes the twitch deepen. “Your feet, loser.”
“Sure, princess.”
She shoves his ankle harder. Garrett lets it fall sideways for a moment, then deliberately rests his calf over her lap.
Her mouth drops open. “Get off me.”
“Stop moving.”
“You stop moving.”
“I’m watching the movie.”
“You’re touching me with your foot.”
“My condolences.”
She digs her fingers into the sole through his sock. Garrett jerks and nearly kicks the popcorn bowl from Tucker’s hands.
Tucker looks between them with exhausted disgust. “Can you both behave for ninety minutes?”
“She started it,” Garrett says.
“He put his disgusting feet on me.”
“They’re clean!”
Tucker peers into the bowl and frowns. “We’re out of popcorn.”
“There’s another bag in the pantry,” Garrett tells him, making no effort to move his leg from her lap.
Tucker rises with a sigh that suggests the popcorn is the only dependable relationship in his life. At almost the same moment, Logan pauses the movie and pushes himself out of the armchair. “Bathroom.”
“You don’t need to announce it,” Tucker says on his way toward the kitchen.
“I was explaining why I paused it.”
“You could’ve just gone.”
“What if you thought I’d died?”
“I wouldn’t,” Tucker sighs.
The two of them disappear in opposite directions, still arguing, and the living room falls abruptly quieter.
She watches the empty doorway for half a second before turning back to Garrett. “Move.”
He looks at her now. “Still complaining?”
“Garrett.”
She reaches for his leg again. Garrett moves first. His hand closes around her jaw, fingers spreading firmly over both cheeks as he turns her face toward him.
The breath stalls in her throat. There’s barely enough time to register his thumb near the corner of her mouth before he kisses her.
Hard at first, enough to push the next complaint back behind her teeth, then slower. Deeper. His mouth settles over hers with the calm certainty of someone who already knows she will let him, his palm warm and broad around her face while his fingers press into the soft skin beneath her cheekbones.
She melts so quickly it would be embarrassing if she were capable of thinking about anything except his tongue sliding against hers.
A small sound slips from her. Garrett catches it in his mouth, his grip tightening just slightly, squeezing her cheeks until her lips part more fully for him.
Heat pours down the front of her body. Her hands find his wrist, holding on while she kisses him back with the same hungry pressure. Garrett’s thumb drags once along her cheek.
His mouth moves against hers slowly enough that she feels every shift, every warm pull of his lips, every quiet breath taken through his nose because neither of them seems willing to separate properly.
She leans toward him without deciding to. Garrett allows it until her shoulder is pressed against his chest and one knee has slid over his thigh, then he gives her lower lip one final, lingering kiss and pulls back barely an inch.
“Stop complaining, princess.”
Her eyes open slowly. Garrett is close enough that his face remains blurred around the edges, dark curls falling over his forehead, mouth flushed and faintly wet from hers. His hand is still holding her cheeks.
She nods.
The grin begins at one corner of his mouth. He leans in and pecks her lips, soft and almost sweet compared to what he’s just done. “Good girl.”
Something inside her drops. Her stomach tightens at once, thighs pressing together beneath the low waistband of her sweats while her fingers curl harder around his wrist.
She blinks at him. Then nods again.
Garrett’s grin widens with slow, devastating understanding. He kisses her one more time, only a brief press of his mouth to hers, and releases her face just as Tucker’s footsteps approach from the kitchen.
By the time he reappears with a fresh bowl balanced against his stomach, Garrett is facing the television again, expression perfectly neutral.
She’s still staring at his profile.
Tucker stops beside the couch. “Logan’s still peeing?”
She clears her throat. It does nothing. Her voice still emerges softer than usual. “Mhm.”
Tucker nods and moves to sit in the narrow space on her other side.
Before she can shift herself, Garrett reaches down, wraps one hand around both her ankles and yanks. A startled breath leaves her as she slides across the couch, sweatpants dragging over the cushions until her hip bumps against his and both legs land across his lap.
Garrett hooks his forearm over her shins, securing her there without looking away from the paused movie.
Normally, she would object on principle. She would tell him she had been comfortable, kick at his stomach or demand that he stop treating her like a carry-on bag.
Instead, she bites the inside of her lip and stares determinedly toward the television. Garrett’s hand rests around her ankle. His thumb begins moving absently over the exposed strip of skin between her sweatpants and sock.
Tucker sits down, sets the popcorn in his lap and reaches for the remote. “Why do you look weird?”
“I don’t,” she says too quickly.
Garrett’s thumb strokes her ankle again. She keeps her eyes fixed on the frozen motorcycle hanging impossibly above the train. Beside her, Garrett shifts one corner of his mouth into a smile he probably thinks she cannot see.
Logan returns and the movie starts again. Another building explodes. She hears none of it.
Garrett’s fingers remain closed around her ankle, loose but certain, keeping her legs stretched over his lap exactly where he put them.
Sneaking around is hot. Garrett manhandling her is hotter. And judging by the satisfied little squeeze he gives her ankle when she finally risks glancing sideways, Garrett has already worked out both.
She is so completely fucked.
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pairing – rafe cameron x maybank!reader
summary – enemies with benefits should not include filled petrol tanks, ordered breakfasts, shared cigarettes, or jealousy over hypothetical boat girls.
warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, strong language, cigarette smoking, marijuana use, alcohol references, references to violence and attempted murder, protected sex, rough handling, praise kink, hand around neck, hand over mouth, biting, jealousy and possessiveness
notes from me – ummm so i'm obsessed with this and with them. based on these requests combined!! thank u babes!!
word count – 6.1k
navigation – masterlist |
The hammock has begun slowly trying to turn her sideways into the water. It does this every night. One rope stretching more than the other, the canvas sagging beneath her weight until her left hip sits several inches lower than her right and every movement sends the whole thing swaying gently over the dark water beneath the dock.
She ignores it, one bare foot hooked around the fraying support rope and her phone balanced against her stomach, the screen throwing pale blue light over her face.
Behind her, the Chateau glows through the crooked windows in mismatched pieces. Yellow light from the kitchen. The softer orange lamp beside the couch that only works when somebody kicks the plug against the wall.
Smoke drifts out through the open screen door in lazy grey ribbons, carrying the unmistakable smell of JJ’s weed and whatever John B has attempted to cook in a saucepan that sounds, from here, like it’s being struck repeatedly with a fork.
The night is warm enough that the backs of her thighs stick faintly to the hammock. Mosquitoes worry at her ankles. Somewhere farther out, something breaks the surface of the marsh with one quick splash and disappears again before she can decide whether it was a fish or an alligator or another creature with the good sense to avoid her family.
Her phone buzzes once against her stomach. The name on the screen makes her mouth pull before she can stop it.
Rafe.
She looks toward the Chateau instinctively, even though both boys are inside and neither possesses the supernatural ability to read a text through two walls and approximately thirty feet of humid night air.
Rafe: you awake?
Her thumbs hover for half a second, because answering immediately feels eager, and there are certain standards a woman should retain when secretly sleeping with the man who has attempted to murder her twin brother on more than one occasion.
She waits eleven seconds.
yeah
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Rafe: I’ll come pick you up?
The smile arrives properly this time, small and private and irritating enough that she bites the inside of her cheek to get rid of it. The hammock shifts beneath her as she sits up, ropes creaking softly above the water.
yeah. normal place
Rafe reacts to the message with a thumbs-up, which is offensively unromantic even by the extremely limited standards of their arrangement.
She stares at it. Then types:
don’t thumbs up me freak
The bubble appears again.
Rafe: hurry up
A car engine would be too obvious near the Chateau, even late. Rafe always parks several houses up where the road bends away behind thick trees and one empty shack with hurricane shutters still screwed over the windows despite the season. Their normal place. Their deeply normal, incredibly healthy system for clandestine sex between two people whose families would probably respond to discovery with firearms.
She swings one leg over the side of the hammock and nearly tips herself into the water when the whole thing rolls beneath her.
“Fuck,” she whispers, catching the rope with both hands and hauling herself upright with as much dignity as can be preserved alone in the dark.
By the time she crosses the dock and reaches the porch, her face has settled into something neutral. Bored, if possible. Slightly irritated by life. The standard expression required to leave the Chateau without inviting JJ to treat it like a criminal investigation.
Inside, John B is stretched across one end of the couch with his bare feet on the coffee table, staring at the television even though the screen is paused on the same frame it had been showing twenty minutes ago.
JJ occupies the other end, shirtless, one knee raised and his head tipped back against the cushion while he talks through a lungful of smoke about an outboard motor that, according to him, could absolutely be repaired with parts already present in the yard.
John B says, “Those parts are from a lawn mower.”
“Motor’s a motor.”
“That’s not true.”
She walks behind the couch, reaches down and plucks the blunt cleanly from between JJ’s fingers.
His hand closes on empty air. “What the fuck?”
She takes a slow drag while crossing toward the front door, smoke scratching pleasantly down the back of her throat. “You’re welcome.”
“For stealing my weed?”
“Mhm.”
JJ twists around to look at her over the couch, blond hair falling into his eyes in a way that would make them appear far less related if her own hair didn’t do almost exactly the same thing after swimming.
Twins were deeply humiliating like that. Twenty years of existing beside someone and still occasionally catching pieces of her own face performing acts of stupidity from across the room.
She hooks one finger beneath a strand near his temple and tugs.
JJ slaps lightly at her wrist. “Quit.”
She takes another drag purely because he’s watching and slides her feet into the battered black slides beside the door.
His eyes narrow. “You going somewhere?”
She releases his hair. “What’s it to you?”
“You’re disappearing into the night, weirdo.”
A laugh slips through her nose. She hands the blunt back, pinching it between two fingers near his face until he takes it. “I just need a walk. You guys smell so fucking bad, I need fresh air.”
John B lifts one arm and sniffs beneath it. His face changes slightly. “That’s fair.”
JJ points the blunt at her. “You’ve been outside all night.”
“I don’t keep track of where you go, creep.” She pats the pockets of her shorts, checking for her phone and lighter. “Leave me alone.”
“Whatever.” He settles back against the couch, though his eyes follow her as she crosses to the kitchen counter and collects the crumpled packet of cigarettes beside her keys. “Just take mace or something.”
She looks at him. “Mace.”
“Yeah.”
“From where?”
JJ considers this. “There’s bear spray in the shed.”
“That expired in, like, 2018.”
He shrugs and puts the blunt back between his lips, visibly deciding that if she gets murdered on her walk, he has at least fulfilled the brotherly requirement of offering equipment.
She opens the screen door. “I’ll be back.”
“Mhm,” JJ says, scepticism stretched lazily around the sound.
She gives him the finger without turning. “Bye, John B.”
“See ya, dude.”
The screen door slaps shut behind her before JJ can add another question.
The road beyond the Chateau is dark and soft at the edges, tree branches reaching overhead until the moon appears in brief silver pieces between them. Gravel presses through the thin soles of her slides. Her cigarette packet taps lightly against her thigh with every step.
She doesn’t light one yet. Rafe hates the smell in the car even though he’ll take one from her within ten minutes and smoke half of it while continuing to insist he’s quit.
The contradiction belongs to a growing collection.
Rafe doesn’t do drugs anymore, except for the drinks he pours too heavy and the cigarettes he steals from her mouth when he’s restless. Rafe doesn’t care where she goes, except he texts if he sees her walking alone and fills whatever car she has access to with enough petrol that she won’t need to stop after dark.
Rafe doesn’t want anything from her except sex, except sometimes she wakes at Tannyhill beneath clean sheets with a glass of water on the bedside table and breakfast already ordered because he knows she forgets to eat when she’s anxious.
Friends with benefits would suggest friendship, which they don’t technically have. Enemies with health insurance might be closer, except she doubts Rafe has ever looked closely enough at a policy to know what one covers.
His truck sits beneath the trees around the bend, dark paint nearly disappearing into the road except for the pale interior glow from the dashboard. She sees the red tip of something near his mouth before she gets close enough to recognise it as a toothpick.
Rafe’s head turns when she opens the passenger door. The sight of him catches where it always does, annoyingly physical and completely unwilling to develop shame through repetition.
Buzzed hair, newly grown enough to look soft over the crown but still too short to hold properly when she wants to pull it. Broad shoulders pressing against a dark t-shirt, one forearm resting high on the steering wheel. His chest fills the shirt in a way shirts probably resent privately.
“Hi,” she says, climbing in.
His eyes move over her once. Legs, shorts, thin tank top, face. Not hurried. Not subtle either. A small smile touches his mouth. “Hi.”
She shuts the door, and the locks click automatically. Rafe puts the truck into gear before she’s fully arranged herself, one hand turning the wheel as he pulls away from the curb.
She waves the cigarette packet beside his shoulder. “I come bearing gifts.”
He glances down, then back toward the road. A rough little laugh leaves him. His thumb wipes once beneath his nose, the same hand carrying the heavy gold Cameron ring, its flat face catching briefly under the passing streetlight.
“Y’know I’m tryin’ to quit.”
“I know.” She settles deeper into the seat and taps the packet against her knee. “I’m not, though.”
Rafe rolls his eyes. “Bad fuckin’ influence.”
“You picked me up.”
“Yeah, regrettin’ it already.”
“Pull over.”
His mouth shifts at one corner. “No.”
She lights one once they’re farther from the houses, cracking the window enough that warm air drags the smoke out in pale twisting streams. Rafe lasts exactly three minutes before holding out his hand.
She looks at it. His fingers flex once. “C’mon.”
“You quit.”
“Just gimme the cigarette.”
“That doesn’t sound like quitting.”
“S’not a fuckin’ deposition.”
She takes one more drag, then places it between his fingers. Rafe brings it to his mouth, inhales and exhales toward his own cracked window, posture loosening by a degree as nicotine moves through him. The ring taps against the steering wheel when his hand settles again.
“You’re weak,” she says.
He hands the cigarette back without looking at her. “You came outside at midnight because I texted, like, four words.”
She puts it between her lips. “Mm. Seven.”
“What?”
“You awake is two. I’ll come pick you up is seven.”
Rafe turns his head slowly enough that she sees the exact moment he decides not to argue with the mathematics. “Shut up.”
The hidden spot near the marina isn’t especially hidden during daylight. It’s a narrow maintenance turn-off bordered by reeds and thick scrub, the gravel eventually giving way to packed sand near an old service dock nobody uses anymore.
At night, though, the trees close around it. The marina lights sit far enough away to become blurred golden dots across black water, and any passing car would have to make three deliberate wrong turns to find them.
Rafe backs the truck in beneath the trees and kills the engine. Water shifts against wooden pylons. Insects whine outside the cracked windows. The metal ticks faintly beneath the hood as it cools.
She takes the final drag of the cigarette and reaches toward the centre console for the empty bottle they use as an ashtray. Before she finds it, Rafe’s hand closes around her jaw.
His palm is warm. Thumb pressing into one cheek, fingers fitted beneath the other ear. He turns her face toward him without effort and kisses her.
The first press of his mouth is almost mild, which is how Rafe usually begins when he’s been thinking about it for longer than he wants her to know. His lips move over hers once, then again, taking his time until her body starts offering little signs of betrayal. The cigarette forgotten between her fingers. Her shoulders turning toward him. Her mouth parting beneath his before he asks.
He tastes like smoke and mint gum and the drink he probably had before leaving Tannyhill.
She hums softly when his tongue brushes hers. There’s something about Rafe that should feel more complicated while his hand is around her jaw. Something that should make the entire thing uglier or frightening or at least difficult to justify when she’s alone later and the heat has left her body.
She knows who he is. There has never been confusion on that point.
Rafe has tried to kill her brother. JJ has tried to kill him back. Both attempts have probably multiplied in retelling, but she has witnessed enough with her own eyes to understand that a shared Christmas lunch isn’t waiting patiently in anybody’s future.
Rafe isn’t good. She isn’t particularly interested in pretending he is. The problem is that neither is she. Not in the same ways, maybe. Not with the same money insulating every bad choice or the same terrifying capacity for violence when fear climbs too high inside the body.
But she has done things she doesn’t discuss. Hurt people because they were near enough to hurt. Stolen things that weren’t hers. Lied so cleanly it became difficult to locate the truth afterward. She has thrown punches because words took too long and once put a brick through a man’s windshield while JJ cheered from the passenger seat.
Some people survive by becoming gentle. The Maybank twins had never been supplied with the required materials.
Rafe’s thumb drags slowly over her cheek. His mouth deepens against hers, wet and warm and unhurried, and she leans across the console until her knee presses awkwardly into the cup holder.
He looks after her. That’s the fact that keeps getting in where it shouldn’t. Though not romantically, she would laugh in the face of anyone stupid enough to call it romance. But Rafe notices things.
The fuel light when she still had the old Honda. The way she searched the kitchen at Tannyhill without taking anything because houses with full pantries made hunger feel more embarrassing, not less. The fact she hadn’t ordered for herself when he was getting food because she knew exactly how much money sat in her account and didn’t want him seeing her calculate it.
He would order anyway. Something she liked, plus something else because he’d decided she needed vegetables. He’d fill her tank while she was asleep. Leave folded cash in her cigarette packet once and then stand there looking honestly confused when she threw the whole thing at his chest.
The Honda had been sold a month ago. Groceries, electricity, the overdue water bill and the part John B needed for the Twinkie. JJ’s dirt bike remained leaning against the Chateau because sacrifice became unconstitutional when it involved his stupid fucking engine.
Rafe didn’t worry about groceries. Rafe barely worried about laws.
Sometimes, lying beneath the clean sheets in his room, she let herself imagine what that might feel like. The absence of numbers. The quiet part where there was always food and fuel and hot water and nobody had to sell something they loved to keep the lights on.
Rafe’s teeth catch lightly at her bottom lip and she forgets the rest. He pulls back only far enough to look at her. His thumb stays near the corner of her mouth. Their breathing mingles in the narrow space between the seats.
“Back seat,” he says.
She nods.
The routine is familiar enough to happen without discussion. She twists, plants one hand on the console and climbs between the seats, knees pressing briefly into the leather before she drops into the back. Rafe gets out instead because his shoulders won’t fit through the gap without dismantling part of the truck.
Cold night air enters when he opens the rear door. By the time he climbs in, she has stripped off her tank top and thrown it toward the front, leaving herself in a plain black bra and denim shorts. Nothing pretty. Nothing chosen for him.
Rafe’s eyes move down her body like that distinction has never mattered. “C’mere.”
He catches her hip and lowers her onto her back across the seat. The leather is cool beneath her shoulders. One of the seatbelt buckles digs into her side until Rafe reaches beneath her without looking, yanks it free and lets it snap toward the door.
Then his mouth is on hers again. This kiss has none of the patience from the front seat. Rafe brackets her body with his, one knee pressing between her thighs, one forearm beside her head while his other hand grips her waist and draws her upward against him.
His weight fills the narrow space. Heat through denim. Chest against hers. The hard shape of him already pressing where her legs have opened around his knee. Her hands find the bottom of his shirt and drag upward.
Rafe lifts just enough to let her strip it off. His shoulder catches briefly inside the sleeve because there’s simply too much of him for movement to remain graceful in a vehicle, and she laughs against his mouth when he mutters, “Fuckin’– hold on.”
“Very sexy.”
“Shut up.”
The shirt disappears toward the floor. Her hands land on him immediately, travelling across warm skin and muscle as he lowers again. Broad shoulders shifting under her palms. The strong line of his back narrowing toward his waist. Every movement rearranging something solid beneath her fingers.
Rafe grinds down against her. The friction catches exactly where she needs it through too many layers, dragging a moan out of her before she can swallow it. His mouth leaves hers. He kisses the corner of her jaw, then moves lower, teeth grazing lightly along her throat while her head tips back against the seat.
She reaches for his hair and finds almost nothing to hold.
“Grow this shit out,” she breathes.
Rafe’s laugh warms the side of her neck. “No.”
“I can’t grab it.”
“Find somethin’ else.”
She digs her nails into his shoulder.
His hips push harder between her thighs. “There you go.”
The smugness deserves violence. She considers biting him, but then his mouth finds the swell of her breast above the bra and thought becomes less organised.
Rafe drags one strap down. Then the other. His hand reaches beneath her back for the clasp, fingers fumbling once in the confined space before his patience ends and he pulls hard enough that the hooks release with a tiny metallic snap.
“You break that, you’re buying me another.”
“I’ve bought you bras,” he mutters.
He pushes the fabric aside, takes one breast into his palm and lowers his mouth over the other. Her spine arches. The sound that leaves her is soft and helpless, breath catching high when his tongue moves across her nipple.
Rafe hums around it, the vibration travelling hot through her body. His hand kneads the other breast, thumb brushing slowly over the peak until it tightens against him. She tries again to grip his hair and ends up scratching lightly at the back of his head.
Rafe lifts his mouth. “The fuck’re you doin’?”
“Trying to hold on,” she grumbles. “Your head’s stupid.”
He bites gently at the underside of her breast.
Her insult breaks into a gasp. “Bitch.”
“Mhm.”
His mouth moves back over her. Wet, sucking pressure. Teeth just enough to make her hips lift beneath him. Her thighs tighten around his waist as he switches sides, giving the other breast the same attention while her hands roam restlessly over his shoulders and ribs.
The windows begin clouding at the edges.
Rafe lifts eventually, mouth damp and eyes dark. He hooks both hands beneath her hips. “Up.”
She obeys before remembering she usually makes him repeat himself. His thumbs catch the waistband of her shorts and drag them down along with her underwear. She lifts her hips, helping him work both pieces past her thighs and knees until he pulls them free and throws them toward the front.
Cool air moves briefly over her bare skin. Rafe looks down. His gaze is direct, hungry and faintly satisfied, like he has opened something he already knew belonged beneath his hands.
She shifts one knee against his side. “You done staring?”
“No.”
“Rafe.”
His palm slides slowly up the inside of her thigh. “What?”
The touch stops short of where she wants it. Deliberately.
She reaches down and catches his wrist. “Don’t start.”
He tilts his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Start what?”
“Being annoying.”
His thumb traces the soft crease where her thigh meets her body, avoiding everything swollen and aching by less than an inch. “Already wet?”
She tightens her grip. “Find out.”
Rafe’s mouth twitches. Instead of touching her, he lowers himself over her again and grinds the hard length of himself against her bare cunt through his jeans. The denim is rough.
The pressure immediate enough that her fingernails bite into his back. “Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah?”
She rolls her hips upward, chasing it. Rafe’s hand closes around the side of her neck, holding. Thumb resting beneath her jaw as his mouth returns to hers and his hips move slowly between her spread thighs.
She whimpers into the kiss. The sound changes him. His restraint tends to break in quiet places. A noise against his mouth. Her body softening when he gives an order. The moment she stops making him fight for control and lets him have it.
His hips drag against her again, harder.
“Rafe.”
“I know.”
“Take your fucking jeans off.”
He kisses her once, almost punishingly slow. “Ask nice.”
She stares up at him. Rafe waits. The fog on the windows has thickened enough that the marina lights outside look smeared and distant. His thumb moves once against the pulse in her throat.
She could drag it out. Usually does. Could call him a prick and reach for the button herself, make him catch her wrists and pin them above her head until they both forget why the argument started.
Tonight her body is already too hot and open, every grind of his jeans pulling pleasure sharp and unfinished through her stomach.
“Please,” she says.
Rafe’s expression shifts with quiet approval. “Atta girl.”
She slaps his shoulder.
He laughs, catches her wrist and presses it into the seat beside her head while kissing her again. “Brat.”
“Asshole.”
“Yeah.”
He sits back far enough to undo his jeans. The zipper sounds too loud in the enclosed truck. She watches him shove denim and boxers down together, his cock springing free against his stomach, thick and flushed and already wet at the tip.
Her legs part farther without instruction. “You have a condom?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
He leans toward the front seat and reaches over the console for his wallet. The position pulls every muscle in his back into clear shape beneath the dim interior light, shoulders flexing, waist tight above jeans pushed low over his hips.
She runs her hand down his spine because she can.
Rafe glances back over his shoulder. “Hands to yourself.”
“No.”
“Could leave.”
She tilts her head. “With your dick out?”
“Wouldn’t be the first bad decision I made.”
He finds the condom and returns, then pushes his jeans and boxers fully off before sitting against the far side of the back seat. The space immediately becomes ridiculous. His knees bent, broad body occupying most of the available leather, cock heavy against his stomach while he tears the wrapper open with his teeth.
He rolls the condom down his length and looks at her. Then gestures once with two fingers. “C’mere.”
The command sends heat low through her body in a way she chooses not to examine. She rises onto her knees and moves across the seat, straddling his thighs. Rafe’s hands settle automatically at her hips. Warm, large enough that his thumbs nearly meet near the front of her pelvis.
She kisses up the side of his neck while he adjusts beneath her, mouth moving over the faint roughness along his jaw. His skin tastes like salt and clean soap and cigarette smoke caught from her.
One hand slides down to her ass and taps once. “Up.”
She lifts. Rafe guides himself beneath her. The tip presses against her entrance, slick enough to slide through her wetness when she shifts.
She lowers slowly. The stretch catches her halfway down, deep and full and burning just enough to make her breath leave against his neck. Rafe’s fingers tighten into her hip, holding her steady rather than pulling her farther.
“Easy,” he murmurs.
She sinks another inch.
His head tips back against the window, throat working. A low sound rolls out of his chest. “Fuck.”
She takes all of him, thighs spread over his, knees pressed into the seat on either side. For one suspended second neither moves. Her body pulses tightly around him, adjusting to the thick pressure sitting deep enough to make every breath feel connected to it.
Rafe lowers his face into her chest.
“Fuckin’ soaked,” he mutters against her skin. His hands drag slowly over her ass. “Didn’t even have to do anything.”
A whimper catches in her throat. She presses her face into the side of his neck, already overwhelmed by how full she feels. “You did things.”
“Barely.”
“You’re so fucking annoying.”
Rafe’s hand moves up to her jaw. He draws her face back and kisses her, slow and open, tongue pushing over hers while his other hand grips her hip. “Move, baby.”
She nods. Her first lift is careful. The drag of him inside her pulling a breathless sound from both of them before she sinks down again, taking him deep enough that her thighs shake.
Rafe groans into her mouth. “Shiiit.”
She finds a rhythm. Rising and lowering over him, palms braced against his shoulders while his hands guide her hips. The seat squeaks faintly beneath them. Her knees slip once against the leather and Rafe catches her harder, controlling the motion until she steadies.
“Like that,” he says. “There you go.”
She rolls her hips at the bottom, grinding against the base of him.
His mouth falls open against hers. “Fuck. So good.”
“So good,” she echoes, forehead pressing to his. “Oh my God.”
Their breath gathers hot between them. Every downward movement sends him deep, a blunt pressure touching something that makes her stomach tighten and her pace falter. Rafe catches the back of her neck, keeping her forehead against his. His eyes stay on her face.
“Jesus, baby.” His thumb moves along her nape. “You miss me or somethin’?”
She nods before pride can intervene. “Mhm.”
His expression shifts. Something warm and more dangerous because he hadn’t expected the truth to arrive without being dragged out. “Yeah?”
She bounces harder, refusing to answer again. Rafe’s hand grips her ass and helps lift her, then pulls her down firmly over him. Pleasure breaks bright across her nerves. She gasps, mouth parting against his.
He catches it in another kiss. Wet and deep and almost lazy despite how hard their bodies have started moving. His tongue strokes over hers while she rides him, hips rising and dropping in a rhythm that makes the truck shift faintly over its suspension.
The windows are completely fogged now. Condensation gathering in thin drops along the glass behind his head.
Her breasts press into his chest with every movement. Rafe’s mouth leaves hers to catch one nipple, sucking it between his lips while she circles her hips.
“Rafe,” she moans.
His teeth graze lightly. She jerks around him. He releases her with a rough sound and both hands return to her hips. “C’mon. Harder.”
She obeys. The angle changes when she plants her knees more firmly beside his thighs, giving her enough leverage to lift and sink faster. His cock drags through her, slick and deep, every downward stroke punching another breath from her lungs.
Rafe watches where their bodies meet. “Fuck,” he groans. “Atta girl. There we go.”
The praise moves through her more efficiently than it has any right to. She nods against his forehead, eyes falling shut. “Feels so good, Rafe. Fuck.”
“I know.” His voice has gone rough, broken slightly by each thrust upward when he begins meeting her. “I got you.”
One hand holds the back of her neck. The other leaves her hip and moves between them. His fingers find her clit immediately. The first circle makes her whole body jolt.
“Oh–”
Rafe presses his forehead harder to hers. “Yeah?”
She tries to keep moving, but his touch is slow and exact, circling through the wetness gathered between their bodies while he stays buried deep inside her. Her rhythm breaks. Becomes desperate little grinds instead of clean movements, thighs shaking on either side of him. “Rafe.”
He keeps circling. Pleasure winds tighter beneath her stomach, dragging every muscle inward. Her head falls back and a cry tears out of her before she remembers the marina isn’t entirely abandoned.
Rafe’s hand leaves her neck and covers her mouth. “Shh,” he breathes. “Shh. Car’s not fuckin’ soundproof.”
Her eyes open. She grins against his palm, then bites him.
Rafe jerks his hand back. “Feral.”
The offended look on his face nearly makes her laugh, but his fingers never stop moving between them and the sound turns into another broken moan instead. “You like it.”
“Didn’t say I didn’t.”
He puts his hand back over her mouth, this time with the base of his palm safely away from her teeth. His other fingers circle faster.
She rides him through it, movements losing shape as the pressure builds too high and too quickly. Her breath comes hot against his palm. Rafe’s eyes stay fixed on hers, pupils dark, jaw tight with his own effort to hold back.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “C’mon, baby.”
She whimpers something useless into his hand.
“I know.” His hips thrust up hard beneath her. “Let go.”
Her orgasm hits before she can prepare for the size of it. Her body locks around him. Thighs clamping against his sides, pulsing hard over his cock while pleasure tears outward through her stomach and down every trembling muscle. The cry stays trapped beneath his palm, reduced to a broken high sound against his skin.
Rafe groans and pulls her against him, one arm banding around her back while his hips continue driving upward through the contractions.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, baby.”
She collapses forward, face dropping into his neck. Her body remains too sensitive, each deep thrust sending another aftershock through her until she shakes against his chest. Rafe grips her ass in both hands and moves her over him, slower now but harder, lifting her hips and pulling her down while his breathing goes ragged near her ear.
“Rafe,” she whispers.
“I know. Almost there.”
His body tightens beneath hers. One final thrust pushes deep, and Rafe comes with a rough broken groan, face pressed into her shoulder and both hands gripping her hard enough that she’ll probably find the shape of his fingers tomorrow. His cock pulses inside her through the condom while she remains wrapped around him, chest heaving against his.
Neither moves for several seconds. The truck becomes quiet again by degrees. First the leather stops squeaking. Then their breathing begins slowing, though hers catches occasionally in little aftershocks she cannot control. Rafe’s hand slides up her spine, palm warm and broad between her shoulder blades.
She presses one lazy kiss beneath his ear.
“Hi,” she whispers.
A laugh shudders out of him. “Hi.”
He helps lift her carefully. The loss of him leaves her body aching and empty in a way that makes her thighs draw together once she settles along the seat. Rafe ties off the condom with the practical concentration of someone handling evidence. He reaches into the front and finds the small plastic bag kept beneath the passenger seat, drops it inside and twists the top closed.
“Deal with that shit in a second,” he mutters.
“Romantic.”
“Yeah, well.” He catches his boxers from the floor and pulls them on. “Left the rose petals at home.”
She lies across the back seat naked except for one sock she apparently never removed and watches him retrieve the cigarette packet, lighter and a folded grey blanket from the passenger footwell.
Rafe looks at the sock. “What’s that about?”
She glances down. “Fashion.”
“Looks stupid.”
“You look stupid.”
He climbs back in and shuts the door behind him, trapping the warmth again. Then he grips her ankle, pulls her closer and rearranges both of them across the seat until he’s half reclined against the door and she can lie along his body.
She goes without argument, one leg fitting between his and her cheek settling over his chest. Rafe spreads the blanket across them. It smells faintly of detergent and salt, clean enough that it must have come from Tannyhill rather than having lived permanently in the truck. He tucks one side around her bare shoulder and rests his cheek against the top of her head.
Her breathing finally begins returning to normal. “Why do you have a blanket?” she asks.
His fingers trace slowly up the centre of her spine. “S’for the Aviara.”
She hums, eyes half closed. “Why?”
“Goin’ out tomorrow. We’ll need it.”
The hand on his chest goes still. Not noticeably, she hopes. Rafe notices anyway because his fingers pause against her back. She keeps her voice casual. “Who?”
“Me, Top, Kelce.” His palm resumes its slow path. “Some other people.”
She waits half a second longer than she should. “Girls?”
Rafe hums. “Probably.”
The answer sits in her stomach with an irritating little edge. Nothing she would admit to. Only awareness. Some girl from Figure Eight wrapped in this blanket tomorrow, laughing beside him on the Aviara while she walks home to a refrigerator containing mustard, beer and half a lime.
She presses her cheek more firmly against his chest as if the movement has nothing to do with the thought. “Fun,” she says.
Rafe’s hand stills again. She can practically feel him looking down at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You did a thing.”
Her brows pull together. She tilts her head enough to see him. “What thing?”
“That little voice.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “I have one voice.”
“Yeah, and that one means you’re pissed.”
“I’m not pissed,” she snaps.
Rafe studies her face with the wary focus of a man approaching an animal caught in fencing. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
His thumb moves once along her spine.
She looks away first, laying her cheek back over his heart. “I hope you have fun with your boat girls.”
A laugh moves beneath her ear, so she pinches his side.
Rafe catches her wrist. “Ow.”
“Fuck you.”
“Just did,” he replies smugly.
“That was awful.”
His chest moves again. She bites him lightly near the collarbone.
Rafe tightens his arm around her before she can escape. “Stop biting me.”
“Let me go.”
“No.”
She struggles once, mostly for principle. He rolls enough to pin her more firmly between his body and the seat, the blanket tangling around both their legs.
His face lowers near hers. “Hey.”
She stops moving because his voice has changed. Softer around the edges. “You good?”
Rafe peers down at her through the dim interior, one arm braced beside her while the other remains curved around her waist. His gaze moves over her face with that particular attention she never knows what to do with after sex. Checking for pain. Regret. Some hidden thing she might decide not to tell him until it becomes an argument.
She nods. “Mhm.”
“No, like…” His thumb rubs once against her side beneath the blanket. “You good?”
She can still feel him between her thighs. Her skin warm and damp, body loose beneath the pleasant ache. Outside, insects throw themselves against the windows. Somewhere at the marina, a metal halyard knocks against a mast in irregular little taps. Rafe waits.
She nods again, slower this time. “Yeah.”
His eyes remain on hers for one second longer. Then he nods too. “Good.”
He lowers himself again and she resettles half over his chest, the blanket pulled beneath her chin. His hand returns to her back, drawing absent little paths over her skin.
After a minute, Rafe reaches blindly for the cigarette packet. He shakes one free and puts it between his lips, then searches for the lighter without moving her. She takes the cigarette from his mouth.
“You quit,” she reminds him.
His eyes drop toward her. “Right.”
She puts it between her own lips and strikes the lighter. The flame briefly fills the back seat with warm gold, catching on his Cameron ring where his hand rests against her waist.
Rafe watches her inhale, then takes the cigarette from her fingers anyway.
“Bad influence,” he says.
She closes her eyes and settles her cheek over his heart while smoke curls toward the fogged windows. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I know.”
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