- jazzie. lesbian. olivia dean enthusiast. azzi fudd’s real wife! role models favorite diva. lover of all things purple, books, candles, and history related. women’s basketball. #1 dear reader stan. professional juju watkins lover. gerard ( gibsie ) gibson defender. john logan is my boyfriend. 7brew addicted. fudd around and find out 2025. mystics, liberty, and wings!
- my inbox is always open! send me whatever is on your mind, writing requests, or just anything in general <3
- dni if: you intend to bring any negativity on my page! this is usually a safe space for everyone ( besides angel reese haters. you are not welcome here. ) if you are racist, homophobic, a maga supporter, or anything of that sort. minors can interact- but at your own risk!
anon ask: Y/n Curry X Lauren Betts (Where Y/n’s Stephen curry’s older daughter with the rest of the siblings and his wife ofc) And Lauren’s and Y/n’s parents and siblings are watching court side. Y/n and Lauren and the Rest of the UCLA team make it to the national championship. South Carolina Comes in hot Tessa Johnson hitting threes back to back. Then The UCLA Coach calls a timeout and tells The Rotation what’s gonna happen. Then It Happens in the second quarter Y/n getting comfortable with her three pointers and passing to her teammates. Dawn Stanley calls a timeout for her team to regroup. And Y/n and Lauren are on the bench sitting next to each other laughing about something while the announcers are being messy in a funny way. Then Y/n and Lauren are getting interviewed for the third half and Y/n cusses by accident and Lauren looks shocked. Then South Carolina ties the game back up. After a timeout Y/n is hitting more threes then she gets an a one to fall while staring at the camera while screaming a one. Lauren is getting interviewed on podium. And Y/n is filming Tik Tok’s with her Teammates while Holly is Trying to call Y/n over. Then Lauren is trying to get your attention so she tells a teammate to come. And Y/n brings her siblings on the podium while Holly is Interviewing Lauren. Holly calls y/n over while Y/n is holding Canon while giving him The Championship hat. Then Y/n talks about the chemistry she has with Lauren and the team. ( I hope this makes sense)
summary: under a legacy she couldn’t escape, she built her own name and, on the brightest night of college basketball, played through expectation, love, and pressure, while someone on the opposite side proved greatness doesn’t stand alone, and when the buzzer faded, everything changed except the way they found each other in the middle of it all.
🏷️: @ladybugluvs, @timunhater
you were born into a dynasty family, your father being stephen curry but to the rest of the world, he was the greatest shooter basketball had ever seen. he was the face of a generation, the man who had rewritten what people believed was possible from behind the three-point line.
little kids copied his jump shot on playgrounds across the world nba arenas erupted every time the ball left his fingertips commentators spent years trying to come up with new words to describe what he did because "unbelievable" had become far too ordinary.
to you, though, he was just dad but he was the man who woke up before sunrise on school mornings to make pancakes because your mom insisted he wasn't allowed to burn them anymore he was the one who sat through every dance recital before you realized basketball had quietly stolen your heart.
he was the parent who somehow managed to make it home after west coast road trips just in time to tuck you and your siblings into bed, even if he looked exhausted enough to fall asleep standing up.
your mom, ayesha, liked to joke that basketball might have been the family business, but love was what kept the house together she wasn't wrong.
your childhood wasn't built around championships or trophies it was built around loud dinners where everyone talked over each other, movie nights that usually ended with canon falling asleep on somebody's shoulder, and competitive family game nights that somehow became more intense than an nba finals game.
riley had always been the dramatic one ryan had mastered the art of sarcasm before she was even a teenager, canon simply existed to create chaos and you?
you had inherited just enough of both your parents to keep everyone on their toes being the oldest meant there was never a moment where someone wasn't looking up to you.
sometimes that felt like pressure, but most days it simply felt like home your father never pushed basketball on you not once.
the first time you picked up one of his old basketballs, you were barely tall enough to dribble without chasing it across the driveway after every bounce.
stephen had leaned against the garage, coffee in one hand, watching as you stubbornly refused to give up after the ball rolled into the flower bed for what felt like the hundredth time. "need some help?" he'd asked.
you had shaken your head so hard your tiny ponytail whipped across your face. "i got it." he smiled. "yeah?"
"yeah." he didn't move instead, he waited he watched you stumble after the ball another five times before you finally managed three dribbles in a row.
when you looked up at him with the biggest grin he'd ever seen, he clapped like you'd just won a championship.
from that day forward, he never taught you how to become stephen curry he taught you how to become yourself there was never a conversation about living up to the curry name.
if anything, your parents worked harder than anyone else to make sure you didn't feel trapped beneath it.
"people are always going to compare you to me," your dad had told you one afternoon after a middle school game where reporters asked more questions about him than they did about your twenty-eight points.
he'd been driving home while you stared out the passenger-side window. "that's their job." you frowned. "it's annoying."
"i know."
"they keep saying i'm only good because i'm your daughter." he was quiet for a moment before pulling into the driveway then he turned the car off and looked at you.
"do you know why that doesn't bother me?" you shrugged. "because one day..." he smiled softly. "...they're going to stop saying you're stephen curry's daughter."
your eyebrows pulled together. "what'll they say?" he reached over and gently tapped your forehead. "they'll say i'm y/n curry's dad."
that sentence stayed with you through middle school through high school through every ranking, every tournament, every article that mentioned your last name before your first name.
people loved assuming your story had already been written they assumed growing up around greatness automatically made greatness easy.
they didn't see the mornings when your alarm rang before the sun came up so you could get extra shots in before class.
they didn't see the nights when you sat in an empty gym shooting free throws until your arms felt too heavy to lift.
they didn't see the tears after losses or the frustration after bad games or the days where nothing seemed to fall no matter how many shots you took.
your father saw all of it he never fixed those moments for you he simply reminded you to keep showing up. "bad shooting days happen."
"so do bad weeks."
"just don't let them become bad habits." those words became part of who you were by the time colleges started calling, your highlight tapes had taken on a life of their own.
every sports network had an opinion, some believed you should stay close to home, others thought you should create as much distance from your father's legacy as possible.
social media debated every visit, every commitment rumor, every smile caught on camera. you ignored all of it because your decision had never been about escaping your family.
it had been about finding somewhere that felt like home the first time you stepped onto ucla's campus, something clicked.
it wasn't the banners hanging from the rafters it wasn't the facilities it wasn't even the coaches it was the people.
they didn't introduce themselves by asking what it was like being stephen curry's daughter they asked who you were what kind of teammate you wanted to become.
what kind of leader you hoped to be that mattered, it mattered more than anyone realized so when you committed to ucla, the headlines practically wrote themselves.
"curry daughter heads west."
"basketball royalty joins the bruins."
"legacy continues."
you rolled your eyes at every single one because they still didn't understand this wasn't about continuing someone else's legacy.
it was about beginning your own the funny thing was, basketball wasn't the only thing waiting for you in los angeles the first time you met lauren betts happened completely by accident it wasn't some dramatic movie moment where time slowed down and violins started playing.
there weren't sparks flying across the gym or teammates whispering, oh my gosh, they're going to fall in love instead, you quite literally walked into her hard.
your shoulder collided with hers as you rounded the corner outside the practice facility, sending the binder tucked beneath your arm tumbling onto the sidewalk. papers scattered everywhere, carried by a light california breeze before either of you had a chance to react. "oh my gosh," you blurted, crouching down almost immediately. "i'm so sorry."
"no, that's my fault," another voice answered just as quickly you reached for the same piece of paper at the exact same time your hands bumped together both of you froze for exactly half a second before laughing. "well..." she smiled sheepishly. "this is embarrassing."
"a little." she handed you the paper she'd picked up before extending her hand. "Lauren." you took it. "y/n." there was a brief pause, her eyes widened. "...wait."
you sighed dramatically.
"please don't."
"you're—"
"yeah."
"steph curry's—"
"unfortunately, yes." she immediately laughed. "i wasn't gonna say it like that."
"everyone says it like that."
"fair point." you couldn't help laughing with her it was easy surprisingly easy before either of you realized it, ten minutes had passed while the rest of your papers sat forgotten on the sidewalk.
by the end of the conversation, neither of you remembered why you had been in such a hurry to begin with neither of you could have guessed that one accidental collision outside the practice gym would eventually become the best thing that had ever happened to either of you.
months later, the two of you had become inseparable then came dating then came winning and now, with an entire season behind you, one final game stood between ucla and history.
the national championship.
the lights inside the arena hadn't even dimmed yet, but the energy already felt electric students in blue and gold packed one side of the stands, waving signs and homemade posters that had taken days to finish.
opposite them, south carolina's faithful answered with deafening cheers of their own, dressed in garnet and black as they waited for their team to take the floor.
every seat was filled, every aisle crowded with camera operators, photographers, and arena staff making last-minute preparations before the biggest game of the season back in the tunnel as you bounced lightly on the balls of your feet as you adjusted the black compression sleeve on your shooting arm.
music echoed through the concrete hallway, but it was muffled beneath the sound of your own heartbeat around you, your teammates stretched, laughed, and tried to shake off the nerves in their own ways. some wore headphones, others danced to whatever song was blaring through the speakers. lauren stood only a few feet away, calmly tying the laces of her shoes as though this were just another practice instead of the national championship.
you watched her for a second before walking over, bumping your shoulder against hers. "you nervous?" she looked up, pretending to think about it. "a little."
"that's it?"
"a healthy amount." you laughed quietly. "i think i'm gonna throw up."
"no, you're not."
"i might." she stood, smoothing her jersey down before reaching over to fix the collar of yours. "you're y/n curry." you groaned immediately. "don't start."
she smiled. "i'm serious." her hands rested gently against your shoulders. "you're also the hardest-working person i've ever met." she tilted her head. "trust yourself."
you stared at her for a second before leaning forward just enough for your forehead to rest against hers. "how do you always know what to say?"
"it's one of my many talents."
"your biggest talent is being taller than everybody."
"that's definitely number one." a laugh escaped you before the tension sitting in your chest eased, if only a little from somewhere farther down the tunnel, one of your teammates whistled dramatically. "save the cute stuff for after we win!"
more laughter followed, and you immediately stepped back, covering your face with one hand while lauren only grinned. "they're never gonna let us live that down," you muttered.
"probably not."
"worth it?" she didn't hesitate. "always."
far above the tunnel, the espn broadcast had already begun, cameras swept across the sold-out arena before settling on a familiar face sitting courtside as stephen curry smiled as the crowd recognized him, lifting a hand in acknowledgment while ayesha laughed beside him.
riley and ryan waved enthusiastically at the giant jumbotron, and little canon, wearing a miniature ucla jersey that nearly reached his knees, sat happily swinging his feet from his seat, completely unaware that half the arena had just collectively melted at the sight of him.
cameras floated effortlessly through the sold-out arena, capturing every corner of the building as anticipation settled over the crowd like electricity before a summer storm the sea of blue and gold on one side answered every chant from the wall of garnet and black on the other, neither fanbase willing to be drowned out on the biggest night of the season.
homemade signs stretched high above heads, students bounced in place despite the game still being minutes away, and every time the jumbo screen flashed across another section of the stands, thousands of people erupted simply because they knew the entire country was watching.
the opening montage rolled across television screens from coast to coast, highlighting both teams' journeys to the national championship clips of dominant defensive possessions, game-winning shots, emotional embraces after buzzer-beaters, and celebrations from earlier rounds filled the screen while the familiar voice of the play-by-play announcer welcomed viewers into the broadcast.
"good evening, everyone, and welcome to the national championship. i'm thrilled you could join us because tonight we've got two of the very best teams in college basketball battling for a title. it's ucla and south carolina, two programs that have spent the entire season proving exactly why they deserve to be here."
his partner smiled as another camera angle revealed both teams waiting inside their respective tunnels.
"you couldn't ask for a better matchup. you've got experience, you've got star power, you've got elite coaching, and maybe most importantly, you've got two teams that genuinely believe they're walking out of here with a championship trophy."
the production crew cut away from the tunnel and immediately searched the crowd for familiar faces it didn't take long before the cameras landed courtside and a murmur swept through the arena before growing into loud applause.
stephen curry looked up at the giant screen overhead, immediately realizing exactly why the cheers had grown louder he laughed to himself before offering a small wave to the crowd, never one to make a moment about himself when his daughter was preparing to play the biggest game of her career.
sitting beside him, ayesha leaned comfortably against the back of her seat, smiling warmly as she noticed canon waving enthusiastically toward the camera without having the slightest clue that millions of people were now watching him.
the little boy's oversized ucla jersey nearly reached his knees, the sleeves hanging well past his elbows as he proudly held a tiny foam finger in one hand every few seconds he would point toward the tunnel, completely convinced his sister could somehow see him through several concrete walls. "y'see?" he asked excitedly, tugging on stephen's sleeve. "sissy gonna win."
stephen looked down at him before smiling. "i think she likes our chances." canon nodded with complete confidence, as though there had never been another possible outcome. "she make lotsa threes." that earned a laugh from everyone sitting nearby.
"she probably will," ayesha agreed, reaching over to smooth down the curls poking out from beneath his miniature championship cap they'd bought before the game. "but she's got to play defense first." canon gasped dramatically. "defense too?"
riley couldn't help laughing from the seat beside them. "yeah, buddy. that's kind of important." ryan leaned forward just enough to tease him. "you think all she has to do is shoot?" he thought about it very seriously before answering.
"...yeah."
their entire row burst into laughter across the aisle, lauren's family watched the interaction with matching smiles; they'd spent enough time around the currys throughout the season to know that this was simply who they were.
despite the cameras, despite the celebrities scattered throughout the arena, despite the magnitude of the night, they still felt like a family first there was constant teasing, conversations overlapping one another, and an endless amount of laughter that somehow made one of the loudest arenas in the country feel surprisingly intimate.
the broadcast returned to the commentators, both of whom smiled after watching the exchange. "that's a family that's been here before," one of them said. "stephen curry has played in some of the biggest games basketball has ever seen, but tonight he's just dad."
his partner nodded. "that's something people forget. we've all watched y/n curry grow up from afar, but what she's done at ucla has been remarkable. yes, she'll always be connected to one of the greatest players the sport has ever seen, but she's earned every bit of this moment on her own. she's become one of the best guards in college basketball because of countless hours in the gym, not because of the last name stitched across the back of her jersey."
another camera found the tunnel just as the arena lights began to dim inside, the music grew louder, the conversations became quieter one by one, every player instinctively turned toward the entrance leading onto the court.
the moment had arrived the arena lights faded until only a handful of spotlights remained, sweeping across the lower bowl as thousands of fans lifted their phones into the air a deep bass line echoed through the speakers, vibrating through the hardwood beneath your shoes, and for a brief second everything around you seemed to slow.
the chatter from your teammates disappeared into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of your own breathing this was the moment every player dreamed about when they were little, not the trophies or the headlines, but the walk out of the tunnel knowing there was one game left and everything you had worked for came down to forty minutes.
coach cori close stood at the front of the group with her arms folded across her chest, waiting until every pair of eyes settled on her she didn't raise her voice she didn't need to after an entire season together, the room naturally grew quiet whenever she spoke. "look around." as everyone did.
"this group," she said, gesturing toward the circle of players surrounding her, "is the reason we're standing here tonight. not rankings. not predictions. not statistics. each other."
she paused, allowing her words to settle. "there are going to be moments tonight when south carolina punches first. they're too good not to. they're going to go on runs. they're going to make shots that don't seem possible. they're going to test everything we've built together."
her gaze landed on lauren before shifting toward you. "but we've spent months proving something to ourselves." another pause passed. "we don't break." a chorus of determined nods answered her. "they're going to throw double teams at lauren." lauren smiled.
"good." coach laughed softly. "yes, good. because we've practiced for it every single day."
she looked directly at you. "and when they collapse inside..." you finished the sentence without thinking. "...i'll be waiting." coach pointed at you.
"exactly." she moved the whiteboard into the center of the huddle, sketching quick circles and arrows across it while explaining the opening rotation lauren would establish position early in the paint, forcing south carolina's defense to make a decision.
if they stayed home, she would go to work inside if they doubled, the ball would swing around the perimeter until it found an open shooter you already knew where that pass was supposed to end up coach capped the marker before looking around one last time. "trust your preparation." she tapped the center of the whiteboard.
"trust each other." then she smiled. "...and have some fun." the tension that had filled the tunnel only moments earlier seemed to dissolve as several teammates exchanged grins and someone started clapping as another player slapped the side of a locker before long the entire tunnel echoed with applause and encouragement. "family on three!"
coach shouted and everyone instinctively stacked their hands together in the middle. "one..." every voice joined hers. "two..." the noise from the arena outside somehow grew even louder. "three..."
"family!" the word exploded through the tunnel before the entire team broke apart and the public address announcer's voice boomed throughout the arena.
"ladies and gentlemen..." the crowd immediately answered with deafening cheers. "...please welcome your ucla bruins!"
the first player sprinted through the curtain to a roar that shook the building blue and gold lights flashed across the court as introductions continued one by one every teammate received thunderous applause, but as your name echoed through the speakers, the volume somehow climbed another level. "starting at guard... standing five foot ten..."
the announcer paused just long enough for anticipation to build. "...y/n curry!" your heart hammered against your ribs as you burst through the tunnel, jogging onto the court with a wide smile despite every nerve in your body reminding you exactly how important this game was.
you pointed toward your teammates waiting near half court before clapping your hands together, feeding off the energy pouring down from every corner of the arena high above the floor, the camera immediately found the curry family again. "there she is!" riley shouted as she jumped to her feet.
ayesha couldn't stop smiling. "look at her." stephen watched quietly for a moment, his smile softening as you looked toward the stands you couldn't make out individual faces beneath the bright arena lights, but somehow you still found your family almost instantly.
you pointed toward them as canon gasped. "she sees us!"
he bounced excitedly in his seat before waving both arms over his head with absolutely no rhythm whatsoever. "hi, sissy!" the camera caught the entire exchange, prompting laughter throughout the arena.
one of the commentators chuckled. "i'm not sure who's more excited for this game, y/n curry or her little brother." his partner laughed. "canon has complete confidence."
"well, if you've watched y/n this season, it's hard not to."
across the court, south carolina emerged from their tunnel to an equally thunderous reception from their fans. every player carried the confidence of a program that had been here before, walking toward the opposite bench without looking rattled by the atmosphere they understood championship basketball they expected to win championships.
that confidence was exactly why tonight's matchup had everyone talking the teams met at center court for final instructions while officials reviewed the opening tip procedure sneakers squeaked against freshly polished hardwood as players settled into position, each of them bouncing lightly on their toes to stay loose.
you adjusted the tape wrapped around your fingers before glancing beside you lauren caught your eye immediately without saying a word, she reached out and lightly bumped her fist against yours a simple gesture one the two of you had shared before every game that season you bumped her fist back. "let's do this."
she smiled. "together." the referee stepped into the center circle with the basketball tucked beneath one arm the arena gradually grew quieter, not silent.
it never could be but quiet enough that anticipation replaced conversation every player locked into position the official looked around one final time before gripping the basketball with both hands the national championship was finally about to begin.
the referee's whistle pierced through the arena as the basketball rose into the air, spinning beneath the bright championship lights before reaching the peak of its climb. for one suspended heartbeat, twenty thousand people seemed to hold their breath alongside the ten players standing on the hardwood.
then lauren exploded upward, extending every inch of her six-foot-seven frame to meet the ball first her fingertips redirected it cleanly toward the backcourt, where you stepped into the pass without breaking stride.
the roar that followed rattled through the arena and every bruin fan rose to their feet, clapping and shouting before the offense had even crossed half court you slowed your dribble just enough to let your teammates settle into their spacing, your eyes darting across the floor as south carolina quickly settled into their half-court defense.
they wasted no time showing exactly what they had prepared for two defenders shaded toward lauren before she even reached the low block, while another remained close enough to discourage the entry pass they weren't going to let the nation's most dominant post player establish position without a fight.
"they're already loading up on betts," the play-by-play announcer observed as the offense unfolded. "look how quickly that second defender slides over."
"that's been the game plan all week," his partner replied. "make someone else beat you. force the ball out of lauren betts' hands and hope the perimeter shooters don't get comfortable."
you heard coach close call out the first set from the sideline, raising two fingers into the air the movement was immediate, gabriela sprinted through the lane, dragging a defender with her while kiki flared toward the wing.
lauren sealed her defender beautifully, planting one foot deep in the paint before raising her hand for a split second, the passing lane opened, but it disappeared just as quickly when another garnet jersey collapsed into the lane.
you didn't force it instead, you swung the ball around the perimeter, resetting the possession, patience had become one of the greatest lessons your father ever taught you not every possession required a highlight, sometimes the smartest basketball was the simplest basketball.
the shot clock continued to wind down as south carolina's defense moved together with remarkable precision every pass was met by quick closeouts, every cut was tracked, every screen was communicated.
they looked exactly like the disciplined team everyone expected them to be with only five seconds remaining, you rose into a contested jumper from just inside the arc it bounced softly off the back rim before falling away the rebound belonged to south carolina.
"excellent defensive possession," one announcer said. "they never allowed ucla to get comfortable."
before anyone in blue could retreat, south carolina was already sprinting the other direction their transition offense was as dangerous as advertised, pushing the pace before the bruins had a chance to organize defensively.
the ball swung from the point guard to the right wing in one fluid motion before finding tessa johnson in rhythm everyone inside the building knew exactly what she wanted she rose without hesitation swish the net barely moved.
south carolina's section erupted into deafening cheers as tessa backpedaled with quiet confidence, pointing toward a teammate who had delivered the pass. "and that's exactly why she's so dangerous," the color commentator said. "you give her even a sliver of daylight, and she'll make you pay." you caught the inbound pass from the baseline official and immediately glanced toward coach close.
she remained calm, hands resting on her hips as she motioned for everyone to settle down there wasn't the slightest trace of panic on her face, and seeing that steadiness helped quiet the frustration beginning to creep into your own thoughts.
the next possession flowed far more smoothly lauren caught the ball near the free-throw line before turning her shoulders toward the basket almost instantly, the double team arrived exactly as coach had predicted.
without trying to force a difficult shot, she pivoted away from the pressure and fired a crisp pass toward the opposite wing you caught it cleanly for the briefest instant, the defender hesitated and that was all the opening you needed.
your knees bent instinctively as years of repetition took over the release felt effortless, the follow-through freezing high above your shoulder as the basketball climbed through the air with perfect rotation inside the front row, stephen didn't even realize he had stood until ayesha reached over and laughed softly. "you're doing it again."
his eyes never left the ball. "i know." the shot looked perfect from the moment it left your fingertips it struck the back iron and popped straight into the air and spun out a collective groan rolled through the bruin crowd.
you exhaled sharply before turning to sprint back on defense, refusing to dwell on the miss. your father had spent years reminding you that confidence couldn't disappear every time a shot refused to fall. "next one," you whispered to yourself.
south carolina attacked again, they worked the ball around the perimeter with patience before finding tessa once more coming off a staggered screen your defender fought through the first pick, but she created just enough separation to receive the pass in rhythm.
another release, another clean look, another three the arena erupted again south carolina's bench leaped to its feet, waving towels overhead as their coaches applauded from the sideline.
"back-to-back triples for tessa johnson!" the announcer exclaimed over the growing noise. "she has come out absolutely fearless in this championship game."
you looked up at the scoreboard for only a second south carolina 6 and ucla 0.
the game had barely begun, yet momentum had already found its way to the defending powerhouse the building felt different now louder and faster every possession carried just a little more weight than the one before it.
coach close stepped closer to the sideline, clapping her hands together as loudly as she could. "heads up!" she shouted. "keep playing!"
you nodded immediately, signaling to your teammates as you crossed half court once again there was still an entire game left to play and somewhere deep inside, you could already feel that familiar rhythm beginning to settle in.
the same rhythm your father always said came right before everything slowed down.
the basketball reached the top of its arc before beginning its descent, and the instant the referee's hand disappeared from view, the noise inside the arena returned with enough force to make the hardwood beneath your feet feel as though it were vibrating.
lauren got just enough of the opening tip to redirect it toward the backcourt, where you collected it cleanly before immediately settling into the offense your heartbeat was still racing, but years of playing under bright lights had taught you how to hide it no one watching from the outside would have guessed your stomach was tied into knots.
you crossed half court with your left hand, your eyes moving from one side of the floor to the other as south carolina settled into its defensive shell they weren't scrambling they weren't overcommitting.
every player moved with purpose, communicating through quick hand signals and short calls that barely rose above the crowd the scouting report had clearly been drilled into them all week, because before lauren had even established position on the block, two defenders were already leaning toward her side of the floor.
"look at that attention," one of the commentators observed as the overhead camera zoomed in. "betts hasn't even touched the basketball yet, and they're already sending help."
"that's respect," his partner replied. "you don't wait for a player like lauren betts to beat you. you try to stop her before she ever gets comfortable."
you dribbled patiently near the top of the key before signaling for a screen lauren stepped up, planting her feet just long enough to create a sliver of daylight before rolling hard toward the basket.
the defense collapsed exactly as expected, forcing you to pull the ball back out rather than threading a risky pass into traffic instead, you swung it around the perimeter, trusting the offense to find the better shot rather than forcing the first one available.
the possession lasted nearly twenty seconds before gabriela rose from the corner with a hand in her face the shot caught the front rim and bounced away, where south carolina immediately secured the rebound and took off in transition.
they wasted no time pushing the pace, sprinting down the floor before ucla could fully recover. the ball moved from one side to the other in a matter of seconds before finding tessa johnson beyond the arc.
she didn't hesitate, the shot looked effortless and the net barely moved the south carolina section erupted into cheers as tessa jogged backward with a calm smile, raising one finger toward a teammate who had found her in rhythm.
"she is fearless," the play-by-play announcer said. "that is exactly the start south carolina wanted."
you accepted the inbound pass and immediately brought it back the other direction, refusing to let one possession dictate the next your father had repeated the same lesson so many times growing up that it had become an instinct but basketball had no memory unless you gave it one the last possession was over, this one deserved your full attention.
lauren established a deeper position this time, using every bit of her frame to pin her defender beneath the rim you looked inside, ready to feed her, but another garnet jersey slid into the passing lane before the ball ever left your hands.
you quickly reversed it to the opposite wing, where kiki attacked off the dribble before kicking it back out to you with only a few seconds left on the shot clock.
the defender closed hard you stepped inside the three-point line and elevated the release felt clean the ball struck the back iron and it bounced high into the air before falling harmlessly into south carolina's hands.
"good look," coach close called from the sideline before you could even lower your head. "keep shooting it." you nodded once, already turning to sprint back on defense there wasn't time to think about the miss south carolina had already crossed half court again.
they flowed into their offense with remarkable discipline, making the extra pass whenever the first option wasn't there one swing became two, then three, until the basketball found tessa curling around an off-ball screen near the right wing as your teammate fought over the pick, but the smallest opening was all she needed.
another release, another splash the garnet section exploded for a second time as the scoreboard changed once again.
south carolina 6 and ucla 0.
the energy inside the building shifted almost immediately; every made basket seemed to fuel one side of the arena while quieting the other as you could hear the gamecocks' bench celebrating every defensive stop, clapping and shouting encouragement after each successful possession.
from the front row, stephen leaned forward with his forearms resting on his knees he wasn't worried if anything, his expression was almost familiar, like he'd seen this exact beginning play out hundreds of times before riley glanced toward him. "you're weirdly calm."
he smiled without taking his eyes off the floor. "she's feeling the game."
"she's zero for two."
"i know."
"doesn't that concern you?"
"not really." ryan looked between them before laughing. "dad has that look." ayesha smiled knowingly. "the 'don't worry, she'll figure it out' look." canon frowned as he stared up at the scoreboard. "why they got more points?"
stephen finally looked down at him. "because basketball's a long game, buddy." canon thought about that for a moment before nodding very seriously. "sissy fix it." stephen chuckled quietly.
"i think she will." back on the court, you wiped your palms against your shorts before meeting lauren's eyes across the lane as players lined up for an inbound.
she didn't say anything, she simply tapped her chest twice before pointing toward you a habit the two of you had developed sometime during conference play.
i trust you. you answered with the slightest nod. i know.
the next possession unfolded more patiently than the first few nobody rushed nobody tried to erase the deficit with one spectacular play; the ball moved from side to side until lauren finally received it near the elbow almost immediately, the double team arrived.
she had expected it without even turning toward the basket, she pivoted and fired the ball back out to you this time, the defender hesitated only for a fraction of a second but at this level, a fraction of a second was everything.
your feet were already set your shoulders squared naturally the basketball left your fingertips with perfect rotation everyone in the curry family's row stood before it reached the rim.
the shot looked perfect until it drifted just long enough to catch the right side of the iron the collective groan from the ucla crowd echoed around the arena you closed your eyes for the briefest instant before turning and jogging back on defense. "keep shooting!" coach close yelled.
"don't think!" you inhaled deeply, don't think just play.
the words sounded almost identical to something your father had told you years ago while the two of you stood alone inside an empty gym after one of the worst shooting nights of your high school career.
"confidence isn't built on the shots you make," he'd said while rebounding for you. "it's built on believing the next one's going in, even after the last ten didn't."
you hadn't understood how powerful that advice would become until moments exactly like this on because somewhere beneath the nerves..beneath the bright lights...beneath the expectations that had followed your last name your entire life...you could feel your rhythm beginning to return.
the flash of the camera lingered for just a moment longer than everything else, freezing the entire group in a frame that somehow felt too small to hold what the night meant the championship trophy sat at the center, reflecting the arena lights in soft gold tones while arms, laughter, and exhausted smiles wrapped around it from every direction.
canon was still in the front, barely holding himself upright beneath the oversized championship hat, while riley and ryan leaned into each other laughing at something nobody else could hear.
stephen and ayesha stood just behind them, their expressions quieter but no less full, the kind of pride that didn't need words to exist and right at the center of it all, you stood beside lauren.
not separated, not distant, not hidden behind implications or glances or unfinished sentences just there her arm was around your waist like it had always belonged there, steady and familiar even in the chaos of confetti and celebration.
your fingers were loosely intertwined with hers, a small detail that didn't draw attention because it didn't need to nobody around you treated it like a surprise or something to explain it simply was what it was, the same way everything else in that moment simply existed without question.
lauren leaned slightly closer, her shoulder brushing yours as she smiled toward the camera, still trying to catch her breath from everything that had just happened when she glanced at you, it wasn't for the crowd or the photo or the trophy.
it was for you and you met her look just as easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world to find each other in the middle of everything."you okay?" she asked quietly, barely audible over the noise still lingering in the arena you nodded, squeezing her hand once. "better than okay."
her smile softened at that, and she didn't say anything else she didn't need to because there was nothing complicated about it anymore no hiding no guessing no space between what you felt on the court and what you felt standing next to her off it.
just two people who had started as teammates, turned into something neither of you planned for, and somehow ended up here on the biggest stage of college basketball still choosing each other in every moment that mattered.
the photographer called out one last time. "perfect. hold it right there." another flash and then the image was gone but what it captured stayed.
afterwards, as the crowd slowly began to thin and families started to make their way out, lauren didn't let go of your hand. not even once. instead, she leaned in slightly as you both started walking back toward the tunnel, shoulder brushing yours again like it had become second nature. "so," she said with a small grin, "national champion girlfriend, huh?" you laughed under your breath. "that what you’re calling me now?"
"it has a nice ring to it." you bumped her shoulder gently. "you’re insufferable."
"and yet you still like me." you glanced at her. "unfortunately… yes." she smiled wider at that, satisfied, and squeezed your hand once more as the two of you disappeared back into the tunnel together, leaving the noise of the arena behind you but not the feeling of it because some things didn’t end when the game did they just started to mean more and this time, you didn’t walk away alone.
AN: okay so Dean won by a long shot so hehe! Someone send me a Garrett Graham smut request I want to write for him so bad but all of the things I’m thinking of fit Dean better lol!
Warnings: unplanned pregnancy, mean girls
Getting pregnant your junior year of college has not been on your to do list. You didn’t even think that would happen to you. But that’s what everyone thinks. You’d met Dean your freshman year through your roommate Kendall who you swore had an unhealthy obsession with the hockey team.
You’d put Dean off until the summer before your Junior year, you knew he had a bit of a playboy reputation but with you he was different. When those two pink lines showed up you were terrified, but Dean was there, scared shitless too but solid as a rock for you.
You’d had the conversation about marriage after finding out you were pregnant. With both of your families being from generations of wealth, the marriage helped soften the taboo around your pregnancy. However, being married and pregnant in college had never crossed your mind. You’d moved into the hockey house with Dean and the guys after a long debate about getting your own apartment, the two of you decided it would be pointless, you’d want to be with your friends anyway. And besides, Tucker’s pasta salad had been one of your top pregnancy cravings.
When you had gotten pregnant and married for that matter you didn’t really keep it a secret but you also didn’t make a big deal of it. Your friends and family knew and that was all that mattered.
April Junior Year
“Is it noticeable.” You say, standing in front of the mirror in your t-shirt and shorts. It was a warm April day and you had a few finals left to take before summer break officially started.
“I mean…” Dean trails off, rubbing his neck. You were to the point where you could no longer get away with baggy clothes and Dean’s hoodies and besides it was starting to get hot outside.
“It’s not like I care, but I don’t know people are judgy.” You say. Dean gives you a sympathetic look.
“Hey, it doesn’t matter what other people think.” He says, coming to hug you from behind, his chin resting on top of your head as his hands find your baby bump. You smile at the sight of the gold band on his finger. You smile at him through the mirror. He was right, all that mattered was your tiny precious family.
Present Day August Senior Year
You didn’t have many classes left to take your senior year. And a lot of them you opted to take online, definitely convenient for someone with a newborn. Your daughter had arrived on July 4th much to Dean’s amusement.
The two of you had worked everything out perfectly. Your schedules and classes aligning so that one of you could always be with your daughter, and something’s thanks to online classes, both of you. Until your advisor called.
“What do you mean I can’t graduate without the class?” You say, Dean glances over at you. Your daughter asleep on his chest as he watches hockey on mute. Your advisor rambles on, about how Gateway to Success is a requirement for all students to graduate and how your advisor should have enrolled you freshman year.
“If it’s a freshman class then why do I need it?” You ask. The advisor makes up some pitiful excuse and gives you the time saying she already took the liberty of scheduling it for you.
“3:30 to 4:30? I can’t do that.” You say anxiously. She rambles on telling you that’s the only class available and that there are no online options.
“I’m sure you can find some way to make it happen, none of your other classes overlap.” She says. You blink back tears, even two months post-partum it didn’t take much.
“I-I can’t. I-I have a baby.” You say, choking on tears. Dean is concerned now and if it weren’t for the tiny human asleep on his chest he’d be pulling you into his arms.
“Well can’t you have your baby’s father take them? Or a friend, I shouldn’t assume the father is in the picture.” She says, a hint of judgment in her voice.
“My husband,” you say, “has hockey practice everyday from 2 to 3:30.”
“Well then he can watch your baby if practice is over at 3:30, problem solved.” The advisor says before ending the call. You blink, stunned. Dean looks at you, having heard the whole conversation.
“I can ask Coach to leave early on the day of your class.” Dean says. You shake your head.
“No I don’t want you to have to do that, you’ve sacrificed so much for us already.” You say.
“Hey, hey,” Dean says as you sit down and wipe your tears. “I’m not sacrificing anything, this right here, is all I’ve ever wanted.” He says motioning to you and your sleeping baby.
“I-I can try and take her to class with me and you could get her after practice? Maybe if I email the professor?” You say chewing on your bottom lip, you needed this class to graduate on time. To graduate with Dean.
“That sounds like a good idea.” Dean nods, pressing a kiss to your temple.
After emailing the professor she assured you it would be no problem, it was a 6 week class anyway. So for the next six Wednesdays you would pack your baby girl up in her stroller, walk the short distance to Hawthorne Hall and go to your stupid required class.
Your first day of class you were nervous. You texted Dean letting him know that you made it to class okay. Your daughter was asleep, she’d been fed less than 15 minutes ago and would most likely stay asleep until her daddy came to get her.
You: We made it lovebug is asleep, there’s milk in the fridge if she wakes up before I’m back.
Deanie Baby 💙🧸: Be there in 15, I’ll remind Logan that breast milk is not coffee creamer
You: 🫣 don’t remind me of that
Deanie Baby 💙🧸: lol 😂
You grin at the screen, remembering an instance a few weeks ago where Logan, poor Logan, thought Tucker had switched coffee creamer brands on him. You sit in the back of the class, keeping your baby’s stroller right beside you. Your professor is a kind woman who explained that she herself was a mother and how wonderful it is that you were still able to pursue your degree. Students filter in, mostly freshman, some girls stare at you, whispering to one another. You’ve seen them at hockey games before.
“How old is she?” Your professor asks. You smile down at your daughter.
“8 weeks.” You say smiling down at your girl. “My husband will be here soon to get her, it’s okay if he just comes in and gets her. I don’t want to interrupt the class or anything.” You say. Your professor smiles at you.
“This is mostly a study hall sort of get a plan ready for your future class so there’s a lot of talking and things, not really a formal class for him to interrupt. I hate that you have ti take this, in fact I tried to get them to give you the credit anyway but they said it was mandatory. Though I saw it already looks like you’ve completed all of the necessary classes for your major.” She says. You nod, thanking her anyway as she walks back to her desk. You could already tell this class was a waste of time. Especially as she announced that today’s assignment was to fill out a planner for the next month with all of your assignments for all of your classes. You already had that done but dabbled in your planner, flipping through to see when your daughter’s next appointment was. You weren’t worried about completing your assignments on time, that was second nature.
Your phone buzzes as you pull up an assignment on your computer for another class.
Deanie Baby 💙🧸: Mr. Mom has arrived, I’m headed in
You smile at your phone as Dean walks in. Of course that’s just when the freshman girls decide to be little bitches.
“Well I heard a rumor but I didn’t think we’d see Daddy Dean participating in child care.” One of them snicker.
The group of girls laugh staring back at you like you’re deaf.
“I mean was she trying to lock him down?” One asks. “Sounds like a good way to become a single mom to me.” She says.
Dean frowns, as he passes them. They ogle him, that you’re used to.
“Hi baby.” He says. Kissing the top of your head. Before peeking at your daughter asleep in her stroller. “Hi, sleeping beauty.” He whispers. In front of you the freshman girls chatter away.
“That’s rough.” One of them says, twirling a strand of her bleach blonde hair.
“What?” One of them asks.
“Being a single mom before graduation.” She says as if it were obvious.
“Do we even know if they’re together? Or is it just like visitation?” Another girl asks.
“I don’t think so.” Says the blonde.
“See? That’s what I’m saying. How rough.” One of the girls leans back in her chair.
“She’s probably doing all the work while he’s off playing hockey.”
“Most likely.” One of them chimes in.
“At least the kid got good genetics.” The blonde says turning ti stare at Dean.
“Oh my God.”
“What? Have you seen him?” She says.
“Fair.” The first girl shrugs.
“Still. I feel bad for her.” She says.
“Why?” One of the girls asks a nasty expression on her face.
“Because imagine spending your early twenties raising a baby while the baby’s dad gets to be Dean Di Laurentis.”
The group collectively nods.
“Yeah, that would suck.”
“I wonder if she thought he’d stay.” The blonde giggles.
“Ouch.”
“No, seriously.” The blonde says face stern. The girl lowers her voice.
“Maybe she thought they’d end up together. Thought she could lock him down.” She suggests.
“Maybe they were together.” One offers pitting emphasis on were.
“Maybe.” Another girl scoffs rolling her eyes. “Guys like Dean don’t settle down at twenty-two.”
The first girl sighs dramatically. “At least the baby’s cute.”
“That’s because she got Dean’s face.” One girl chimes in.
“I’m serious. Can you imagine if that baby grew up and found out her dad was Dean Di Laurentis and some random guy was raising her?” One of them ask. “I’m sure she’ll end up with some guy who takes pity on her and her single mother act.” The entire group bursts out laughing. Then a familiar voice speaks from behind them, stroller in tow.
“Well.” The laughter dies instantly. “I certainly hope not.” Dean says dramatically a hand in his hip.
Every girl freezes.
Dean is standing there, hockey bag slung over one shoulder and your eight week old daughter asleep in her Nuna stroller. His expression is almost thoughtful. Like he’s genuinely considering what they said.
One girl turns bright red.
“Because that would make things pretty complicated for me.” He says feigning a confused look. The girls stare at him.
“I mean I think it would be news to my wife that she’s single.” Dean says. “And I’m not really about that, I mean I locked her down for a reason.” He says turning to wink at you as he holds his left hand up Beyoncé style flashing his gold wedding band.
“You’re-you’re married?” The blonde girl asks eyes wide.
“Uh yeah, happily.” He says.
“Oh sorry.” A few of the girls mutter looking away from Dean. They’re mortified. Dean, completely unbothered, adjusts the baby blanket around his daughter.
“Have a good class, ladies.” He says before turning to you. “See you at home wifey.” He says with a wink. Then he walks away, pushing the stroller like the hot dad that he is. Leaving behind nothing but silence and the stunned freshman girls who are realizing they just spent ten minutes insulting a woman in front of her very happy, very loving, very married husband.
summary: in which y/n is rarely clingy, but tonight she can’t seem to let go of garrett, and he finds himself loving every second of it.
notes: hi!! i'm so sorry for not posting in a few days, i've been incredibly busy! i hope you all enjoy, thank you so much for this request! 💌
ꪆৎ
it starts with garrett receiving a message.
he’s sprawled on the couch at the hockey house, half-watching whatever logan has put on the tv, one arm slung over the back cushion while tucker argues with dean about something deeply stupid and entirely unimportant.
his phone buzzes once, then again. garrett glances down.
allie
come get your girlfriend. she's stressing me out
his brows pull together immediately. before he can reply, another message comes through.
sabrina
correction. she’s stressing all of us out
then a photo. garrett opens it, immediately fighting the urge to laugh.
you’re tucked into the back booth of some loud bar, cheeks flushed pink, eyes glassy, smiling way too hard at the camera while clutching someone’s half-eaten fries like they’re precious cargo.
you look adorable.
you also look very, very drunk.
garrett stares at the photo for half a second before pushing himself upright. dean notices instantly. “what?”
garrett is already standing. “allie says y/n’s drunk.”
logan pauses. “drunk drunk?”
garrett shows them the photo. logan bursts out laughing, dean practically lunges forward. “oh, she’s gone.” tucker squints at the picture. “are those fries?”
garrett ignores them, calling allie. she answers on the first ring, already laughing. “how bad?”
allie snorts. “depends.”
garrett grabs his keys from the counter. “on?”
“how much patience you have.”
dean is already standing too. “we’re coming.”
garrett looks at him. “why?”
logan stands. “because this sounds entertaining.”
tucker shrugs, grabbing his hoodie. “and because if she’s really drunk, you’ll need help.”
garrett sighs, already knowing that arguing would be pointless. “fine.”
-
the second garrett steps into the bar, he hears you before he sees you. your laugh carries across the room, bright, loud, completely unfiltered. music pounds from overhead speakers, people are packed shoulder to shoulder around tables and booths, but garrett’s attention locks in immediately.
allie spots them first, relief immediately flooding her features, before amusement quickly follows. beside garrett, dean is already grinning, far too entertained by the situation before him.
garrett shoots him a suspicious look. “why are you smiling like that?”
dean claps a hand against his shoulder. “because this is going to be hilarious.”
“this will not be hilarious.”
“it really will.”
then garrett sees you. you’re sitting in a chair while sabrina crouches beside you, trying, and failing, to keep you still. your hands are moving animatedly while you tell some story that appears to be deeply important.
grace is trying not to laugh, sabrina looks exhausted, allie looks seconds from losing it again. suddenly you look up, spotting him. your entire face lights up, like the sun breaking through clouds.
“garrett!”
oh no.
that voice. that ridiculously happy drunk voice. every single person around you visibly braces. garrett barely gets two steps closer before you’re on your feet, launching yourself at him, fully.
he catches you instinctively with a quiet grunt, arms wrapping securely around your waist before either of you topple over. “easy.” your arms loop around his neck, before your hands move to hold his face.
garrett freezes, a smirk gracing his features, clearly entertained by your intoxicated state. you stare at him with intense concentration, like you’re studying something very serious. “you’re sooo handsome.”
logan chokes, dean fully loses it, tucker pinches the bridge of his nose like he physically can’t handle what he’s witnessing.
garrett closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. “hi, baby.” you squint at him, focused. your thumbs brush his cheeks. “you have nice eyelashes.”
garrett blinks, “thank you.”
you keep staring, still holding his face. “like. really nice.”
he bites back a smile. “thank you, y/n.”
your expression changes so fast it gives him emotional whiplash. your face falls, devastation written plainly across your features. “i lost my bag.”
garrett goes still, immediate concern replacing his amusement. “what?”
before panic can properly settle in, sabrina lifts your bag. “i have it.”
you gasp, eyes widening, like this is the greatest miracle you’ve ever witnessed. “you found it!" logan folds over laughing, garrett exhales slowly.
right. okay, this was going to be a long night.
-
getting you out of the bar somehow proves to be harder than expected, mostly because drunk you has apparently decided walking is optional. garrett has one arm firmly around your waist, guiding you towards the exit. you’re leaning heavily into him, all of your weight, happy as can be.
“baby.” garrett adjusts his grip. “walk.”
you look up at him and smile dreamily. “no.”
dean nearly trips laughing, garrett shoots him a look sharp enough to kill, “you’re not helping.”
dean places a hand over his chest, dramatically feigning offence. “i’m being supportive.”
garrett deadpans, “of who?”
dean pauses, considering garrett's words, “good question.”
outside, the cool night air hits you. you blink slowly before tilting your head up towards the sky. for a second you go quiet, completely still. your gaze lingers on the stars scattered overhead, glowing softly against the darkness. you hum under your breath, “pretty.”
garrett glances down at you, noticing the way your features have softened. you look sleepy, content, like you're completely at peace. his chest tightens.
god.
he loves you. even like this, especially like this, ridiculous and clingy and completely unfiltered.
by the time you all reach the car, you’ve somehow gone limp again.
garrett stares. “seriously?”
you grin. “carry me.”
logan laughs so hard he has to grab the car door. garrett sighs as though he’s annoyed. he isn’t, he never could be. he simply slips an arm beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly.
you beam, victorious. “thank you.”
“you’re impossible.”
“and pretty.”
he huffs, a smirk gracing his features. “that too.”
eventually garrett gets you settled in to the passenger seat. he leans over to buckle your seatbelt, immediately pausing. your fingers are in his hair, gently playing with the strands at the nape of his neck. his breath catches for half a second, his entire expression softening as he looks at you.
behind him, dean makes a dramatic gagging noise.
“oh my god.” allie smacks dean’s arm, sending him a glare.
garrett ignores both of them, eyes staying on you. “seatbelt first, y/n.”
you pout. “mean.”
he laughs quietly. “yeah?”
“you’re bossy.”
“only because you’re drunk.”
you narrow your eyes, like you’re deeply offended. “you smell nice.”
from the backseat, logan groans. “i cannot do this anymore.”
dean grins, clearly amused. “g’s trying so hard not to smile.”
garrett shuts the door, walking around to the driver’s side, muttering under his breath, “i hate all of you.”
logan leans forward from the back, “no you don’t.”
starting the car garrett responds, "yeah. i do.”
the drive back is chaos, absolute chaos. for exactly six seconds, the car is quiet, until you begin rambling. “do you guys remember when sabrina cried watching that military homecoming video?”
sabrina immediately groans from the backseat. “why is that your favourite story?”
you turn in your seat as much as the seatbelt allows, fully invested in the conversation. “because you cried for like ten minutes.”
“it was emotional.”
“you cried harder than me.”
“that is completely untrue.”
tucker snorts, dean grins. “i saw it. there were tears.”
sabrina gasps. “dean!"
garrett reaches over with one hand, gently guiding you back towards your seat before you twist too far. his hand settles lightly against your shoulder, his touch steady. “eyes forward, baby.”
you squint at him suspiciously before obliging and turning around to face the front. that lasts approximately ten seconds before you gasp, causing everyone to jump.
you twist again, offended, your tone accusatory. “grace stole my chips!"
grace stares at you, eyes wide with amusement, “you offered them!"
you point dramatically. “i offered some.”
logan laughs, dean is already losing it again. grace simply shakes her head, trying not to smile. “you were literally shoving them at me, y/n.”
you look deeply betrayed. “that’s not the point."
the car erupts into laughter again. you try to maintain the offended expression for a few more seconds, but grace is looking at you with barely-contained amusement, and you unfortunately crack.
a laugh slips out of you, quiet and warm before you mouth an exaggerated i love you in her direction. grace’s expression softens instantly, smiling and blowing you a kiss in return.
garrett can’t help the smile tugging at his mouth, even as he shakes his head in quiet disbelief at the chaos around him.
keeping one hand on the wheel, he reaches over with the other and gently guides you back into your seat, grounding you with the easiest kind of familiarity. “sit properly, y/n.”
you slump dramatically into your seat, sighing. “everyone’s against me.”
sabrina's voice sounds from the back of the car. “y/n, no one’s against you.” you pout, then sigh, before glancing sideways at garrett.
“my boyfriend is.” you bite your lip, refraining from laughing.
garrett raises a brow. “me?”
you nod solemnly. “you’re bossy.”
dean bursts out laughing. “she’s got you figured out.”
garrett doesn’t even spare him a glance, simply laughing to himself.
you stare at him, your face brightening. “you smell nice.”
logan groans loudly. “again?”
dean grins. “this is incredible.”
tucker shakes his head from the back. “i’ve never seen her this clingy before.”
allie smiles. “oh, no. she's going to get worse.”
logan glances at her briefly. “worse?”
allie smiles innocently, nodding in response. “much worse.”
-
by the time you get back to the hockey house, logan realises allie wasn’t exaggerating. if anything, she undersold it. the second garrett kills the engine, you turn towards him. “can you please carry me.”
garrett exhales. “baby.”
you blink at him, completely serious. “my legs are broken.”
tucker wheezes laughing, dean nearly folds in half. “legs broken is an insane excuse, y/n.”
garrett pinches the bridge of his nose before unbuckling his seatbelt. “your legs are not broken, y/n.”
you smile sweetly. “can’t prove that.” he stares at you for a second, before sighing, already knowing he’s losing this battle, again.
when he opens your door, you immediately lift your arms towards him, expectant, waiting. garrett just shakes his head. there’s no real annoyance there, just reluctant amusement.
he slides an arm beneath your knees and another around your back, lifting you effortlessly. you melt into him instantly, arms around his neck, cheek against his shoulder, content, safe.
“thank you.” your voice is softer now, sleepier. garrett’s hold tightens, “of course.”
as he carries you inside, dean calls after him, “captain’s down bad.”
garrett doesn’t even turn around. “shut up, dean.”
-
garrett barely makes it to the couch before sitting down with you still in his arms.
allie settles into the armchair beside the couch, clearly staying close in case you need anything, while grace and sabrina take the other end of the sectional.
across from them, dean and logan sprawl across the opposite couch, tucker lingering nearby with a half-open bag of chips in hand.
garrett reaches for the water bottle and painkillers allie had handed him. big mistake. the second he shifts even slightly, you crawl fully into his lap.
your arms rest around his neck, your face buried into his shoulder. garrett barely catches the water before it spills, his hand settling automatically on your back, slowly moving up and down.
you mumble into his neck, words coming out slightly muffled. “i missed you.” the room goes quieter, not silent, just softer, even dean pauses mid-comment, his grin fading into something more fond.
garrett’s hand slows, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. “yeah?”
you nod against him. “so much.”
his expression softens completely, every trace of amusement gone, replaced by something quieter, warmer. “baby, i was only gone for three hours.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, sleepy, earnest. “felt longer.”
allie grins from beside you, a knowing look on her features. she catches the tiny smile tugging at garrett’s mouth. “he loves it.”
logan huffs a laugh from across the room. “that’s disgustingly obvious.”
garrett doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even try.
everyone knows him too well, they can all see it. the way his entire body softens around you, the way one arm stays secure around your waist so you don’t slide off his lap, the way his other hand keeps brushing your hair back from your face.
the way he looks at you, like you hung the damn moon.
garrett lifts the water. “drink some.” you stare at the cup, eyes filled with suspicion, before shaking your head no.
“yes.”
“no.”
you keep glaring at the cup like it personally insulted you.
garrett blinks. “why?”
you frown, seriously. "too hard.”
garrett stares, “holding the cup is too hard?”
you nod, completely sincere. “right now? yes.”
garrett sighs softly, lifting the water bottle to your lips himself. you obediently take small sips. garrett waits, patiently, calmly. you finish the water, leaning back against him once more.
eventually, after enough teasing and dramatic commentary from dean, tucker and logan, garrett decides you’re done for the night.
you’re visibly wilting in his lap now, sleepy, heavy. your words come out slower, your movements softer. garrett can feel the way your body has relaxed completely against his, all loose limbs and warm weight. he rubs a hand slowly up and down your back, his voice coming out quiet, gentle. “you wanna head upstairs?”
you barely lift your head from where it’s tucked into his neck. “no.”
garrett smiles faintly. “yes.”
you make a small protesting sound. “mm' comfortable.”
god.
you’re half asleep and still clinging to him.
his hand slides beneath your thighs while the other supports your back. “c’mon, baby.”
you let out a tiny noise in protest as he stands, but your limbs wrap around him almost instantly, arms around his neck, legs around his waist.
logan grins from the couch. “godspeed, captain.”
dean raises his hand in a mock salute. “good luck, g.”
garrett rolls his eyes, shooting both of them an unimpressed look, though a small smile still tugs at the corner of his mouth.
nearby, allie watches from the armchair with a soft smile. despite all the chaos, despite all the teasing, there’s something sweet about this. the way you trust garrett completely, the way he takes care of you without hesitation, the way this has always been so easy with you two.
garrett carries you upstairs. your head is tucked against his shoulder, your breathing warm against his neck. by the time he reaches his room, you’re nearly asleep.
his room is quiet, still, dimly lit. the soft yellow glow from his bedside lamp spills warm light across the room, softening everything.
garrett carefully sets you down on the edge of his bed, you sway slightly and his hands immediately settle on your waist to steady you. “stay here.”
you blink up at him, sleepy confusion clouding your expression. “where are you going?”
garrett’s mouth twitches. “bathroom.”
your brows furrow. “why?”
“makeup wipes.” you stare at him for a second, processing his words, before nodding.
the makeup wipes had started as an accident. months ago, after one unexpected sleepover, he’d watched you standing in his bathroom trying to scrub mascara off with tissues and face wash.
the next day, garrett had bought makeup wipes, then moisturizer, then hair ties, then spare makeup remover, now everything lived permanently on the bathroom counter.
just for you.
he grabs the wipes and turns back towards his room, then stops, completely.
for one full second, his brain stops working. somehow, in the thirty seconds he’d been gone, you’d managed to undress.
your dress lay discarded in a soft heap on the floor. you’re sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but navy blue lace underwear, slightly sleepy, completely unbothered.
garrett just stares, his throat suddenly dry.
god.
the navy fabric hugs softly against your skin, delicate lace tracing over your figure in a way that makes every coherent thought in his head evaporate. you notice his expression almost immediately, your sleepy face brightening.
“oh.”
you glance down at yourself, then back up at him. a smile spreads across your features. “i bought this the other day.”
garrett exhales, slowly, dangerously slow. his gaze lifts back to meet yours. “yeah?”
you nod. “do you like it?”
god.
the way you ask it. soft, open, sleepy, completely sincere.
his expression shifts instantly. beneath the initial shock, all he really feels is affection. maybe a little devastation.
you’re so beautiful it physically hurts sometimes. garrett steps towards you slowly. his voice lowers, soft, rough around the edges. “yeah, baby.”
his eyes stay locked on yours. “i really like it.”
your smile turns soft, melting under the warmth of his voice. for a second, neither of you move. the air feels heavier somehow, charged with desire. garrett’s gaze lingers, just for a second, admiring, appreciating. he drags his attention upwards once more. “you trying to kill me?”
you giggle, actually giggle. “maybe.”
he huffs a quiet laugh, helpless, gone for you, completely.
garrett reaches for his dresser and pulls out one of his old t-shirts before stepping closer towards you. “arms up.”
you obey immediately, sleepy and trusting. he carefully pulls the shirt over your head, gently guiding it down, careful not to mess up your hair. the fabric falls to your mid-thigh, swallowing you whole. his hands smooth the shirt down automatically, lingering for just a second at your hips. “better?"
you pout. “covered.”
he smiles, laughter escaping from his lips. “yes.”
“rude.”
“self-preservation.”
you laugh softly in response and the sound settles somewhere deep in his chest.
-
once you’re tucked against his pillows, garrett sits beside you with the makeup wipes, “c’mere.” you immediately scoot closer, close enough that your knees brush his thigh.
your eyes are already heavy with sleep. garrett’s chest tightens as he tilts your chin upwards gently. “let me take your makeup off for you quickly.”
you nod, smiling in admiration at him.
garrett works slowly, carefully. the wipe brushes gently over your skin, lifting away smudged mascara first, then eyeliner, then the faint traces of blush.
you stay perfectly still, quiet, simply just watching him.
garrett notices your gaze after a minute. “what?”
your sleepy smile returns. “nothing.”
his thumb brushes lightly along your jaw. “y/n.”
you lean into his hand, voice softer now, coming out barely louder than a whisper. “you’re taking care of me.” something warm settles painfully in his chest at your words. his voice drops, “always, baby.”
your expression shifts, softening in the way that always undoes him, like you’re seeing something in him no one else gets to. “you’re really nice.”
he smiles faintly. “you said that already.”
“still true.”
he finishes removing the last traces of mascara, reaching for your moisturiser. he rubs a little between his hands, gently smoothing it over your cheeks. your eyes flutter shut instantly, feeling yourself melt beneath his touch. “that feels nice.”
garrett laughs quietly. “yeah?”
“mhm.”
his fingers move slowly across your skin, gentle circles, careful strokes, until your whole body looks relaxed. when he’s done, he sets everything aside. you open your eyes just enough to look at him, before lifting your arms, wordlessly, asking.
garrett’s expression softens instantly, he slips into bed beside you. the second he does, you move, curling into him like you were made to fit there, arms around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest.
garretts arms close around you without hesitation. your voice is barely a whisper, half-asleep. “garrett?”
he presses a kiss into your hair. “yeah?”
you mumble against his shirt, words slurring slightly with sleep. “thank you for being patient with me.”
his chest aches, hand sliding slowly through your hair. "i'll always be patient with you, y/n.”
you smile sleepily. “even when i’m annoying?”
garrett laughs under his breath. “especially then.”
you hum, content, already drifting. “i love you.” the three words are soft, sleepy, unguarded, yet they hit him all the same.
garrett stills for half a second, his arms tightening around you in assurance. his lips brush your forehead, tender. “i love you too, baby.”
your breathing evens out not long after, slow, steady, fast asleep.
garrett lies there in the quiet, one hand moving slowly through your hair, listening to your breathing, feeling your warmth tucked against him, thinking about navy blue lace, makeup wipes in his bathroom, and the fact that somewhere along the way, loving you had become the easiest thing he’d ever done.
꒰ঌ࿐𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓘ce 𝓼kater! 𝓕em! 𝓑leu! 𝓡eader x 𝓖arrett 𝓖raham
꒰ঌ࿐𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓫 A week of co-existing with Garret Graham leaves everyone as collateral damage, until one night the pressure bursts.
꒰ঌ࿐𝔀𝓬 8,1k
꒰ঌ࿐𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓑leu
By Monday morning, Garrett Graham had become a scheduling problem.
Not in the usual, broad, boring sense that most hockey players were- like when they travelled in unavoidable packs or left wet footprints ,their absurdly large feet shifting the protective layer, across the rubber flooring like the rink existed for the sole purpose of absorbing them. This was familiar, predictable, and entirely fixable with a few well timed detours. You had learned what to do with these boys who took up too much space because, according to you, nobody had ever made them earn it.
You moved around them with the flat efficiency of someone avoiding bad weather. You did not engage. You did not look impressed. You did not let their noise enter your blood.
But Garrett was a pinch in a world of merciless prodding, specific and tactile- it meant you noticed his voice before you saw his face, you learnt the difference between his laugh when he was with his teammates and the sharp, satisfying one he gave you when you said something cruel enough to land and for some infuriating reason, you had started reacting to every careless clatter of a stick against concrete- fingers tightening on your skate laces before your brain had the common decency to remind your body that he was not that important.
You hated that most of all.
Your body was supposed to be trained. That was the entire point of it. You had spent years teaching your muscles to obey before they felt, to move through exhaustion, to swallow instinct and become shape. Pain did not get to surprise you. Fear did not get to change your posture. Anger had to be useful or it had to be buried. You were not someone who reacted accidentally.
And yet, by Monday morning, you were sitting on the bench outside the rink, tying your skates with your hair scraped back and a pale blue ribbon pulled so tightly around it that your scalp ached, when Garrett Graham turned the corner with half the hockey team behind him and your whole body sharpened.
It was pathetic.
He looked exactly as irritating as he had on Friday. Worse, maybe, because now you knew what he looked like when he was amused at your expense. He had a Briar hockey hoodie half-zipped over a compression shirt, damp hair curling slightly at the edges from practice, one strap of his equipment bag slung over his shoulder. The boys behind him were laughing about something, loud and warm and careless, until one of them saw you.
The laughter thinned.
Garrett noticed the change before he noticed you. His eyes flicked sideways, landed on your skates, then travelled up slowly enough to be deliberate.
“Oh, good,” he said, “The hallway got colder.”
You did not pause in your lacing, “And somehow the air quality got worse.”
Someone behind him made a wounded little sound that was almost a laugh. Garrett’s mouth curved. He leaned one shoulder against the cinderblock wall, effectively narrowing a hallway that had already been designed by someone with no respect for women carrying skate bags.
“Rough morning, Bleu?”
You pulled the lace through the hook with a sharp little tug. The sound of the name in his mouth should not have been different. Everyone said it. Coaches, skaters, rink staff, the younger girls who whispered it like you could hear through walls. Bleu was a thing people called you because they did not know what to do with the rest of you.
But Garrett said it like he knew it irritated you.
Which meant he was learning.
Which meant he was a problem.
“You’re still talking,” you said, “So yes.”
His eyebrows lifted, “You always this charming before practice?”
“Only when concussed men block emergency exits.”
The blond one - Dean, you had learned, because he was impossible not to learn - pressed a fist to his mouth. Logan looked like he wanted to be anywhere else on earth. Tucker, who seemed to possess the only functioning survival instinct among them, stepped backward as if distance might save him from becoming collateral damage.
Garrett glanced down the hallway, then back at you, “You have room.”
“I have standards.”
“Must be exhausting.”
“Not as exhausting as pretending hockey players count as people.”
The hallway went quiet in the way that silence felt tight and thin when people wanted to laugh but were terrified of being next. Garrett’s face did not change much. That was one of the most annoying things about him. He did not collapse under insult the way some men did. He absorbed it, considered the angle, then decided whether to hit back harder.
“You know,” he said, “for someone whose sport involves glitter, you’re pretty committed to being unpleasant.”
You rose from the bench, guards already snapped over your blades, jacket zipped to your throat, skate bag hanging from one shoulder. Even in your skates, Garrett was taller than you. Not by enough to make you feel small. Enough to irritate you.
“Glitter?” you repeated.
His eyes flicked over your face, “Sequins, then. Whatever.”
Your smile arrived slowly, “That’s the second time you’ve reduced my sport to decoration. Is that because you genuinely don’t understand it, or because thinking is where your talent ends?”
“Careful,” he said.
You tilted your head, “You keep saying that like it’s supposed to mean something.”
“It usually does.”
“To who? Freshmen? Puck bunnies? People who mistake jaw tension for a personality?”
Dean made a noise like he had been stabbed and delighted by it, “Oh my God.”
Garrett did not look away from you, “You always perform this much, or am I special?”
That one landed badly. Something in your body went still around the word.
Perform.
People loved that word. They used it when they meant skate, compete, survive, bleed prettily enough that the judges forgave the violence of it. Performance was the soft language people wrapped around pain so they did not have to feel rude applauding it.
You took one step closer.
Garrett’s eyes sharpened.
“If I were performing,” you said, voice low, “you’d be paying to watch.”
His mouth parted slightly.
Good.
You stepped around him before he recovered, your shoulder brushing his sleeve as you passed. It was barely a touch. Fabric against fabric. A nothing contact. Still, heat moved down your arm in one quick, humiliating pulse.
Behind you, Garrett said, “See you around, princess.”
You lifted one hand without turning and gave him your middle finger.
The hallway broke open behind you in a wave of badly suppressed laughter. You felt him watching you until the rink doors swallowed the sound.
By Tuesday, everyone at the rink knew better than to stand between you and Garrett Graham.
Not because anything had happened. There had been no dramatic incident, no campus-wide scandal, no broken equipment, no screaming match loud enough for the athletics department to intervene. There had only been small things. Little collisions. A look through the glass. A comment in a hallway. Garrett saying Bleu like it amused him. You saying Graham like it bored you. His team going silent whenever you entered a room. Your coach developing the expression of a woman who knew something unproductive was happening and was too tired to ask whether it could wait until after qualifiers.
On Tuesday afternoon, hockey practice ran long.
Technically, that was not Garrett’s fault. Technically, Coach Jensen had kept the first line back because their power-play drill had, according to him, looked like “five drunk toddlers trying to rob a bank.” Technically, your own session did not begin for another four minutes, which meant you did not yet have any formal claim to the ice.
You stood at the boards anyway and stared.
The hockey team moved fast, too fast for people with that much padding and noise attached to them. Their blades dug deep, carving ugly little crescents across the surface. Everything about hockey looked blunt to you, even the skill. Stops too hard, turns too aggressive, bodies thrown into walls like violence was just another form of punctuation. Figure skating had its own brutality, but at least it had the decency to disguise itself as art. Hockey seemed proud of being ugly.
Garrett cut across the blue line, took a pass without looking, and snapped the puck into the net so hard it hit the mesh with a sound like a threat.
His teammates made appreciative noises. His coach nodded once. Garrett turned, coasting backward.
Then he saw you.
Even through the glass, you saw the grin start.
You looked at the clock pointedly.
Three minutes.
He looked at the clock too, then back at you, and lifted one gloved hand in an exaggerated wave.
You stared.
He waved again, wider this time and you raised your middle finger.
Half the team saw it, meaning someone lost an edge and nearly took out the boy beside him. Dean laughed so hard he had to brace his stick against the ice. Coach Jensen barked, “Focus, or I’ll keep you all here until your degrees expire.”
Garrett’s grin sharpened. He skated closer to the boards and said something through the glass. You could not hear him, but you could read the shape of his mouth.
Prissy.
You looked him over slowly. Helmet. Cage. Pads. Gloves. The whole ridiculous bulk of him, all armour and ego and sweat. Then you mouthed back, very clearly, Brute.
He laughed.
The sound did not reach you, but the sight of it did. His head tipping back. His shoulders loosening. His whole body taking the insult like you had handed him exactly what he wanted.
Your fingers tightened around the boards.
The whistle blew. Practice ended. The team streamed toward the bench in a damp, loud, exhausted wave, and you entered the rink with the precise, narrow violence of a blade splitting thread. They moved for you. That was new. Most men only learned manners when fear made it efficient.
“After you,” one of them said quickly, stepping aside with both hands half-raised.
You glanced at him, “Smart.”
He nodded, “Trying to live.”
Garrett, stepping off the ice behind him, heard that, “Careful,” he said, “They’ll start thinking you’re nice.”
You turned slowly.
Without the helmet, he was worse. Hair damp and flattened in strange places, cheeks still flushed from skating, mouth red from cold, eyes bright with that infuriating, competitive focus that made everything feel like a scoreboard. You hated that he was handsome in a way that seemed less like beauty and more like aggression. Like his face had decided to win at something too.
“I am nice,” you said, “To people.”
His mouth twitched, “And what am I?”
You let your gaze skim over his pads. “A concussion with legs.”
The player beside him choked.
Garrett did not laugh, instead his eyes stayed on yours, and the space between you changed again. It kept doing that. Narrowing, tightening, going electric at the edges. As if the building itself was learning to hold its breath when you stood too close.
“You know,” he said, “for someone who does all that spinning around, you’re very brave about dizziness jokes.”
You blinked once, “Was that supposed to be clever?”
“I’m workshopping.”
“Try silence.”
“Try being less easy to irritate.”
“Try being less irritating.”
Dean, now safely halfway down the bench, murmured, “I’m begging both of you to discover flirting like normal people.”
You looked at him, one eyebrow raised as if you were giving him a snarky really? This looks like flirting? Dean snapped his gaze to the floor, suddenly interested in the material beneath his feet,
Garrett smiled without taking his eyes off you, “Ignore him.”
“I was already planning to.”
“You ignore everyone this aggressively?”
“Only when they speak.”
His smile widened, which annoyed you more than if he had snapped back.
You stepped past him onto the ice, the cold taking you back like water closing over your head. For the first ten minutes, you skated like you could carve his reflection out of the glass. Anger had always been useful when given somewhere to go. It deepened your edges. Sharpened your turns. Made your body obey with a viciousness that felt almost clean. You ran the opening footwork twice, then the jump entry three times, each one harder than the last.
Your coach watched from the boards.
“Again,” she said.
You went again.
The problem was that Garrett did not leave immediately.
Most of the team disappeared into the locker room, but he stayed near the far end of the rink with Coach Jensen, no longer in full gear, just track pants and a team hoodie, his towel looped around his neck. He listened while his coach spoke, arms folded, expression serious in a way that irritated you because you did not want seriousness from him. You wanted him shallow. You wanted him stupid. You wanted him to be exactly as easy to dismiss as he had looked the first time he called you princess.
You did not want Garrett Graham to understand work.
He glanced over once while you reset.
You landed the loop badly.
Not badly enough to fall. Worse. A scrape, a delayed check, a shoulder that came around half a breath too late. Most people would have missed it. Your coach did not. You did not. Garrett probably did, because what the hell did he know about figure skating beyond cheap jokes and whatever assumptions lived in his head?
Still, when you looked toward the glass, he was watching.
You hated that too.
By Wednesday, the rink staff had started treating the two of you like an approaching weather event.
Doors opened and shut faster when you and Garrett were in the same corridor. Junior skaters developed a sudden, passionate interest in tying their laces somewhere else. One of the student trainers actually turned around with a clipboard clutched to her chest when she saw you coming from one end of the hall and Garrett from the other, as if she had read the radar and decided evacuation was the only sensible response.
Garrett noticed and much to your demise, he enjoyed it
“You’re enjoying this,” you said on Wednesday afternoon, finding him seated on the bench outside the rink with one foot propped on the opposite knee, calmly retying his shoe fifteen minutes before your ice time.
He looked up with an expression so fake-innocent it should have been illegal, “Enjoying what?”
“The fact that everyone here thinks we’re going to kill each other.”
“Are we not?”
“I don’t carry knives.”
His gaze dropped to the skate bag in your hand, “You literally carry knives.”
You stared at him.
He smiled matter-of-factly.
“That might be the first intelligent thing you’ve ever said,” you replied.
“Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It was a medical observation. Sudden cognitive activity. Very rare in your demographic.”
He leaned back against the wall, the bench creaking under him, “You think about my demographic a lot?”
“Only when I need to lower my expectations.”
He laughed once, quiet and unwilling, and for some reason it caught on something inside you. Not because it was attractive. It wasn’t. It was annoying. It was irritatingly real, the sort of laugh he had not performed for his teammates or sharpened into a weapon for you. It was just a sound that escaped him before he remembered to be insufferable.
You looked away first.
The vending machine hummed blue-white at the end of the hall. Cold air leaked from the rink doors, carrying the scrape of blades and the thin echo of pop music from a junior session finishing before yours. You bent to unzip your bag even though you did not need anything from it.
Garrett’s voice changed, “You always come early.”
Your hand paused.
Not because of the words. Because of the tone. Less mocking. More observational.
You did not like being observed by him.
“You’re always here when you shouldn’t be,” you said.
“I had a meeting.”
“Congratulations.”
“With Coach.”
“Devastating for Coach.”
His mouth twitched, “Do you answer every normal sentence like a threat?”
“Do you ask every obvious question like a concussion symptom?”
He looked at you for a moment, elbows resting on his knees now, hands hanging loose between them. No smirk. No easy, captain-boy arrogance. Just attention, focused and irritatingly direct.
“You ever get tired?” he asked.
It was such a simple question that your whole body rejected it.
You stood, busying yourself with your jacket zip, “Of talking to you? Constantly.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
Garrett’s gaze did not move off you. You could feel it like cold water running between your shoulder blades. That was another thing you hated- he watched like an athlete. He watched for tells. For weight shifts. For weakness. For the little betrayals the body made before the mouth caught up.
“Your hip is still off,” he said.
Your fingers stilled on the zip, only for a second.
Then you pulled it up to your throat, “No, it isn’t.”
“Right side. You adjust before takeoff.”
You looked at him.
He was still sitting, still calm, still not smiling. It made you want to cut something.
“You don’t know what you’re looking at,” you said.
“Maybe not.”
“Definitely not.”
“But I know when someone’s favouring one side.”
“It’s not your business.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Then stop talking.”
He held your gaze, “You first.”
Something in the quiet of it made your stomach twist, and that made you furious. You wanted him loud again. Stupid again. Easy. You wanted the Garrett who called you princess because he thought irritation looked good on your face, not the Garrett who noticed things and said them like he had earned the right.
You picked up your bag, “You should stick to hockey.”
“And you should ice your hip.”
There, something to latch onto and leech cruelty into so you didn’t need to analyse his words. You smiled without warmth. “There he is.”
His jaw flexed, “What?”
“The brute pretending concern makes him observant.”
The words hit. You saw them hit. Good. Better. Anger you understood. Concern was messy. Concern tried to come close and call itself harmless. Concern made people ask questions they were not prepared to hear the answers to.
Garrett stood.
The movement changed the hallway. He did not crowd you, not exactly, but he occupied more of the air when upright. More heat. More irritation. More body.
“You’re impossible,” he said.
“No, Graham.” You adjusted the strap of your bag, “I’m busy.”
Then you walked into the rink and gave him twenty-six minutes so clean it felt like revenge.
Your edges obeyed. Your spins centred. Your jumps landed with the controlled violence of something nailed into place. Your hip ached, yes, but pain had never been a reason. Pain was a line item. A note in the margin. An adjustment to make, not a question to answer. Your coach watched with her arms folded and said very little, which meant you were skating well enough to deprive her of easy criticism.
Good.
You pushed harder into the step sequence, let the music count out silently in your head, let anger sharpen itself into something useful. Your body knew where to go. Your body always knew where to go when everything else was too loud.
You forgot Garrett was there.
Almost.
Then, coming out of a spin, you caught him behind the glass.
Still there.
Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, arms folded, face unreadable. Watching.
And that should have ruined the run.
But much to your chagrin, it made it better. You finished the sequence on a clean edge, breath burning in your throat, heart slamming hard enough to feel it behind your ribs. Your coach gave one small nod.
Approval, in your world, rarely came larger than that.
You hated how badly you wanted to see whether Garrett had noticed.
You did not look.
On Thursday, you made him angry on purpose.
You were ashamed to admit that it was not mature, nor strategic- and it wasn’t particularly satisfying until it worked. But by that point, the arguments had become less about irritation and more about patterns, and patterns were dangerous- they didn’t engage the brain enough and made you lazy, hard to control. At least that’s what your mother said.
But Garrett had made you react twice that week in ways that felt too close to honest. You needed the balance corrected.
So when you found him in the hallway outside the equipment room, laughing with Logan and Tucker while Dean attempted to tape two broken sticks together for reasons unclear to anyone with a functioning brain, you slowed.
Garrett saw you and smiled immediately, like he had been waiting.
That made it worse.
“Bleu,” he said.
“Graham.”
Dean looked between you, “Okay, tone check. Are we doing normal hostile or evacuation hostile?”
“Shut up,” Garrett said.
You looked at the taped sticks in Dean’s hands, “Is that a craft project, or has Briar started letting the hockey team do occupational therapy?”
Tucker made a sound like a kettle boiling.
Dean looked offended, “This is engineering.”
“This is why women live longer.”
Garrett leaned against the wall, arms folded, gaze moving over you like he could already tell where the blade was hidden, “You always insult everyone, or am I supposed to feel included?”
“You’re not special enough to be excluded.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
There it was. That low, irritating ease. That little suggestion threaded beneath the words. The one that made Logan suddenly stare at the ceiling and Tucker mutter, “Nope,” under his breath.
You smiled, not kindly.
“Trust me,” you said, “If you had fooled me, I’d be much more embarrassed for both of us.”
Garrett’s smile thinned, “Careful, princess.”
You stepped closer, “Again with that. Do you only know two words, or are you saving the others for playoffs?”
Dean whispered, “Oh, fuck.”
Garrett’s eyes stayed fixed on yours, “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m in a hallway.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you think you mean.”
His jaw shifted.
There. A crack.
You pressed, “Does it bother you?” you asked, “Being around someone who doesn’t find you charming?”
His expression cooled, “No.”
“Liar.”
“You think you’re immune to it?”
You laughed, “To you?”
“To me.”
The words were quiet. The hallway seemed to hear them anyway. Somewhere behind him, Logan stopped pretending not to listen.
You looked Garrett up and down slowly, because you knew by now that he hated it when you made him feel assessed. Not admired. Not desired. Judged.
“You’re handsome,” you said.
The entire hallway went still, Garrett’s face did not change, but his eyes sharpened.
You let the pause stretch just long enough to become dangerous, “Unfortunately,” you continued, “so are most people with bone structure and low academic expectations.”
Dean bent at the waist like he had taken a physical blow.
Garrett smiled.
It was a mean smile.
“Funny,” he said, “I was about to say the same thing about you.”
That should not have hit. It did.
Not because he had called you pretty. People had called you pretty your entire life in the same tone they used for medals, dresses, and clean landings. Pretty was the first thing people reached for when they wanted to pretend they were complimenting you and not your usefulness to a room. It was nothing.
But Garrett had not said pretty.
He had said the same thing about you.
Handsome. Bone structure. Low expectations.
He had taken your insult and handed it back with teeth.
You stepped closer before you thought better of it, “I’d be careful if I were you.”
His eyes flicked down to your mouth.
A brief thing. Almost nothing. But for some reason, your brain registered it.
So did he, because his gaze snapped back up half a second later, darker with irritation.
“Why?” he asked, “You going to stab me with one of your little knives?”
You smiled, “No. I’d hate to damage something so convinced it’s valuable.”
The silence after that was ugly.
You had gone too far.
You knew it the moment the words left your mouth. Not because they were the cruelest thing you had ever said - they weren’t even close - but because they found something. Some part of Garrett that was not performance, not captain, not campus golden boy, not the boy everyone trusted to grin and win and take a hit. His face closed for less than a second, and in that second, you saw it.
Then he leaned in.
Not enough to threaten. Enough to make the air tighten.
“You know,” he said softly, “for someone who hates being watched, you work pretty hard to make sure no one looks away.”
Your blood went hot.
Every sound in the hallway seemed to flatten. Dean stopped breathing. Logan muttered Garrett’s name under his breath, warning or prayer, you weren’t sure. Tucker suddenly became very interested in the floor.
Garrett had gone too far too.
Now you were even.
You smiled so coldly your mouth barely moved, “And for someone who loves being watched, you’re very sensitive when nobody applauds.”
His jaw tightened.
For one second, you thought he might actually say something unforgivable.
Then the equipment room door opened and Coach Jensen appeared.
He took in the hallway. Dean holding two taped sticks. Logan looking like a hostage. Tucker three steps from fleeing. Garrett and you standing too close in the middle of it all.
Jensen sighed like a man already tired of a conversation nobody had started yet, “Graham.”
Garrett did not look away from you, “Coach.”
“Whatever this is, move it somewhere that doesn’t block my pucks.”
You stepped back first. Because your ice time started in seven minutes, and unlike Garrett, you had a life built around not wasting time on feelings.
Garrett watched you go.
You made it halfway down the hall before Dean’s voice carried after you.
“Just for the record, I still think murder tension is an under-discussed campus safety issue.”
Something hit the wall. Probably a glove.
You did not laugh even though you wanted to.
On Friday, your blue ribbon snapped.
It was a stupid thing. Tiny. Almost meaningless. The kind of inconvenience that should not have mattered at all except that the entire day had already been designed to peel your skin off one nerve at a time.
Your morning session had gone badly. Not dramatically badly, not badly enough for anyone untrained to notice, which made it worse. Your loop was still fractionally late. Your hip had tightened overnight. Your coach’s silence had become thinner and sharper with every run-through until you almost wished she would simply yell. Your mother had watched the footage you sent and replied with two timestamps, one correction, and no punctuation. Your father had sent a video of your last competition program with the subject line, compare carriage.
By the time afternoon practice came after your lectures, your body felt like a collection of small betrayals held together by tape and spite.
You were standing outside the rink, hair half-twisted into its usual bun, pale blue ribbon between your teeth as you pulled it tight, when the fabric gave out.
It snapped with a soft, pathetic little sound.
You stared at the two uneven pieces in your hands.
For a second, you felt absolutely nothing.
Then, very calmly, you wanted to scream.
Not because of the ribbon. The ribbon was nothing. A strip of fabric. Replaceable. Sentimental only to the sort of girl you had never allowed yourself to be. But it had been yours since juniors, tucked into your bag through three coaches, six competitions, two injuries, and enough airports to make entire seasons blur. It was faded now, almost grey at the edges, the blue washed thin from years of sweat and hairspray and rink air. It was ugly in the way beloved things became ugly when they were used properly.
You closed your fist around the torn pieces.
“Bad time?”
You shut your eyes. Of course.
Of course the universe had the subtlety of a drunk frat boy and the comedic timing of Dean Di Laurentis.
You opened your eyes. Garrett stood a few feet away, one hand braced on the strap of his bag, expression less amused than his voice had been. He had clearly seen enough to know something had happened. Not enough, hopefully, to understand why your hand was clenched so tightly around a piece of fabric.
You slipped the ribbon into your pocket, “Any time you’re speaking is bad.”
He glanced at your hair, then at your pocket, “Ribbon casualty?”
You stared at him, “Do not.”
His mouth closed.
That surprised you. You had expected him to push. Make a joke. Call it tragic. Say something about ballerinas or drama or the theatre of it all. Instead, Garrett looked at your face once, properly, and did not.
The restraint irritated you more than mockery would have.
“What?” you snapped.
He blinked, “Nothing.”
“You look like you want to say something.”
“I usually want to say something around you.”
“Then say it.”
His eyes moved over your face again, slower this time. The hallway was quieter than usual, the hour between sessions thin and hollow around you. Somewhere inside the rink, the Zamboni hummed. The blue-white light from the vending machine flickered against the wall beside him, catching the hard line of his jaw.
Garrett reached into his bag.
You stiffened.
He noticed, paused, then pulled out a roll of black athletic tape, “Temporary fix,” he said, holding it out.
You looked at the tape. Then at him, “No.”
His eyebrows rose, “No?”
“I’m not putting hockey tape in my hair.”
“It’s tape, not a marriage proposal.”
“Equally appealing.”
His mouth twitched, “Your call.”
He started to put it back.
You hated him for that too. For not pushing. For letting the offer sit there cleanly enough that refusing it made you feel childish. Your hair was already loosening from the half-done bun. Your coach would be at the boards in three minutes. You did not have another ribbon in your bag because you had told yourself last week to pack one and then ignored the thought in favour of reviewing jump footage until two in the morning.
You held out your hand.
Garrett looked at it.
You said, “Don’t make this into a thing.”
He handed you the tape, “I wouldn’t dare.”
You tore off a strip with your teeth. It was inelegant, mildly disgusting, and instantly infuriating because Garrett looked like he was trying very hard not to enjoy it. You twisted your hair back and wrapped the tape around the base of the bun, black against your hair, tight enough to hold, ugly enough to offend every aesthetic instinct you possessed.
Garrett watched silently.
You could feel him doing it, when you finished, you shoved the roll back against his chest. “There. You’ve contributed to society. Try not to make a habit of it.”
He took the tape, fingers brushing briefly over yours.
Briefly. Barely. Yet, still, the contact moved through your hand like a spark finding dry paper.
His eyes dropped to your fingers.
So did yours.
The silence expanded.
Then Garrett said, “Looks better than the ribbon.”
You looked up.
He smiled.
Your mouth curved, “And here I thought you’d run out of ways to be wrong.”
“The blue thing is a little on the nose.”
Something cold moved through you.
The blue thing.
You stepped closer, “Careful.”
Garrett’s smile shifted, “See? It does mean something when you say it.”
“You don’t know what it means.”
“I know everyone says it like they’re scared of you.”
“Maybe they’re intelligent.”
“Maybe you like it.”
You laughed softly, “You think I like being reduced to a colour by people too lazy to learn what they’re actually looking at?”
His expression changed. You saw the realisation cross his face, quick and unwelcome, and despised that it had come at all. You hated that you had said that much. Hated that the ribbon snapping had left some tiny structural weakness in you and he had been standing close enough to see the crack.
Garrett’s voice lowered, “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what men mean when they talk without thinking.”
His jaw tightened, “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
You smiled, “From pointing out the obvious?”
“From making sure no one gets close enough to say anything real.”
Your pulse kicked once.
The Zamboni stopped humming inside the rink.
The world went quiet.
Garrett looked like he regretted the words the second they left him. Not because they were wrong, but they were not part of the game. They went beyond the undiscussed rules, not a clean insult and not something you could swat away without leaving fingerprints.
So you did the only thing you could do.
You cut lower, “You’re mistaking access for intimacy,” you said, “Which I’m sure happens to you a lot.”
His face closed.
For one terrible second, neither of you moved.
Then Garrett laughed once, but there was no humour in it, “You’re good at that.”
“At what?”
“Finding the soft spot.”
You lifted your chin, “Then stop showing it to me.”
His eyes held yours and something passed between you, hot and ugly and not at all like victory.
Your coach called your name from inside the rink. You stepped back and stepped onto the ice without looking behind you.
Practice should have burned the feeling out of you.
It didn’t.
The black tape held your hair better than the ribbon had. It stayed through warm-up, through spins, through the step sequence, through the jump entries your coach made you repeat until your hip was a quiet, pulsing line of pain beneath your tights. You hated the tape every time you caught sight of yourself in the glass. You hated that it was useful. You hated that it smelled faintly like hockey equipment and resin and Garrett’s bag.
You skated harder than you should have.
Everyone noticed.
Your coach’s mouth flattened.
“Don’t use anger to rush the entry,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
She looked at you over the clipboard, “Again.”
So you went again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the time the coached session ended, the rink had emptied into late evening. Your coach left you with corrections sharp enough to draw blood and a reminder that tomorrow’s private ice was non-negotiable. You nodded through all of it. Took the notes. Neatly looped them into your pale blue notebook that lived like a boulder in your practice bag, and let it drop back into somewhere that you couldn’t feel it immediately. Later, you would take them out. Later, you would make them useful.
You returned on Friday after a day’s classes when you definitely should not have.
You knew that.
Your hip knew that.
Your knee, still scraped faintly from Monday’s rough patch, knew that.
But an hour of private ice opened late Friday night because someone else cancelled, and your coach booked you in before your body could file a formal complaint. This was how careers were built. In stupid decisions repeated consistently enough to become discipline.
After hours, the rink became almost holy.
No hockey boys. No younger skaters. No parents pretending not to watch other people’s children fail. Just fresh ice, empty seats, fluorescent light, and the sound of your own blades confessing everything you refused to say.
You ran the jump five times.
The first landing checked too wide.
The second was under by a fraction.
The third was clean but ugly.
The fourth, you fell.
You stayed down only long enough to catch your breath and briefly assess for injuries- when all you felt was the dull, subsiding aches and pains of a fall you pushed back up.
The fifth, you fell harder.
This time your blade slipped on the landing edge, your body turning a breath too late, and the ice came up fast enough to knock the air out of you. The sound cracked through the empty rink. For a moment, there was only cold beneath your palms and white light above you and the humiliating silence of your lungs deciding whether they wanted to work.
Then air returned.
You pressed one hand to the ice and pushed yourself up.
“Shit.”
You froze.
Garrett was at the boards.
Not in your imagination. Not as an irritation your body had failed to process and therefore kept projecting into empty rooms. Actually there, standing by the bench entrance with a puck bag in one hand and his phone in the other, looking at you like he had not expected to find anyone on the ice, let alone you on your knees in the middle of it.
Your embarrassment became rage so fast it was almost a relief, “What the hell are you doing here?”
He blinked, then scowled, “Nice to see you too.”
“I asked you a question.”
“Freshman left the puck bag in the locker room. Jensen asked me to grab it before the morning skate.”
“Convenient.”
“Yeah,” he said dryly, “I engineered an entire equipment emergency so I could watch you eat shit at eleven at night.”
You skated toward the boards, each push sharper than necessary. Your hip was throbbing. You ignored it, “Don’t watch me.”
“You’re in a public rink.”
“Private ice.”
“Still public enough that I have keys.”
“Leave.”
“No.”
The word struck the air between you.
You stopped a few feet from the boards. Close enough to see his face clearly now- he looked tired. That annoyed you, how human it made him. His hair was messy, not damp from practice this time but from running his hand through it. You noted, briefly, that he wasn’t in the usual uniform of the day, a jacket thrown over a sweatshirt, jeans instead of his sweats, normal shoes instead of skates. Without his armour, he should have looked less dangerous, taking up less space in your mind.
He didn’t.
“I said leave,” you repeated.
“I heard you.”
“And?”
“And I’m not walking away while you keep throwing yourself at the ice like it owes you money.”
Your laugh was sharp, “Very poetic.”
“Stop doing the jump.”
You felt your face go cold, “Do not tell me what to do.”
“Then stop acting like you need someone to.”
You skated to the gate before you fully decided to move.
Garrett watched you come. Something in his expression shifted - like some part of him had been waiting all week for the thing between you to stop pretending it was made of words.
You stopped hard at the boards, shaved ice spraying against the kickplate, “You have no idea what I need.”
“No?” He said, “Because from here, it looks like you need someone to physically remove you from the ice before you crack your head open.”
“You think this is breaking?”
“I think you’re bleeding through your tights.”
You looked down.
There was a thin line of red near your knee, bright against pale fabric where the ice had burned through. You had not noticed- or you had noticed and filed it under irrelevant.
When you looked back up, Garrett’s face had gone unreadable.
You hated that, you hated the softness trying to come near you.
So you killed it.
“Poor hockey boy,” you said, “Blood makes you nervous?”
His eyes flashed, “Careful.”
“Or what?”
“Or you’re going to say something you can’t take back.”
You smiled, “I doubt you’ll understand it anyway.”
There it was. The hit. His jaw tightened.
Good.
“You know what?” he said, “Dean was right. You are fucking impossible.”
“Dean should spend less time projecting his locker-room fantasies onto strangers.”
“Trust me, princess, no one has to project anything.” Garrett’s voice dropped, rougher now, anger stripping the polish from it, “You’re basically screaming it every time I’m in the room.”
Your body went still. The rink hummed around you. Lights. Refrigeration. The low mechanical heart of the place keeping everything cold enough to hurt on.
“I don’t scream,” you said.
“No,” he said, “You make everyone else do it for you.”
You moved before you could think better of it.
The gate opened with a metallic snap. You stepped off the ice in your guards, onto the rubber, still breathing too hard from the fall and the jump and him. Garrett stood on the other side of the boards, and without the rink between you, without glass, without teammates, without Coach Jensen or Dean or your coach or any audience waiting to turn the whole thing into gossip, he looked worse.
You were able to get closer, to the fire that somehow managed to melt your perma-frost exterior.
“You don’t know anything about me,” you said.
His voice dropped..“I know you treat pain like it’s proof you’re better than everyone else.”
You sucked in a breath. His eyes moved over your face, and something in him seemed to realise he had found something real. He should have stopped there.
He did not.
“I know you fall like you’re hoping someone gives you permission to stop,” he said, “and then hate them for noticing.”
The sound you made was almost a laugh. Almost, “Fuck you.”
“Yeah,” he said, quiet and brutal, “That’s about the level of honesty I expected.”
You shoved him.
It was not hard enough to hurt him. You knew that before you did it. Knew, too, that he was solid enough to take it, that his back would hit the boards behind him, that his hands would come up by reflex. Still, the second your palms hit his chest, the whole world seemed to lurch.
Garrett hit the boards with a dull thud.
His hands caught your wrists.
For one second, neither of you moved.
His chest rose under your hands. Your wrists were held in his grip. His eyes were down on yours, dark and furious, and the rink behind you was bright and empty and cold enough to make the heat in your body feel obscene.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
This time, he did not hide it.
You felt that look low in your stomach.
“Careful,” he said.
The word was not mocking you, like it did during the day when he used it as retaliation. It sounded like a warning he was giving himself too late.
Your fingers curled against his shirt, “Don’t tell me what to do.”
His grip shifted. His thumb pressed once, lightly, against the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse was losing its mind, “Then stop acting like you want me to.”
You kissed him.
There was no graceful way to describe it.
It was not romantic. It was not sweet. It did not arrive like relief. It was impact. It was your mouth crashing into his because if he said one more true thing, you were going to break something, and you were already so tired of only ever breaking yourself. Garrett went still for half a heartbeat, just long enough for some furious, humiliated part of you to almost pull away.
Then his hands released your wrists.
One found your waist. The other slid to your jaw.
And he kissed you back.
Hard. Matching your intensity in a way that made your breath hitch and press furiously into him.
If he had been rough in the wrong way, you could have hated him cleanly. If he had laughed, you could have cut him open with words and walked away with your dignity arranged perfectly around you. But Garrett kissed like he fought- direct, responsive, infuriatingly present. When you pushed, he pushed back. When your teeth caught his lower lip, he made a sound against your mouth that went straight through you, and his hand tightened at your waist like the sound had annoyed him too.
The guards on your skates made your balance strange. You were taller than usual, close enough to his mouth that neither of you had to soften to reach. Still not close enough. Not with the boards at his back and your hands fisted in the front of his jacket and his fingers along your jaw like he could keep your mouth exactly where he wanted it.
You hated that you let him.
You hated that your body understood him before your mind had a chance to refuse.
Garrett turned you in one sharp movement, not throwing, not forcing, just using the momentum you had already given him, until your back met the boards and the cold bit through your jacket. You made an angry sound into his mouth, but your hands were already in his hair. He pulled back half an inch.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
His voice was wrecked. Eyebrows furrowed furiously but he still gave you the out like it cost him something. Like he hated needing to be decent while his hand was at your waist and your mouth was swollen from his.
Your breath hit his mouth.
You should have said stop.
You should have said never touch me again.
You should have stepped away, fixed your jacket, walked back onto the ice, landed the jump, and returned him to the category where he belonged. Irritant. Obstacle. Information.
Instead, you said, “I didn’t say that.”
Garrett’s eyes darkened.
Then his mouth was on yours again. Your hands tightened in his hair and pulled, not gently, and Garrett groaned like you had just insulted him in a language only his body spoke. His palm slid from your waist to the small of your back, dragging you closer until your chest hit his again and the cold boards behind you became the only thing keeping the shape of the world intact. The other hand stayed at your jaw, thumb near the corner of your mouth, tipping your face up when you tried to angle away just to prove that you could.
He laughed once, breathless and mean, against your lips, “Still trying to win?”
You bit his bottom lip. He hissed.
You smiled for the first time all night like you meant it, “Still talking?”
His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, “Make me stop.”
So you did.
You kissed him until the rink disappeared. Until the cold became heat trapped under your skin. Until the ache in your hip, the scrape at your knee, the pressure in your chest, all became part of the same ugly rhythm. Garrett’s mouth moved to the corner of yours, then your jaw, not quite a kiss there, not quite a bite, enough that your breath caught before you could stop it.
He heard and he stilled against your skin.
You shoved him back by the shoulders before he could make a victory out of it.
For one second, you stood there breathing like you had run a full program. Garrett’s lips were red. His hair was worse now because of your hands. His eyes were on you with an expression you did not want to understand.
You adjusted your jacket with shaking fingers and hated that he saw that too.
“That,” you said, voice low, “was nothing.”
Garrett laughed once, “You’re always this bad at lying?”
“You’re always this desperate for attention?”
“Only when you’re giving it to me.”
Your mouth snapped shut.
He smiled, but it wasn’t the same smile from before. It looked bruised at the edges. Like the kiss had done damage to both of you and he was trying to pretend he did not feel the blood.
You stepped back. Your legs were steady because they had to be.
“This didn’t happen,” you hissed, but there was no venom behind it- your lips were swollen, mouth moist and your head was too fuzzy to formulate the anger required for the order to come across as anything but a sad excuse.
Garrett leaned back against the boards, chest still rising too fast, “Sure, princess.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You kissed me when I did.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
The silence between you was no longer empty. It was crowded with every insult, every hallway fight, every glance through the glass, every second of his mouth on yours that your body had already started trying to remember.
You turned away first. If you stayed, you might do it again.
You stepped back onto the ice, ignoring the pain in your hip, ignoring the blood at your knee, ignoring Garrett still standing there behind you. You removed your guards with hands that only trembled once, tucked them under your arm, and skated toward the far end of the rink.
“Are you seriously going back to practice?” he called.
You did not turn around, “Goodnight, Graham.”
“Your knee’s bleeding.”
“Then don’t look.”
He went quiet.
You reset the jump.
Your mouth still felt like his.
You hated him so much you landed it perfectly clean.
꒰ঌ࿐𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 ice skater! fem! bleu! reader x garrett graham
꒰ঌ࿐𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓫 A late hockey practice runs into your extra ice session, and Garrett Graham learns very quickly that some girls don’t melt just because he smiles.
꒰ঌ࿐𝔀𝓬 5,2 k words
꒰ঌ࿐𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼 bleu
The first time anyone met you on the ice, they’d learn your most important skill. You knew how to fall.
Not in the soft, tragic way people liked to imagine when they thought of figure skaters, all thin wrists and glittering costumes and a hand pressed delicately to the heart. You fell like a body hitting something that did not care. You fell hard, shoulder first, hip second, the flat crack of impact slicing through the cold air with enough force to make the junior skaters by the boards stop whispering.
And for half a second, the rink would go quiet. Then your coach said your name, just once, sharp as the edge of a blade. And like a well oiled machine, with one pat to the dashboard, you pushed yourself up.
There were rules to this. There had always been rules to this. If something was broken, you stopped. If you were bleeding enough to stain the ice, you stopped long enough to wipe it clean. If you could not feel your fingers, you flexed them until you could. If your vision went white, you blinked through it. Anything else was just pain, and pain was not interesting. Pain was weather. Pain was lighting. Pain was the cost of being watched.
So you got up, because your shoulder still moved and your hip still held your weight, and that meant there was nothing to discuss.
You would piece yourself back together en route to your mark, skating with your breath coming in thin, pitiful waves through your chest with the artificial cold pressing its sharp little teeth into the wet, downturned corners of your mouth. Your pale blue ribbon had loosened in your hair, one end slipping against the nape of your neck. You could feel it there, damp from sweat, irritating in a way that made you want to tear the whole thing out and start over. You didn’t. Starting over was for people with time.
“Too much swing on the entry,” your coach called from the boards, clipboard tucked under one arm, her expression carved out of the same winter that lived in every rink you had ever trained in, “You’re letting the edge control you.”
You nodded once.
The younger girls were still staring, you could feel it through the cold. Their little eyes, their little fears, their little awe. You remembered being that age and watching older skaters with the same awful hunger, not because you wanted to be them, exactly, but because you wanted to know what surviving looked like when it was done beautifully.
The girls at Briar had called you Bleu for so long that half the rink had forgotten it wasn’t your name.
It had started years ago, before college, before Briar, before anyone in Massachusetts knew what to do with a girl who had been raised between medals and mirrors. One of your mother’s old coaches had said it first, a steely, severe french woman, in the stale fluorescent belly of a training rink in Montreal, when you were eleven years old and too thin in the wrists, standing in a pale blue dress with shaking hands and your lips gone cold from nerves. Petite Bleu, she had called you, almost fondly, before sending you out to skate like fondness had anything to do with winning.
The name stuck for all the wrong reasons.
Not because you were soft. Not because you were sweet. Not because blue was some pretty little colour pinned to you by people who thought you looked nice under rink lights. Bleu was the colour your mouth turned after too long on the ice. The colour your fingers went when you pulled your laces too tight. The colour bruises became under tights before they faded into green and yellow. The colour of the little plastic guards you snapped over your blades when practice was over, scuffed to hell from years of being thrown into bags and kicked beneath benches and stepped on by girls too scared to ask you to move them.
Bleu was not a name. It was a warning people said softly.
Bleu’s on after hockey.
Bleu’s coach is here.
Bleu doesn’t miss.
Bleu doesn’t cry.
Bleu doesn’t leave early.
You pushed into your entry again, body low, arms controlled, every muscle arranged into the exact lie required of you. Figure skating was built on lies. You’d learnt that the first day your mother had bought you your first pair of skates and ushered you onto her turf. You had to make speed look effortless, make impact look musical. Force brutality into the gentle dips and waves of your choreography. Because nobody wanted to see the hours on the ice that turned your feet numb, or the skin rubbed raw down to blood at your ankles. Nobody cared about the repeat prescription of Advil in your bag or the red stained tape around your toes. And you knew, for certain, that nobody gave a damn about the way your mother’s voice could still cut through your head even when she was three states away.
Shoulders down. Chin up. Don’t telegraph the jump. Do not let them see you preparing to be difficult.
You rose into the air.
For a second, there was no pain. No coach. No girls watching. No parents with their old trophies and impossible shadows. No body to manage. No future waiting with its mouth open.
Then your blade hit the ice, and the world came back.
Clean landing.
Your coach’s pen stopped moving,“Better,” she nodded.
From her, it was practically applause.
You exhaled, turned, and only then noticed the hockey team starting to spill out from the tunnel on the far side of the rink.
They were always loud before they were visible. That was the first thing you had learned about hockey players. Sound arrived ahead of them like weather.
Sticks knocking against walls. Skates thudding over rubber mats. Low male laughter. Someone swearing. Someone else laughed harder because of it. They moved in packs, all broad shoulders and blunt energy, shoving each other like the world was padded for their convenience.
Briar’s men’s team had the slot in between your scheduled and extra sessions, twice a week, which meant you had developed a very specific tolerance for them. You tolerated their noise because the rota required it. You tolerated the smell of sweat and equipment that lingered after them because the rink was old and the ventilation was worse. You tolerated the little crescents and ruts they left carved into the ice because maintenance never quite fixed it in time, and you had grown up learning how to make perfection out of inadequate surfaces.
What you did not tolerate was them being late.
Your coach checked her watch.
You didn’t have to look at her to know her mouth had flattened.
The hockey players were supposed to be clearing off. Most of them were, with the usual dragging pace of boys who believed shared spaces magically reset themselves when they were done using them. But one skated backwards while talking, helmet pushed up, grin wide on the opposite side of the ice. Another flicked a puck towards the boards hard enough that it snapped against the yellow kickplate and made one of the younger skaters flinch. Their coach barked at them from the bench, but even that sounded different from your world. Less precise- more grotesque volume than consequence.
You stood near the blue line and waited.
The irony was not lost on you.
That line meant something different to them. To hockey players, it was structure, territory, attack. To you, standing there with your heart still settling from your last jump and your hip beginning to pulse from the fall, it was just another mark on the ice you had learned to cross cleanly.
“Clear it out,” a voice called, deeper than the others, “We’re done.”
Garrett Graham was not difficult to recognise.
Even if you did not follow hockey, which you didn’t, not in any meaningful way, you knew who he was because Briar made sure everyone knew who he was. His name lived in hallways, in campus articles, in the mouths of girls reapplying lip gloss in bathroom mirrors before games. Captain. Star player. Walking scholarship advertisement. The kind of boy whose confidence had been fed so consistently that it had grown muscle.
He skated near centre ice, helmet under one arm, hair damp and dark from practice, jaw still tight with whatever aggression he had not burned off. He was bigger than most of the others. Physically yes, though that was obvious, but in the way he occupied space. He moved like someone used to impact. Used to being met and meeting back harder.
He glanced over at you once, briefly, like your presence registered as a scheduling inconvenience rather than a person.
You looked away first, not because you were intimidated- the mere suggestion made you want to shred your competition dress, but because there was nothing in him worth wasting your focus on.
“Two minutes,” your coach said quietly.
Your second session technically started one minute ago.
A puck slid lazily across the ice near the boards. One of the hockey players laughed and raised both hands as if to say it had not been him, which meant it almost certainly had. Garrett snapped something at him, too low for you to hear, and the boy bent to collect it with exaggerated obedience.
You hated them a little for how easy it all seemed. Not their sport, you weren’t stupid enough to think hockey was easy. You had seen enough blood on the ice to know better. You hated the ease of their bodies around each other- the way they were allowed to be ugly and still admired. They could sweat through their gear, slam into walls, spit into trash cans, shout with their whole chests, and people still called it athleticism. You had once seen a judge mark a girl down because her face looked too strained through a step sequence.
You adjusted your ribbon. Wrapping it tighter around your bun from where it slipped from your first fall of the night.
One of the hockey players noticed and said something to the boy beside him. They both looked over.
Garrett saw them looking before you did, “Move,” he said, and this time there was enough captain in his voice that they listened.
Good, you thought. At least one of them had been trained.
The last cluster finally dragged themselves toward the exit. Skates clacked over the rubber. Sticks collected. Bottles grabbed from the boards. The rink began to empty of them, sound retreating in pieces, and your world started to reassemble itself. The younger skaters shifted back into whispers. Your coach stepped closer to the gate. The cold reclaimed the air.
You gestured to your coach and glided to the boards for water, unfortunately your bottle was inconveniently close to where the last few of the boys were loitering. Along with Garrett.
That was when someone near the benches murmured, “Bleu’s pissed.”
The voice was too amused for your liking. You turned your head just enough to see one of the hockey players, blond, smirking, his helmet hanging from two fingers. Dean something. You knew him by reputation in the same way you knew which vending machine stole money and which Zamboni driver liked to gossip. Campus made certain types of boys unavoidable.
Beside him, another player snorted, “That’s Bleu?”
“Yeah,” Dean said, “The figure skater everyone’s scared of.”
Garrett, half a step behind them, glanced at you properly for the first time.
You felt it land. His attention. Not interest, you would’ve gladly vomited onto his freshly iced skates if you were to ward it off. This was an assessment, like he was trying to decide whether the stories matched the girl.
They never did. That was the trouble with stories. They made monsters too simple.
“Bleu?” Garrett repeated, mouth curving faintly, and there was something about the way he said it that made every cold, exhausted nerve in your body go still, “What, like the cheese?”
The blond laughed. You looked at Garrett then, only partially- because he didn’t get the privilege of your entire face.
“Like the colour your mouth turns when you keep talking in a cold rink,” you said, “Move.”
Dean’s laugh cut off into a delighted little choke. Someone behind him muttered, “Jesus.”
Garrett did not move at first, which made your eyebrow twitch as you revealed more of your face.
Most people either apologised or performed outrage when you spoke to them like that. Garrett did neither. He looked at you with his head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing as if you had not offended him so much as inconvenienced an expectation.
Then he stepped back from the gate.
“Your ice, princess,” he said.
Your coach’s gaze flicked toward you- Warning.
You smiled without warmth, “I know.”
Garrett’s jaw shifted.
You pushed past him back to the gate and re-entered the ice before he could answer, because boys like him were at their most dangerous when they thought they had been invited into conversation. You had no intention of making that mistake. You had work to do, and he had already stolen two minutes of it.
The first run-through was sharp, if not perfect. Your body was still holding the fall against you, hip tightening each time you changed direction, shoulder complaining during the arm variation before the combination spin. You ignored both. The music cut through the rink speakers in a thin, dramatic swell, filling the hollow spaces left by the hockey team. You followed it because music was easier than thought. Music told you where to put your hands. Where to breathe. Where to become super human.
At the boards, your coach watched with the expression of a woman mentally taking you apart and deciding which pieces could be improved before competition season, “Again,” she said when the track ended.
You were already resetting.
The second run was cleaner until the triple flip. You felt the mistake before it happened, a tiny betrayal in the edge, your body half a thought behind where it should have been. You landed with too much force, checked out ugly, saved it, but barely.
“Again.”
Your throat burned. You nodded.
From somewhere near the tunnel, male voices echoed. Thankfully, not on the ice anymore, but still close. Equipment room, probably. You pushed the sound out. They did not matter. Garrett Graham did not matter. The fact that he had called you princess in that lazy, infuriating voice did not matter. Your hip hurt. Your shoulder hurt. Your coach was watching. Your parents would ask for footage later. Nothing else mattered.
Again.
This time the fall came on the entry.
It wasn’t catastrophic. That would have been a privilege, catastrophic had drama, catastrophic had blood, swelling, the clean authority of something visibly wrong. This was smaller and therefore more irritating, your blade caught a rough patch as you stepped into the set-up, the ice biting where it should have held, your weight tipping too fast for correction. You went down on one knee and one palm, more anger than injury shooting through you.
“Stop,” your coach called.
Your coach skated a few steps onto the ice, eyes narrowed at the mark. You followed her gaze and saw it then, a puck, half-hidden in the shadow near the boards, black against the chewed-up ice. Not in the centre of your path and not dramatic enough to have sent you flying by itself, but close enough. For a second, nobody spoke.
Then the gate near the tunnel opened.
Garrett Graham stepped back into the rink with one glove in his hand, already looking irritated before he saw you on the ice. He must have forgotten something. Of course he had. Of course the universe had the comedic timing of a bad campus party.
His gaze dropped to the puck.
Then to your knee.
Then back to the puck.
His face changed, “That ours?” he asked.
Your coach straightened, expression lethal in its calm, “Do you see anyone else here who uses pucks?”
Garrett’s mouth tightened, “I’ll get it.”
You were already moving.
The pain in your knee was sharp but unserious. You skated to the puck before he could step onto the ice, bent, and picked it up with two fingers like something dead. Up close, the rubber was cold and wet, a little snow clinging to its edge.
Garrett stood just beyond the open gate, jaw set, still in skates but on the rubber mat. He had the decency not to come farther.
You glided toward him slowly.
The rink had gone quiet again, but this time it was uglier. Your coach watching. The junior girls watching. The last few hockey players lingering in the tunnel, suddenly fascinated by their laces, their sticks, anything that was not the tiny black object in your hand.
You stopped at the boards and held the puck out.
Garrett reached for it. You dropped it before his fingers touched yours.
It hit the rubber between you with a dull little thud.
One of his teammates made a sound under his breath and was immediately silent when Garrett looked back.
“That was careless,” Garrett said, and to his credit, he did not try to make it a joke.
You laughed once. It even surprised you, how cold it sounded.
“Careless is forgetting a water bottle,” you said, “That is dangerous.”
“I said it was careless.”
“And I said it was dangerous.”
His eyes lifted back to yours, they were darker than you expected. Annoyingly steady, “I’ll talk to them.”
“How comforting.”
His brows drew together, “What do you want me to do, rewind time?”
You leaned one hand on the top of the boards, the other still flexing because your palm had started to sting from the fall, “I want you to understand that when your team leaves shit on the ice, I’m the one who pays for it.”
Something moved in his face. Irritation first. Then something else underneath it, quick and reluctantly compliant, “I get that,” he said.
“No,” you replied, “You don’t.”
His mouth flattened. His demeanour shifted, and you could pinpoint the exact moment a boy like Garrett Graham decided whether you were worth patience or ego. You had seen it before in men twice his age. Coaches. Sponsors. Federation officials. Boys who thought your sharpness was a challenge because they had never been asked to consider that it might be a boundary.
Garrett looked past you to the ice, to the faint scrape where your blade had caught, to your coach standing with her arms crossed and murder in her posture. When his gaze returned to you, it was not softer, exactly, but it was more controlled.
“You’re right,” he nodded, “I don’t. Not the way you do.”
That should have been the end of it.
A normal person would have accepted the apology tucked inside the admission. A graceful person would have nodded, turned away, salvaged what remained of the session. But grace, real grace, the kind people admired, had very little to do with kindness. You had spent too many years being told to make agony look pleasant. You did not have enough pleasantness left over for Garrett Graham.
“Then keep your team off my ice until they learn how to clear it.”
His jaw ticked, “Your ice?”
“My booked session.”
“Yeah, I know how schedules work.”
“Do you?”
His eyes sharpened, “Careful.”
It should not have thrilled you. It didn’t, you told yourself immediately. It irritated you, that was all. The nerve of him. The audacity of standing there with his forgotten glove and his captain’s guilt and his stupid steady eyes, telling you careful like he had any idea how much of your life had been built around that word.
Careful with the edge.
Careful with the landing.
Careful with your weight.
Careful with your face.
Careful with your tone.
Careful, or they’ll call you difficult.
Careful, or they’ll stop calling you brilliant.
Your fingers tightened over the boards.
“I’m not one of your subordinates,” you said.
“No,” he said, looking at you with open irritation now, “My teammates listen when I tell them not to start fights after practice.”
Behind him, Dean made the fatal mistake of breathing something that sounded almost like a laugh.
You looked past Garrett, “Does he?”
Dean’s expression brightened with pure, suicidal interest.
Garrett did not turn around, “Don’t.”
You smiled faintly but there was nothing nice in it.
Garrett looked back at you, and for a second, the air between you felt different,charged, the way the rink held its breath before a storm knocked the power out, all that fluorescent light buzzing overhead while everyone pretended they didn’t hear it.
Then your coach said your name again. The sound cut clean through the moment.
You stepped back from the boards, “Some of us are still working.”
Garrett picked up the puck from the rubber mat and closed his hand around it. His glove was still tucked under his other arm. The forgotten thing that had brought him back in the first place.
“Yeah,” he said, “I wouldn't want to interrupt the performance.”
Your head tilted.
It was such a small thing, that word. Performance. Usually harmless. But in his mouth, still edged with irritation, it struck wrong. You knew what people meant when they said performance in that tone. They meant costume. Music. Pretty arms. They meant something decorative. Something separate from real impact. Something less bloody than what boys did when they threw themselves into walls and called it grit- true strength.
You pushed through the gate before your coach could stop you, stepping onto the rubber mat in your skates so the height between you changed, not equal but closer. The blade guards were still on the bench. You had crossed without them, which you never did, but anger made people stupid and you were not exempt just because you were disciplined.
Garrett’s eyes dropped immediately to your blades.
“Don’t step there,” he said, reflexive and sharp.
You stopped.
Not because he had told you to. Because the rubber gave way to exposed concrete half a step ahead, and one nick in your blade before competition could ruin more than the last ten minutes of your day.
Your coach made a furious little sound behind you.
You looked down. Then back up at him.
Garrett looked as annoyed by his own warning as you were; you hated that it made you pause.
You hated more that he had been right, “Performance,” you repeated, carefully.
His eyes returned to your face, you could feel the whole rink holding still around you.
“You bleed on the ice for fun and get to call it a sport,” you said, “Do not stand in my rink and talk to me like mine is theatre.”
Something in Garrett’s expression shifted again, but this time it was not guilt. It was interest, unwelcome and unwilling, cutting through the irritation like a blade through old tape.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t a sport.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied you were dramatic.”
Dean made another sound behind him, this time less amused and more afraid.
You stepped closer by half an inch, stopping just before the concrete. Garrett’s gaze flicked down to your blades again. The movement was so quick anyone else might have missed it. You didn’t.
“I am dramatic,” you said, “I’m also better at what I do than anyone you’ve ever met.”
Garrett’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, “That usually work?”
“What?”
“Talking like that.”
You looked him over once, slow enough to be insulting. Practice-flushed skin. Shoulders still carrying the shape of pads he had taken off minutes ago. Captain’s posture. Captain’s ego. The kind of face people trusted because confidence photographed well.
“On men?” you asked, “Constantly.”
Dean lost the battle with himself and laughed.
Garrett turned his head just enough to make him shut up.
Your coach said your name for a third time, and this time, it was no longer a blade. It was a gunshot.
You stepped back letting the moment break.
You sat on the bench, snapped your pale blue guards over your blades with more force than necessary, then stood again and walked properly over the rubber this time. The guards clicked beneath you, familiar and ugly and comforting in their scuffed little rhythm.
Garrett was still standing there.
You did not look at him as you passed, but you felt the heat of his attention follow you like a hand between your shoulder blades.
“Tell your team to count their pucks next time, Graham,” you said.
He did not answer immediately. Then, behind you, low enough that only you and maybe Dean heard it, he said, “Tell your coach to book a better ice cut.”
You stopped. Slowly, you looked over your shoulder.
He was watching you with his brows slightly raised, like he knew exactly what he had done. Like he had found the seam in your anger and pressed his thumb there just to see what happened.
A better ice cut.
Your coach would have hated him for it if she had heard. You hated him for it because he was right. The ice after hockey was never good enough for what you were training, and everyone knew it, and you still took the slot because good skaters did not wait for ideal conditions. Your mouth curved before you could stop it.
“Tell your team to skate like they have edges,” you said, “and maybe they won’t chew it up so badly.”
His laugh was short, surprised, and gone almost as soon as it arrived.
You turned away before it could become something. The rest of practice was worse because of him.
Not because he had stayed, Garrett mercifully left with the others with a final sharp look down the tunnel, taking his puck, glove and the heavy, irritating shape of his presence with him- but irritation had a way of immortalising itself without the presence of its creator. It galloped under your skin throughout the next run-through, making your movements ugly, jerky. Unbelievably wrong. Your coach noticed immediately and had little sympathy.
“Again.”
You went again.
The ice was bad. Your knee hurt. Your hip had begun its slow bloom into a bruise you would see later in the locker room mirror, blue-purple and ugly beneath the hem of your practice skirt. Your palm stung where the skin had scraped. Your ribbon loosened again. Sweat cooled at the base of your spine.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the time your session ended, the rink had emptied of almost everyone except the staff and one junior skater waiting for her mother near the lobby doors. Your coach gave you notes in a voice stripped of sympathy. You took them all. You always did.
Too much tension in the shoulders after the fall. Don’t rush the entry because you’re angry. Check the free leg. Review the footage tonight. Send her the jump clips before bed. No, the second landing wasn’t as clean as you thought. Yes, tomorrow morning was still on.
You unlaced your skates with numb fingers and listened without blinking.
When she finally left, the silence she left behind felt almost obscene.
You sat alone in the changing area with one foot in a skate and one foot out, tights wrinkled at the ankle, hair half-fallen from its bun, pale blue ribbon lying limp against your shoulder. The glamorous part of figure skating, you had learned, lasted exactly as long as the music was blaring. Everything before and after was tape, sweat, bruises, wet gloves, and the stale smell of old rubber floors.
Your phone buzzed in your bag.
A message from your mother.
Mother [new number]
Send run-through.
Not, how was practice? Not, are you eating enough? Not, did the fall hurt?
She would know about the fall because your coach would tell her, or because you would send the footage and she would see it, and either way the question would not be whether it hurt. The question would be whether it disrupted the line.
You stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
Then you locked it.
The lobby was colder than it should have been when you finally left. Briar’s rink had too many glass doors and not enough insulation, the kind of building that seemed designed to hold cold even in rooms where it had no use. Your skate bag knocked against your hip as you walked, each step pulling at the bruise forming there. The vending machine near the exit hummed blue-white in the dim corridor. For a second, your reflection blurred across the glass, dark warm-up jacket, severe posture, hair scraped back, mouth colourless.
Bleu, you thought, and hated everyone who had ever made it sound pretty.
Outside the rink, the night had settled hard over campus. The air smelled like snow even though it hadn’t started yet. Across the car park, the last of the hockey players were loading gear into cars, their laughter muted by distance. You recognised Garrett before you meant to. He stood near the back of a jeep, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold, talking to one of his teammates with his hands tucked into the pocket of his jacket. Without skates, he looked different.
You should have kept walking. You did keep walking.
You made it three steps before a voice called, “Bleu.”
Not princess. Not figure skater. Not your name.
Bleu.
You stopped, hating yourself for it even before you turned.
Garrett was looking at you from across the car park, one hand resting on the open door of the jeep. The teammate beside him glanced between you both with the eager, stupid expression of someone sensing entertainment and danger in equal measure.
“What?” you called back.
He lifted the puck in his hand. The one from the ice.
For a second, you thought he was going to toss it to you like a joke. If he had, you might have actually thrown your skate bag at his head.
He didn’t.
He held it up once, then dropped it into his own equipment bag.
“Won’t happen again,” he said.
The words sat between you in the cold. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder.
“Good,” you said.
His mouth twitched, “Good,” he repeated, like you were impossible.
You were.
You had been made that way.
You turned toward the path before he could say anything else. Snow began to fall as you walked, fine and sparse and almost invisible under the car park lights. It caught in your hair, against your cheeks, on the black strap of your skate bag. Behind you, one of the hockey players said something you couldn’t hear, and Garrett answered too low for the words to carry.
You did not look back.
Boys like Garrett Graham were loud, warm-blooded things. They mistook attention for understanding and apology for absolution. They moved through the world like impact was proof of meaning. You knew his type. You knew exactly how campus would talk about him, with softened voices and hungry smiles. Captain. Champion. Heartbreaker. Hero.
By the time you reached the edge of the car park, your hip had started to bruise blue.
You decided, very calmly, that you hated him.
And across the lot, Garrett Graham watched the girl the rink called Bleu disappear into the snow, pale ribbon trailing loose against the back of her dark jacket, and hated, immediately, that he knew exactly what colour you were.
summary: Dean DiLaurentis gives you the "I don't do relationships" speech, and you say okay and come back the next day to fix Tucker's cooking. Turns out the most dangerous thing you can do to a man like that is simply not need him.
word count: 11.5k
warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, minors do not interact. situationship dynamics, brief angst, dean being cruel in a moment he regrets, dirty talk, slow burn, eventual fluff.
Daily calls with your mother had become more sparse over the course of your college years. They started daily and had slowly tapered to every other Saturday, which, in all honesty, was a bit of a shock given that she wasn't the type to loosen her grip easily. She had always been overprotective, and when you announced you weren't going to Texas University but to a college in Massachusetts, she had genuinely flipped her shit. Two years later she seemed kind of cool about it. Just texting. Sending random updates about your dog, like the Halloween costume from last year that you'd screenshot and saved.
You were sitting in your room in the sorority house, legs extended and resting on the desk, phone propped against your water bottle while you FaceTimed her and tried to paint your nails without smudging anything. The room was quiet except for your mom stirring something on the stove.
"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.
You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.
"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."
"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."
Oh. That John Tucker.
"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.
"Isn't that a big coincidence?"
"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"
"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."
"Mom — what, that's not really —"
"She's probably not even going to use it."
She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.
What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.
He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.
Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.
"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."
"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.
"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."
He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"
You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.
"He's right," you said.
"He's a traitor," Tucker said.
You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.
You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.
Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.
"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"
"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."
"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."
He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.
You looked back down at the onion.
Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.
"Not a word," you said.
"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.
The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.
party saturday, be here, i made a playlist
You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?
yourself and good energy
You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.
what time
nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud
That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.
You thought about it the entire rest of the week.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.
You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.
You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.
It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.
You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.
Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.
"You look great," he said, holding the door open.
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"
"Tucker."
"What."
"We're not cooking. There are already people here."
He looked genuinely confused. "So?"
You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.
Dean wasn't in the kitchen.
You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.
Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."
"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.
"I'm a guest," you said.
"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.
You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.
Dean appeared sometime around ten.
He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.
So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.
You went to find Tucker.
The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.
Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party
You typed back: fine. dean's here.
Three seconds.
oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.
maybe
that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do
You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.
The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.
You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.
The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.
You told it to shut up.
It had a point though.
You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.
You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.
"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."
Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.
"I've been talking to people," you said.
"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."
"Maybe I just like that side of the room."
He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.
"You've been doing that for a year," he said.
"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.
"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."
The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.
You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.
"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.
Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.
"Yeah," he said.
He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.
The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.
He didn't kiss you right away.
That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.
"You made me wait a long time," he said.
"You could have said something sooner," you said.
"I said something tonight."
"Barely."
Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.
"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.
He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.
He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.
"Take your jacket off," he said.
You did.
He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.
"Good," he said, like that meant something.
Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.
He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.
"There it is," he murmured.
"Shut up," you said.
"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.
He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.
"Dean —"
"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.
"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.
His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.
"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be smug about it."
"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."
He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.
"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.
"Dean."
"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.
"You're so —"
"Tell me."
You told him.
"Please"
The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.
He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.
"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."
"Dean —"
"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."
"That's your fault," you managed.
"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."
When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.
He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.
"Don't," you said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.
You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.
You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.
"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.
"Yeah," you said.
He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.
It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.
"Months," he said again. Quieter now.
"I know," you said. "I know."
When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.
You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.
Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.
You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.
You met his eyes in the mirror.
"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.
Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"
You turned around. "What kind of thing?"
He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.
"Right," you said simply.
Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.
You unlocked the door.
"Hey," Dean said.
You looked back.
He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."
You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.
Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.
You took it.
"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.
"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."
"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."
"Tucker."
"It's in the pot on the back burner."
You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.
"Thank you," you said.
"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."
You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.
Tucker handed you a chip.
You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.
Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.
Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"
"Made it myself," Tucker said.
"You absolutely did not."
Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.
"Can I have some?" he asked.
"It's your house," you said.
He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."
"I know," you said.
Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.
It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.
It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?
The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.
You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.
i know. yes or no.
fine.
The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.
You sat in the middle of the couch.
He pulled up the movie without comment.
It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.
Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.
The movie ended and neither of you moved.
He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.
You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.
Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.
You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.
That was how it started.
By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.
You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.
He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?
You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.
Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.
You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.
"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.
"I didn't say that."
"You described a situationship."
"I described two people who spend time together."
"With benefits."
"Occasionally."
She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"
You said nothing.
"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"
You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."
"That's not what I asked."
You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."
Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.
The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.
The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.
"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."
"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"
"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."
The room went quiet.
"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."
Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.
"Okay," he said quietly.
"Okay," you said.
The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.
The first sign was the texts.
Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.
You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.
You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.
But you noticed.
You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.
You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.
But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.
You went over on a Thursday.
Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.
You looked at him for a moment.
"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."
"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.
"I want you to say what's actually happening."
He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.
"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.
You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."
"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."
"Okay," you said.
He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.
"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"
"I never called it anything," you said.
"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."
The room was very quiet.
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.
"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."
He opened his mouth.
"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."
"Hey —"
"Good night, Dean."
You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.
You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.
You texted Anna: you were right.
She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.
"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.
"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."
The hard part came later, at midnight.
You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.
You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.
You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.
The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.
Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.
You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.
"What is that," you said.
"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"
"Tucker."
"I know."
You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.
"It's salvageable," you said.
He exhaled. "I knew it."
"Get me the garlic."
You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.
Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"
"We're collaborating," Tucker said.
Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.
Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.
"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.
"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"
"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.
You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.
"Smells good," Dean said.
You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.
Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.
"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.
"I can see that," Dean said.
Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"
"I know," you said, drying the pan.
You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.
When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."
"Noted," Tucker said.
You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.
Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.
Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.
"She labeled it," Dean said.
"She always labels it," Tucker said.
Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."
"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."
He couldn't focus in class the next morning.
The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.
Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.
He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —
You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.
You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.
You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He'd said that. He'd actually said that.
He stared at his laptop screen.
You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.
And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.
Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.
Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.
He wrote something down without reading it.
The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.
You don't belong here.
He closed his laptop. Opened it again.
You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.
He was not fine.
That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.
Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.
He picked up his pen. Put it down.
Wait.
He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.
The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.
You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.
He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.
You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.
Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.
He started noticing everything.
The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.
He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.
He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.
He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.
He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —
That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.
He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.
He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."
"She didn't do anything," Dean said.
A pause. "Then tell me what you did."
Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."
"And?"
"And she's fine."
"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"
"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.
Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."
"What."
"You absolute idiot."
January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.
You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.
Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."
"I know," Dean said.
Logan looked at him. "Just saying."
"I know," Dean said again.
Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.
He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.
You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.
He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.
It was a random Wednesday in late January.
Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.
Tucker's laugh. And then yours.
He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.
"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.
"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"
"I was recovering, there's a difference—"
"There is no difference, the result was the same—"
Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.
He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.
You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.
"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."
"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.
"See," Tucker said to you.
"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."
Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.
An hour later you started putting your coat on.
"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."
"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."
"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."
"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.
"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.
"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.
You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.
Tucker looked up from his phone.
The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.
"She forgot her mug," Dean said.
"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.
Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.
"She said bye to you first," he said.
Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Tucker —"
"I'm not doing this, Dean."
"I'm not asking you to do anything."
"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."
From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.
Dean looked at the door.
"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.
Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.
He lasted four days.
Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.
He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.
He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.
He threw one.
It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.
He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.
The window opened.
You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.
"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."
"I need to talk to you."
"It's eleven o'clock."
"I know. You weren't answering my texts."
You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."
"You didn't answer."
"I was asleep."
"Can I come up?"
The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."
"There's a trellis."
You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."
"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."
You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.
You didn't close the window.
"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."
He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.
Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.
You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.
"I need to say something," he said.
"Okay."
"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."
"I'm not stopping you," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.
He took a breath.
"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.
You waited.
"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."
The room was quiet.
"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"
"Dean," you said.
He stopped.
You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.
"I know," you said quietly.
He blinked. "You —"
"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."
He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."
"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."
He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."
You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.
"I know," you said again. Softer this time.
"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."
You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.
"Come here," you said.
He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.
His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.
You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.
"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.
You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.
He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.
"Hi," he said, quietly.
The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."
He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.
"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.
"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."
You exhaled like something releasing.
It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.
When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.
When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.
Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.
Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.
"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.
"Small rocks."
"You hit Anna's window first."
"She didn't see me."
"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"
Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."
You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.
He pressed his mouth to your hair.
"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."
You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."
"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"
"You've mentioned it."
"Not a complaint."
You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.
"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.
Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.
"He's known for months."
"I know."
"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"
Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."
"You're not."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not."
A beat.
"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.
Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"
"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."
"I'm going to kill Garrett too."
"You're really not."
"No," he said. "I'm really not."
You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.
The Life We Prayed For - Paige Bueckers x Female Reader fluff
Everyone knew Paige Bueckers loved basketball.
But very few people knew how much she loved you.
That was intentional.
Paige spent years learning how to balance attention, cameras, expectations, and eventually fame as her basketball career exploded from high school all the way through University of Connecticut and into the WNBA.
People always wanted more from her.
More interviews.
More access.
More of her personal life.
And Paige hated that part.
Because from the moment she met you freshman year of high school?
She knew you were something precious.
Something she wanted to protect.
Not hide.
Protect.
The first time Paige saw you, she was immediately distracted.
You had transferred into Hopkins High School halfway through the semester, quietly slipping into class with headphones around your neck and a nervous smile while the teacher introduced you.
Paige spent the entire class staring.
Completely obvious about it too.
"You know she can probably feel you staring, right?" one of her friends whispered afterward.
Paige shrugged without shame. "I think I'm gonna marry her."
"You don't even know her name."
Five minutes later Paige absolutely did know your name.
And by the end of the week?
She knew your favorite snacks, your favorite music artist, and the fact that you color-coded literally everything.
She was down horrendously.
By sophomore year, the two of you were inseparable.
You sat through basketball games doing homework in the bleachers.
Paige walked you to every class she could.
The two of you stayed up on FaceTime until ridiculous hours despite seeing each other all day already.
And eventually, after months of painfully obvious flirting, Paige finally asked you to homecoming.
She was more nervous for that than any basketball game she'd ever played.
"Why are you pacing?" her mom asked.
"What if she says no?"
"Paige," her mom laughed. "That girl looks at you like you hung the moon."
Still, Paige nearly passed out waiting for your answer.
Then you smiled softly and said-
"I was wondering when you'd ask me."
That was it for her.
Completely over.
The two of you survived high school together first.
Then college.
When Paige committed to UConn, you made the decision to move to Connecticut with her after graduation, determined to support her dreams the same way she supported yours.
And through everything-the pressure, the injuries, the nonstop media attention-you stayed steady beside her.
Especially after Paige's ACL injury during college.
There were nights she sat on the bathroom floor frustrated and exhausted while you gently rubbed her back and reminded her she was still the same person with or without basketball.
"You don't have to earn being loved," you whispered one night while she cried quietly into your shoulder.
Paige swore she fell even harder in love with you right then.
The summer before sophomore year of college, the two of you got secretly married.
Tiny courthouse.
Immediate family only.
No social media.
No public announcement.
Just soft vows and tearful smiles.
Paige cried first.
You cried harder after seeing her cry.
"You're my wife," Paige whispered afterward like she still couldn't believe it.
"Forever," you whispered back.
And somehow, life only became sweeter after that.
During junior year, conversations about starting a family became more serious.
Paige always talked about wanting kids someday.
Not someday far away either.
Real someday.
Soon someday.
"I want a little boy," she admitted one night while laying across your lap. "Or a little girl. I don't care. I just want a family with you."
"You already have one."
Paige smiled softly. "I want tiny shoes in the hallway too."
So quietly, during junior year, the two of you started the IVF process.
And unbelievably-
It worked the very first try during senior year.
Paige genuinely thought she was hallucinating when you showed her the positive pregnancy test.
"No way," she whispered.
Then louder-
"No actual way."
You started laughing while tears filled your eyes.
Paige immediately dropped to her knees in front of you, hands gripping your waist gently like she was scared this wasn't real.
"We're having a baby?" she whispered emotionally.
You nodded.
And Paige completely lost it.
She cried harder than she did winning basketball awards.
Harder than she did after huge games.
And from that moment on?
She became the most emotional person alive.
She downloaded parenting apps immediately.
Read baby books during road trips.
Talked to your stomach before every game.
Prayed over you constantly.
And somehow, all the happiness made her even better on the court.
Her teammates swore impending fatherhood unlocked another level in her game.
"She's playing like a woman with a mortgage and a family to feed," Azzi joked once.
Paige pointed proudly. "Exactly."
By the time graduation arrived, your son was only a few months away from being born.
And while the WNBA draft approached quickly, Paige promised you one thing over and over again.
"You and the baby come first."
Always.
No matter what.
So when the Dallas Wings drafted her, the first person Paige looked for was you.
The second her name was called, she burst into tears before grabbing your face with both hands.
"We're going to Dallas," she whispered emotionally.
"You did it," you cried.
"No," Paige corrected softly, resting a hand against your pregnant stomach. "We did."
Dallas became home faster than either of you expected.
A small house.
Baby clothes everywhere.
Paige trying to build nursery furniture at two in the morning while cursing under her breath.
And despite being a WNBA rookie, she still somehow made you feel like the center of her entire universe.
Then came the night Leo was born.
Paige was away for a road game while you stayed home in Dallas at thirty-eight weeks pregnant.
"Text me if literally anything feels weird," Paige warned before leaving.
You laughed softly. "Baby, I promise."
"You better."
That night, you sat curled on the couch watching the game proudly wearing one of Paige's hoodies.
She looked incredible out there.
Focused.
Confident.
Happy.
Then suddenly-
Pain shot through your stomach.
You froze instantly.
Another contraction hit minutes later.
"Oh my God."
Everything after that happened fast.
Your friend rushed you to the hospital while Paige remained completely unaware because phones weren't allowed during games.
Meanwhile, Paige finished the game smiling during postgame interviews with absolutely no idea her entire world was changing.
It wasn't until almost four hours later when she finally checked her phone.
17 missed calls.
Texts.
Voicemails.
One message from your friend:
SHE'S IN LABOR.
Paige nearly dropped her phone.
"She WHAT?"
Her teammates watched in alarm as Paige grabbed her bags immediately.
"I HAVE TO GO."
The trip back to Dallas felt endless.
Paige spent almost the entire flight praying.
Please let them be okay.
Please let me make it.
Please.
And when she finally burst into the hospital room breathless and exhausted-
She stopped completely.
Because there you were in bed holding a tiny baby wrapped in a blue blanket.
Your son.
Leo.
Paige's entire face softened instantly.
"Oh my God," she whispered emotionally.
You smiled tiredly. "Hi."
Paige walked toward you slowly like she was scared the moment would disappear if she moved too quickly.
Then she looked down at Leo.
And absolutely melted.
He was tiny.
Perfect.
Sleepy.
And somehow already looked a little like both of you.
Paige started crying immediately.
"You made him," she whispered in awe.
"We made him," you corrected softly.
Paige leaned down carefully, kissing your forehead first.
Then Leo's tiny head.
And in that moment?
Nothing else mattered.
Not basketball.
Not fame.
Not cameras.
Not pressure.
Just this.
Her wife.
Her son.
Her family.
The life she spent years praying God would give her.
And as Paige finally held Leo against her chest for the very first time, tears slipped quietly down her face while she looked at you.
Summary: Somehow you find yourself co-parenting with the biggest manwhore in all of Briar U.
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ helloo first I wanna say thank you for all the love you're all giving the story, next I want to let you know we're like 2-3 chapters away from entering the show/book timeline and I'm so excited for that! Also so sorry to disappoint but I did decide to close the taglist for those still asking to get added. Enjoy! I also have a Tucker story in plans so if you don't get any college baby for the next few days it is because I'm writing that one (little sneak peak, it's called part of your world and it has some angst)
Oh, and if you send in some ideas of what you want to see I might add them to later parts, I have something sitting in my asks that will for sure be featured in the next part! ◡̈
College Baby masterlist
Malone's - Monday afternoon
It's pouring so hard by the time you make it into Malone's you're drenched head to toe, you hadn't accounted for the rain earlier when you left the apartment so you didn't have an umbrella and you're paying the price now.
"Oh hell no" Della scowls as soon as you are inside "Go back and put on some dry clothes before you get sick. There should be extra shirts in there"
"Thanks" You call out rushing to the back bcause in your head if you move fast enough you'll drip less water on the floors.
Della rolls her eyes "Jean do me a favor and mop the floors, again" It has been a common occurence for wet students to walk in in the last 20 minutes or so and poor Jean is on mopping duty.
"Damn is it raining already?" Hannah asks when you get to the break room in the back, her and Allie are getting their things from their cubbies clearly being done with their shifts already.
"No, it's national baptism day" You reply sarcastically getting a chuckle out of both girls "I waited for it to clear out after my lecture and it didn't so I had to run all the way here in the rain"
"Aw babes" Allie hands you a clean hand towel that you work through your hair to squeeze out as much water as you can "Here change your shirt"
"Thanks" You do "So, you guys done for the day? Any plans?"
"I'm going to Sean's for a movie marathon and hopefully some action" Allie wiggles her eyebrows, you shoot her a wink.
"I have this compossition assignment I have been working on for forever and haven't been able to get quite right, hopefully the rain will serve as good ambiance" Hannah shares.
"Well, stay safe in the rain"
"We will" They nod and say their goodbyes leaving you in a now dry shirt but still wet everything else, sighing you decide to just get it over with and start your shift, at least the towel dried you enough so you're not dripping water anymore.
A few orders later a few of the football players walk in, Beau sending a smile your way and once they're seated you walk to their table to get their order "Okay guys, what can I-"
"Why are you all wet?" Beau interrupts you with a frown.
"You can't just ask girls that" Another player scolds him and you laugh alongside them but Beau still lookss concerned.
"I walked from campus and it was raining" You shrug "Most of it is drying already, don't worry"
But of course Beau couldn't not worry because if you kept the wet pants and socks you'd get sick and if Dean found out he hadn't helped you then he'd get mad but also he had grown to love you as a close friend ever since Seb and so he couldn't just let you get sick so after the team ordered he snuck out and got a pair of clean sweats and socks from the football bag he kept in his car.
"Here" You were trying to make sense of badly written orders when he presented you with the dry clean clothes "They might be a bit big but at least you won't get sick"
Your entire expression softened and you understood then that these people were not only there for your son but also for you.
Your apartment - Wednesday morning
"Shit you look rough" Are the words that come out of Tucker's mouth when you open the door for him.
You give him a glare "Just take the baby please" You motion to the playpen where Sebastian sits, thankfully unaffected by your cough attacks.
"Does Dean know you're dying here?" You don't reply and thats answer enough for the hockey player "Oh, that's the reason you asked me to pick him up instead of dropping him yourself huh? Don't want Dean to find out you're sick"
"You were around!" You argue but the raise in your voice just makes you cough more and Tucker give you an 'uh huh' look "Fine, I just don't want him to be here right now and we both know the second he knows I'm sick he won't leave me alone"
"You two still fighting?" He picks Sebastian up, the baby instantly regarding him with a big smile.
"No" You admit "But that doesn't mean I'm happy with him"
"I get it" Tucker nods "What he did was kind of shitty, but you know he did it because he cares right?"
"Sadly" You say "Still, I need some space from him"
"Gotcha" He picks up the baby bag by the door and moves to go but before exiting the apartment he turns to you "I'll bring by some soup after practice"
"Thanks Tuck" You smile at him and wave at your son, normally you'd be all over him with kisses and hugs but the last thing you want is to get him sick too "Bye baby, be good"
Briar U's hockey rink - Wednesday afternoon
The tupper in Tucker's locker is calling his name, ever since he'd started preparing it earlier and the house filled with the smell of homemade chicken noodle soup Dean had been dying to have a bowl, and when Tucker had slapped his hand and told him it wasn't for the house it had only fueled the desire, so now, while his teammates showered and prepared to go home after a brutal practice, all Dean could think of was who his roommate had made soup for and what were the chances he could eat the soup before Tuck came out of the showers (they were pretty high if he was being honest)
"Dean!" Logan shouts bringing him out of his trance "I've been calling you for like 5 minutes dude, Jules is asking you know where Seb's pink hat is"
"If they are planning on another photoshoot to post on the fifth line tell them the hat's at his mom's, if it's for anything else it should be on the bottom drawer of my dresser" The blonde replies absentmindly before turning back to the soup container "Hey, you got any idea who Tuck's cooking for now?"
"No idea, why? He make your favorite and didn't give you any or what?" Logan asks.
"He made chicken noodle soup and wouldn't let me have a drop"
"Huh, someone sick then?"
"I guess"
Hockey house - Wednesday night
Dean's in the middle of a heated makeup session with a redhead when Tucker walks in the house, used to his ways, the curly haired man walks past and to the kitchen where he dumps a few things he was carrying, Dean turns slightly as the redhead kisses his neck, fully intending on greeting Tucker and going back to what he was doing but then he freezes deattaching himself from the girl on his lap.
"Why do you have Geoff?" He questions his roommate who freezes halfway inside the fridge, slowly Tucker closes the door and turns around with wide eyes that he disguises as quickly as he realizes what he's doing.
"Geoff?" He plays it dumb, like he doesn't know the ridiculous name of the toy giraffe standing on the counter.
"Geoff the girraffe" The blonde gets the girl off of him plopping her down on the couch, she whines but doesn't leave, just makes herself more comfortable as he approaches the kitchen counter.
"Oh that's been there all day bro" Tucker lies, or at least tries lying but Dean doesn't buy it.
"Oh my god" He points accusingly "She's sick?"
He's already by the door grabbing his keys when by the time Tuck realizes it "Hey no" He steps in front of the door "She's better but you shouldn't go because then you'll get sick and who's gonna take care of Seb then?"
"Not you you traitor!" Dean argues "Get out of my way Tuck"
"Dean-"
"What the fuck are you two idiots doing?" Logan walking down the stairs is distraction enough for Dean to be able to slip past Tuck.
"Seb's sleeping in my room, you're in charge, Tuck's banished!" The dad shouts back as he jogs to his car.
"What just happened?" Logan stares blankly at Tucker, then at Dean's car speeding away.
"So which one of you boys is gonna take over now?" The redhead speaks from the couch reminding the two guys by the door of her presence.
"I'm on babysitting duty" Logan shakes his head and goes back upstairs.
Your apartment - Wednesday night
You've just gone over a cough attack when the knocks on the door start, you pause the movie on your tv and with all the energy you can muster you get up off the couch where you've been all day. In your delirium from how sick you are you don't even think about looking at who's knocking before opening the door.
"How long have you been sick and why didn't you tell me anything?" If your throat didn't feel like there were tiny razorblades scratching against it you would've screamed at Dean to get out that very second, but you're too tired to do anything other than watch him as he practically tornadoes into the apartment.
"What are you doing here?" You manage to let out, voice scratchy and rough.
"No, nooooo. Nope" He shakes his head, picking up a notepad and a pen from your coffee table and handing it to you "This is your new form of communication, no more talking" You give him a look "Have you gone to the doctor yet?"
You shake your head "It-"
"Did your sickness affect your hearing too? I said no speaking" He's so lucky you're not 100% right now because you would've slapped him for speaking to you that way any other time.
'it just started today
it's just a cold'
You write down on your notepad
'i'm fine
you can go'
"No, I'm not leaving you like this are you crazy?" You roll your eyes annoyed at his insistance.
'you're gonna get sick'
"I have an exeptional immune system actually, I don't get sick" He counters "Did you eat your soup?" You roll your eyes again and nod "Good, good" He nods "Are you feeverish? In pain? Should I get you some medicine?"
You don't answer and instead just plop down on the couch and press play on your movie, if he wants to stay fine, you're too weak to stop him right now, but you're still sharp enough to remember you're still upset with him, so you'll just ignore him.
Your apartment - Thursday morning
You wake up in your bed that morning not remembering when you fell asleep, the your sore throat seems to have settled a bit, you don't feel feverish and you're not immediately coughing but a headache seems to have arrived to settle your sickness for sure.
You do your morning routine and then head to the kitchen to refill your water bottle and try to eat a banana or something that won't make your throat feel like you're stabbing yourself again. In your kitchen counter though, lays a bowl of oatmeal next to a bowl of berries with a little note stuck into one of them.
'eat, hydrate, rest. ive got seb'
You know it's from Dean and you choke up a sob at how sweet it is that he tucked you into your bed, apparently stayed the night, made you breakfast and… you do a full 360, cleaned up your apartment? The whole place looks spotless, the tissues you'd left everywhere are now nowhere to be found, the counters look like they've been wiped away recently, the dishes are all stacked neatly on the drying rack and your living room looks the tidiest it has in a while.
Even though you spent last night acting like he wasn't there, he still stayed and took care of you. Does that make you forgive him completely for ruining a perfectly good date? No, but it does make you realize you're no longer mad at him in the way you'd been since it happened.
Briar U's hockey rink - Thursday afternoon.
"Okay bud, let's try this" When Dean asked if he could bring Seb into practice with him he had been fully prepared to have to recruit Beau to help babysit, because Jules wasn't available, but then coach Jensen had gruffly said
"Sure, you idiots take practice as a joke anyways so why the hell not?"
For most of the practice, Seb had sat on the bench with whoever was not being personally attacked by the coaching staff called out for drills and combinations but as he energy started to calm down and the team was split into small groups to run easier drills or stretch cooling down, Dean decided it was time to bring Seb out to the ice.
You'd both brought him to the rink last month but he had missed his naptime and was cranky so Dean didn't get to actually skate with him properly, today he was planning on changing that.
"Here we go" He slides smoothly through the ice making sure not to go too fast as to not startle him "Yeah, see, nice huh?" His voice is soft as he keeps skating, Sebastian looking unconvinced still but not upset.
"Look at you!" Logan skates to the father and son "Soon you'll be in skates bud"
"He's gotta learn how to walk first" Birdie points out skating past.
"As soon as he learns balance on solid ground he's moving to the ice" Dean says "But no pressure right?" He bounces the baby "Let's try a spin" As he moves he feels the tiny body tense up and clutch his jersey tighter "Don't worry Seb, I've got you" He reassures.
A couple minutes later most of the team has gone into the locker room to change and it's only the roommates on the ice with the baby, Dean and Tucker over their misunderstanding of the night before. Sebastian's more comfortable, giggling when Dean spins or one of the guys skates past him now.
"Time to do a lap with uncle Logan" The brunette announces taking the baby from his father's arms.
"Logan I swear to god if you drop him" Dean points accusingly, he has an immense amount of confidence in his teammates, that's why the team is so good, and he knows they would never do anything to intentionally harm Sebastian, but it still makes him nervous to not be the one in control when so many accidents happen in hockey rinks every day.
"I'm not going to drop him" Logan frowns "Don't worry Dean, I've got him"
And at first, he truly has him, the duo skate a few laps smoothly and easily at a slow-ish pace that is comfortable for the baby while Dean, Garret and Tucker watch from the side and talk about practice, then in seconds Logan decides to speed up and as soon as he does so Sebastian cries out, Logan stops at the other side of the rink and is trying to calm him but in just two seconds Dean's already there and taking the baby into his arms.
"Shh" The blonde tries to calm the baby who clutches him like his life depends on it, which, Dean supposes is what it actually feels like for him "You're okay, I've got you, Daddy's got you" He throws a dirty look at Logan and starts slowly skating away knowing they are clearly done with this now "I'm sorry, I know that was scary, uncle Logan is just an idiot"
"Dude, I'm so sorry I didn't mean to" Logan follows, face full of regret "I didn't realize I was going too fast, I'm sorry"
"You're good" Dean tells him once they're off the rink, Sebastian's cries have calmed down now and he's just sniffling into his chest "Just… hearing him cry like that scared the shit out of me"
"I get that" Logan nods "Really, I'm sorry"
"Don't sweat it dude" The blonde pats his shoulder "He's okay, you're okay, it's all good"
"Hey bud, why don't you come have a snack while your dad showers huh?" Tucker joins them, equipment half off, with a baggie of baby snacks from the baby bag, Seb's eyes tracking every one of his movements before putting his arms out to get carried by him "I'll keep him out here so he doesn't have to suffer through the stink of the locker room while you get ready"
"Traitor" Dean hums at his child who's already stuffing his mouth with snacks happy in his uncle's arms "Thanks Tuck, I'll be quick" Tucker waves him off.
Summary: Somehow you find yourself co-parenting with the biggest manwhore in all of Briar U.
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ I'm so glad people are liking the series, like I said I will be writing this kind of in my free time so updates might not be super consistent (but also if I am in the mood I'll write and right now this seems to be the only thing I can manage to write), let me know if you have any ideas you'd like to see and I might incorporate them in somehow! Also we'll probably get to the show timeline in the next 2 or so chapters! (And I don't plan on making these series super long so idk how many chapters there'll be)
taglist is closed (for now) (sorry)
College Baby masterlist
Start of the spring semester - your apartment - early morning
"Alright, you're going to be fine, I'm going to be fine, we're all going to be fine" You say to Seb who stares at you with those wide curious eyes and gummy smile.
"You realize he's been to the daycare before and you have had college classes before as well right?" Dean gives you a weirded out look.
You narrow your eyes at him "What are you even doing here anyways?"
"Contrary to popular belief, I am not a deadbeat"
"Literally no one believes you're a deadbeat" You tell him picking up your tote and triple double checking for the 20th time this morning if you have everything.
"Okay, either way I wanted to drive you for your first day of school" He rolls his eyes taking the baby into his arms, Seb immediately becoming distracted by the chain under his shirt.
"You do realize I've had college classes before right?" You throw his words back at him making him scoff.
"Let's go" He turns to the door and then whispers loudly to your son "Your mom is not good at firsts, I should know, I've been there for a few of them"
"For fuck's sake Dean, I was not a virgin the first time we slept together!"
"I didn't say anything about that, get your head out of the gutter, I meant your first time skating, and your first time in New york, oh and get this… Your first time giving birth!" He makes jazz hands that get him a roll of the eyes and a push as you walk ahead of him through the door, he just laughs and makes sure the door is locked behind him.
Malone's - Later the same day
"I think I might just find myself a sugar daddy" You sigh stacking napkins, you're in the middle of a shift complaining to your co-workers and new friends, Hannah and Allie "I forgot how much I disliked school"
"Okay" Hannah drags on the word "And what's that supposed to mean exactly?"
"Well… we share a kid so anything else would only complicate things" You tell them.
"Okay but what if it doesn't?" Allie perks up "Like what if you two fall madly in love and it all works out and you end up being the perfect little family? You should always give love a chance"
"Or, we find out we don't work out as a couple and maybe we realize it too late and then we have a nasty split that leaves Seb in the middle of a custody battle" You shrug "It's too big of a chance to take, plus Dean Di Laurentis? Not a settling down kind of guy"
"But-" Hannah doesn't let Allie keep arguing.
"Listen, Allie is a romantic, she's going to keep arguing for you to give it a chance, so I'm going to play devil's advocate" Allie frowns "And say, if you think it is not a good idea then don't force anything, but if you choose to give it a chance, we'll back you up"
You're surprised and moved by her words, you have not known the two for that long but the best friends have basically adopted you in the short time you've been around "Thank you guys" You say "But Hannah, I'm not sure that's how devil's advocate works"
"Whatever" She shakes her head "You still got my point"
Hockey House - Wednesday night
The house is filled with chatter when you walk in, the guys have probably the entire hockey team plus a good amount of football players plus girlfriends in here.
"Hey! You're here" Logan greets you as you're setting your things on the table by the door.
"Yeah, something smells good" You say walking towards the smell curious on what Tuck's preparing for the group they've assembled tonight.
"Oh! Thank god you're here!" Beau exclaims, there's a crowd of around 10 guys in the kitchen, your son in a football's player you can't remember the name of arms throws himself your way the second he spots you, thankfully the football player has good reflexes and grips him tighter before safely passing him over.
"I am! What's all this?" You eye the kitchen counter while Seb slaps you with a wet 'kiss' that's more of a blubbering smack with his whole face "Oh thank you"
"Last night I couldn't sleep so I called my mom and she gave he all the baby pureed food recipes I ate as a baby and then I also got some more from a mom website so I thought we could run a taste test with Seb and find out what he likes" Tucker explains with an excited glint in his eyes "But we wanted to wait for you"
"Okay" You nod "And the party you have going on here?" You look at the full house.
"Oh, some of the guys on the team heard about it and were curious"
"And then Dean mentioned it and I might have invited my teammates" Beau adds.
"Cool" You resign yourself, at least you knew people would show up for your son if ever needed.
Some time later Dean has Seb in his lap while you sit infront with a spoon and the bowls, so far you've discovered he loves peaches, bananas and carrot and hates squash and apples.
"That looks like diarrhea" Beau grimaces at the bowl Tucker hands you next.
"It's literally just pumpkin" The curly haired chef narrows his eyes at the quarterback "And if your shit looks like that I think you should get checked up"
"Can we not talk about shit while feeding the baby?" Garrett complains.
You ignore them and give Seb a taste of the puree, he doesn't even give it a chance, as soon as it touches his pursed lips he slips his tongue out letting whatever little food had gone in out and squirming when you try to give him some more.
"See" Beau points "Diarrhea"
"I'm actually curious about the taste" Nick, a football player says and you hand him the bowl with a disgusted look, you've tried not to make faces so Seb tries all the new flavors unbiased but he's already decided he doesn't like this one and the smell is quite frankly, nauseating. You all pause and look at Nick as he takes a big spoonful into his mouth, the regret is instant and he runs to the sink to spit out and rinse his omouth making you all laugh, Sebastian joining in.
"Okay this is the last one" Tucker hands you the bowl, this one's bright green and when you look up you can already see Beau making a face at it "It's broccoli"
"All right, open up Seb" Dean grimaces behind as your son tries reluctantly, surprising you all when he opens up his mouth for more, giving you a satisfied hum as he savors it, you offer him more half expecting him to throw it out but he eats it and claps his hands "Oh he likes broccoli"
"There's no way" Beau shakes his head "Give me some" He takes the bowl and spoons some up bringing it to his mouth, Seb screams then making grabby hands at the bowl clearly angry at Beau for taking his food "Yeah, no, all yours kid" The quarterback grimaces handing the food back to you as everyone laughs.
Hockey house - Thursday afternoon
Garret has been awkward around the baby ever since he was born, being an only child and not having any younger cousins he had never been around kids that small before. Today he's the only one in the house, Logan out with Jules, Dean on a quick trip to New York for a family emergency and Tucker probably still on campus. His plans? To melt into the couch while watching as many of the Jurassic park movies he can get through until he falls asleep.
His plans, however, get interrupted only a few minutes into the first movie when you burst in through the front door with the baby bag in one arm and the baby in the other.
"Tuck!" You call out.
"He's not here yet" Garrett lets you know from his spot on the couch.
"Shit" You curse contemplating your options before walking his way "Okay, I'm so late, Tuck agreed to watch him over and-" Your phone buzzes, Tucker letting you know he's late and will be there in 15 minutes "Oh, he'll be here in 15 minutes but I can't wait so can you just-"
Garrett almost jumps when you plop the baby on his chest "Uh-"
"Tell Tuck I said thanks and I'll Dean will be here in a few hours! Thanks G, bye!" You don't let him get any words out before you're gone.
The brunette blinks at the baby who stares back at him with a gummy smile devouring his own fist, drool spilling down into Garrett's chest. "Okay… um… no, yeah, we're okay" He sits up slowly making sure to keep Sebastian as safe as possible "Do you uh… you like Jurassic Park?" The baby makes a noise and slaps him on the chest "No… okay sure, no dinosaurs how about um… what the fuck do babies like?" He whispers to himself "Oh i meant frick, shit, no, I'm sorry, don't tell your mom"
He pulls out his phone and texts a 'hurry your ass home' to Tucker who replies with a thumbs up and nothing more.
For the next ten minutes Garrett awkwardly sits on the couch with the baby in his lap, his duck plushie clutched in the hand he's not chewing on as he stares curiously at the man holding him and every time the baby so much as shifts Garrett holds his breath, eventually Sebastian grows tired rubbing his eyes and settling into his uncle's chest, droopy eyes closing and soft snores escaping.
"Great, now stay like that until Tuck gets home and we'll be fine bud" He whispered settling back into the cushions and pressing play on the movie again.
Just a few minutes later, under the heat of the baby on his chest, Garrett falls asleep too.
It's not until hours later that he wakes, Sebastian now turned the other way around, eyes wide on the screen that's now playing cartoons but still on his lap and Dean, Tucker and Logan sit around him with plates of food with their attention also on the tv.
"Welcome back to the land of the living G" Dean greets him shoveling a forkfull of steak into his mouth.
"How long have you guys been home?" Garrett asks all confused "And why didn't you take your kid?"
"I tried" The blonde shrugs "But every time I got close to getting him off of you he'd cry so I just let him do his thing"
"Okay well, take him" Garrett motions to the baby that's now looking up at him with a smile, completely unaware of the awkwardness coming from the man holding him.
"Fine, look for yourself " Dean puts his plate down, by now Logan and Tucker are watching intently "Hey bud, come with daddy" The baby's smile disappears the moment his dad puts his hands under his armpits to get him up and instead he complains with a screech and flailing of his arms "See? Seb, son, we need to change your diaper at least before you leak all over uncle G"
Garrett grimaces at the sentence "Get him off please"
"I'm trying!" Dean argues picking Sebastian off finally, the baby wailing immeidately "Yeah, yeah, I'm such a bad dad for not letting you stay with Garrett even though your diaper is full and you can get a rash" He rolls his eyes "So dramatic, you get this from your mom"
Your apartment - Saturday afternoon
"So this one then?" You're on a facetime call with Allie and Hannah while trying on different outfits.
"Yeah, that one makes your boobs look fricking amazing" Hannah says, Allie agrees.
"Okay great, and then do we think hair up or down?" You're getting ready for a date, your first one since before having Sebastian, a date with a guy from the Tennis club "Wait, I think Dean's here"
Lo and behold, when you open your apartment door Dean stands there with a bright smile and a paper bag he lifts proudly "Uncle Tuck sent some snacks for Seb"
"God bless uncle Tuck" You say letting him in "Thank you so much for agreeing to babysit him tonight"
"I'm his dad" Dean deadpans "It's not babysitting, just taking care of my kid while his mom has a deserved fun night out, so you going out with friends? Hitting Malone's, someone's apartment, what is it?"
"See, most guys don't see it that way, especially on a Saturday night when they could be out partying" You point out "And neither, I'm going on a date"
Dean chokes on nothing "A date?"
You shrug "Yeah" And walk back to your room to finish getting ready and say goodbye to Hannah and Allie. Dean's already texting Beau about it.
"So… do I get to meet the date?" He asks trying to act nonchalant and failing.
"Well, I'm meeting him at the movie theater so no" You tell him putting on your shoes "But if it all goes well maybe next time"
"He's not even picking you up?" The blonde asks in disbelief "Who is this guy?"
"Goodbye Dean!" You ignore his questions and walk out the door.
The movie theater - Just a bit later
"Dude, I've always wanted to do espionage" Beau whispers loudly to Dean, both guys looking obvious as hell as they stand in the movie theater lobby dressed in black and with sunglasses even though they are inside, Seb sporting his very own little pair strapped into his dad's chest too.
"Lowkey, me too" Dean admits "Probably not for this but hey, we have to make sure she's not dating a complete douche"
"Look! There she is" Beau points at you, the two wait until you're walking into the room and follow a minute later, somehow managing to make it to their seats, three rows behind you without you noticing "Are you sure you won't just think whatever guy she dates is a douche anyways?"
"No" The blonde frowns "Only the ones who deserve the title" Beau hums unconvinced.
The movie, as it turns out, is an action one that has Beau hooked, but Dean can't stop looking at you and your date, noting every move he makes and scoffing at them. Then, something in the screen explodes loudly, Beau gasps, Seb wails in fear, that's when you turn around and notice them, Beau looks scared, Dean is trying to calm the baby down and you sigh offering your date an apology and telling him you have to go before walking up to Dean, taking Seb and walking out of the movie.
Dean immediately follows behind but you don't turn, too busy trying to calm your baby down until he stops you by your elbow, finally you look at him with anger "What?" You snap.
"I'm sorry" Is all he can say.
"Oh yeah?" You chuckle and that's when he understands how badly he fucked up "For what exactly? For bringing our seven month old baby into a loud action movie and scaring him to death or for ruining a perfectly fine date for me?"
"Everything"
"No Dean, I don't think you understand" You sigh, Seb's cries have calmed now and he tucks his little head into the crook of your neck as you continue to rock softly "That" You point to the movie room where you left your date "Is probably the only guy in all campus that's not repulsed by me being a mom and you've ruined it for me"
Dean's heart breaks a little at your words "No one is repulsed by you"
"You don't get it" You are about to cry out of frustration "You are Dean Di Laurentis, girls bow at your feet, you can have your pick every single night, you get to keep your perfect body. I don't have that Dean, guys won't even give me a second look, I can't just date around or sleep with someone because they all know I am Dean Di Laurentis' baby mama" He hates the way his name comes out of your mouth like it's venom "And if they do, they see someone with stretch marks, and loose skin and-" You choke on your words "You'll never get it Dean, how can you?" He says your name and you don't let him say anything more "Can you just drive us home?"
Now, Beau did notice you two leave earlier, but he didn't think you'd forget about him, I mean, surely you didn't just abandon him at the movie theater right? Well, now that the movie is over and he's done two laps around the parking lot with no luck finding Dean's BMW he realizes he's been left behind.
"Damn blind idiots" He mutters pulling his phone out to order an Uber "God how I hope they get their heads out of their asses and realize they love each other so they stop doing this shit"
Summary: Somehow you find yourself co-parenting with the biggest manwhore in all of Briar U.
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ welcome to the series that will hopefully become something! taglist is open!
College Baby masterlist
Hockey house - Thursday afternoon.
"Yo, whoever flushed the blue package baby wipes when they clearly say do not flush next time you're the one's unclogging the toilet" Logan wipes his sweat covered forehead with his forearm and points at his two teammates sitting in the living room "And where the hell is Dean?"
"Seb emergency" Garrett answers without looking up from his textbook "Apparently he lost his ducky and wouldn't stop crying"
"I will never get over you saying the word ducky" Tucker snickers.
"Dude, you've been singing the itsy bitsy spider for days" Garrett shoots back.
"She's a ver determined spider" The curly haired guy almost looks offended at the quip.
"I'll take the itsy bitsy spider over baby shark any day" Logan's putting his toolbox away in the cabinet under the sink when he notices the bright yellow plush he's all too familiar with "Hey I found ducky!" He lifts it up with a triumphant smile.
The baby's cries are loud against his ear when he calls Dean "Fuck you want?" The clearly stressed dad answers the phone, in the background Logan can hear you yelling at him for swearing in front of the baby.
"Now, that's no way to talk to your savior" Logan frowns.
"I stopped going to church when I was 12" Dean snaps back "But maybe I need to take this kid in for an exorcism"
"Stop talking about our son like that!" You complain, probably taking the crying baby out of his arms because Logan notices the cries are more distant now.
"Anyways, I found ducky" Logan says.
"I fucking love you" The blonde sounds so relieved, already moving to get his car keys "Seriously, this weekend, drinks on me and you get first dibs"
When you, Dean and Seb show up at the house a little while later you look like you've been in combat for weeks. Both your hair desheveled, your clothes crumpled and faces flushed and if it wasn't for the milk stain on your shirt and the crying child in Dean's arms, your friends would be sure that you had been fooling around in Dean's car before walking in.
"Hey bud" Logan regards the squirming kid belting his little heart out "Look what your favorite uncle found for you"
"You're not the favorite shithead" Garrett says from the couch.
"Neither are you" Tucker adds.
Sebastian stops crying when he notices the yellow duck plushie in Logan's hands, instead of loud wails he just hiccups with big wet blue eyes as he's handed the stuffed animal.
"I would so get mad at you for cursing in front of him but I'm too tired for that" You tell Garrett already on your way upstairs to Dean's room, probably for a well deserved nap.
"Here" Dean plops the now calm child into Tuckers lap ignoring the laptop he was working on "You're the least likely to let him die" And walks away "He's due for a feeding in like an hour"
"So when do you think mom and dad will realize they're soulmates?" Logan asks the sleepy baby over the couch.
Malone's - Saturday morning.
"You know, you could always just bring him in with you" Della offers, you're going over your new job as a waitress.
"That won't be necessary" You tell her "He's going to the campus daycare and Dean's looking after him when he's free, but thank you so much"
"Of course hon, just know the option is there if you ever need it. As long as you do your job I have no problem with the little dude joining you" She sends a smile your way and walks away leaving you at the counter with your breakfast.
"Here you go, sorry for the wait" Hannah, who you've learned you're going to be sharing many shifts with places a glass of orange juice in front of you.
"Thanks" You say back.
The bell on top of the door dings and you hear the rowdy hockey players that have become your baby's family and therefore your family walk in.
"Hey mama" Dean plops down next to you, Seb strapped into that ridiculously expensive baby carrier he insisted on buying "What are you doing here so early?" He steals your glass of juice and drinks it whole in one big gulp, you give him an annoyed look.
"I was coordinating everything with Della" He looks confused "The job? As a waitress? I told you about it last night when I dropped Seb off?"
"I was half dead by the time you dropped by" He admits "I woke up at 4 am for the roadie and didn't get to nap at all in the bus, sorry" He then waves Hannah over "Can I get the big daddy breakfast with extra sausages and another orange juice please? Oh and a coffee, one cream two sugars"
"You got it" Hannah mumbles.
Dean turns back to you at the same time as he grabs Seb's hands that are outstretching towards the napkins in front of you "Anyways, why the hell are you getting a job?"
"Because I have things to pay?" You deadpan "I also have a meeting with the financial advisor in 40 minutes, the school agreed to let me hold onto my scholarship but even then, the rest of the money is still a little too much and I don't want to drain all my savings like that so… job" You motion to the place.
"Thanks" He tells Hannah when she places the three big plates, orange juice and coffee cup in front of him "Why didn't you tell me you needed money?"
"Because I don't need money from you" You shrug "Don't worry, Seb's getting all he needs, this is just for my stuff"
"You know I've gotchu whatever you need" He says, your mom reflexes save his breakfast from Sebastian's curious hands smashing into it.
"Thanks but I'm good" He doesn't like this, but he knows he's not going to win the argument so he just hums already planning how he's going to increment the money he sends you for Sebastian in a way that you won't instantly notice "Hand him over so you can eat before he faceplants into the eggs"
Your apartment - Monday night
"So I was thinking" Dean starts, he's on the floor doing tummy time with Sebastian.
"Oh no"
"Shut up" He shakes his head "I was thinking, if we make it to the frozen four this year, this little guy will be old enough to come see daddy play"
You make a face "I don't know"
"Oh come on, we can get him those huge earmuffs and get the puck bunnies to bodyguard" See, the thing about the puck bunnies is you shouldn't like them, but you can't help it. Sure, they are known for sleeping with the hockey players, but if you really think about it, they have a type and a limited dating pool in the school but they really don't harm anyone and they are nice once you get to know you. Oh and they love your kid because he is Dean's kid so really, you have no problem with them.
"How about this" You sit next to him with a yogurt cup that will most likely be stolen from your hands in just a few seconds "If you make it to the finals and the trip is not too long we'll make it"
"Great, going to order the ear muffs now" You know he's being truthful because he's already pulling up Amazon on his phone, the season is barely halfway through.
The Hockey House - Tuesday afternoon
"Dean if you don't pick your shit up I will throw it away" Tucker's yelling up the stairs when you walk into the house with Seb in your arms "Oh hey guys!"
"Hey Tuck" You give him a tired smile, at only six months old, Seb's decided that sleep is no longer something he's interested in.
"You look like you're about two seconds from collapsing" He frowns taking both the baby and baby bag from you.
"Feel like it too, he's decided he's allergic to sleeping more than 20 minutes at a time" You drop onto the couch with a sigh.
"I can watch him for a bit if you wanna nap" You throw up a thumbs up, your eyes already closed "Okay bud, today you're learning how to make a peach cobbler"
A while later you wake up to find Tuck cleaning the kitchen whit the baby strapped into his chest while humming a country song you don't recognize, the surprising thing? Seb's totally asleep, mouth open, little snores, drooling all over Tucker's chest asleep.
"Holy shit" You whisper making your way to the kitchen "You are magical Tuck"
"Huh?" He looks confused, then notices your gaze on the baby "Oh! He's been asleep for a while, I was explaining how to pick the perfect peaches to him and he just conked out" He shrugs as if it's nothing.
"John Tucker I think I might be in love with you" Of course that's the moment your baby's father decides to walk into the room, furrowed brows in annoyance at your words because although you two are not together he's not sure how he feels about you saying those words to one of his best friends.
"What the fuc-" He doesn't get to finish his sentence though because you practically throw yourself into him to cover his mouth, he catches you by your waist pressing you flush against him, frown still present in his face.
"Shut up" You whisper shout at him "I've been trying to get him to sleep for forever and he wouldn't settle now look at him"
Econ 201 - Wednesday morning
"Dude I have a problem" Dean's sitting next to his new friend, Beau, in class.
"You have a lot of those" Beau keeps taking notes of the board "It's the reason you're a hockey player"
"This is serious" Dean insists.
"What level of serious?"
"Camille tried sexting me last night and I didn't text back" Beau's pen basically drops from his hand and suddenly he's not into class at all becuase his buddy needs serious help if this problem is stopping him from sexting Camille freaking Green back.
"You have my undivided attention" The brunette says, his whole body turned to the blonde.
When your name comes out of Dean's mouth Beau gasps, yes, this is very clearly a serious problem if you're involved.
"Yesterday she told Tuck she was in love with him" Beau's eyes go impossibly wide at Dean's words "And it's been bugging me ever since"
"No bro like that's totally valid" Beau nods "If my baby mama said she was in love with my best friend I would go crazy too. So what happened next?"
"She told me to shut up because the baby was sleeping" Dean continues with his story "And then the other guys got home and we had dinner and then she left so we didn't get to talk but-"
"Gentlemen" The professor called, the class eerily quiet around them, all their classmates staring at the two "Anything to share with the class?"
Malone's - Wednesday night
"So" Garret plops down next to Tucker in the booth, throwing his arm around him "How's it feel to be a step dad?"
"Fuck you talking 'bout?" Tucker asks confused.
"It's all everyone on campus is talking about, John Tucker, the dad that stepped up" Logan says teasingly sitting on the other side of the booth, Tucker's still confused.
"Word on the street is that you'r dating Dean's baby mama" Garrett finally explains making the curly haired guy choke on his water.
"Where the hell is that coming from?" He asks "Wait, is that why everyone's been giving me weird looks?"
Dean arrives then with Beau by his side, the quarterback dapping him up before joining his own teammates leaving Dean to find his roommates.
"Why do you two look like you've pulled the prank of the year?" He asks Logan and Garrett who can't help but to cackle.
"Hey Tuck, I can give you a baby of your own if you want" A girl walking by winks at the Texan who gives his friends a mortified look.
Dean gives the table a questioning look "Apparently someone's been saying Tuck's dating your baby mama and has become" Garret starts, Logan joins with a big smile and at the same time they both say "The dad that stepped up"
"Wait… what?"
"Dean!" You barrell towards their table "What the hell did you do?"
"I didn't do anything" The blonde raises his hands.
"Then why is the whole campus thinking I'm in love with Tuck?" That's when it dawns on Dean.
"Beau you motherfucker!" The named looks up with confusion and then fear when he sees you by his friend's side "I'm going to break both your legs!"
Morning always made Logan softer. Not in the most obvious ways, but it managed to make his edges quieter. You’d wake up to one of his arms banded heavily around your waist, his skin warm beneath your cheek as you’d rise to the view of his hair flattened from one side of sleep and his voice a lower baritone than usual.
The room was pale with early light. A thin, grey-blue wash coming in through the blinds, catching on the dresser, the abandoned hoodie near the chair, the water glass on the nightstand, the edge of the shirt you were wearing.
His shirt.
Because at some point during the night, after the party had ended and the hockey house had gone quiet in waves, you had stolen it from the floor and put it on without asking. It smelled like Logan. Laundry detergent, skin, something warm and clean beneath it. It hung loose over your body, soft from use, the hem falling high on your thighs when you shifted.
You had woken before him.
That was rare.
Rarer still was the fact that you had not immediately moved. Normally, your brain began making lists the second your eyes opened. Things to do. Texts to answer. Hair to fix. Lip balm. Water. Breakfast. Whether it was socially acceptable to leave without speaking to Dean if Dean was in the kitchen.
But Logan was behind you, breathing slow against the back of your neck, and his hand was tucked beneath the shirt at your stomach, palm warm against bare skin.
So you stayed.
For a while, at least.
Then he woke. You knew because his fingers moved first. A slow flex against your stomach. Then his breath changed, mouth brushing the back of your shoulder in something too lazy to count as a kiss.
“Morning,” he murmured.
His voice did something unfair to your spine.
You closed your eyes again.
“Morning.”
His hand shifted under the shirt, not quite purposeful yet, just finding you. His thumb dragged softly over your skin. You felt him inhale against your neck, felt the pause that followed.
Then, lower, “This my shirt?”
You smiled without meaning to.
“No.”
“No?”
“I found it.”
“In my room.”
“Possession is complicated.”
His mouth pressed to your shoulder,“You look good in it.”
You opened one eye,“You can’t see me.”
“I know.”
“That’s not how looking works.”
His hand slid over your stomach, fingers spreading against you, pulling you back a little more firmly into his chest, “I remember.”
Your body warmed so quickly it was embarrassing,“Ridiculous.”
“Yeah.”
But his mouth had moved to your neck now, lips slow and warm, and ridicule became difficult to maintain under such conditions. His hand moved higher under the shirt, then lower again, teasing in no particular hurry. Morning Logan did not rush. Morning Logan seemed to have decided that time was something other people worried about.
You tilted your head without meaning to.
He noticed, “There?” he asked, mouth at the side of your throat.
You swallowed, “You know.”
“I want to hear you.”
You made a small, irritated sound and his hand stilled.
“Too early for that?”
“It is too early for you to be smug.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You’re horizontally smug.”
He laughed quietly against your skin, and the sound made your stomach tighten.
Then his hand slipped lower, suddenly you stopped caring about smugness.
Your breath caught, and Logan’s arm tightened around your waist, holding you steady as his fingers moved beneath the hem of his shirt. Slow and careful.
The room grew smaller.
It was always like that with him when he touched you in the morning. There was no lipstick to hide behind. No dress. No heels. No red nails arranged carefully around a glass. No sharp little comments delivered from a position of social control. Just your bare legs tangled in his sheets, your hair loose against the pillow, his shirt riding up your thighs, his hand between your legs while he kissed your neck like he had all morning to learn you again.
“Logan,” you breathed.
“Yeah?”
You had no follow-up and he smiled into your skin like he knew that too.
His fingers circled slowly, and your hips moved back before you could stop them. He inhaled sharply.
That was when you felt him properly, hard against you, warm through the thin fabric of his boxers, pressing into the back of your thigh.
Your eyes opened.
He went still, “Sorry,” he said immediately.
You turned your head slightly, though you could not fully see him from this angle.
“Why?”
His mouth brushed your shoulder again.
“Didn’t mean to rush you.”
“You didn’t.”
A pause.
“I like it.”
His hand on your waist tightened, “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He kissed your neck again, this time with intention. His fingers moved again, and your thighs parted under the shirt, one knee sliding forward over the sheets.
“You want me?” he asked.
Your breath left you in a soft laugh, “What a humiliating question.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you know.”
“I still want you to say it.”
You closed your eyes.
The curtains glowed faintly with morning. His hand moved steadily. His mouth was warm at your shoulder. Your body was already softening for him in a way that made denial feel stupid.
“Yes,” you breathed, “I want you.”
His breath changed.
“Good.”
The word settled low in your stomach.
You would have complained, but he chose that moment to push his fingers inside you, and your complaint dissolved into a gasp.
“There you go,” he murmured.
You reached back, hand finding his hair awkwardly, fingers sliding into it as he worked you open with a patience that made you want to crawl out of your skin. He knew you too well now. Not fully, and there were still discoveries. But it was enough to make you resent his competence when it was being used against you.
“Slow,” you said, though you were not sure whether you were telling him or yourself.
He kissed your shoulder.
“I’ve got you.”
When he finally rolled you onto your back, the shirt slid up your thighs, and Logan looked down at you like the sight had interrupted every remaining thought in his head.
You looked away immediately, “No.”
His hand paused at your hip, “No?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re making notes.”
His mouth curved.
“You’re wearing my shirt and nothing else.”
“That does not require documentation.”
“It might.”
“Logan.”
He leaned down and kissed you, smiling into it, one knee pressing between your thighs. You bit gently at his lower lip because he deserved it. He groaned because apparently punishment and reward had become indistinguishable to him.
The kiss deepened.
Morning softened, then heated.
His boxers went somewhere. You did not know where. The shirt stayed, though by the time he rolled a condom on and came back over you, it had been pushed up over your waist, bunched beneath your ribs, leaving you bare under him except for the fabric tangled around you like a weak argument.
He kissed you when he pushed in.
You needed that. The first stretch made your fingers dig into his shoulders, mouth opening against his.
He stopped immediately.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Colour?”
“Green.”
His forehead lowered to yours.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Just-morning.”
He huffed a soft laugh.
“Morning?”
“Everything feels more.”
His expression changed into something warmer, more focussed on your reactions.
“I’ll go slow.”
At first, he did, slow, deep strokes that made the room blur at the edges. His chest brushed yours, his mouth moved against your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips. Every sound you made seemed louder in the quiet morning, every shift of the mattress too obvious, too intimate.
He kissed you again, and his hand slid beneath your knee, lifting your leg higher around his hip, and you stopped thinking about daylight entirely.
For a while.
Until he shifted.
Until one of his hands slid to your waist and the other braced beside your head, and his mouth paused near your ear.
“Cherry.”
You made a small sound of acknowledgement.
“Can we try something?”
Your eyes opened.
He lifted his head so you could see him properly.
“What?”
His thumb moved once over your waist.
“Turn over.”
Your stomach dipped.
You looked at him and he held your gaze.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“We can stay like this.”
“I know.”
“Colour?”
You swallowed, “Green.”
His eyes darkened.
“You sure?”
You nodded.
Then, because nerves made you sharp, “Logan, I’m asking you to fuck me, not invest in a pension.”
He blinked and then laughed, head dropping briefly to your shoulder, “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You like me.”
“I really do.”
The softness of it made you quiet.
That was inconvenient.
He kissed you before you had to answer.
Then pulled out slowly, carefully, and helped you turn onto your stomach. The first thing you noticed was how exposed it felt. Which felt stupid because you had just been naked under him in the morning light. But for some reason, this felt different. You were on your knees now, forearms against the bed with his shirt falling beneath you, the hem still twisted around your waist. The second thing you noticed was that you couldn’t see his face- couldn’t read the little changes there, couldn’t watch his mouth part when you shifted against him. You couldn't see whether he looked wrecked, whether he looked too composed, whether he was looking at you the way you wanted him to.
You could only feel his hands.
One on your hip, the other smoothing up your back beneath the shirt.
“Still green?” he asked.
His voice came from behind you, lower than before. Different.
Your fingers curled in the sheets, “Yes.”
He kissed the back of your shoulder. Which helped as he guided himself back to you and pushed in slowly.
Your breath caught immediately and he stopped, “Too much?”
You shook your head quickly, “No.”
“Cherry.”
“No, it’s good.” You closed your eyes. “Just different.”
His hand moved along your spine.
“Different good?”
You exhaled, embarrassed by the answer before you gave it.
“Yes.”
He stayed still for another second, letting you adjust. Then he moved.
The angle made your whole body go tight.
“Oh.”
The sound left you before you could make it pretty.
Logan’s hand tightened on your hip.
“Yeah?”
You pressed your face into your forearm.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Sound pleased.”
“I am pleased.”
“Quietly.”
His laugh was rough.
But he listened.
For a few strokes, there was only the quiet rhythm of it. His hips meeting yours slowly, the bed shifting beneath you, his breathing getting heavier behind you. One hand stayed on your hip, guiding. The other moved under the shirt, over your back, over your waist, like he was trying to keep contact with as much of you as possible.
It was good. It was very good in fact.
It was also strange. Not in a bad way that made you want to change colours, but strange enough that you went quiet. Too quiet.
Logan noticed after maybe ten seconds and slowed,“Hey.”
You swallowed.
“What?”
His hand moved up your back again.
“You with me?”
“Yes.”
“You got quiet.”
“I’m allowed to be quiet.”
“You are.”
There was no argument in his voice. No push. Just his observation.
Then his body leaned over yours, chest pressing to your back, mouth near your shoulder, “I just like knowing where you are.”
Your breath caught for a reason that had nothing to do with the angle.
You turned your head slightly on your forearm, trying to see him- but you could not.
Logan seemed to understand at the same time you did.
“Oh,” he murmured.
Your face heated,“What?”
“You can’t see me.”
“I can see the pillow.”
“Not the same?”
“Not remotely.”
He laughed softly and kissed the back of your shoulder again.
Not teasing this time.
“You want to stop?”
“No.”
“You want to turn back over?”
You hesitated. Because no, you didn’t. The position was too much and not enough and exactly enough, all at once. You wanted to stay there. You wanted him behind you. You wanted the weight of his hands and the sound of his voice and the sharp, deep pleasure of the angle.
You also wanted to see him.
Logan’s hand slid to your jaw, gentle, turning your face just enough for him to kiss your cheek.
“Cherry.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“Okay.”
“I just…” You exhaled, “I don’t like not knowing what your face is doing.”
He went still for half a second.
Then his forehead dropped between your shoulder blades.
The sound he made was not quite a laugh, and not exactly a groan.
“You’re worried about my face?”
“Not worried.”
“No?”
“I like evidence.”
His hand tightened on your jaw.
Then, low, “Evidence.”
You immediately regretted the word.
“No.
His mouth brushed your shoulder.
“No evidence?”
“Do not start.”
“I’m not starting.”
“You absolutely are.”
He kissed the top of your spine, still half over you, still inside you, and the intimacy of that nearly took your knees out.
“Look at the dresser,” he said.
You blinked.
“What?”
“The mirror.”
Your head lifted.
The dresser mirror sat across from the bed, half cluttered by a water bottle, his watch, and an abandoned roll of tape someone had left in his room for reasons you did not understand. It caught the bed at an angle. Not perfectly. But enough.
Enough to see yourself on your knees in his shirt. Enough to see Logan behind you, bent over your back, hair messy, jaw tight, eyes dark and fixed on your reflection. Your whole body reacted.
Logan felt it and his gaze flicked to yours in the mirror.
“There she is,” he murmured.
Oh. That was worse. That was so much worse.
You looked away immediately.
His hand slid from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, guiding your face back up.
“No hiding.”
“You are behind me.”
“Still no hiding.”
“That is unreasonable.”
“Look.”
Your pulse jumped.
“Bossy.”
“Green?”
You swallowed.
“Green.”
“Then look.”
You did.
Your eyes met his in the mirror, and Logan moved again. Your mouth fell open.
His face changed behind you, composure cracking just enough for you to see it. His jaw flexed. His eyes went darker. One hand gripped your hip while the other stayed at your throat, holding you steady and visible.
That was what you had needed.
Not to be looked at like an object.
To be seen. To know he was with you. To know he was losing it too.
Logan’s voice dropped, “Good girl.”
Your body clenched around him.
His eyes shut for half a second, “Fuck.”
You would have smiled if you had not been too busy trying to remember how breathing worked.
He straightened behind you, just enough for you to see more of him in the mirror. His hands moved to your hips again, dragging you back onto him with careful pressure.
“Still good?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You like seeing?”
You made a sound that was not an answer.
He slowed, “Cherry.”
You glared at his reflection.
“I hate when you require verbal participation.”
His mouth curved, “I know.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?”
“Because you like it.”
You did not answer. Which was the answer he was looking for.
He leaned over you again, mouth near your ear, eyes still on yours in the mirror, “You like seeing what you do to me.”
Your fingers twisted in the sheets and a flush washed over your body.
“Logan.”
“You do.”
“Don’t make it sound like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know.”
His hips rolled into yours, and your answer broke apart, “I do know,” he murmured.
The next stroke made you drop your head. Immediately, his hand came to your jaw.
“Uh-uh.”
You groaned.
“Logan.”
“Look.”
You did, because apparently your body had decided obedience was the theme of the morning.
And there he was.
Behind you in the mirror.
Flushed and focused and so visibly affected by you that the exposure no longer felt one-sided. His hands on your hips. His body moving behind yours. His shirt bunched around your waist. Your own face wrecked in the reflection, mouth parted, eyes glossy, hair loose around your cheeks.
It should have embarrassed you more.
It did.
But the embarrassment fed the heat instead of stopping it.
“There you go,” he crooned, “That’s better, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be smug.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
“Try harder.”
His laugh broke into a groan when you pushed back against him, just a little, just enough to prove you could. His hands tightened.
“Oh, you’re gonna be like that?”
You glanced at him in the mirror, “Like what?”
His eyes darkened, “Careful.” He shifted the angle, one hand sliding around to your stomach, pulling you up slightly so your back arched against him.
The next thrust stole your breath. “Logan.”
“I know.”
His hand pressed gently over your stomach.
“Right there?”
You nodded, too fast.
He kissed your shoulder.
“Words.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Your eyes fluttered as his mouth brushed your ear, “So good for me.”
You hated the sound you made.
Logan loved it.
You knew because his rhythm stuttered, his hand slid lower, fingers finding you beneath the shirt, and your arms almost gave out.
“Wait-”
He stopped instantly. Everything stopped, his thrusts paused suddenly, his breathing was still heavy behind you but his spine had straightened as his hand lifted away.
“What? Too much?”
You shook your head, breathless.
“No. Just-” You laughed once, broken and embarrassed,“I need a second.”
His hands went gentle at once.
“Okay.”
He stayed still inside you, chest against your back, mouth at your shoulder, breathing hard. The restraint in him made your head spin almost as much as the pleasure had.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Still green?”
“Yes.”
His hand moved slowly over your side.
“No rush.”
That was the thing that ruined you. As if he was perfectly content to stay there, holding you together, waiting for your body to catch up to what it wanted.
You turned your head enough to find his mouth.
He met you halfway, kissing you awkwardly over your shoulder. It was not elegant. The angle was terrible. Your neck protested. His nose bumped your cheek. Somehow, that made it better.
When you pulled away, you were smiling faintly.
“What?” he asked.
“This is logistically complicated.”
He huffed a laugh.
“Yeah?”
“Emotionally also.”
His expression softened in the mirror.
“Yeah?”
You looked at him, then nodded.
He kissed your shoulder again, “Good different?”
You closed your eyes.
“Unfortunately.”
His laugh warmed your skin.
Then, carefully, his hand returned between your thighs. He moved slowly at first, building you back up with maddening patience, fingers circling in time with the deep drag of him inside you. The mirror kept catching pieces of everything. His face. Your hands in the sheets. The flex of his arms. Your own expression every time he found the right angle.
You could not hide from it.
After a while, you stopped trying.
“That’s it,” Logan said, voice rough, “Look at you.”
Your breath broke, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say things.”
“You like when I say things.”
“I like when you are quiet.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted, because there was no point lying to someone currently making you shake, “I don’t.”
His eyes met yours in the mirror, “There she is.”
Your body tightened.
Logan felt it immediately, “Close?”
You nodded.
He kept you there. One hand between your thighs, the other at your hip, his mouth at your shoulder, his gaze holding yours in the mirror as the pleasure built fast and bright and inescapable.
You tried to drop your head when it hit.
His hand caught your jaw gently.
“Look at me.”
You did.
And came with your eyes on his reflection, Logan’s name breaking out of you as your body clenched around him. He held you through it, hips stilling, fingers working you softly until you were trembling and breathless beneath him.
“That’s it,” he murmured, “I’ve got you.”
Your arms gave out properly then.
He caught you before you collapsed fully, easing you down onto the mattress, turning you gently onto your side without pulling away too quickly. His body curved behind yours, one arm around your waist, mouth against the back of your neck.
For a few seconds, all you could do was breathe.
Logan’s breath was ragged too.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Words, Cherry.”
“Yes.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Good different?”
You shut your eyes, “Very.”
His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder and you could feel his smile.
“Don’t be pleased.”
“I’m a little pleased.”
“You would be.”
He kissed your shoulder, “I liked that.”
Your face warmed.
“I noticed.”
“Yeah?”
“You were not subtle.”
His hand moved over your stomach beneath the shirt.
“Neither were you.”
You opened one eye.
“I was extremely subtle.”
“Baby.”
“What?”
“You came looking at me in the mirror.”
Your whole body went hot.
“That was an accident.”
“Was it?”
“An emotional accident.”
He laughed softly.
You turned your face into the pillow.
“No.”
“No what?”
“No discussing.”
“Okay.”
“Immediately.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
Then, because he was himself, “Just one thing.”
You groaned into the pillow.
“Logan.”
His mouth brushed the back of your neck.
“You were so pretty, “His arm tightened around your waist, “Not teasing,” he said quietly.
You swallowed.
The morning light had gone warmer now, spilling across the sheets, catching the bare line of his arm over your body, the wrinkled fabric of his shirt still on you, the reflection of both of you faint and softened in the dresser mirror.
“Thank you,” you said, very softly.
His hand flattened over your stomach.
“You’re welcome.”
You lay like that for a while, half tangled, half dressed, both still trying to become normal again.
Eventually, because you could not allow sincerity to remain unattended for too long, you said, “That was logistically intense.”
His laugh hit your shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“And suspicious.”
“Suspicious?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I feel like you learned something.”
“I did.”
You turned your head slightly to find him smiling against your skin.
You narrowed your eyes, “What?”
“You like seeing my face.”
“That is not new information.”
“You really like seeing my face.”
“That phrasing is vulgar.”
“You asked for evidence.”
“Don’t.”
He laughed harder when you elbowed him lightly, “Sorry.”
“You are not sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re going to become insufferable.”
“Probably.”
You sighed.
He kissed behind your ear.
“But not right now.”
You softened despite yourself.
“No?”
“No.” Another kiss, lower this time. “Right now, I’m going to clean you up, get you water, and maybe steal my shirt back eventually.”
You looked down at the shirt. Then pulled it closer around yourself.
“No.”
“No?”
“This is mine now.”
“It says Briar Hockey.”
“It says mine.”
He laughed.
“Fine.”
You smiled into the pillow.
Behind you, Logan’s hand moved slowly over your waist.
