miya

18+. i love u. multifandom reader. ask box open for a chit chat x

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ sit still.

pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader summary – the hockey house gathers for garrett’s punishment piercing, complete with heckling, brownies, and one very distracting sweater neckline. warnings – piercing with a needle, minor pain, teasing/banter, suggestive humour, strong language notes from me – saw this request come through and immediately had to write SOMETHING. so so fun, thank u babe!! xx word count – 0.6k

navigation – masterlist |

The bet had been stupid, which was how Garrett ended up in the middle of the hockey house kitchen with an ice cube pinched to his earlobe and three of his friends watching like this was pay-per-view.

“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, for maybe the seventh time, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he’s about to take a hit instead of get one tiny hole put in his ear, “there are professionals for this.”

She stands between his knees with one of her little gold hoops held carefully between her teeth while she wipes the needle down again, mostly because he keeps looking at it like it broke into his house. “God, you’re such a baby.”

“I’m not a baby. I’m cautious.”

Dean, sprawled across the counter with a brownie in one hand, snorts. “You let Logan cut your hair sophomore year.”

“That was different.”

“That was traumatic,” Logan says, mouth full.

Tucker, from the other side of the island, shakes his head like the whole room has disappointed him morally. “I still think this violates, like, twelve health codes.”

“Thank you,” Garrett says, vindicated.

She points the needle at him. “You lost.”

Garrett’s eyes flick from her face to the needle, then down, and that’s where the problem starts, because she’s bent over him a little too far and the neckline of her sweater is making itself known at exactly eye level. He shifts in the chair. Clears his throat. Then shifts again.

“Oh my God, Garrett, sit still.”

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.

She freezes for half a second, follows his line of sight, then straightens with a sharp exhale. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?” Garrett says, palms up, ice still pressed to his ear, grin trying to happen despite the fear. “They’re right there.”

Dean makes a wounded noise. “Can we not make this weird while I’m eating?”

“You make everything weird,” Logan says.

She glares down at Garrett, heat crawling up her neck in a way she refuses to give him the satisfaction of noticing, then bends again with her mouth set. “Three, two, one.”

He yelps.

“Oh, please,” she says, already sliding the little hoop through with careful fingers while he sits there looking betrayed by both her and modern jewellery. “You’ve taken slap shots to the ribs.”

“That was different,” he says again, higher this time.

“There,” she murmurs, turning the hoop once until it sits right. “Done.”

And it’s deeply unfair, actually, how good he looks. The gold catches against his skin, small and bright and stupidly perfect, doing something dangerous to the shape of his grin when she hands him his phone so he can look at himself in the front camera.

Garrett tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Oh.” His mouth curves. “I kinda like it.”

Across the kitchen, Logan looks up from the plate. “Dude, these brownies are insane.”

Dean nods seriously. “Like, marriage-level brownies.”

Her attention snaps over, grateful and pleased in a way that makes her whole face soften before she can stop it. “Oh! Good. It’s a new recipe. More chocolate.”

“Keep doing that,” Tucker says.

Garrett’s hand lands at her hip, warm and familiar, patting twice, nudging her back so he can stand. She moves automatically, then finds him right there, too close, gold hoop glinting, grin gone absolutely unbearable.

“Thanks, princess.”

She rolls her eyes, even though her stomach has gone a little useless. “I told you I don’t like that nickname.”

Garrett only smiles wider, reaching past her for a brownie. “Uh huh,” he murmurs. “I heard you.”

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[puckingcuckbunny]

🜼 — 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬 #𝟑

thank you @cursed-carmine for the dividers; Inspired by this ask thank you @abeeloves

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 𝟒,𝟐 𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 : 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐯𝐲 — 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛 !

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝, 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 ! 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 🜼

Logan had never thought of you as quiet.

Not once. Not in the garage the first night you showed up rain-soaked and glittering under the yellow shop lights, not in his truck when you filled every red light with some story about a goat with attachment issues or your mother calling him your “mechanic boy toy,” not at the rink when you sat with Hannah and Allie and waved like you had personally invented being happy to see someone. 

You were not quiet. You arrived in places and brightened them with your words, sweetened them to the precipice of ruin and left the air smelling like cherries and expensive lipstick. You even looked surprised when people would be enchanted with your demeanor.

But what Logan never thought, what there were apparently levels to it. To you.  

There was campus-you, which Logan knew best. Pretty, polished, chatty, glossy at the edges. The girl who said “oh my gosh” with wide eyes and folded her legs under herself on his passenger seat like she belonged there. 

The girl who had a soft little lilt sometimes, especially when she talked to her mom on the phone, but nothing so obvious he’d ever thought to name it. Just a sweet, bright, vaguely country edge that came out in words like “ma’am” and “reckon” and the way you could call a man “sweetheart” and make him unsure if he had been complimented or put down.

Then there was whatever the hell happened in the hallway outside the bathroom at a party in a house too crowded to breathe in.

The line for the upstairs bathroom had turned into its own social event. Someone had dragged a speaker to the landing, the bass from downstairs thudded through the banister, and at least six girls were standing barefoot with heels dangling from their fingers, bonding through the universal feminine suffering of needing to pee while dressed like someone hotter than God intended them to be. 

You were halfway down the hallway, one hip against the wall, dress still perfect despite the fact that you had been dancing for an hour, red fabric hugging you like it had taken out a lease on your body. Your lipstick had somehow survived. Your hair had that soft, touchable messiness that made Logan’s hands flex every time you turned your head.

He had only come upstairs to find you because Tucker had spilled beer on his sleeve, Dean was loudly attempting to convince Beau that Goose was “the sluttiest Top Gun character,” and Garrett had sent Logan a look across the room that said, very clearly, go check on your girl before she adopts a stranger in the bathroom line.

So he had gone.

Not because he was worried, you were more than capable of handling yourself. 

Logan knew that. Everyone who spent longer than ten minutes around you knew that. You were sunshine, sure, but you were not soft in the way people sometimes assumed sunshine girls were soft. You could be sweet without being stupid. You could smile at someone in a way that made them feel blessed and then, with the same mouth, ask a question so pointed it left an exit wound.

Still, he liked seeing you. That was the pathetic truth of it all, he liked having an excuse to drift through a party toward the place where you were standing, liked the way your face changed when you spotted him, liked the tiny lift in your expression that made something possessive and warm curl under his ribs.

You saw him before he reached you, and when you did your smile bloomed immediately.

“There you are,” you said, and that alone almost made him forget whatever he had come upstairs for.

“Here I am.”

“I thought Tucker kidnapped you.”

“Tucker spilled beer on me and then tried to convince me it was my fault for having sleeves.”

You wrinkled your nose, “That does sound like Tucker.”

Logan stepped in beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed the wall above yours, your perfume cut through the hot crush of the hallway. Cherries. Warm skin. A little bit of vanilla, maybe. Something powdery from your dress or your hair.

“You good?” he asked.

You tilted your head at him, amused, “I’m in a bathroom line at a hockey party wearing a dress shorter than some belts. I am thriving.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Your smile turned wicked, “Can you?”

He gave you a look.

You laughed, tipping your face away, and he had to look at the ceiling for a second because the sound of it did something to him. 

A girl two places ahead of you glanced back.

Logan had noticed her earlier downstairs. Pretty in a sharp, expensive-looking way, dressed in a simple white dress with strappy heels that curled around her legs, and she looked mildly bored by everyone around her- as if the alcohol was failing at its duty.

She had been hovering near the kitchen with a group of girls Logan vaguely recognised from hockey parties, the kind who knew everyone’s names but pretended not to when it gave them social leverage. 

She had looked at you once, then twice, then at Logan, and he had clocked it without caring. People looked at you. People looked at him with you. That was part of the deal.

The girl’s eyes drifted over your dress, your lipstick, the way Logan stood angled toward you without even thinking about it.

Then she smiled, in a not-so-nice way. 

“Sorry,” she said, in the falsely casual tone people used when they were absolutely not, “Are you two, like, together now?”

Your hand, which had been playing with the cherry charm on your bracelet, stilled.

Logan looked at the girl, waiting for the conversation to interest him. 

You smiled back, polite and bright, “Something like that.”

Logan’s mouth twitched despite himself. He knew you liked the tease of the phrase, the little soft landing place between secrecy and declaration. As if he didn’t spend half his life driving you places and the other half finding your lip liners in his truck. As if you hadn’t kissed him against the side of his truck last week until his brain briefly lost contact with the rest of his body. As if you didn’t look at him in public like you were trying very hard not to look at him too much.

The girl hummed, barely anything against the thumping bass of the walls, but it had teeth. 

“Cute,” she raised an eyebrow and shifted her weight, smiling bitterly, “I just didn’t think he was, like… your type. You're...so different.”

Even though the moment seemed like one that deserved pin-drop, instant silence. The hallway didn’t leave enough room for the phrase to breathe, the music kept thudding, someone behind you complained about the wait and downstairs, a crash went up from the kitchen that sparked a chorus of male shouting. 

But in the tight little space between Logan’s ribs, something went very still.

He had heard worse. Much worse. He had been a scholarship kid around rich kids long enough to know the shape of a comment before it landed. Sometimes they didn’t even mean it cruelly, which sometimes made it more painful. 

They just said it like gravity. Like class was weather. Like certain girls came from certain worlds and certain guys belonged in the garage, on the ice, under the hood, behind the wheel, anywhere except beside them.

He wasn’t destroyed by it.

His jaw tightened, sure. A short, humourless breath pushed out through his nose. His eyes flicked over the girl once, unimpressed, already dismissing her as someone who had mistaken being rude for being interesting. He could have said something, he almost did. Something dry and easy that would have made her feel stupid without giving her the satisfaction of knowing she had hit anything substantial.

But before he could, you moved.

You turned your head, and something about you changed so completely that Logan forgot the comment had been about him.

Your smile stayed exactly where it was, glossy and sweet and pageant-perfect, but the warmth drained out of it in a slow, dangerous trickle. 

Your shoulders settled back against the wall. Your chin tipped a fraction higher. Your eyes moved over the girl’s dress, her shoes, her face, and then came back to meet her gaze with an expression Logan had never seen on you before.

When you spoke, your voice had changed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you said.

Logan’s spine straightened.

He had heard you say it before. Tossed casually at Allie when she stole your fries, cooed at Winston when the goat tried to eat a receipt, murmured into your phone when your mom was being dramatic about lunch reservations. But he had never heard it like that. Soft and country and sharp enough to make every girl in a three-foot radius subtly stop pretending not to listen.

Your accent had not appeared out of nowhere. It had been there the whole time, he realised, tucked under the polished version of your voice like a knife under lace. But now it unfurled fully, honey-thick and unmistakable, curling around each word with a sweetness that did not soften the blow so much as make it prettier when it landed.

“I know you’re not standin’ there in that polyester dress talkin’ to me about taste.”

The girl blinked. 

Someone behind Logan made a tiny noise that might have been a laugh strangled into a cough.

Logan couldn’t move, and didn’t even try.  His brain, which had been perfectly functional approximately four seconds ago, had been reduced to one simple thought. Oh.

The girl’s mouth opened, “I wasn’t-”

“No, no,” you said, lifting one hand with delicate patience, like you were calming a horse or addressing someone else’s badly behaved child. “Don’t get shy now. You were doin’ so well.”

Logan slowly turned his head to look at you.

You did not look at him. Your gaze stayed on her, bright and merciless.

The girl flushed. “I just meant-”

“I know what you meant.” Your voice warmed further, and somehow that made it worse, “You meant you thought I’d be with somebody more polished. More appropriate. Maybe somebody with a daddy who owns a boat he can’t drive and a jawline he paid for in installments. And you thought that was a clever thing to say out loud because you’ve confused being mean with having a personality.”

The hallway was definitely listening now, the girl's friends had gone embarrassingly quiet and Logan’s mouth parted slightly. 

Jesus Christ.

He knew you were sharp. It would be foolish to assume otherwise, you noticed too much, remembered more and smiled too sweetly when people underestimated you.

His earlier sting dissolved so fast it was almost embarrassing, what replaced it was a mixture of warmer emotions. Pride, maybe. Definitely an attraction, so immediate and inconvenient it made his hand tighten around the drink he had forgotten he was holding.

The girl tried to laugh, “Okay, wow. It was just a joke.”

“Then tell it better.”

The phrase landed heavier than a boulder in water, and had displaced the noise with a silence that suffocated. 

Somebody actually whispered, “Oh my God.”

Your smile widened, “You wanna insult my boyfriend,” you continued, and Logan’s entire body went still at the word, “you can at least square your shoulders and use your whole chest. Don’t mumble it into the bathroom line like your mama raised you in a hallway.”

Logan made a sound, a short, disbelieving laugh broke out of him before he could stop it. He covered it badly by lifting his cup to his mouth, but you heard. Your eyes flicked to him for half a second, and in that half second he saw the tiniest flash of nerves under the fury.

A flicker of oh God, did I do too much? tucked under the performance of a girl who could gut someone with a smile.

The girl’s face had gone red, “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

Your brows lifted, “Bless your heart,” you said softly.

The girl froze, as if some ancient instinct had warned her that those three words were not a blessing at all.

You tilted your head,  “You thought that helped.”

Logan’s laugh escaped again and he didn’t bother hiding it. 

The girl looked between you and him, clearly recalculating whether this was a fight worth continuing, then muttered something under her breath and turned away with her friends. 

The bathroom door opened at almost the exact same time, and she disappeared inside with the brittle dignity of someone who had lost badly and planned to retell the story in a completely different light.

For two seconds, the hallway held its breath.

Then Allie, who had apparently appeared at some point behind them and was standing with one hand over her mouth, whispered, “Damn.”

You turned, “What?”

Allie’s eyes were huge, “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“What? Why not?,” you replied, eyebrows furrowed- almost insulted. 

“You’re terrifying.”

“I am not terrifying. I'm sweet. Like pie, which reminds me that I saw some cookies downstairs.”

“You just verbally took her apart in a bathroom hallway.”

You adjusted one of your earrings, suddenly very interested in the wall, “She was being rude.”

“She was being rude to Logan,” Allie said, like that explained absolutely everything.

Your eyes cut to Logan then. He could see the uncertainty once more, tiny, almost hidden, but he had learned you too well to miss it. The set of your mouth was still confident, but your fingers had returned to the cherry charm on your bracelet, twisting once, twice.

The line started moving again, noise slowly rushing back into the space. Allie slipped past you with a grin and muttered, “I need to tell Hannah immediately,” which meant half the house would know within the next five minutes that you had nearly exorcised the girl.

Logan didn’t find it in himself to care, instead he was focused on you.

You lifted your chin, “What?”

He stepped closer, he didn’t crowd over you- but he was close enough that your back pressed a little more firmly against the wall and your eyes had to tip up to meet his. 

“You okay?” he asked.

Your expression softened despite your obvious attempt to keep it sharp, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

You gave him a look, “I’m not the one who got insulted.”

“I’ve been insulted before.”

“I know that.”

“I was handling it.”

“I know that too.”

His mouth twitched, “Do you?”

Your eyes narrowed, “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Make me sound like I thought you needed saving.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinkin’ it.”

“No,” He shook his head, and this time the amusement eased into something quieter, “I was thinking she was lucky the door opened.”

Your mouth parted, then closed.

The accent, still lingering around the edges of your voice, softened when you spoke again. “You’re not mad?”

“At you?”

“Yes, at me.”

“For what?”

“For…” You gestured vaguely, the confidence slipping just enough that he wanted to take your hand, “I don’t know. Makin’ a scene.”

The makin’ did it.

Logan’s eyes dropped to your mouth and your brows lifted slightly. By the time he caught himself and looked back up, you had already seen.

“I’m not mad,” he said.

“Promise?”

“Cherry.”

“What?”

“You just called me your boyfriend and bullied a girl into rethinking her bloodline. I’m great.”

Your laugh came out surprised, bright and relieved, “I did not bully her bloodline.”

“You told her her mama raised her in a hallway.”

“She should’ve had better manners.”

“That’s not a denial.”

You tried to fight your smile and failed, “She was mean.”

“She was.”

“And wrong.”

Logan’s smile shifted, from bright and teasing to something softer- aware of what you had just said. You seemed to realise at the same time he did. 

For a second, neither of you moved.

The party swelled around you, the hallway hot and loud and smelling like perfume, beer and hairspray, but Logan only saw the flush creeping into your cheeks. You looked away first, rolling your lips together like you could press the truth back into place before it became too visible.

He reached out and hooked one finger lightly under the cherry charm on your bracelet, tugging once.

Your eyes came back to his.

“Wrong how?” he asked.

You glared at him, but there was no heat in it, “Don’t pry.”

“I’m not prying.”

“You are absolutely prying.”

“I’m curious.”

“You’re proud.”

“Also that.”

Your mouth twitched.

The line moved again, but you didn’t.

Logan leaned his shoulder against the wall beside you, mirroring your earlier position, his face close enough now that he could see the faint place where your lipstick had blurred at the corner from laughing. He wanted to fix it with his thumb. He wanted to ruin it. 

He wanted, with a suddenness that made him feel stupid, to hear you say sweetheart like that again, except not to some girl in a hallway. At him. Around him. In his truck, in his bed, in his kitchen someday when he’d done something to annoy you and you were pretending not to find him charming.

That was the thing about you. Every new piece of you made him greedy for more.

He nodded toward the bathroom door, “So.”

You looked suspicious, “So?”

“You have an angry accent.”

Your entire face changed, “I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“No, I do not.”

“Cherry, you said sweetheart like you were cocking a shotgun.”

You gasped, “That is a wild accusation.”

“You nearly made her apologise to my ancestors.”

“I was composed.”

“You were terrifying.”

“I was ladylike.”

“You threatened her in cursive.”

You pressed your lips together, but your eyes were dancing now, “I did no such thing.”

“You did.”

“Well.” Your chin tipped up, that accent still threaded through your voice now that he had noticed it and impossible to ignore, “Maybe she deserved it.”

Logan grinned.

God, he was done for.

There were many things he could have said then. Something about not needing you to defend him. Something about being fine. Something about how comments like that didn’t matter. All of those things would have been true enough. But none of them felt like the whole truth, and Logan had never been good at dressing things up when the simple version would do.

So instead, he said, “I like it.”

You blinked, “Like what?”

“The accent.”

The flush returned, fast and pretty, “It’s not usually that strong.”

“I know.”

“I don’t always sound like that, Mama says I get it from Nana when I’m mad.”

“That tracks.”

You elbowed him lightly, “Don’t be annoying.”

“I’m serious.”

That made you pause.

Logan dropped his gaze to your bracelet, then back to your face, “You don’t have to smooth it out around me.”

Your expression went soft in a way that made his chest tighten.

You tried to cover it, obviously. You rolled your eyes and said, “I do not smooth anything. I am a very authentic person.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am.”

“You have a campus voice.”

Your mouth opened, offended, “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I have a normal voice and then occasionally people test me.”

“People test you?”

“Yes.”

“And then Nana comes out?”

You pointed at him, “Careful.” You narrowed your eyes, but you were smiling now, helplessly, sweetly. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much.”

Logan’s grin widened, “Enjoying,” he said.

You stared at him.

He knew, immediately, that he had made a mistake.

“Oh,” you said softly.

He laughed under his breath, “No.”

“No, no.” Your smile turned slow and dangerous, “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you just correct me?”

“I was joking.”

“You were jokin’?”

“Cherry.”

“John.”

His full name landed differently with your accented, warmer and rounded- a little scolding, a little sweet. He realised that his name had never sounded like something that could be set on a windowsill to cool in the august breeze, until you said it like that. And Logan, who had willingly let Tucker practice shooting with him, had to shift his weight against the wall to hide his blush.

You noticed and your eyes, for just a brief moment, dropped to his mouth.

Then your smile went bright again, “Oh, you are in trouble,” you said.

He huffed a laugh, “Me?”

“Mhm.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You made fun of my voice.”

“I said I liked it.”

“You corrected it.”

“I corrected one word.”

“You corrected one word in a hallway after I defended your honour. That’s ungrateful.”

“You defended my honour?”

“Obviously.”

“You just said I didn’t need saving.”

“You didn’t. Your honour did.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense if you’re romantic.”

He looked at you, deadpan, “If I’m romantic?”

You sighed dramatically, “Never mind. I forgot you were emotionally slow.”

Logan’s eyes twinkled when you finished your sentence with a stronger drawl than you appreciated. 

“What?”

“The accent.”

You groaned, dropping your face briefly into your hands, “Oh my God, stop listening to me.”

“I’m not gonna do that.”

Your fingers parted enough for you to look at him, “Why not?”

A plethora of answers popped into his head. 

Because it’s you.

Because I like every version of you.

Because I thought I had you figured out and then you opened your mouth and sounded like summer met violence and now I’m fucked.

He said none of that, because he was still him, and you were still in a hallway with a bathroom line moving around you and Allie was absolutely pretending not to watch from the stairs.

Instead, Logan leaned in close enough that his voice could drop under the music, “Because I like when you sound like yourself.”

Your face changed, the teasing smile slipped for a second and your eyes softened as your mouth pressed together like you were trying to not let the compliment send you into a giggling fit.

Then, because you were impossible, you recovered by poking him in the chest, “You are being dangerously sweet right now.”

“Dangerously?”

“Yes. I don’t trust it.”

“You should.”

“I absolutely should not.”

“You should tell your boyfriend.”

You froze; Logan smiled, slowly, dangerously, all teeth and enjoyment of your hindsight. 

Your eyes narrowed. “Do not.”

“Oh wait,” he leaned down to whisper in your ear, “That’s me, you called me your boyfriend.”

“I was making a point.”

“Strong point.”

“It was rhetorical.”

“Didn’t sound rhetorical.”

“It was a debate tactic.”

“You debated her into leaving.”

“She needed air.”

“She needed a priest.”

You laughed, and the sound loosened something in him that the girl’s comment had tightened without his permission. 

The bathroom door opened again. The line shifted. It was your turn.

You glanced toward the door, then back at him, still smiling, “I have to pee.”

“Romantic.”

You shrugged at him, “I’m a romantic girl.”

“I’m learning that.”

You stepped toward the bathroom, then paused in the doorway and looked back over your shoulder. Your red dress caught the hallway light. Your lipstick was still perfect. Your eyes were bright with mischief.

“And Logan?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile curved, “If anybody else says somethin’ stupid about you tonight, I’m handlin’ it.”

His chest warmed.

“Yeah?” he said. “What if I want to handle it?”

You gave him a look so sweetly patronising it should have offended him,“Then, darlin’,” you said, accent curling thick and warm around the word, “you better get there before I do.”

Then you slipped into the bathroom and shut the door, he had half the mind to wait for a minute until you unlocked the door and keep it occupied for longer- but behind him, Allie made a sound that was far too delighted for his comfort.

“Oh, you are so gone,” she said.

Logan turned his head slowly.

Allie was leaning against the stair railing, grinning like she had watched the season finale of her favourite show. Hannah had appeared beside her at some point, and judging by the look on her face, Allie had already given her the essential details in record time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Logan said.

Hannah raised an eyebrow, “She called you darlin’ and you stopped breathing.”

“I didn’t stop breathing.”

“You did a little,” Allie said.

“I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Downstairs, someone shouted his name. Probably Tucker. Possibly Dean. Maybe both.

The party kept going, loud and stupid and alive around him, but Logan stayed where he was, leaning against the hallway wall, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other still holding a drink he had completely forgotten to give you.

He looked at the bathroom door again.

Darlin’

He was never going to hear that word normally again. Logan smiled to himself, small and very quickly hidden when Garrett appeared at the top of the stairs.

Garrett took one look at him.

Then at the bathroom door.

Then back at him.

“What happened?”

Logan cleared his throat, “Nothing.”

Allie snorted.

Hannah smiled into her cup.

Garrett’s eyes narrowed, “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you just got hit by a truck and enjoyed it.”

Logan took a sip from your drink by accident, grimaced at the sweetness, and stared down at the pink liquid like it had personally betrayed him. Then he looked back at the bathroom door, “Cherry has an angry accent,” he said.

Garrett blinked.

Allie started laughing.

And Logan, still tasting sugar on his tongue, realised he was smiling again.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝

[ilyahugs]

knowing

word count: 3,525 ship: Garrett Graham x reader rating: PG-13 summary: The guy you're dating is a dick and Garrett is done keeping his commentary to himself. notes: this is a picture of me because who thought i could ever just write one (1) reader insert: 🤡 notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :) notes3: my other GG x reader insert is here, and if you like reader inserts, I also wrote a bunch of nick leister (my fault london) ones

You’re pretty sure you’ve never felt heat crawl up your neck like this before, animosity licking at your nerve endings as you direct your gaze to someone you’ve always considered your best friend. Look, you’re not someone who gets pissed off easily. Not really. You’ll feel other emotions deeply—happiness, hurt, jealousy, but anger? It’s a wasted sensation. It burns too hot and takes too much out of you. 

Yet here you are, willing Garrett Graham to ashes at your feet because how does he have the audacity? 

“Who I date is not your business.” You snap. 

Garrett scoffs, his hands falling to his hips as he tears his gaze away from you. He’s smiling, but not in a way that’s amused. Good, he’s pissed too. Glad you’re not alone in this. 

You’ve been best friends with Garrett for years, he’s one of the first people you met when you were a freshman at Briar U. You clicked, connected, had a lot of the same classes and circles of friends. It’s always been something easy—like wearing your favorite sweater, or falling asleep. Something expected and automatic. Garrett is someone who’s been warm, dependable, loyal and there. He’s the person you turn to when you need advice or a shoulder to cry on, there’s no one better to dance with, to jump around and sing too loud, to join a drinking game with because you know you’re going to win with him by your side. You’d choose him time and time again; a whispered promise, a hand in the dark. 

Every single time. 

And yet—

“Not my business?” He asks, raising his eyebrows, “It became my business when we sat in there with that dumbfuck,” He points to the large windows of Malone’s, “and he didn’t know when your birthday was.” 

You swallow, wrapping your arms around yourself. You try to convince yourself that it’s cold, that there’s a breeze scraping by and getting through the thin layer of the puffy sweater you have on, but you know better. Unease skitters through your bloodstream like spiders. You hate that Garrett is bringing this up again. 

And you hate that he’s right. 

Tonight was supposed to be a chill night, hanging out with some of Garrett’s teammates who are your friends too, their girlfriends, your other friends and the guy you’ve been seeing for a month, Mark. Mark, who Garrett can’t stand and has been very clear on this fact ever since he met him. Which you just…you don’t understand. Yeah, Mark has his moments, but he’s…he’s a decent guy? 

One of the topics that had been brought up at dinner was your birthday. You had a huge party last year and Dean was wondering if it was business as usual for the weekend. Mark had asked if it was this upcoming weekend and Garrett had looked like he was ready to throw a napkin dispenser at his head. 

“Okay so—what, you’re the only person who hasn’t forgotten anything?” 

Garrett sighs impatiently from his nose, “Don’t,” He says after a moment, “C’mon, sunshine, Mark didn’t forget, he never knew when your birthday was. I bet you he still doesn’t know.” 

Sunshine. A nickname you’re so used to hearing coming from Garrett’s mouth. Something he’s called you for years now, ever since he teased you about always having a sunny disposition—it, for whatever reason, is making the bridge of your nose sting. 

“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, taking a step forward. His voice is strained; a frustrated hand winding through his curls, “Why are you wasting your time with this guy?” 

That same heat you felt before prickles underneath your skin. You know that Garrett is asking from a place of concern, even though his stance is unyielding and his voice is sharp. He cares about you and he’s frustrated because of it. But you hate the feeling of existing underneath a microscope, like you’re the only person in the history of ever to be in a relationship with someone where there was a hint of imbalance. As if everyone Garrett’s ever been with, which aren’t many if we’re being honest, were somehow perfect. 

“Okay,” You shake your head, a wet laugh falling from your lips. You can’t look at him, a thin vibration of an emotion you can’t name causing a slight tremble in your voice, “Just because Mark isn’t some sort of Briar U hockey legend doesn’t mean I’m wasting my time.” 

The argument lacks evidence and purpose and you know it. Garrett knows it. You know that Garrett knows it. You can feel him walk closer to you even though you’re not looking at him. Your bodies are like magnets, you can sense him even when far away. 

He reaches out and touches the pink fluffiness of your sweater, playing with the fabric between his fingers. You close your eyes when his fingers brush along your chin, knowing he wants you to look at him. You steel yourself, biting down so hard you swear you hear your molars crack. 

But your eyes find his hazel ones. A port in the storm, even now. 

“You know I don’t give a shit if he plays hockey,” Garrett replies quietly, voice and gaze softer than before. “I give a shit about you.” 

A breath skitters out of your lungs, your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage. And despite the fact that you know this, that it’s no different than things he’s said to you before, it feels too real, too sharp against your body. His words are like a knife sliding into all of your soft parts. 

“Well don’t,” You snap, pulling back from him. You wrap your sweater further around your body, turning on your heel, “I can take care of myself.” You walk away, keeping your gaze forward and your feet moving so that you don’t do something stupid—like allowing Garrett to hug you, like changing your mind. 

—

There’s radio silence from Garrett for the next two days. Which is…which is fine. That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you asked for? When you put your phone down for the third time, it lands with a noisy clatter. You’re annoyed with yourself that you can’t just be the bigger person and reach out to him. Soft shame licks against your nerve endings —I can take care of myself. 

Fuck. 

“Where’s your head at?” Mark asks, turning your attention towards him. 

You’re at a bar, supposed to be on a date, but you’re definitely not the best company right now. And he can sense it. You swallow and turn your body to face him on the stool, a tight smile spreading across your face. 

“Sorry I’m here. Just some stuff on my mind.” 

“For your birthday?” He has another onion ring, wiping his mouth with a napkin. For some reason the act of him eating food, his attention wholeheartedly on the appetizer instead of you digs under your skin. You clear your throat, tapping your fingers against the bar. 

“Yeah, sort of.” 

He smiles, his hand coming down on your thigh. You try not to flinch. “I was thinking babe, forget some sort of big thing. You know? We could have a romantic getaway. Just the two of us.” 

You blink at him, your mouth opening but no words spilling out. Then, “I can’t do that to my friends.” 

He has another onion ring, raising his eyebrows, “I mean, it’s your birthday. It’s your decision—you don’t have to throw a ridiculous party just for them.” 

A pain pings in your chest at the word ridiculous. The thing is, it’s not like your friends just want another excuse to party (though you’re not going to pretend that some of them definitely enjoy the prospect), at the end of the day, they want to celebrate you. 

Emotion clogs the back of your throat and you struggle to speak for a moment, licking your lips. Your thoughts wander back to last year, the party you had, the cake Garrett went out of his way to make sure he got for you from that bakery a town over. 

You can’t imagine having your birthday without him. 

The audacity of Mark who— “Mhm,” You hum, pausing, then— “And when’s my birthday?” 

Mark crumples the napkin in his hand, “What do you mean?” You stare at him. Oh my god. “It’s this weekend.” 

No, it’s not. It’s Friday. As in tomorrow. You’re just planning the bulk of the celebration for the weekend. 

Something akin to disappointment swirls in your chest, though you’re not sure why. Why would Mark remember your birthday when you just brought it up at Malone’s? The thought that all of this caused a stupid fight between you and Garrett swirls like acid behind your chest, dipping into your stomach, making you nauseous. 

You shake your head, pulling back from the bar, “I have to go.” You slide off the stool. 

Mark frowns, “Wait, what?” 

You draw in a breath, trying to keep yourself from shaking, “I’m breaking up with you. I should have done it sooner.” 

Before you can slip away from the bar, Mark’s hand comes down on your forearm, yanking you back into place. You wince, trying to pull your arm out of his grasp. You open your mouth to say something but he talks over you, gaze suddenly blazing—apparently he did not see this coming, “Don’t be a fucking brat.” 

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” You snap. 

“Let her go.” The bartender’s voice sounds, causing Mark to immediately drop your arm. He continues to ask if you need a ride called but you don’t stick around long enough to reply. 

Mark can pick up the tab; it’ll keep him inside a little longer as you begin walking down the street, just wanting to put distance in-between you and your ex. You debate calling a ride to head back to your place but…distantly, you know there’s only one place you want to be. Only one person you want to see. 

Tugging out your phone, you tap on Garrett’s message thread, 

y/n: are you home? 

—

It’s late by the time you’re walking up the steps of the off-campus house that Garrett and a few other of his teammates live in, but he’s already opening the door. In a pair of black sweatpants and t-shirt to match, he doesn’t ask questions as you walk over the threshold. The fact that he doesn’t say a word, that he just guides you into the kitchen with a gentle hand on your back, has to be chipping away at his well-practiced control. 

Garrett sits you at the island counter, moving towards the fridge. There’s a pint of ice cream in his hands a second later and two spoons, setting them down in front of you. His movements are calm and gentle, the only thing giving away the storm brewing inside is the occasional flexing of the muscle in his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils. 

But still he doesn’t ask. He just pulls a stool up beside you. And waits. 

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him up at a ridiculous hour when he was probably sleeping, giving you ice cream and caring about you after the last thing you said to him. Tears sting the back of your eyelids and with trembling fingers, you reach for the ice cream container. 

“Just have this on hand, do you?” You ask, voice cracking. 

Garrett lets out a slow breath, peeling it open when your hands keep fumbling. “I think we both know emergency ice cream is a must.” He picks up a spoon, scraping it over the chocolate to spoonful a bite into his mouth, “Pretty sure it was in the bylaws of the friendship contract we signed.” 

Your lips twitch, “I must have missed that page.” 

He scoffs, “It was on the same page that mentioned you being unable to sleep without an extra pillow against your back and that you consider chocolate ice cream to be the only acceptable dessert…otherwise you’d rather have mozz sticks from Malone’s. You didn’t miss it.” 

A sudden swell of emotion crashes into you like a physical wave, your hand coming up to cover your face. Fuck. Fuck. Garrett knows you well, he knows you so well and—and the fact that you’d been so angry at him for calling out something you should have been brave enough to say to Mark yourself…

You hate that your anger was so misplaced. You lashed out at Garrett not because he knew you, but because he knew you better than someone you were dating. 

How fucking embarrasing. 

“Hey no,” Garrett says gently, putting the spoon down, “Don’t do that.” His stool skids along the floor as he stands, moving to shift right beside you. When he pulls your hand away from your face, a shuddered sob slips out of your mouth. 

“Come here.” He whispers, tugging you against his chest. Because of the height difference, your head tucks itself underneath his collarbone, his firm arms wrapping around your back. He keeps you close, an open palm up and down your spine while the other tucks itself against your hair. 

You can feel his nose and lips press into your temple, his breath hot as he lets out a long sigh from his nose. Your fingers dig into his t-shirt, grounding yourself in his presence, the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett reaching into the branches of your lungs. 

This is not the first time you’ve cried so openly in front of Garrett and you know it won’t be the last, either, but some part of you hates knowing that this never would have happened in the first place if you just would have listened to what your friend was trying to tell you. 

Garrett only pulls back when he senses you’re ready, tipping his chin down to try and catch your gaze. 

You shake your head, his thumb dragging across your cheek to catch a tear track, “I’m sorry.” 

His eyebrows draw together and he reaches for a napkin on the counter to hand you, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

A small laugh escapes, the back of your neck heating along with your cheeks because really? “I kinda do.” 

His voice is firm, fingers on your chin again so your gaze meets his, “You really don’t.” 

Garrett pulls your stool closer to his own with his foot before he sits down again, handing you the extra spoon on the counter. His body is angled to face yours, his knee bumping into your leg. He does a playful cheers motion by tapping his spoon into the one you have, making a small smile pull into your face. 

“You gonna tell me what happened? Cause using my imagination isn’t helping.” 

You use the napkin on your face, tucking it into one of your pockets before spooning some chocolate ice cream into your mouth. Part of you really doesn’t want to tell him. You know that in all aspects of things that could have happened, it could have been worse. But…that same sort of sensation of shame wraps around you like barbed wire as you recall the interaction between you and Mark. Garrett is not the type of person to say I told you so; at least not about this. But you can still feel that ugly sentiment pressing against your throat at having to tell him what happened. 

“You don’t have to,” Garrett adds when you remain silent, “If it’s—” 

“No,” You interrupt, shaking your head. “I’m just…” You let out a long sigh, curling your hair around your ear, “I’m just embarrassed, that’s all. I should have listened to you.” 

“And if this were any other situation, I would ask you to repeat that sentence.” 

You roll your eyes, encouraging a soft laugh to leave his chest. The sound warms you from the inside out. 

“But,” He continues, “That’s not what this is.” He bumps you with his knee, drawing your attention to his face. When your gaze meets his, he offers you a small smile, “You can talk to me, sunshine. You know that.” 

You do know that. So you tell him about being at the bar. About Mark wanting the birthday celebration to just be you and him, how he was insistent on leaving your friends out. And then about how it got worse—about how, even after all of this, he still didn’t know what day your birthday was, and how when you tried to break up with him—

“He was just being a dick, almost wouldn’t let me leave the bar.” Your fingers rub absently at your wrist. 

Garrett clocks the movement, slowly setting his spoon down near the carton, “Do we think he’s still there? At the bar?” 

Your hand comes down on Garrett’s arm before he can stand up, “It doesn’t matter if he is, don’t even think about it.” 

He purses his lips, standing as if his intention was always to put his spoon in the sink, “No idea what you’re talking about.” 

You have one more scoop of ice cream before putting the lid on it, carrying it over to the freezer to put away, “Mark isn’t worth it.” 

Garrett catches your hand, gently smoothing his fingers over the red marks on your forearm. His nostrils flare again as he draws in a breath but his eyes are calm and warm. “No,” He agrees, “He’s not.” 

The air feels filled with static electricity connecting both of your bodies and for a second you…your gaze finds Garrett’s mouth. There’s this moment where you think about how Garrett never liked Mark, about that argument outside of Malone’s, how maybe it had nothing to do with your ex not remembering your birthday and everything to do with something else. Something that’s clearly simmering for you both directly under the surface, that’s been there the whole time and you didn’t see it until now. 

Your stomach flips. It’d be so easy to close the distance, to lean and kiss him.

“Sunshine,” Garrett says gently, his hand falling onto your shoulder to stop you from—

“Oh my god,” You take a step back, your hand covering your mouth, “I’m sorry, I don’t know…” 

“No,” Garrett says quickly, reaching for you before you can do something drastic like…rush out of the house. Heat gathers along the back of your neck and flutters your pulse as Garrett hooks his hand behind your elbow. “We’re very much on the same page,” He promises, “I just don’t want to kiss you while you’re upset over another guy.” 

It’s not the worst let-down you’ve ever heard and besides…Garrett’s right. Tonight might have unlocked something in you but it wouldn’t be fair to take time to decompress, to push everything into these wee hours of the morning.

Garrett leans down and plants a kiss to your cheekbone, “C’mon, I’ll get you settled upstairs.” 

He offers you a hand that you take; one of the easiest things you’ve ever done. 

—

You sleep in Garrett’s bed, which isn’t completely out of the ordinary. What is different, however, is how you’re woken up. 

Sunlight streams in through the curtains and there’s quiet shuffling before a weight sinks in beside your knee. It takes you a moment to fully wake up, to realize what’s going on. You drag a hand over your face, squinting before Garrett slowly comes into focus. 

He’s dressed comfortably, a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp like he recently showered. Drowsiness lingers before you realize he’s holding a chocolate cupcake in his hand, a skinny green candle sticking out of it. 

He smiles, “Morning sunshine.” 

Shifting in bed, you lean back against a small stack of pillows. “What’s this?” You raise your eyebrows. 

“This?” He asks, pursing his lips, “Birthday cupcake.” 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and you touch the tip of the unlit candle, “Tucker?” 

Garrett’s mouth opens in mock offense before he laughs, the sound making your stomach flutter, “Okay, contrary to having a chef in the house, I can make things without burning the kitchen down.” 

A breath catches in your throat, your eyes falling to the chocolate cupcake with white icing and tiny pink sprinkles, “You got up and made these?” There’s a sensation building in your chest like a rolling wave, utterly touched that Garrett would do something like this. Especially when you showed up last night out of the blue, freshly broken up with fucking Mark. 

Garrett remembers things easily—things that matter to you. Things that remind you that you’re not difficult to love. 

“Well…” He trails off, “If you don’t want it…” He pretends he’s going to get up. 

You quickly gather his shirt in your hands, pulling him close. His smile is wide again, eyes warm, “I want it.” You insist, then, “Guess what my wish is.” 

Garrett holds your gaze for a long moment before it dips to your mouth, “I don’t think I have to guess.” And draws you into a slow kiss. The cupcake will just have to wait. 

[sunnydilaurentis]

to heal a heart | found family au ⋆˚࿔

✩.* found family fics!

✩.* found family masterlist

summary: in which garrett spends a fundraiser being congratulated for everything he's achieved, only to be reminded of the father who missed it all, and the family who never did.

notes: hi!! this story below is based on this request! thank you so much for sending this idea through, i'm truly obsessed <3 i hope you enjoy!! 💌

ꪆৎ

neither of you discuss phil attending the fundraiser much after the initial conversation.

mostly because there isn't much to say.

phil graham has always existed like a storm cloud on the edge of garrett's life. sometimes distant. sometimes quiet. sometimes absent for months at a time.

but never gone.

never far enough away for garrett to completely forget about him, or for the possibility of him showing up unexpectedly to disappear.

you notice the shift almost immediately after the text arrives. not because garrett provides too much detail, he rarely does, but because you know him.

after nearly a year together, you've learnt the difference between exhausted garrett, stressed garrett, overwhelmed garrett, and the version of garrett that only ever appears when phil is involved.

he gets quieter. not withdrawn exactly, just distracted. like part of him is somewhere else.

the smiles still come, but they never quite reach his eyes.

that's the thing people don't understand about phil graham. the damage isn't always loud. sometimes it's invisible. sometimes it's months later and a single text message is enough to pull garrett right back to places he'd spent years convincing himself he was over.

it's the way garrett checks his phone every few hours despite insisting he doesn't care. the way his jaw tightens whenever someone mentions parents.

you know better than to push. garrett will talk when he's ready.

so instead, you stay close. hold his hand a little tighter. curl up in his lap while you study. press kisses against his jaw when he starts disappearing into his own head.

for the most part, it works.

until the fundraiser.

until phil actually shows up.

suddenly all the distance garrett had carefully built between himself and the hurt comes crashing down at once.

-

the annual briar hockey alumni fundraiser is one of the few university events he genuinely enjoys. not because he likes wearing a suit, not because he enjoys spending hours making conversation with donors, former players and university trustees.

simply because hockey has always been the one place that feels uncomplicated.

there's comfort in rooms like this. comfort in walking into a space filled with people who understand the sport that has shaped nearly every part of his life.

former captains drift between tables sharing stories from championship runs twenty years ago.

retired coaches stand near the bar arguing over systems and line combinations as though they aren't all technically off the payroll now.

alumni return with spouses and children and point out photographs hanging on walls, introducing their children to the university that once meant everything to them.

it's familiar, comfortable, home.

tonight, for the first time in weeks, garrett looks relaxed, actually relaxed. the kind that softens something behind his eyes, that loosens his shoulders.

you spend most of the evening tucked comfortably beside him while he moves from conversation to conversation, his hand settling instinctively at your waist whenever somebody stops him to talk, pulling you back into his side every time the crowd threatens to separate you.

at one point an alumnus asks him how he's balancing hockey, classes, captaincy and a relationship all at once. the man laughs halfway through the question. "i could barely manage one of those."

garrett grins, then immediately reaches for your hand, pulling you forward before you can protest.

"honestly?"

his fingers intertwine with yours. warm, certain, effortless.

"y/n makes it feel easy."

your heart squeezes because he says it so easily, like it's obvious. the alumnus smiles, placing his hand on garretts shoulder before nodding his head, "smart answer."

garrett laughs. "just stating the facts."

his thumb brushes once across your knuckles before the conversation continues. the action is so small, so absent-minded, the kind of touch that nobody else notices.

but to you, it means everything.

you love this version of him. the one who isn't carrying the world on his shoulders, the one who smiles easily, who feels safe.

you take a moment, dragging your eyes away from the conversation before you to check in on your friends whereabouts. you notice dean, logan, tucker, grace, sabrina and allie standing around a singular high table, laughter escaping from their lips.

they all seem to be enjoying themselves, until you suddenly notice dean go quiet. he's watching the entrance, eyes fixed, jaw tight, expression completely unreadable.

immediately you feel your stomach drop, because dean di laurentis is many things, subtle is not one of them. this expression, this carefully controlled stillness, only ever appears when he's trying very hard not to react to something.

you follow his gaze and immediately understand.

phil graham.

standing near the entrance, smiling.

you feel your chest sink, lungs deflating. for one awful second you hope garrett hasn't noticed yet. unfortunately, your luck doesn't hold, and you feel him go completely still beside you. his hand stops moving against your waist, his laughter dying halfway through the conversation.

every muscle in his body suddenly seems to lock into place.

you don't look at him immediately, you don't need to, you already know exactly what you're going to find. when you finally turn your head, the sight hurts anyway. the warmth is gone, completely gone.

phil spots him almost immediately and before anybody can think of a way to intervene he's already crossing the room.

already smiling, already playing the role.

you watch garrett drain the entire glass of whiskey in one long swallow.

your stomach twists as anxiety flows throughout the course of your body. garrett rarely drinks like that, not when he's relaxed, not when he's happy, not when he's himself.

only when something is wrong, really wrong.

he stares across the room for a second longer before reaching towards a passing waiter carrying a tray of drinks. your hand moves before your brain has time to catch up, and your fingers wrap gently around his wrist, stopping him.

garrett's eyes immediately drop to where you're touching him before lifting to meet yours. for a second neither of you speak, you simply hold his gaze, hoping it's enough.

a quiet warning. don't. don't let him take more from you tonight. don't give him that much power.

understanding flickers across his features before he exhales slowly through his nose. you watch as his fingers begin to uncurl, letting go of the glass, and the waiter continues on to the next group.

the smallest part of tension leaves his shoulders and his eyes remain on yours for another second. long enough that you realise he's silently thanking you.

ꪆৎ

after twenty minutes of watching phil perform fatherhood for an audience that doesn't know any better, you spot them standing alone near one of the display cases.

just the two of them. phil talking, garrett listening, or at least pretending to.

his shoulders look impossibly rigid beneath his suit jacket and his smile has vanished entirely, being replaced with a crooked grin, a scowl. even from across the room you can see the muscle jumping repeatedly in his jaw.

your chest aches. nobody should have to do this alone. you cross the room, slipping into the conversation with ease before garrett has to endure another minute talking to his father by himself.

"phil."

you offer a polite smile, warm enough to be respectful, nothing more.

"it's nice to see you again."

phil immediately brightens, launching into conversation with a sort of ease that's unsettling. he asks about your classes and about campus life. the entire time you're aware of garrett beside you. aware of the way his posture changes and the way some of the tension eases. the way his hand settles instinctively against your waist, his thumb brushing once, twice, against your side.

somehow it says everything. thank you. thank you for coming over. thank you for making this easier. thank you for not leaving me here alone.

which only makes your heart hurt more because garrett is always everybody else's safe place, and tonight he's just trying to survive.

ꪆৎ

the worst part is that the evening keeps going. the conversations never seem to stop and neither do the compliments.

everywhere garrett turns somebody seems to have something wonderful to say about him. about his season, his captaincy, the person he's become.

he feels proud until every single conversation inevitably circles back to his father, as though he belongs in his story, as though he was present for the chapters in his life that mattered most.

you watch him intently from across the room, now stood with your friends in a quieter corner of the ballroom. garrett endures it all with a composure that becomes increasingly difficult to look at.

he's surviving, but barely.

his smiles are still there, so are the polite responses. the easy charm that everyone expects from him remains too, but it's becoming thinner now, harder to maintain, as though every interaction is slowly wearing away another layer of patience, of composure, of self-control.

his jaw stays locked almost constantly, his gaze lingering on his drink long after conversations end, as though he's trying to gather enough strength to survive the next one.

every time your eyes find his across the room, he gives you a small smile, a reassuring one. the kind that's supposed to say.

i'm okay.

you take a small sip of your champagne, an attempt at easing the growing ache inside your chest. you know garrett's not truly okay, you know it's just for show.

dean's nursing a beer beside you, logan's expression has steadily darkened throughout the evening, and the remainder of your friends keep glancing towards the same space of the room.

towards garrett and phil, and the increasingly exhausting performance taking place between them. you all watch on as phil laughs at something and garrett forces a smile in response before immediately looking away afterwards, trying to maintain his composure.

dean exhales sharply through his nose beside you, the sound carrying all the frustration that he isn't saying aloud. "jesus christ."

logan doesn't even look away from garrett. "i know."

dean shakes his head. "no, seriously guys" his jaw tightens. "look at him."

"he's hanging on by a thread", tucker adds, shaking his head.

logan swallows another mouthful of beer. "he's going to hit a wall soon."

no one argues, because nobody can pretend otherwise anymore. the signs are all there. garrett's never been particularly explosive. he's never been the type to lose his temper because of phil publicly. if anything, he's spent years perfecting the art of swallowing it down and moving on.

that doesn't mean it doesn't affect him, it doesn't mean there isn't a limit. looking at him now, you can't help but wonder how much longer he will keep pretending it doesn't hurt.

dean mumbles. "he's fuming. he won't show it...but he is." you nod slowly in agreement, because you can see it too, beneath the surface, but still present.

as though sensing your attention, garrett looks up, his eyes finding yours immediately. across the room. across dozens of conversations.

something in your chest tightens, because the second your eyes meet, you know. he's done. you see it in the exhaustion, the strain, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing keeping him upright, keeping him sane.

the conversation around him continues. phil is still talking, failing to notice the way garrett's attention is fixed entirely on you.

he excuses himself, mid-conversation, just walks away.

tucker's eyebrows raise. "so he's finally tapping out for the night?"

logan nods once, "must be."

your pulse quickens as garrett moves through the crowd, already making his way towards you. his expression remains carefully neutral, his posture controlled.

the closer he gets however, the more obvious it becomes. he's barely holding himself together. he finally reaches you, doesn't say hello, doesn't even spare a second glance at anyone else, he simply closes his hand around yours, immediately, firmly.

like somebody reaching for a lifeline.

"come with me." the words are low, strained, and you don't hesitate, not for a second.

your friends watch him lead you away, exchanging a knowing look between themselves. allie tips her head, sending you a warm, encouraging smile.

garrett needed an escape. somewhere quiet. somewhere he could finally breathe.

the second the ballroom doors close behind you, the noise disappears. the music, the conversations, the laughter. all of it turns into muffled, background noise.

the hallway beyond is almost empty. garrett keeps walking, he doesn't slow down, doesn't stop. his hand remains locked around yours as he leads you further away from the event. further away from phil, further away from the version of himself he's been forced to perform all evening.

"garrett." your voice is gentle, careful. he doesn't answer, just keeps walking as his grip tightens around yours.

the nearest private space turns out to be a quiet corridor near the bathrooms, tucked away from the fundraiser and almost completely deserted. the moment he reaches it, he stops, abruptly, as though his body has finally run out of momentum.

for a second he simply stands there. his head lowered, one hand still wrapped tightly around yours, the other pressed against his hip.

he's breathing, heavily, and it's clear that he's trying so hard to hold himself together. you step forward, wrapping your arms around him, and he breaks immediately.

not into tears, not yet, but something inside him gives way. his arms come around you so fast it almost steals your breath, pulling you against him, holding you impossibly close.

like he's been trying not to reach for comfort all night and he's finally allowing himself to.

you feel him exhale against your shoulder, a long, shaky breath, then another, followed by another. each one slightly less steady than the last.

you feel your heart crack. garrett never let's people see this.

the world gets captain graham. confident graham. reliable graham. the version who always knows what to do, who everybody leans on. nobody gets this, the exhausted man standing in your arms trying desperately not to fall apart.

your hand slides into his hair, fingers combing gently through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. his forehead drops onto your shoulder and his eyes squeeze shut, like he's savouring the moment.

for several long seconds neither of you speak. right now he just needs somewhere safe to put the weight he's been carrying. his grip tightens and you feel another shaky breath leave him.

then finally, after what feels like forever, his voice breaks the silence.

"i can't do it."

the words are so quiet you almost don't hear them. "hey."

garrett shakes his head, his arms tighten around you instead, not enough to hurt, but enough to make it obvious how desperately he needs this. how desperately he's been holding himself together for hours.

"i can't."

another breath leaves him. uneven. exhausted. "i'm so fucking tired, y/n."

your hand slides further into his hair. gently, carefully. the way you always do when he's overwhelmed, "i know."

"no."

his voice catches. "i don't think you do."

the words aren't harsh, they aren't directed at you, if anything they sound defeated. he's clearly reached a point where he doesn't know how to explain what this feels like anymore.

he stands there, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, before he eventually pulls back enough for you to see his face. the sight nearly undoes you. he looks exhausted, like he's spent the entire night carrying something far too heavy for one person.

"everybody loves him."

your chest tightens instantly in response. garrett laughs, except there's absolutely no humour behind it.

it's hollow, bitter, broken around the edges.

"every conversation tonight was the same thing." his eyes drop briefly towards the floor.

"'you must be proud of him.'" another humourless laugh.

"'you did such a great job raising him.'" his jaw clenches, hard.

"look at the man your son has become." he shakes his head in disbelief, like he still can't quite wrap his mind around it all.

"and the whole time i'm standing there thinking, what the fuck are you all talking about?"

silence settles between you. it feels heavy, painful. garrett drags a hand across his face.

"he wasn't there."

his voice comes out sharper now, years of frustration finally finding somewhere to go. "he wasn't there for any of it."

you don't interrupt, don't try to soften it, because he deserves to say it, deserves to finally express his anger, even if it is just to you.

"my mom drove me to every practice." his eyes remain fixed somewhere beyond you, as though he's lost in memories.

"every tournament." his voice wavers slightly.

"every game."

your throat tightens.

"she sat in freezing arenas for years." he laughs weakly.

"half the time she was exhausted and still showed up anyway." he takes another breath.

"and somehow he gets to walk into that room and smile while people congratulate him for all of it."

the next words crack, just slightly, but enough.

"like he earned any of it."

your eyes sting, because underneath all of the anger and frustration is hurt.

"he doesn't know anything about me." the words come quieter this time, more vulnerable, more honest.

"he doesn't know my birthday." garrett swallows.

"he doesn't know what classes i'm taking." another breath.

"honestly, i'm not even sure he'd know my middle name."

something inside you completely shatters, because he says it so casually. like it's normal, like he's had to make peace with that fact years ago. except he clearly hasn't, not really.

"and that's the thing." his eyes meet yours again, red around the edges now.

"he keeps showing up when there's something worth showing up for."

your chest aches. "when people are watching."

another breath. "when there's an audience."

he laughs quietly. "when being my dad actually benefits him."

you immediately reach up and cup his face, forcing his gaze to meet yours. "garrett."

his eyes close, like he's embarrassed, like he's said too much, which only makes you ache harder for him. "he doesn't get to take credit for you."

garrett immediately shakes his head. "it's not that simple, y/n."

"yes it is." your voice is firm, filled with certainty.

"he doesn't get to take credit for your captaincy." your thumb brushes beneath one of his eyes.

"he doesn't get to take credit for the hardworking, dedicated student that you are." another brush.

"he doesn't get to take credit for the man you've become."

his jaw tightens, and you keep going. "every single person in that ballroom is proud of you because of who you are," your throat tightens.

"not because of him."

garrett looks away immediately, raw emotion flashing across his features.

"my mom-"

you nod, "your mom helped build that. she deserves every damn bit of that credit."

another nod. "dean helped."

you see the corner of his mouth twitch slightly, a small smile gracing his features.

"logan."

"tucker."

"us girls."

"all the people who actually show up." your voice softens. "all the people who chose you."

something shifts across garrett's expression. the sort of expression he only ever lets a handful of people see. eventually he whispers, "i still wish he'd be different."

the words are barely audible, but they hit harder than everything else.

the real wound. not the anger, not the resentment, not the disappointment, but hope. the tiny stubborn piece of him that still exists after all these years, the part that still hopes phil could change.

your eyes immediately fill with tears. "oh, garrett."

he lets out another weak laugh, "i know."

"no." your arms wrap around him again immediately, holding him close, holding him so tightly that he can't possibly doubt it.

"listen to me." he goes quiet, and for the first time all night you feel him actually listening, really listening.

"there is absolutely nothing wrong with you for wanting your dad." his breathing catches, ever so slightly, but you continue anyway.

"people always act like there comes a point where you're supposed to stop caring." your hand slides through his hair. "like one day you're magically meant to wake up and decide you're over it." another gentle stroke.

"but that's not how it works."

garrett remains completely still. "because no matter how old you get, that's still your dad." your own throat tightens. "part of you is always going to wish he'd wake up tomorrow and become the father you deserved." his eyes squeeze shut, you keep going, because somebody needs to say it.

"part of you is always going to wonder what it would've been like if he'd actually shown up." your voice breaks slightly, "and that doesn't make you weak."

another pause. "it doesn't make you pathetic."

you brush away a tear before it can fall. "and it definitely doesn't make you stupid." garrett finally looks at you again, completely wrecked, completely exhausted.

"i'm tired." the confession comes out broken.

"i know."

"i'm tired of being angry."

"i know."

"i'm tired of pretending i don't care." your chest hurts, "i know."

he laughs weakly, shaking his head. "it's embarrassing."

"no." you answer immediately, firm enough that his eyes lift back to yours. "you were supposed to have a father that showed up. you were supposed to have somebody in your corner. you were supposed to have somebody who genuinely cared about the things that mattered to you."

your voice softens. "you didn't get that." garrett's jaw tightens at your words, you're quick to squeeze his hand, comforting him.

"and that's unfair, incredibly unfair. but it doesn't mean you're alone."

his eyes meet yours, softening. "look at all of the people inside, garrett."

"dean trusts you with things he doesn't tell anyone else. tucker has been hovering around you all night making sure you're okay. logan somehow manages to involve you in every part of his life. the girls all worry about you whether you want them to or not." a watery laugh escapes him, and you find yourself smiling, a wave of relief flooding through your system.

"you have people in your corner. an entire group of them." your thumb brushes across his knuckles.

"people who know your coffee order. people who know when you're upset before you say a word. people who celebrate every win like it's their own and show up for every loss without being asked."

garrett swallows hard, taking in your words. "family isn't always the people who are supposed to love you." your voice is quiet now, frail almost.

"sometimes it's the people who choose to, and every single one of us would choose you, garrett. every single time."

garrett's expression crumples, completely.

that's the thing about your friend group, your family. they don't erase the hurt. they don't replace what should have been there, but they remind garrett that somebody chose to stay when they didn't have to.

eventually he leans forward again, burying his face against your shoulder, holding onto you like a lifeline, and this time, when your arms wrap around him, he finally stops fighting it.

he finally lets somebody else carry some of the weight with him.

✩.* taglist; @05gwyn | @alwaysclassyeagle | @casiiopea2 | @nexisphere | @imstressed17 | @legendarychrattgirl | @ethanthequeefqueen | @wiishies | @legendarychrattgirl | @tabisswag | @corvusmorte | @mariiibash | @stevesxwhore | @choppedpartymuffinwinner | @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns | @leilareads58 | @nikfigueiredo | @archxve | @s0ftdr1nks | @persasseajackson | @avengersheart | @brxght-world | @plants-w0rld | @hamilronweasley | @dyslexicepicfan | @livformadrid | @louiseblackwell

[puckingcuckbunny]

🜼 — 𝟎𝟕 . 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆

thank you @pinkyups for the gif <3 and @v6que for the divider <3

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 𝟕,𝟐 𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : 𝐀 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞-𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞, 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐭.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 [𝐟! 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠], 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐣𝐨𝐛 [𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠], 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤, 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐮𝐦 𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 [𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐥𝐨𝐥], 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 [𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝].

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝, 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 ! 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 🜼

You woke up with your face half-buried in your pillow, one leg outside the sheets, one earring still in, and the very distinct feeling that something catastrophic had happened.

Catastrophic in the way that meant your life had shifted slightly to the left while you were busy wearing Betty Boop red lipstick and making choices on a porch.

You blinked at the sliver of sunlight cutting through your curtains.

Your head softly throbbed once, a polite warning from your liver- in response, slowly, you lifted your face from the pillow and immediately regretted it because the room tilted just enough to remind you of two things.

One, you had beaten Dean at shots. Again. 

Two, you had kissed Logan.

Not just kissed him.

That would have been misleading. That would have been the polite, edited version you could tell your mother if your mother were not your mother, and therefore not already spiritually aware that something had happened. 

You had kissed him first, yes, which you considered important for the record, but then Logan had bundled you against the porch banister, pushed his thigh between yours, kissed you like restraint had become offensive, and left you with smudged lipstick, ruined pin curls, and the kind of memory that made your entire body go warm before breakfast.

You groaned into the pillow, then smiled into the plush case and groaned again because smiling meant it had actually happened.

Your phone buzzed on the bedside table.

You reached blindly for it, knocked over a scrunchie, nearly dropped the phone on your face, then finally unlocked it with one eye half-open.

There were messages.

So many messages.

Mama 🌽❤️

Drink water, baby. Ginger tea if your stomach is upset. Eat something salty. Your aunt says pickle juice but she is wrong. x

Daddy 🐑

Hope you had fun, princess. Be kind to your liver today. ❤️

Mama 🌽❤️

Also your father says he is joking but he is not. Eat something.

You smiled despite yourself, warmth blooming through the hangover haze. Of course Mama knew. Not specifics, hopefully. Please God, not specifics. But she knew enough to send hangover instructions and pre-emptive emotional support to your liver.

There were also messages from the group chat.

🐈‍⬛ [Allie]

soooooooooooooo

Betty Boop disappeared last night

with a bird

interesting migratory behaviour

personal play boy bunny 🐰 [Hannah]

Are you alive? Also please tell us everything.

Also, you changed everyone's names in your phone- I managed to identify half of them and included names in their contact card.

I would've changed them back, but then you insisted on using your phone to show beau some curtains for the beach house.

🐈‍⬛ [Allie]

I AM NOT BEING ANNOYING I AM BEING A WOMAN IN STEM

AND Beau's beach house would benefit from new curtains, after he set half of them on fire with a tequila molatov

personal play boy bunny 🐰 [Hannah]

You are majoring in theatre.

🐈‍⬛ [Allie]

Exactly. The science of human disaster.

Bee-man 🐝 [Tucker]

You got home safe. I walked you back. You tried to explain why bees are unfairly marketed as less romantic than butterflies. You’re welcome.

Bee-man 🐝 [Tucker]

Also you said Winston would understand me. And a cow named Geraldine.

You pressed the heel of your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly.

Then you saw Logan’s messages.

Mechanic 🔧

You up?

Then ten minutes later,

Mechanic 🔧

Coffee?

That was it.

No awkward “about last night.” No over-explained paragraph pretending he had not kissed the taste of your own lipstick out of your mouth. 

Just, ‘coffee?’

As if the answer to whatever had happened between you on the porch was simple.

Mechanic 🔧

I want to see you.

Your stomach flipped so suddenly you sat upright, which was a mistake.

“Oh,” you whispered to your room, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Bad choice.”

Your phone buzzed again.

Mechanic 🔧

Alive?

You typed back too quickly.

cherry 🍒

yes alive!! sorry. mildly haunted by vodka but otherwise functional.

Mechanic 🔧

Dean said you beat him at shots.

cherry 🍒

Dean should be ashamed.

Mechanic 🔧

He is. Loudly.

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

Mechanic 🔧

Coffee?

You stared at the word.

Then at yourself in the mirror across the room, hair flattened on one side, one earring, smudged mascara you had apparently missed despite washing your face, sweatshirt twisted around one shoulder.

A vision of what could happen after your friend group and alcohol. 

cherry 🍒

give me 35 minutes.

Mechanic 🔧

I’ll give you 45.

cherry 🍒

that was both compassionate and offensive.

Mechanic 🔧

Drink water, Cherry.

You looked at the phone for one long second.

Then flew out of bed.

Getting ready took forty-two minutes.

You knew because you checked twice, once while brushing your teeth and once while standing in a towel in front of your wardrobe trying to decide whether looking nice for coffee the morning after a porch makeout was too eager, not eager enough, or simply a normal response to being asked for coffee by a man who had learned the exact shape of your mouth less than twelve hours ago.

You showered. Washed your hair. Reapplied moisturiser and depuffed your face with cold spoons because Mama had taught you many things and one of them was that swelling respected temperature. You drank a full glass of water. Ate half a banana because Hannah’s emergency snack doctrine had finally reached you.

Then came the outfit.

Coffee was not a date.

Unless it was.

But he had not said date.

He had said coffee.

After kissing you.

After asking if you were alive.

After telling you to drink water like a man with either compassion or dangerous boyfriend potential.

You chose denim shorts, a deep red fitted top with a little wrap detail at the front and the red ballet flats that always made you feel like you had escaped from a French film with good lighting. Gold jewellery. Cherry gloss instead of lipstick because morning lipstick felt aggressive unless one was attending brunch with enemies. Hair brushed out, loose and shiny, clipped back with a small red bow.

You looked in the mirror.

Casual.

Pretty.

Not insane. Possibly insane if someone knew the internal labour behind it, but externally normal.

Your phone buzzed.

Mechanic 🔧

Here.

! cherry 🍒 reacted ♥️ to the message

Your heart did something that should have required medical attention.

You grabbed your bag, paused, added mints, lip balm, tissues, and painkillers because being kissed did not cancel out a hangover, then hurried downstairs.

Logan was leaning against his truck when you stepped outside.

He looked unfairly awake.

Jeans, a dark shirt, open plaid overshirt rolled at the sleeves, hair still slightly damp like he had showered not long ago. He had one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a coffee he must have brought for himself on the way, though the cup was untouched. His eyes lifted when the door closed behind you.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

The morning seemed too bright for what you remembered from the porch. Too normal. Too crisp and public. Birds chirped somewhere like they had not been raised properly. A neighbour’s dog barked. A cyclist passed at the end of the street.

Logan looked at you, focussed entirely on your form as you continued your way up to him.

“Morning.”

You walked down the steps, trying very hard not to smile like an idiot, “Morning.”

“You alive?”

“Barely. Tucker walked me home and apparently I lectured him on bee representation.”

“He told me.”

“Did you also tell him he was very polite after catching us?”

Logan’s smile deepened, “Yeah.”

“Good. He deserves public recognition.”

“I’ll get him a plaque.”

“You should.”

You reached the truck but did not immediately move to open the door. Logan stayed where he was, close enough that the space between you felt like it remembered things.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, eyes catching on the glint of your cherry gloss.

Your stomach flipped.

“Hi,” he said again, softer.

You laughed under your breath, “You said that already.”

“Yeah.”

“Are we being strange?”

“A little.”

“Good. I thought it was just me.”

His hand came out of his pocket, fingers barely brushing yours once. Then, he did it again, more purposefully. You looked down as he took your hand.

Sliding his fingers through yours beside his truck in the middle of the morning, like it was the natural next step after kissing you breathless on a porch at Beau’s beach house.

Your fingers curled around his automatically but your brain took a few moments to catch up.

Oh.

Public street.

His hand. Your hand.

Happening.

You looked around, not because you were embarrassed of him, but the world had suddenly gained witnesses it had no business having.

Logan noticed, “You okay?”

“Yes.” You nodded quickly, “Yes. I just-”

“People?”

“Not in a bad way.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed once over your knuckles, “This is.. still new.”

Your chest softened so quickly it was almost embarrassing.

“Yes,” you nodded, “Exactly.”

He opened the passenger door for you, then hesitated before you climbed in, “You free this weekend?”

You looked back at him. “For what?”

His thumb tapped once against the top of the door, he glanced around the two of you and pressed his lips together, “A date.”

Your mouth parted.

“With me,” he added, “In case that needed clarifying.”

You stared at him.

He waited.

“A date,” you repeated.

“Yeah.”

“This weekend.”

“Yeah.”

“With you.”

His mouth twitched, “That part I covered.”

You swallowed, trying to manage the ridiculous swell of happiness in your chest before it rearranged your face into something too obvious, “Yes.”

His expression shifted, relief, then innocent pleasure in the form of warmth that he tried, and failed, to make casual. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you said, smiling now because you could not stop it, “I would like to go on a date with you.”

His eyes dropped to your smile, then back up to your gaze. 

“Good.”

“Good.”

Neither of you moved.

Then someone’s car door slammed down the street, and you both blinked back into the morning.

“Coffee first?” he asked.

“Yes. Before my liver writes a letter to Congress.”

He laughed and helped you into the truck.

The coffee shop was busy enough to make the whole thing feel more real.

Students with laptops. A woman reading at the window. Two guys in Briar hoodies arguing quietly over a group project. The smell of espresso, sugar, toasted bread, and cinnamon wrapped around you the second you stepped inside, and your hangover, mild though it was, responded with deep gratitude.

You stood in line beside Logan, your shoulder brushing his arm. Every time it happened, you had to remind yourself that touching him was allowed now.

Last night had taken all the little almosts - the waist touches, the hovered hands, the glances that lasted too long - and weaved them into something undeniable. Now when Logan’s fingers brushed your lower back as the line moved forward, it did not have to be explained by crowd movement or practical safety. He could just touch you because he wanted to.

You could lean into it because you wanted to.

This was going to be a problem.

A very good problem.

When it was your turn, you ordered your usual, iced coffee, cherry syrup, oat milk, extra ice, and a pastry because Mama had commanded salt and your body had negotiated sugar. Logan ordered a hot coffee and a breakfast sandwich.

You reached for your card. Logan was faster and had already tapped his before it had emerged from your wallet.

You looked at him, “I can buy my own coffee.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you do that?”

“Wanted to.”

“That is not economically logical.”

“It’s coffee.”

“It’s symbolic.”

He took the receipt from the barista, “Then let me be symbolic.”

You stared at him and he met your eyes with a calm smile. 

Your stomach gave up its last remaining dignity. While you waited near the end of the counter, Logan took your hand again. It was easier this time. Still shocking you enough that sparks flew through your fingertips. His fingers slid between yours, warm and sure, thumb moving lightly over the side of your hand. You looked down at your joined hands, then up at him.

He was already watching you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“You are doing a nothing face.”

“I like your shoes.”

You looked down at the red ballet flats, “Thank you. I think they are appropriate for coffee.”

“Good to know.”

“And your shirt is nice.”

His brows lifted, “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You always this formal when flirting?”

“I am not flirting formally.”

“You complimented my shirt like I submitted an application.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but Logan interrupted you, he glanced around the coffee shop quickly, then leaned in and kissed you. He tasted faintly like his first coffee and toothpaste. 

You blinked when he pulled back,“What was that for?”

He wiped cherry gloss from his lower lip with his thumb, “Dunno. You look pretty.”

The sentence arrived casually enough that it took your nervous system a second to register the damage.

“You can’t just say things like that in the morning.”

“Why?”

“Some of us have nervous systems.”

His grin came slow. Thankfully before a violent blush could overtake your face, the barista had called your name. 

You grabbed the coffees too quickly, nearly fumbled the pastry bag, and Logan took it from you with a quiet laugh that made you want to either kiss him again or file a complaint.

You ended up sitting in a corner booth by the window, knees brushing under the table, hands wrapped around your drinks. At first, conversation came in starts and stops because every silence seemed to hold the echo of the night before. Then, slowly, it returned to what it always had been between you, odd, easy, full of small arguments and too much sincerity.

You told him about your course, about a lecture that had made you question whether one professor had ever met an actual animal or only read about them in an aggressive book. Logan asked questions in that focused way he had, elbows on the table, coffee forgotten near his hand. You told him about Nana moving between the orchard and animal farm, about Winston’s escapades, about Mama’s hangover cure and Daddy’s liver warning.

Logan told you Dean had tried to pretend he was not hungover and then stared at a glass of water for ten minutes like it contained answers. Tucker had made breakfast for everyone who stayed over. Garrett and Hannah had disappeared to get coffee and returned looking disgustingly well-rested. Allie had apparently threatened to expose Dean’s “Maverick hangover” to the public if he didn’t help her find her bra. 

You laughed until your head hurt, then winced when it did. 

Logan immediately slid his water glass toward you, “Hydrate.”

“You sound like Mama.”

“Good.”

“She will like that.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Your gaze lifted.

His did too.

The words sat there, soft and too future-shaped for a coffee shop booth.

He did not take them back and instead of prodding at his intentions, you took a sip of water trying not to smile into the glass. 

The date was set for Friday.

And by Friday afternoon, you had built an outfit, a snack plan, and a full relationship with your picnic basket.

The drive-in was showing Grease as part of a summer throwback series, and you had chosen it with the seriousness of a woman selecting a diplomatic venue. It was fun, romantic, not too serious, not too abstract, familiar enough to make talking over it acceptable, and musical enough that Logan could complain while secretly knowing half the lyrics.

You wore the white eyelet dress with the red ribbon details.

It was objectively one of the prettiest things you owned. Strapless, with delicate embroidered flowers, tiny red bows threaded through the bodice and tied along the skirt, the fabric falling soft and bright around your legs. You paired it with red heels, a glossy pair that made your calves look nice and your confidence slightly dangerous. A red cardigan went over your arm in case it got cold. Gold necklace. Cherry gloss. Hair down, soft and shiny, with one small red ribbon clipped near the side because you were not fighting your nature tonight.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and decided, with only mild panic, that you looked like someone going on a first date.

Which was accurate, so you let the panic die. Somewhat. 

When Logan pulled up, you watched through the window for two seconds before going downstairs.

He got out of the truck, then paused when you came outside.

Jeans, with a Cream henley tucked in and a Carhartt-style jacket in a worn olive shade draped over his shoulders. His hair was slightly messy, like he had run a hand through it one too many times. God had favourites, and apparently one of them owned work jackets.

Logan’s eyes moved over you once as you pushed open the door of your building and started towards him. 

“You ready?”

You lifted the picnic basket, “I have supplies.”

His mouth curved, “Of course you do.”

“Outdoor cinema is a hostile environment.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. There are temperature changes, unpredictable snack quality, and public bathrooms. One must prepare.”

He took the basket from you, “You look beautiful.”

You froze. He said it so casually, like a fact. Like the weather. Like something he had noticed and therefore reported. 

You swallowed, “Thank you.”

His smile softened.

You walked to Cherry together, because you had a theme tonight, and were prepared to commit crimes to keep it intact. 

Cherry the Chevy had been washed that morning and polished enough to gleam under the late afternoon light. You opened the back door to put the picnic basket inside, arranging it carefully on the blanket you had already laid across the seat. When you shut the door, Logan was suddenly closer.

Your back touched the car.

He planted one hand on the roof beside your head, the other lightly at your waist, boxing you in without trapping you.

“Hi,” he said.

You tilted your head and smiled up at him, “Hi.”

His head dipped toward your shoulder, and for one warm, dizzy second, he tucked his face against the side of your neck and inhaled.

You went still, “Logan.”

“Hm?”

“Are you smelling me?”

“Yeah.”

“That is very forward.”

“You always smell good.”

You wound your arms around his neck, pressing your nose into his shoulder as he rubbed placatingly along your waist. You attempted to look stern when he pulled away slightly, but failed. 

Then he retreated just enough to reach into his jacket pocket.

“Speaking of.”

He held out a tiny perfume tester and your eyes widened. 

“Oh my God.”

His mouth twitched.

“Where on earth was this?”

“My room.”

“Since when?”

“When you first came over to the house.”

You stared at him, “Logan. That was a month ago.”

He paused, blinking down at you as you crossed your arms. You’d been living on other perfumes for the past month, settling for anything but your favourite perfume that lived in your purse. Until you lost it indefinitely. Or so you thought. 

Then he said, “My bad.”

Your mouth fell open, “You kept my perfume tester for a month?”

“I forgot I had it.”

“You forgot?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

He looked away for one second, suddenly interested in the pavement in front of you. A slow smile spread across your face when you noticed the blush on his cheekbones.

“You’re obsessed with me. Lowkey.”

His eyes returned to yours, “Lowkey?”

“Highkey, but I was being gracious.”

He scoffed, but you were already leaning up to kiss him. It was meant to be quick, more of a reward for being ridiculous.

It became less chaste when his hand tightened at your waist and your fingers curled around the front of his jacket. He kissed you against Cherry’s door with the picnic basket behind you, the perfume tester caught between your hands, and the evening sun warm over the street.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was shiny with your gloss.

He looked down at you,“Keys.”

You blinked, “What?”

He plucked them neatly from the open top of your purse.

“I’m driving.”

“Cherry is my car.”

“Cherry likes me.”

“You cannot use my car’s affection against me.”

“She told me.”

“She did not.”

“She starts first try for me.”

Your eyes narrowed, “That is manipulative.”

He opened the passenger door with a grin, “Get in.”

You did. Because you were apparently going on a date with a man who could steal both your keys and your common sense.

The drive-in sat just outside town, tucked behind a field with a big white screen at the far end and rows of parked cars facing it like worshippers at a very specific automobile cult. The sun was sinking when you arrived, sky turning peach and gold, the air warm enough to have the windows down. Someone directed Logan toward a spot near the back, which he chose with suspicious competence.

“You’ve been here before?” you asked.

“Couple times.”

“With who?”

He glanced at you and you worked hard to keep your face innocently curious. 

His mouth curved, “Jealous?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I am asking for general purposes.”

“Sure.”

You opened the picnic basket with great dignity and began setting things out while he laughed. Popcorn. Cherry cola. Crisps. Sweets. Napkins. A tiny container of strawberries because you had panicked in the shop and decided fruit made the basket balanced. A folded blanket. Hand wipes. Two bottles of water.

Logan watched as you arranged everything, “You always bring a full household to the movies?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

He reached for the popcorn, “Means I don’t have to.”

You smiled, pleased.

The movie began as the sky darkened fully.

Grease filled the screen, bright and familiar, all summer heat and old-school drama. You settled in with your legs tucked under you, cardigan over your lap, popcorn between you and Logan. For the first ten minutes, you watched properly. Maybe fifteen. You sang under your breath at the first song and elbowed Logan when he pretended not to know the words despite mouthing them half a second later.

“I saw that.”

“Saw what?”

“You know the lyrics.”

“Everyone knows those lyrics.”

“You said you tolerate this musical.”

“I tolerate it with knowledge.”

“That is a very male sentence.”

He threw one piece of popcorn at you.

You gasped, “Assault.”

“You’ll live.”

“I may not.”

“Want me to call Nana?”

“She would side with me.”

“She would like me.”

“She probably would, which is only because you’re handsome and she isn’t blind.”

He smiled and held the popcorn out to you as a peace offering. You accepted. Five minutes later, his arm was along the back of the seat, and your shoulder had somehow found its way against his side.

It should have felt strange.

Sitting beside Logan on an actual date after weeks of pretending neither of you were slowly becoming the first person the other looked for in a room. After Winston. The garage. The game. The costume party. After his hand at your waist and your lipstick on his mouth.

Instead, it felt terrifyingly natural.

Like the date had been waiting underneath the friendship all along, and now that someone had finally said the word, nothing had to rearrange itself. 

You were halfway through telling him why Rizzo was emotionally the strongest person in the film when you realised Logan was not watching the screen. He was watching you.

You stopped mid-sentence, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Is there something on my face?”

“No.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

His eyes moved over your face in the flicker of movie light, “You’re just really pretty Cherry”

Your breath caught.

It was the same thing he had done at the coffee shop. A casual sentence delivered like it had not just pulled the floor out from under you.

“You’re a terrible flirt,” you said.

His grin rose slowly, “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You’re into it though.”

You turned toward him, heartbeat already changing, “Yeah,” you admitted softly, “I am.”

The first kiss was gentle. Smiling.

A little sweet because both of you were still half-laughing, because Grease was playing loudly through the little speaker and the popcorn bag crinkled between you when you shifted closer. Logan’s hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing near your ear, and you leaned into him with the easy, dizzy relief of being allowed.

The second kiss lasted longer.

The third opened.

By the fourth, you had forgotten the movie entirely.

Logan kissed differently on a date than he had on the porch. There, he had been pushed to the edge by jealousy and red lipstick and your tiny pecks finally breaking him. Here, he had time. Privacy, almost. Soft darkness, a car that smelled like old leather and cherry cola, movie light slipping over his face, his hand cupping your jaw like he could hold the whole moment there if he was careful enough.

You shifted closer and his hand slid to your waist.

Your breath came faster, “The movie,” you whispered against his mouth.

He pulled back immediately, just enough to look at you, “We can stop right now.”

Your fingers tightened in his jacket.

“I’ll watch the movie if you want,” he said, voice rough but steady. Then, after half a second, because he was Logan and apparently incapable of lying when it mattered, “But I’m not gonna lie to you, Cherry. I do not give a fuck about the movie.”

A laugh broke out of you, breathless and bright.

“I’ve seen it five hundred times.”

His eyes darkened, “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

That was all the permission either of you needed.

You climbed over the console badly.

Your heel caught on the edge of the blanket, the popcorn nearly tipped, and you muttered an apology to the cup holder before Logan caught you by the waist and pulled you into his lap with a laugh that turned into a groan when you settled over him.

“You apologise to objects a lot.”

“They get caught in the crossfire.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.” You adjusted the skirt of your dress over your thighs, suddenly aware of the fact that you were in his lap at a drive-in with movie light flickering over the windshield and his hands steady at your waist. “Are you?”

His eyes dropped to where you sat over him. Then back up.

“No.”

Your face heated, “Logan.”

“What? You asked.”

You kissed him before he could say anything worse.

The car became very small.

His hands moved over your waist, your back, the bare skin at your shoulders where the dress sat low, and yours slipped beneath his jacket, feeling the warmth of his henley and the shape of him underneath. You kissed him until your mouth felt swollen, until the windows had begun to fog faintly at the edges, until the movie was only sound and colour somewhere beyond the glass.

At first, it was just kissing.

Then it became your hips shifting over him, slowly just barely enough for you to notice. 

His hands tightened at your waist, “Cherry.”

You froze,“What?”

“You know you’re doing it again?”

Your face burned, “Balancing?”

His mouth curved, “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You feel good.”

Your hips moved again, this time on purpose.

His eyes fluttered half shut, “Oh, fuck.”

The curse went through you like heat.

You leaned into him, mouth near his ear now, suddenly braver because you could feel what you were doing to him, “Still don’t care about the movie?”

His hands flexed at your waist, “I don’t even know what movie we’re at.”

You laughed softly.

Then his hand slid under the skirt of your dress.

To your thigh, warm palm against skin, thumb stroking once as he waited. Your body went still for a second, not from fear, but from the sudden awareness of the next step. The fact that you were not on a porch anymore. Not being interrupted by a bee-costumed Tucker. Not stumbling into a first kiss. You were here, on a date, choosing this with him.

Logan felt the stillness, “Hey,” you looked at him,“We don’t have to do anything.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

His hand stayed still against your thigh, you swallowed then lifted your hand to his mouth- his eyes followed your movements and furrowed slightly in confusion when you paused against his lips. 

For one second, you wondered if you should say it. Then his lips parted slightly, and the thought disappeared.

You touched your fingertips to his lower lip, “Can you…”

His eyes flicked to yours, “What, baby?”

The word baby nearly made your brain empty out.

You pressed your fingers lightly against his mouth, and he understood before you had to finish. His tongue touched your fingertips, warm and slow, wetting them while his eyes stayed on yours. The intimacy of it made your chest tighten, made your breath tremble, made every inch of your body suddenly too aware of itself.

When he took your hand gently and guided it down, you let him.

His fingers replaced yours a second later.

Slow. Careful. Testing over your underwear while the movie played bright and forgotten beyond the windshield. Your head fell forward against his shoulder, one hand gripping the front of his jacket.

“Like that?” he murmured.

You nodded.

His hand paused, “Words, Cherry.”

“Yes,” you breathed, “Like that.”

“Good girl.” Your hips jerked.

His mouth brushed your temple, “Yeah? You like that?”

“Logan.”

“I know.”

His fingers moved again, slow strokes that made your breath come apart in small pieces. There was nothing rushed about it, nothing frantic, though he was hard beneath you and breathing like restraint was something he had to keep rebuilding. 

He touched you like he was learning the shape of your reactions. Like the soft gasp you made when he pressed slightly firmer was information he intended to keep.

You clung to him, face tucked against his neck, moving into his hand in helpless little motions.

The car smelled like cherry cola, warm skin, popcorn, and the faint clean edge of his cologne. Outside, someone laughed several cars away. On screen, people sang and danced, completely ignored.

“Cherry,” he murmured.

“Mhm?”

“You with me?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

You lifted your head enough to look at him.

His face was close, eyes dark, mouth still shiny from your gloss and from where you had touched him. His expression was hungry, yes, but careful too.

You kissed him.

“Yes,” you whispered against his mouth, “I’m with you.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and your mouth opened on a silent gasp.

“There?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He touched you properly then, and the world narrowed to his hand, his voice, his mouth at your jaw. You were already so worked up from kissing, from grinding against him, from the entire awful sweetness of the date, that it took very little to make you shake. His fingers moved in slow circles, then firmer when you whispered more, his other hand holding your waist to keep you steady when your thighs began to tremble.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” he said, voice low against your skin.

Your eyes squeezed shut, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Say things.”

His mouth curved at your neck, “You like when I say things.”

“I like it too much when you say things.”

“Yeah?”

Your hand tightened on his shoulder, “Yes.”

Logan brushed his mouth up from your neck to your cheek and pressed a kiss to your dewy skin, “My honest girl.”

The praise made your body shudder and your breath break around his name. Logan kissed you through it, fingers never rushing, never stopping, drawing you closer with each stroke.

When you came, it was quiet.

A soft, broken sound into his mouth, your body tightening in his lap, nails pressing into his shoulder while he held you steady. He murmured something against your lips - good girl, that’s it, I’ve got you - and the words followed you down until you were boneless against him, face tucked into his neck.

For a while, he only held you.

His hand moved carefully away. His other arm wrapped around your back. You breathed against him, warm and dazed and slightly embarrassed by the fact that the movie was still going like nothing had happened.

Then you felt him beneath you.

Still hard beneath your thigh and breathing carefully, his chest rising steadily as he tried to be good and respectful. 

You lifted your head.

His eyes opened, like he had known from the change in your breathing, “What?” he asked.

You looked at him, then drummed your fingers gently in their place, you glanced down at his jeans and met his gaze once more.

His jaw flexed, “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

Your voice was soft but steadier now, “Can I?”

His eyes darkened, “Yeah.”

You glanced down between you, suddenly shy enough to make him soften.

“Cherry.”

“What?”

“You can tell me what you want.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to be perfect.”

Your eyes lifted, “I’m not trying to be perfect.”

His thumb brushed your waist, “No?”

“I’m trying to be good.”

His expression changed, “Oh, baby.”

Your face warmed fiercely. “Not like- I mean-”

“I know what you mean.”

You swallowed, “Can you…” You glanced at his mouth, then at your hand.

He understood. This time when you held your hand toward him, Logan caught your wrist and brought your palm to his mouth. The gesture was slower than yours had been, his eyes on you as he spat lightly into your palm. Heat rushed through you so fast you almost forgot to breathe.

“There,” he murmured, “like that.”

Your fingers curled.

Then your hand moved to him.

The first touch dragged a sound from his chest that you felt more than heard. His head tipped back against the seat, jaw tight, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before he forced them open again, like he did not want to miss you.

You watched his face. The way his mouth parted, the way his breath punched out when your thumb moved the way he quietly told you to, the way his hand tightened at your waist when you found a rhythm that made his hips shift beneath you.

“Like this?” you whispered.

His laugh came out wrecked, “Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Fuck, Cherry. Yes.”

The curse made you clench around nothing.

His eyes sharpened through the haze, “You like hearing me?”

Your face went hot and you tried to look down, but he caught your chin with two fingers.

“Hey,” you met his eyes, “You do?”

You swallowed and nodded, “Yes.”

His mouth curved, strained and devastating, “Good to know.”

“Don’t use that irresponsibly.”

“No promises.”

You would have scolded him if he had not groaned then, low and rough, because your hand had tightened exactly where he had shown you. The sound went through you like his praise. You leaned in and kissed him again, swallowing the next broken breath he gave you, feeling the way his body fought for control under yours.

It was intimate in a way you had not expected.

You had thought it would feel bold. Maybe even dirty and thrilling because of the drive-in and the darkness and the fact that neither of you cared about the movie. 

It was all of those things. 

But more than that, it felt like learning. Like Logan letting you see him undone in pieces. Like the instructions he whispered into your mouth were not just commands but him trusting you, trusting whatever you had turned into.

“Good,” he breathed, “Just like that.”

Your hand moved and his hips jerked once.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

You smiled against his mouth, “Don’t be.”

His hand tightened at your waist, “Cherry.”

“What?”

“I’m close.”

“Oh,” Your stomach fluttered.

He laughed breathlessly. “Yeah. Oh.”

You kissed him again, softer now, and kept going the way he had told you. His forehead dropped to yours, breath uneven, lips brushing yours between curses and praise that made your whole body hum. 

When he came, he held your wrist gently but firmly, guiding you through it, his mouth open against yours, the sound of your name breaking low in his throat.

Afterward, both of you were silent and the movie continued in the background. The car windows were fogged enough now that the world outside had blurred into colour and sound.

You looked down at the napkins sticking out of the picnic basket.

Then at Logan.

He followed your gaze.

A laugh broke out of him.

You covered your face with your clean hand. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“You packed napkins,” he said, like this was both the funniest and most devastating thing that had ever happened to him.

“Outdoor cinema is an unknown environment. I like being prepared”

“Thank God.”

You laughed too then, soft and helpless, but the sound faded when you looked down again and saw the mess still warm and glossy across your fingers. Logan’s laughter thinned with it. You felt him go still beneath you, felt the whole car shrink around the two of you while the movie kept flickering uselessly across the windshield.

You tilted your head, considering him with a sweetness that did not quite match the way your pulse had started to beat.

“I mean,” you said lightly, “if you want to laugh at my tissues…”

Logan’s eyes lifted to yours.

Your stomach flipped at the look on his face.

You brought your hand to your mouth before you could overthink it, tongue slipping over your fingers in a slow, careful drag that turned his expression from amused to ruined in the space of a breath. 

He did not blink. He barely moved. His lips parted, his chest rising like he had forgotten what air was supposed to do, and the sight of him watching you like that made something warm and reckless bloom beneath your ribs.

“Cherry,” he said, voice rough.

You hummed, far too innocently for what you were doing, and leaned closer.

There was still a little of him on his stomach, a pearly streak that had slipped down the flushed length of him while he was too busy laughing at your emergency napkins to notice. But you noticed and you had been raised to clean up after yourself.

Logan’s hand shot to the back of the seat when you bent over him.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, lips hovering just above his skin, “Still funny?”

He shook his head once, too fast, “No.”

“Good.”

Then you lowered your mouth and licked him clean, slow enough that his whole body jerked under you, slow enough that the breath he dragged in sounded almost pained. The taste of him lingered on your tongue. Salt, heat, skin. Logan made a strangled sound and one hand came to your hair holding on like he needed somewhere to put the shock of you.

You sat back with your mouth glossy and your cheeks hot and your eyes much too bright.

Logan stared at you.

For once, he had absolutely nothing to say.

You reached for a napkin with exaggerated dignity and dabbed delicately at the corner of your mouth, “See? Useful.”

A broken laugh left him, more disbelief than humour, and then he was pulling you back toward him, kissing you hard enough that the napkin crumpled between your fingers.

“You,” he murmured against your mouth, still breathless, still half-laughing like he could not decide whether to worship you or accuse you of attempted murder, “are going to kill me.”

You smiled into the kiss.

“Hopefully, it's very practical.”

Eventually, you settled back beside him, no longer in his lap but tucked under his arm, dress smoothed, heels off now, red flats-less feet tucked beneath the blanket because you had complained about temperature changes and then been proven correct. Logan kissed the top of your head once as the movie moved toward its ending.

You watched for approximately three minutes.

Then whispered, “Do you know what’s happening?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“Good movie.”

“Excellent.”

His chest shook under your cheek.

The final number played bright and loud across the screen. You watched it with the solemnity of people who had absolutely not missed half the plot due to mutual orgasmic collapse. When the credits rolled, cars began starting around you, headlights blinking on, people laughing and packing up blankets.

You did not move immediately.

Neither did Logan.

His hand traced slow, idle lines over your shoulder.

You looked at the screen, then at the darkening field around it, then down at the picnic basket half-empty on the floor.

“That was a good first date,” you said softly.

Logan looked at you, “Movie or after?”

“Logan.”

“Both?”

You tried to glare and failed, your unimpressed pout shifting into a begrudging smile, “…both.”

His smile was so warm it made your chest ache.

He leaned in and kissed you once, gentle and lingering, nothing like the frantic heat from earlier and somehow it still made your stomach flip dangerously.

When he pulled back, you looked at him for a long second.

There was one more place.

You had known before the movie even started, though you had not admitted it to yourself fully. One more place you wanted him to see. One more piece of your world, older and quieter and more private than the barn with Winston or the garage with Daddy. 

A place that felt like summer evenings, sticky fingers, childhood games, Nana’s laughter, Granddad pretending not to know where the good cherries were hidden.

A place that made sense after Grease, after the car, after his hands, after the softness that had settled between you like it had always belonged there.

“I have one more place I want to show you,” you said.

Logan’s gaze sharpened slightly, “Now?”

“It’s not far.”

“Cherry.”

“It has an orchard.”

He stared at you.

Then laughed under his breath, shaking his head, “Of course it does.”

You smiled, reaching for your heels and slipping them back on, “And a very good view.”

“Of course it does.”

“And possibly the best cherries in the state.”

“Possibly?”

“I’m being humble.”

“That’s new.”

You swatted his arm lightly.

He caught your hand before you could pull away and kissed your knuckles, one by one, because apparently Logan had decided public flirtation was not enough and private tenderness needed to become your new problem.

Your breath caught.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Your smile softened, “I just like when you do that.”

His thumb brushed over your fingers, “Good to know.”

You narrowed your eyes, “Again, not information to be used irresponsibly."

“No promises.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling when he started Cherry’s engine.

The drive-in emptied slowly behind you. The road ahead stretched dark and warm, lined with trees and late-summer air, and you sat beside Logan in your white dress and red heels, your picnic basket in the backseat, your heart still beating a little too fast.

“One more place,” you promised.

Logan looked at you, then at the road, “Lead the way, Cherry.”

[lovelytsunoda]

HER AURA WAS BLUE | Dean Di Laurentis

Summary: After practice, Dean would have preferred to just relax with his girlfriend. Instead, she’s teaching him exactly how aerial yoga works.

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Yoga Teacher!Reader

Warnings: Guys it’s Dean- you know he’s making a sexual innuendo about the silks lmao. Dena makes a fool out of himself attempting yoga but he does it because he’s in loooooveeee

One of the things that Dean Di Laurentis loved the most about the Briar weight room was the set of massive windows that looked in on the yoga studio.

It was a show both ways: the guys in the weight room would show off for the sorority sisters in lululemon, and the ladies in the yoga studio were more than happy to ogle the hockey players below.

But over the last couple of months, while his teammates still cheered and grandstanded for the fit young women in downward dog, Dean realized there was only one student that he wanted to see.

She flourished in the liminal space between classes. When her students had left and she was alone in the studio. Dean loved watching her move with the silks. She looked ethereal and angelic, using the delicate silk like a resistance band, suspending her leg in midair as she performed a pose that opened her hips.

She was a goddess, and Dean was so lucky to call her his.

Behind him, Logan wolf-whistled. “Are you going to keep staring at her like a perv, or can I have my spotter back?”

“Fuck off, Logan.” He said quickly. “I’m watching my woman work.”

Logan came to stand next to him as the pair watched her fold herself over the silks in a deep back-bending inversion, effectively suspending herself from the ceiling. Her hands braced against the mat below her, a peaceful expression on her face as she breathed into the stretch.

“Isn’t she amazing?”

He wasn’t going to lie- the flexibility that his girlfriend possessed contributed massively to the success of their sex life. But when he watched her on the silks, it was like watching a work of art.

When the team was finally ready to call it a day, Dean wasted no time drying his hair off before sauntering up the stairs to the studio. The doors, windows and walls were all intended to be soundproof, but he could hear the faint bass of an old pop punk song playing as she sank into another inversion. She looked so relaxed.

He slipped inside the studio as quietly as he could, which was easy when blink-182 was playing so loudly that he couldn’t hear himself think. She had her eyes closed, breathing steadily.

“Nice of you to make an appearance, Di Laurentis.”

Dean laughed, turning the radio down. “How can you focus with the music that loud?”

“It calms me.” She answered. Her eyes were open now, but she was still in the inverted butterfly stretch. “Much better than the white noise I have on for the freshman. If I hear one more whale song I think I’ll scream.”

Dean laughed, hands in the pockets of his Nike shorts as he leaned against a shelf holding yoga blocks. “You going to kiss me, sweetheart, or are you just going to hang there like a vampire bat?”

“Asshole.” She laughed, gripping the sunflower-yellow silk and easing herself into a sitting position, using the silk as a swing.

Dean circled to the other side of her mat, grinning as he pulled her in for a kiss. “You know what terrible idea this is giving me? Two words. Sex. Swing.”

She laughed into the kiss, kicking him lightly. “Not on these. Too much weight will tear the fabric.”

“A man can dream.”

She slipped out of the silk, still giggling as she crossed towards the supply shelves. “Wanna learn something fun?” She grabbed a yoga mat from the shelf, and started examining the silks for length. “Let me show you the inversion. It’ll be a good way to relax before you get on the ice. It will help you get your head in the game.”

She set up a station next to hers, hanging the silk from the metal bar on the ceiling and inspecting it for damage.

“Babe,” Dean started nervously. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?” She beamed, settling back into her own silk. “Come on, it’s easy. Start by sitting in the dead middle of the silk.”

Shaking his head, Dean grabbed a hold of his own silk, awkwardly settling his tall, muscular body in the middle. “Okay, humor me. What now?”

“Grab the silk with both hands. Now you’re going to swing your legs up and around the silk. Watch.”

When she did it, she looked so graceful. She leaned back slightly, looping her legs up and wrapping her toes around the silk.

When Dean tried, he looked like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time, and almost kicked himself in the face in the progress.

She laughed, reaching to tap him on the shoulder. “Make sure that the silk stays under your hips, otherwise you’ll fall.”

It took a bit more fumbling, but centrally Dean managed to contort his legs into something resembling the pose that she herself had done.

“Now, make sure you’re holding the silks tight, and then lean back towards the floor. Trust that the silk will support your weight.”

“Babe,” Deans voice was soft. “I’m a hockey player. I don’t think the silk can hold me.”

“Trust, Di Laurentis.” She scolded, bending her back into a deep stretch, forearms planted on her mat. It was the same inversion she had been in when Dean first entered the studio.

Dean leaned back, caught off guard when the silk began to swing, his body gently swaying back and forth. He took a few deep breaths, steadying himself before he let go of the silks.

He attempted to mimic his girlfriends stretch, planting his hands on the floor as he competed the inversion.

“Hey, this isn’t so bad.” He mused.

Of course, he’d spoken too soon. His arms began to shake under the pressure, and he tried to breathe through it, engaging his core muscles. He could feel his sweaty body sliding out of the sling, and was helpless as his hips lost purchase on the silk, sending his body crashing to the studio floor.

“Dean?” She asked through laughter. “Are you okay?”

She swung up and out of the inversion, gracefully stepping out of the silk as she rushed over to Dean, trying to untangle him from the fabric.

“You must have the fucking core muscles of a Greek God.” Dean laughed as she helped him to his feet. “That shit is impossible.”

“Just takes practice, babes.” She grinned, kissing him softly. “You aren’t the first person to fall out of a sling during their first inversion.”

[deandilaurentis-fics]

COLD FINGERS

Dean Di Laurentis x figureskater!reader

HOT TO HANDLE

—

“Yo Dean!” Tucker called to the front of the group making Dean turn to his attention, “Isn’t that your girl?” He asks as they pass over the bridge. A full glass wall allowing them all to see down onto the rink. He looks over immediately.

The guys all slowed, gathering by the glass to watch.

Dean knew you were training this afternoon after their session, you’d told him that maybe you’d see him there as he pressed a kiss to your lips before leaving you this morning.

And there you were, skating alone beneath the bright arena lights. Your coach stood by the boards, his arms crossed and no doubt barking instruction to you. Dean had met him a couple of times, each time equally as terrifying.

That man can yell.

Your blades carved elegant arcs across the ice, every movement precise and controlled. The way you made it look so effortless had the hockey team watching in a bit of a trance as you spun. Soon enough you were picking up speed, arms stretching out as you prepared for a jump.

“Damn,” Logan muttered. “How does she make that look so easy?”

Dean smiled because you really were incredible, but as he looked, really looked at you, his smile faded a little.

While everyone else saw a talented figure skater, which you absolutely were there was no doubt about it, but what Dean was able to see was the tension your body was holding. Your shoulders tight, jaw was locked.

There was a tiny crease between your eyebrows.

You were frustrated and if Dean had learnt anything about you in the months you’d been together now, he knew you were emotional and super dedicated to your sport, but frustration wasn’t an emotion you dealt with well. He folded his arms and watched the next move with concentration.

You were gaining speed fast, your knees bending in preparation and then you launched into the air and for a split second you seemed weightless, suspended beneath the white lights with a Hozier song echoing around you.

It’s a routine you’d been working on for months, jumps you’ve pulled off before, timing not too complicated. But recently it just wasn’t working how you needed it to.

So as you came down to land something wasn’t quite right.

The second your blade touched the ice, Dean knew what was coming.

His stomach dropped as your foot slipped, your body twisting and with a loud thud - hit the ice. Your hip took the brunt of it as the sound echoed through the arena, sharp and sickening and even through the glass and with the noise being muffled Dean winced.

You hit the ice hard.

“Jesus.” Garrett muttered and on the ice for a moment you just sat there.

Dean was holding his breath. From where he stood, he could see you, shoulders rising and falling harshly. Not injured but definitely simmering.

Just still, scarily so.

And then you growled slamming your hand against the ice and ripping off your skates, right there in the middle of the rink.

Dean sighed, a knot tightening in his chest.

Yep. That’s a bad day.

He was moving for the stairs before he could think better of it, the boys not too far behind him. You both made it to the corridor leading to the changing rooms at the same time.

The boys all shifted aside when your stride didn’t falter at the sight of at least seven hockey guys. Though if they hadn’t of moved they reckon she had the strength to push them out of her way.

Dean however, stepped forward. Hand reached out to wrap gently around your wrist that you yank out of his grip so harshly one of the boys let out a low whistle.

“Baby, that was a nasty fall are you-“ you cut Dean off by storming right past him. “…okay?” He trailed off just watching as the ladies changing room door slam shut behind you.

“Ooft.” Logan said patting him on the shoulder after a second of silence. “Good luck with that one bud.” He told Dean before the boys snickered and dispersed.

He lingered behind figuring he’d feel better being here when you come out, and maybe you’ll feel better for seeing him too once you’ve cooled off.

He was an athlete too, he understood to frustrations that come with not winning or not getting it right. Sure he was a little hurt you brushed him off but he’ll get over it.

When you did finally leave the changing room he looked up from his spot on the bench and took you in. Your eyes were still bright with frustration, cheeks flushed from exertion and embarrassment. But also a little sadness creeping in around the edges.

Your shoulders fell when you saw him, relief, upset, he wasn’t sure yet.

“M’sorry.” You tell him mumbling and looking down at your boots. “I was a bitch earlier in front of your friends.” You add as your hand clutches at the strap of your tote bag. You still hadn’t really looked at him.

“Hey, look at me baby.” He coaxes standing up and stepping towards you carefully.

“I don’t want to.” You whisper, voice wobbling so he ducks his head quickly trying to reach your eyes.

“Yeah you do.” He tells you gently nodding and when your eyes do meet his they well up with tears.

“I really am sorry, I know I’m a lot sometimes. I struggle handling my emotions.” You confess with a sniffle but before you can think about it too much Dean is pulling you into his chest.

“You’re fine.” He says into your hair, one of his hand was holding your head on his chest, the other rubbing up and down your back softly.

“I didn’t mean to be mean to you.” Your voice is muffled against his sweater and he knew you meant it.

Because for everyone else you’re this strict, hard working, insanely smart, ice queen. But for him, you’re soft, you’re all gentle tones and silky skin. And he loves that he’s the one you chose to show all that to, he’s honoured actually, that at some point you thought he was worth opening up to and he doesn’t take that for granted.

“It’s okay baby, you’re hot when you’re mean.” He says mostly honestly but he grins when it makes you laugh against him.

Pulling away you go up onto your tiptoes and tilt up your chin, you still aren’t tall enough to reach him so he leans down and kisses your lips.

Your hands come up to his jaw to try and hold him there but he hisses pulling away from you.

“Your fingers are freezing!” He scolds grabbing them in his hands and rubbing them together, rolling your eyes you try and tug them free.

“Dean they’re fine!” You argue getting them out of his grip, the two of you now walking to the exit.

There’s a minute or two of silence, you can see Dean’s car parked in its usual spot, yours a bit further back.

“Your shoulder okay?” He asks suddenly and you roll it back once he’s taken your bag and thrown it over his own shoulder.

“Yeah it’s fine.” You tell him both ignoring the click that was audible enough that he raised his eyebrow.

“I think you should come home with me, I’ll make it all better for you.” He says, voice low and teasing as his arms wind around your waist from behind now.

“Oh really?” You ask with a smile, and letting your head lull to the side so his lips can find the skin under your jaw.

“Mhm I have loads of good ideas on how, first being a shower.” He starts listing, another kiss pressed into your neck. “Preferably together, actually that’s mandatory.” He adds making you giggle.

“Sounds legit.” You sigh happily melting into him finally feeling yourself relax.

“I promise you’ll feel good.” You whack him away before he can get too carried away but you follow him to his car anyway.

And when you settle into the passenger seat, the red on your cheeks isn’t from frustration or embarrassment, it’s from excitement you’re trying to dull down, contentment that’s settling deep into your bones as you watch Dean start the car.

If Dean can promise you anything tonight it’s that he’ll make you feel better.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ nine days.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – garrett isn't busy. he’s scared, spiralling, and hurting someone by trying not to. warnings – heavy angst, arguing, emotional distress, crying, garrett’s father/abuse references, trauma, relationship insecurity, strong language notes from me – based on these asks! 🥲 this bought me physical pain to write i hope u know that word count – 3.6k

navigation – masterlist |

Garrett has been quiet for nine days, which is different from busy. Busy, she understands. Busy is a language she speaks fluently now, somewhere between clinical rotation, pharmacology flashcards, and eating granola bars over the sink at eleven-thirty at night. 

Busy is his practice schedule and captain meetings and whatever extra conditioning Coach keeps tacking on. Busy is ugly, but manageable.

Busy still sends a text at midnight that says, you alive? or stop studying and sleep, hypocrite, or a picture of Logan asleep in a laundry basket with no context and the confidence that she’ll understand.

This isn’t busy. This is three unread texts from her left until the next morning. This is him answering with yeah or sorry, been slammed, like he’s some guy from a group project she’s trying to coordinate with instead of the boy who knows the side of her bed closest to the wall is the side she sleeps best on. 

This is Garrett looking through her in the athletic building hallway on Tuesday afternoon, hair damp from practice, jaw tight, eyes shadowed, and still touching her waist when he squeezes past because his body remembers her better than the rest of him is willing to.

She keeps telling herself not to be dramatic about it. She has clinicals. She has exams. She has a reflection assignment due by midnight. She doesn’t have the time to chase Garrett Graham around campus because he’s decided to become emotionally unavailable with a minor in being a dick.

Except she misses him so badly it sits under her ribs like a bruise.

By the time he knocks on her dorm room door, it’s raining hard enough that the glass has gone blurry. She’s sitting on the floor with her back against the bed, laptop open on the duvet, notes spread around her in a half-circle like evidence of a nervous breakdown. 

Her hair’s still damp from the shower she took two hours ago and never properly dried, the sleeves of her sweatshirt pushed up past her elbows, a pen mark running along the side of her hand from where she’d written something down in the library and then used herself as stationery like a woman doing Very Well.

The knock comes once, and her whole body reacts, stupidly, before her brain has time to be angry. She goes still, pen paused over a half-written drug class, pulse kicking once in her throat.

Then he says, “It’s me,” through the door, like there’s anyone else she’d recognise by the sound of silence after knocking.

She gets up too fast and almost steps on a highlighter. “Shit.” The word comes out under her breath, thin and furious, and by the time she opens the door, the anger has caught up enough to keep her face from doing something embarrassing.

Garrett stands in the hall with his hoodie darkened at the shoulders from rain, curls damp and messy, one hand shoved into his pocket. He looks awful. He’s still broad and handsome and annoyingly solid in the doorway, but there’s something hollowed out behind his eyes. 

His mouth is set like he’s been holding it that way for hours. His jaw has that tight, overused look she’s started to recognise from games where he’s taken too many hits and refused to admit any of them landed.

“Hey,” he says.

She stares at him. “Hey?”

His brows flicker. “Can I come in?”

She almost laughs, but it would come out wrong. “Sure. Yeah. Why not.”

She sees the small flinch he tries to turn into nothing as he steps past her. The room shrinks around him immediately. Garrett in her dorm room always makes everything look smaller and more temporary. 

Her bed, her desk, the stack of scrubs folded badly on the chair, the mug on her nightstand with tea gone cold inside it. He smells like rain and rink air and that clean soap she hates knowing so well.

He looks at the mess on the floor. “Studying?”

“No, I just like decorating with cardiovascular medications.”

His mouth twitches out of habit, but it doesn’t make it all the way to a smile. “Right.”

She shuts the door. The click sounds too loud. For a second, neither of them says anything, and that makes it worse, because Garrett’s never quiet in her room. Garrett talks. Garrett sprawls on her bed and steals her pens and says things like baby, I’m begging you to explain this diagram to me. Garrett gets under her duvet with his socks still on until she yells at him. Garrett makes himself fit.

Tonight he stands near her desk like a guest. Something in her chest pulls tight enough to hurt. “So are we doing this now?”

His eyes come back to her. “Doing what?”

She blinks at him, and the anger, which had felt clean in her head for about four seconds, immediately starts getting messy. “Don’t. Don’t act like you don’t know what you’re here to do.”

“What? I’m not doing anything.”

“That’s kind of the point, Garrett.”

He exhales through his nose and looks toward the window. “I came over, didn’t I?”

“Oh, wow.” She nods, folding her arms because if she doesn’t, her hands might shake, and she would rather walk into traffic. “Sorry. My mistake. Nine days of acting like I’m some random girl annoying you, but you showed up in person, so obviously I should be grateful.”

His face tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is me trying to work out if you’re alive between twelve-hour shifts while you send me texts that sound like you Googled how to politely ghost someone.”

His eyes cut back to her, startled despite everything, and she would normally enjoy landing a line like that. She doesn’t. It sits there between them, sharp and stupid.

“I’m not ghosting you,” he says.

“You’re doing an incredible impression.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Bullshit.”

Garrett’s jaw flexes. “You don’t know what’s going on.”

“No, Garrett, I don’t!” Her voice lifts before she can stop it, stripped thin enough that the words scrape on the way out. “Because you won’t tell me. You don’t answer. You don’t call. You don’t come over. You look at me like you’re already halfway out the door and I’m supposed to just stand here and be cool about it because technically I’m not your girlfriend, right?”

That one hits harder. His eyes go dark, a quick flash of something wounded and defensive. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Use that against me.”

She laughs once, and it sounds horrible. “I’m not using anything. I’m trying to figure out what rules I’m allowed to be upset under.”

His mouth opens, then closes. Outside, rain clicks hard against the window, a frantic little sound against the glass. Down the hall, someone laughs too loudly, then a door shuts, and her room feels even smaller after it.

Garrett drags a hand through his wet curls. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Well, you’re doing it by accident, then. Congratulations on being naturally gifted.”

His face goes colder, and she hates that she recognises it. The shutters coming down. The golden-boy expression flattening into something controlled and distant, like if he can get the muscles in his face to behave, the rest of him might follow. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

Her stomach drops. Just like that. The floor going missing under her feet.

“Yeah,” she says, and her voice has changed now, quieter in a way that makes his face shift too. “That’s what I thought.”

Garrett looks at her, confused and angry and exhausted all at once. “What?”

“You want to leave.” She nods, like saying it first might make it hurt less. It doesn’t. Her eyes burn immediately, humiliating and hot, and she looks down at the notes by her feet because the generic beta-blocker chart has never devastated her like this. “You’ve been trying to leave for over a week, and I’m the idiot standing here asking for something I’m not going to get.”

“Baby–”

“No, don’t.” The word cracks in the middle. She presses her fingers hard against her own elbow, digging into the sweatshirt fabric. “Don’t baby me if you’re about to– Seriously, Garrett, I can’t–” She stops because her throat has closed around the rest of it.

His anger is gone so fast it almost frightens her. “About to do what?”

She looks up, and the first tear falls before she can do anything about it. She hates it. Hates how quickly his face breaks open when he sees it, hates that even now, even furious and hurt, some desperate little part of her wants to step into him because he looks like Garrett again. Her Garrett, except he isn’t hers, which is sort of the whole stupid problem.

“It’s me, right?” she says, and the words come out smaller than she wanted. Smaller than anything in this room should be allowed to sound. “I did something.”

Garrett goes very still.

The second tear is worse because she can feel it tracking hot down her cheek while he just stares at her, like she’s reached across the room and put her hand directly into the worst part of him. “I don’t know what it was,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady and failing in tiny, embarrassing ways. “And I’ve been thinking about it like an insane person. Like, was I too much after clinical? Did I ask too many questions about your dad? Was it the stuff with Nathan? Did I make it weird? Did I–”

“No.” He crosses the room so fast she barely has time to breathe. “No, baby, no.”

His hands come up to her face, warm and sure and shaking just slightly when his palms settle along her jaw. She freezes under the touch, because her body wants to melt into it and her pride wants to bite him.

Garrett’s thumbs move under her eyes, catching tears with an expression so wrecked it makes her chest ache. “It’s not you. Fuck, it’s not you. I promise.”

She tries to look away, but he holds her there gently, asking without words. His face is too close now. She can see the exhaustion under his eyes, the rain caught in his lashes, the muscle jumping in his cheek.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he says, and it comes out rough, almost angry, but not at her, at the sentence, at having to make it real. “Everything feels–” He stops, breathes through his nose, starts again. “Coach is on my ass about leading better. Bruins people keep calling, telling me what they expect, what kind of player I need to be, what kind of man I need to be, and my dad’s in my head all the time. Every game. Every practice. Every time I get pissed off, every time I snap at someone, every time I want to put my fist through a wall, I just–” His voice drops. “I hear him.”

Her hands come up around his wrists. She doesn’t pull him away. She just holds on.

Garrett swallows hard. “And then I look at you.”

She barely gets the words out. “And what?”

His eyes flash with pain. “And I want you so much it scares the shit out of me.”

The room goes quiet, and her breathing feels too loud.

Garrett’s thumb brushes once near the corner of her mouth, so careful now it almost hurts worse than anything else. “Because if I’m like him, if there’s even a part of me that’s like him, then I don’t get to put that near you.”

Something in her face must change, because his does too, panic moving through the exhaustion.

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know that sounds fucked up. I know. But I keep thinking maybe pushing you away is the only decent thing I’ve done all week.”

Her mouth trembles before she can stop it. “It didn’t feel decent.”

His eyes close for half a second. “I know.”

“It felt like you left me with… with no instructions.” Her voice is wet now, miserable, but at least the anger is still there somewhere, keeping the bones in it. “Like one day I knew where I stood with you, even if we weren’t saying it properly, and then suddenly you were gone, and I was just supposed to guess whether I mattered enough to be told why.”

Garrett’s face crumples in this tiny, controlled way. “You matter.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” His answer is immediate. Fierce enough that her breath catches. “Yes. Jesus, yes.”

“Then stop making me feel stupid for acting like it.”

He takes that like a hit. His hands slide from her face down to her shoulders, then back up again, like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch and can’t stop needing to. “I’m sorry.”

She nods, but the tears keep coming, which is annoying because she had wanted to be more composed for this. She had imagined this argument in the shower four times and, in all versions, she had been devastatingly articulate and wearing mascara that didn’t run. 

“I don’t need you to be fine all the time,” she says. “I really don’t. I’m not asking you to turn into some emotionally fluent therapy boyfriend overnight. Like, that would be horrifying. You’d start saying things like holding space and I’d have to transfer schools.”

A broken laugh catches in his chest, barely there, but real enough to make her ache.

She grips his wrists a little tighter. “I just need you not to decide for me. You don’t get to disappear and say you’re protecting me.”

His gaze drops. “I didn’t know how to say it.”

“Say that, then.”

“What?”

“Say, I don’t know how to say it. Say, I’m being weird and awful but it’s not you. Say, I need a minute. Say literally anything that doesn’t make me sit in pharmacology wondering if you stopped wanting me because I cried in your bed and then my stupid ex ruined everything.”

Garrett looks up sharply. “That was not–”

“I know.” Her voice softens despite herself. “I know now. But I didn’t.”

For a second, he just stands there with his hands on her face and the rain-dark hoodie clinging to his shoulders, and she can see it all moving under his skin. The apology, the fear, the old shame with his father’s fingerprints all over it, the ugly little belief that if he leaves first, he can’t become the thing that hurts her. 

Garrett has always been good at taking a hit. Maybe too good. Maybe somewhere along the way he learned to call it strength when he let something keep hurting him because admitting it mattered would be worse.

He leans forward until his forehead rests against hers. His breath is shaky when it touches her mouth. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Her eyes close.

The words are not what either of them has been careful enough to say. They’re too close to the thing. Too honest for two people who keep hiding behind schedules and labels and sex and jokes about garlic bread. But they’re there now, pressed between them in her too-messy dorm room with her notes on the floor and her laptop asleep on the bed.

She whispers, “Then don’t.”

Garrett’s arms come around her so fast it knocks a small, breathless sound out of her. He holds her tightly, one hand at the back of her head, the other across her spine, folding himself around her like he can make up for nine days by sheer force.

She lets herself go into it because she’s too tired not to, because being angry at him hasn’t made her stop wanting this, because his hoodie is cold from the rain but his body underneath is warm and familiar and here.

“I’m sorry,” he says into her hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

She presses her face into his chest. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know.”

“I was going to make a chart.”

His laugh comes out rough and watery against the top of her head. “Of my asshole symptoms?”

“Differential diagnosis.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is. Treatment plan was unclear.”

His hand moves slowly over her back. “Can I start with not leaving?”

She exhales into him, and it shakes. “Yeah.” Then, because she’s still herself and because softness feels safer when it has teeth around it, she mutters, “Strong clinical evidence for that intervention.”

Garrett kisses the top of her head. He doesn’t make a joke. That’s how she knows he’s still close to breaking.

They end up on her bed because standing becomes too much.

Garrett looks down at her scattered notes and says, “Can I move these?” in a voice like he’s afraid a highlighter might be load-bearing, and her nodding while wiping her face with her sleeve. 

He gathers the papers carefully, almost reverently, stacking beta-blockers with cranial nerves, exam rubrics with half-finished flashcards, the messy evidence of her life treated with more care than his own.

Then he sits with his back against the wall and she sits beside him, shoulder pressed to his chest, his arm around her. For a while they talk in pieces. He tells her Coach pulled him aside after practice and said leadership meant control, not just talent, and the word control had gone sour in his head. 

He tells her a Bruins development guy called him intense in a way that sounded like praise and warning at the same time. He tells her he snapped at a freshman for blowing a drill and heard Phil’s voice come out of his own mouth, or thought he did, and spent the rest of practice feeling like his skin didn’t fit.

She listens until her body starts to sag against him, the adrenaline draining out and leaving behind clinical exhaustion, argument exhaustion, Garrett exhaustion. Her eyes burn. Her head hurts from crying. Garrett’s voice goes lower as he talks, then stops altogether when he notices her blinking too slowly.

“Sleep,” he murmurs.

She huffs faintly. “I have to finish my assignment.”

“What’s it on?”

“Reflective practice.”

His arm tightens. “Great. Reflect on how you need sleep.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is tonight.”

She wants to argue. She makes a brave attempt by inhaling like she might say something. Unfortunately, her body mistakes the inhale for giving up and leans more fully into him.

Garrett shifts them down with careful awkwardness, pulling the blanket over her first, then himself, like he’s earned exactly one corner of it and is prepared to accept that. She fixes it by tugging him closer with the last of her strength until his chest is against her back and his arm settles over her waist.

For a minute, neither of them sleeps. She can tell by the way his breathing stays a little too deliberate against the back of her neck. Her own eyes are closed, but her mind keeps bumping into the argument in softened pieces. You matter. I don’t want to leave you. Then don’t.

His hand flexes once against her stomach. “You still mad at me?”

“Yes,” she murmurs.

His breath catches in something that might be a laugh. “Okay.”

“But less.”

“Okay.”

“I’m so tired.”

“I know, baby.”

The words land warm at the base of her skull. She lets them. His mouth brushes the back of her head, barely a kiss, more like an apology that’s run out of language. She finds his hand under the blanket and threads her fingers through his.

When she wakes hours later, the room is dark except for the faint blue glow of her laptop screen gone idle and the dull silver wash of rain-streetlight through the blinds. Her neck is stiff. Her mouth tastes like crying and sleep. The assignment is absolutely not done.

Garrett’s still there. For a second, that’s all her half-awake brain can hold. Garrett, curled around her in the narrow bed like leaving was never a serious option, one knee tucked behind hers, arm heavy over her waist, breath slow and warm against the back of her neck. Sometime in the night, he’s pulled her closer. Or she’s moved back. It’s hard to tell where one decision ended and the other began.

His fingers are still tangled loosely with hers beneath the blanket. She lies there very still, listening to the rain, to the soft hum of the room, to Garrett breathing like sleep has finally dragged him under despite everything clawing around inside his chest. He feels heavy and real behind her. 

Her throat tightens again, but this time it doesn’t hurt the same way. She shifts carefully, easing back into him by an inch. Garrett stirs immediately, even asleep, his arm tightening around her waist, nose brushing into her hair. A low, rough sound leaves him, not quite a word.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “Stay.”

Her eyes close. She doesn’t think he means to say it. Maybe he’s not even awake enough to know he has. But the word settles into the dark little room anyway, soft and clumsy and honest, and she lets herself fit into the space he’s made around her.

“I am,” she whispers, though he’s probably already gone again.

Garrett’s hand tightens once around hers.

Outside, the rain keeps going. Her notes stay scattered in a neat, useless pile on the desk. The world doesn’t fix itself. His father doesn’t vanish from his head. Her assignment doesn’t write itself.

Morning will come with swollen eyes and hard conversations and probably some horrible email from her clinical instructor about professionalism in reflective writing.

But not yet. For now, Garrett’s warm behind her, breathing slow into her hair, holding on like his body knows the answer even when the rest of him forgets.

She tucks his hand closer against her chest, lets herself sink back into him, and goes back to sleep.

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[peachipeachy]

⋆˚꩜｡ more robbyxducky art! :P ｡꩜˚⋆

another drawing bc a man who yearns, earns!

based on that veil manga panel bc its peak ✊🙂‍↕️

(@theetherealbloom love u babes 😛🫶)

[theetherealbloom]

oh my fucking GOD!!

holywhatrhebfuckrnwjavdjebahs IM LIKE BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS SCREAMING RN HELP THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL. I’m incredibly honored and emotional right now… help I’m crying wait—

THE PEARLSSS!!!! THE JEWELRY!!! ROBBY BLUSHING!!! GAZING AT HER LIKE SHE’S EVERYTHING!!! LIKE FUCK OK TAKE MY MONEY. YOU CAN HAVE MY KIDNEY. LIKE DAMN. I’d go to war for you boo😭😭

Thank you so much for creating such a masterpiece, truly. I’m showing this to literally everybody.

[great33st]

‵、¸ 𝒆𝙖𝒓𝙧𝒊𝙣𝒈𝙨 ⊹ hannah wells

⌗ pairing — hannah wells x platonic fem!reader

⌗ synopsis — A game night at the Briar hockey house spirals out of control when an unexpected answer wounds Dean Di Laurentis’s massive pride. Determined to challenge her boyfriend’s ego, the heroine sparks an entertaining war of jealousy and drama within the team.

⌗ author’s note — We establish the initial atmosphere at the hockey guys' house (Dean, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker) on a typical Friday night, filled with banter, music, and the group's usual camaraderie.

The living room of the hockey house was the epicenter of the usual Friday night chaos at Briar. The air smelled of a mix of cold pizza, cheap beer, and that expensive cologne Dean insisted on wearing in industrial quantities. In the background, a Spotify playlist blasted at a volume loud enough to force everyone to practically shout, competing with the sounds of laughter and biting remarks about next weekend's game.

I was sunk into the worn-out but comfortable main sofa, practically buried under Dean’s arm. He had one of his legs draped over mine and was completely unconsciously playing with a strand of my hair, twirling it around his index finger while maintaining a heated debate with Logan about whether a Rangers player deserved the suspension he’d been handed that week.

"I’m telling you, Tucker," Dean insisted, gesturing with his free hand—the one holding a cup filled with some strange concoction of rum and soda. "The guy went straight for the knee. That’s not physical play; that’s being a damn criminal."

"Oh, please, Di Laurentis," Logan scoffed from the armchair, his feet propped up on the coffee table. "If you had made that exact same play, you’d be calling it pure poetry in motion and saying the ref is just sensitive."

"That is slander," Dean replied, dramatically offended, pressing his hand against his chest. "I play with elegance. I’m an artist on the ice, right, babe?" He turned toward me, planting a quick, loud kiss on my temple before looking back at Logan with smug superiority.

I just laughed, snuggling closer against his side. Loving Dean meant accepting that his ego had its own zip code, but it also meant enjoying moments like this, where we could just be ourselves surrounded by the people we loved.

At the other end of the room, Allie shifted on Sean’s lap, adjusting her denim shorts before resting her elbows on her knees. She had that look in her eyes—that spark of boredom mixed with the sudden urge to stir up a debate out of nowhere. She locked her gaze onto Garrett, who was sitting on the floor, leaning against the base of the couch, checking something on his phone.

"Hey, Graham," Allie called out, raising her voice to cut through the music. "Serious question. I’ve been thinking about this for days, and I need you to be honest. What exactly is your type? Like, your ultimate ideal in life?"

Garrett didn't even look up from his phone at first. "If you’re going to ask me to help you move your stuff again, the answer is no. My back is still paying the price for last time."

"Not that, idiot," Allie threw a small throw pillow at him, which Garrett caught in midair with flawless athlete reflexes, finally looking up with a raised eyebrow. "It’s a theoretical question. What’s your type?"

Garrett let out a dry chuckle, setting his phone down on the rug. He looked over at the kitchen bar dividing the space, where Hannah stood with her back to us, reaching for some snacks on the top shelves. Garrett’s expression softened with that trademark self-assurance of his, but it was filled with genuine affection.

"My type is Hannah Wells," he declared, raising his beer can toward the kitchen as if making a toast. "It’s obvious, isn't it? Brunette, talented, with a hell of a backbone that keeps me in line and doesn't buy into any of my bullshit. I don't need to look anywhere else. I already won the lottery."

A collective chorus of mock boos, dramatic groans, and fake gagging noises flooded the room. Logan pretended to shove a finger down his throat, and Tucker simply shook his head, smiling.

"God, Graham, you’re a disgusting softie," Logan yelled at him. "You’re going to give me diabetes if you keep talking like that."

"Shut up, Logan, you’d do the same if anyone could stand you," Garrett shot back, taking a swig of his beer, completely unbothered by the teasing.

Allie rolled her eyes with amusement, satisfied with the answer, but her eyes flashed with a new wave of mischief. She turned slowly in our direction, crossing her arms, and pointed her index finger straight at me.

"Okay, fine. We know the guys' side. But you," Allie said, capturing the attention of the entire room, "if you had to choose... what exactly is your type?"

Hearing the question, I felt Dean’s body subtly tense beside me—not out of discomfort, but out of pure anticipation. His arm around my shoulders tightened a fraction, and he shifted on the couch with a look of absolute smugness plastered across his face. His dimples popped instantly. He was so damn sure of what I was going to say. I could practically read his mind, already collecting the compliment headed his way: a hockey player, blonde, light eyes, a body sculpted by the gods, and natural charm. He brought his cup to his mouth again, ready to take a long sip while basking in my public declaration of love.

I kept my face completely deadpan. I looked at Allie, then flicked my gaze over to Dean, who cocked an arrogant wink at me, and finally looked down at Garrett, who remained seated on the floor watching the scene with curiosity.

To me, Hannah was one of my best friends. We understood each other perfectly, shared secrets, and always had each other’s backs; my love for her was massive, platonic, and filled with a brutal admiration for how amazing she was as a woman. So, with that complicity in mind and with an immense urge to blow up my boyfriend's ego, I smirked and spoke with absolute serenity.

"Honestly... my type is Graham's girlfriend."

The silence that fell over the room was so sudden and absolute that you could have heard a pin drop, despite the music still pulsing in the background.

Dean, who at that exact microsecond was taking a deep gulp of his rum mixture, froze mid-sip. His eyes widened so much I thought they would pop right out of his skull. The liquid diverted straight down the wrong pipe. Immediately, he slammed his cup onto the coffee table—spilling half of it in the process—and broke into a violent, desperate coughing fit, clutching his throat as he doubled over.

A few feet away, Garrett went completely rigid. His beer can stopped inches from his lips. He looked left, then right, utterly disoriented, as if trying to process whether the sentence he had just heard came from a hallucination or reality.

"What...?" Garrett managed to articulate, blinking repeatedly as he stared at me, entirely thrown off. His athlete brain seemed to have short-circuited.

Exactly three seconds of collective shock passed before the room erupted into a madhouse.

Logan let out a screech of pure disbelief and threw himself backward into his chair, covering his face with a cushion while his shoulders shook with uncontrollable laughter. Tucker, for his part, let out a laugh so loud he banged his knee against the coffee table, completely losing his usual calm composure.

"No way! This is pure gold!" Logan roared, frantically pointing a finger at Dean and Garrett. "Look at their faces! They’re pale! It looks like someone just stole their souls!"

"You hit them right where it hurts!" Tucker mocked, wiping away a tear from laughing so hard while looking at Dean, who was still trying to catch his breath.

Dean finally managed to steady his breathing, though his cheeks were completely flushed, his eyes watering from choking, and his chest heaving up and down rapidly. He straightened up slowly, glaring at me as if he couldn't believe the betrayal he had just suffered. Then he looked at Garrett, then back to me, and finally ran a hand through his hair, completely indignant but with a comical spark of genuine panic in his eyes.

He leaned forward, stretching out an arm to point his index finger at me while staring intently at his best friend.

"Garrett..." Dean said, his voice noticeably hoarse and raspy from the coughing. "My girl wants to eat yours."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa... hold on a second," Garrett reacted instantly, dropping his beer can and throwing both hands up in the air in self-defense, looking at me as if I were a predator stalking its prey. "Wells is off-limits. Get away from my girl. Find your own prospect."

"Bro, I swear on my life!" Dean exclaimed, raising his voice with that theatrical drama that defined him so well, bringing a hand dramatically to his heart as he turned toward Logan and Tucker. "I have never felt so threatened by a girl in my entire existence! My masculinity is bruised! My ego is bleeding out on the floor of this living room!"

"She completely blindsided you, Di Laurentis!" Logan mocked, slapping the armrest of the chair. "She traded you for your female version with a better singing voice!"

Right at that precise moment of absolute chaos, Hannah walked out of the kitchen holding a plate of pretzels and a couple of glasses of water. She stopped dead in her tracks right at the threshold connecting the two spaces, looking at the scene with a raised eyebrow and an expression of deep confusion. She observed Logan and Tucker dying of laughter, Garrett on the defensive, and Dean looking like someone had just stolen his most prized possession.

"What did I miss?" Hannah asked, crossing her arms as she looked at all of us. "Why does Dean look like he saw a ghost, and why is Garrett looking at you like you’re going to steal his hockey skates?"

Hannah took a step into the living room, setting the plate of pretzels carefully onto the coffee table right next to the mess of spilled soda Dean had left behind during his coughing fit. She looked at me, then at Dean—who was still holding his hand over his chest, breathing as if he had just run a marathon—and finally at Garrett, who maintained his maximum alert posture.

"Seriously, is anyone going to explain what's going on?" Hannah insisted, amused but confused, resting a hand on her hip. "It looks like you guys just witnessed a crime."

"Not a crime, Wells," Logan let out, trying to catch his breath as he wiped away a tear. "A declaration of war! Your boyfriend and Di Laurentis just got displaced from the market by the most unexpected competition."

Garrett leaped up from the floor, brushing off his pants with comical seriousness. He walked straight over to Hannah, took her gently by the shoulders, and positioned her behind him, as if shielding her from an imminent danger.

"Don't look to the left, Wells. Keep your eyes on me," Garrett told her in a solemn voice, earning a look of utter disbelief from her. "There are dark forces in this room attempting to destabilize our relationship."

"What are you talking about, Graham?" Hannah let out a laugh, breaking free from his grip to look him in the face. "Did you take a hit to the head at practice today or what?"

Dean, feeling it was time to defend his wounded honor, straightened up on the couch. He turned toward me, narrowing his eyes with that blend of indignation and dramatic arrogance that made him so him.

"Explain it to her, babe," Dean demanded, crossing his arms. "Tell Hannah what just came out of that pretty little mouth of yours. Tell her how you destroyed my self-esteem in a single second."

I shrugged, maintaining an angelic smile that only succeeded in making Dean more nervous. I looked at Hannah, who was waiting for the resolution of the mystery.

"Allie asked me what my type was," I said with total tranquility, stretching my legs out onto the coffee table. "And I was just honest. I said my type is Graham's girlfriend."

Hannah stood frozen for a brief second, processing my words. She looked at Garrett, then at Dean—who was nodding his head dramatically, as if saying 'see? I told you!'— and finally, she looked at me. A massive, radiant smile began to spread across her face.

"Oh, my God," Hannah whispered, and immediately let out a clear, ringing laugh, completely delighted. "That is the best thing I have heard all semester!"

She walked right past Garrett, completely ignoring her boyfriend's look of utter betrayal, and approached my side of the couch. I high-fived her, laughing at the situation. Our friendship had always been like this: a safe harbor, full of mutual support and jokes the guys often couldn't decipher. The platonic love I had for Hannah was built on how incredibly smart and talented she was, and seeing her enjoy the mental collapse of the two biggest egos on the hockey team was simply glorious.

"Hey, Wells, don't encourage her behavior," Garrett protested, crossing his arms and pretending to be deeply offended. "You’re supposed to say your only type is me. With my muscles, my captaincy, and my charming smile."

"Sorry, Graham, but she has excellent taste," Hannah winked at him, sitting down on the armrest of the couch right next to me. "Besides, let’s admit she’s a considerable upgrade from you two."

"Join me in my sorrow, brother!" Dean exclaimed, throwing himself dramatically backward onto the couch, covering his eyes with his forearm. "My own girlfriend has publicly rejected me for my best friend’s girlfriend. This is a low blow for the Di Laurentis dynasty. I will never be the same again."

Tucker, who had finally stopped laughing so hard, tossed a closed beer can at Dean, who caught it in midair by pure athletic instinct without removing his arm from his face.

"Drop the drama, Dean," Tucker told him with a sly grin. "At least now you know you have to try harder. The competition is stiff in your own house."

Dean slowly uncovered his eyes, looking at me sideways with a spark of mischief and determination in his gaze. He leaned into me, invading my personal space until his face was just inches from mine. His cologne completely enveloped me, and that smug smirk reappeared on his lips, though this time with a hint of a challenge.

"So, Wellsy, huh?" Dean whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, gently catching my chin between his fingers. "I think I’m going to have to remind you why you chose me, babe. Get ready, because starting tomorrow, I’m going to be the most fucking perfect boyfriend on this campus just to erase Wells from your mental map."

"I’d love to see that, Di Laurentis," I replied, holding his gaze with amusement. "The bar is set pretty high."

"Please, get a room!" Logan shouted, tossing a pretzel at us from across the room, as everyone burst into laughter once again, closing out one of the most memorable nights at the Briar house.

[sc3ptre]

Don’t know if you’re interested, but can we get a beau x reader x dean work?

The wood experiment ²

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader x Beau Maxwell

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66

Summary: After years of disappointing experiences with toys that never quite satisfied you, you take a bold risk with two friendly strangers during a camping trip to finally test whether the problem was you or simply the wrong dildos.

Classification: Smut +18 | Threesome (MFM), first-time vaginal penetration, dry humping, fingering, double genital stimulation, creampie, cum play, spanking, edging, orgasm control, dirty talk, praise kink, mild dominance, no-strings-attached sex, light impact play, crude humor and mention of sex toys.

Word count: 4,8k

Divider by me ;)

You didn’t know where you stood on the spectrum of sexuality and sensuality. You had never felt the touch of a man, yet you were no saint. You owned toys, you read erotica and watched porn when the mood struck. Most of all, you liked the part of yourself that refused to wait for a man to drop out of the sky before you could feel pleasure.

Your friends had plenty of experience with men and you were happy for them but you simply preferred to stay in control of your own.

For a long time that had been more than enough. You could take care of your own needs in under five minutes with the cheapest vibrator on the market or with your fingers in ten if you were worked up enough. Dildos had never done it for you, no matter the material, the shape, the length or the width, they left you feeling little and never brought you to orgasm. That fact had left you uneasy about the idea of sex with a man. You hoped that when it finally happened, penetration would feel good, you'd make sure of it, but a quiet fear lingered. Were you numb?

Still, you felt no rush to enter a relationship just to test the theory. You had watched enough friends tumble into messy entanglements and then ignore every piece of advice you gave them. 

Why would they listen to you, right? But after all, coaches never played…until tonight.

You sat around the crackling fire, thoughts drifting. You had come camping for a few nights to get some distance from your usual life and step down from your unpaid role as couple’s therapist to your friends. The first evening, Dean and Beau had set up camp near yours. They were university students like you, barely a year older, friendly and easy to talk to. 

You had fallen into hiking and kayaking together with surprising comfort and now the three of you sat around their fire, the night air cool against your skin while the flames threw warm light across your faces. Since this whole trip was an experiment and a chance to push your own limits…why stop at flirting?

“Are you two…?” Your question trailed off as you gestured between them. You sat in the middle, each of you in your own camp chair.

Dean chuckled and shook his head. “Best friends…Not that he isn’t a good-looking guy.” He motioned toward Beau. “Look at him.”

Your gaze slid to Beau. He smiled, a little shy and sweet, clearly less bold than Dean. Still, the firelight traced the strong line of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders.

“He’s right,” you said quietly.

Beau nodded, cheeks warming. “Uh, thank you.” He took a sip from his soda can. “Only one of us is Six Flags, though.” He grinned and Dean laughed.

You looked between them, lips curving despite yourself. “Six Flags? What does that mean?”

“He’s a ladies’ man,” Beau explained. “They come for the ride and then leave.”

“And I’m okay with that,” Dean added, raising a finger as if to make the statement sound more sincere.

You nodded slowly, eyes returning to Beau. You lifted your half-empty soda can in his direction. “And what kind of ride do you offer, handsome?”

Both of them turned their full attention to you, lips parting.

“Offer?” Beau repeated, voice low.

You hummed in confirmation, letting the moment stretch. The fire popped softly as crickets filled the silence between your words. “Just seeing if I could get two-for-one access tonight.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose as a slow, interested smirk tugged at his mouth. Beau’s gaze darkened as he set his can down on the ground beside his chair. The easy conversation from earlier fell away, replaced by something heavier and charged.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, firelight dancing in his eyes. “That’s a bold ask, sweetheart.”

You held his stare, pulse quickening. “Think of it as an experiment…I figured the woods were a good place for it.”

Beau glanced at Dean and immediately caught the eager look on his face. Dean looked about two seconds away from saying yes on the spot. Before he could, Beau cleared his throat.

“Hey, man. Can we… talk for a minute?” He asked, the last part tilting up as he motioned away with his head.

Dean blinked, then shrugged as he stood. “Sure.” Before he took a step, he turned and flashed you a quick smile.

Beau stood next and walked a short distance away from the fire as Dean followed, far enough for a private conversation but still in your line of sight. You kept your eyes on them, heart beating faster. You did not know what you were thinking, but you wanted this to happen. You wanted the overwhelming feeling of several hands on your body at once. The idea of sex without commitments felt like the perfect answer to your questions tonight. You wanted to try the real thing and the mere thought of being greedy enough to take both of them was making you awfully wet.

Beau crossed his arms. “Did I understand her right? She actually wants both of us? Like…at the same time?”

Dean grinned, nodding eagerly with his hands on his hips. “Sounded pretty clear to me.”

“What if she asks us to kiss?” Beau pressed, voice low but urgent.

Dean turned his head and looked straight at you. Your eyes were locked on them, curious and steady. Beau followed his gaze, then dropped his eyes lower. Dean was already visibly hard, the outline clear against his pants. Spending the past few days with you had been fun, and you were undeniably pretty.

Beau smacked him right on the cock with the back of his hand.

Dean doubled over with a groan, hands flying to cover himself. “Fuck, dude! The fuck was that for?”

“Can you focus for a second?” Beau hissed, eyes returning to Dean’s folded-over posture.

Dean straightened up slowly, still wincing but laughing under his breath. “One of us clearly is. Come on, isn’t this what we came here for? You wanted spontaneity. This is as spontaneous as it gets out in the woods.”

Beau rubbed the back of his neck, glancing back toward you. “We take this to the grave, right? No matter what happens. And if it gets too weird, we can always take turns instead of… everything at once. It’ll be her choice. I’m big on communication.”

“So am I,” Dean said easily. “But I’m not worried about ‘weird’. I have no issue seeing your dick, man. I’m a hockey player. I shower in rooms full of them and I can tell you that eventually your eyes start to wander.” He reached over and gave Beau a firm pat on the shoulder. “It’s not ‘if,’ it’s ‘when’… and that time comes pretty soon.” He nodded, eyes tracing Beau’s worried face.

Beau looked down at himself. He was getting hard too, though it was not nearly as obvious as Dean’s situation. Still, a flicker of doubt crossed his face as he wondered if size would be an issue once things got started.

Dean caught the look instantly. “Comparison is the thief of joy, my friend.”

Beau let out a short laugh despite himself, the tension easing a little. Dean’s grin returned, cocky and sure.

“I can show you a nude right now so there’s no surprises,” Dean added, his grin spreading wider.

Beau groaned. “Size isn’t all there is. It’s how you use it.”

Dean chuckled, nodding. “That’s my boy.”

During the conversation they had not noticed you stand and walk closer. When their eyes finally left each other and found you, you were only a couple of steps away.

“Don’t worry, guys. I don’t think we’ll hit max capacity of my tent tonight.” You smiled as you walked toward your tent without looking back. Both of their gazes followed your steps, matching smiles spreading across their faces.

“I think I just came in my pants,” Dean sighed.

“I’ll go first then,” Beau said, patting Dean’s chest. “You should start getting used to coming second…or even third.” He started walking after you. A second later, Dean followed.

The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of nylon and the musk of three bodies humming with anticipation. You sat there, trembling slightly, heart hammering against your ribs. 

You hadn't told Beau or Dean that this was your first time, that the dildos you’d tried in private had left you feeling cold and empty, leaving you with a nagging, terrifying fear that you were somehow broken. You didn't know if you could actually feel pleasure but as you looked at them, the desperation to find out outweighed the fear.

The clothes had been discarded in a frantic heap, leaving you all in just your underwear. The space was cramped, which only added to the intensity, forcing your skin to brush against theirs at every turn.

Beau, always the sweeter of the two, had laid back first. He looked up at you with soft, wanting eyes as you climbed over him. You straddled his hips, settling your weight down so your core pressed firmly against the hard line of his cock, separated only by the thin fabric of his boxers and your own underwear. When you started grinding against him, you gasped, eyes widening slightly. He was warm and pulsing beneath you, the thick ridge of his erection rubbing right against your clit with every roll of your hips. 

You began to rock yourself on him, moving in a slow, experimental rhythm. The friction of his clothed cock sliding against you sent sparks through your nerves, a sensation so vivid it almost made you cry out.

Dean was right behind you, kneeling and straddling Beau’s thighs to get closer. He was a wall of heat against your back, his confidence radiating off him in waves. His large hands reached around, sliding up to capture your clothed breasts. He squeezed and massaged them firmly, his fingers kneading your flesh while he leaned in to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He nipped at your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point, sending shivers racing down your spine.

Your hands rested on Beau’s chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms as you moved while his hands locked onto your hips, fingers digging in to help guide them, pushing you down harder onto him with every roll. 

Whenever Dean got close enough, pressing his front to your back eagerly, you could feel the hard, thick length of his cock pressing firmly against your ass, a promise of what was coming.

The feeling of being sandwiched between two men, the weight of them and the heat of their breath created an overwhelming sensation. You weren't close to coming yet but the tension was already building, in a new coil of heat tightening in your lower belly that you had never experienced before.

Dean’s hands moved, fingers hooking into the strap of your bra. With a swift, confident motion, he flicked the clasp and peeled the fabric away, exposing your breasts to the dim light of the tent.

Beau let out a low groan at the sight of your breasts spilling free, hips bucking upward instinctively. He looked up at your chest, eyes glazed with lust and breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Fuck," Beau choked out, his voice strained. "You're so beautiful...It’s gonna make me cum."

He tightened his grip on your hips, pulling you closer as you ground down against him. He held back, fighting the urge to come in his underwear while the two of you moved in a desperate, sweaty rhythm.

Dean stayed pressed behind you, mouth hot on your neck and shoulder, kissing and biting softly as his hand slipped around your waist and slid slowly beneath the waistband of your panties. 

His fingers found your slick folds and immediately began drawing slow but firm circles over your clit, the sudden direct touch making you moan loudly into the space. 

Meanwhile, his other hand stayed cupped around your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple in time with the movement of his fingers, forcing pleasure to surge through you from both angles. 

Your hips lifted on instinct. Breathing hard, you reached down between your bodies, slipped your hand into the waistband of his boxers and wrapped your fingers around his thick, heated length. You pulled him free, stroking him once from base to tip as his breath hitched sharply.

You then hooked a finger into the side of your soaked panties and tugged them roughly aside, exposing your dripping pussy completely to him. 

Dean chuckled low against your neck. "Taking initiative, I love that…Beau here likes spontaneity."

Holding Beau’s cock steady, you lined him up at your entrance and slowly sank down onto him. 

The stretch was immediate and intense. A broken moan and gasp escaped your lips as his warm, bare cock pushed inside you, filling you inch by inch. It truly was nothing like your toys, he felt alive, hot and so much fuller than you had imagined. You kept sinking until you were fully seated in his lap, walls fluttering and clenching around him then releasing in ways no toy had ever made them do. "Holy fuck," you breathed.

"Nothing holy about this," Beau answered, voice rough. "Get to riding."

You laughed shakily as Dean’s laugh vibrated against your skin. "And here she thought you were the sweeter one."

"Please," Beau added, smiling up at you and the word made your lips part around another curse.

Dean’s hand left your breast and slid up to the back of your neck, pressing you forward firmly until your chest was flush against Beau’s, nipples brushing his warm skin with every breath. The new angle pushed you deeper onto Beau’s cock, drawing a shared moan from both of you.

Behind you, Dean rolled his hips, grinding the hard, clothed length of his cock between your ass cheeks. The thick ridge of his erection, still trapped in his boxers, dragged slowly, applying steady pressure against your most sensitive area. He matched every roll and lift of your hips as you rode Beau, thrusting in perfect sync so that every time you sank down onto Beau’s cock, Dean’s pressed firmly against your ass.

His fingers never stopped their steady circles over your swollen clit, slick and fast now, pushing you higher with every stroke. The sensation of being filled by Beau while Dean ground against you from behind left you trembling between them, caught in a rhythm that grew steadily more desperate.

"Tell her again," Dean said, grinning. "I’m pretty sure her pussy will thank you for your manners."

Beau’s hands settled on your waist, guiding your drags up and down his length. "Ride me, sweetheart. Nice and slow so you can feel every inch."

You kept moving and each time you rose, Dean’s dry thrusts pushed you forward again, the fabric of his boxers catching and dragging against sensitive, wet skin. The tent felt smaller with every breath and shift of bodies while your knees slid over your sleeping bag as you found a rhythm, Beau’s cock stretching you as Dean’s fingers kept your clit puffy and throbbing.

Beau’s grip tightened as he grabbed handfuls of ass. "Fuck, you feel so good…so tight around me."

"She’s dripping down your cock already. Keep talking to her, Beau…she likes it." Dean grinned.

Beau’s voice stayed soft even as his hips failed to lift to meet you halfway. "You’re doing so well…taking me so deep. That’s it, let Dean play with that pretty clit while you fuck yourself on me."

Dean’s fingers pressed firmer, faster and your moans broke into something higher. The combined sensation from Beau filling you and Dean’s cock grinding against your ass while his fingers worked your clit, made your thighs shake. You rocked harder, chasing the feeling you’d never found with silicone.

"That’s right," Dean murmured. "Use us. Show us how you want it."

Beau’s hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "You can go faster if you need to, it’s all yours to take."

You did. The wet sounds of your pussy taking him fully grew louder inside the small tent. Dean’s dry thrusts grew more insistent, the head of his cock catching on the thin fabric of your panties with every roll of his hips as your clit pulsed under his fingers, every circle sending sparks up your spine.

Beau’s breathing turned ragged, eyes fluttering shut. "You’re squeezing me so tight…Fuck, don’t stop."

Dean’s hand pressed firmly on the delicious curve of your spine…Fuck, he wanted to lick along it. "She won’t…not until she comes all over your cock. Right, beautiful?"

The words hit you harder than you expected. Your hips stuttered for a moment, then resumed their frantic rhythm, chasing the edge that had always stayed just out of reach with your toys. 

Beau’s hands gripped your waist, steadying you as you rode him and Dean’s fingers never faltered on your clit, circling with relentless pressure. The three of you moved together in the cramped tent, bodies sliding against each other, hot breaths mingling in the thick air while the quiet night outside faded completely.

Beau pulled you into a deep, searing kiss, his tongue sliding against yours as he met every desperate roll of your hips, which you were greedy for. You rode him harder, walls clamping down tightly around his thick shaft with every downward plunge. The wet, filthy sound of your bodies meeting filled the small space as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core, centered beneath Dean’s skilled fingers.

Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, violent and overwhelming. Your back arched sharply, pressing your chest harder against Beau’s as your hardened nipples dragged across his heated skin. The kiss broke with a wet gasp as a loud, broken moan tore from your throat. 

Your pussy spasmed hard around Beau’s cock, milking him in powerful, rhythmic pulses while pleasure tore through every nerve in your body.

You were so drenched that your juices coated his length and dripped down onto his balls, the slickness becoming too much. With one final, shaking shudder, Beau’s cock slipped out of you with a loud and obscene wet pop. You slumped forward against his chest, gasping for air, your empty pussy visibly twitching and pulsing in the open air between your spread cheeks.

Dean, who had been watching the entire spectacle with dark, predatory hunger, let out a low hiss. Seeing your walls contract and flutter had pushed him past the point of restraint. He snatched his hand away from your clit, the sudden loss making you whimper in protest and in one fluid motion, he shoved the front of his boxers down, freeing his thick, rigid cock. 

He leaned forward, lined the swollen head against your soaked entrance and began pushing in.

You let out a loud, shocked moan against Beau’s lips, your eyes widening at the sudden heavy intrusion. Beau had been long and smooth, gliding easily along your walls, Dean was thicker and the wait had made him even harder. He was ridged and pressed firmly against every sensitive spot as he moved. He stretched you to your absolute limit, forcing your walls to open around his girth as he sank deeper.

Beau reached down with both hands and gripped your ass cheeks. He spread them wide, fully exposing your dripping pussy to Dean’s relentless push, the new position leaving you completely open between them.

Dean gave a few slow, careful thrusts at first, testing how your body responded while it was still vibrating from your orgasm. The waves hadn’t faded, instead, they continued pulsing around his cock with every shallow stroke, drawing a deep groan from his chest.

You whined, a high and needy sound escaping your throat. Dean rested his forehead against the back of your neck for a moment, breathing hard, before he straightened up again on his knees.

“Fucking glorious, right? So warm,” Beau murmured, his voice thick with lust.

Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through your spine. “She’s still cumming from your cock, dude.” He paused, his voice softening even as it stayed dominant. “I’m not hurting you, am I, sweetheart?”

You shook your head gently, breath coming in short, jagged gasps. A powerful wave of relief washed over you. You weren’t broken or numb, you could feel everything, every ridge, vein and throb of their cocks inside you. The sheer intensity proved you were more than capable of this kind of pleasure.

Dean’s arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you upright, pulling you off Beau’s chest and holding you tight against him in a firm bear hug, your back flush to his front. Your skin burned where it pressed against his.

“Do me a favor and wrap that pretty hand around Beau’s cock,” he whispered hotly against your ear.

He began to thrust in earnest, each powerful stroke driving deep and pushing fresh wetness out around his thick shaft. You melted back into him, head falling against his shoulder as a full-body shudder ran through you.

“Come on, be a good girl,” Dean murmured, voice rough with passion.

He looked down at Beau’s cock lying hard and twitching against his stomach, shiny and dripping with your juices. The swollen head glistened under the low light while a thin string of your slick stretched from your pussy to Beau’s skin every time Dean pulled back and slammed in again.

Your hand reached down on instinct, fingers wrapping around Beau’s slick, hot length, feeling it pulse strongly in your palm. You stroked him slowly at first, spreading the wetness up and down his shaft while Dean fucked you steadily from behind, the three of you locked together in the cramped tent.

You guided the broad head of Beau’s cock firmly against your swollen clit and the drenched opening of your pussy. Every time Dean slammed his hips forward, driving his cock deep into you, the force pressed your pelvis down onto Beau’s shaft. The friction was electric, a constant, slippery grind that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves. You whimpered, head tossing back against Dean’s shoulder anew as pre-cum and your own slick lubricated the filthy contact.

Beau’s chest tensed beneath you, his muscles rippling as he fought for control. “Ugh, fuck,” he moaned, the sound vibrating through your thighs. You let out a breathless chuckle between your moans, fingers digging into his skin to keep his cock pressed tight against your throbbing clit.

“You guys…do this often?” you gasped, voice trembling as Dean’s thrusts grew more urgent, hitting your cervix with blunt, satisfying thuds.

“We can, if you call us,” Beau answered instantly.

Dean let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated against your back. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” he said, teeth grazing the shell of your ear before he gripped your waist tighter and pulled you back harder onto his cock.

The pace changed, becoming a relentless, kinky assault on your senses. Dean began to rotate his hips, grinding his cock deep inside you while you continued sliding against Beau’s tip. The wet, slapping sound of skin meeting skin filled the tent, mixed with the heavy, intoxicating scent of sex and musk. You were drowning in it as pleasure built into a towering wave that stripped away your ability to speak. You could no longer form words, all that left your lips were high, needy moans and broken whimpers.

As you lost the ability to talk, the men took over. Their voices became low and praising as they talked about you like a prize, describing exactly how your tight walls squeezed Dean and how your clit pulsed against Beau.

“Look at her,” Dean groaned, his breath hot on your neck. “So fucking wet for us. I can feel her twitching around me, trying to suck me dry.”

“She’s perfect,” Beau rasped, his eyes locked on your blissed-out face.

Suddenly, Beau sat up, his movement fluid and hungry. He lunged forward and wrapped his mouth around one of your stiff nipples, sucking hard while his tongue swirled around the sensitive peak. At the same time, his hand reached up to massage your other breast, kneading the soft flesh with a firm grip. The combination of Dean’s deep pounding from behind, the constant friction on your clit and Beau’s hungry mouth on your breasts pushed you right to the edge.

Your back arched sharply, toes curling. “Fuck…I’m gonna cum,” you wailed, your internal muscles clamping down violently around Dean.

“Hold it,” they both commanded in unison.

The sudden order snapped you out of your haze for a split second. They didn’t stop moving, if anything, Dean slowed to a torturous, shallow grind, teasing the entrance of your womb, while Beau kept his cock pressed firmly against your clit. They went right back to their seductive murmurs against your skin, praising how your body trembled and how desperately you were leaking for them. They kept you hovering right on the precipice, denying your release and stretching the tension until your entire body hummed like a live wire, trapped in agonizing, wet ecstasy.

The friction continued, a relentless, slippery torture. The sheer amount of lubrication, a hot cocktail of your soaking wetness and their pre-cum, made every movement smooth and loud. 

As you ground desperately against Beau, the slickness became so intense that his cock suddenly slid from your clit and glided effortlessly toward your entrance.

You gasped, eyes widening in shock as you felt the broad, blunt head of his cock press firmly against your opening, right beside where Dean’s thick shaft was sliding in and out. He didn’t push inside but the overwhelming pressure of two cocks fighting for the same tight space was too much and the dam broke. 

You screamed, body convulsing in a violent, crashing orgasm. Your walls clamped down hard on Dean in rhythmic, desperate pulses, milking him with every spasm. You whined and moaned, voice breaking as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you, leaving you shaking and breathless.

The intensity of your climax triggered both men. Beau, feeling the frantic pulsing of your pussy against his sensitive head, let out a raspy moan into your nipple. His body stiffened as he erupted, thick ropes of hot cum shooting across your drenched pussy and mixing with the mess already coating your inner thighs.

At the same moment, the crushing grip of your orgasm pulled Dean over the edge. He let out a low, animalistic growl and buried himself as deep as possible, filling your womb with heavy, pulsing loads of cum. He kept thrusting slowly and heavily, pumping every last drop deep inside you while your body continued to shake between them.

Eventually, Dean slowed and pulled out with a wet, suctioning sound. The sudden emptiness left you feeling sensitive and open. 

You collapsed forward onto Beau’s chest as he lay back down, breathing hard against the crook of his neck. 

Your skin was warm and glistening with sweat and seed…And just as you started to relax, Beau reached down and delivered a sharp, loud smack to your ass.

You whined, the sting sending a fresh spark through your exhausted nerves while Dean groaned, voice thick with lingering lust as he stared at the sight of you. 

“How’s it looking?” Beau asked, glancing at Dean, who seemed completely mesmerized by your lower body.

Dean leaned in, eyes tracking the way their mixed cum and your wetness dripped from your swollen and still pulsing folds. “Like an overfilled twinkie,” he muttered.

The absurd comment shattered the tension and all three of you dissolved into tired, breathless laughter. You propped yourself up slightly, lifting just enough to capture Beau’s lips in a deep, lingering kiss. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer as you tasted the salt and heat of everything you had just done.

“You might not be Six Flags,” you whispered against his lips, a playful glint in your eyes, “but they should make you employee of the month.”

Beau grinned triumphantly and surged up to reclaim your mouth, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass firmly, kneading the flesh.

“Hey…how come I got no kiss?” Dean’s voice drifted from behind you, mock-offended.

You didn’t bother to look back, too focused on Beau’s tongue sliding against yours but you had to pull back. “You came inside me,” you murmured breathlessly. “Don’t be greedy.”

You sank back into the kiss, feeling Beau’s chest rumble with a chuckle.

“Few more minutes and I’ll come on it too,” Dean whispered, voice low and promising as you felt Beau grin against your lips.

You had never seen men as the answer to much of anything, least of all your pleasure. So maybe the next thing you would acquire wouldn’t be a boyfriend, but a nice, realistic, warming and throbbing dildo to add to your collection… and perhaps a couple of phone numbers to call on those nights when your toys needed charging.

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍

[shortnspidey]

I LOVE YOU SO MATCHA!

Dean Di Laurentis X Female!reader || WC: 2K

SUMMARY: Dean is completely wrecked after his first ever Pilates class which means a cold drink sounds heavenly. Or the one time Dean’s girlfriend forces him to try matcha after his first Pilates class.

WARNINGS: Nothing but tooth-rotting fluff!! 🍵✨

A/N: Where are all my fellow matcha lovers?! 🙋🏻‍♀️ SO many of you were asking for a part two to Pilates Princess, so here it is! It's short, sweet, and oh so wholesome! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @sc3ptre <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ dean di laurentis masterlist

“No. Absolutely not. This is where I draw the line.” Dean was already shaking his head, sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk as you tugged him toward Café Vittoria, the little café you, Hannah, and Grace had accidentally stumbled across a few months ago. "Dean, baby, we just sweat like pigs for the last hour and a half. I deserve a reward for that." You flashed him an exaggerated pout over your shoulder, lower lip jutting out just enough to make his resolve crack.

Damn you.

The worst part? You knew exactly what you were doing. Dean released a dramatic sigh, allowing himself to be pulled along despite his protests. Not that he was putting up much of a fight, he'd willingly follow you almost anywhere. "Babydoll, that doesn't mean we have to drink toxic waste." Nevertheless, when you reached the shop, he groaned under his breath and stepped ahead of you, grabbing the door handle before you could. You beamed up at him, making his chest warmed despite himself.

Then he stepped inside, and immediately regretted every life choice that had brought him to this moment. Pink. Pink was the only thing that came to mind. Pink walls. Pink chairs. Pink flowers. Pink neon signs glowing against the far wall. Even the display cases looked aggressively pink. Dean stopped dead in the entrance, his gaze sweeping across the café in horror. He was surrounded by pink. Fuck the Pilates class. Dean had never felt more out of place than he did right now.

His hockey teammates would have a field day with this. God, if Garrett, Tucker, and Logan saw him now, he'd never hear the end of it. Garrett would take pictures. Logan would make those annoying kissy faces. Tucker would somehow find a way to bring it up during every team dinner for the next six months. "Dean?" Your amused voice broke through his internal panic. He looked down to find you trying and failing to hide a smile.

"Try to look less traumatized."

"Babydoll, I am traumatized."

"You're being dramatic."

Dean gestured wildly at the explosion of pink surrounding them. "This place looks like Barbie threw up in here." A snort escaped you before you could stop it. "Hi!" You smiled, approaching the barista before Dean could make a run for it, not even needing to glance at the menu. "Could I please order two iced vanilla matcha lattes with sea salt cold foam?" The barista typed the order into the register while Dean stood there looking personally victimized by every word that had just left your mouth.

Before you could even reach for your wallet, a warm hand settled against your waist. Dean gently nudged you aside, stepping between you and the card reader. A second later, his card tapped against the machine. You grinned. "Thanks, baby." Rising onto your tiptoes, you looped your arms around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to his lips. Dean immediately kissed you back, eagerly. Very eagerly.

One hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer as though he'd forgotten you were standing in a crowded coffee shop at eight in the morning. A surprised laugh escaped you against his mouth. Someone near the pickup counter cleared their throat. Another customer giggled. Only neither of you paid attention. Dean definitely didn't. The man had always been physically affectionate, but ever since you'd started dating, he'd somehow become worse.

The kiss lingered a second longer than necessary. Then another. Then another. When you finally pulled away, Dean chased after you slightly before seeming to remember where he was. A smug smile tugged at his mouth. "You know," He drawled, thumb brushing along your hip. "If that's my reward for buying overpriced grass-flavored milk, maybe this place isn't so bad." You gasped, purposely hitting his sore bicep.

"It does not taste like grass."

"Your taste buds are broken."

"My taste buds are normal. Yours have been corrupted by social media."

"Oh, please. You're just mad because you survived one Pilates class and discovered muscles you didn't know existed."

Dean groaned dramatically at the memory of what he had just endured. Every muscle in his body protested the memory. His abs hurt. His thighs hurt. Hell, his ribs somehow hurt. Hockey practices were brutal. Weight training was brutal. But Pilates? Pilates was a different kind of evil. "I don't want to talk about it." Your laughter filled the café, and Dean simply watched the way your eyes crinkled at the corners, the way your smile stretched across your face, and felt his annoyance dissolve almost instantly.

In less than ten minutes, the barista was setting your drinks on the pick-up counter. The second your name was called, Dean pushed himself out of his chair. "I'll get them." You didn't bother arguing. Mostly because watching Dean walk away in a pair of gym shorts was one of your favorite hobbies. Pilates might have nearly killed him, but the black fitted shirt stretched deliciously across his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the man somehow looking unfairly attractive even while limping slightly from muscle fatigue.

Dean returned moments later carrying both drinks, his expression growing more suspicious with every step. The matcha glowed an alarming shade of green, ice cubes floated near the top while creamy swirls of vanilla and sea salt cold foam marbled through the drink. The cup itself sat inside a pastel pink sleeve, complete with a matching pink straw that looked almost comically cheerful against the vibrant green liquid. Balanced on top of the napkins was a bright pink one printed with the words:

I LOVE YOU SO MATCHA!

Dean stared at it, eye twitching in annoyance.

"It's mocking me."

"It is not."

"The napkin literally has a matcha pun on it."

"Which is adorable."

Dean dropped into the chair across from you and held his drink at arm's length, like it was explosive. His nose wrinkled as he inspected the bright green concoction. "You cannot tell me this isn't radioactive grass-flavored milk." The deadpan delivery nearly broke you. "Shut up and mix it." Dean narrowed his eyes. "You sound exactly like someone trying to poison me." Good, god was this man incredibly stubborn.

"First, you lured me to do Pilates, then, you forced me into a pink café, and now you're demanding I consume suspicious green liquid." Rolling your eyes, you reached across the table and nudged his knee with yours. "Mix the drink." With all the enthusiasm of a man preparing for execution, Dean jammed the straw into the cup. The sea salt cold foam slowly disappeared into the matcha, ribbons of pale cream swirling through green until the drink turned a softer shade of jade.

"Don't be a baby, just try it, Dean." You challenged watching as Dean stared at the cup, almost as if contemplating everything that had led up to this moment. Finally, he lifted it toward his mouth and took a cautious sip. You leaned forward expectantly. His brows lifted, then furrowed. The betrayal on his face was immediate. "Admit it, you like it." He did. The problem was that Dean knew you knew that he did. Which meant he would rather throw himself into oncoming traffic than admit you had been right.

A dramatic grimace crossed his face as he took another sip, as though each swallow physically pained him. "Fine, if you hate it so much then throw it away and order a coffee." You took a sip of your own drink, humming happily as the sweet vanilla and creamy sea salt foam mixed with the earthy matcha. The cold drink was heaven after ninety minutes of being folded into positions no human body should ever be forced into. "Babydoll, this was like eight dollars." You smirked around your straw, eyes twinkling in recognition.

Dean immediately caught the look, his own narrowing suspiciously. The pink cup never left his hand, in fact, he'd already taken three more sips. Your gaze dropped pointedly to the cup, then back to him. A flush crept into his cheeks, clearly being caught red handed. "Don't." A laugh bubbled out of you despite your best efforts to hold it back. "You've drank half of it already." He shook his head, only to look down and see that the liquid level had indeed dropped significantly. Dean groaned and slumped back in his chair.

"This is a setup."

"It really isn't."

"You manipulated me."

"All I did was order you a drink."

"You weaponized my love for you."

Unfortunately for him, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth gave him away completely.

"You like it!"

"I tolerate it."

"You love it."

"Okay, babydoll, let's not get carried away."

Once again, his words betrayed him, seeing as the cup was nearly empty now. Dean seemed to realize this at the exact moment you did. A look of genuine horror crossed his face. "You drank the entire thing!" Dean looked personally offended by the evidence. "This is ridiculous. I just was conducting research." You nearly choked on your drink at his absurd statement. "Needed to confirm it was terrible." He shrugged, as you leaned closer from across the table, smirk widening. "And?"

Dean glanced at the empty cup, jaw ticking. You could practically see him debating whether preserving his pride was worth lying directly to your face. He sighed dramatically, making your eyes light up knowing exactly what he was about to say. "It was... okay." Dean immediately regretted those words seeing as you were seconds away from launching yourself across the table. "Okay is basically amazing coming from you." Dean rolled his eyes but wrapped an arm around your waist when you slid onto his side of the booth anyway.

The movement was instinctive, automatic, like breathing. You settled against him, resting your head on his shoulder while he draped an arm across your lap. Outside, the morning sun filtered through the café windows, casting warm golden light across the pink walls and crowded tables. Around you, conversations buzzed, espresso machines hissed, and pop music drifted softly through the speakers. For a moment, neither of you spoke, you simply sat there together.

Dean pressed a kiss against your temple before breaking the comfortable silence. "You know," He murmured, fingers tracing lazy circles against your thigh. "If anyone from the team finds out about this, I'm denying everything." A laugh escaped you, taking another hefty sip of what was left of your drink before squeezing his forearm. "The Pilates class or the matcha?" Dean let out a playful scoff before pressing another loving kiss to your forehead, trying to hide his smile.

"Both, babydoll, obviously."

"You literally drank the whole thing."

"Fake news."

"The evidence is right there."

"The evidence is circumstantial."

Dean's green eyes sparkled with amusement as you rolled your eyes. Despite the complaining, despite the dramatics, espite the ten-minute hate campaign against matcha. He looked happier than he had all morning, and judging by the way his arm tightened around your waist when you snuggled closer, he knew you knew it too. "So does that mean you'll come next weekend too?" You asked sweetly, making Dean immediately grow suspicious. "What's next weekend?"

You smiled innocently, lashes fluttering innocently. "A hot yoga class Hannah mentioned." The groan that left him was loud enough for the entire café to hear which in turn made you laugh so hard tears gathered in your eyes. Dean buried his face in your shoulder, muttering something along the lines of "kill me now". Yet, despite all his complaints, you were already willing to bet he'd be right beside you when next weekend rolled around, probably carrying another eight-dollar matcha, too.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[loveyoubunchies]

Right Answers Only

John Logan x fem!reader

Summary: John Logan thought he was competitive, being an athlete and all. That was until his girlfriend brought him to weekly trivia, leaving him both fearing for his life and hopelessly in love after the night was over.

Warning: None! Pure fluff

A/N: Very indulgent but thought it would be a funny concept. Thought you all might want something different from the Bitch to Me Briar series

“Are you doing anything tonight?” you said over the phone with your boyfriend, Logan.

“No what’s up baby?” he asked.

“Perfect I need you to be my partner in trivia at Trident tonight.”

Logan was aware of your weekly trivia nights with your roommate, Grace. It was a special time just for the two of you which he did not interfere with.

“I’m finally invited to trivia after three months of dating?” he chuckled.

“Do you wanna come or not? Gracie is ditching me for a first date and I need a partner.”

“Sure, since you want me there so badly babe,”he answered sarcastically, “What time should I come over?”

“Like now,” you huffed, “We need to discuss strategy and prep you since you’re a novice.”

“Hey I’m not just a dumb jock.”

“Never said you were,” you sang, “Love you and come over quick!”

Logan got to your place around ten minutes after. It only took one knock on the door for you to quickly pull him inside. You guided him to the couch where he sat and you stood holding your iPad with notes scribbled on.

“What no kiss?” Logan pouted as you were too focused on the competition tonight.

“You can get a kiss if we place tonight,” you said firmly.

So Logan decided to pull you by the belt loops so that you would fall into his lap. You squirmed in protest but his hands stayed on your waist to keep you anchored. He hadn’t seen you all week aside from a brief lunch two days ago. He had an away game last weekend and you were just finishing up your midterms. So no he was not going to apologies for being clingy.

“You’re sexy when you’re passionate,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Whatever,” you scoffed, adjusting yourself on his lap so that you can show him the iPad display.

“There’s seven rounds and seven questions per round,” you began lecturing, “One minute per question.”

“Is this like themed trivia?”

“Just general but each round will have a theme. They are some of the most random categories so I really need you to use that memory of yours,” you said, tapping his head lightly which made him chuckle.

You wished he’d stop laughing as this was no laughing matter. This was trivia night!

“I’ll put my thinking cap on,” he smiled.

“I’ll admit this stuff is kinda hard. Grace and I have only gotten podium maybe five times and we’ve been playing for two semesters now,” you said a bit sad.

“Don’t worry babe,” Logan gave you a squeeze, “If there’s a hockey or video game category I’ll bring home gold for you.”

You gave him a shy smile. Three months of dating this man and you firmly believed that he would do absolutely anything for you. Fixing the drain in your apartment, carrying your shopping bags, making you soup when you’re sick. You had this man wrapped around your finger and you didn’t know how you got so lucky.

When the school worshipped your boyfriend like a Greek god, you were the one he came to immediately after the game. You were the reason he was skipping drinks with the team to support your trivia night.

Logan was thinking the same thing as he watched you babble about strategy and being confident. He also heard you say that you really only wanted to beat one team tonight because the girl was in your class and she’s super rude. Logan remembered her as the girl who bothered you at some party so now he was ready for vengeance tonight.

Logan thought back to how you both met. It was at a random party and Logan had found you outside looking up at the stars. The way the moonlight hit your face, you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Once you started pointing out constellations, that’s when Logan knew he was a goner.

Now his days are filled with you curled up by his side reading while he played video games. Or date nights that were equal parts romantic and spontaneous. And there was no better feeling seeing you wear his jersey for the first time at a home game.

“Ugh I really don’t like her,” you huffed, twisting Logan’s hoodie strings between your fingers, “She also plays with her boyfriend at trivia so we need to show them we’re the better couple.”

“Shouldn’t be hard,” he said, pulling your faces closer, “I think the majority of couples at Briar wish they were us.”

“Yeah we are pretty great,” you grinned.

That’s when Logan took the opportunity to kiss you. He leaned in to softly press his lips against yours which you melted into instantly. One hand moved to cup your jaw while your own tangled in his soft hair. God you could kiss this man forever.

When Logan tried to depend the kiss, fingers creeping under your shirt, you pulled away teasingly watching his body naturally lean in to chase you.

“We have to go,” you announced, hopping up from his lap, “If we don’t get there early all the spots in the front will be taken and our chances of winning will significantly decrease.”

Logan just shook his head as we follows you out the dorm.

—

Logan couldn’t help but smile as you were happily waving to the employees and other patrons at the establishment. Trident was actually a coffee shop but every Thursday they turned it into a bar and trivia night.

You squealed, grabbing his hand to pull him to a small table tucked in the front left.

“This is the spot when Gracie and I got first,” you explained, “It must be a good sign.”

“And you were making fun of me for my game day superstitions,” he joked, shrugging off his jacket.

“Cause your superstitions are stupid,” you said, “I don’t know how having sex 24 hours before a game is bad luck. Wouldn’t that actually improve your performance?”

“Everyone on the team swore a vow and I’m not about to fuck over playoffs.”

“Not even to meet your girlfriend’s needs,” you huffed. You were only joking. Logan performed well above satisfactory in bed.

“Really know how to make your boyfriend feel good,” he laughed, “Do you wanna a drink?”

You gave him a nod while the waitress brought over trivia paper and markers for the table. You gazed over at Logan as his body leaned against the counter. He was wearing a backwards cap and a grey long sleeves that hugged his muscles deliciously. He was a lot larger than the rest of the people around, definitely a new face.

You could see the bartender flutter her eyelashes at Logan as he paid for the two beers. That was the one downside of having the perfect boyfriend. Seemed like everyone wanted a piece of him.

Before you could get jealous, a familiar figure walked in. You already it was Jessica from class from her obnoxiously loud voice that was bossing her boyfriend around. Poor guy.

Jessica and you had mild beef after you called out her not so subtle racist comments she made during your film studies class. That weekend she made a point to spill beer on you by “accident” which had Grace holding you back before you threw a punch. She was also always so loud and rude during class always causing your professor to furrow their brows in impatience. And

She sauntered over to where you were sitting to give an acknowledgement but after noticing the seat was empty she made a point to gloat.

“Sucks that Grace isn’t here,” she said, “I heard one of the categories is serial killers.”

You rolled your eyes not giving her the satisfaction of a response.

Just in time your knight in shining armor was walking back with two beers in hand. His brows raised up in confusion to the couple standing in front of your table.

“Here you go pretty,” he said, sliding a glass over and then taking a seat.

Jessica’s smug smile turned into an expression of shock as she realized who was now sitting across from you.

“Hey you’re John Logan right?” Jessica’s boyfriend asked, “Dude you’re crushing it.”

“Thanks man,” Logan smiled and then looked to you.

“Jessica this is my boyfriend,” you said, trying not to sound too smug.

You were aware she used to have a thing for him after hearing her gossip so loudly about it in class. Little did she know that he was all yours.

There was no response as Jessica quickly stormed off with her boyfriend trailing behind.

“Was that her?” Logan asked, reaching over to pull you seat closer.

He did it with such ease that you felt your cheeks heat up once you were sat close enough he could throw an arm across the back of your chair.

You were not going to be able to focus. You should’ve asked Allie to come instead.

“Yeah doesn’t matter cause we’re gonna beat them,” you grumbled.

“Damn right,” Logan pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before you exclaimed,

“What should our team name be?”

By your frantic tone Logan thought you forgot your phone or keys. He loved how passionate you were about well, everything.

Logan always had a hard time expressing his emotions while you wore them on your sleeve proudly. Since you’d been dating he’s been better at opening up. Only because you were so easy and patient.

“What’s the name you and Grace have?”

“Bikini Bottom,” you said, ignoring his snicker, “But that’s reserved for Gracie and I, so we need another.”

“Can’t we just put our initials?”

“And be boring,” you groaned.

“You’re right,” Logan agreed, “Umm who’s a power couple maybe can do something like that?”

“I like that,” you nodded, “Any ideas?”

“Romeo and Juliet?”

“Logan! They both die,” you chide, “Hardly a power couple if they can’t even stay alive in their universe.”

“I thought it was romantic,” he mumbled, “Star wars? Han Solo and Leia.”

“They were toxic. Both on and off screen.”

Logan huffed in frustration but you were making good points. The room was getting crowded, he looked to the clock to see they were going to start soon.

“How about Mr. And Mrs. Smith? They try to kill each other but then they team up. Kinda like us?”

“I never tried to kill you. It was an accident I ran into on my bike on the way to our first date,” you said, “But I do like that movie.”

“Done,” Logan said, quickly scribbling down the name before you had doubts.

---

Soon trivia began with the host of the explaining the rules and timing of the night. Logan watched as you bounced eagerly in your seat, waiting for the first category to be announced.

"Landmarks"

The first question was "The Hollywood sign originally spelled out which word"

Logan was lost, as you tapped your chin to think.

"I have no clue babe," he said.

"Logan that's not helpful," you grumbled, "I'm trying to think of a reasonable answer. Maybe Los Angeles?"

"Hollywoodland? Like Greaseland?" Logan tried.

"That's actually not a bad idea," you said, writing it down. You leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

If that's what it took to impress you he would've stop trying to show off on the ice and pulling his muscles. Although it was always worth seeing you clap eagerly in the crowd whenever he skated by.

-

The game continued and each category got more and more absurd. Luckily you scored with romance novels and you literally shrieked in excitement when the 5th category was hockey history. Logan easily got every question right.

The last category was guessing whether the word was a disease or Pokemon name.

"Ugh I only know the cute ones," you groaned but when you turned to Logan he had a wicked grin on his face.

"Lucky for you I still have my collection tucked under my bed," he said.

You couldn't help but press a kiss to his lips which he was quick to react to.

"Best boyfriend ever," you grinned.

-

The winners were announced shortly after and you and Logan literally stood up and cheered when you got in third. Not first but third. But the smile on your face told Logan you didn't even care.

“I can’t believe we got third!” you exclaimed, skipping on the sidewalk, “What are the odds that there’s a hockey category!”

Logan just chuckled and watch you celebrate. You were waving around the envelope like it was a Stanley Cup, beaming at him.

“And did you see the look on Jessica’s face! Best trivia ever!” you squealed.

That’s when Logan wrapped you up in his arms making you shout in delight while he peppered kisses all over your face. You were smiling so hard your face hurt as Logan look down at you with those adoring eyes.

“Proud of us babe,” he said, “Glad I could be a worthy partner.”

“You did a lot better than I expected,” you said causing Logan to playfully tickle you.

“Absolutely no faith in your boyfriend,” he sighed, hands not leaving your body as you continued your walk to campus.

“I had some faith,” you said weakly.

“I hope Gracie’s date went well cause then we could do trivia double dates,” you pondered, “4 times the brain power we’d be unstoppable!”

God you were so cute, Logan couldn’t help but give you another squeeze.

“My little nerd,” he said making you bark out a laugh.

“You’re also a nerd,” you teased, “No business knowing all those Pokémon.”

Instead of firing back, Logan just scoped you up bridal style making you shriek, wrapping your arms around you neck.

"You're cute when you're competitive," he said, kissing your nose. "Thank you for inviting me tonight."

"Yeah yeah," you shrugged playfully. "You're a pretty great partner. In all aspects."

Logan laughed at your dry humor and just spun both you around as the two of you enjoyed the fall night. Hell Logan would read every atlas and scroll all the wikipedia pages if it meant to keep you smiling as much as you were tonight.

[sunnydilaurentis]

to take away the pain | found family au

summary: in which nobody realises how much of the group's heart y/n holds until she's the one lying in a hospital bed instead of taking care of everyone else.

notes: thank you so much for this very sweet request, i loved writing it! seriously this group owns my whole heart. i love them. i love them. i love them <3

✩.* found family fics!

✩.* found family masterlist

ꪆৎ

the first sign that something was wrong was the fact that you didn't answer your phone. normally, that wouldn't mean much. people missed calls all the time.

except you always answered your phone, or at the very least, sent a text.

especially when it was allie calling, which was why the third unanswered call made something uncomfortable settle low in her stomach, a feeling she couldn't quite explain.

"that's weird."

grace glanced up from where she was sitting across the table at the coffee shop, "what?"

"y/n isn't answering her phone."

sabrina frowned, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "maybe she's taking a nap?"

allie was already shaking her head. "she texted me forty minutes ago."

allie tries calling you again, however to her dismay it goes straight to voicemail, and the knot in her stomach tightens.

twenty minutes later she's outside your shared dorm, digging through her purse for the keys. the door has barely opened before allie's stomach sinks.

you hadn't even made it to your room. you were curled up on the couch in the common area, one of the throw blankets dragged haphazardly over your legs.

for a second you don't even seem to notice she's there. your head is tipped back against the cushions, eyes squeezed shut, one arm wrapped tightly around your stomach. every instinct in allie's body starts screaming.

she knew instantly that something was wrong. you looked awful. completely, genuinely awful.

pale enough to make allie's chest tighten, your face pinched with pain, your breathing shallow and uneven. one hand was pressed so tightly against your stomach that your knuckles had gone white, like letting go for even a second might somehow make it worse.

"jesus christ," allie breathes, dropping her bag by the door. "y/n?"

your eyes crack open slightly at the sound of her voice, and somehow, seeing the tears already gathering in your eyes makes allie feel even worse.

you try to smile, but the minimal action looks painful, like even moving the muscles in your face takes effort.

"hi."

the greeting comes out weak, barely above a whisper and allie's stomach drops even further, because this isn't you.

you're the person who talks with your hands, who fills every silence, who somehow manages to find something funny in every situation.

even when you're sick, especially when you're sick.

right now you sound exhausted.

drained.

like simply getting that one word out had cost you energy you didn't have to spare. "oh my god," allie says immediately, crossing the room.

"you look terrible."

a breath that might have been a laugh leaves you, or maybe a wince, it's hard to tell.

"thank you."

"i'm serious." she drops into a crouch beside the couch, one hand immediately finding your forehead.

"jesus, you're burning up."

your eyes close again. "i don't feel very good."

the understatement is so ridiculous that it would almost be funny if you didn't look like you were about thirty seconds away from passing out.

"what happened?"

"nothing."

"y/n."

you let out a slow breath. "my stomach hurts."

allie stares. you stare back for approximately two seconds before abruptly folding forward, one hand shooting toward the edge of the couch as your eyes squeeze shut.

the sound that leaves you isn't quite a gasp, isn't quite a groan, just pain.

raw and immediate.

allie's heart practically stops, she'd never seen you like this before.

you were the girl who powered through migraines, the girl who submitted assignments with fevers, the girl who insisted she was fine when she very clearly wasn't. seeing you unable to sit upright feels wrong. incredibly, undeniably wrong.

"we're going to the hospital."

"allie-"

"hospital."

"it's probably nothing."

"you literally can't sit up."

"that's dramatic."

allie gestures toward your current position. "you're folded in half, y/n."

you glance down at yourself, consider it, before nodding once. "okay."

a pause.

"maybe only a little dramatic."

-

twenty minutes later the pair were sitting in emergency. allie was drafting out a text to garrett, her fingers shaking.

allie

something's wrong with y/n

i'm taking her to the hospital

don't panic but maybe panic a little

the response came back in less than ten seconds.

garrett

fuck

which hospital

i'm coming

garrett had been halfway through lunch with the boys when the message from allie arrived. one second he was listening to logan argue with dean about something completely ridiculous and the next he was on his feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor.

everyone immediately stopped talking.

dean frowned.

"what?"

garrett was already reaching for his keys.

"y/n is in the hospital."

silence. absolute silence.

"what?"

"why?"

"what happened?"

"which hospital?"

"was there an accident?"

the questions came all at once and garrett didn't have any answers. somehow that was the worst part, because if he knew what was wrong maybe he could handle it.

instead all he had was a text message.

something's wrong.

hospital.

don't panic.

which was exactly the sort of message guaranteed to make him panic.

"i'm driving."

dean was already standing, “we're all coming"

-

by the time they arrived at the hospital sabrina and grace had too, sitting beside allie, waiting.

nobody looked relaxed, nobody looked okay.

the harsh fluorescent lights washed everyone out. the waiting room smelled faintly of coffee, antiseptic and exhaustion. people came and went, televisions murmured quietly overhead, time seemed to move strangely.

too slow, and yet too fast all at once.

dean had started pacing approximately fourteen seconds after arriving.

he hadn't stopped since.

back and forth. back and forth. wearing an invisible path into the hospital floor.

at some point he'd walked such a precise route between the reception desk and the vending machines that the nurse behind reception had started glancing up automatically every time he passed.

every now and then he'd drag a hand through his hair, ask if there were any updates, receive the same answer, before starting to pace again.

logan had bought six coffees, nobody drank them. they sat untouched on a nearby table, slowly going cold.

tucker had six different tabs open on his phone, every single one worse than the last.

"apparently if it ruptures-"

"tucker."

"what?"

"shut up."

"okay."

thirty seconds later.

"apparently recovery time-"

"tucker."

"right. i've got it, sorry"

garrett hadn't said much, which somehow worried everyone more.

he sat with his elbows on his knees and a folded information sheet in his hands. the nurse had given it to him forty minutes ago, he'd read it immediately, then read it again, and again, and again.

by now the edges had started to crease beneath his fingers while tiny white lines appeared where he'd folded and unfolded the paper too many times.

not because he was learning anything new, but because reading it felt better than doing nothing.

because doing nothing, and sitting in the waiting room helpless felt impossible, because every second he wasn't sitting right by your side looking at you felt wrong.

-

the thing nobody talks about later is the surgery.

or the diagnosis.

or even the fact that it had been appendicitis.

what everyone remembers is seeing you in the hospital room. that was the moment it became real.

the moment they finally saw you, hospital blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fact it wasn't cold.

hair messy, face pale.

hospital bracelet hanging loosely around your wrist, eyes glassy from exhaustion and pain medication.

small. you looked impossibly small.

for a second nobody moved. they'd all been imagining it, the hospital was abstract when it existed in a text message.

in updates from allie, in worried phone calls, in unanswered questions.

it was something happening somewhere else, something they couldn't quite picture.

but now, it wasn't abstract anymore.

there you were. curled beneath a blanket, one arm wrapped protectively around your stomach. you looked exhausted, fragile. smaller than any of them had ever seen you and suddenly it became terrifying, because this wasn't right.

this wasn't you.

you were supposed to be the person carrying snacks in your handbag for everyone else, the person forcing garrett to eat breakfast before practice, the person who somehow always noticed when somebody's smile looked a little forced.

the person who checked in, constantly, who remembered things, who took care of people. you were never supposed to be the person sitting in a hospital bed trying not to cry.

allie sat beside you, one hand wrapped tightly around yours. garrett was on the other side, not sitting, standing, like if he sat down something bad might happen.

every few seconds his eyes would scan your features.

checking. still there, still breathing, still okay.

or as okay as you could be.

he hadn't let go of your hand once, not once. his thumb moved absently over your knuckles, like he needed the physical confirmation that you were still next to him.

the automatic doors slid open behind him. nurses came and went, phones rang, doctors crossed the corridor.

you winced, barely. just slightly, the sort of movement most people would've missed. seven heads however immediately turned towards you, the reaction so automatic it would've been funny under any other circumstance.

"you okay?"

the words come from four different people at once. you blinked, mildly startled by the attention.

"yeah."

you weren't, everyone knew you weren't. your hand remained pressed protectively against your stomach. your face still tightened every few minutes when another wave of pain rolled through, and every single time it happened somebody in the group visibly tensed with you, as though they could somehow absorb part of it if they worried hard enough.

somehow you still managed a tired smile. "you guys don't have to stay."

logan looked genuinely offended, grace scoffed, sabrina stared, tucker looked like you'd personally insulted him and dean actually stopped pacing.

which might have been the most alarming thing he'd done all night.

"seriously?"

you blinked.

"what?"

"we're obviously staying."

"dean-"

"we're staying."

simple, final.

because there had never been any other option on the table.

you looked down. "i'm okay."

the shared expression around the room suggested absolutely nobody believed you.

"you've cried four times in the last hour," sabrina said gently.

"five," grace corrected.

allie lifted her hand, "six."

"guys."

"you cried because the nurse asked if you had allergies", grace states gently.

"that wasn't why i was crying."

"baby, you cried because they brought you apple juice," garrett said softly.

your face immediately flushed. “i was overwhelmed."

"exactly. that's not helping your argument."

the tiny smile that followed was enough to make the entire group visibly relax, which seemed ridiculous.

you had noticed it. the way they were watching you, the way dean kept pacing, the way garrett wouldn't let go, the way logan's jokes had completely disappeared, the way tucker kept looking up from his phone every thirty seconds just to make sure you were still okay. for the first time all day the brave smile slipped, just slightly.

fear replacing it. raw, honest, small.

everyone noticed and suddenly the room felt quieter, because they'd never seen that expression on your face before.

not once, not ever.

you were the strong one, the steady one, the safe place. seeing fear in your eyes felt wrong in a way none of them could explain.

garrett swallowed hard, dean looked away, grace squeezed allie's shoulder and logan stared at the floor. somehow the scariest part wasn't the surgery to come. it wasn’t the hospital or appendicitis itself.

it was seeing the person who always made everybody else feel safe looking like she needed someone to make her feel safe instead, and none of them were prepared for how much that would hurt.

✩.* taglist; @05gwyn | @alwaysclassyeagle | @casiiopea2 | @nexisphere | @imstressed17 | @legendarychrattgirl | @ethanthequeefqueen | @wiishies | @legendarychrattgirl | @tabisswag | @corvusmorte | @mariiibash | @stevesxwhore | @choppedpartymuffinwinner | @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns | @leilareads58 | @nikfigueiredo | @archxve | @s0ftdr1nks | @persasseajackson | @avengersheart | @brxght-world | @plants-w0rld | @hamilronweasley | @dyslexicepicfan | @livformadrid

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ i've got you.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – a bad loss, a worse party, and garrett finding out exactly what kind of man used to make someone he cares about feel small. warnings – angst, emotional abuse references, slut-shaming, public humiliation, violence, physical fight, blood, strong language notes from me – i promised garrett would find out about her ex! based on this ask, thank u babe! word count – 6.5k

navigation – masterlist |

The party is technically still a party, in the way a body is technically still alive when it’s lying very still and making everyone else uncomfortable. There’s music coming from the living room speakers, and the kitchen is full, and someone has already knocked over half a case of beer near the back door, but the usual post-game buzz hasn’t properly taken. 

The loss has followed the boys home like bad weather, clinging to the sharp set of Garrett’s jaw and the bruise darkening near Logan’s cheekbone and the way Dean keeps drinking. Even Tucker, who can usually make a room feel less like it wants to bite itself, has been standing at the counter for ten minutes making tiny sandwiches with the grim focus of a man assembling evidence.

“Don’t call them tiny sandwiches,” Tucker says, responding to something Logan had said that she'd missed. “They’re dippables.”

There's a beat of silence so beautiful and complete that she almost respects the universe for giving it to them.

Then Dean says, “I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just call them?”

Garrett laughs behind her, low and warm against the back of her shoulder, and the sound loosens something in her chest that had been sitting there since she spotted Nathan by the beer pong table twenty minutes ago. 

Garrett’s sitting on the kitchen counter behind her, one knee hooked loosely at either side of her hips while she stands between his legs with her back tipped into him like it happened by accident and not because his hand found her waist three seconds after she walked in and kept her there. 

He has a beer in one hand and the other at the back of her neck, thumb moving in slow, absent circles over the tender place where her shoulder meets her spine, like he’s decided her body is something he can keep track of without looking at it.

“They’re sandwiches, Tuck,” Logan says, leaning one hip against the island and reaching for one.

Tucker smacks his hand away. “They’re meant to be dipped. That’s the point.”

“In what?” she asks, because she loves Tucker and because she is weak.

Tucker brightens at her like he’s finally found a reasonable member of the group. “There’s au jus.”

Dean’s face twists. “There’s what?”

“Au jus,” Tucker repeats.

Garrett’s thumb pauses at the back of her neck. “Bro, did you make a French dip sandwich and then cut it into little slutty rectangles?”

She chokes on a laugh, and Tucker points at her with immediate betrayal. “Not you too. Don’t stoop to their level.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Little slutty rectangles was actually a strong contribution.”

“Unbelievable,” Tucker mutters, turning back to his plate with the wounded dignity of someone surrounded by people too stupid to appreciate innovation. “Fine. None for any of you.”

Logan already has one halfway to his mouth. “Too late.”

It should be enough. This, Garrett’s knee warm against her thigh, Tucker in front of them with a plate of sandwiches he has emotionally overinvested in, Dean loose-limbed and loud, Logan eating in a way that suggests he has never once feared choking. 

It should be enough to keep her here, properly here, in the kitchen with the counter digging lightly into Garrett’s palm beside her hip and the whole house smelling like beer and aftershave and cheap chips and winter cold.

But every so often, her body remembers Nathan’s in the house. A quiet tightening under her skin whenever his voice comes close enough to recognise. The back of her throat going dry for half a second. Her stomach making one slow, unpleasant turn when she catches sight of him leaning in too close to some girl near the living room archway, smiling with that exact mouth he used to make her feel stupid for needing anything. 

She’s over him. She knows that. She has done the therapy-adjacent late-night self-reflection, the crying in the shower, the deleting screenshots, the learning how to take a compliment without waiting for it to become a trap. She's rebuilt too many little pieces of herself to mistake disgust for longing.

Still. Seeing him makes her feel like she needs to wash her hands. 

Garrett’s thumb presses a little more firmly into the back of her neck, and she realises, with a small, guilty jolt, that she’s gone still.

“Still sore from yesterday?” he murmurs, his mouth brushing the bare curve of her shoulder because her top has slipped slightly and because Garrett’s incapable of seeing available skin without acting like it exists for him personally.

She nods, letting the answer be easy because that’s what he’s asking about and because she would rather talk about a pulled shoulder than the way Nathan’s laugh keeps snagging at the edge of the room. “A little.”

Garrett’s hand shifts, fingers sliding beneath her hair to rub slow circles into the muscle. It hurts enough to make her inhale and feels good enough to make her want to lean back harder. “There?”

“Mhm.”

Dean watches the movement with narrowed eyes. “Are we witnessing foreplay or physiotherapy?”

“Could be both,” Garrett says.

“Clinical dual-purpose,” she adds, and Logan snorts hard enough to cough.

Tucker, because he’s the only person in the room with any decency, points a sandwich knife at all of them. “Can one kitchen interaction in this house not become sexual?”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“No,” Logan agrees.

Garrett leans down and kisses the top of her shoulder, his grin pressing briefly into her skin. “Probably not.”

She laughs, and for one second it works. The room warms properly around her. Garrett’s body is solid behind her, his hand large and careful on her neck, and Nathan’s a thing somewhere else. A bad smell through a window. A person she used to know badly. Nothing more. Then he walks into the kitchen.

Nathan comes in with one of his friends behind him, shoulder first through the crowd, laughing at something already, like the house belongs to him because he’s decided to move through it. He looks the same in a way that feels almost rude. 

Same neat hair. Same watch he used to tap when she was late, even if late meant she'd stayed back on placement because someone coded and she couldn’t exactly tell a dying man to hurry up. Same pale blue button-down that probably took more effort than it wanted to admit. His eyes flick over the kitchen and land on her. Garrett’s hand stops moving.

It’s so quick she nearly misses it. Nathan’s gaze dips to where she’s standing between Garrett’s knees, to Garrett’s hand on her neck, to the easy, intimate line of her body leaning back into his. His mouth twitches.

She hates that she knows that twitch. He turns toward his friend as they pass the island, heading for the sink where half the drinks are buried in ice, and coughs something under his breath. Enough that it could be denied, just enough that the words are meant to land like spit without the inconvenience of accountability.

Dean hears something. She knows because the lazy angle of his body changes at once, his spine straightening, one hand dropping from the counter. “What’d you say, man?”

The kitchen thins in a way no one else seems to notice at first. Tucker looks up from the sandwiches. Logan’s chewing slows. Garrett’s fingers spread over the back of her neck.

Nathan looks back at Dean like he’s surprised to be addressed, which is rich, considering Nathan’s whole personality is built on saying things softly enough to make other people look crazy for reacting. “Nah, man. Nothing.”

Dean’s face goes very calm. It’s a bad calm. A Dean calm that belongs right before some guy at Malone’s realises he’s miscalculated the pretty one. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nathan says, lifting both hands, one beer bottle hanging loose from his fingers. “Just grabbing a drink.”

Dean nods once. “Get the fuck outta my kitchen.”

Nathan’s friend mutters something, but Nathan only gives a thin little smile, the one that always used to make her stomach drop because it meant he would punish her later for something he had started. “All good,” he says, and backs out with the beer.

For a second, nobody speaks. The music from the living room fills the space badly. Someone yells at the TV even though the TV is only playing a muted sports recap. Garrett’s hand has moved from her neck to her waist, his arm coming around her middle like he’s pulled her back without thinking.

“What was that about?” Logan asks, eyes still on the doorway.

Dean looks at her for half a second, not long enough to make it obvious to everyone, but long enough that she knows. Long enough that something sour and hot slides down the back of her throat.

He heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough. Dean, who jokes like breathing is optional, looks at her like he’s measuring whether to tell Garrett and deciding, maybe, that detonating him in the kitchen is not the right play.

“Nothing,” Dean says, taking a drink and looking away first. “All good.”

It isn’t, but she lets him have the lie. Garrett’s chin lowers slightly, his mouth close to her ear. “You okay?”

She makes herself nod before her body can make a whole production out of it. “Yeah. Shoulder’s just being annoying.”

Garrett doesn’t believe her. She can feel that in the way his hand settles more securely over her stomach, palm warm through her top. But he lets it go for now, kissing her shoulder again, once, slower this time. “Same as yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

Logan blinks, grateful for the normal subject or maybe just willing to accept the one she hands them. “What’d you do?”

“Oh, uh.” She clears her throat and reaches for one of Tucker’s sandwiches mostly so her hand has a task. “Patient came in unconscious yesterday. We were shifting him from the gurney to the bed when he started waking up, and he moved weird, and I kind of caught the weight wrong.” She lifts one shoulder, immediately regrets it, and makes a face. “Tweaked it a little. It’s fine. Just stiff.”

“Jesus,” Tucker says, concern creasing his forehead. “You okay?”

“Yeah, genuinely. Nothing compared to you guys throwing yourselves into walls.”

“Hey,” Logan says. “We get scholarships for that.”

Garrett’s thumb resumes the slow work at her shoulder, but his body hasn’t relaxed behind her. His beer sits forgotten beside him on the counter now, sweating into a little ring. “You should’ve told me.”

“I did tell you.”

“After I noticed.”

“That still counts.”

“It counts less.”

She tips her head back against his chest to look up at him, forcing the corner of her mouth to lift because the alternative feels like letting Nathan keep something. “Are you going to be difficult about a stiff shoulder?”

Garrett looks down at her, jaw still tight, eyes too attentive. “I’m good at difficult.”

Dean makes a disgusted sound. “God, you two are nauseating.”

“You’re just jealous nobody wants to stand between your knees while you threaten medical neglect,” Logan says.

Dean crosses his arms. “Plenty of people want to stand between my knees.”

“Name two.”

“Your mom, for one.”

Logan throws a piece of bread at him. Tucker yells about waste. Garrett laughs against her hair, and she lets herself be folded back into the noise because the kitchen moves on around her, because Nathan is gone, because for a while that's enough.

The night loosens by degrees without ever becoming good. People keep drinking. The music gets louder as if volume can correct a bad final score. The boys split apart eventually, pulled into different conversations and arguments and games she doesn’t track. 

Garrett disappears toward the back porch with Logan and two guys from the team, his hand sliding off her waist only after he bends to murmur, “Come find me if your shoulder gets worse,” which makes Dean make such a vile kissing sound that Garrett shoves him on the way past.

She ends up in the living room with two girls from anatomy and one from her clinical group, talking about a professor who pronounces duodenum differently every lecture like he’s trying to keep them on their toes.

It helps. It really does. The room is warm and crowded, and someone has shoved a drink into her hand that she keeps forgetting to drink, and for ten full minutes she is almost normal.

Then Garrett’s voice cuts through the house. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

The conversation around her falters. Her head turns before she’s fully processed why her stomach has dropped. Garrett’s near the archway between the living room and hall, shoulders squared, one hand fisted at his side, the other pushing Nathan back by the chest hard enough that Nathan stumbles into someone behind him. Logan’s two steps away, already moving. Dean, by the couch, goes still in a way that makes the whole room feel suddenly smaller.

Nathan laughs. He’s drunk enough now that the edges of him are sloppy, his face flushed, hair falling out of its careful shape. “I’m just saying, bro. She’s fucking insane. You haven’t gotten to the part where she has a nervous breakdown every time–”

Garrett shoves him again. Harder. “Say that shit again.”

A low sound moves through the room, like everyone’s inhaled at once and forgotten the exhale.

“Garrett,” she says, but it disappears under the music and the blood rushing in her ears.

Nathan’s eyes flick past Garrett and land on her. It’s awful, how bright he gets when he sees her watching. Like this is what he wanted. Like all the soft, careful little comments, all the rumours, all the muttered half-words in kitchens and hallways and under his breath, had been leading toward the moment he could drag her into the middle of a room and make her feel sixteen inches tall again.

“There she is,” Nathan says, spreading his arms slightly. “Slut of the hour. Been wanting to talk to you.”

Her fingers go cold around her cup. Garrett turns his head just enough to see her face, and whatever is left of his restraint thins to a thread.

Nathan either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. His smile pulls wider. “Hey, Graham, does she do that thing when she sucks yo–”

Garrett hits him before the sentence finishes.

The sound is horrible. Clean and thick and immediate, Garrett’s fist catching Nathan square in the jaw with enough force to snap his head sideways and send his beer flying out of his hand.

For one suspended second, everyone freezes. Then Nathan’s friend lunges, Dean moves like someone released him from a leash, and the whole living room comes apart.

Dean catches Nathan’s friend by the shirt and drives him backward into the wall with a crash that knocks a picture frame crooked. Someone screams. Someone else yells, “Oh shit!” like they’re at a sporting event instead of watching a felony assemble itself in real time. 

Nathan swings wildly and catches Garrett’s shoulder, but Garrett barely seems to feel it. He shoves him back over the coffee table, follows him down, and the next punch lands against Nathan’s cheek. Then another. And another.

For half a second, some ugly, honest part of her likes it. It flares through her so fast she feels sick with it, hot and vindictive and horribly human. Nathan on the floor, finally not smiling. Nathan with his mouth split instead of using it. Nathan taking one clean consequence after months of turning her name into something dirty in other people’s mouths.

Then Garrett’s knuckles hit him again, and the thought snaps in half.

“Garrett!” She pushes forward, but the room is bodies and arms and spilled beer. “Garrett, stop!”

He doesn’t hear her. Or he hears and can’t get to it. His face isn’t the face from the kitchen, not the boy with his thumb at her shoulder and his beer forgotten beside him. His jaw is locked, eyes bright and empty with rage, every line of him driven toward the next punch like the world has narrowed to Nathan’s face and the words he almost got to finish.

This could be bad. The thought arrives clinical and brutal. His draft. The team. The school. Coach. Phil. The Bruins. Everything people are already waiting to hold against him because men like Garrett are allowed to be violent on the ice only when someone else is keeping score.

“Logan,” she says, grabbing his sleeve as he passes. Her voice cracks around the urgency of it. “Get him off!”

Logan looks at her once, then at Garrett, and whatever he sees makes his face go grim. “G!” He moves in fast, Tucker right behind him, both of them grabbing Garrett under the arms and around the shoulders. “Walk it off, man. Come on.”

Garrett bucks against them so hard Tucker swears, Garrett's elbow catching him in the ribs. “Did you hear him?” Garrett snaps, voice wrecked and furious. “You didn’t– did you fucking hear what he said?”

“I heard,” Logan says, jaw tight, hauling him back with everything he has. “I heard, okay? But you gotta walk it off.”

“He’s a piece of shit!”

“I know.”

“You didn’t hear what he said before–”

“I know,” Logan says again, sharper now, because Garrett’s still trying to surge forward and Nathan is coughing blood onto the carpet and Dean’s being dragged off Nathan’s friend by two defensemen who look like they’re not having a great time either. “Garrett. Look at me. You’re done. You hear me? You’re done.”

Garrett’s eyes cut to her.

The whole room seems to tilt around that look. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving, curls falling into his eyes, blood on his knuckles that might not be his. The rage is still there, hot and awful, but underneath it something else flickers when he finds her standing in the middle of the room with her cup still in her hand and her shoulder drawn too high and her mouth slightly open like she’s forgotten what shape to make.

For a second, he looks almost scared. Then Nathan groans from the floor, and Garrett surges again.

“Upstairs,” Tucker says, voice tight. “Get him upstairs.”

Dean, still red-faced and furious, points at Nathan from across the room while Beau keeps a hand on his chest. “Get that fucker out of my house.”

“Dean,” Logan snaps.

“No, get him the fuck out.”

Garrett’s shoved toward the stairs more than guided, Logan at his shoulder, Tucker at his back, both of them talking low and fast. Garrett keeps looking back. Not at Nathan now, at her. Like he can’t decide whether leaving her downstairs is another thing to be angry about.

She can’t move immediately. For three, maybe four seconds, she stands there while the room reorganises itself around the damage. Nathan’s friend is yelling. Dean’s yelling louder. Someone is crouching beside Nathan, asking if he can open his mouth, which makes her student nurse brain twitch with absurd, unwanted competence. 

The girls from anatomy are around her suddenly, one hand touching her elbow, another voice saying, “Hey, are you okay?” in that careful way people speak when they realise they’ve walked into someone else’s history without a map.

She looks at Nathan on the floor. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth. His eye is already swelling. He looks smaller than he used to. Or maybe he was always this size and she had just been made to feel so much smaller beside him that she forgot how to judge distance properly.

He turns his head slightly, makes eye contact with her and spits red onto the carpet. “Crazy bitch,” he mutters.

The girl beside her inhales sharply. Something in her goes very still, a clean little line drawn through the middle of her body.

She sets her cup down on the nearest shelf because her hand’s shaking now and she doesn’t want anyone to mistake that for weakness. Then she steps around the coffee table, careful of the broken glass, careful of the beer soaking into the rug, and looks down at him. Nathan’s eyes lift to hers, dazed and hateful.

“You need to leave,” she says. Her voice is quieter than she expects. It works anyway.

Nathan laughs, or tries to. It comes out wet. “Yeah? Gonna get your boyfriend to hit me again?”

“No,” she says. “I’m going to go check on him. You can bleed on someone else’s fucking floor.”

For once, Nathan has nothing ready. His mouth opens, then shuts, and the silence that follows is so much better than anything she could have made him say. She turns before he can recover.

The stairs feel longer than usual. Her legs are steady until she reaches the landing, and then they’re not, a little, the adrenaline making her knees feel too loose under her. She hears Garrett before she sees him, voice rough behind his bedroom door.

“I’m fine.”

Logan’s answer is immediate. “You’re not fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said you just tried to turn her ex into ground beef in our living room, so maybe I'm not over the moon about leaving you alone right now.”

She pushes the door open.

Garrett’s standing near the bed with Tucker in front of him and Logan by the door like he’s prepared to physically block an exit. Garrett’s right hand is bleeding across the knuckles. His shoulder is tense under his shirt. His face is flushed, jaw still working like he's chewing through the last of the fight.

All three boys look at her when she steps in. Garrett’s expression changes first. “Baby,” he says, and the word comes out rough enough that it almost undoes her.

Logan looks between them, then exhales. “We’ll be outside.”

Garrett’s head snaps toward him. “No, you don’t have to–”

“Yes, we do,” Tucker says gently. “Bathroom’s across the hall if you need first aid stuff.”

“I know where the bathroom is,” she says automatically.

Tucker gives her a tiny, exhausted smile. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

Then they’re gone, the door clicking shut behind them and leaving the room suddenly too quiet around her and Garrett.

For a second, neither of them moves. The music downstairs is muffled now, mostly bass and shouting. Garrett stands by the bed with blood drying over his knuckles, chest still rising too fast, looking at her like he expects her to take one good look and leave.

She hates that. She hates that the anger is already curdling into fear in his face. “Sit down,” she says.

His mouth twists. “Are you okay?”

“Sit down, Garrett.”

He does, because her voice has gone into the place it goes when she has no interest in negotiating with hockey players, concussed or otherwise. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, hand held awkwardly in front of him like he has only just remembered it exists.

She crosses to him and takes it carefully. His fingers twitch once, like he almost pulls away. She doesn’t let him.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, because it's easier to start with what her hands know how to fix.

“It’s not mine.”

“Some of it is.”

Garrett looks down at their hands, then away. “Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything else to you?”

She sighs softly. “Garrett.”

His eyes snap back. “Did he?”

She looks at him for a second, at the fury trying to relight itself because it's easier than whatever else is waiting in the room. “Not anything that matters.”

“All of it fucking matters.” 

The answer lands hard enough that she has to look down at his hand. The skin over two knuckles is split, red and swelling. 

She runs her thumb lightly around the edge of it, not over the broken skin, and Garrett sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

His mouth almost moves. Almost. It doesn’t make it to a smile.

She goes to the bathroom and comes back with the little first aid box she’s now reorganised three times. Garrett stays where she left him, which feels like a miracle or a warning. When she sits beside him on the bed, close enough that her knee touches his thigh, his eyes stay on her face.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She pauses with an antiseptic wipe halfway open.

Garrett swallows, throat working hard. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have– fuck, I know. I know it was bad. I know what that looked like.”

She sets the wipe down unopened for a second. “What do you think it looked like?”

His laugh is short and ugly. “Like exactly what everyone thinks I am when I get pissed off.”

The room shifts around the words. Phil’s shadow under Garrett’s skin, waiting for any evidence it can use.

She turns toward him fully. “No.”

“You didn’t see my face.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t.” His voice cracks with frustration. “You saw after. You didn’t see what I– I couldn’t stop. I heard him say that shit about you, and I couldn’t stop. I– I blacked out. I wanted to fucking kill him.”

She doesn’t flinch. That feels important, so she makes sure of it. She sits there with his bleeding hand in hers and the open first aid box on the bed and makes herself stay steady, because Garrett is watching for fear like his life depends on finding it before it finds him.

“You stopped,” she says.

His eyes flash. “Because Logan dragged me off.”

“And because you let him.”

Garrett looks away, jaw clenching.

She picks up the wipe again and tears the packet open. “This is going to sting.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know. I’m saying it anyway.”

She cleans his knuckles carefully. Garrett hisses once and then has the audacity to pretend he didn’t, staring at the wall like the wall has asked him to perform masculinity. 

She would make fun of him on any other night. On this one, she only holds his hand more securely and works the dried blood from the torn skin until she can see what belongs to him and what doesn’t.

“He was shitty,” she says, after the silence has stretched too thin.

Garrett’s breathing changes.

She keeps her eyes on his hand. “Not just, like, bad breakup shitty. He was… he made everything feel really small.” Her thumb steadies the back of Garrett’s hand when his fingers start to curl. “Me, mostly. The things I liked. The way I talked. What I wore. Who I spoke to. If I cried, I was manipulative. If I didn’t cry, I was cold. If I needed reassurance, I was needy. If I pulled away, I was punishing him. It was always something. And then after we broke up, he started saying things because he knew I hated making scenes enough that I wouldn’t correct him.”

Garrett’s face has gone dangerously still.

She glances up. “Do not go back downstairs.”

“I’m not.”

“You look like you’re planning an escape route.”

His eyes flick to hers, and she can see the exact moment the anger gives way to something worse, something softer and more helpless.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

It could sound accusing from anyone else. From him it just sounds hurt.

She folds the wipe into a small square because her hands need something to do. “Because I didn’t want to bring him into this.”

Garrett’s brow creases. “Into what?”

She looks at him then, and the room gets too warm and too quiet all at once. His hand is still in hers. His knees are still angled toward her. There’s blood on the wipe, music through the floor, and a fight downstairs with her name at the centre of it. 

Whatever this is has been refusing a name for weeks, living in Garrett’s bed and his kitchen and the passenger seat of his car, wearing his hoodies and eating his pizza and saying I’m not your girlfriend with his thumb tucked into her waistband.

“This,” she says.

Garrett’s face shifts, small and aching.

She looks back at his hand because it is safer. “I didn’t want to feel like I was handing him proof. Like he still mattered enough to affect something good. And I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

“Baby,” Garrett says, rough.

“I know that’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m over him.”

“I know.”

“No, I am.” She says it too quickly, then has to stop and take a breath because her chest has gone tight in a way she resents. “I am. I don’t want him. I don’t miss him. I don’t even care what he thinks of me anymore, not really. But seeing him still makes my skin feel weird. Like I’m waiting to be corrected.”

Garrett closes his eyes.

She tapes gauze over his knuckles with more care than is probably necessary. “And then you hit him, and part of me was like… good.” Her mouth twists with the honesty. “Which is not a very healing, future-healthcare-professional reaction.”

Garrett gives a broken little huff. “I don’t think healthcare professionals have to be saints.”

“No?”

“No.” His hand turns carefully under hers, catching her fingers. “Especially not when some asshole calls them that in my living room.”

She studies his face. “You can’t do that again.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“No, Garrett.” Her voice firms, not loud, but enough that his eyes stay on hers. “He’s not worth your team. He’s not worth hockey. He’s not worth giving anyone a reason to say you’re out of control.”

Something painful crosses his face.

She softens immediately, her thumb moving once over the edge of the tape. “And he’s not worth making you feel like this.”

Garrett looks down at their hands. “I scared you.”

“No.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not.” She shifts closer, her knee pressing more firmly into his thigh. “You didn’t scare me. The situation scared me. What could happen to you scared me. The way you looked at me after scared me because you looked like you thought I was going to run.”

Garrett doesn’t answer.

She reaches up with her free hand and turns his face gently toward hers. He lets her, but barely, his eyes dark and wet in a way that makes her chest hurt. “You didn’t make me afraid of you.”

His breath leaves him unevenly.

“I was afraid for you,” she says. “That’s different.”

Garrett’s eyes close for half a second under her hand. When they open again, the fight has drained out of him enough to leave the tired underneath. He leans forward slowly, like he's giving her time to move away even now, and rests his forehead against her shoulder.

She brings her hand to the back of his head immediately. His curls are warm under her fingers, damp at the roots from the party heat and whatever adrenaline is still burning out of him. His good hand comes around her waist. Proof, maybe. Or asking for it.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, muffled against her shirt.

“I know.”

“I just heard him and I–”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t get to talk about you like that.”

Her throat tightens. She turns her face into his hair for a second and lets herself breathe him in, the beer and soap and sweat and Garrett underneath it all, so familiar now it makes something in her ache. “No,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t.”

Garrett’s arm tightens around her, then loosens at once like he’s checking himself. She hates that too, so she shifts closer until he can’t mistake it, one hand sliding down to his shoulder, her cheek resting against his temple.

“You can hold me,” she murmurs.

He goes still.

“I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

A breath shudders out of him. Then he pulls her in properly, both arms around her now, careful of his taped hand but tight enough that she can feel the last of the tremor in him. It’s not the confident, lazy hold from the kitchen.

It’s not the smug arm around her waist in front of some guy he’s trying to intimidate. It’s messy and tired and a little desperate, his face tucked against her neck like he can’t look at her while needing her this much.

She lets him. More than that, she holds him back. Downstairs, someone shouts. Dean, probably. Then Logan’s voice cuts through, sharp and managerial, which means the cleanup has reached the stage where property damage is being assessed by people who have no business assessing anything.

Garrett lifts his head slightly. “Is he still here?”

“No. Dean was having him removed from the premises with… enthusiasm.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches against her shoulder. “Good.”

“Dean also fought his friend.”

“Yeah, I saw.”

“Really committed to the bit.”

“Dean likes a group project.”

She laughs before she can stop it. It comes out small and shaky, but it’s real, and Garrett pulls back just enough to look at her like the sound has physically touched something in him.

There’s blood near his collar, a bruise starting along his jaw that she hadn’t noticed before, and his eyes are still too bright. He looks wrecked. He looks guilty. He looks like the boy from the kitchen and the man from the fight and something younger underneath both, waiting to see whether the room will stay safe.

She brushes her thumb lightly over the unbruised side of his jaw. “You’re an idiot.”

His mouth moves. “Yeah.”

“A huge idiot.”

“I know.”

“With terrible emotional regulation.”

That finally gets the edge of a smile, weak but there. “Coming from the girl who diagnoses herself with being hungry instead of sad.”

“That’s a valid nursing assessment.”

“It’s not.”

“It absolutely is. Half of this house is one snack away from psychiatric stability.”

Garrett huffs, and the sound loosens the room by an inch. His hand lifts to her waist, thumb rubbing once through the fabric in the same absent pattern from earlier, like his body remembers tenderness even when his head is still catching up.

“I should’ve asked you,” he says after a moment. “About him. Before.”

She shakes her head. “You didn’t know there was anything to ask.”

“I knew you got weird when his name came up.”

“I get weird when people say wound vac too.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s a gross phrase.”

His eyes stay on her, too serious for the joke to fully land. “I’m sorry you had to deal with him alone.”

She swallows. “I’m not alone now.”

Garrett’s face changes so fast she nearly looks away. The words sit between them, too plain, too close to something they have both been circling with sex and rides to placement and coffee in his kitchen and sleeping pressed together like denial is a blanket they can share.

He touches her chin, careful with his taped fingers. “No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”

Her chest aches. She wants to make a joke. She wants to say something about him being concussed by his own fist or reckless in a way that should be charted. Instead she leans in and kisses him.

It’s soft because his lip is split a little and his jaw is sore and the whole night has been too sharp already. Garrett makes a sound against her mouth, one hand sliding to the back of her neck like he wants to keep her there and is still remembering to ask.

She lets the answer be in the way she moves closer, in the way her hand settles over his chest, in the way she kisses him again when he starts to pull back.

When they separate, his forehead stays against hers.

“I’m still mad,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“I want to go downstairs and kick him again.”

“He’s gone.”

“I can find him.”

She gives him a look.

Garrett exhales, eyes closing. “Kidding.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” he admits. “But I won’t.”

“Good.”

His thumb moves once beneath her jaw. “You staying?”

She pulls back enough to look at him. “After that? I kind of have to. Someone should monitor you for post-fight stupidity.”

“That a real condition?”

“In this house? Endemic.”

He smiles properly then, real enough that something unclenches behind her ribs. She reaches for his hand again and checks the tape, pressing the edge down where it has started to lift.

Garrett watches her do it. “You’re really okay?”

She pauses, because the easy answer is there. Fine. Good fine. The one they both know how to use when the room is too full.

Then she thinks of Nathan on the floor, small and bleeding and still trying to make her feel dirty from beneath Garrett’s bloodied knuckles.

She thinks of the kitchen, Tucker’s dippables, Dean’s sudden calm, Logan dragging Garrett back because he understood the stakes before Garrett could. She thinks of Garrett’s face after, terrified of himself in a way he has never made her feel of him.

“I’m… a little grossed out,” she says. “And tired. And I probably want to shower even though he didn’t touch me, which is annoying.”

Garrett’s eyes soften painfully.

“But I’m okay,” she says, because this part is true too. “I think I’m okay.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“And you’re going to sit here for a minute before you go anywhere near stairs.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’re going to ice your hand.”

His brows pull together. “I just beat the shit out of a guy for you and now you’re giving me homework?”

“You beat the shit out of a guy for yourself too, Graham. Don’t get noble.”

His mouth opens, then closes. “Fair.”

“Thank you.”

He looks at her for a beat, then his mouth tilts faintly. “You’re kind of scary when you’re right.”

“I’m almost always right. You’re just new here.”

Garrett laughs, and it hurts him. She knows because his face twitches and his hand comes up toward his ribs like he can somehow protect every sore part at once.

She clicks her tongue before she can help it. “See? Post-fight stupidity.”

“I’m fine.”

She stares at him.

He sighs. “Manageable.”

“Better.”

Garrett reaches for her before she can get up fully for ice, catching her gently around the waist and pulling her back between his knees, echoing the kitchen without the noise, without the party version of themselves, without Nathan’s eyes from across the room.

His forehead drops to her stomach for a second, arms around her hips. She stills, then brings both hands to his hair. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, because it’s the only thing that fits.

Garrett’s grip tightens once. Then, so quiet she almost misses it under the bass downstairs, he says, “I’ve got you too.”

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[the-ginger-writer]

And Somehow, Salvation, She Looks Like You - Chapter One

Summary:

‘You’re dealing with this very well. Considering that you just found out you have a pregnant girl living in your house.’ ‘Uh.’ Garrett keeps his gaze very firmly on his drink. ‘I - may have found your test in the trash. Last week.’ OR Garrett still has a lot of healing to do, and then he finds you.

Hello!

Long-time fanfiction writer here, this is my first time writing for our lord and saviour Garrett Graham. I feel that GG X reader fics are getting a lot more love over here than on AO3, so… here we go!

Comments, likes, reblogs all feed the beast <3

******************

Chapter One

Sweet Pea

This week, your baby is starting to look more like, well, a baby — your little one’s head is taking shape, while the cheeks, chin, and jaws are also beginning to form.

‘We can’t have some girl living with us.’

‘Dude.’ Logan pauses mid-reach for the just-set granola bars Tucker’s decanted, sliced, and placed squarely in the middle of the kitchen island. ‘She’s not some girl. She’s my sister.’

Dean doesn’t even look remotely embarrassed. ‘Whatever, man. Still a girl. It will disrupt the masculine sanctity of the house.’

Tucker looks pointedly at his pink apron and floral tea towel adorning his shoulder, then back at Dean. ‘Sure it would.’

‘Masculine sanctity,’ Logan echoes in disbelief. ‘Since when were you taking ethics and philosophy?’

‘Since this semester, actually,’ Dean says primly.

‘The chick you’re currently sleeping with doesn’t count.’

‘I think you’ll find it does. Especially when she does this thing with -‘

‘Yup, no, that’s enough.’ Tucker swats Dean’s hand away from the granola bars. ‘No snacks for you until you clean up your act.’

Dean gives a sly smile. ‘Could be waiting a while, then.’

‘More for us. Gare - come get some before the these other fuckers eat it all.'

Logan huffs an out sigh which, Garrett knows without even looking, is directed at him. ‘Are you even participating in this?’

Garrett shrugs, switching off the muted hockey match playing on the flatscreen TV, shifting on the sofa so he’s now fully turned towards the other three in their various positions around the kitchen island: Tucker, back turned and fussing with the oven; Logan, sat rigid on a bar stool with a hard glint in his eye; and Dean, who seems more bothered about what Tucker’s next offering will be over the conversation at hand. His closest friends - but, right now, the banes of his fucking existence.

Garrett shoves a hand through his hair. There’s an accusatory undertone to Logan’s words that he’s not sure he likes, but probably isn’t unjustified. ‘Whatever, man. Her living here isn’t gonna make much difference to my life.’

‘Um,’ Dean interrupts, resting both elbows on the island and leaning in Garrett’s general direction. ‘Have you been listening to this conversation? Girl. Living. In. House. That’s gonna make a massive difference to our lives.’

‘It just means,’ Logan sniffs, ‘you won’t be able to fuck everything that moves wherever you want whenever you want.’

‘Exactly!’

‘Garrett, you’ve met Logan’s sister.’ Tucker, ever the peace-maker, pulls a tray of shortbread from the oven. ‘What’s she like?’

Another lift of Garrett’s shoulders. Logan had already run the proposition by him, the house being Garrett’s - or paid for by his dad, at least. Truthfully, Garrett didn’t have a deal with it. So there’d be a person of the opposite sex living here? Big whoop. Garrett’s life would still be hockey, class, repeat. Interspersed with the occasional hookup, of course. Having a girl living with them might alter Dean’s life - or the life of Dean’s dick, at least - but for Garrett? Business as usual.

‘Ah.’ Garrett casts his mind back to when he last met Logan’s sister, last year sometime. Thanksgiving? Fuck, he can’t remember. ‘She seems… nice?’

‘Wow.’ A slow round of applause from Dean. ‘Smooth.’

Garrett has the decency at least to feel a little embarrassed. Logan rolls his eyes. ‘At least I know you won’t be hooking up with her. What’s with all the food stuff, Tuck?’

‘It’s the start of the new academic year.’ Tucker waves a plastic mat over the still-hot tray of shortbread. ‘We’re starting as we mean to go on.’

‘Granola, I get. Shortbread?’

‘Paleo, vegan, egg-free, reduced sugar.’

‘What the fuck is even in them?’

‘A lot of almond flour.’

Logan eyes the tray suspiciously. ‘And what else?’

‘Can we get back to the topic at hand?’ Dean takes his chance and flinches a granola from the plate, then pulls a face. ‘Pumpkin seeds? Really?’

‘Yes,’ Tucker says defensively, ‘really. Sunflower seeds, too.’

Dean slowly deposits the granola bar on the countertop. ‘Dude.’

Logan huffs out a groan. ‘Look, guys. Garrett’s already said it’s fine. Tucker doesn’t care as long as it’s not ruining his baking schedule. And she’s obviously my sister. You’re the odd one out here, Dean.’

Dean breaks off a corner of granola and fires it at Logan. ‘Is she annoying like you and Jules? Is it a family trait?’

‘She’s adopted. So, last time I checked, no.’

‘Nature versus nurture, man.’

‘Seriously, who is this chick you’re hooking up with?’

‘She’s five seven, blonde, and has this tongue that can -‘

‘We’re taking a vote!’ Tucker announces loudly, still waving frantically at the tray. Garrett laughs, taking it as his cue to get to his feet and saunter over to the kitchen island, perching on an empty bar stool. ‘All in favour say aye!’

Dean doesn’t even look surprised when he’s the only one who doesn’t say aye.

‘Well,’ he sighs, eyeing the granola before him with disdain. ‘Fuck my life.’

*****

Logan’s sister moving in is so insignificant in Garrett’s life that he isn’t even there on move-in day. It’s only when he tries to park the Jeep in the driveway and sees the tiny red Fiat 500 tucked up against the garage, boot thrown open, that he remembers.

How long are you here for again? And why? Fuck - Garrett wishes he’d paid even a little more attention when Logan was telling him that his sister needed some place to stay, but truthfully, he hadn’t really cared. The new season had started, and expectations were higher than ever. The coach’s. His team’s. The crowd’s. His dad’s. The dark, post-game quiet when Garrett climbs back into his car after a match is fucking blissful. No lights, no music, no hum of the engine. Just sheer unadulterated silence.

Sometimes, he just wishes everyone would shut up and leave him the fuck alone.

He groans, runs a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat from the gym. The first few weeks were always tough as everyone adjusted to life back on campus. This year would be no different. It would pass.

He hopes.

He shoves the car door open, grabs his gym hold-all, and makes his way up to the house. He’s blocked you in, but right now, he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s just spent two hours lifting weights after spending another two hours out on the rink, and he still feels the tension coiled in the base of his spine, winding him tighter than he has any right to be. He wonders what Kendall’s up to, then remembers she has a boyfriend now. Wonders what Zoe’s doing, but she’s doing a placement year in Germany. He scowls and fumbles in his pocket for his keys. He could find someone else. Easily, which he knows sounds big-headed, but why lie about it? He scrolls absent-mindedly through his phone contacts as he jabs his key in the lock, realised it's already unlocked, turns the handle, pulls the door towards him -

Only to have someone fall face-first into him.

Not someone.

A girl.

‘Oh my god - I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be there.’

He blinks. You’ve pulled away from him and are hurriedly straightening your clothes, which is ridiculous, because there’s no way he could catch a glimpse of anything, your body completely obscured by black leggings, an oversized black tee, and fluffy baby Yoda socks. He lifts his gaze and - inexplicably - feels the air leave his lungs as they lock on your face.

Pretty.

Fuck, you’re so pretty.

‘Uh,’ he says. Distinctly aware he’s still in his stinky, sweaty gym gear and in dire need of a shower. ‘All good. You - OK?’ he tacks on belatedly.

‘Yeah.’ You smile, rub a hand across your eyes. Fuck, everything about you is pretty. Pretty eyes, pretty mouth. Even the shape of your nose is pretty. ‘Sorry. Just - tired. Not looking where I was going. Yada yada. How are you? Been a while.’

Oh. Oh no. Garrett frantically cycles back through his memories of the past six months. Who are you? A girl he’d slept with? He would definitely remember if he had someone as pretty as you in his bed. A girl one of the other guys had slept with? Nope - he would definitely have remembered that, too. Maybe -

‘Wow.’ You cock a hip, rest a hand on it. ‘You don’t remember me. What a fucking Play Boy.’

Graham holds up the hand not carrying his gym bag. ‘Look,’ he says quickly. ‘If I -‘

You laugh. Fucking laugh. ‘Just messing with you, Graham. I don’t think you looked my way once over Thanksgiving.’

He pauses. Studies you again, blinking as something finally surfaces from ten months ago.

‘Girlie?’

‘And there we go.’ You nod as the penny finally drops. ‘Better get remembering my face, because you’re going to be seeing it a whole lot more.’

Logan’s sister. 

You’re Logan’s sister.

Had Logan’s sister always been this indescribably beautiful? And how had he not noticed before? He feels like an idiot. Not that noticing would have made any difference, because you were - after all - Logan’s sister.

If he keeps telling himself enough times, maybe it will stick.

‘I, uh.’ He shakes his head once, twice. ‘Sorry. Not got a great memory for faces.’

‘Uh-huh. Sure. Bet you tell all the girls that. Or was it because you spent most of that day glued to your phone, watching sexy Snapchats? Maybe you’ve only got a memory for tits, hm?’

Ah. That was why he didn’t remember. He was hooking up with Brittany at the time. And Brittany really did like Snapchat.

‘Look,’ you say, before he gets a chance to think of some witty response. ‘I’ve still got some stuff to get out of the car, so… do you mind…?’

‘Oh.’ He steps to the side, still in a daze. ‘Uh - sure.’

‘Thanks.’ You breeze past him, and he catches the smell of your perfume. Garrett’s no pro on female scents, but it’s definitely something floral. Rose, maybe. Or jasmine. His mum had liked jasmines. He used to get them for her on Mother’s Day, on her birthday, their smell filling the living room and making him feel warm inside.

You get to the porch steps, then pause. ‘What time’s your first class tomorrow?’

‘Uh.’ Christ - did he have any other words in his repertoire? Any at all. ‘8am.’

‘Oh, good. I don’t need to scold you for blocking me in, then.’

‘No,’ he says distantly. ‘I guess not.’

You nod, carry on down the steps - still in just your socks - then call out to him from the bottom. ‘Logan was looking for you. He’s upstairs.’

‘Sure,’ he manages. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, a clumsy muscle he’s lost all control over. ‘I’ll - head on up.’

He does, although he’s not sure how. Maybe he teleports, because there’s no way he consciously tells his body to take him there. Or maybe he does. Right now, he feels like he’s having an out of body experience, like you in your effortless radiance have knocked his soul from his very being. 

Logan emerges from the room opposite Garrett’s, Dean in tow. He grins at Garrett, leaning in for a hug. ‘Hey, man. Look, thanks for doing this again. She genuinely had nowhere else to go.’

‘All good,’ Garrett mumbles, suddenly aware that - during that entire interaction - you hadn’t said ‘thank you’ once. Should he be reading into that? Were you so conceited that you thought you were just entitled to move in here?

Or, another part of him thinks, did you rightly think he was a bit of an asshole and couldn’t be bothered with niceties when your own life was falling apart around you ears? Was your life falling apart around your ears? Fuck, if only he could remember what Logan had said -

‘So - it’s all good she takes the spare room, right?’

‘Huh?’

‘My sister.’ Logan gives Garrett a look, which Garrett vaguely interprets as are you high, dude? He jerks a thumb into the room behind him. ‘She good in there?’

‘Oh.’ Garrett gives what he hopes is a nonchalant shrug. ‘Yeah. Yeah, sure. In there’s great.’

‘Cool. No loud hookups, ya hear?’ Logan wags a finger at both the men on either side of him. ‘I don’t wanna be dealing with her complaining about your kinky sex lives. Anyway, I’m gonna go help her grab the last few bits. You’d be surprised what you can fit in a Fiat 500.’ Logan claps Garrett on the shoulder, gives him a grateful smile. ‘Thanks again, Gare.’

Logan disappears down the hallway, makes his way down the stairs. Garrett’s gaze falls on Dean, who’s studying Garrett with narrowed eyes.

‘What?’

Dean pouts thoughtfully. ‘You just bumped into her downstairs, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ It definitely sounds more defensive than Garrett intended, and he tries to soften his vowels, unlock his jaw. ‘And what?’

The smile that graces Dean’s face is nothing short of mischievous.

‘No reason.’

*****

[kaiwithlove]

۶ৎ date night? | j. logan.

𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: where you decide to prank logan by pretending to be excited for a date he never planned. unfortunately, your boyfriend's response to being pranked is to take you on the most thoughtful, romantic date of your life. 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: boyfriend!john logan x fem!reader 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.8k 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: pure fluff, established relationship, prank gone wrong (or right?), logan being aggressively boyfriend-shaped, excessive sweetness, reader trying and failing to outsmart her boyfriend, garrett graham being a surprisingly useful best friend, bookstore dates, flowers, lots of hand-holding, kissing, logan remembering every little thing about reader, weaponized thoughtfulness, excessive use of "babe", use of she/her pronouns, reader is explicitly referred to as "girl", emotional damage via acts of service, let me know if i missed any! all characters in this story are adults. english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors. 𝐀/𝐍: alt title: john "whatever my girlfriend wants, she gets" logan. dedicated to the wonderful anon who brought to my attention that using the small font on here made fics hard to read—thank you for helping me get better <3 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎: so high school by taylor swift.

18+; mdni.

The plan had seemed significantly funnier about three hours ago.

The idea started with Hannah—which, in hindsight, should've been your first warning sign.

"Hear me out," she'd said, abandoning her Philosophy textbook entirely to lean across the table toward you and Allie. "You should tell Logan you're excited for the date he planned."

You had frowned. "What date?"

"Exactly."

Across from you, Allie had immediately burst out laughing. For a long moment, you simply stared at the two of them, confused. Then, the realization dawned on you. "Oh, that's evil."

Hannah leaned back in her chair, looking mighty pleased with herself. "Why, thank you."

Now, as you stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom, half your closet scattered across the room, you were beginning to realize that there was a very real possibility that Logan would simply smile and nod. The man was impossible to prank—partly because he was so observant, partly because he was so annoyingly nice.

You lifted your favourite dress to your chest, studying it with a critical eye, just as the bedroom door creaked open.

Speak of the devil.

Logan stepped inside, hair still damp around the ends from his shower after practice. He was dressed in a Bruins t-shirt and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Your eyes met his brown ones, the corner of his mouth tipped upward into that gorgeous smile.

You watched his face as gaze shifted from your face to the mess covering the bed and half of the floor space of the room, then landed right back to you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. His smile widened at the sight of you with that dress. "What happened in here, babe?"

Game time, you thought to yourself, turning to him. "Oh good, you're here."

"Yeah?" confusion flickered across his face as you held up the dress, raising your eyebrows at him in question.

"What do you think of this?" you asked, cocking your head to the side.

Logan dropped his duffel back beside the bedside table, kicking off his shoes. He walked over to you, placing a hand on your waist, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "You know I love you in everything, babe. But yeah, that dress always looks incredible on you."

You smiled, turning back to the mirror. In the reflection, you could see the mattress dip beneath his weight as Logan perched on the edge of the bed, still studying you with that smile on his face.

You met his stare in the mirror, your mind playing the opening notes of your master plan. "God, I'm so excited for tomorrow."

Logan blinked. "What's tomorrow?"

You almost laughed—almost. But you were determined not to break character, so instead, you forced your face into a look of utter confusion. "What do you mean, what's tomorrow? Its the date you planned for us."

A long pause stretched out between the two of you. Then, Logan's brow creased into a tiny frown. "The... date. Right."

The words coming out of his mouth were perfectly calm, which immediately threw you off, because other than the little crease on his brow, there was no evidence of panic, or confusion—not even concern. You narrowed your eyes.

Interesting.

Logan reached for the TV remote, casually crossing his legs as he leaned back. Your suspicion deepened, because there was no way he was this calm, this collected. There was no date. No reservation, no plans, nothing.

You would've known. He would've told you... unless. A horrible possibility entered your mind, because John Logan was the kindest, most thoughtful man ever, and more importantly, he knew how much you loved surprises. So maybe, just maybe... he'd actually planned something, and you'd accidentally stumbled right into it?

The thought almost made your confidence waver, until you caught the look on his face. His eyes were fixed on the TV, but you knew the expression in his eyes. You'd seen it before—during games, while the two of you studied for finals, before presentations. John Logan was thinking.

You bit back your smile, trying not to completely ruin your own prank, especially as Logan, in the most faux-casual voice you'd ever heard, asked: "So, babe, what're you most excited about?"

Oh, he was fishing—you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out exactly what you were talking about. The realization nearly made you giddy, even as you fought to keep a straight face, shrugging. "Oh, you know what I'm most excited about."

"No, I don't know." The innocence in his voice was almost convincing—almost.

"No?" you asked, fighting to keep a straight face. The two of you stared at each other for a minute, and then—then, Logan's face split into a smile. A beautiful, Logan smile.

Suddenly, your faith in the plan working out wavered, because somehow, against all logic, it suddenly felt like he wasn't the one being set up—you were.

The second the bedroom door snapped shut behind him, Logan knew he was fucked.

Not because there was definitely a date, but because there might be. Which was, somehow, infinitely worse.

"You're pacing, man."

Logan looked up from where he'd been wearing a path into the carpet of his friend's bedroom. Garrett was sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head as he watched Logan with growing amusement.

Logan opened his mouth to protest, but Garret raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly down at Logan's feet.

Right. He was, in fact, pacing.

Garrett sat up. "Come on, man. What's wrong."

Logan sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, contemplating whether or not he should keep the thoughts plaguing his mind to himself... then immediately abandoned that plan—because Garrett was his best friend, and he was rapidly losing his mind. "She says she's really excited for our date tomorrow."

Garrett blinked. "Is there a reason she should not be?"

"I don't even know if there's a date tomorrow," Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"What the fuck?" Garrett ran a hand over his face. "How could you not know?"

Logan shrugged. "There's a possibility she might be messing with me."

Garrett nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Or," Logan sighed dramatically, collapsing onto the foot of Garrett's bed. "I forgot."

"You forgot a date?" Garrett burst out laughing, and for a moment, Logan genuinely looked around the room for something to throw at his head.

"This isn't funny."

Garrett only laughed harder. "Sorry, man. It kinda is, though."

Logan burrowed his face into the mattress, groaning. "She's picking out dresses and shit, dude."

"Huh."

Logan lifted his head. "What?"

"No idea," Garrett shrugged. "But... if she's trying to prank you, that's hilarious."

Logan narrowed his eyes at Garrett, but his grin only widened. Then, after a moment, he sighed. "Okay, worst-case scenario: you forgot a date with your girlfriend."

Logan winced. "Jesus."

Garrett leaned forward. "No, listen. This is simple. You just need to take her on the greatest date of all time."

Logan blinked. "What?"

"Yeah, man. It's the only way. You gotta plan the date to end all dates."

"Come on, man. This is serious."

"I'm being serious." Garret sat up, his brow furrowing, deep in thought. "Think about it."

Logan usually hated when Garrett said that—because it meant that his friend was about to make an annoyingly good point. And it stood true this time too. Because either way, regardless of whether he was being pranked, or if he'd actually fucked up and forgotten, his girl deserved a date. Heck, his girl deserved everything. "Fuck."

Garrett leaned, back against the headboard, smug smile on his face. "Exactly."

If there really was a date he'd somehow forgotten, this fixed the problem. And if there wasn't—well, he still got to spend a day with you. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Garrett smirked. "There's that face again."

"What face?"

"The one you make whenever she's involved."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

Garrett ignored him, grabbing Logan's phone. "Okay, let's plan the greatest date ever."

An hour later, what had somehow started as a joke had somehow turned into a full-scale operation.

Logan's notebook was open between the two of them, Garrett's laptop balanced on the edge of the bed.

"What's her favorite restaurant?" Garrett asked, frowning at the listings on the screen.

"The sushi place downtown."

The keys on Garrett's keyboard clacked as he wrote it down. "Favorite dessert?"

"Cheesecake from the bakery near campus."

"Favorite flowers?"

Logan didn't even take a moment. "Pink lillies."

Garrett paused, slowly turning his head to look at Logan. "Dude, you answered that way too quickly."

Logan frowned. "I know my girlfriend."

"You know your girlfriend's favorite flower. I don't even know my favorite flower."

Logan couldn't help but let out a laugh at the genuinely offended look on Garrett's face, because it made sense. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, and he wasn't about to let anything—anything—get in the way of making you happy, not even himself.

He could already feel the tension he'd been carrying since leaving the bedroom easing slightly, because now, he had a plan.

Actually, he had several plans—dinner, dessert, a walk afterward, maybe the bookstore you'd been talking about for months. Things that might not look like grand, extravagant gestures on the outside, but things he knew you'd love anyway. Things he knew would make you smile.

He could feel Garrett's watchful eyes on him and the realization settled warmly in his chest. "You know she's probably fucking with you, right?"

Logan could feel his face splitting into a slow, soft smile, "I know."

Garrett froze, the room enveloped in silence for a moment. Then: "What do you mean, you know? You spent an hour freaking out."

"I wasn't freaking out."

"You absolutely were."

Logan ignored him—because the truth was, he'd known almost immediately. The second you said it, the second he'd seen that look in your eyes—the one you got whenever you were trying not to laugh, he knew.

But that wasn't the point, it was never going to be. Because whether there had been a date or not, now there was. If his girlfriend wanted to spend a entire day together, Logan wasn't going to complain.

Garrett groaned. "Oh, my God."

"What?

"You're so disgustingly in love with her."

Logan considered arguing but instead, he just smiled. "Yeah, man. I am."

For once, Garrett didn't make fun of him for it.

By the time Logan picked you up the next evening, you were beginning to regret everything.

Not because the prank wasn't funny—it was downright hilarious. Or at least, it had been, right until a gorgeous bouquet of pink lillies had appeared on your bedside table with a note in Logan's handwriting.

Fuck, you loved them. They were your favorite flower.

The note read, Pick you up at 8. Wear the blue dress.

Now, standing in front of your mirror, smoothing down the skirt of the blue dress you loved so much, you were beginning to suspect that somewhere along the way, things had gotten out of hand.

A knock sounded from the other side of the door, making your stomach flutter. It was ridiculous—you'd been dating Logan for three years, and yet, as you opened the door, you immediately forgot every coherent thought you'd ever had.

Logan stood in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of dark jeans, navy button-down rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was falling across his forehead, his brown eyes softening the second they found you— like they always did. Every. Single. Time.

No matter how many years passed, they always softened. "Hi, babe."

A smile spread across your face automatically. "Hi."

For a second, neither of you moved. Then, Logan's gaze landed on the vase of flowers sitting on your bedside table. "You got the flowers I sent you?"

Your heart squeezed. "They're beautiful, Logan."

"I know."

You blinked, and Logan immediately cringed. "Oh, fuck. That sounded terrible.""

A laugh escaped you. "It really did."

He groaned. "I meant you're beautiful."

Your laugh grew louder, and Logan pressed his forehead against the doorframe, hiding his face and the shy, pink flush that was creeping up his cheeks. "I somehow made it worse."

"You absolutely did."

His answering grin was sheepish, beautiful. You slipped your hand into his, softly closing the door behind you. "Ready?"

Logan squeezed your fingers. "Always."

The date was perfect.

Not because of where he took you— though the restaurant was lovely. The bookstore afterward was also lovely. And the bakery where he insisted on buying three different desserts "for research purposes" was lovely.

Not because of any of it. The date was perfect because every stop felt intentional, like Logan had built the entire evening out of tiny pieces of you.

At dinner, he'd ordered an appetizer while you ducked into the restroom right after the two of you arrived, because he knew you always got hungry while looking at menus. At the bookstore, he somehow remembered the title of a novel you'd mentioned wanting to read six months ago. At the bakery, he'd walked directly to your favorite cheesecake without even glancing at the display.

By the time the two of you found yourselves walking along the Charles River, the city lights glittering across the water, you were fairly certain you'd accidentally created the best date of your life.

The realization was mildly infuriating.

Logan glanced at you. "What?"

"What do you mean, what?" you frowned.

"You've got your thinking face on."

You rolled your eyes. "I do not."

Logan laughed, the sound settling warmly in your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke. The night air was cool, your hand fit perfectly in his. The city hummed around you—comfortable, easy.

Eventually Logan guided you toward a quiet bench overlooking the water. You sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing his. You could smell his cologne, could feel your heart beginning to stutter like it always did around him.

"You know," you said, carefully. "I had a really good time tonight."

Logan smiled. "I'm glad, babe. I did too."

You sighed, because you could feel the guilt winning. "I have to tell you something."

Immediately, Logan looked concerned. Your stomach twisted at the look on his face. God, he was too nice. "I kinda feel bad."

His eyebrows lifted. "About?"

You looked away, suddenly fascinated by the water. "The date thing."

"What about it?"

"Okay," you sucked in a deep breath. "I made it up. There wasn't actually a date."

The silence stretched out between the two of you—unbearable, suffocating, until you couldn't take it anymore. A groan escaped your lips. "Oh, my God, please stop looking at me like that."

Logan laughed. You froze, because it wasn't a surprised laugh, or even a confused one. No, he sounded... amused?

Slowly, you turned toward him, meeting his eyes. He was smiling.

Your eyes narrowed. "John Logan."

His grin widened. "Yeah, babe?"

"Oh, fuck off." The pieces clicked together all at once—the confidence, the calmness, the complete lack of panic. Your jaw slacked. "You knew."

Logan laughed. "I knew."

You stared at him, horrified, offended and impressed. Mostly offended. "When did you know?"

"The moment you said it."

Your mouth fully fell open this time. "You fucking liar."

Logan's shoulders shook with laughter. "You were picking out dresses, way too excited."

"I was acting," you gasped.

"Babe, come on." The words carried approximately zero belief.

You slapped his arm, and Logan caught your wrist immediately, still laughing. "You are unbelievable. You let me think I was winning!"

His grin softened. "You looked so excited." The words came out quietly, simply, like they explained everything.

And maybe, they did.

Logan continued, like it was obvious, like anyone else would've done the same thing. "You were excited, and I like taking you on dates."

You chest tightened. "So you planned all of this?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

The answer left his lips immediately, without hesitation, without uncertainty. "Because I love you."

The words settled softly between the two of you, warm and certain.

You groaned. "Fuck off, Logan. You can't be cute when I'm being mean and trying to prank you."

Logan chuckled, leaning forward, his forehead brushing yours. "You're not mean. You're perfect. And, you're so, so impressed by the fact that I pulled this off."

"I'm not," you scoffed, but you both knew you were lying.

His grin widened knowingly. You hated it—and you hated it even more when he kissed you, slow and sweet, smiling against your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair.

When he finally pulled away, your heart was somewhere around your ankles. "You know what?"

"What?"

You jammed a finger in his chest. "This still counts as me pranking you."

Logan laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench—and somehow, that felt like victory enough.

💌: from kai, with love.