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Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call
Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery
Read part two here
The locker room smells like victory — sweat, ice, and that particular brand of arrogance that comes from stomping your rivals into the boards. Garrett sits on the bench, unlacing his skates with practiced efficiency, while his teammates celebrate around him like they’ve won the Stanley Cup instead of just another regular season game.
“Did you see Beck’s face when you scored that hat trick?” Dean practically shouts, still riding the high. “Dude looked like he wanted to murder you.”
“Beck always looks like that,” Logan says, toweling off his hair. “Guy’s got permanent asshole face.”
Garrett doesn’t join in the trash talk. He pulls off his skates and flexes his feet, working out the stiffness. Five to one. They demolished BU tonight, and while he should feel satisfied — while he does feel satisfied — something about the win feels hollow. Maybe it’s because Cameron Beck spent most of the third period playing dirty, throwing elbows when the refs weren’t looking, talking shit that had nothing to do with hockey.
“You don’t look good. You look like you’re planning someone’s funeral.”
Garrett manages a half-smile. “Just tired, man. It’s been a long week.”
It has been. Two midterms, practice every day, a game against Northeastern that went into overtime, and now this. He loves hockey — lives for it, really — but sometimes the weight of being captain, of being the guy everyone looks to, of keeping his grades up and his scholarship secure, feels like carrying a truck on his shoulders.
“Alright!” Coach Jensen’s voice cuts through the celebration. “Bus leaves in ten. If you’re not on it, you’re walking back to Briar.”
The team starts moving with renewed urgency, shoving gear into bags, pulling on sweatpants and hoodies. Garrett’s methodical about it, the way he is with everything. Skates in the bag, pads folded properly, stick secured. His mom taught him that — take care of your equipment and it’ll take care of you.
He pushes the thought away before it can dig in too deep.
“You riding shotgun?” Logan asks as they head toward the bus.
“Nah, you take it. I’m gonna crash in the back.”
The cold Boston air hits him like a slap when they step outside. February in New England is brutal, the kind of cold that gets into your bones and doesn’t let go. The team bus idles in the parking lot, exhaust forming clouds in the darkness. Most of the guys are already boarding, still loud, still buzzing.
That’s when Garrett sees them.
At first, it’s just movement in his peripheral vision — two figures near the back entrance of the arena, half-hidden in shadows. He almost doesn’t look. Almost keeps walking toward the bus because it’s cold and he’s tired and it’s none of his business.
But then he hears it. A voice, male, low and vicious.
“I told you not to embarrass me.”
Garrett stops walking. Tucker nearly crashes into him.
“Dude, what-”
“Hold on.”
He moves closer, his body reacting before his brain catches up. The angle shifts and he sees her clearly now — a girl, small, pressed back against the brick wall with her hands up in a gesture that Garrett recognizes instantly. It’s the same way his mom used to stand when his dad came home in one of his moods. Defensive. Placating. Terrified.
The guy is Cameron Beck. Even from fifteen feet away, even in the shitty parking lot lighting, Garrett knows it’s him. And Beck has his hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing hard enough that Garrett can see you wince.
“Cameron, please-” Your voice is barely audible, thin and desperate. “I didn’t do anything-”
“You were talking to that guy. I saw you.”
“He asked me for directions to the bathroom-”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
Beck yanks you forward and you stumble, catching yourself against his chest. He grabs your other wrist and Garrett sees them clearly now — the bruises. Dark purple and yellow, finger-shaped marks that circle both your wrists like ugly bracelets.
Something white-hot ignites in Garrett’s chest.
“Hey!” His voice comes out harder than he intends, sharp enough to make Beck’s head snap up. “Get your hands off her.”
Beck doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens. “Mind your own business, Graham.”
“I said, get your fucking hands off her.”
Garrett’s already moving, closing the distance. He’s vaguely aware of his teammates behind him — Tucker’s saying something, maybe Logan too — but all he can focus on is your face. You’re looking at him now, and your eyes are the most heartbreaking thing he’s ever seen. Wide and dark and absolutely terrified, but not of Beck. Of him. Of the situation. Of what’s going to happen next.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Beck says, but there’s an edge to his voice now. He drops your wrists and steps slightly in front of you, like he’s shielding you from view. Like he’s protecting you instead of hurting you.
You don’t move. Don’t run. Just stand there with your arms wrapped around yourself, and Garrett can see you shaking even from here.
“You always put your hands on people smaller than you?” Garrett asks, his voice deadly calm now. “Or just women who can’t fight back?”
“Watch your mouth-”
“Graham!” Coach Jensen’s voice cuts across the parking lot. “What the hell are you doing? Get on the bus!”
Garrett doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes locked on Beck, watching for any sign that he’s going to grab you again. Behind Beck, you’re barely breathing. You’re wearing a BU sweatshirt that’s too big for you and jeans that look painted on, and even though it’s freezing, you’re not wearing a coat. Your hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and there’s a bruise on your cheekbone that makeup can’t quite hide.
“Is he hurting you?” Garrett directs the question to you, but you don’t answer. Just stare at him with those haunted eyes.
“She’s fine,” Beck snaps. “She’s my girlfriend and this is between us, so why don’t you take your hero complex and shove it-”
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“Graham! Now!” Coach Jensen sounds pissed.
Tucker’s hand lands on Garrett’s shoulder. “Come on, man. We gotta go.”
“Not until-”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Tucker says quietly, meant only for Garrett’s ears. “Not here. Not now.”
Garrett knows he’s right. Knows that if he throws a punch at Beck right now, he’s the one who’ll get suspended. Knows that confronting Beck isn’t going to help you, might even make things worse once you’re alone again. But walking away feels impossible. It feels like the biggest betrayal in the world.
He looks at you one more time. Tries to communicate something with his eyes. I see you. I know what’s happening. This isn’t okay.
“I’m watching you, Beck,” he says finally. “You fuck up, and I’ll know about it.”
“Yeah, I’m real scared,” Beck sneers, but he doesn’t sound as confident as before.
Tucker practically drags Garrett back to the bus. The guys have all gone quiet now, watching. Logan looks grim. Dean looks confused. Some of the younger guys look uncomfortable, like they’re not sure what just happened.
“What the hell was that?” Coach demands as Garrett climbs the steps.
“Beck was hurting his girlfriend.”
“And you thought starting a fight in their parking lot was the solution?”
“I didn’t start anything. I told him to back off.”
“Sit down. We’re talking about this later.”
Garrett moves to the back of the bus and drops into a seat, his heart still jackhammering against his ribs. Through the window, he can see you — Beck has his arm around your shoulders now, steering you toward the parking garage. To anyone else, it probably looks almost normal. Protective, even. But Garrett sees the way you’re holding herself. Sees the careful distance you’re trying to maintain even while being pulled close.
The bus engine rumbles to life. They start moving, pulling out of the parking lot, and Garrett watches until he can’t see you anymore.
He punches the seat in front of him. Hard enough that his knuckles split, hard enough that pain shoots up his arm.
“Whoa!” Dean twists around. “Dude, what the hell?”
“Leave him alone,” Logan says quietly.
Garrett stares out the window at the Boston lights sliding past. His hand throbs. His chest feels tight. And all he can see is your face — the terror in your eyes, the bruises on your wrists, the way you didn’t say a word in your own defense.
He doesn’t even know your name.
***
You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter.
“Get in the car,” Cameron says. His voice is controlled now, almost gentle. It’s worse than the yelling. So much worse.
“Cameron-”
“Get. In. The car.”
You slide into the passenger seat of his BMW and buckle your seatbelt with trembling fingers. The bruises on your wrists ache where he grabbed them. They’ve barely healed from last time, and now they’re going to be even worse tomorrow. You’ll have to wear long sleeves again. Find excuses not to go to the gym, where someone might see you change.
Cameron gets in the driver’s side and sits there for a moment, both hands on the steering wheel. You don’t look at him. You learned months ago that making eye contact during these moments is dangerous.
“That guy asked you for directions,” Cameron says finally.
“Yes.”
“To the bathroom.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think it was weird that some random dude was asking you instead of literally anyone else?”
Your throat feels like it’s closing. “I was just trying to be helpful.”
“Helpful.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to be helpful? Stop making me look like an idiot. We were in public, Y/N. People could see you flirting-”
“I wasn’t flirting-”
The slap comes so fast you don’t see it. One second you’re trying to defend yourself, the next your cheek is on fire and your eyes are watering. It wasn’t hard — Cameron knows better than to leave marks where people can see them easily — but it’s enough to shut you up.
“Don’t interrupt me.” His voice is still calm. Still controlled. “I’ve had a shit night. We lost five to one. Five to fucking one. And then I have to watch my girlfriend chatting up random guys like she’s single.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Louder this time.
“That’s better.” He starts the car. “We’re going back to my place. You’re staying the night.”
It’s not a question. It’s never a question anymore.
You stare out the window as he drives, watching Boston blur past. You used to love this city. Used to walk around campus with your camera, taking pictures for the journalism assignments that actually excited you. Used to have friends, plans, dreams. You were going to work for ESPN. You were going to be the next Erin Andrews, traveling with teams, doing sideline reporting, making a name for yourself.
That was before Cameron. Before he slowly, methodically, isolated you from everyone who cared about you. Before he convinced you that you were lucky to have him, that no one else would ever want you, that you were too sensitive, too dramatic, too much work.
Before you started believing him.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t reach for it. Cameron has rules about phones when you’re with him. You learned that lesson too.
“Who is it?” He asks.
“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“Check.”
You pull out your phone with shaking hands. It’s your roommate, Julie. Where are you? You ok?
“Julie,” you say. “Asking where I am.”
“Tell her you’re with me. Tell her you’ll be back tomorrow.”
You type out the message exactly as instructed. Julie responds immediately. Call me when you can. Please.
She knows. Of course she knows. She’s seen the bruises, heard the excuses, watched you disappear into yourself over the past year. She’s tried to talk to you about it, tried to convince you to leave, but you’ve gotten good at deflecting. Good at lying. Good at pretending everything’s fine.
“Done?” Cameron asks.
“Done.”
“Good girl.”
The words make your stomach turn. He used to say them differently — warm, affectionate, after you’d aced an exam or nailed an interview. Now they’re just another way to control you. Another reminder that your worth is tied to your obedience.
You think about the guy from the parking lot. The hockey player who intervened. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that looked almost black in the shitty lighting. But it was the way he looked at you that’s stuck in your head. Like he actually saw you. Like he recognized something in your terror that other people miss or choose to ignore.
I’m watching you, Beck.
Cameron’s hands tighten on the steering wheel like he’s remembering it too.
“That Graham kid is going to be a problem,” he mutters.
You don’t respond. You’ve learned that sometimes the safest thing to do is stay silent, make yourself small, wait for the storm to pass. You’ve gotten so good at it that sometimes you forget how to be anything else.
Sometimes you can’t remember what your real voice even sounds like anymore.
Cameron’s apartment is in one of the nicer buildings near campus — his parents pay for it, along with his car and his credit cards and pretty much everything else. He’s never had to work for anything in his life, which maybe explains why he thinks people are possessions. Things to own and control.
You follow him inside, toeing off your shoes by the door. The apartment is immaculate because Cameron has a cleaning service. There are hockey trophies on the shelves and a massive TV mounted on the wall. It looks like something out of a magazine. It looks nothing like the prison it’s become.
“I’m going to shower,” Cameron says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “You should be in bed when I get out.”
It’s not a suggestion.
You nod and he disappears into the bathroom. The second the door closes, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your hands are still shaking. Your cheek still stings. Your wrists throb with every heartbeat.
You sit on the edge of his bed and stare at the wall.
This is your life now. This is what you’ve become. A girl who flinches at loud noises, who measures every word before speaking, who has nightmares about making her boyfriend angry. A girl who used to be bright and funny and ambitious but now can barely recognize herself in the mirror.
Your phone buzzes again. Julie. I’m worried about you. Please talk to me.
You want to. God, you want to. But what would you even say? That you’re too scared to leave? That you’ve tried twice and both times Cameron found you, convinced you to come back, promised he’d change? That you’re terrified of what he’ll do if you try again?
That part of you has started to believe you deserve this?
You delete the message without responding and put your phone on silent.
In the bathroom, the shower turns off. You have maybe three minutes before Cameron comes out, before you have to paste on a smile and pretend everything’s okay, before you have to be the version of yourself that keeps him happy.
You change into the clothes you keep here — sleep shorts and one of Cameron’s old t-shirts — and climb into bed. Pull the covers up. Make yourself small.
And you think about the hockey player one more time. About the way he looked at Beck like he wanted to break him in half. About the way he looked at you like you mattered.
Then you close your eyes and wait for Cameron to decide what happens next.
Because that’s all you do anymore.
Wait.
***
The dream always starts the same way.
Garrett is seven years old, small for his age, standing in the hallway of their old apartment in Manhattan. The wallpaper is peeling near the ceiling and there’s a water stain that looks like a dragon if you squint. He used to stare at that dragon for hours, imagining it coming to life and burning everything down.
His father is in the living room. Garrett can hear him before he sees him — that particular tone of voice that means his mom did something wrong. Or didn’t do something right. Or just existed in a way that pissed him off.
“I told you I needed my dress shirt ironed,” his dad says. Phil Graham, star defenseman for the New York Rangers, six-foot-three and two hundred pounds of controlled violence. “I have a fucking press conference in an hour, Lauren.”
“I know, I’m sorry-” His mom’s voice is small, apologetic. “I forgot, I was picking up Garrett from school and then I had to-”
“I don’t care what you had to do. When I tell you something needs to get done, it needs to get done.”
Seven-year-old Garrett peers around the corner. His mom is standing by the ironing board, one hand pressed to her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. His dad is looming over her, still in his Rangers sweatpants, hair wet from the shower.
“Don’t fucking cry,” his dad snaps when his mom’s eyes start to water. “Jesus Christ, you’re so dramatic. All I asked was for you to iron a goddamn shirt-”
“I’ll do it now, it’ll only take a minute-”
His dad grabs the iron. For a second, Garrett thinks he’s just going to do it himself, but then his mom flinches and Garrett knows — knows with the certainty that children who grow up in war zones develop — that something bad is about to happen.
“You think this is hot?” His dad asks, holding the iron close to his mom’s face. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that Garrett can see her leaning back, trying to create distance. “You think this is as hot as I’m going to be standing in front of those cameras looking like an idiot because my wife can’t do the one fucking thing I asked her to do?”
“Phil, please-”
The iron moves closer. His mom’s breath comes in short, panicked gasps.
“Stop!” Garrett shouts, but his voice is tiny, insignificant. He runs into the room, grabs his dad’s arm with both hands, tries to pull him away. “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!”
His dad shoves him backwards. Not hard — never hard enough to leave marks where people can see — but enough to send seven-year-old Garrett stumbling into the coffee table. Pain explodes in his hip.
“Go to your room, Garrett.”
“No! Stop hurting Mom!”
“I said go to your fucking room!”
But Garrett can’t move. Can’t do anything but watch as his dad turns back to his mom, as she raises her hands in that defensive gesture Garrett will see repeated a thousand times over the next ten years, as his dad-
The dream shifts.
Now Garrett isn’t seven anymore. He’s twenty-one, standing in a parking lot in Boston, and it’s not his mom against the wall. It’s you. The girl from the parking lot. You’re looking at him with those terrified eyes and Cameron Beck has his hands around your wrists and Garrett can see the bruises blooming under Beck’s fingers like ugly flowers.
“Help me,” you whisper.
Garrett tries to move but his feet are cement. He’s frozen, useless, watching it happen all over again.
“I’m watching you, Beck,” he hears himself say, but it sounds hollow. Meaningless.
Beck laughs. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?”
You’re crying now. “Please. Please help me.”
“I can’t,” Garrett says, and the words feel like they’re being ripped from his chest. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t-”
Beck’s hands tighten. You scream. And Garrett just stands there, seven years old again, helpless, watching someone he should protect get hurt and doing nothing, nothing, nothing-
He wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping like he’s been drowning.
His dorm room is dark except for the numbers on his alarm clock: 4:19 AM. Garrett’s sheets are tangled around his legs and his heart is trying to punch through his ribcage.
He sits up, runs both hands through his hair, tries to breathe.
It’s been years since he had the dreams this bad. Years since he woke up feeling like this — angry and helpless and so fucking furious at the world that he wants to break something. After his mom died, after he finally got away from his dad and came to Briar on a full ride, he thought he’d left this behind. Thought he could bury it under hockey and classes and being the kind of captain his team needs.
But one look at that girl’s face and it all came roaring back.
He grabs his phone from the nightstand, squints at the brightness. No new messages. Nothing from anyone who would be awake at this hour.
He opens Instagram.
He’s not even sure what he’s looking for. Closure, maybe. Confirmation that what he saw was real and not some manifestation of his own trauma. Proof that you exist, that you’re okay, that he didn’t just imagine the terror in your eyes.
But he doesn’t know your name. Doesn’t know anything about you except that you’re dating Cameron Beck and you’re in trouble.
Garrett’s never been one for social media stalking — he barely posts on his own accounts — but he navigates to Beck’s profile with the grim determination of someone going to war. The guy’s profile is exactly what Garrett expected: carefully curated photos of hockey wins, parties, expensive shit his parents bought him. Every caption is some variation of “living my best life” or “grind never stops” or other meaningless bullshit.
Garrett scrolls back through months of posts, his jaw getting tighter with each one, until finally … there.
A photo from last summer. Beck at some beach, tanned and shirtless, arm slung around a girl in a yellow bikini. You’re smiling at the camera but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The caption reads Summer vibes with my girl.
You’re tagged. @yourusername
Garrett clicks through so fast he almost drops his phone.
Your profile loads and he feels something in his chest twist. Your bio is simple: BU | Journalism | Boston Born & Raised. Your profile picture is you in a Bruins jersey, grinning at whoever’s taking the photo, eyes bright with genuine happiness.
He starts scrolling.
The most recent post is from four months ago. You at some coffee shop, mug raised in a half-hearted toast, smile that looks more like a grimace. The caption is just a coffee emoji. Before that, five months ago: you and another girl at what looks like a BU football game. You’re wearing sunglasses but Garrett can see the tension in your shoulders, the way you’re leaning slightly away from the camera.
He keeps scrolling back and the transformation is devastating.
Eight months ago: you holding up an acceptance letter, caption reading INTERNSHIP AT WEEI SPORTS RADIO! Dreams coming true! Your smile is radiant. Real.
Ten months ago: a whole series of posts from what looks like spring break. You and a group of friends at various beaches, bars, tourist traps. You’re laughing in most of them, mid-sentence, caught in moments of unselfconscious joy.
A year ago: you with a camera around your neck, press pass visible, standing on the sidelines of what looks like a hockey game. First day covering BU hockey for the Daily Free Press! Living the dream!
Garrett stops on that one. Studies your face. You look so young, so excited, so full of potential. This was before Beck, he realizes. Or maybe early in the relationship, before it turned bad. Before you learned to make yourself small.
He keeps scrolling, going further back. You playing intramural soccer. You at journalism club meetings. You with your family at what looks like a Thanksgiving dinner, squeezed between an older couple who must be your parents. You’re wearing a sweater and you’re laughing at something off-camera.
The last post from freshman year shows you standing in front of a BU dorm building, suitcases at your feet, arms spread wide. The caption reads Let’s do this, Boston! 📚🎓
You looked so hopeful.
Garrett closes Instagram and stares at his ceiling. Outside, he can hear the first birds starting their morning songs. The world is waking up and he hasn’t slept at all, and all he can think about is the difference between the girl in those old photos and the girl he saw in the parking lot.
You used to be so alive.
What the fuck did Beck do to you?
***
You’re running through a hallway that never ends.
Behind you, Cameron is gaining ground. You can hear his footsteps, heavy and relentless, can hear him calling your name in that tone that makes your blood freeze.
“Y/N! Get back here!”
You’re trying to scream but nothing comes out. Your legs feel like they’re moving through water. There are doors on either side of the hallway but when you try the handles, they’re all locked. Every single one.
“You can’t run from me,” Cameron says, and suddenly he’s right behind you, his hand closing around your arm, spinning you to face him. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”
He’s not angry. That’s the worst part. He’s smiling, calm, like this is all perfectly reasonable.
“Please,” you manage to whisper. “Please let me go.”
“I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that.” His grip tightens until you can feel your bones grinding together. “Who else is going to love you? Who else is going to put up with you?”
“Someone,” you sob. “Anyone.”
“No one wants damaged goods, baby.”
The scene shifts. Now you’re in his apartment, in his bed, and he’s on top of you and you’re trying to say no, trying to push him away, but your arms won’t work. Your voice won’t work. Nothing works except the part of your brain that’s screaming this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong-
And then you’re in the parking lot again, pressed against the cold brick wall, and Cameron’s hands are around your throat and you can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t-
The hockey player appears. The one from last night. He’s reaching for you, mouth moving, saying something you can’t hear over the roaring in your ears.
Help me, you try to say, but Cameron’s grip gets tighter.
The hockey player turns away.
Everyone always turns away.
You wake up to pain.
At first, you can’t process what’s happening. Your body registers it before your brain does — the invasion, the wrongness, the way your body is being used without your consent. Again.
Cameron is inside you.
You’re lying on your side, facing away from him, and he’s behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, moving with steady, selfish rhythm. You’re not ready. He didn’t prepare you, didn’t wake you, didn’t ask. Just took what he wanted because in his mind, you’re his to take.
You stare at the wall and let it happen.
Fighting makes it worse. You learned that months ago. Crying makes it worse. Asking him to stop makes it worse. So you just lie there and wait for it to be over, counting the seconds in your head, disassociating so hard you might as well be floating on the ceiling.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
Cameron’s breath is hot on your neck. His grip tightens.
“So good for me,” he murmurs, like this is romantic. Like this is consensual. “My perfect girl.”
A single tear slides down your cheek and disappears into the pillow.
Forty-eight Mississippi. Forty-nine Mississippi.
He finishes with a grunt, pulling out and rolling away from you like you’re a tissue he’s done with. You feel the wetness between your legs, feel the ache that’s going to linger all day.
“Morning, babe,” Cameron says, already reaching for his phone. “I’m thinking pancakes for breakfast. You want pancakes?”
You don’t answer. Can’t answer. Your voice is buried somewhere so deep you’re not sure you’ll ever find it again.
“Y/N? Pancakes?”
“Sure,” you whisper.
“Cool. There’s that place on Comm Ave we like. Get dressed.” He’s already out of bed, completely unbothered, heading for the bathroom. “Wear that blue dress I got you. The one that shows off your legs.”
The bathroom door closes. The shower turns on.
You lie there for another minute, staring at nothing, feeling nothing. Then you get up because that’s what you do. You get up and you put yourself back together and you pretend everything is fine.
In the bathroom mirror, you look like a ghost. There are dark circles under your eyes that makeup won’t fully hide. Your hair is a mess. The bruises on your wrists have darkened overnight, deep purple now, unmistakable.
You brush your teeth. Wash your face. Try to find some version of yourself in the reflection that you recognize.
She’s not there.
You get dressed like Cameron asked — the blue dress that you used to like before it became a costume, before it became something you wear to keep him happy. It’s February and freezing but you add tights and a cardigan and hope that’s enough to satisfy him.
When Cameron comes out of the bathroom, he’s in a good mood. That’s almost worse than when he’s angry. When he’s angry, at least you know where you stand. When he’s happy, you’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You look beautiful,” he says, kissing your forehead like he didn’t just violate you twenty minutes ago. “Ready?”
You nod.
Breakfast is performative. Cameron orders the biggest thing on the menu — some ridiculous stack of pancakes with whipped cream and berries — and expects you to do the same. You order oatmeal because your stomach is churning and you know you won’t be able to eat much anyway.
“That’s all you’re getting?” Cameron frowns. “Come on, babe. Live a little.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“You’re never hungry anymore.” He reaches across the table, takes your hand. To anyone watching, it looks sweet. Loving. They can’t see the way his thumb digs into your bruised wrist. “You’re getting too thin. It’s not attractive.”
“Sorry,” you say automatically.
“It’s fine. We’ll work on it.” He releases your hand and pulls out his phone. “Shit, I have a meeting with my advisor at ten. Can you be ready to leave in twenty?”
“Yeah.”
You pick at your oatmeal while Cameron scrolls through his phone, occasionally showing you memes that aren’t funny, highlights from last night’s game that you don’t care about. He’s talking about the playoffs, about how BU is definitely going to make it even though they lost to Briar, about how that Graham kid got lucky.
“Cocky bastard,” Cameron mutters. “Someone needs to put him in his place.”
You think about the way Garrett Graham looked at Cameron last night. The absolute fury in his eyes. The way he stepped between you like he actually gave a shit about a stranger.
“Did you hear me?” Cameron asks.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said you can’t come to the next game. After the way you embarrassed me last night, I think you need a break from being around the team.”
Relief floods through you so fast you feel dizzy. “Okay.”
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not—I didn’t mean-”
“Relax. I’m kidding.” He’s smiling but his eyes are cold. “Jesus, you’re so tense all the time. Maybe you should see someone about that.”
By someone, he means a therapist. He’s suggested it before, usually right after he’s the reason you need one. The implication is always clear: you’re the problem. You’re too sensitive, too anxious, too broken. Never mind that he’s the one who broke you.
You make it through breakfast. Through the ride back to campus. Through Cameron walking you to your dorm like he’s some kind of gentleman.
“I’ll text you later,” he says, kissing you goodbye on the steps. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” you say, because that’s the script.
***
Garrett can’t focus on anything Professor Harris is saying about Kant’s categorical imperative. He’s sitting in the back row of his Philosophy 301 lecture, laptop open to a notes document that’s completely blank except for the date, phone hidden behind his screen.
He’s still on your Instagram.
He’s gone through every post now, read every caption, studied every photo. He’s built a timeline in his head: You started dating Beck around March of last year. The first photo of you two together was from spring break. You looked happy then. Cautious, maybe, but happy.
By summer, something had changed. You started posting less. Your smiles looked forced. The photos with Beck became more frequent but you looked less comfortable in each one.
By fall, you barely posted at all. And the few photos that are there — you look hollow. Like someone reached inside and scooped out everything that made you you.
The last post, from four months ago. You haven’t shared anything since.
Garrett wonders if Beck made you stop. If he isolated you so completely that you don’t even have the autonomy to post on social media anymore.
His hand tightens around his phone.
“Mr. Graham.”
Garrett’s head snaps up. Professor Harris is looking at him expectantly, along with the rest of the class.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you could explain the practical imperative.”
Garrett has no idea. He was a good student once — still is, technically, maintaining the 3.5 GPA his scholarship requires — but right now his brain is full of you and Beck and the sound of his mom’s voice saying please in his nightmares.
“I … uh …”
“Act in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of another, always at the same time as an end and never simply as a means,” Logan says from two rows ahead, saving his ass.
Professor Harris nods, apparently satisfied, and turns back to his lecture.
Garrett shoots Logan a grateful look. Logan just raises his eyebrows in a what the hell is wrong with you expression.
Garrett goes back to his phone. He knows he should stop. Knows this is bordering on obsessive. But he can’t shake the feeling that if he can just find you, if he can just talk to you, he can help. He can do what he couldn’t do for his mom.
He opens Beck’s Instagram again, goes back through the tagged photos, looks for clues. Where do you go? What do you do? How the fuck is he supposed to find one girl in a city of seven hundred thousand people?
Class ends at 11:30. Garrett packs up his stuff mechanically, mind still churning.
“Dude.” Logan falls into step beside him as they file out of the lecture hall. “You good? You’ve been weird since last night.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
They walk across campus in silence. It’s brutally cold, the kind of February day that makes you question why anyone lives in New England. Students hurry past with their heads down, buried in their coats.
“That girl last night,” Garrett says finally. “Beck’s girlfriend. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Yeah, that was fucked up.”
“I should’ve done more.”
“G, you did what you could. What were you supposed to do, kidnap her?”
“Maybe.”
Logan stops walking. “Are you serious right now?”
“No. I don’t know.” Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “I just … I’ve seen this before. I know how it ends.”
Logan’s expression softens. He knows about Garrett’s mom. They’ve been friends since freshman year, and you can’t live with someone for that long without learning their ghosts.
“You can’t save everyone,” Logan says gently.
“I couldn’t save her either.”
“You were a kid.”
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
They resume walking. Practice is at 2:00, which gives Garrett a couple hours to grab lunch and pretend to study. But he knows he won’t be able to concentrate. Won’t be able to think about anything except you and those bruises and the terrified look in your eyes.
“What are you going to do?” Logan asks.
“I don’t know yet.”
But he’s lying. He knows exactly what he’s going to do.
***
Practice is brutal. Coach Jensen runs them into the ground — suicides, bag skating, drills until Garrett’s legs are shaking and his lungs are burning. It’s punishment for last night, for the altercation in the parking lot, for drawing attention to the team in a way that doesn’t involve winning games.
Garrett welcomes the pain. Uses it to clear his head.
By the time they’re done, it’s almost 5:00 PM and the sun is setting. The team staggers to the locker room, everyone too exhausted to do more than grunt at each other.
Garrett sits on the bench, peeling off his gear, when he remembers.
Colin Monroe.
Monroe transferred from BU to Briar at the start of the season — some issue with playing time, Garrett never got the full story. He’s a sophomore defenseman, solid player, keeps mostly to himself. But he spent a year and a half at BU before transferring.
He would know where BU students hang out.
Garrett waits until most of the team has cleared out, until it’s just him and Monroe and a couple other guys. He approaches casually, like the thought just occurred to him.
“Hey, Monroe.”
Colin looks up from tying his shoes. “Yeah?”
“You were at BU before you transferred, right?”
“For a year and a half, yeah. Why?”
Garrett tries to sound casual. “Just curious where you guys hung out. Like, where do BU students go? Coffee shops, bars, whatever.”
Monroe gives him a weird look. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just thinking about checking out some new spots. You know, off-campus stuff.”
“You’re asking me for Boston recommendations? Dude, you’ve been here longer than I have.”
Fair point. Garrett pivots.
“Okay, fine. I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“A girl from BU. I need to talk to her.”
Monroe’s expression shifts from confused to amused. “Oh shit, did you hook up with someone from the rival team? That’s bold.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
Garrett debates how much to say. Monroe is a good guy, not a gossip, but this feels too personal to share. Too raw.
“I just need to find her,” Garrett says finally. “It’s important.”
Monroe studies him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Alright, man. BU kids are all over Comm Ave and Kenmore. There’s this coffee shop called Pavement that’s always packed with journalism and comm students — it’s right on Commonwealth, you can’t miss it. There’s also The Castle, this pub on Brighton Ave that does trivia on Wednesday nights. And if she’s into the athletic crowd, they’re usually at The Dugout on game days.”
“Yeah, it’s like, the spot. Everyone’s always in there working on articles or whatever.”
Something clicks in Garrett’s brain. Your Instagram bio. Journalism.
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“Sure. Good luck with your mysterious BU girl.” Monroe grins. “Let me know if you need a wingman.”
“I will.”
Garrett grabs his bag and heads out before anyone else can ask questions. His car is parked in the lot behind the arena, and he sits in the driver’s seat for a minute, engine running, heat blasting.
He pulls up Pavement Coffee on Google Maps. It’s a twenty-minute drive from Briar. He could go now. Could drive over there and camp out and wait to see if you show up.
But then what? Walk up to you? Say what, exactly? Hey, I saw your boyfriend abusing you last night and I’ve been stalking your Instagram all day, want to grab a coffee and talk about your trauma?
Garrett drops his head against the steering wheel.
This is insane. He knows it’s insane. You’re a stranger. You probably don’t want his help. You probably think he’s some white knight psycho who needs to mind his own business.
But he can’t stop seeing your face. Can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at him like he was your last hope and then watched him walk away.
His phone buzzes. Text from Tucker: Be back for dinner? I promised to make wings.
Garrett texts back: Can’t tonight. Have something to do.
Tucker: Everything ok?
Garrett: Yeah. Just need to take care of something.
He puts the car in drive and heads toward Boston, toward Pavement Coffee, toward you.
He doesn’t let himself think about what he’s going to do when he finds you.
He just knows he has to try.
***
Pavement Coffee is exactly what Monroe described — packed with students hunched over laptops, the air thick with the smell of espresso and stress. Garrett stands in the doorway for a moment, scanning the crowd, heart hammering against his ribs.
He almost doesn’t see you.
You’re tucked into a corner table near the window, laptop open, surrounded by papers and highlighters and what looks like a half-empty cup of something that’s probably gone cold. Your hair is down today, falling like a curtain around your face, and you’re wearing an oversized BU sweatshirt that swallows your frame. From this distance, you look like any other college student cramming for an exam or working on an assignment.
But Garrett knows better now.
He weaves through the crowded café, dodging backpacks and chairs, his palms suddenly sweating. He hasn’t thought this through. Hasn’t planned what to say. All the speeches he rehearsed in his car on the drive over evaporate the moment he’s standing in front of your table.
You don’t notice him at first. You’re too focused on whatever you’re reading, highlighter poised mid-air, bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration.
Garrett clears his throat.
Nothing.
He pulls out the chair across from you and sits down.
That gets your attention.
You look up, and for a split second, there’s confusion in your eyes — like you’re trying to place where you know him from. Then recognition hits, and Garrett watches your entire body go rigid. The highlighter slips from your fingers. Your eyes go wide, that same terror from the parking lot flooding back into them.
“Please don’t-” Your voice comes out in a whisper, barely audible over the ambient noise of the café. “Please, you can’t—he’ll-”
“Hey, hey.” Garrett raises both hands, palms out, like he’s approaching a spooked horse. “It’s okay. I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to talk.”
“You need to leave.” Your eyes dart toward the door, then back to him, then to the other customers like you’re checking to see if anyone’s watching. “If Cameron finds out-”
“He’s not here.”
“That doesn’t matter.” You’re gathering your stuff now, shoving papers into your bag with shaking hands. “He has friends everywhere. Someone could see us. Someone could tell him-”
“Then let them.” Garrett leans forward, keeping his voice low and calm. “What’s the worst he can do?”
The look you give him is so devastated it makes his chest ache.
“You don’t understand,” you say quietly.
“Then help me understand.”
You freeze, hands still on your laptop. For a moment, Garrett thinks you might actually open up. Might tell him everything. But then you shake your head and go back to packing.
“I need to go.”
“Wait. Please.” Garrett reaches across the table like he’s going to touch your hand, then thinks better of it. “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Why?” You look up at him, and there are tears gathering in your eyes now. “Why do you even care? You don’t know me.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” Garrett runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “But I know what I saw in that parking lot. And I know that if I just let you walk away right now, if I don’t at least try to help, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”
You’re staring at him like he’s speaking a foreign language.
“I’ve seen this before,” Garrett continues, his voice rough. “I’ve watched someone I love get hurt over and over by someone who was supposed to protect them. And I couldn’t stop it. I was too young, too small, too powerless. But I’m not powerless anymore, and neither are you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But you’ve stopped packing. Your hands are still on the table, fingers twisted together.
“Don’t I?” Garrett nods toward your neck, where he can see the edge of something dark peeking out from under your sweatshirt collar. “What’s that?”
Instinctively, your hand flies to your neck, pulling the collar up. But it’s too late. Garrett’s already seen it — hand-shaped bruises, finger marks pressed into your skin, covered with what looks like concealer that’s been rubbed away throughout the day.
The rage that floods through him is white-hot and immediate. His hands curl into fists under the table. He wants to find Beck right now, wants to make him feel every ounce of pain he’s inflicted on you, wants to-
“Breathe,” you whisper, and Garrett realizes he’s stopped breathing entirely.
He forces air into his lungs. Forces his hands to unclench. Forces himself to stay seated when every instinct is screaming at him to go find Beck and end this.
“I’m okay,” you say, which is such an obvious lie it would be funny if it weren’t heartbreaking.
“You’re not okay.” Garrett’s voice comes out harder than he intends. “And we both know it.”
You flinch, and immediately he wants to take it back. Wants to rewind and try again with more gentleness, more care.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—fuck. I’m really bad at this.”
“At what?”
“At …” He gestures vaguely between you. “This. Helping. I don’t know how to do this without being an asshole about it.”
You almost smile. It’s barely there, just a tiny quirk of your lips, but it’s something.
“You’re not an asshole,” you say quietly.
“Beck would probably disagree.”
“Cameron thinks anyone who doesn’t worship him is an asshole.”
It’s the first time you’ve said anything even remotely critical of Beck, and Garrett latches onto it like a lifeline.
“He hurt you.” It’s not a question.
You don’t answer. Just look down at your hands, at the bruises on your wrists that match the ones on your neck.
“How long?” Garrett asks.
“That’s not—I can’t-”
“How long has he been hurting you?”
Your jaw tightens. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s really not.”
“You don’t understand-”
“Then explain it to me.” Garrett leans forward, desperate now. “Because from where I’m sitting, this looks pretty simple. He’s hurting you. You’re letting him. And if you don’t stop this, if you don’t get out, it’s going to kill you.”
“I can’t just leave.” Your voice breaks on the last word.
“Why not?”
“Because-” You stop, swallow hard. “Because he loves me.”
Garrett feels like he’s been punched. “That’s not love.”
“You don’t know him like I do.”
“I know that love doesn’t leave bruises.” Garrett points to your neck, your wrists. “I know that love doesn’t make you look over your shoulder every five seconds. I know that love doesn’t turn someone as bright and alive as you clearly used to be into-” He stops himself, but it’s too late.
“Into what?” Your voice is cold now. “Into what, Garrett?”
He’s surprised you know his name. Surprised and oddly touched.
“Into someone who’s afraid to exist,” he finishes quietly.
You look away, but not before he sees the tears spill over. You wipe them away quickly, angrily, like you’re mad at yourself for showing weakness.
“You looked at my Instagram,” you say.
“Yeah.”
“That’s creepy.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you wanted to work in sports media. I know you had an internship at WEEI. I know you used to smile like you meant it.” Garrett’s voice softens. “I know that girl in those photos wouldn’t recognize the person sitting in front of me right now.”
You’re quiet for a long moment. The café noise fills the silence — the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of conversations, the click of laptop keys.
“She’s gone,” you finally whisper.
“She’s not. She’s just hiding.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like.” You look up at him, and the devastation in your eyes is unbearable. “He didn’t start out this way. He was sweet. He was charming. He made me feel special, like I was the only person in the world who mattered. And then gradually, so slowly I didn’t even notice at first, things changed. He started criticizing little things. The way I dressed. The way I talked to other guys. My friends. My ambitions. He said it was because he cared. Because he wanted me to be the best version of myself.”
Garrett’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“And I believed him,” you continue, your voice getting smaller. “I thought if I just tried harder, if I just did what he wanted, things would go back to how they were. But they never did. They just got worse. And by the time I realized what was happening, I was so isolated, so cut off from everyone who might have helped me, that I didn’t know how to get out.”
“You get out by leaving.”
“I tried.” The words come out in a rush. “Twice. Both times he found me. Both times he convinced me to come back. He cried, Garrett. He got down on his knees and cried and promised he’d change and I believed him because I wanted to believe him.”
“And did he change?”
You laugh, but it’s a broken sound. “What do you think?”
Garrett wants to flip the table. Wants to scream. Wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you understand that you deserve better than this, deserve better than him.
But he knows that won’t help. Knows from watching his mom that you can’t force someone to leave. They have to choose it themselves.
“If you go back to him,” Garrett says carefully, “you’re going to die. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. Either he’ll kill you, or he’ll kill everything that makes you you until you’re just this empty shell going through the motions. Is that what you want?”
“Of course that’s not what I want.” Your voice cracks.
“Then leave.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“You don’t understand-”
“My mom said the same thing.” The words are out before Garrett can stop them.
You go still.
“She said she couldn’t leave my dad,” Garrett continues, staring at a spot on the table between them. “Said it was complicated. Said he didn’t mean it. Said things would get better. She said that right up until the day she died.”
“Garrett-”
“Cancer,” he says. “Lung cancer. And you want to know the fucked up thing? When she was in the hospital, when she was dying, he still found ways to hurt her. Still found ways to make her feel small and worthless. And she let him. Right up until the end, she let him.”
He looks up, meets your eyes.
“I was eleven when she died,” he says. “And I spent the next ten years hating myself for not being able to save her. For not being strong enough or brave enough or smart enough to make her leave. But the truth is, I couldn’t have saved her. She had to save herself. And she never did.”
You’re crying openly now, tears streaming down your face.
“Don’t be her,” Garrett says, his voice urgent. “Don’t be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesn’t deserve it. Don’t let him win.”
“I’m scared,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“He’ll come after me.”
“Let him.” Garrett’s voice hardens. “And when he does, you call the cops. You get a restraining order. You press charges for assault. You do whatever it takes.”
“It’s not that simple-”
“It is that simple. You just don’t want it to be.”
The words hang between you like an accusation. Garrett knows he’s pushed too hard, knows he’s being too aggressive, knows he should back off and try a gentler approach.
But he’s so fucking tired of watching people destroy themselves for love that isn’t love at all.
You shake your head. It’s the tiniest movement, barely perceptible, but Garrett sees it. Sees the resignation in your eyes, the defeat.
You’re not going to leave.
Not today. Maybe not ever.
The realization settles over him like a weight.
“Okay,” he says finally, sitting back in his chair. He wipes a hand down his face, exhausted suddenly. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one you’re hurting.”
You flinch like he’s slapped you.
Garrett reaches across the table, grabs one of your pens before you can stop him. He pulls a napkin from the dispenser and scribbles something on it, then slides it across to you.
“That’s my number,” he says. “When — not if, when — things get bad enough that you’re ready to leave, you call me. Day or night, I don’t care. You call me and I will help you. I will come get you, I will find you a safe place to stay, I will stand between you and him if I have to. But you have to make the choice. You have to be the one to decide you’ve had enough.”
You stare at the napkin like it’s a bomb.
“Take it,” Garrett says.
Slowly, hesitantly, you reach out and pull the napkin toward you. Your fingers brush his for just a second and Garrett feels something electric pass between you. Recognition, maybe. Or possibility.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Garrett stands, shouldering his backpack. “Thank me when you use it.”
He starts to walk away, then stops. Turns back.
“You said he didn’t start out this way,” Garrett says. “That he was sweet and charming and made you feel special.”
You nod.
“That’s what they all do,” Garrett says. “That’s how they get you to stay. They show you the person they could be, and you spend the rest of the relationship trying to get back to that version. But that person was never real. It was just bait.”
He can see from your expression that the words land. That some part of you knows he’s right.
“I hope you figure that out before it’s too late,” Garrett says.
Then he walks to the counter, cutting through the line with an apologetic nod to the students waiting. The barista looks annoyed until Garrett starts talking.
“See that girl in the corner?” Garrett nods toward you. “Blue sweatshirt, by the window?”
The barista glances over. “Yeah?”
“I want to buy her a drink. Whatever your best latte is. And …” Garrett scans the pastry case. “That cranberry scone.”
“You want me to bring it to her?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell her who it’s from.”
The barista looks skeptical. “Dude, if this is some creepy stalker thing-”
“It’s not. I promise. She’s …” Garrett struggles for the right words. “She’s having a hard time. I just want to do something nice for her.”
Something in his expression must convince the barista because he shrugs and rings up the order. Garrett pays, leaves a generous tip, and steps away from the counter.
He looks back one more time.
You’re still sitting at the table, the napkin with his number clutched in your hand. You’re staring at it like it’s the answer to a question you haven’t figured out how to ask yet.
Your coffee has gone cold. Your laptop is closed. Your papers are still scattered across the table, but you’re not working anymore. You’re just … sitting there. Existing in whatever complicated hell Beck has created for you.
Garrett wants to go back. Wants to sit down and try again, find better words, make you understand.
But he knows that won’t help. Knows he’s already said everything he can say. The rest is up to you.
So he turns and walks out into the February cold.
***
You sit at the table long after Garrett leaves, his words echoing in your head.
Don’t be her. Don’t be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Your hands are shaking. The napkin with his number is crumpled from how hard you’re gripping it. Your chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the room, and you can’t stop crying even though you’re in public, even though people are starting to stare.
You know he’s right. God, you know he’s right.
But knowing something and being able to do something about it are two different things.
“Excuse me?”
You look up. The barista is standing there with a latte and a scone on a small plate.
“I didn’t order this,” you say, your voice hoarse.
“Someone bought it for you.” He sets it down on your table.
“Who?”
The barista just shrugs and walks away.
But you know. Of course you know.
You look toward the door, but Garrett’s already gone. Just the ghost of him, the weight of his words, the impossible choice he’s asked you to make.
The latte is still hot. The scone looks fresh. It’s such a small gesture, such a simple kindness, and somehow it breaks something open inside you.
You pull out your phone with trembling fingers.
You should delete his number. Should throw the napkin away. Should pretend this conversation never happened and go back to Cameron and the safe, familiar horror of your life.
But instead, you carefully input the numbers into your contacts.
You save it under a name Cameron won’t recognize if he looks. Boston Pizza.
Then you put your phone away, pick up the latte, and take a sip.
It’s perfect.
And that almost makes it worse.
Because now you know there’s someone out there who sees you. Really sees you. Who looked past the makeup and the excuses and the carefully constructed lies and saw the truth.
Someone who cares enough to try to save you.
Even if you’re not ready to save yourself.
You sit there until the latte goes cold again, turning Garrett’s words over and over in your mind.
When things get bad enough that you’re ready to leave, you call me.
Not if. When.
Like he has faith in you that you don’t have in yourself.
You pick up the scone and take a bite.
It tastes like possibility.
And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.
***
You make it back to your dorm around 8:00 PM, the latte from Pavement long gone but the napkin still in your tote bag. You tucked it into the side pocket, hidden beneath a pack of gum and your lip balm, somewhere Cameron would never think to look.
Except Cameron always thinks to look.
He’s waiting for you when you open the door to your room, sitting on your bed like he owns the place. Your roommate Julie is nowhere to be seen, which means she either left or he made her leave. Your money’s on the latter.
“Hey, babe.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Where’ve you been?”
Your heart starts hammering. “Library. Studying.”
“Really? Because I texted you like three hours ago and you didn’t respond.”
You pull out your phone, check your messages. Sure enough, there’s a text from Cameron from 5:32 PM. Where are you? You were at Pavement then, talking to Garrett, too distracted to check your phone.
“I had my phone on silent,” you say, which is true. “I didn’t see it. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” Cameron stands up, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. “You’re sorry that you ignored me for three hours?”
“I wasn’t ignoring you, I was studying-”
“Bullshit.” He’s across the room in three strides, grabbing your tote bag before you can stop him. “Let me see your phone.”
“Cameron, come on-”
“Let. Me. See. Your. Phone.”
You hand it over with shaking hands because refusing will only make this worse. He scrolls through your messages, your calls, your social media.
“Library, huh?” Cameron looks up from your phone. “Then why do you have a text from Julie asking if you’re still at that coffee shop?”
Fuck. You forgot about that text.
“I stopped for coffee on my way to the library,” you say quickly. “I was only there for like twenty minutes-”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
He throws your phone onto the bed and starts rifling through your tote bag. Books, pens, highlighters, notebooks — everything gets dumped onto the floor. You watch in horror as his hand closes around the side pocket.
“Cameron, please-”
He pulls out the napkin.
For a moment, he just stares at it. At the ten digits written in Garrett’s messy handwriting. Then he looks at you, and the rage in his eyes makes your blood run cold.
“What the fuck is this?”
“It’s nothing-”
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”
You flinch, stumbling backward until you hit the wall. “I can explain-”
“You’re cheating on me.” His voice is eerily calm now, which is somehow worse than the yelling. “You’re fucking cheating on me.”
“I’m not, I swear-”
“Then whose number is this?”
“Nobody’s-”
“WHOSE FUCKING NUMBER IS IT?”
“A guy from the coffee shop!” The lie spills out in a rush. “He was hitting on me and I took his number to be nice but I was going to throw it away, I swear-”
“You expect me to believe that?” Cameron crumples the napkin in his fist. “You expect me to believe that you just happened to run into some random guy at a coffee shop and he gave you his number and you kept it?”
“I didn’t keep it, I forgot about it-”
“Stop lying!”
He’s on you before you can react, hand closing around your throat, slamming you back against the wall. Your vision goes spotty immediately, your lungs screaming for air.
“Cameron—can’t—breathe-”
“You made me do this,” he hisses, his face inches from yours. “You made me into the bad guy. All I’ve ever done is love you, and this is how you repay me? By whoring around behind my back?”
“Not—cheating-” you manage to gasp out.
His grip loosens slightly, just enough for you to suck in a desperate breath. Then his other hand comes up and slaps you across the face so hard your ears ring.
“Don’t lie to me!” Another slap. “Don’t you fucking lie to me!”
You’re crying now, trying to twist away, but he’s got you pinned. His hand goes back to your throat, squeezing harder this time, and the edges of your vision start to go dark.
This is it, some distant part of your brain thinks. This is how you die.
Cameron’s face swims in and out of focus above you. He’s saying something but you can’t hear it over the roaring in your ears. Your lungs are burning. Your fingers claw uselessly at his hands.
And then, like a gift from whatever god might still be listening, his grip shifts. Loosens just enough that you can move.
You bring your knee up as hard as you can.
It connects perfectly.
Cameron makes a sound like all the air has been punched out of his lungs and stumbles backward, hands going to his crotch. You don’t wait. Don’t think. Just grab your phone from the bed and run.
“You bitch-” Cameron’s voice follows you into the hallway. “Get back here!”
But you’re already running, flying down the stairs because the elevator is too slow, too risky. You can hear him behind you, cursing, his footsteps heavy and angry.
You burst out of the dorm building into the February night. It’s freezing — you’re not wearing a coat, just your sweatshirt and jeans — but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. If he catches you, he’ll kill you. You know that now with absolute certainty.
You run down Commonwealth Avenue, dodging other students, nearly getting hit by a car. Behind you, you can still hear Cameron shouting your name.
Your phone is clutched in your hand. You fumble with it as you run, trying to unlock it with shaking fingers. The cold is making everything harder. Your hands won’t work right.
Finally, the screen unlocks.
You pull up your contacts, scroll frantically until you find it. Boston Pizza.
You hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Pick up, you think desperately. Please pick up please pick up please-
“Hello?”
Garrett’s voice, rough with sleep, is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.
You try to speak but all that comes out is a sob.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Garrett-” Your voice cracks. “It’s—it’s me-”
There’s a pause. “Y/N?”
“Please-” You’re running down a side street now, looking for somewhere to hide. “Please, I need-”
“What’s wrong?” His voice changes completely, all traces of sleep gone. “Where are you?”
“I don’t know—I’m running—he found the napkin and he-” Another sob cuts you off.
“Slow down. Take a breath. Are you hurt?”
“I think—I think he was going to kill me-”
“Fuck. Okay. Okay, listen to me.” Garrett’s voice is steady, authoritative. “I need you to find somewhere safe. A store, a dorm building, anywhere with people. Can you do that?”
“I’m trying-” You’re on Brighton Ave now, you think. Everything looks unfamiliar in the dark. “All the buildings are locked-”
“Keep trying. Share your location with me. Do you know how to do that?”
“Yes—hold on-”
You pull the phone away from your ear, fumbling through the menus with numb fingers. Finally, you find the option and send him your location.
“Got it,” Garrett says. “I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, maybe less. Stay on the phone with me, okay? Don’t hang up.”
“Okay.” You’re in front of an apartment building now. You try the door. Locked. “Fuck!”
“What?”
“The building’s locked. They all need codes-”
“Try another one. Just keep moving.”
You run to the next building. Also locked. The next one. Locked.
Behind you, somewhere in the darkness, you hear Cameron calling your name.
Panic surges through you. “He’s coming—I can hear him-”
“Stay calm. Keep trying the doors.”
The fourth building — a newer apartment complex with a fancy glass entrance — you try the handle and nearly cry with relief when it opens.
“I’m in—I found one-”
“Good. Where are you exactly?”
“The lobby. There’s nobody here-”
“Hide. Find a corner or a hallway or something. Stay out of sight.”
You look around frantically. The lobby is all glass and exposed, but there’s a hallway to the left that leads to what looks like a mail room. You duck around the corner, pressing yourself against the wall.
“I’m hidden,” you whisper.
“Good. Good girl. I’m in my car. I’m coming as fast as I can.”
You can hear the engine revving through the phone. The sound is oddly comforting.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice small. “I’m so sorry-”
“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I should have listened to you. I should have left-”
“We’ll talk about that later. Right now I just need you to stay safe, okay? Stay on the phone with me. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”
You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest. Your whole body is shaking — from cold, from fear, from adrenaline crash. Your throat hurts where Cameron choked you. Your face throbs where he hit you.
“Talk to me,” Garrett says. “I need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m here. I’m-” Your voice breaks. “I’m so scared.”
“I know. I know you are. But you’re safe right now. He doesn’t know where you are.”
“What if he finds me?”
“He won’t. And even if he does, you’re in a building with other people. You can scream. You can call 911.”
“He’ll talk his way out of it. He always does-”
“Not this time.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “Not fucking this time.”
You can hear traffic sounds through the phone, the occasional horn. You try to focus on that instead of the fear clawing at your chest.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For answering. For coming.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I didn’t know who else to call.”
“I’m glad you called me.” There’s something in his voice — relief, maybe. Or vindication. “I meant what I said. Day or night. You call me.”
You close your eyes, let his voice wash over you. Somewhere above you, you can hear footsteps. Someone’s TV playing too loud. Normal apartment sounds. It helps ground you.
“I’m about twenty minutes away,” Garrett says. “Maybe less. Traffic’s not bad.”
“Are you speeding?”
“Definitely.”
Despite everything, you almost smile. “You’re going to get a ticket.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
The minutes stretch out. You keep listening to Garrett’s breathing on the other end of the line, the sound of his car. It’s the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart.
“Okay, I’m about two minutes out,” Garrett says. “What’s the address of the building you’re in?”
You peek out from behind the corner, looking for a sign or a number. “Um … 6209 Brighton Avenue, I think?”
“Got it. I see it. Stay where you are, I’m pulling up now.”
Thirty seconds later, you hear a car screech to a stop outside. A door slams.
“I’m coming in,” Garrett says.
The front door opens and then he’s there — Garrett Graham in sweatpants and a Briar Hockey hoodie, no coat, hair disheveled like he literally just rolled out of bed. Which he probably did.
You step out from behind the corner.
When Garrett sees you, his entire face changes.
You must look worse than you thought. You can see the horror in his eyes as he takes in your appearance — the handprints on your throat, the swelling on your face, the way you’re shaking so hard you can barely stand.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
He starts toward you, hand outstretched, then stops himself. Lets his hand fall.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly. “I promise. I just want to help.”
You nod, but you can’t seem to make yourself move.
“Can I come closer?” Garrett asks.
Another nod.
He approaches slowly, carefully, like you’re a wild animal that might bolt. When he’s close enough to touch, he holds out his hand.
“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
You take his hand. His skin is warm, his grip gentle but steady. He leads you toward the door, but you balk when you see the street outside.
“What if he’s out there?” Your voice is barely a whisper.
“Then I’ll handle it.” Garrett’s jaw is set, his eyes hard. “He’s not going to touch you again. I promise you that.”
You let him guide you outside, into his car. It’s still running, heat blasting. He opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re made of glass.
But before he closes the door, you grab his arm.
“What?” Garrett asks.
You can’t put it into words — the gratitude, the relief, the overwhelming sense that this stranger has just saved your life. So you just hold onto his arm for a moment, looking up at him.
“Thank you,” you manage.
His expression softens. “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s just get you somewhere safe.”
He closes your door and runs around to the driver’s side. As soon as he’s in, he locks the doors and checks his mirrors. You can’t help doing the same thing — looking back down the street, expecting to see Cameron appear at any moment.
“He’s not coming,” Garrett says, but his hands are tight on the steering wheel. “And even if he does, I’ll kill him.”
He says it so matter-of-factly that you believe him.
Garrett pulls away from the curb and starts driving. You don’t ask where you’re going. Don’t care. Anywhere is better than where you were.
“I’m taking you to my place,” Garrett says after a few minutes. “I live with my teammates. Three other guys. They’re good people, I promise. You’ll be safe there.”
“Okay.”
“In the morning, we can figure out next steps. Police report, restraining order, whatever you want to do. But tonight, you just need to rest.”
You nod, but the word makes your stomach churn. Cameron’s parents are lawyers. Rich, connected lawyers. The last time you tried to leave, he threatened to have them destroy you. Said they’d make you look crazy, make sure no one believed you.
And you believed him. Just like you believed everything else.
“Hey.” Garrett glances over at you. “You with me?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
The drive to Garrett’s place takes about fifteen minutes. He lives in a house off-campus, the kind of place that definitely houses multiple hockey players based on the Briar Hockey flags in the windows and the hockey sticks on the porch.
He parks in the driveway and turns to you.
“Okay, so fair warning: the place is kind of a mess. We’re college guys. But it’s safe, I promise.”
“I don’t care about the mess.”
“Good.” He gets out, comes around to your door, and opens it for you.
You follow him up the walkway, up the porch steps. Your legs feel like jelly. The adrenaline is wearing off and everything hurts.
Garrett unlocks the door and leads you inside. The house is dark except for the kitchen light. It’s quiet — everyone’s probably asleep.
“Let me give you the quick tour,” Garrett says softly. “Living room, kitchen, bathroom’s down that hall. Upstairs are the bedrooms. Mine’s the second door on the left.”
“I can sleep on the couch-”
“No.” His voice is firm. “You’re taking my room.”
“Garrett, I can’t-”
“Yes, you can. It’s got a lock on the inside if you want to feel safer. Clean sheets, bathroom right next door. I’ll bunk with Logan.”
You’re too tired to argue. Too broken to do anything but nod.
He leads you upstairs. The hallway is covered in hockey photos and what looks like a championship banner. Garrett’s room is at the end, exactly as he described.
It’s neater than you expected. A queen-sized bed with navy sheets. A desk covered in textbooks and hockey equipment. A Briar Hockey poster on the wall.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Garrett says, pointing to a door. “There should be towels and stuff. I can get you some clothes to sleep in-”
“This is fine.” You’re still in your sweatshirt and jeans, but the thought of changing feels impossible right now.
“Okay. Well, if you need anything, I’ll be with Logan. His room is the first door on the right. Just knock.”
You nod.
Garrett lingers in the doorway, looking like he wants to say something else. “You did the right thing. Calling me. Running. You saved your own life tonight.”
The words hit you harder than they should. You feel tears pricking at your eyes again.
“Get some sleep,” Garrett says gently. “We’ll figure everything else out in the morning.”
He closes the door behind him, and you’re alone.
You stand in the middle of his room for a long moment, just breathing. Then you go to the door and turn the lock. The click is oddly reassuring.
You should probably shower. Should probably wash the day off. But you can’t seem to make yourself move. Instead, you sink onto Garrett’s bed, still fully clothed, and pull the blanket around yourself.
It smells like him — clean, masculine, safe.
You close your eyes and let yourself cry.
***
Garrett makes it to Logan’s room and closes the door before he loses it.
“Dude, what the fuck-” Logan sits up in bed, squinting at him. “It’s like 1 AM-”
“I need to bunk with you tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s someone in my room.”
That wakes Logan up. “What?”
Garrett runs both hands through his hair, pacing. “That girl. From the parking lot. Beck’s girlfriend. She called me. He hurt her, Logan. Really fucking hurt her.”
“Shit. Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. She’s-” Garrett’s voice cracks. “You should see her throat. He strangled her. She’s got bruises all over her face, her neck. If she hadn’t gotten away-”
“Fuck.”
“I want to kill him.” Garrett’s hands are shaking now, adrenaline and rage coursing through him. “I want to find him and beat him so badly he never gets up again.”
“Garrett-”
“I should have done more. At the parking lot. I should have made her leave then-”
“You did what you could.”
“It wasn’t enough!” Garrett slams his fist into the wall, then immediately regrets it when pain shoots up his arm.
Logan gets out of bed, walks over to him. “Look at me. Look at me, G.”
Garrett forces himself to meet Logan’s eyes.
“She called you,” Logan says. “When she was in trouble, when she needed help, she called you. That means you did everything right. You gave her an option and she took it. That’s huge.”
Garrett wants to believe that. Wants to believe he did enough. But all he can see is your face — the terror, the pain, the way you flinched when he reached for you.
“She looks like she’s halfway to dead,” Garrett says quietly.
“But she’s not dead. She’s here. She’s safe.”
“For now.”
“For now is all we’ve got.” Logan claps him on the shoulder. “Come on. You can take the beanbag.”
“I’m not sleeping.”
“Fine. Then you can not-sleep on the beanbag.”
Garrett collapses into the oversized beanbag chair in the corner of Logan’s room. It’s not comfortable, but he barely notices. His mind is racing, playing the phone call over and over. The sound of your voice — terrified, desperate. The way you were gasping for breath.
The fact that you thought Beck was going to kill you.
Because he was. Garrett knows that now with certainty. If you hadn’t fought back, if you hadn’t gotten away, Beck would have killed you.
“What are you going to do?” Logan asks from his bed.
“I don’t know. Call the cops. Get her a restraining order. Press charges.”
“You think she’ll do it?”
“I don’t know.”
That’s the truth. You’re terrified of Beck, terrified of his family’s power, terrified of what he’ll do if you fight back. Garrett’s seen it before — the way abuse victims get trapped in this cycle of fear and dependency.
His mom never pressed charges against his dad. Not once. Even when she had evidence, even when people offered to help, she always backed down.
And look where that got her.
“He’s going to come looking for her,” Garrett says.
“Then we’ll deal with it.”
“We?”
“You think I’m going to let some abusive piece of shit show up at our house?” Logan’s voice is hard. “Fuck that. He tries anything, he’s going through me, Dean, and Tucker. And you know Tucker will lose his shit.”
Despite everything, Garrett almost smiles.
“We should tell them,” Garrett says. “In the morning. They need to know.”
“Agreed.”
Garrett leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. But every time he does, he sees you — trembling in that apartment lobby, handprints on your throat, looking at him like he’s the only thing standing between you and death.
“I should have done more,” he says again.
“You did enough.”
But it doesn’t feel like enough. It feels like he’s still that seven-year-old kid watching his mom get hurt and being powerless to stop it.
Except this time, he’s not powerless.
This time, he can fight back.
And if Cameron Beck shows his face anywhere near you again, Garrett’s going to make sure he regrets it.
Summary: You and Tucker break up when the burnout of senior year leaves you both running on empty. But a coordinated trap set by his starving roommates forces you two to finally admit how much you need each other.
Angst to fluff
Warnings: Not proofread yet, a little spoiler if you didn't read the books, cursing, breakup, emotional exhaustion, New Adult audience
A/N: I said I would lock in and study but I just can't help myself 😭 I can't wait for Tucker's season!!! I love all of the characters but now that I think abt it, Dean and Tucker are my favourites. As always, this fic is based more on the books than the show. I hope you like it!! Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves xx Lots of love 🫶🏻
Words:
Gif
When you first started dating John Tucker, it felt like finding a quiet, solid harbor in the middle of a Category 5 hurricane. You hadn't just fallen for the sweet, fiercely patient guy with the auburn hair and the slow, intoxicating southern drawl—you had essentially inherited his entire chaotic world.
Tucker was the undisputed anchor of the Briar hockey house. He firmly believed that being a team player was just as critical off the ice as it was on it. By default, he was the resident cook, the guy who cleaned up the post-party messes, and the one who quietly kept his three massive, hyperactive roommates from burning their townhouse to the ground.
You fell into step beside him so naturally it felt predestined. When he was fixing a broken railing on the porch, you were sitting on the steps handing him the screws. When he was cooking his legendary, carb-heavy meals for the guys, you were perched on the kitchen island, chopping vegetables.
You became the "Mom" to his "Dad." At first, playing house was a massive turn-on. There was something undeniably hot about domesticity when it was mixed with the raw, adrenaline-fueled energy of a D1 athlete. You’d help him organize the pantry, and he’d reward you by backing you against the wall, his callused hands gripping your thighs to lift you against his chest the second Garrett, Logan, and Dean left for gym. You loved him, and because you loved him, you took on his burdens.
But as the brutal New England winter thawed into spring, that shared weight stopped feeling like a partnership. It started feeling like a noose.
Senior year was a meat grinder. Tucker was quietly suffocating under the anxiety of his future, agonizing over whether to move back to Texas to take care of his mother, or risk his dad's insurance money to start a business in Boston. You were buried under the crushing, soul-sucking pressure of your final exams and post-grad panic.
You were both running on fumes, completely depleted. Instead of leaning on each other for comfort, you started treating each other like just another exhausting obligation on a never-ending to-do list.
The casual touches stopped. The sex evaporated, replaced by the sheer necessity of sleep. You were two ghosts haunting the same kitchen.
Tucker was standing at the stove, aggressively stirring a pot of marinara sauce. The muscles in his broad back were visibly knotted beneath his gray t-shirt. You were sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at your laptop screen, a dull, throbbing headache pounding behind your eyes from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. The silence between you was so thick it felt toxic.
"Can you hand me the garlic powder?" Tucker asked. His signature southern drawl, usually so warm and rich, was clipped and hollowed out.
You blinked, dragging your burning eyes away from your thesis paper, and blindly reached across the counter for the spice rack. Your sleeve caught the edge of a glass olive oil bottle. It tipped, fell, and shattered against the tile floor, sending a slick puddle of oil and jagged shards of glass across the grout.
You squeezed your eyes shut, letting out a ragged, trembling breath. "Shit. I'm sorry."
"Jesus Christ, Y/N," Tucker groaned. He dropped his wooden spoon against the stove with a loud clatter and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just... leave it. I'll clean it up. Like I clean up everything else."
The profound unfairness of the comment felt like a physical slap to the face. Your eyes snapped open, a hot, defensive spark of rage overriding your exhaustion.
"Excuse me?" you snapped, pushing your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. "I spent three hours this morning doing the laundry you and Logan left piled in the hallway. I scrubbed the bathrooms yesterday so you wouldn't have to. Don't stand there and act like you're the only one keeping this place afloat."
Tucker whipped around, his brown eyes suddenly flashing with a raw, desperate anger. "I'm the only one holding us afloat! I am fucking exhausted, Y/N. I'm trying to figure out my entire goddamn future, I'm trying to keep this house from falling apart, and every time I look at you lately, you're a million miles away. It's like you don't even want to be here anymore!"
"Because I'm fucking tired, Tuck!" you yelled, your voice breaking as hot tears of sheer frustration flooded your vision. "I am so damn tired of being the caretaker! I'm tired of pouring everything I have into you and your friends and getting absolutely nothing back! If looking at me is so exhausting for you, then why am I even here?"
Tucker stared at you. His broad chest heaved with heavy, labored breaths. And then, the most terrifying thing happened.
The anger completely drained out of his face.
It was replaced by a hollow, devastating emptiness. The fight just left his body. He leaned back against the counter, looking at you like he was staring at a stranger.
"I don't know anymore," he whispered. His voice was completely broken. "I don't have anything left to give you. I'm empty. Maybe you shouldn't be here."
The words paralyzed you. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't fighting for you. He was just... letting you go. He was too tired to hold on.
A cold, protective numbness washed over your shattering heart. You closed your laptop, shoved it into your tote bag, and grabbed your coat off the back of the chair.
You walked down the hallway, your vision swimming.
Just as you reached the entryway, the front door swung open. Dean and Logan ambled inside, laughing loudly about something Coach had said at practice. Dean kicked off his sneakers, taking a deep, appreciative breath of the air.
"Oh, thank God. Smells like chicken parm," Dean said, his signature cocky grin spreading across his face as he dropped his heavy hockey bag to the floor. "Hey, Y/N/N. What time is dinner?"
You pulled your coat on, refusing to wipe your eyes. You looked dead at him, your voice dripping with cold, bitter heartbreak.
"Ask Tucker," you rasped. "I quit."
You walked out into the freezing night air, letting the heavy front door slam shut behind you.
Dean blinked, his grin slowly fading as he turned his head to look at Logan.
"Did she just..." Dean trailed off, the reality of your shattered voice finally cutting through his oblivion.
Logan winced, staring at the closed door. "Yeah, dude. I think Mom and Dad just called it."
For five days, the fallout of the breakup played out in two different apartments, mirroring each other in a devastating, silent tragedy. You and Tucker hadn't just broken up—you had both completely flatlined.
At Hannah and Allie’s dorm room, you had become a ghost haunting their hand-me-down couch. You hadn't showered in three days. You wore an oversized Briar Hockey hoodie that still faintly smelled of sandalwood and citrus, pulling it up over your nose every time your chest seized with another panic attack. You dragged your heavy textbooks onto the cushions with you, but you hadn't turned a single page.
Hannah tried everything. She brewed endless cups of tea and gently rubbed your back while you stared blankly at the wall. Allie took a fiercer approach, bringing over tequila and loudly threatening to march over to the guys' house and slash Tucker's truck tires.
But neither tactic worked. If you spoke the words out loud—if you admitted that the safest, most solid guy you had ever known had looked at you with utter defeat and let you walk away—it would make it real. And you weren't ready to live in a reality where John Tucker didn't want to be with you anymore.
Across campus, the house was suffering an identical, agonizing death.
Without Tucker functioning as the beating heart of the house, the ecosystem had violently collapsed. But it wasn't the towering stack of pizza boxes on the coffee table or the unwashed laundry spilling into the hallway that had Garrett, Logan, and Dean on edge. It was the absolute, hollowed-out shell of their best friend.
Tucker was drowning, and he was taking himself down quietly. He hadn't turned on the stove since the night you walked out. His bed felt massive and freezing without you curled against his chest. To escape the suffocating silence of his room, he punished himself at the rink. He woke up before dawn to run brutal suicide sprints, hit the boards with an aggression that had Coach Jensen screaming at him, and then came home just to stare at the spot on the kitchen tile where the olive oil bottle had shattered.
He had failed you. That thought looped in his head like a sick, twisted mantra. He was supposed to ease your load, and instead, he had been the one to finally break you.
By day five, your friends decided they had seen enough collateral damage. A secret meeting was called to order in a back booth at Malone's.
Garrett, Logan, and Dean were crammed into one side of the sticky vinyl booth. Hannah and Allie sat opposite them.
Dean was aggressively eating a stack of pancakes, inhaling them like a man who had been wandering the desert for forty days.
"Slow down, Dean, you're going to choke," Allie muttered, sliding her coffee cup out of the splash zone.
"I can't," Dean mumbled around a massive mouthful of syrup and carbs. "Tuck hasn't cooked a single meal since Thursday. We've been living on dry Cheerios and protein powder. My body is cannibalizing its own muscles, Allie-Cat. I'm wasting away."
"You're fine," Garrett sighed, unapologetically stealing a piece of bacon right off Dean's plate. Garrett looked across the table at Hannah, his dark eyes dead serious. "What's the status on Y/N? Because if I have to watch Tucker stare blankly at the wall for one more day, I'm going to lose my fucking mind. He's a ghost, Wellsy."
"Y/N isn't any better," Hannah reported quietly, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. "She's practically fused to our couch. She won't talk about what happened. If Allie or I even say his name, she just pulls the blanket over her head and pretends to sleep."
"We tried to get Tuck to talk, too," Logan chimed in, leaning forward. "He just told us to drop it. They're both completely shut down."
"Because they're both too damn stubborn," Allie said, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked between the three massive hockey players. "If we confront them, they'll just get defensive and dig their heels in. We have to be sneaky about this."
Garrett leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Allie's right. An intervention won't work. We can't force them to talk to us. We have to force them to talk to each other."
"How?" Logan asked, raising an eyebrow. "They're actively avoiding each other. Y/N even changed her route to class so she wouldn't have to walk past the ice arena."
"Think about it," Hannah said, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face as she looked at Garrett. "What is the core issue here? They're both caretakers. They spent the entire year playing Mom and Dad to you guys. When things got hard, they stopped taking care of each other."
Dean swallowed his pancakes, his green eyes lighting up with realization. "So... we give them something to take care of."
Garrett grinned, tapping his knuckles against the diner table. "Exactly. We manufacture a crisis. Something so chaotic that their instincts override their stubbornness, and they have to team up to fix it."
The plan was executed with military precision.
Tucker was at the gym, violently punishing a heavy bag until his knuckles were bruised and aching beneath his wraps. He was trying to outrun the suffocating emptiness that had swallowed him whole, but it wasn't working. Without you to take care of, he had no idea what to do with his hands.
His phone vibrated furiously in his gym bag. He ignored it. Ten seconds later, it aggressively buzzed again. Then again. Cursing under his breath, he finally tore his gloves off and swiped the screen open to see three frantic texts from Logan.
Logan: WE HAVE A SITUATION.
Logan: DEAN TRIED TO USE THE STOVE. THE KITCHEN IS LITERALLY SMOKING.
Logan: GET HOME NOW.
Tucker’s heart plummeted straight into his stomach. Dean was a disaster in the kitchen on a good day. Tucker grabbed his keys and sprinted out to his truck, breaking at least three speed limits on the drive back to the house.
Meanwhile, across campus, you were buried under your fleece blanket on Allie’s couch, staring blankly at the wall, when your phone started ringing.
"Hello?" you answered, your voice thick and raspy from disuse.
"Y/N, thank God!" Allie yelled through the speaker. She sounded completely out of breath and bordering on hysterical. "You have to get to the house right now!"
You sat up so fast your head spun, the protective numbness instantly vaporizing. "Allie, what's wrong? Is someone hurt?"
"Dean decided he was tired of starving and tried to cook dinner!" Allie shouted, the shrill, piercing sound of a beeping smoke detector echoing faintly in the background. "There is smoke everywhere! Logan is panicking, Garrett can't find the fire extinguisher, and Tucker isn't answering his phone! You have to come help us!"
"I'm on my way!" you yelled, throwing the blanket off and shoving your bare feet into your boots. Your "Mom" instincts completely overrode your heartbreak. You didn't even bother grabbing a real coat, sprinting out the door in your oversized Briar Hockey sweatshirt.
Ten minutes later you slammed your car into park, ran up the front steps, and shoved the heavy wooden door open.
"Allie?!" you yelled, coughing as a faint, bitter haze of smoke drifted down the hallway.
You rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead in your tracks.
The room was an absolute biohazard. A thick layer of white flour was dusted over every visible surface like snow. A pot was boiling over on the stove, hissing aggressively as starchy water hit the hot coils. The smoke detector had been ripped off the ceiling and was sitting on the island, its battery completely removed.
But there was no Allie. No Dean. No Garrett or Logan.
The only person in the kitchen was John Tucker.
He was standing in the center of the chaos, still wearing his sweaty gym clothes, staring at the boiling pot with utter, unfiltered confusion. He whipped his head around when he heard you gasp.
"Y/N?" Tucker breathed, his bloodshot brown eyes going wide.
"Where are they?" you demanded, your heart hammering violently against your ribs as you scanned the empty room. "Allie called me, she said there was a fire—"
"Logan texted me," Tucker interrupted, taking a cautious step toward you. His deep southern drawl was rough and entirely bewildered. "He said Dean was burning the house down."
You both froze.
You looked at the empty kitchen. You looked at the perfectly dismantled smoke detector. You listened to the absolute, unnatural silence radiating from the rest of the house.
"Those motherfuckers," Tucker breathed, dragging a heavy hand down his face as the realization hit him.
You let out a shaky, jagged exhale, leaning back against the doorframe as the adrenaline violently crashed out of your system. You had been set up. The boys weren't starving, the house wasn't burning down, and there was no emergency. Your friends had orchestrated a highly coordinated, incredibly cruel trap.
Tucker walked over to the stove, his broad back stiff as he clicked the burner off and dragged the hissing pot to a cool coil. The kitchen fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
For the first time in six agonizing days, you were really looking at him.
He looked terrible. The shadows under his eyes were bruised and purple, his auburn hair was a sweaty mess, and he carried a rigid, defensive posture that absolutely shattered your heart. He looked like a man who had lost everything.
He grabbed a dish towel, keeping his eyes glued to the flour-covered counter. "I'll clean this up," he muttered, his voice sounding hollow and completely defeated. "You can go back to Allie's."
"Tuck..." you whispered.
"I mean it, Y/N," he rasped, aggressively wiping at the flour. His knuckles were turning stark white. He wouldn't look at you. "I know you don't want to be here. You don't have to stay just because they tricked you."
You watched him frantically scrub the counter, your chest physically aching. The anger and resentment that had fueled you for the past week completely evaporated, leaving only a profound, desperate sadness. You realized then what Hannah and Garrett had figured out days ago. You both had hard exteriors, but inside you were soft. You were both so damn busy trying to hold the house together for everyone else that you let yourselves fall apart.
You walked forward, your boots stepping over a stray piece of burnt pasta on the floor, reaching for the roll of paper towels sitting on the kitchen island. You tore off a handful, wet them under the faucet, and stepped right up beside him.
In absolute, suffocating silence, you started wiping the flour off the counter next to where he was frantically scrubbing.
Tucker went completely rigid. The aggressive motion of his hands stopped instantly. He stared at your smaller hand moving in sync with his, his broad chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths.
The silence stretched, heavy and agonizing, broken only by the hiss of the cooling stove.
"I love you."
The words were so quiet, so raw, they almost didn't register. Your hand froze on the counter. You slowly turned your head to look at him, your heart completely dropping into your stomach.
He had never said those words to you before.
Tucker finally looked up.
"I love you," he repeated, his signature southern drawl thick and trembling. "I realized it a couple of weeks ago. And it terrified the absolute shit out of me."
"Tuck..." you whispered, your throat painfully tight.
"I'm supposed to have a plan, Y/N," he choked out, swiping a shaky hand across his jaw. "I've been saving my dad's insurance money for years. But graduation is right there, and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. If I move back to Patterson to take care of my mom, I lose you. If I stay in Boston and try to start a business, I have no idea if it's going to fail. I felt like I was drowning in all this uncertainty, and I..."
He swallowed hard, looking at you with complete, heartbreaking defeat.
"I didn't know how to integrate you into a future I hadn't even figured out yet. You work so hard, and you have all these goals, and I was so scared of dragging you down into my mess that I panicked. I pushed you away."
"You idiot," you cried softly, the hot tears you had been holding back for six days finally spilling over your lashes. You dropped the paper towels and turned fully toward him. "You don't have to have it all figured out. Nobody has it figured out."
"I'm supposed to be the one who fixes things," he rasped, his voice breaking. "And I was so terrified I was failing you."
"You never failed me," you whispered, stepping into his space and resting your trembling hands flat against his broad, tense chest. "And you aren't dragging me down. I don't care if we're in Boston or Texas. I don't care if your business plan takes years to figure out. I don't need a perfect plan, Tuck. I just need you."
A jagged, shuddering breath tore out of Tucker's chest.
He closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, wrapping his massive arms around your waist and burying his face deep into the crook of your neck. He held you so tight it bruised, lifting you slightly off your feet as his large frame collapsed against you.
"I can't breathe without you," he confessed, the words vibrating fiercely against your skin. "Don't leave me again. Please, darlin', don't walk out that door again."
"I'm right here," you promised, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your tear-stained cheek against his temple. You buried your fingers in his auburn hair, holding him just as desperately. "I'm not going anywhere."
The Mom and Dad of the house were finally going to be okay.
heyyy! could you write something for garrett where you're best friends and end up having a small argument when he defends you in a fight, just because you were worried, and he ends up confessing his feelings for you?
thank you!
Hi lovely!!
Thank you for your request 🫶🏻 You can find it here
I hope you like it. Feedback is much appreciated!!
Summary: You're tired of hiding your feelings, but when a guy mocks your insecurities, Garrett's brutal defense proves you're more than just friends.
Friends to Lovers / Hurt/Comfort / Angst
Warnings: not proofread yet, mentions of imposter syndrome/academic insecurity, graphic violence, swearing, Protective! Garrett
A/N: I really hope you like it! I wrote it in a rush bc I kinda feel the need to deliver, so I hope there are not so many mistakes bc English is not my first language. Anyway, starting today and until the 16th I need to lock in hard and study a whole semester worth of crazy engineering classes (mixed feelings abt engineering rn, it needs a lot of work but i kinda love it). so i will be a bit absent. all the requests will be written after the 16th. if you request something and feel like you can't wait for me, it is totally fine by me if you send the request to someone else. but i would appreciate if you give me the heads up first. Feedback is appreciated, as always! Take care of yourselves xx and lots of love 🫶🏻
Words: a lot
Requested here!
You had perfected the role of the platonic best friend over the years. You knew the layout of the perpetually messy house he shared with his teammates like the back of your hand. You were the girl who spent Thursday nights sprawled across his massive mattress, stealing slices of his bacon-and-sausage loaded pizza while he grumbled about his history assignments and the two of you debated Breaking Bad theories.
You knew the real Garrett. You knew that beneath the arrogant, untouchable exterior there was a guy who harbored a vicious resentment for the expectations his father, Phil Graham, placed on his shoulders.
And you knew exactly how to bite the inside of your cheek and look the other way when a starry-eyed puck bunny did the walk of shame down his stairs.
Garrett had made his boundaries crystal clear long ago: he didn't do relationships. Hockey was his entire life, and casual, no-strings hookups were his only speed. You were the sole exception to his rule about letting girls stick around, but only because you were safely, immovably boxed into the friend category.
Tonight, however, the walls of that box felt like they were shrinking.
The hockey house was currently vibrating with the force of way too many drunk college students, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and cheap cologne. You had retreated to the kitchen for a momentary breather, hoisting yourself onto the counter next to the sink.
"Here you go, darlin'." Tucker slid a freshly poured red plastic cup into your hand. He leaned against the counter beside you, watching the chaos of the living room with an amused smirk. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
"I love being shoved into drywall by sweaty frat boys," you replied dryly, taking a sip. "It's my favorite Saturday night activity."
"Hey, Y/N/N," Dean drawled as he wandered into the kitchen. His green eyes scanning the room before locking onto a blonde hovering near the fridge. Dean was an unapologetic slut, and he treated the house like his own personal playground. He shot you a lazy, devastating wink before zeroing in on his target. "Looking good. Try not to let G scare off every guy in a ten-foot radius tonight."
You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your stomach tightened. Dean wasn't wrong.
Speak of the devil.
Garrett pushed through the swinging kitchen door a second later, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path through the throng of bodies. He was nursing a single Bud Light, strictly adhering to his self-imposed, one-drink limit for the hockey season.
He crossed the room and planted himself right between your knees, boxing you in against the counter. He smelled like his familiar, woodsy aftershave, and the sheer heat radiating off his large frame made your pulse betray you.
"I still don't get why you're insisting on mingling downstairs," Garrett muttered, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "We could be upstairs watching season two right now."
"I wanted to be social," you sighed, trying to ignore how naturally his hand rested on the denim of your thigh. "And I actually wanted to talk to some people tonight."
"Talk to who? That pretentious guy from your psych seminar?" Garrett scoffed, his jaw ticking. "I’m telling you, Y/N, the guy is a walking disaster. I saw him in the quad yesterday and he looks like he showers in liquid arrogance."
"His name is Harry, and he asked me to come find him tonight," you snapped, exhaustion seeping into your bones. "And for the record, you said the exact same bullshit about the last three guys I tried to date."
"Because they were all walking red flags!" Garrett argued.
It was an exhausting, toxic cycle. He didn't want you, but the second you tried to scrape together a dating life of your own, his fiercely protective streak mutated into full-blown sabotage. He actively blocked every attempt you made at moving on, hovering like a giant, muscle-bound guard dog while offering you absolutely nothing but friendship in return.
"Stop fucking hovering, Garrett," you fired back. You hopped off the counter, forcing him to take a step back to avoid a collision. "I'm going to go find Harry. Alone."
You didn't wait for his response, pushing your way out of the kitchen and into the sweaty bodies to escape the heavy weight of his stare. You just wanted five minutes to breathe, five minutes to pretend your chest didn't ache every time he touched you.
But as you stepped into the living room, your night was about to collide with a very different kind of disaster.
You scanned the room, looking for Harry. You had met him in your advanced literature seminar, and he was exactly the kind of guy you should be focusing on—smart, ambitious, and completely disconnected from the hockey ecosystem. He was supposed to be the guy who finally helped you pry Garrett Graham out of your heart.
You finally spotted him near the makeshift beer pong table set up over the dining room table. He was holding a plastic cup, laughing with two guys you recognized from the honors program.
You took a breath, pasting on a smile, and started to weave your way toward him. But as you closed the distance, the loud thump of the music dipped between songs, and Harry's voice carried over the ambient noise of the crowd.
"...yeah, I told her to come find me tonight," Harry was saying, taking a casual sip of his beer.
"Isn't she in your advanced lit seminar?" one of the other guys asked with a laugh. "I heard that class is brutal."
Harry scoffed, a cruel, dismissive sound that made you freeze in your tracks. "It is, and she is completely drowning in it. Honestly, it's painful to watch her try to keep up with the rest of us. I basically had to explain the entire reading list to her on Tuesday."
"So why'd you tell her to meet you?"
"Are you blind? Look at her," Harry chuckled, a slick, arrogant sound. "She's hot. And she's so desperate for help with her midterm, it’s basically a guaranteed hookup. All I have to do is pretend her thesis isn't completely pathetic, tutor her a little, and she'll be all over me. It's almost too easy."
The words hit you with the force of a physical blow.
Your lungs seized. A hot, suffocating wave of humiliation crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. It was your darkest, most deeply buried imposter syndrome dragged out into the open and weaponized. You spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over your writing, terrified you weren't smart enough to be at Briar, and Harry had seen that vulnerability and decided to use it as leverage to get you into bed.
Tears prickled the back of your eyes, hot and sharp. A strangled breath escaped your throat, and before Harry or his friends could turn around and see you standing there, you spun on your heel and bolted.
You veered into the hallway leading to the front door, moving so fast you didn't even see the two silhouettes pressed against the wall until you collided hard with a solid back.
"Whoa, hey—" a familiar voice muttered.
You blinked the tears away just enough to realize you had crashed right into Dean, who was in the middle of hooking up with the blonde from the kitchen. Because of course he was. Dean had a notorious habit of hooking up everywhere but his bedroom.
"I'm so sorry," you choked out, your voice cracking pathetically.
Dean pulled back from the girl, his light-green eyes widening as he registered the tears spilling over your lashes. "Y/N/N? Hey, what's wrong? Wait—"
"I'm fine, sorry," you gasped out, pushing past him and shoving the heavy front door open.
The crisp October air hit you like a bucket of ice water, but it didn't numb the stinging humiliation. You stumbled down the porch steps and pulled your phone out of your pocket with shaking hands, swiping furiously at your screen to pull up the number for the campus taxi service.
Before it even began to ring, the front door burst open behind you.
"Y/N!"
Garrett’s voice was sharp with panic. He marched down the porch steps, his heavy black boots thudding against the wood. He grabbed your elbow, spinning you around to face him.
"Dean said you ran out of here crying. What the hell—" Garrett froze, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat as he took in your wet cheeks and trembling bottom lip.
The annoyance that usually shadowed his features when you fought was instantly wiped away, replaced by a raw, terrifying protectiveness. His large hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs gently brushing the tears from your skin.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Did he touch you?"
You shook your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut because looking at him only made the shame burn hotter.
"Nothing," you choked out, pulling out of his grip. You wrapped your arms around yourself, fighting a losing battle against your own tears. "I'm not telling you what happened just so you can give me the whole 'I told you so' speech. You were right about him, okay? Can we just leave it at that?"
Garrett stared at you for one long, suffocating second. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, putting two and two together. The silence that stretched between you was terrifying. His eyes darkened to the color of a storm, and the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.
He just turned on his heel and stalked back up the porch steps.
"Garrett!" Panic seized your chest. "Garrett, no!"
You scrambled up the steps, chasing him through the front door, but he was moving with the blinding, aggressive speed he usually saved for the ice.
"Garrett!" You yelled his name, pushing past confused partygoers, but he was an unstoppable force. "Garrett, stop!"
He found Harry exactly where you had left him, still leaning against the beer pong table.
Garrett grabbed the back of Harry's shirt, spun him around, and swung.
His fist connected with Harry's face with a sickening, bone-jarring crack. The guy didn't even have time to scream before Garrett hit him again, the sheer force of it lifting Harry off his feet and sending him crashing backward into the beer pong table. Red plastic cups and cheap beer went flying in every direction as the table buckled beneath them.
The crowd erupted into shrieks, scattering backward to form a wide circle.
Harry hit the floor, groaning, but Garrett wasn't finished. He dropped to his knees, grabbing Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling his fist back to deliver another devastating blow.
"Garrett, stop!" you screamed, finally breaking through the circle of onlookers.
You lunged at him, grabbing his thick bicep and trying to haul him backward. But he was two hundred pounds of pure, sculpted muscle fueled by blind rage. You couldn't even budge him. Your fingernails dug into his arm, but he didn't even flinch.
"Graham, enough!"
Suddenly, Logan and Tucker burst through the crowd. Logan, a bruiser of a defenseman, wrapped his massive arms around Garrett's chest from behind, hauling him backward. Tucker grabbed Garrett’s other arm, digging his heels into the sticky floor to help drag their captain away from the bleeding guy on the floor.
"Get the fuck off me!" Garrett roared, thrashing against his teammates, his chest heaving wildly.
"Cool it, man!" Logan shouted, straining to hold him back.
You planted yourself right in Garrett's line of sight, placing both your hands flat against his chest. His heart was hammering violently against your palms.
"G. Look at me," you commanded, your voice shaking.
His wild, silver eyes finally locked onto yours. The lethal fury in his gaze flickered, the fight slowly draining out of his posture as he registered the sheer panic on your face. He stopped fighting Logan and Tucker, his heavy, ragged breathing filling the tense silence of the room. His knuckles were already turning a vicious shade of purple.
"We are going upstairs," you said, your tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Now."
You didn't wait for him to agree. You grabbed his wrist and turned, dragging him away from the wreckage, up the narrow staircase, and straight into his master bedroom.
You slammed the door shut, leaning your back against the heavy wood as if it could keep the rest of the world out. The chaotic bass of the party was instantly muted, leaving only the sound of Garrett’s ragged, heavy breathing.
He stood in the center of the room, staring blindly at his split knuckles. The skin was already swelling and bleeding, identical to the brutal bruises he brought home after playing dirty teams like St. Anthony's.
"Are you insane?" you choked out. Your voice trembled, the adrenaline crash finally hitting you and leaving you hollowed out. "You could get suspended for that! Coach Jensen will bench you, Garrett!"
"I don't give a fuck about Coach Jensen right now," he snarled, spinning around to face you. His gray eyes were stormy, flashing with a volatile, untamed fury. "He was using you, Y/N. He was standing there laughing with his buddies about manipulating you."
"And you think I don't know that?" Your voice broke. "You think I didn't hear him? God, G, you didn't have to throw a punch to prove how pathetic I am. I already knew!"
Garrett flinched as if you'd struck him. "What are you talking about? You aren't pathetic."
"I am!" you yelled, pushing off the door. The humiliation from downstairs was a living, breathing thing inside your chest. "I'm the idiot who thought a guy actually liked me for me. I'm the idiot who's failing her seminar, who trails after you like a lapdog, exactly like he said! And you charging in there to fight my battles like I'm incapable of defending myself only proved him right!"
"He's a piece of shit who felt threatened by you," Garrett argued, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "He knows you're brilliant."
"Stop it!" You shoved both hands against his solid chest, trying to push him away, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "Stop pitying me! I can handle the fact that you don't want me. I can handle sitting on the sidelines watching you bring home a different girl every weekend. But I cannot handle you treating me like some fragile charity case you have to protect!"
Garrett didn't move. He absorbed your shove, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin.
"Pity?" he repeated, the word tearing out of him in a harsh, jagged exhale. "You think I pity you?"
"Garrett—"
"You think I sit up at night, listening to you talk about other guys, watching you dress up for dates with assholes who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you, out of pity?" He grabbed your wrists—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to pull your hands off his chest so he could step directly into your space.
His heat surrounded you, smelling of sweat, adrenaline, and his familiar woodsy aftershave.
"I don't defend you because I pity you, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate rasp. "I do it because I am completely, out of my fucking mind for you."
The air vanished from the room.
You stared up at him, your heart slamming violently against your ribs. "What?"
Garrett released your wrists, bringing his hands up to cup your face. His thumbs gently swept over your wet cheeks, his bruised knuckles resting warm and rough against your skin. The arrogance and swagger he wore like armor were completely gone, leaving behind a raw, agonizing vulnerability.
"I have been in love with you for years," he confessed, the words pouring out of him like a dam breaking. "I told everyone I didn't want a girlfriend because the only girl I wanted was my best friend, and I was too terrified of ruining it. So I kept my mouth shut. I watched you look for someone else, and it tore me apart."
"Garrett," you breathed, a fresh tear slipping down your face.
"You are the smartest, most beautiful person I know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips with heavy, agonizing intent. "And if you want me to back off, I will. I'll walk away right now. But don't you ever, ever think I pity you."
Your brain was short-circuiting. The secret you had buried so deep, the ache you had carried for years, was suddenly reflected right back at you in his intense gray eyes.
"You're the biggest idiot on this entire campus," you whispered, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping your throat.
He froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "Y/N—"
"I've been in love with you since high school," you interrupted, sliding your hands up his chest to tangle in his short dark hair.
Garrett’s breath hitched audibly. "Are you serious?"
"You really think I hung around all this time just for the free pizza and your terrible taste in TV?" you asked, a blinding smile breaking through your tears.
A slow, devastating smirk spread across his lips, the dimples you loved so much finally making an appearance. "Well, damn," he breathed.
The hesitation vanished. Garrett’s hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against his body. He crashed his mouth down on yours, and it was a messy, desperate collision of everything you had both held back for years.
He kissed you like he was starving. His lips were demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a hungry, possessive heat that sent a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine. Your fingers gripped his hair, anchoring him to you as he backed you up against the door, his large frame pressing you into the wood.
When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, his forehead resting heavily against yours.
"So," Garrett murmured, his thumb stroking your hip. "I guess this means I don't have to share you anymore."
You laughed, pulling his mouth back down to yours. "No, G. You definitely don't."
hi lovely!! do you take platonic requests for off campus as well?
Hello love!!
Yeah, if you have an idea in mind and you specify that you want a platonic relationship between the characters, I can totally do that. (Or I will try to do my best and hope you like it. I don't think I've ever written platonic relationships 🤔 but I'm open)
Summary: You break up with Tucker because you are tired of being a secret, but when another guy hits on you at Malone's, he snaps and publicly claims you in front of his entire team.
Angst to fluff? But definitely Angst
Warnings: spoiler alert if you didn't read the books!, cursing, violence
A/N: Well, this would probably fit book Tucker rather than TV Show Tucker, buuuut. Truth is we didn't really see much of Tuck this season. Anyway, I hope you like it. Feedback is much appreciated! Take care of yourselves xx also, @airgoddess maybe you can enjoy this in the meantime
Words: 2.6k
Gif
It was never supposed to be this fucking complicated.
John Tucker, Briar U's laidback forward was the kind of guy who took everything in stride. He had a heart of gold, infinite patience, and a Texas drawl that could melt the panties off a saint. But his life had recently become a massive, tangled wreck. Earlier in the year, a brief hookup with Sabrina James had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy. Tucker, being the thoroughly decent, stand-up guy he was, stepped up immediately, vowing to support Sabrina and the baby every step of the way.
But then, he fell in love with you.
Because of the fragile situation with Sabrina, you and Tucker had decided to keep your relationship off the radar. You didn’t want to add to her panic, nor did you want to deal with the relentless, vicious gossip of the Briar campus. But what started as a temporary protective measure had morphed into a heavy, suffocating weight. You were sick of hiding. Sick of slipping out the back door of the hockey house before his roommates could catch you doing the walk of shame. You were tired of feeling like a dirty little secret, and the brutal strain had caused a constant, underlying friction between you two.
Which led to the explosive argument in his bedroom just hours before the team’s victory party.
You were pacing the length of his floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, while he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. He was watching you with those heavy-lidded, deep brown eyes, his large hands resting loosely on his spread knees. His unnatural stillness only fueled the anxious, clawing fire burning in your chest.
"I can't do this anymore, Tuck," you said, your voice trembling as you snatched your jacket off his desk chair. "I'm fucking done. We're done."
He went utterly, terrifyingly still.
"Come here, darlin'," Tucker commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that usually turned your knees to absolute water.
"No." You zipped up your jacket with shaking fingers, refusing to look at him because you knew if you met his gaze, your resolve would snap in half. "I mean it this time. I am so fucking exhausted. I feel like a ghost in my own relationship."
Tucker pushed himself off the bed. His massive, muscular frame seemed to swallow the small space of the room as he stepped directly in front of his closed door, effectively trapping you inside. His dark auburn hair was a messy halo, and beneath his calm exterior, his warm brown eyes were flashing with a dangerous mix of panic and pure, unadulterated male stubbornness.
"We are not doing this, Y/N," he said slowly, his Texas drawl thick with absolute refusal. "We are not breaking up."
"I am the goddamn side piece in my own relationship!" you yelled, the frustration boiling over as hot tears finally spilled down your cheeks. "I know you have to be there for Sabrina and the baby. I want you to be there for them. You're a good man, Tuck, the best I know. But I can't be your hidden fuck-buddy anymore. I can't watch you rush out of the room to take her calls, or drop my hand the second we step outside because someone might see us. It hurts too much. It's tearing me apart."
A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. Tucker closed the distance between you in two long strides. You tried to step back, but his large, callused hands gripped your shoulders, hauling you gently but firmly against the hard wall of his chest. You were instantly grounded in his signature scent of sandalwood and citrus, a scent that felt so much like home it made a broken sob rip from your throat.
"You listen to me," he rasped, his voice vibrating against your collarbone as he lowered his head to look you dead in the eye. "You are not second place. You are never second place. You are everything to me."
"Tuck, please—"
"No, you're going to let me speak." He brought one of his large hands up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb catching a tear before it could fall. "I know it's hard. I know I'm asking a hell of a lot of you to wait for me to sort this mess out. I hate that I'm the goddamn reason you're crying right now. But I am a patient man, Y/N. I will wait out any storm to keep you."
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head as you pressed your hands against his chest, trying to physically push away the one thing you wanted most in the world. Beneath your palms, his heart was hammering wildly against his ribs.
"You have to," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Go figure out your life. Be a dad. Do what you have to do without worrying about keeping me happy in the shadows."
You pulled out of his grip, intentionally ignoring the raw, devastated look that flashed across his handsome face. You reached around him, your hand wrapping tightly around the cool metal of the doorknob.
"I'm going to be at Malone's tonight," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the fact that your heart was breaking into a million jagged pieces. "I promised Allie and Hannah I'd celebrate the win with them. But don't look for me, I need space."
You slipped past him, yanking the door open. You left him standing there in the middle of his bedroom, his jaw clenched tight and his broad chest heaving, his heart full of absolute, uncompromising refusal to accept that this was the end.
By the time you pushed your way into Malone's, your hands were still shaking.
And the absolute worst part of being best friends with Allie and Hannah? It meant you were automatically dragged into the Briar hockey team's inner circle.
They had commandeered the massive, wraparound leather booth in the back corner, and you were squished right into the middle of the loud, rowdy chaos. Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Fitzy were practically shouting over the music, toasting their shutout win and passing around pitchers of beer.
And sitting directly across the wooden table from you was John Tucker.
He hadn't said a single word since you sat down. He just sat rigidly on the cracked vinyl cushion, a half-empty bottle of Miller gripped in his large hand. For Tucker, the booming bass of the jukebox and the chaotic crowd seemed to fade entirely into white noise. The only thing in sharp focus was you. Every time you dared to glance up, those heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes were already locked on you, burning with a heavy, volatile intensity that made it impossible for you to draw a full breath.
You felt like you were bleeding out invisibly. You’d done it. You’d looked him in the eye, told him you were done being his dirty little secret, and walked away. Now, forced to sit so close to him, it felt like you’d carved out your own heart with a dull knife.
Hannah nudged your shoulder, shoving a shot of cheap tequila into your hand. "Drink up! You look like you're at a funeral, Y/N/N, not a party."
Allie leaned in over Dean's shoulder, her blonde hair catching the harsh neon light. "Seriously, what's going on with you? You've been miserable all week."
You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes and downed the shot. The liquor clawed down your throat, "Just tired. Let's go dance."
You dragged them out of the booth and shoved your way onto the small, packed dance floor near the jukebox. The music was deafening, the heavy bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes and rattling your ribs. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting yourself get lost in the chaotic, grinding rhythm of the crowd. You laughed loudly with Allie and Hannah, desperately trying to project the image of a girl having the time of her life. But all you were really doing was trying to ignore the heavy, scorching gaze you could feel burning into your skin from across the room.
Tucker was watching you.
Usually, he was the anchor of his friend group—observant, laidback, the quiet guy who kept his head and his temper when everyone else lost theirs. Tonight, he felt like a coiled spring pulled back so tight it was about to snap.
Every breath he took felt like inhaling broken glass. You’d told him you were done. You’d looked at him with tears in your beautiful eyes and told him you couldn't be his second-place secret anymore. And the worst, most agonizing part? He knew you were absolutely right.
His eyes tracked your every movement through the strobe lights. You looked fucking breathtaking—flushed, wild, and utterly out of his reach—and he wasn't the only one who noticed.
A tall guy from the lacrosse team slid up behind you on the dance floor, his hands hovering dangerously close to your hips. Another guy, some frat bro in a backward cap, was trying to catch your eye, shouting some garbage pickup line over the loud music.
Tucker’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ground together. A dark, ugly possessiveness flared in his chest, incinerating every ounce of his southern patience.
They saw a beautiful, single girl looking to get wrecked and have a good time. They didn't know you belonged to him. They didn't know the soft, needy sounds you made when he sucked marks into your neck, or how perfectly your body bowed up to meet his. And it was his own damn fault they didn't know. He had kept you in the shadows to protect Sabrina's privacy and manage the baby drama, but in doing so, he had left you completely unprotected. He’d made you feel like you didn't matter. He'd practically served you up on a silver platter to every thirsty dirtbag in Malone's.
He watched, every thick muscle in his massive frame going violently tense, as the lacrosse player leaned in, his mouth entirely too close to your ear. Tucker saw you politely step back, your posture stiffening in clear discomfort, but the guy persisted. The asshole actually closed the distance again, flashing a cocky grin and reaching out to boldly wrap a hand around your waist.
That was it. Patience was officially dead.
Tucker’s grip on his beer bottle tightened until his knuckles turned stark white, the thick glass groaning dangerously under the pressure. With a harsh, ragged exhale, he slammed the bottle down on the sticky wooden table so hard the remaining liquid foamed over the top.
"Whoa, Tuck, where are you going?" Garrett asked, looking completely startled by the sudden, aggressive movement from the calmest guy on the roster.
Tucker didn't answer. He didn't even look at his captain. He was already moving, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowded bar, his dark eyes locked dead on the man touching what was his.
He parted the sweaty, grinding crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, his massive frame shoving through the bodies without a single apology. The rational, endlessly patient part of his brain—the part that always played the long game, the part that had agreed to keep this relationship off the radar to deal with Sabrina's baby drama—was dead and buried.
Fuck the secret. Fuck the gossip. Tucker didn't care about the whispers, the rumors, or the stares that were bound to follow. He only cared about the fact that the woman he was completely, irrevocably in love with was slipping through his fingers, and half the bar was trying to swoop in and take his place.
You spun around, desperate to step away from the persistent lacrosse player whose hands were getting way too bold, but before you could tell the guy to back off, a blur of black and silver stepped into your line of vision.
You gasped as the lacrosse player was suddenly violently ripped away from you.
Tucker’s massive, callused hand was fisted in the collar of the guy’s shirt, lifting him nearly off his feet.
"Hey, what the hell, man?" the lacrosse player sputtered, throwing his hands up. He puffed out his chest, trying to look tough.
The words had barely left the guy's mouth before Tucker’s fist cracked across his jaw.
The sickening thud cut through the immediate vicinity of the dance floor. The lacrosse player stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table and taking a couple of empty beer bottles down with him. The crowd gasped, forming an immediate, wide circle around you, but Tucker didn't even flinch. He stood over the groaning guy, his broad chest heaving, his fists clenched tight at his sides.
"Stay the fuck away from my girl," Tucker growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal vibration.
The guy scrambled back, holding his bleeding jaw, and frantically nodded before disappearing into the crowd.
Tucker didn't spare him a second glance. He turned to you, the violence in his frame immediately shifting into a raw, desperate need. Large, familiar hands instantly gripped your hips, hauling you flush against his hard chest.
"Tuck—" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, violent somersault against your ribs.
"Mine," he murmured fiercely.
He pulled you seamlessly into the heavy rhythm of the music. His hands slid from your hips to trail possessively up your spine, sending a shiver of blistering heat straight to your core. He spun you around, pressing your back flat against his broad chest, his thick arms wrapping securely around your waist as he swayed with you.
He could feel you trembling, feel the exact moment the adrenaline bled out of your muscles and you melted against him. This was where you belonged. Not hiding in the shadows. Not sneaking out the back door of the hockey house. It was an undeniably intimate, blatantly sexual claim, loud and clear for the entire fucking bar to see.
Over by the booths, the reaction was instantaneous. Dean’s jaw practically unhinged, his drink freezing halfway to his mouth. Garrett actually choked on his beer, coughing violently while Logan thumped him on the back. Hannah and Allie exchanged wide-eyed, completely stunned looks. John Tucker, the quietest, most reserved guy on the roster, had just knocked a guy out and put on a very public, very unapologetic show.
Tucker spun you back around to face him, completely oblivious to the shocked stares of his teammates. He brought one hand up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip, parting it slightly.
"I don't care who sees," Tucker said, his voice fierce, unwavering, and laced with absolute certainty. "I don't care how complicated it is. I am not hiding you anymore, Y/N. And I am sure as hell not letting you break up with me."
Before you could formulate a response—before your brain could even process the magnitude of what he had just done—he dipped his head and captured your lips in a searing, breathless kiss.
It wasn't a gentle, hidden kiss in the dark. It was a bold, desperate, world-stopping declaration. He kissed you like a starving man, his tongue parting your lips and claiming your mouth with a consuming, dominant heat that made your knees buckle. He caught your weight effortlessly, pulling your hips flush against the hard ridge of his arousal, showing his teammates, your friends, and everyone else in Malone's exactly who you belonged to.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your chests heaving together in the smoky air.
"You're my girl," he whispered fiercely, resting his forehead against yours. His brown eyes locked onto yours to make sure you understood every single word. "And nobody is going to steal you away from me."
Hello, so I have an off campus request, you can choose whether it first Dean or Garrett more. It’s based off a certain scene in Ginny and Georgia where Joe punches Gil.
SO I’m thinking Y/N was in an abusive relationship in her hometown, then she moved to Boston for Briar U, he never found her UNTIL one day he walks into Malone’s. She stiffens, everyone is concerned but they don’t push. When they get back to the house, Garrett/Dean asks her what happened and she decides to tell him the full truth. He just clenched his jaw, absorbing all the information. One day in class, he noticed the same guy from Malone’s, he is a transfer student, and once everyone was walking out of the lecture hall, he took advantage of the fact that there wasn’t any professors around and punched him in the face. The guy was like “what the hell was that for?!?” Because he has never seen Dean/Garrett in his life, and he responds with “you know why”
I’m just spitballing, maybe you can tweak it a little, I don’t know, but good luck on finals!!
Hi love!!
First of all, thank you for this beautiful request! I had a good time writing this.
I hope you like it! You can find it here.
Summary: You transferred to Briar U to become a ghost, desperate to outrun your controlling ex. When your past finally catches up to you in the middle of a lecture hall, Dean Di Laurentis makes one thing perfectly clear: you are under his protection now.
Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: not proofread yet, probably shitty because I haven't written anything in months, mentions of toxic/controlling relationships, stalking, anxiety, graphic violence, Protective!Dean in full force
A/N: I don't know how good it is because it's been a while since i've last written something and tbh I didn't finish the first season, only read the books 5 times. But I hope you like it and after my finals I will be back with more fics. You can totally spam my box with requests if you's like. But I won't be writing anything for like 3 whole weeks. I am so stressed I can't even exist. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love! What do we think of a part 2?
Words: 2.6k
Requested here!
The booth at Malone’s was designed to comfortably fit six people. Currently, it held four massive hockey players, Hannah, and you. Which meant you were practically sitting in Dean Di Laurentis’s lap.
Not that he was complaining.
"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."
"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"
Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."
You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.
When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.
Twice.
The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.
You’d drawn a hard line.
Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.
"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."
"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.
"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."
"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.
"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.
"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."
"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."
He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."
You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.
"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"
You frowned. "No. Why?"
"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."
The buzz from the vodka evaporated.
Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.
He’s here.
You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.
Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.
"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."
The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.
You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.
Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.
Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.
You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.
You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.
"Move," you choked out.
Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"
"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.
A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.
The night was officially over.
The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.
Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.
"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.
Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.
You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.
Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.
Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"I’m an ass," Dean said.
His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.
"Dean—"
"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."
You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.
"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."
His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."
"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."
Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"
"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."
Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"
You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."
Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.
"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."
You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."
The air in the kitchen completely changed.
The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.
Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.
"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"
You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."
"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."
Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.
You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.
"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."
He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.
"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."
The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.
A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"
A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."
It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.
You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.
The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.
A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.
One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.
He had actually enrolled at Briar.
Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"
You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.
Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.
Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.
"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.
The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.
But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.
That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.
Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.
Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."
Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.
Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."
Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.
The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.
The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.
Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.
"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"
Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.
"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.
Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.
Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.
His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.
"Come on," Dean murmured, his voice warm and perfectly calm, acting as if he hadn't just committed assault in front of a dozen witnesses. "Let's go get some lunch."
Hi, honey!!
Yes, ofc you can.
It will take a little longer than normal to write & post bc it's finals season and I have a lot of work to do, so if you're patient with me and still want to drop some requests, feel free.
Summary: Ubbe returns from the edge of the world to meet his son. Fifteen winters later, the boy with the eyes of the old King puts on his first armor. You are the Queen of a beautiful, deafening madness—knowing that the sea gives, the sea takes, and the Ironside legacy demands blood.
Fluff
Warnings: Established polyamory / V-Relationship, pregnancy, not proofread yet
Words: 2.5k
Peace in Kattegat is a fragile thing, spun from thin thread, but you take it when the gods allow it.
You sit on the thick winter pelts by the hearth, the fire hissing and spitting sap into the warm air of the Great Hall. Bjorn Ironside, the terror of the Saxons and the King of Kattegat, is lying flat on his back, looking like a fallen mountain resting in the dirt. On his massive, battle-scarred chest sits little Ragnar. The boy is three moons old, his tiny fists tangled tight in the golden rings of his father's beard.
Bjorn makes a low, rumbling growl deep in his throat, a sound like stones shifting in a riverbed, and the child squeals with bright, loud laughter, kicking his little legs. Bjorn smiles—a big, foolish, entirely unguarded grin that folds the heavy battle scars on his face. You watch them, your heart swelling until it physically aches against your ribs, but it is an ache with a hollow center.
When the horn blows, it is not the short, frantic blast of a raid. It is a long, heavy cry that vibrates deep in the marrow of your bones.
Before the echo even fades, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall burst open. A breathless young warrior stands in the doorway, bringing the biting winter wind inside with him. His chest heaves, his eyes wild.
"King Bjorn!" the boy gasps. "The Lothbrok banners! Ubbe has returned!"
The foolish, doting father vanishes into the shadows, and the King wakes. Bjorn sits up, cradling the tiny baby in one massive hand like a fragile bird. His blue eyes lock with yours, catching the wild, dancing light of the flames.
You look down at the little boy in Bjorn's hands. Your own hands are shaking as you reach out to touch his soft cheek. "Do you hear that, little warrior?" you murmur, a hot tear already burning your eye, blurring your vision. "It is time to meet your father."
You do not care about the freezing slush ruining the hem of your wool dress, you do not feel the biting wind whipping your hair. The village is surging toward the water, goats bleating, men shouting praises to Odin and Freyja. Bjorn runs right beside you, a walking titan of leather and ringmail. He holds the baby strapped safely inside his heavy cloak, a moving fortress protecting his blood from the cold.
When Ubbe steps down the longship, you can see he is not the man who left you. The Norns have tested him, and he is carved from salt and exhaustion. He looks hollowed out, a man who gave all his strength to the waves just to survive. He watches the cheering people like a draugr—a ghost walking among the living, unable to understand the noise.
Until he sees you.
He does not hesitate, Ubbe drops his wooden shield that clatters loudly against the planks. He walks heavy on the wet wood, closing the distance, and takes your face in both his calloused, dirt-stained hands. He kisses you before you can even speak a word.
It is a violent collision, the starving, desperate hunger of moons spent apart. He kisses you like he is drowning and you are the only breath of air left in Midgard. His mouth is hot, demanding, tasting of bitter sea-salt and pure survival. You cling to the rough wool of his tunic, anchoring him to the earth so the wind does not blow him away.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead heavily against yours. His chest heaves against your own.
"I dreamt of this," Ubbe rasps, "Every night on the black water. I did not care for the soil of the Golden Land, I could only think of returning to the woman I love."
You smile, a ragged sob tearing at your throat, covering his rough, freezing hands with your own. "The gods favor you, Ubbe," you whisper, hot tears finally spilling over your eyelashes, cutting through the cold air. "The Allfather watched your ship, he kept you safe... so you could meet your son."
Ubbe freezes, the breath completely leaves his lungs. His pale eyes search yours in absolute shock.
The wet wood groans under heavy boots as Bjorn steps forward, shielding you both from the wind. He gently opens his thick cloak, lifting the small, fur-wrapped bundle from his chest, and places the baby safely into your waiting arms.
Bjorn turns to his brother, Ubbe reaches out and grabs his brother's forearm and Bjorn grabs his. They pull each other in, their foreheads colliding hard with a dull thud. It is the bloody, unbreakable bond of brothers who share a soul.
"You kept them safe," Ubbe groans, the heavy weight of his gratitude almost breaking him.
"They are my world as much as they are yours," Bjorn answers simply.
Bjorn steps back, giving him the space he has bled for. Ubbe turns back to you, he looks down at the thick furs in your arms, seeing the tiny face. Ubbe reaches out a trembling, scarred finger. The baby’s tiny fist immediately reaches out and wraps around his thumb, holding on with a warrior's iron grip.
"A son," Ubbe breathes, the word leaving his lips like a sacred prayer.
The baby blinks against the biting wind, the blue of his eyes piercing. Ubbe’s breath catches sharply in his throat, and he stumbles a half-step back. He remembers that specific, terrifying shade of blue from his childhood, looking up at the most famous man in the world. The ghost of the past is suddenly alive in the boy's stare.
"His eyes," Ubbe whispers, looking up at you and Bjorn, "He has the eyes of the old King. He has our father's eyes."
"We named him Ragnar," Bjorn rumbles. The name drops between the three of you like a heavy stone, carrying the weight of a legend.
Ubbe looks back down at the child. Ragnar. He tastes the power of it.
"His destiny," you murmur, leaning your head against Ubbe's shoulder as you look down at the boy born of fire and earth. "It will be a heavy one to carry."
"It will be greater than Lothbrok's," Bjorn says, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of a King. He reaches out, his huge, scarred hand resting gently over the baby's covered head. "He will be greater than our father. And he will be greater than us."
Ubbe smiles. It is a real, shattering smile that finally reaches his tired eyes.
"Then we will build him an army," Ubbe whispers.
Fifteen winters do not pass gracefully. They run through Kattegat like a screaming war, wild and violent and full of life.
The Great Hall is no longer a place for quiet kings to hold court. The air hangs thick with the smell of woodsmoke, roasted oats, wet hound fur, and the sweat of your children. The Norns took the threads of your three lives and tangled them into a beautiful, deafening madness.
You sit heavily in the carved oak chair by the hearth. You are so pregnant your spine burns with a dull, constant fire. The gold arm-ring of the Queen bites into your wrist, but the true weight is the mountain of your belly. The sixth child. You rest your hands over the swell of it, watching the absolute chaos of your bloodline unfold in the morning light.
It is the morning of the tide. The ships leave for the West today.
Bjorn Ironside is a mountain in the center of the hall, but right now, the mountain is being conquered. Two little boys—your youngest sons, barely six winters old—are screaming battle cries, hitting Bjorn’s thick leather breeches with wooden axes. He has frost in his golden beard now, but the fire inside him consumes just the same.
"Is that all the strength you have?!" Bjorn roars, his eyes wide and bright with absolute joy. He drops to his knees, making the floorboards groan, and lets the boys tackle him into the rushes. "I am the great beast of the woods! You must strike for the heart!"
He scoops them both up, one under each massive arm, trapping them against his ribs as they shriek with laughter. He presses loud, rough kisses into their hair, a King completely undone by his sons.
Ubbe sits on a wooden bench with your eldest daughter between his knees. She is twelve, with wild blonde braids and dirt smeared across her nose. Ubbe is not playing games, he holds a small, wicked hunting knife, running a whetstone over the edge. He flips the knife and presses the bone handle into your daughter's small hand, wrapping s his large, calloused fingers over hers, correcting her grip.
"You do not slash like a drunk man," Ubbe murmurs softly, his pale blue eyes entirely focused on the girl. "A slash is for show. You grip it tight. You wait for the shadow, and you thrust. Like a snake. Do you understand, little shieldmaiden?"
"Yes, father," she nods, her eyes fierce and calculating, a terrifying mirror of the explorer who raised her. Ubbe smiles, a soft, devoted thing, and kisses the top of her head before sending her off.
And then, there is Ragnar.
He stands by the fire, sixteen winters old and built like a fortress. He has the towering, arrogant shoulders of Bjorn, but he watches the room with Ubbe's quiet intensity. He is strapping boiled leather to his chest. Today is his first raid. He is a man.
Your second eldest boy, thirteen and sulking bitterly by the pillar because he was told to stay behind, glares at the floor. Bjorn drops the twins, walks over, and hits the sulking boy on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.
"Do not pout like a Saxon priest!" Bjorn barks, though his hand stays heavy and warm on the boy's neck. "You guard the Queen and the Hall with Ubbe this season. Next spring, I will put a real axe in your hand and you will make them bleed for the Ironside. Hear me?"
The boy nods, standing a little taller, the fire returning to his chest.
You let out a long, ragged groan. The unborn baby kicks your ribs so hard it steals the breath from your lungs. You grip the arms of the chair and glare at the savages preparing for war.
"I swear by Freya's tears," you hiss, your voice cutting right through the noise of the barking hounds and fighting children. "If any of you enters my furs after this one is born, I will take the Sword of the Kings and separate you from your manhoods. Six! Look at this hall! We have enough warriors to take Frankia by ourselves."
Bjorn throws his head back, his laughter is massive, a booming sound that shakes the timber roof. He walks to you, leaning his giant frame over the chair, and kisses your mouth with a bruising, desperate force. He tastes of ale and war.
"You make this threat every winter, my Queen!" Bjorn grins, his thumb dragging roughly across your cheekbone. "The Seer promised me a legacy. My blood will cover the earth! We need the army!"
"Then buy a thrall to birth your army," you snap back, shoving lightly at his chest, though a familiar, fatalistic smirk breaks through your anger.
"I only want your blood mixed with mine," Bjorn says simply. He pulls back, his blue eyes fierce and entirely serious for a fraction of a second, before he turns to buckle his broadsword.
Ubbe steps up quietly behind your chair, draping a heavy, thick-furred wolf pelt over your shoulders, blocking the harsh draft blowing in from the open doors. His large, warm hands slide down to rest firmly over the massive swell of your stomach. He looks across the room at his brother, his pale eyes entirely dry and practical.
"She means it this time, Bjorn," Ubbe murmurs, "And I am tired of stepping on wooden shields. The gods have given us enough."
Bjorn just grins, looking out toward the docks, where the longships wait in the freezing mist.
Ragnar walks over last, wearing his first real boiled leather armor, and it squeaks stiffly when he moves. He stands tall, lifting his chin, trying his best to look like the terrifying Ironside, but his face is still too young—smooth and untouched by the axe.
"I will bring you back the gold of the Saxon Christ-god, mother," Ragnar says, his chest puffed out with pride. "And a strong thrall to help with the little ones, so you do not have to lift a finger."
You look at him, but do not pull him into a weeping, desperate embrace. You were a shieldmaiden long before you were a mother, and you know exactly what the mud and the blood of the battlefield do to young men. You reach out, grab the thick leather strap of his chest piece, and pull him until his face is level with yours.
"Listen to me," you command, your voice hard and sharp as an iron blade. "Do not be a fool. Do not break the shield-wall just to show the older men how brave you are. Arrogance is a quick death."
Ragnar nods, swallowing hard. The boyish pride drops away, leaving a solemn, focused warrior in its place.
"The Norns have already spun your thread," you tell him, holding his gaze fiercely, refusing to blink. "The day of your death was chosen before you took your first breath in this hall. You cannot escape it, so do not fear it. But do not make it easy for the enemy to cut your thread, either. You keep your shield raised. You strike true. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you, mother," he answers, his voice dropping into a heavy vow.
You release his armor, letting your hand brush against his cheek for just a second. "May Odin ride with you."
You look up at Bjorn. You do not beg him to keep the boy safe, you know the violent, beautiful world they live in. You just give him a look that holds fifteen years of shared survival.
"You take him into the slaughter, Ironside," you say, your voice a quiet, absolute command that belongs only to a Queen. "But you bring him back to my hearth. On his feet, and whole."
"My blood waters the earth before his does," Bjorn swears. The roaring warlord vanishes, and the wildness in his blue eyes softens into pure, terrifying devotion for a single second.
Then, the deep, mournful sound of the horn echoes from the water. The tide is ready.
Summary: Ubbe finally answers the call of the Golden Land, leaving you in the fierce, devoted protection of the King of Kattegat. As a harsh winter storm rages outside your longhouse, a new legacy is born into the world.
Angst / Fluff
Warnings: V-Relationship, Polyamory (M/F/M), childbirth, not proofread yet.
Words: 1.6k
It was time for him to go. Ubbe had delayed his destiny for too long. He stayed when Bjorn asked him to rule, he stayed to protect you, and in that time, the Norns had woven your threads together so tightly that you could not say where your soul ended and his began. But the blood of Ragnar Lothbrok was singing in his veins. The Golden Land was calling him in his dreams.
"You are too quiet," Ubbe murmurs. He steps behind you, a wall of heat against your back, blocking the teeth of the wind. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the thick fur at your neck, breathing you in like a starving man.
"I am trying to trap this moment in my head," you answer, leaning your weight back into him, into the solid earth of him. "Before the jealous sea takes another husband from me."
Ubbe turns you around, his hands rough and calloused from the ropes, cupping your face. His thumbs scrape away a tear that is half-frozen on your cheek. "I swore a vow. To the gods, to you, and to Bjorn. I will not be a ghost in your life, I will return."
"I know you will," you smile, but your lips tremble like dry leaves. You take his massive hand, pulling it down, pressing his palm flat against your lower belly. The wool is thick, but the heat of your skin burns right through. "Because you must know what is waiting for you."
Ubbe frowns. The pale blue of his eyes searches yours, confused by the riddle. And then he looks down at his hand resting on you. You see the lightning strike his brain, the breath leaves his lungs in a sharp, violent hiss.
"The gods are smiling, Ubbe," you whisper, your throat tight, choking on the words. "I am with child."
A sound rips out of his chest—half a sob, half a laugh, a battle cry. He pulls you in, crushing you against his chest in a desperate embrace. It bruises your ribs, but you do not care. "A child," he breathes into your hair, frantic, kissing your forehead, your mouth. But then the joy fractures and the panic sets in like cracking ice. "No. I cannot go. I cannot leave you heavy with my blood. I must stay—"
"No," Bjorn’s voice drops like a boulder on the wooden planks of the dock.
He walks toward you both, a mountain wrapped in bear skins. His presence is so loud it commands the wind to die down. Bjorn stops, placing a heavy hand on Ubbe’s shoulder, a grip so firm it anchors his brother to the earth. "You must go, brother. Your fate is across the ocean. Do not fight it."
"But Bjorn—"
"I am here," Bjorn interrupts, his voice drops, low and gravelly, the sound of a King who leaves no room for arguments. He looks at you and the wildness in his eyes softens, melting into that terrifying, crushing love he reserves only for you, then he looks back at his brother. "I will guard our family. I am King in Kattegat, but she is the queen of my heart. I will protect her and the child with the fury of a thousand berserkers. Go find your Golden Land, we will be here when you return."
Ubbe looks between the two of you. His eyes are shining with tears before he even sails. He kisses you one last time, tasting of salt and desperate promises. He clasps Bjorn’s arm in a warrior's grip. And then he boards his ship, leaving you shivering in the massive, protective shadow of Bjorn Ironside.
With Ubbe gone to the horizon, Bjorn changes. The fierce warrior who strikes terror into the hearts of the Saxons is left outside the heavy oak door. Inside, he is only a man undone by love. He treats you like glass, even when you bare your teeth and remind him you were a shieldmaiden before you were a mother.
When your belly grows round and tight, pulling at your spine with a dull, burning ache, Bjorn sits behind you on the thick furs by the hearth. His hands are huge, meant for killing, but he warms scented oils in his palms and rubs them into your skin. His touch is surprisingly gentle, scaring the pain away until you melt back against his broad chest.
"You carry the future of our family," he rumbles, his lips pressing hot against your bare shoulder.
In the darkest hours of the night, when the fire is nothing but glowing embers, Bjorn slides down the bed. He presses his bearded cheek right against the swollen curve of your stomach. He closes his eyes in reverence.
"Are you listening, little warrior?" Bjorn whispers into the dark, when a sudden kick connects with his cheek, and a boyish, brilliant grin spreads across his scarred face. "I am your father, Bjorn. Your mother is very tired because of you, so you must be strong. When you come into this world, I will teach you the ways of our people. I will tell you the stories of Ragnar Lothbrok."
He never calls the baby Ubbe's child, he never shows a single drop of jealousy. In his heart, the three of you share one beating life and this child belongs to the family you built together.
When your time finally comes, the sky breaks open. A massive storm batters the longhouse, shaking the timber roof like a furious god. But the pain is a blinding sea, washing over you in violent, agonizing waves. The midwives try to banish Bjorn, telling him a birth chamber is no place for a king, but he nearly takes their heads off with a single glare.
"She is my wife, and this is my blood. I move for no man, and no woman," he growls.
He strips off his heavy tunic, sweating in the suffocating heat of the room, and climbs onto the bed behind you. He becomes your physical anchor. When the contractions rip through your body, tearing a raw scream from your throat, you crush his massive hands in yours.
"Breathe, my love, breathe," he chants against your ear, his voice is the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, and he kisses your sweat-soaked hair. "You are the strongest woman in Midgard. Push for the gods!"
With one final, world-shattering push, the agonizing pressure vanishes. It is replaced by a furious, high-pitched wail that cuts right through the noise of the storm outside.
You collapse back against Bjorn’s chest, gasping for air, your lungs burning and tears mix with the sweat on your face. You feel Bjorn's heart hammering against your spine like a war drum, his large frame is trembling as he buries his face in your wet neck.
"A boy," the old midwife smiles, wrapping the tiny, squalling infant in a soft woolen cloth before bringing him to the bed.
Bjorn shifts carefully, wrapping his massive arms around you so you can both hold the child. The baby's cries turn into soft, exhausted whimpers as he feels the heat of your skin.
He blinks his eyes open, they are a bright, piercing blue. The exact color of the ocean, the exact color of Ubbe's eyes.
"He has his eyes," you cry softly, a bittersweet ache blooming in your chest. You look up at Bjorn, afraid for a split second that he might feel the distance of Ubbe's blood.
But the great Ironside has tears catching in his thick beard. He reaches out with one trembling finger and the baby immediately wraps a tiny fist around it, holding on with a warrior's grip.
"He is perfect," Bjorn's voice is thick, broken in half by a pure love. He looks at you, his gaze burning with a fierce devotion. "He is yours, and he is Ubbe's... but he is mine, too. Do you hear me? He is my son."
Bjorn leans down, kissing your lips deeply, tasting the salt of your tears before he kisses the top of the baby's head. "Welcome to Kattegat, little warrior. I will love you with the fury of the gods until the day I feast in Valhalla."
The storm outside finally surrenders to the new life breathing in the room. You rest your heavy head against Bjorn's broad chest, watching his rough, calloused thumb gently stroke the baby's impossibly soft cheek.
"He needs a strong name," you whisper, your voice raspy but full of warmth. "A name the Norns will sing as they spin his thread."
Bjorn is quiet for a moment, he stares deep into those striking, ocean-blue eyes. You see a heavy, ancient memory wash over his scarred face. "He is born from the blood of an explorer, from the womb of a shieldmaiden, and raised by a king," Bjorn rumbles, his voice a low vibration against your spine. "He needs a name that holds the weight of all that greatness."
"Ragnar," the word leaves his lips like a sacred prayer to the old gods. "After my father."
Your heart skips a beat. You taste the name on your tongue, feeling the electric power of it. You look down at the little boy, his tiny fist still gripping Bjorn's massive finger with all his might.
"Ubbe will weep when he hears it," Bjorn whispers. He brings his hand up to cover yours over the baby's chest. "Our father was the first to look beyond the sea, just as Ubbe does now. It is only right his grandson carries his legacy."
"Ragnar," you echo softly, a tired, radiant smile spreading across your face.
Bjorn smiles back, a blinding, beautiful thing that makes his scars crinkle. He presses his lips to your forehead, then down to the baby's warm cheek. "Hail Ragnar," he mumbles into your hair. "The Allfather will be watching you closely, little viking."
Summary: The ice breaks and Bjorn returns, bringing the fire back to Kattegat. But when Bjorn corners his brother, you expect a battle for your heart, not a negotiation that will rewrite the fate of your family forever.
The Great Hall shakes, screams. The floorboards groan under the stomping of three hundred boots, men who have rowed across the edge of the world and come back with blood on their hands and gold in their teeth. The air is so thick you can chew it—it tastes of roasted boar fat, of spilled ale that is already turning sticky on the wood, of the sweat of unwashed bodies. It smells like victory, it smells like danger.
Bjorn sits at the High Table. He is not a man tonight, is a golden idol, so loud that his voice is booming over the skalds, crashing against the rafters. He slams his horn down, ale splashing over his knuckles, laughing at a story about the Saracens and the sand that burns. He is the sun, yes, but like a sun that is too close to the earth, he burns everything.
Your husband pulls you against his side, with an arm as heavy as an iron bar across your shoulders. He does not hold you gentle, he holds you like he is afraid you will turn to mist. He kisses your temple, his beard scratching the skin, rough and possessive.
But Bjorn is not just a loud bear. He is a King, and a King watches the shadows even when he is in the light.
He feel the way your spine is stiff against his ribs, like a bowstring pulled too tight, he sees your eyes. You smile at his jokes, yes, you kiss him back, yes, because you love him until your teeth ache, but every time the laughter dies, every time he looks away to pour more drink... your eyes drift. They go to the end of the table.
Ubbe sits with the warriors, but he is alone, he is an island in the noise. He is peeling an apple with a small knife, the blade flashing in the firelight. He looks tired, the winter has carved lines into his face. He looks worn down, like a stone in the river, but his jaw is set hard.
He looks at you. Ubbe does not look away when Bjorn catches him, he holds his brother’s gaze. It is blue ice against blue fire, it is a challenge.
When the feast winds down and the warriors are falling asleep in the dirty straw, snoring like dogs, Bjorn stands up. He does not shout, only taps your shoulder, hard, then he jerks his head at Ubbe.
"Come."
You follow him into the quiet of the private chambers and the door bars shut with a heavy thud, cutting the throat of the noise outside. The fire here is small, intimate. It hisses.
Your husband is silent for a long time. You stand in the middle of the room, your hands twisting in your dress and your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Ubbe stands by the door. His hand is resting on his belt, near his knife and his eyes are watching his brother. He is not slouching, his body is tense, a bow ready to snap. He is ready for a fight, but he will not start it.
"I am not a fool," Bjorn's voice is deep, scratching with exhaustion. He turns around and you can see his face is not angry. It is serious, the face of a man who knows the cost of every gold coin.
"Bjorn, I—" you start, stepping forward.
"Quiet," Bjorn says, turning to you. He touches your cheek, his thumb tracing the bone of your jaw with a heavy touch. "I see it. The way you look at him, the way he looks at you. It is not the look of a brother. It is the look of a man who has starved and found bread on a table."
He looks at Ubbe next, "You stayed. You watched my Kattegat. And you took my place."
Bjorn paces, the wood groaning under his boots, looking like a caged animal. "I am Bjorn Ironside. I move, I conquer. The sea... it pulls my gut. I cannot sit by the hearth and hold your hand when the winter comes, I cannot always be the peace you need." He stops, looking straight into his brother's eyes. "So. You want her? Marry her. Be a husband to her when I am away. Keep her warm for me."
Ubbe’s face changes, the calm mask cracking. Then he steps forward, right in Bjorn’s face. He is not the little brother now. He is a son of Ragnar Lothbrok.
"No," he finally says.
Bjorn blinks in surprise, "No?"
"I am not a fur," Ubbe snarls, his voice is low, dangerous, a growl in the throat. "I am not a fire you light only when you are cold, and put out when the sun comes back. I am not a substitute, Bjorn."
Ubbe grabs the front of Bjorn’s tunic and shoves big big brother back a step. It is shocking. "If I marry her, I marry her at all times. I am her husband today, tomorrow, and every day you sit on that chair. I will respect you. But I will not hide in the back like a whore. My door will be open to her, always. Even when you are in her bed, I will still be her husband. Do you understand?"
You hold your breath as the air gets thin. Bjorn stares at Ubbe, narrowing his eyes, looking for fear. But he finds none.
Then, a slow, wide grin spreads across Bjorn's face and he laughs. He hits Ubbe’s shoulder hard, staggering him.
"Good!" Bjorn roars. "I do not want a dog. I want a wolf! If you are strong enough to take her from me, then you are strong enough to keep her."
Ubbe turns to you. The anger leaves his face, replaced by that intense, blue stillness. He walks to you, but does not touch you yet. He leaves the space between you open because he wants you to cross it.
"Bjorn gives his permission," Ubbe says and his voice is rough, "But I do not marry Bjorn. I marry you."
He searches your face, he looks for the doubt, he looks for the lie when Bjorn steps back and leans against the stone wall, crossing his massive arms. Your husband nods at you, it is like giving you his blessing.
"Do not look at him," Ubbe says sharp, when your eyes flick to Bjorn. "Look at me. Do you want this? Do you want me? Not as a keeper. Not as a guard. As a husband. Do you want to wake up next to me, even when he is here?"
You reaches out and let Ubbe take your hand.
"I am a jealous man, Y/N. I will share you with him because he is my brother and our King. But I will claim my piece, I will take up space. Do you want that?"
You look at him and see the winter in his eyes. You see the nights by the fire where he held you together when you were falling apart, you see the man who put aside his own dreams to keep you safe. You see the water that runs deep and dark and dangerous.
"Yes," you whisper. The word falls out of your mouth like a prayer. "I want you. I want to be your wife."
Ubbe lets out a breath, a sound of relief and hunger. He pulls you in, his forehead resting against yours, hard.
"Then let the gods witness it," he says.
The wedding happens two nights later. It is not a quiet thing, because Bjorn Ironside does not do quiet, and he wants the gods to hear this. He wants the ancestors to look down and see that his line is strong enough to break the rules.
The village gathers in the square when the torches are lit, casting long, bleeding streaks of fire against the black sky. The drums are beating a slow, heavy rhythm that vibrates in your teeth, in your bones. The air smells of smoke and the metallic tang of the goat that was just sacrificed.
You stand on the wooden platform, wearing the blue of the fjord and your hair braided tight with silver and bone. You are shaking, just a little.
Bjorn stands to the side. He is not the husband tonight, he is the King. He wears his full armor, the bear fur high on his neck, making him look like a giant. He looks at the crowd, his face proud, daring any man to speak against this.
"The Norns weave strange threads!" Bjorn shouts, his voice echoing off the cliffs and spreads his arms wide. "They weave lives together in the dark. Who are we to cut what they have tied? Tonight, we make the wall stronger!"
He signals the Gothi. The old man steps forward, his face painted black and white like a skull, holding a wooden bowl of warm goat’s blood and a bunch of wet birch twigs.
Ubbe stands before you.
He looks different. He wears a tunic of fine leather, dark as the deep water and he looks like a cliff face—hard, immovable, beautiful. He does not smile, this is not a joke to him. But inside, it is the happiest night of his life. You become his.
He holds his sword by the blade, offering the hilt to you. You place your hand on the cold steel.
"I call upon Freyja," Ubbe says, his voice carrying over the silence. "Goddess of the heart. Witness this."
Bjorn steps forward. He dips his thick fingers into the bowl of blood. He walks to Ubbe first. He streaks the blood across Ubbe’s forehead and down his cheeks, marking him.
"Blood of my blood," Bjorn says solemnly. "You are the shield that guards her back when I cannot."
Then Bjorn turns to you. He is your husband, the man who owns your fire, but in this moment, he is giving you to another. He paints your face with the warm blood with his heavy touch, grounding you.
"Flesh of my flesh," Bjorn whispers, so only you can hear. "I share my heart, my home. I give you the water, so you do not burn."
Ubbe steps closer, takes the gold arm ring from the Gothi. It is heavy, twisted metal. He does not rush, holding your arm, looking you in the eyes. He strips you bare with that look.
"With this iron, I bind myself to you," Ubbe vows. His voice is rough. "I do not offer you a kingdom, Y/N. I have no crown. I offer you my hands. I offer you my axe. I offer you the wall that does not move."
He slides the ring onto your arm and it slides down, hitting Bjorn’s gold ring with a sharp clink. The sound is final.
"I take your grief," Ubbe says. "I take your anger. And I take your love. You are my wife, from this night until the darkness takes us."
"And you are my husband," you say. Your voice shakes, but your heart is steady.
The Gothi dips the birch branches into the bowl. He shakes them over the three of you—a red rain of blood splattering your faces, your clothes, binding your spirits together.
"Skol!" Bjorn bellows, raising his horn to the moon.
"Skol!" the crowd roars, the sound shaking the earth.
When the wedding dies and the Great Hall turns into frost, the chamber is ready for you, fire just a glowing red eye in the dark. Bjorn pours the ale, his movements loose and easy, but he does not come to the bed. He drinks deep, then leans back in the heavy chair by the shadows, watching with a peace that softens the hard lines of his face.
He gives you this. He gives his brother the space to be a husband. And Ubbe does not waste it. He takes you with the hunger of the long winter, his hands worshiping the skin he saved from the cold. It is not a battle, it is a homecoming. You lie with him, breathless, tears slipping from your eyes not from sadness but from the sheer joy of being whole, and when the sleep comes, you are tangled together, protected by the wolf and the bear.
You wake up when the first grey finger of sun breaks the dark, warm and heavy. Ubbe is deep asleep, one hand still gripping your hip, his face buried in the furs, satisfied. You kiss his shoulder, soft, so you do not wake him, and you rise. You move across the room to the mountain that is Bjorn, who is stirring on the furs he laid on the floor. He is awake. He is watching you with eyes like the morning sky. You climb onto him, straddling the heat, and he smiles—a slow, lazy claim. You went to the water to drink, but now you return to the fire to burn.
Summary: You refuse to be a helpless thrall when the war comes to Kattegat, but learning to hold a blade is harder than it looks. Fortunately, Ubbe’s private lesson in the mud quickly turns from deadly serious to dangerously playful.
Fluff
Warnings: Weapons training (daggers, shields), physical sparring.
Words:
Your hands are made for the bone-needle and the loom. They know the soft feel of the wool and the rough bark of the firewood. But in this world—the world of the Lothbrok sons, where kings are made with blood and the earth is always hungry for dead men—soft hands will only make you a thrall. You told Ubbe this last night, lying in the dark furs of his bed, tracing the deep, white scars on his chest. You told him you refuse to hide with the children if the war comes to your doors. You want to know the weight of the iron. And Ubbe, the man who crave the peace of the farm but carry the terrifying skill of a conqueror, he just kissed the crown of your head, holding you tight against his heart, and promised to teach you.
So now, you are alone behind the storage huts, far from the mocking laughs of the other warriors. But your arms are already shaking.
The round wooden shield on your arm feel like it is made of a solid mountain stone, and the iron dagger in your other hand feel clumsy and heavy. You swing at the empty air, your leather boots slipping in the wet, black mud of the yard. You let out a frustrated, angry sound, dropping the heavy shield to the dirt.
"You hold your breath when you strike," Ubbe tells you softly.
If it was Ivar, he would sit on his cart and laugh at your weak wrists, calling you a foolish woman. If it was Hvitserk, he would pull his own sword to show you how much faster he can spin the blade. But Ubbe just watches you. His pale blue eyes—the eyes that command the Great Army—are entirely patient. He traces the lines of your tired shoulders, seeing not a weak woman, but a spirit trying to grow teeth.
He walks to you, his boots heavy but graceful on the earth. He is a terrifying warrior, yes, a man who can cut through a Saxon shield-wall without breaking his rhythm. But when he looks at you, there is no violence, there is only a deep, grounding warmth.
"If you hold your breath," Ubbe rumble softly, stopping right in front of you. tilting his head. "Your muscles become stiff. Like the frozen branches in the deep winter. And what happen to the frozen branch when the storm hit? It snaps."
He bend down, picking up the heavy wooden shield from the mud. He does not hand it back to you, instead, he step directly into your space. You can feel the heat coming off his skin, smelling of woodsmoke, old leather, and the salt of the sea.
"Show me how you hold the knife," he asks gently.
You raise the dagger and grip it so tight your knuckles are completely white, the veins popping in your wrist.
Ubbe smile. It is a small, secret thing hiding in his beard. He reaches out, his large, calloused hands covering yours. His touch is so delicate, so careful, like he is handling a newborn bird, not a weapon of war. He gently pries your stiff fingers open a little.
"Do not choke the steel," he whispers, his rough thumb slowly stroking the back of your hand to relax your shivering skin. "It is an extension of your arm. The iron has no power if your blood do not flow into it."
He steps behind you. You feel his broad chest press lightly against your back, a solid wall of safety. His hands slide up your bare arms, adjusting your elbows. His long fingers come to rest heavy and warm on your waist, slowly turning your hips to fix your stance. He is so observant. He feel every place where your body hold the fear and the tension, and he melt it away just by being there.
"Keep your knees soft," Ubbe murmurs."You fight the weapon, not the man. If you look at the man, you will fear him. Look at the blade. Now... turn and strike me."
He steps back, his hands resting easily on his own hips, waiting.
You turn, taking a deep breath to fill your lungs, and you lunge. You thrust the dagger directly toward his chest.
Ubbe does not even blink. He move like water spilling over a rock, stepping to the side so your blade hits nothing but the air. He taps the back of your shoulder playfully as you stumble past him.
"Too slow," he teases, his voice rich with a quiet amusement. "Again."
You spin around, you will not let him tease you so easily. You swing again, a wide, angry arc. Ubbe catch your wrist in the air. He does not squeeze hard enough to bruise the skin, just enough to stop your momentum. He twists his body, meant to show you how a warrior would use your own speed to throw you to the ground.
But you remember what he said, keep your knees soft. Instead of fighting his iron grip, you drop your weight entirely, sweep your leather boot out across the mud to catch his ankle.
It surprises him, you see his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, a flash of pure shock.
He loses his balance, but Ubbe is a creature of instinct, born for the battle. As he falls backwards into the damp, mossy earth, his arms wrap tight around your waist, pulling you with him so you do not hit the ground hard.
You both crash into the soft earth and the mud, the iron dagger slip from your hand, forgotten in the grass. The world spin in a blur of blue sky and dirt, and suddenly, the heavy, warm weight of him is pinning you down.
Ubbe straddle your hips, he catches both of your wrists in one of his large hands, pinning them above your head. It is not a cruel grip, just a gentle, heavy trap. His chest is heaving against yours, and for a second, you freeze, thinking the Prince might be angry that you trick him and put him in the dirt.
But then, he looks down at you. The loose dirt is catching in his messy, braided hair. Slowly, a crooked smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth—the exact, terrifyingly beautiful ghost of Ragnar Lothbrok's smile. His eyes shine with a bright, playful fire that make your breath catch in your throat.
"You see?" Ubbe whisper, his voice a dark, thrilling purr vibrating in his chest. "You drop your weight. You use my own movement against me. You listen well."
"I think I win," you breathe, looking up at his lips, your heart beating a wild war-drum against your ribs. "You are on the ground, son of Ragnar."
"I am on top of you," Ubbe corrects softly, his smirk widening into a full, brilliant smile. He lower his head, his nose brushing affectionately against yours. "In a real battle, you are dead now, little shield-maiden. I claim your life."
"Then take my life, Viking," you challenge, a bold, breathless smile breaking on your face. "If the Gods will it."
Ubbe chuckle, a low, rumbling sound that vibrate straight into your bones. He does not claim the victory of the sword. He lets go of your wrists entirely, burying his large hands into the damp earth beside your head to hold his weight. He lean down, completely blocking out the grey sky, and capture your lips.
It is a sweet, deep kiss, hungry but so incredibly gentle. He steals the breath from your lungs, his lips moving against yours with the same patient, beautiful rhythm he used to teach you.
Summary: Left behind to rule a freezing Kattegat, you find yourself drowning in the dark winter months. But while the sun is gone, the tide remains. As you turn to Ubbe for survival, you realize that the man you looked to for an anchor has become the only thing keeping you warm.
Angst / Comfort
Warnings: Infidelity, loneliness, winter depression themes, finding comfort in the wrong brother.
Words: 2.6k
The negotiation is not a talk. With Bjorn Ironside, nothing is ever small enough to be a talk; it is a collision of worlds.
It happens three nights before the ice breaks, in a Great Hall that feels less like a home and more like the belly of a sleeping beast. The air is thick, hanging heavy with the stinging haze of woodsmoke and the smell of stale ale and wet wool. The darkness presses in against the fire pit, where the logs hiss and spit like angry spirits, casting long, twisting shadows that dance on the walls like the Norns weaving a fate you are too afraid to read.
Bjorn is pacing, he is always moving. He cannot sit still, too big for this room, his shoulders brushing the shadows, his presence filling every crack in the wood. He looks like a bear trapped in a cage of gold. He drinks from his horn, spills ale on his beard, wipes it with a hand that shakes not from fear, but from a terrible, restless energy that burns him from the inside.
Ubbe sits opposite him on the bench. He is the stillness to Bjorn’s chaos, the water to Bjorn’s fire. He is running a whetstone over his axe blade, making a sound that cuts through the tension like a knife through linen. He is ready to go West, to follow the ghost of Floki, to find the black earth and the peace he craves more than breath.
"You cannot go," Bjorn says, his voice deep and grinding, like stones rolling in a riverbed. It is a command dressed as a plea.
Ubbe does not look up from the glinting metal of his axe. "Ship is loaded, brother. People wait for the tide. I go West."
"The West can wait!" Bjorn roars, slamming his hand onto the table so hard the heavy cups jump and rattle. He leans in close, his blue eyes wide and frantic, burning with a fire that consumes everything it touches—including you. "But the Mediterranean... the sea... it sings to me, Ubbe. It screams in my blood, I have to go South, I have to map the world. I have to be the Ironside, or I am nothing but a shadow of our father."
"So go," Ubbe replies, his voice flat, weary of his brother’s thunder. "And I will go find the Golden Land."
"And who sits in the chair?" Bjorn demands, the question hanging between them like a blade. "My mother... she has put down the sword. She wants to be a farmer now, she wants to touch the dirt and listen to the wind, not the screams of dying men. She is done, she retires to her ghosts."
"Hvitserk is here," Ubbe says, shrugging a shoulder.
Bjorn makes a sound in his throat, a dark, disgusted growl, and jerks his chin toward the corner where Hvitserk is slumped against a pillar. Your eyes follow his gesture. Hvitserk is twitching, his eyes wide and seeing things that are not there—demons, gods. He is lost to the mushrooms and the madness, his mind a broken shield that can protect no one.
"Hvitserk?" Bjorn whispers, the word tasting of bile. "Look at him. If I leave him the chair, I come back to nothing. Or I come back to Ivar sitting on my chair, laughing over my bones."
Bjorn turns to you then. You are sitting by the fire, trying to mend a tear in a wool tunic, trying to make yourself small in the presence of these titans. He walks to you, the floor groaning under his weight, and looks down at you with that fierce, terrifying love that feels like a weight on your chest. He sees you, he sees the strength in your spine, but he also sees the terror in your eyes.
"She can rule," Bjorn says to Ubbe, though his eyes never leave your face. "She has the head of a Queen and the blood of the North. But she is one woman. The Earls... they are hungry. They see a woman alone, they see meat." He reaches out and grabs Ubbe’s forearm, digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise. "I need someone I can trust to stand beside her. To rule with her. "
Ubbe looks at you then. He sees the way the needle trembles in your hand. He sees the terror you are trying to hide behind the curtain of your hair. He knows you do not want to be left alone in the dark with a madman and a city of wolves. He sighs, a long, heavy sound of a dream dying, and sets his axe down on the table.
"I will stay," he says softly.
The harbor is a screaming chaos—goats bleating in terror, metal clanking against wood, men shouting oaths to Odin as they load the final barrels.
Bjorn stands on the gangplank like a titan carved from granite. The armor makes him broad, a mountain of leather and ringmail, vibrating with the electric thrill of the unknown. He is not looking at Kattegat, nor at the people cheering his name; he is looking at the horizon, already gone in his spirit. He is the sun, and he must burn.
He turns to you last.
He grabs your face. His hands are massive, warm, and calloused. They swallow you whole. His thumbs drag roughly against your cheekbones, a friction that burns in the best way. You look up at him, and your heart stutters. He is magnificent. He is everything you have ever wanted, a god of war who chose you to share his bed.
"You look at me like I am already a ghost," he laughs, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, vibrating through your own ribs.
"I look at you like a wife who knows the sea is a jealous whore," you answer, your voice small and torn away by the wind. "She takes the best men."
Bjorn grins, a blinding flash of white teeth in his beard. "The sea can have the wood of my ship. You have my soul."
He kisses you then, and it is not gentle. It is a war. He kisses you like he wants to consume you, to breathe your air until your lungs are empty and you are nothing but a vessel for his memory. His beard scratches your skin, his mouth is hot and demanding. It tastes of possession. It tastes of mine. You cling to his armor, the cold metal against your fingers, desperate to anchor him to the earth, but he is already drifting.
When he pulls away, breathless, he looks over your shoulder to where Ubbe stands by a post, leaning heavily on his axe. Ubbe is not wearing his travel cloak; he looks stripped, empty, watching the brother he loves leave for the glory he craves.
"Keep the gate, brother," Bjorn commands, his voice carrying over the surf. "Do not let the wolves in."
"Go," Ubbe nods, his face stone. "Find your glory."
You watch the sails turn red in the distance, shrinking until they are nothing but drops of blood on the grey water, and then nothing at all. You stand there until the cold bites through the soles of your boots and your fingers are numb. Ubbe steps beside you, close enough to block the wind but not touching you. He stares at the empty horizon, and you feel his loss as if it is your own.
"Come," he says, his voice rough. "The wind has teeth today."
The sun forgets to rise over Kattegat, shattering the days into darkness, leaving the world in a freezing cold. Lagertha is gone to her farm, burying herself in the silence of the earth, leaving you alone in the Great Hall with the echo of your own footsteps.
You are drowning.
It is the weight of the gold arm ring, heavy on your wrist, a shackle of leadership you never asked for. People come to you from the dawn to the wolf-hour, a never-ending line of complaints and needs. My sheep is sick. He stole my wood. The catch is empty. You must hold it all in your head. You use notched sticks to count the grain sacks, you use river stones to count the silver, but your mind is full of numbers and anger and the crushing fear of failure.
You are sitting at the high table, the thralls asleep in the straw, the fire dying down to embers that cast twisted, skeletal shadows against the walls. You are trying to remember if the Earl from the West paid his tax or if he lied to your face, but the thoughts slip through your fingers like water. You bury your face in your hands, pulling at your hair, tears of frustration pricking your eyes hot and fast.
Ubbe pours ale into a cup and slides it across the wood. "Drink," he says.
"I cannot be drunk," you snap, your voice cracking. "I have to think. I have to fix this."
"You think too much. You will break, and then who will rule?" Ubbe sits next to you. He is close and he smells of woodsmoke, old leather, and the sweat of a man who has been chopping wood to keep the cold at bay. He is not looking at you with pity. He is looking at you with hunger.
The Viking man are not soft, they do not talk of feelings; they talk with the body, they talk with the blood.
You look at Ubbe, freezing, shivering in your furs. You are so lonely that your bones ache with it, a hollow ache that nothing seems to fill. You miss Bjorn’s fire, his noise, his heat, but Bjorn is gone. Ubbe is here, warm and alive. And in his eyes, you see the same loneliness reflected back at you.
"Make it quiet," you whisper, the words barely forming. You don't know who speaks them—maybe it was the wind, maybe it was the madness of the winter.
Ubbe doesn't ask, but he reaches for you. It is a collision. He pulls you into his lap, his hands rough and urgent under your furs, seeking the heat of your skin like a dying man seeking a hearth. You gasp, biting his shoulder to stifle the scream building in your throat. It is desperate. It is two animals trying to survive the freeze, trying to prove they are still flesh and blood.
You kiss him like you are starving. You need the friction, the pain, the bite of his teeth. You need to feel the blood pumping to know you are not just a ruler, not just a symbol, but a woman. He pushes you back against the table, scattering the counting stones across the floor, and there is no gentleness, only the frantic, hard rhythm of need. You take him inside you because you need to be filled, you need to be anchored to the earth so the winter wind doesn't blow you away into the dark.
The feelings sneak in during the quiet, dark hours when the sweat dries on the skin and the fire has turned to ash.
You expected to feel shame, to feel the weight of betrayal crushing you. But when you look at Ubbe, lying next to you in the pile of furs, his hair messy and his blue eyes watching the ceiling beams, you feel only a strange, terrifying peace.
This is how the love grows. Night after night, you seek him. First for the pleasure, to forget the ruling, to forget the cold. But then, for the words. Ubbe traces the line of your spine with a calloused finger, a touch so gentle it makes you shiver more than the wind. He holds you differently than Bjorn. Bjorn holds you like a prize; Ubbe holds you like a secret.
"Tell me about the Golden Land," you whisper against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.
"It is green," he says softly, his voice deep and vibrating against your ear. "The soil is black and rich, so soft you can dig it with your hands. No rocks. No ice. I could build a house there, a big one, with a roof that does not leak and a hearth that never goes cold."
"And no Earls complaining?"
He chuckles, a warm, rumbling sound. "No Earls. Just us. And the gods."
He becomes your sanity. When you sit on the throne and the anger rises in your throat, choking you, you look at Ubbe standing by the pillar. He gives you a small look, a tiny nod, a tightening of his jaw.
Bjorn is the sun that burns the world. He is the passion that consumes. But Ubbe is the earth. He is the steady ground under your feet when the world is spinning. And you realize, with a cold terror in your heart, that you cannot survive the fire without the earth to stand on. You love them both, and the love is stretching your soul until it is thin.
Spring breaks the ice with a sound like a cracking bone. The horn shakes the roof beams and vibrates in your teeth. You are in the armory with Ubbe, counting the rusted shields when you both freeze and the air leaves the room.
"Bjorn," Ubbe breathes, and his face goes pale, the blood draining away.
Your heart slams against your ribs like a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage. Bjorn. The husband. The King. He is alive. A rush of joy hits you, dizzying and bright—you missed his noise, his strength, his beautiful chaos. You missed the way he makes you feel invincible.
"He is back!" you drop the shield and run.
You run out of the Hall, your dress dragging in the mud, your hair flying wild. The village is screaming with joy. You see the red stripes of the sails in the harbor, cutting through the mist like wounds.
You run faster, breathless, needing to see him. To touch him. To know he is real.
But as you reach the wooden planks of the docks, the crowd pushing and surging around you, a sudden, icy terror grabs your throat. A cold hand squeezing your heart.
You are running to your husband, but you are leaving the man who kept you alive in the dark.
It is an instinct, a reflex of the soul, faster than thought. You reach your hand back behind you. Ubbe catches your hand, his fingers lock with yours—tight, hard, desperate.
You do not stop running and he does not let go. You pull him with you to the water’s edge, your hands fused together.
There is Bjorn, standing on the prow of the ship, golden and huge, covered in the dust of the south and the blood of his enemies, looking like a god of war returned to earth. He sees you, roars your name and opens his arms wide to claim what is his.
You smile, you are happy he is home, but your fingernails are digging into Ubbe’s palm, holding on for dear life, and you know... you know in the deepest, darkest part of your blood that you can never let him go again.
