summary: logan skips drunk shakespeare and you go looking for him. short fic, slightly hurt/comfort, mostly fluff. requested!
Unlike the packed hallways of the Drama building tonight, Briar U’s sports arena looks completely empty aside from Logan’s car parked right outside.
You smile once you spot it, a twinge of self-righteousness hitting you, because Logan might be sneaky and try to hide from everyone else, but goddamn, you know him. Of course he’d be here, training after midnight while his friends are all getting drunk.
Once inside, you move in silence, sitting on the player’s bench and watching as he tosses the puck towards the goal again and again, growing frustrated every time it hits the acrylic panel instead. A particularly loud bang makes him groan and take off his gear, allowing him to finally spot you on the side of the rink, his face twisting in a confused amusement, “Hey. I didn’t see you there.”
“Hello.” You say, standing up as he skates in your direction, “Didn’t know you were a midnight practice kind of guy.”
Logan chuckles, “Sometimes. It helps when I have trouble sleeping, you know?” he points to his own head, “I thought you were supposed to be at Drunk Shakespeare?”
You nod, “I was, ditched the afterparty. You missed Garrett dancing on stage, by the way.”
He barely holds back a laugh, “Damn, really?” You hum, “Already missed Tuck’s rendition of Save a Horse on Malone’s. I’m missing out on all the fun stuff lately.”
“Well, you’ve been here a lot.”
A coy smile appears on his face, “I guess so, yeah.”
You stare at him, carefully picking your next words.
Logan isn’t the type to be open about his feelings, the only time you’ve ever had him going up to you being a drunken confession after being passed over in his very first draft. He apologized profusely, but you remember how it felt weirdly nice. The sort of intimacy that it brought between the two of you, not enough to cross the line of friendship, but a little something there. He didn’t have to hide these feelings away anymore, and you liked being the secret-holder of his sorrows.
You keep the memory close to your heart, along with a vow to keep checking on him, as you do now.
Moving a bit closer, your fingertip touches his forehead pointedly, “Wanna tell me what’s going on there then?”
Logan chuckles, gently grabbing your wrist and pushing your hand off his face, “Just, you know… Had a talk with Jules today.”
You see the discomfort in his face, and still, you dig into it anyway, “Yeah? About what?”
“The usual.” He shrugs, “Hockey, the garage, Mom.”
“Is she okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Still in rehab,” He looks away from you, heading to the door, “Haven’t talked to her recently.”
You hum, “What did Jules say?”
Logan rolls his eyes, taking the rest of his gear off, “Reminded me what a miserable future awaits me if I don’t make it into Hockey,” he says, a scowl on his face as he gets more sarcastic, “No biggie.”
“That’s a lot of pressure for you to hold, Logan,” you say.
“It’s true, though.” He plops down on the bench, looking up at you, “And I might not have a chance, and I have to work, like, twice, three, ten times as much as– As any other player because they might be able to go a different way, but I can’t afford to. I have to make it.”
Logan huffs, all the frustration now out of his system. You sit down next to him, his eyes following you.
“This is taking a tool on you, yeah?”
He nods, “Fuck, you have no idea.”
You don’t feel bad for Logan, because you know he wouldn’t want you to pity him. Still, you can’t help but think how unfair of a situation it is, and how much you wish things were different for him. You know there’s not much you can do but be there for him, and Logan desperately needs someone to do it, to see the softness he hides behind a brick wall of obligations and pay him some attention — him, not his potential, not his future self. That’s all you can offer, but that’s also all he wants, really.
Your arms reach out to him, hand patting his back in a soothing manner, “I’m sorry. It’s a lot for you to deal with,” your fingers stretch to his shoulder, pulling him closer.
Logan follows your movement, easy like a rag doll, his head dropping into your shoulder. His eyes flutter closed, “I’m tired,” he murmurs, “Just wanna take my mind off of it a little.”
You snort, “I don’t think midnight hockey is the way to do it,” you say, hand around his shoulder in a gentle squeeze, “But a beer at Malone’s could be the way, if you’re up to it.”
He raises his head up from your shoulder, the corners of his mouth moving slightly up, and you know you hit the jackpot, “Just you and me?”
If there's a twinge of embarrassment from his suggestion, you don’t acknowledge it, though your skin definitely feels warmer, “Yeah, just you and me.”
“Okay, sounds like fun,” he says, then quickly standing up from the bench like he can’t wait for it, “Shall we?”
You nod, chuckling at his urgency, “Sure.”
He grabs his bag, and waits for you to follow him. Once you get closer, his hand goes to your upper arm, “Thanks, by the way.”
You shake your head, “I didn’t do anything.”
“You listened,” he says, his voice so earnest, “You always do.”
Logan’s big, dark eyes get more intense when he’s being sincere. You can’t help but shy under them, “That’s okay, I’m– Um, you know, just being a good friend.”
He watches your face for a moment. You don’t know what he’s looking for, but he must’ve found it, for something pushes him to move, “Yeah, well,” his hand slips down, traveling over your arm and grabbing your hand, “Thank you anyway.”
Your lips curve into a smile, thumb caressing the back of his hand. You keep walking, pulling him behind, and Logan holds onto your hand all the way to Malone’s.
notes: this is also loosely based on the lyrics of “it’s nice to have a friend” by taylor swift but i didn’t want to use the same name lol. thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are very much appreciated! <3
a/n: i got too into this so i can't even use it as the masterlist for whatever i write for them lmao
"like, is it the real thing, or is it just a one night stand?"
BUZZCUT!RAFE who you'd first noticed in the halls, all throughout high school. he was loud, unpredictable and always with the same crowd. to you, he was just another privileged douche with too much money and an ego too big.
BUZZCUT!RAFE who noticed you long before he ever spoke to you. gorgeous and confident with this intimidating, unapproachable energy that made most guys try their luck or keep their distance. and while other girls went out of their way to get his attention or laugh at his jokes, you would walk right past him like he was invisible. he was used to getting whatever he wanted, so your indifference made him curious.
BUZZCUT!RAFE who couldn't not know you any longer, making his move at prom. rafe didn't bring a date—half the island had asked him, but he couldn't be bothered. you went with a guy from your grade who had asked you nicely, and you figured, why not? and by the time everyone had shown up to a beachfront after party, you were over your date and slipped away into the kitchen to grab a drink, when rafe walked in a minute later. instead of backing out when he saw you, he leaned against the counter, smirked, and tried to throw some line your way. to his own shock, you didn't blush or giggle. you just leaned against the kitchen island, looked him dead in the eye, and gave him a stubborn retort that deflated his ego. you treated him like a regular person, unimpressed by his family name or status. instead of getting mad, rafe was fascinated. he stayed in that kitchen talking to you for an hour, captivated by your wit and the fact that he actually had to work to keep up with you.
BUZZCUT!RAFE who, after that night, you'd started seeing at bonfires, beach parties, and casual hangouts considering your two friend groups had somehow started to merge. the more you were around him, the more you realized the rumors surrounding him, that you'd been hearing since freshman year of high school, didn't capture who he actually was, or who he'd become. he was calmer now it seemed, focused on bettering himself, and incredibly attentive—even buzzing his hair to signal a fresh start.
BUZZCUT!RAFE who, after one long impromptu night of driving around in his truck listening to music, ended up back at his place with you staring at him in the passenger seat. you slept together that night—passionate, intense, and something that shifted the ground beneath your feet. the next morning, you panicked. you didn't want to be another casualty of rafe cameron's board game of girls. you woke up, threw your clothes on, and acted distant when he woke up, trying to brush it off as a casual mistake. but he didn't let you slide out the door, stepping into your path, blocking the doorway and placing his hands on your hips, crowding you into his space as he forced you to look up at him. his jaw was tight, but his voice was soft—"you're spinning a whole bunch of bullshit in your head right now, thinking this was a game to me. it wasn't. don't walk out of here acting like last night didn't mean anything, because it meant somethin' to me."
BUZZCUT!RAFE who didn’t make you his girlfriend that morning—not because he didn't want to, but because he wanted to do it right. he knew you were a prize, a high-status girl who deserved high-status shit, and he wanted to prove to you how serious he was. it took him three weeks to ask—the weeks leading up to it filled with him spoiling you with dates, meeting your parents and winning them over, and perfectly integrating himself into who you were.
BUZZCUT!RAFE who didn't do a super massive gesture because he knew you wouldn't want it. he asked you out for a late-night cruise, telling you to wear something comfortable. when you climbed aboard, you found the deck covered in blankets, your favorite food warming in containers, and a speaker playing the same playlist he'd played in his car that night. he took the boat out to a secluded spot on the marsh where the water looked like glass under the moonlight. after you both ate and laughed, you were sitting in his lap in one of his grey hoodies he brought just in case you got cold. he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. he didn't hand you a promise ring. it was a bracelet, one you'd mentioned once in conversation and not even with him. he clasped it around your wrist, hands lingering over your skin. he looked down at you, thumb tracing your jawline—"i'm not playin' you, and i'm sure as hell not lettin' anyone else think they have a chance with you. you're my girl now. i'm takin' care of you from here on out, alright?"
BUZZCUT!RAFE whose polo shirts and slacks are strictly for functions, spending most days in high-end loungewear—oversized sweatpants, heavy-hooded streetwear sweatshirts, and sneakers
BUZZCUT!RAFE whose truck always smells like his cologne and your perfume, bass vibrating through the seats. his playlists are a mix of trap, R&B, and rap (think future, gunna, drake, j.cole and brent faiyaz). he knows every lyric, rapping them to you while keeping one hand resting on your thigh
BLACK!KOOK!GF who, to the world, is too gorgeous for your own good, making most label you unapproachable—witty, an envious sense of style, and an air of confidence that makes people naturally clear a path for you. rafe is obsessed, loving that, to everyone else, you look like a woman who wouldn't give anyone the time of day, knowing that the moment you two are alone, you turn into his baby
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who act like two giant, goofy kids when alone (or not). rafe will randomly pick you up and sling you over his shoulder while you're trying to do something, you screaming and hitting his back while he chuckles. you chase each other through the halls of the house, occasionally knocking over a vase or stubbing toes, ending up in a laughing heap on the floor. you drag him into arts and crafts—making him do pottery or painting. he pretends to complain, but always ends up sitting there with a focused look on his face
BUZZCUT!RAFE who loves taking you out on the boat. he captains while you sunbathe on the deck in a designer bikini. he keeps a constant eye on you, stepping away from the wheel just to rub sunscreen onto your back, kissing your shoulders, and whispering how beautiful you look. and when the sun goes down and the breeze picks up, he tosses you a hoodie and pulls you into his lap while the boat drifts, wrapping his arms around you, just content to watch the water.
BLACK!KOOK!GF who doesn't can't spend your money when rafe is around. if you try to pay for your food, drinks, nails, or clothes—anything—he will glare at you, pull out his card, and push yours away. if you somehow manage to pay before he can stop you or he isn't around to stop you, he'll zelle you double the amount with the note, "i'm gonna beat your ass."
BUZZCUT!RAFE who spoils you to a fault, buys you anything you glance at. it reached a point where your closet was overflowing with Chanel, Bottega Veneta, Telfar bags, and endless rows of shoes.
"rafe, seriously, you need to stop buying me stuff. i don't have room for it."
"i'll buy you more room for it, then."
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF whose number one love language (besides physical touch) is music. before those headache inducing Cameron family foundation galas or country club charity events, rafe always gets visibly tense—jaw tight, shoulders locked in place under his suit jacket. right before one though, you text him a link to a playlist. now he listens to it on his way to every one
BUZZCUT!RAFE who you'd told casually one night that you can’t read to songs that have lyrics because you get distracted. rafe didn't say anything at the time. but the next morning, you find a playlist in your library titled "focus, baby". it's all instrumentals, some cinematic lo-fi here and there, ambient rap beats, and classical piano tracks he'd spent hours digging up from the memory of the music his biological mother used to listen to with him. he's never shared those songs with anyone, not even sarah
BUZZCUT!RAFE who no longer yells, throws things, or loses his temper. especially not during arguments with you—his frustration showing in a clenched jaw, a hardened gaze, and a deeply firm tone.
BUZZCUT!RAFE who uses blunt language when he's annoyed—"what the fuck are you talkin' about right now?" or "you're saying a whole bunch of bullshit."
BLACK!KOOK!GF who doesn't do arguments in the first place, but hates them with rafe. independent, but a softie with him. if the tension goes on too long, your eyes well up with tears, and the second a tear rolls down your cheek, rafe's shoulders fall and he drops his head, lets out a sigh, and steps to you, pulling you against his chest. but because you're stubborn, you tend to struggle at first, pushing his chest—"get off me." but he never lets go. he just wraps his arms tighter around your waist, buries his face in your neck—"jus' calm down. i'm sorry, alright? just breathe."
BUZZCUT!RAFE whose family approves of you. ward is proud rafe found someone who comes from an established, wealthy kook family with an immaculate reputation. ward sees you as an asset to uphold the Cameron name. sarah was hesitant at first. because of your untouchable exterior, she thought you were a typical clicky, elitist kook girl. but once she actually sat down and talked to you, you two clicked. now, she tends to stop by your house and raid your closet until rafe shows up, kicking her out.
BLACK!KOOK!GF whose parents knew about rafe's wild past and were wary at first. but rafe consistently showed up and proved himself. so much so, that your house became his home. your family gave him the unconditional love his own never could. your mom always cooks and leaves him leftovers. your dad invites him over to sit on the couch, drink a beer, and yell at sports on the tv. he's even met your extended family—your older brother and sister, who have moved away, trust him. when they bring their kids down for the holidays, your nieces and nephews tackle him to the floor yelling, "uncle rafey!". the first time they did that, rafe actually had to step into the bathroom to hide his tears because he had never felt so accepted
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who are the power couple of the island. other kook guys envy rafe, and kook girls try to mirror your style and demeanor. but no one dares disrespect either of you. even pogues were shocked at first. they expected rafe to stay a loose cannon forever. but when they see him out with you—calm, collected, protective, and completely sober—they respect it. they know you don't take any bullshit, and they respect that you seemed to have tamed such a guy just by loving him right
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who had a wild night when you both breathed 'i love you' into each other's mouthes and, weeks later, snuck off to a tattoo shop. you get matching micro-tattoos of each other’s first initials. you get his "R" tucked subtly behind your ear or on the inside of your finger, and he gets your initial in a sharp, clean font on the inside of his wrist
BUZZCUT!RAFE who's still pretty gentle in the bedroom, but when the heat catches up to him, he gets a little rougher. he likes to use his weight to pin you down, hands anchoring your wrists above your head or gripping your hips to guide your movements. he'll bite your shoulder or the skin of your neck. he'll wrap his hand around the base of your hair to tilt your head back for a sloppy kiss
BUZZCUT!RAFE who is overly vocal in the moment. he speaks in a low, raspy murmur right against your ear or mouth., telling you exactly what is it he wants or asking you.
"arch your back f'me,"
"nuh-uh, don't close your eyes, look at me"
"tell me what you want"
"gotta speak up angel, can't hear you"
BUZZCUT!RAFE whose two biggest kinks are breeding and marking. with marking applying to him, specifically. nothing makes him a happier camper than walking around knowing he's covered in hickeys, scratch marks, and the occasional bites—whether people can see them or not
BUZZCUT!RAFE who most likely also has some kind of underlying size kink—loving the way you squirm, muttering things like, "it's too much" or "slow down" or "you're too deep"—especially considering, half the time those words tumble from your lips, he isn't even halfway in yet. he finds it adorable that you sometimes struggle or gag giving him head, you seeming dissatisfied that you couldn't go all the way down on it, but unbeknownst to you for a while, however, it only pushed him closer to that edge
BLACK!KOOK!GF who is just as vocal. kind of a soft brat, you tend to make high-pitched, whiny sounds when he's teasing you or moving too slow. you moan his name, whisper what you want, and even gets relatively sassy even in bed—which only makes him smirk and drive in a little harder just to cut your words off
BLACK!KOOK!GF who, when you have a fresh silk press or a perfectly laid ponytail, always warns him beforehand—"rafe, do not mess up my hair. i'm so fuckin' serious." he'll smirk and promise to be careful, but the moment things get hot and heavy, his hands find the back of your neck, his fingers burying into your hair, sweat sliding off of his body and onto yours, and before you know it, your hair is done for
BLACK!KOOK!GF who, the second it's over, will look in the mirror, see the puffiness at your roots, and let out a dramatic, whiny groan. rafe will walk up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, kiss your shoulder, and look at your hair in the mirror with a smug, satisfied grin before slapping your ass and pulling away. and, before you can open your mouth to chew him out for it, you hear the chime on your phone—an apple pay notification popping up for $250
but it doesn't stop at your hair, BUZZCUT!RAFE treats your beauty maintenance like a monthly bill that he is solely responsible for. he has his card on file with your nail tech, your lash artist, and your esthetician. if you mention wanting a new tattoo or a new piercing, he just hums, asks you to send him the inspo pic and, from there, you're right to expect a text from him on a random day in the middle of the week with a date and time, the link to one of the more renowned tattoo shops, his only words underneath, 'i already handled the deposit. i'll pay the rest when i take you to get it.' he loves seeing you love yourself, and he takes pride in knowing he’s the one providing it for you
BLACK!KOOK!GF who, because you are very meticulous about your appearance, sometimes refuses to go to a hair stylist—especially when you want a specific look
BUZZCUT!RAFE who both admires and hates when you decide to do your own hair. it's not because he doesn't like the look or the mess it creates for the next 6 to 12 hours—he thinks you look breathtaking in anything, especially boho braids, and he could care less about the hair all over the bathroom floor—it’s because he cannot stand seeing you suffer for hours. when he sees you pulling out the packs of hair and setting up your mirrors, his jaw tightens—"i thought we talked about this. baby, i'll pay double whatever your lady charges to get you in her chair today. i don't want you standing on your feet and cramping your hands up for ten hours straight. it's ridiculous. let me take care of it."
and because BLACK!KOOK!GF has to be the definition of a soft brat, you’ll pout and sigh, rolling your eyes, insisting that nobody else does the parts right or gets the boho curls to sit exactly how you want them.
and BUZZCUT!RAFE, realizing you aren't backing down, sighs and rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie, "alright, fine. then i'm helping. show me." and he'll sit on a stool in your shared bathroom for hours, dedicated to helping you manage your hair. and though his hands are large and calloused from working on cars and boats, the way he touches your head is unbelievably gentle. he's focused on not pulling your edges into the braids along your hairline or causing you any pain. he'll take extra care to make sure your parts are straight, leaning in with his tongue is slightly poking out in concentration.
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who, because you both have to maintain polished personas, during the day at least, the anticipation built up through text is unfathomable. if rafe is stuck in something family or business related, you’ll send him a quick 'fit check' selfie in the mirror. it looks innocent to anyone else, but you're wearing one of the silk or lace sets he bought you under an oversized piece of clothing of his, the material peeking out just enough for only him to see
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who aren't super into BDSM or anything, but love thrill-seeking. rafe loves mirrors, and he will position you so you have to watch exactly what he's doing to you. he also loves using his ties or scarves to lightly bind your hands to the headboard just to watch you squirm and whine for him when he holds back from giving you what you want
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who are pretty calculated risk-takers. you definitely don't do anything reckless in the middle of a crowded lawn, but you utilize private spaces—over the hood of his truck in the garage, out on the boat in the middle of the marsh, the guest bathroom at the country club
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who don't care about PDA. you aren't trashy or messy about it, but rafe especially makes it very clear that you are off the market—hand on your lower back, you clinging to his bicep, his hand on your thigh under tables or in vehicles, you tucked into his side at parties, you fixing his collar, you smoothing his buzzcut as some kind of self-soothing gesture, leaving soft kisses along his jaw and neck and sucking your teeth when he pulls away (needing to calm you down before he'd have to step away and calm himself down)
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who eventually step out from under their parents and move in together, eventually recognizing it as one of the best decisions of their lives
...YEARS LATER
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF where you now run a luxury design firm, while rafe manages high-end real estate and his true passion—cars
BUZZCUT!RAFE who dropped a good amount on a massive private garage off the island that houses his growing collection of luxury vehicles—a matte black ferrari, a vintage mercedes-benz, a lamborghini, and a custom bmw—and the only person allowed inside that garage, and allowed to drive those cars besides him, is you. he loves watching you drive his ferrari with your sunglasses on, looking in your element, while he sits in the passenger seat just admiring his view
BUZZCUT!RAFE who gives you your dream proposal, built up and planned over months—years—mentally storing every little thing you said you ever wanted and dreamed of. though, he did almost get cursed out when he didn't answer his phone for hours in favor of planning the proposal in question. the ring was custom and everything that you wanted and you were in tears by the end of the night, saying yes over and over (for more reasons than one)
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF who eventually get married (obviously) and have two kids—a boy and a girl.
and remember the matching tattoos? yeah, BUZZCUT!RAFE takes it way further once he’s fully established in his career and away from ward's watchful and judgemental gaze. he gets your full first name tattooed in elegant script over his ribs, right over his heart. he loves looking in the mirror while brushing his teeth, seeing your name permanently etched on his skin. and when your son and daughter are born, rafe immediately books that appointment. he gets their names and birth dates tattooed down his forearm. for a guy who grew up feeling like an unloved afterthought to his own father, wearing his wife and kids on his skin is his proudest badge of honor.
BUZZCUT!RAFE who's a phenomenal father because he knows exactly what not to do based on his own father's parenting. with your son, he always makes sure to tell him how proud of him he is in anything he does. he brings him to the garage, teaching him how engines work and letting him play with tools. he is firm with him, teaching him accountability, his emotions, and most importantly, how to respect women, especially when he isn't being the nicest to his sister
BUZZCUT!RAFE who is doomed as girl dad. your daughter has him wrapped around her little finger. she looks exactly like you, and rafe cannot say no to her, mirroring his struggles with you. he treats her like a princess, buying her every toy she asks for, which results in you having to yell at both of them to stop bringing things into the house when all of her dollhouses start to crowd the space
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF whose parenting styles perfectly compliment each other. you're the independent, loving mom who enables their fun, but you also teach them how to speak their minds and be confident in themselves. when it comes to discipline, rafe is the anchor. he never raises his voice at the kids, but he has a very firm, serious dad-voice that immediately makes them stop misbehaving in a way yours can't seem to. he'll kneel down to their eye level, "look at me. we don't act like that in this house. you wouldn't do that with me, so don't do it with her. now, apologize to your mother."
BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF whose family days involve packing up the truck, blasting some music that the kids now know all the words to by now, and taking them out to a private beach. rafe will carry both kids on his shoulders through the water while you watch from the sand, laughing as you take pictures.
...ODDLY SEXY OBSERVATIONS
outside of being the family each of them always dreamed of, BUZZCUT!RAFE & BLACK!KOOK!GF do still make quality time for one another, indulging in the hobbies of one another
BUZZCUT!RAFE likes the gun range. it helps with discipline and control. he'd started taking you after you gave birth, knowing post-partum anything wasn't the easiest thing to deal with. whenever you two go, he stands directly behind you, chest flush against your back. his hands wrap over yours to help you get the proper grip on the pistol and you don't tell him you've got it because you like it all too much—his frame against your back, his voice in your ear. he speaks in a low, raspy murmur, breath tickling your neck over the sound of the range—"relax your shoulders, baby. don't lock your elbows. line up the sight... right there, there y'go. and remember, squeeze, don't jerk."
nothing beats when BUZZCUT!RAFE drives his truck. whenever he has to reverse, he doesn’t use the backup camera, just throws his left hand on the steering wheel, turns his body, and grips the back of your headrest with his right hand, bicep flexing right next to your face. He'll glance back, steering with one hand, jaw clenched in concentration. it's just such an effortless, masculine thing that turns you on every single time
and he is obsessed with BLACK!KOOK!GF's intimidating confidence. if you two are out anywhere, there's always a chance that some man will try his hand with you, typically when they realize that rafe has left your side for some reason. you don't make a scene or yell, though. you just slowly look the guy up and down with total disdain, a look that never fails to embarrass men who can't take no for an answer or simply disregard the fact that you walked into wherever you were with a man wrapped around you, matching rings on your fingers. and rafe will often walk back just in time to see the guy scurrying away, sliding next to you, a laugh against your skin before he glares at him for the next hour
and, as mentioned, BUZZCUT!RAFE doesn't let anyone touch his cars except you. he finds it hot when you confidently take the keys without question—you'll slide into the driver's seat, adjust his rearview mirror to your height, pull down the sun visor to check your lip gloss, and change his trap music to your own slow R&B playlist. the sheer confidence you have handling his multi-hundred-thousand-dollar machinery like you own it drives him insane in the best way. he'll just lean back in the passenger seat, staring at your profile with pure adoration while you floor the gas.
and lastly, because BLACK!KOOK!GF is incredibly independent but turns into somewhat of a spoiled brat just for him, you have certain mannerisms when you don't get your way. if rafe playfully steals the last bite of your food or tells you 'no' just to tease you, you’ll roll your eyes, suck your teeth, and cross your arms, turning your back to him. to anyone else, that kind of sass wouldn't fly. to rafe, though? it's the hottest thing in the world, a sign that he now has to work to win your attention back. he'll smirk, lean over, wrap his arms around you from behind, and start kissing your jaw until you crack a smile.
"do you really wanna love me forever? or is it just a hit-and-run?"
Summary: grief doesn’t ask permission before it moves … and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that should’ve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person who’s still standing when everything else has fallen down
Warnings: you’re going to need tissues
Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.
He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.
“Dean, honey,” his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. “Are you holding up?”
He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.
“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”
Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.
Dead.
The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.
“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.
Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.
“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.
Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”
“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.
His chest tightens at the thought of you.
You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.
Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.
***
“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s
“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”
“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”
“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.
“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”
“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”
“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.
“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.
“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.
***
The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.
Dean turns.
You are walking down the center aisle.
His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.
Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.
He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.
You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.
The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.
“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”
Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.
You stand up.
A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.
You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.
You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.
You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.
“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”
You stop, swallowing hard.
“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”
A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.
“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”
You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.
Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.
“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”
You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.
“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house.
“My dad was driving,” you say softly.
Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.
“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”
You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.
“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”
You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.
“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”
“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.
“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”
Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.
“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”
Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.
“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.
“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”
“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.
“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”
You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.
You collapse.
You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.
But Dean is faster.
He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.
“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”
Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.
“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”
You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”
“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”
“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”
Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.
“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”
“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”
“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”
“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”
Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.
“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”
Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”
“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.
“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.
You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.
“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”
***
Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.
He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.
Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.
He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.
Empty.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.
“Hey, Dean?”
Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.
“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.
“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”
“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”
“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.
“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”
“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.
The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.
His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.
He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.
“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”
Silence.
He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”
Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.
Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.
The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.
“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.
He flips the light switch.
You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.
Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?
“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”
He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.
Your eyes are open.
A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”
But you don’t respond.
Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.
Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.
“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”
You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.
Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.
But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.
Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.
“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”
You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.
“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”
He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”
You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.
Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.
“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”
He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.
Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”
He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.
“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”
He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.
“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”
He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.
He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.
Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.
Dean freezes.
It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.
Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.
He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.
“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”
You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.
A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.
Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.
“Let’s go,” he says softly.
He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.
***
Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.
The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.
Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.
“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.
Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.
“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”
You don’t respond.
A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.
Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.
The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.
Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”
The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.
Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.
The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.
“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says.
You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.
“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.
Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”
You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.
Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”
You take a small sip.
They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.
“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.
Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.
“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”
“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”
And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.
***
The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.
It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.
The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.
“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.
“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.
The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.
“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.
You blink at it. “What is that?”
“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”
Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.
“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.
“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”
“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”
“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”
“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.
“No, you’re not.”
Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.
“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.
You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.
“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”
“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.
“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”
You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.
“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”
***
The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.
Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.
You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.
“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”
Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.
“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”
Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.
Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.
“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”
The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.
Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.
Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.
Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.
Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.
“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”
The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.
“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”
Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.
“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”
The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.
You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.
Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.
***
When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.
Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.
“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.
“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.
“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.
“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”
“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.
“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”
You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.
Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.
“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.
Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.
They all stop when you walk in.
There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.
But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”
“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.
“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”
“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”
“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”
“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”
“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.
Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”
The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.
Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.
After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.
“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.
“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.
“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”
“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”
“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.
He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.
The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.
“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”
“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”
“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”
“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.
You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.
You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.
Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.
As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.
The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.
Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.
***
Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.
The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.
He looks down.
You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.
Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.
He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.
You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.
“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.
He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.
He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.
Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.
But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.
Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.
He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.
He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.
About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.
Dean turns his head.
You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.
Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.
But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.
A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.
He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.
For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.
Then, the fourth second hits.
The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.
You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.
And now, you are in Dean’s bed.
You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.
The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.
You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.
But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.
He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.
You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.
“Dean,” you whisper.
The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.
You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.
“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.
His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”
“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.
“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”
You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.
“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”
Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.
“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.
“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”
“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You open your wet eyes.
Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.
“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”
You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.
“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”
“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.
“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”
“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.
“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”
“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”
The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.
You break.
You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.
And Dean breaks right along with you.
The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.
You hold him, and he holds you.
You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.
You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.
You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.
The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.
“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”
You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”
“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”
“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”
“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”
You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.
Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”
You look into his eyes, inches from your own.
“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”
The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.
Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.
You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.
“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.
The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.
But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.
“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.
“Never,” Dean replies instantly.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.
For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.
***
Grief is not a straight line.
It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.
But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.
Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.
The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.
You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.
He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.
A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.
“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.
“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.
“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”
You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”
“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”
You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.
Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.
You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.
The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.
So, you quit.
It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.
***
“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.
“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”
“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”
You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”
“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.
***
He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.
The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.
You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.
Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.
“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”
“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”
Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”
“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.
“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”
You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.
The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.
“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.
“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.
“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”
You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.
“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.
“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”
“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”
“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.
“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”
“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”
You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.
You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.
You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.
Hours later, the house finally quiets down.
Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.
You and Dean are left alone in the living room.
The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.
“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.
“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”
Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.
Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.
“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”
Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”
“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”
His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”
“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”
“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.
The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.
You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.
“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.
Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”
“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”
Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.
The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.
“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”
“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.
“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.
Your breath catches in your throat.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.
“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.
He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”
“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”
You stare at him, completely paralyzed.
For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.
But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.
“Then kiss me,” you whisper.
Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.
He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.
The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.
Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.
It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.
When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.
“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.
Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.
But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.
“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”
You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”
Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”
You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.
“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”
Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.
“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”
The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.
You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.
“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”
A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.
“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”
Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”
You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”
“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.
He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.
“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”
“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.
“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.
For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.
You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.
***
“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”
Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.
“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”
Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”
“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”
“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”
You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.
“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.
Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.
“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”
“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.
He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.
“Hey,” you whisper back.
“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.
Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.
“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”
Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”
***
The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.
You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.
The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.
You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.
Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.
“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”
Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”
A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.
“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”
The crowd erupts into applause.
It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.
You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.
“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.
You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.
You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.
He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.
You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.
Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.
Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.
A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.
You walk down the opposite set of stairs.
You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.
He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”
***
The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.
You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.
Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.
“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.
Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.
Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.
You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.
“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”
You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.
***
Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.
Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.
“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”
Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”
“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.
“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.
“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.
You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.
Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.
“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.
Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”
“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”
Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”
“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.
“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.
“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”
Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.
The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.
“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”
“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.
You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.
***
By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.
You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.
Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.
“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.
“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”
“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”
You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.
“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”
“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.
The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.
You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.
The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.
“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.
“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”
Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”
“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”
As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.
“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.
“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”
“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”
“You were very bossy.”
“And you loved it.”
You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”
The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.
The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.
Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.
He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.
You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”
“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”
“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.
Your breath hitches.
Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.
He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.
“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.
You freeze.
Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.
“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”
The air completely leaves your lungs.
You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.
“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”
Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.
You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.
You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.
And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.
The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.
***
The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.
“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”
You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.
It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.
You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.
You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.
Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.
“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.
Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.
“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”
“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”
“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”
You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”
“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”
Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.
The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.
He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.
“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”
Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”
“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”
***
The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.
You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.
“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.
She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.
“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.
You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.
A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.
Your breath completely catches in your throat.
“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”
“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.
“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.
The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.
Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.
He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”
“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”
A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.
“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”
You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.
“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”
“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.
She hands the envelope to Dean.
Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.
“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.
“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”
***
The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.
The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.
Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.
“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.
“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”
“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.
“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”
“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.
Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.
“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”
You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”
“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.
He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.
He hands it to you.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.
You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.
Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You look down at the envelope in your lap.
“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.
“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.
“On three,” you say.
“One,” Dean counts.
“Two,” you whisper.
“Three.”
Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.
There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.
It’s a boy!
The world completely stops spinning.
You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.
Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.
“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.
“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.
Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.
“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.
When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.
He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.
“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.
You look at him.
For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.
But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.
There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.
“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.
Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.
“Beau,” Dean whispers.
Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”
“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.
“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”
“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.
“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”
You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.
When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.
He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.
“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.
“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”
Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.
“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”
A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.
“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”
Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.
“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”
He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.
You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.
The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.
But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.
It continued.
It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.
You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.
“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.
Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.
warnings: dirty jokes (Dean being Dean), fluff, chasing, making out, use of pretty girl and baby, swearing
summary: in which the boys face off the girls in laser tag, but you reach a dead end as Boyfriend!John Logan chases you
wc: 1210
a/n: this could’ve been dirty AF but didn't think Logan was much of a dark romance, Haunting Adeline guy... or do i?
“Suck on that, Dean!” Allie cheered, firing her laser gun straight into Dean's chest.
The loud buzz of his vest echoed through the arena.
Allie was such a girl boss. Honestly, you sometimes wondered how Dean had managed to get so lucky.
“I've got something else you could suck on,” Dean shot back with a grin before immediately taking off.
“You're dead!” Allie yelled, already sprinting after him.
Dean's laughter echoed through the maze as he disappeared around a corner, Allie's footsteps pounding after him without hesitation.
That left four people.
Well... three if Allie didn't eventually strangle Dean somewhere in the arena.
Just Tucker, Logan and you.
The dim room pulsed beneath flashing neon lights that painted everything in shifting blues and reds, making shadows jump across the maze of walls and crates. Every heartbeat felt louder than the music, adrenaline already pumping through your veins as you moved cautiously between cover. The boys had spent the entire game hunting you down, and every distant footstep made your pulse spike all over again.
A flicker of movement caught your eye behind a stack of boxes. You ducked behind a nearby wall, holding your breath as you peeked around the edge.
Target acquired.
Without giving him a chance to react, you leaned out and squeezed the trigger. His vest buzzed instantly.
“Bye bye, Tucker!” you celebrated with a victorious laugh.
Tucker threw both hands into the air in surrender. “Lucky shot,” he muttered, already making his way back to reception where everyone else waited.
Now it was just you. And your boyfriend. A one on one.
The muffled cheers from reception carried through the arena.
“Give him hell!” Hannah shouted.
“Don't let him distract you!” Sabrina called.
Smiling to yourself, you slowed your breathing and carefully circled the arena, every step deliberate as your eyes searched every corner.
Then you saw it. Barely visible behind a wall. The barrel of a laser gun. A grin tugged at your lips.
Got you.
You crept forward as quietly as possible, already picturing Logan's annoyed face when you eliminated him. The second you reached the corner, you swung out and fired directly where he'd been...
Nothing. “What?” Your gun lowered slightly as confusion replaced your confidence.
Where had he-
Something hard pressed against your lower back. The unmistakable barrel of a laser gun.
“Hey, pretty girl.” His voice brushed against your ear.
You spun around. Logan stood inches away, that infuriatingly smug grin spread across his face.
Instead of pulling the trigger, you ran.
A laugh escaped him almost immediately. “Oh, you're making this fun.”
You darted between walls, cutting sharply around crates before vaulting over a low barrier. The soles of your shoes slapped against the floor as you zigzagged through the maze, throwing quick glances over your shoulder.
He was still there.
Still following.
Not sprinting.
Not panicking.
Just keeping pace.
Like he already knew exactly where you were going.
You ducked around another corner, doubled back through a narrow passage and slipped behind a cluster of barrels, hoping to lose him long enough to circle around and catch him from behind.
Nothing.
Then footsteps. Steady, unhurried and growing closer.
You burst from your hiding spot and took off again. God, you were getting a workout, but you weren’t complaining.
There was something exhilarating about it. The thrill of the chase. The knowledge that it was your boyfriend relentlessly hunting you down.
“Don't run from me, baby!” Logan called, amusement dripping from every word.
His voice sounded much closer than it should have. You weren't losing him. You took a sharp right, immediately cut left, vaulted another row of boxes before skidding to an abrupt stop. A solid black wall towered in front of you.
Dead end.
“Oh, you've got to be kidding me.” Your head whipped around, desperately searching for another exit. There wasn't one.
Footsteps echoed behind you. Slow and confident.
Logan rounded the corner with maddening ease, not even breathing hard with his dands loose at his sides.
A lazy smile on his face. “You lost?” he purred.
You lifted your laser gun, refusing to back down despite the corner you'd found yourself trapped in.
Both of you were competitive, neither willing to lose.
“One more step,” you warned with a smug smile, “and you're out of the game, love.”
His grin only widened. “You sure about that?”
Before your finger could fully squeeze the trigger, Logan exploded into motion.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, twisting just enough for your laser to flash harmlessly past his shoulder before his body collided with yours. The impact pushed you gently but firmly against the wall.
His hand instinctively cradled the back of your head before it could knock against the surface behind you, cushioning the movement so naturally it stole the breath from your lungs almost as much as what came next.
His lips found yours without hesitation, like he'd been waiting all game to do exactly this.
Your laser gun slipped from your fingers, clattering forgotten onto the floor as both of your hands found him instead. One tangled through the slightly damp strands of his hair from all the running while the other settled against the rough stubble along his jaw, smiling into the kiss as it brushed softly against your skin.
The kiss deepened naturally, slow enough to savour but charged with all the adrenaline still racing through your bodies. Every stolen breath only pulled you closer, your fingers tightening in his hair as he smiled faintly against your lips before capturing them again, making your heart pound even harder than the game ever had.
His arm slid securely beneath your thigh as he effortlessly lifted you against him. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist. The world outside disappeared.
Eventually he drew back only far enough for your foreheads to rest together, both of you breathing harder than before, lips flushed from the kiss.
“I love chasing you,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth still curled into a smile.
A breathless laugh escaped you. “I love being chased by you.”
His eyes softened. You leaned in again, barely an inch separating your lips.
“Don't take it personally, baby.”
You blinked. “What are you-” A loud buzz erupted from the speakers.
You frowned and then felt the unmistakable barrel of his laser gun resting against your side. Your eyes widened as you saw your vest lit up. “You…”
A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face.
“You used kissing as a distraction!”
“I absolutely did.”
A chorus of cheers exploded from reception. You both looked up, horror spread across your face as every single person had been watching.
Dean doubled over laughing. “I knew Allie and I weren't the only ones getting busy!”
Allie smacked him across the arm. “Oh, shut up!”
Still wrapped around Logan's waist, you buried your face against his shoulder for a second before both of you dissolved into laughter.
“You're the worst,” you mumbled.
“And yet…” he stole one last quick kiss. “…I still won.”
Rolling your eyes, you finally slipped back onto your feet, picked up your abandoned laser gun and walked back towards reception beside him, already plotting exactly how you'd get your revenge next game.
tags: best friends, friends to lovers, childhood friends, POV third person, no use of y/n for reader-insert but garrett calls her by a nickname, making out, interrupted sex
word count: 7.9k
summary: Garrett’s best friend ends her nearly 4-year relationship with her boyfriend. Her sudden availability maybe causes him to spiral just a little.
notes: cross-posted on ao3 ; title from del water gap's "an ode to a conversation stuck in your throat" ; banner by @suupersonic
Everyone at Briar knew Garrett Graham. And everyone who knew Garrett Graham knew her–the best friend; the intimidatingly smart Art History major dating an even more intimidatingly smart Political Science guy. Jason was the only reason Garrett and her never got any dating rumours; they’ve been together since high school, have been living together off campus for a year now, and add to the fact that Garrett’s never been one to keep his exploits hidden, everybody knows their relationship is platonic with a capital P.
He was never close with Jason–Garrett thinks he’s a pretentious douchebag who his best friend just so happens to enjoy kissing–but he never really has a problem with him, either. As long as he gets to keep the daily Saturday brunch hang outs and bi-monthly movie nights with his best friend, and as long as she doesn’t miss too many games, he’s pretty okay sharing her. Sure, the first few months their senior year of high school was a huge adjustment; he couldn’t just hold her hand in the hallways anymore, or show up to her house unannounced (he did that one time and got scarred for life) but, like all things in Garrett Graham’s life, he learned to deal with it. In a few years, he knows he’ll be standing by her side at the altar, holding her bouquet as her best man, and it’s a future he’s completely been okay with in her three-going-on-four years of dating Jason. Well, that’s what he thought, at least.
It has been a tough week. The game that weekend had been too close, so Coach Jensen was being extra hard on them during practices. And then his philosophy paper (which he admittedly barely studied for) came back with a glaring D, and combined with the previous F’s he’s gotten, he needs at least a B in all his course work for the semester if he wants to pass the class. Garrett’s sore, his head hurts, he can’t focus enough to understand what the fuck Kierkegaard is talking about, so really it’s a respite that one of the girls Dean invited over for air hockey and beers made eyes at him when he passed by the living room on his way to the kitchen. It takes three more unsubtle glances, a raised eyebrow, and a tilt of his head, and suddenly Garrett’s week is becoming marginally better with his arms caging the girl (what’s her name again?) against his bedroom door and his mouth attached to her tits. Somewhere downstairs, his friends’ muffled voices playing video games and air hockey can still be heard, but his ears are more focused on the helpless noises coming out of his company’s mouth.
He moves with efficient experience, tugging her jeans down her waist and unclasping her bra with a snap of his fingers. She giggles when he guides her to his bed and drops between her thighs, but the laughter quickly turns into choked moans the second he presses his tongue into her. It’s there, his head between her legs and her hands gripping his hair, that his bedroom door slams open, causing the girl to yelp and Garrett to snap his head up in shock.
“Angel, what the fuck?” Garrett sputters at the sight of his best friend, immediately throwing his blanket to cover the naked girl on his bed and scrambling up to his feet.
Angel–not because that’s her name, but because their first Halloween as friends when they were twelve, she had come as an angel complete with a wide-span, white feathered custom wing that sliced a jagged wound on Garrett’s bicep when she turned around and accidentally hit him with it. It turned out that she hadn’t assembled the wings correctly, and a loose wire had been the culprit. They spent two hours in the emergency room with their year coordinator because Garrett’s dad didn’t bother to drive up to their boarding school and check on him, her in her angel costume sans the wings (which she threw away violently in solidarity with him) and him in his Wolverine get up, hair gel, claws, and all. Garrett thought it was the funniest thing ever, telling her that their costumes matched after all, and had proceeded to call her Angel (from X-men, that is) for the foreseeable future.
She seemed unbothered at having caught him with his head between a random girl’s legs, but that’s not really the most compromising position they’ve seen each other in in their over ten years of friendship. If anything, she seemed annoyed, but Garrett knows her like the back of his hand, so he immediately clocks the mask and the underlying problem in the twitch of her eyebrows and her raw-bitten lower lip. Something’s wrong.
“What’s wrong?” He asks immediately, tugging his sweats back in place.
The girl in his bed scoffs. “Are you kidding me?”
Garrett doesn’t wave her off, but it’s a close thing. He stands straighter, jaw clenched. “Angel?”
She finally meets his gaze. “I need you.”
Just three words, but they get his heart beating against his chest in mixed anxiety and concern. “You got me.”
“Okay.” She nods, finally allowing her eyes to flick towards the increasingly annoyed girl (whose name Garrett still can’t remember) in his bed. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. Brush your teeth, please.”
And then she turns around and leaves.
For a moment, his room is silent, the kind that sits awkwardly in the atmosphere, and then Garrett clears his throat and faces–Zoe? Zara?--with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”
She stares up at him expectantly, her bare torso still covered by his thin sheets.
Garrett scratches at the nape of his neck. “You should probably go.”
Her jaw drops immediately. “Unbelievable.”
But she really shouldn’t have been surprised. If everyone on campus knew who Garrett Graham was, then everyone also knew that his best friend comes first. Always.
By the time he manages to get downstairs, mouth minty cool because he knows better than to face his best friend with pussy breath, Zoe (that’s her name!) had already shoved his chest and left the house, which is a relief. He spots his favorite cockblocker right away in the kitchen, idly chatting with Logan and Tucker, but Garrett can tell her heart isn’t in it. The second she sees him, she lifts her hand and twirls his car keys in her finger, giving him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Garrett feels another tug in his chest at the sight, but he knows she hates talking about her problems with an audience, so he decides to put a pin in it. At least until they’re alone together.
“I’m driving,” she says, getting up from the stool.
He rolls his eyes, reaching over to snatch the cap on Tucker’s head and put it on his own, backwards and all. He ignores the consequent “hey!” that comes from his friend’s mouth and instead makes a face at her. “Do I have a choice?”
“No,” she grins sarcastically, patting his chest and walking out the door, him close on her trail.
They’re only driving for about seven minutes when Garrett bites the bullet. “So–”
“Zip it, Professor X,” she interrupts, which in turns makes him glare at her. She knows how much he resents that nickname–he’d had a buzzcut one time in 9th grade, he wasn’t bald at all, and she still won’t freaking drop it. “At least let me get my fries first.”
It’s only then that Garrett notices the nearby Wendy’s she seems to be driving towards. “I swear to god, Angel, if you interrupted me just because you wanted fast food–”
“Oh, poor Garrett and his sad little blue balls,” she mocks, pouting her lips. “However will he recover?”
“I hate you,” he deadpans, but there’s a traitorous grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “I actually, bone-deeply hate you.”
“You love me,” she corrects him, pushing at the turn signal.
“I can love you and hate you at the same time,” Garrett tells her, face mock-serious. “I contain multitudes. Right now, it’s veering towards ‘I hate you,’ though.”
She flashes him a smile, but it’s all wrong. “Well, you’re not the only one.”
Immediately, the teasing air evaporates, and Garrett feels his eyebrows come together in confusion. “What does that mean? Angel?”
But his best friend remains frustratingly silent. She goes on to order for the two of them, only acknowledging him when it’s time to pay, which makes him scoff but hand over his card anyway. The grin she gives him then is a little more real, a little more Angel, so at least the tight ball of anxiety in Garrett’s chest loosens a little. She finds a parking spot easily, and for ten, torturous minutes, she does nothing but eat her heart out and ask him insignificant questions about the game last weekend and how practice was. Garrett tries to indulge her a little, but when she opens up another insignificant topic, this time about her Art Criticism professor, Garrett can’t take it anymore.
“You’re killing me here, Angel,” he sighs, stealing a fry from her. “I’ve kinda been panicking about what’s wrong for the last half hour, so if you could please with a cherry on top get to it, it would be much appreciated.”
She glares at him for his bluntness for a few seconds, before her shoulders visibly deflate and her lower lip begins to tremble.
“Hey,” he sits up immediately, one hand reaching out to grip her chin. “Talk to me. It’s me. What’s wrong?”
She takes a few steadying breaths before saying, “I’m a horrible person.”
“No, you’re not,” Garrett counters immediately, eyebrows furrowing even further. “You’re the best person I know. Who told you that?”
“Garrett,” she says helplessly, and the break in her voice makes his head pound.
He wants names of the people who hurt her and he wants to hunt them down one by one. But getting angry in that moment isn’t exactly appropriate, so he swallows down his rage at seeing the most important person in his life hurt and crowds further into her space instead, guiding her face so she can look at him. “Angel.”
She shuts her eyes tight, and every tear that drops to her face feels like a gunshot to his chest. “I did it.”
“What did you do?” Garrett asks, forcing himself to keep his voice soft and stable. “Angel, you’re really scaring me here.”
She looks at him, then, and then utters the words Garrett never thought he’d ever hear. “I broke up with Jason.”
“What?” He backs away a few inches in shock.
“I broke up with Jason,” she says again, clearer this time, and Garrett feels something loosen in his chest. Disbelief, yes, but also something more hidden. Something that feels a lot like relief.
“She did what?” Dean exclaims, pulling his helmet off his head in shock.
Garrett sighs at his dramatics but repeats his words, anyway, his tone of voice still a little disbelieving, himself. “She broke up with him. For real. Like, permanently. I’m helping her find a new place after practice.”
“Well, shit,” Dean says, face still looking puzzled. “What did the asshole do?”
Garrett pushes his sweat-slicked hair back away from his face. “That’s just it. Mayor Jason did nothing. Like, absolutely nothing.”
“What does that mean?” Logan chimes in, unflinching at the mocking nickname and obviously just as invested in the story of his best friend’s love life.
“She told me that she just woke up one day and realized that it wasn’t working out anymore. That she…doesn’t love him anymore, I guess.”
Tucker falls down on the bench next to Dean, having heard the words himself. “Shit.”
“I know,” Garrett sighs, fiddling with his gloves. “I kind of feel bad for him.”
Dean laughs at that. “Dude, you hated the guy.”
“I don’t hate him.”
Logan shoves his shoulder. “You literally call him Mayor Jason.”
Garrett scoffs. “He wants to be a politician!”
This makes his friends laugh even harder, and Garrett finds himself chuckling along. “I just think he’s a pretentious asshole. But Angel loved him, and he was good to her, I think, so no, I don’t hate him.”
“Damn,” Tucker says, shaking his head. “I always thought those two would, like, get married and have kids and stuff.”
Garrett feels his stomach drop at the words, but there’s no denying the truth behind them, especially when even he agreed. “Me too.”
“Is she okay, though? Does she regret it?” Dean asks, beginning to put his helmet back on.
Garrett thinks about their text messages that morning; all playfulness and banter, nothing out of the ordinary. But then he remembers her words in his car the other day, the way she cried into his chest. He clears his throat. “She feels terrible about it. But she’ll be fine.”
“Of course, she will,” Logan reassures him with a pat on his chest. “She’s got you, G. She’ll be just fine.”
He’s at the student union center getting a gatorade in one of the vending machines when she purposefully bumps her shoulder to his, pressing their sides together.
“Ouch,” Garrett deadpans, reaching a hand out to press the necessary button and waits for his drink to fall.
She nudges him further, until his senses are assaulted by the smell of the strawberry shampoo that she’s been using since high school. “What are you doing tonight?”
That makes Garrett pause for a second. It wasn’t Saturday so he definitely didn’t miss brunch, and they haven’t scheduled their movie nights for that month, either. No games until next week, too. Slowly, he turns to her, eyes full of suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
“Don’t be weird, Garrett,” she rolls her eyes, her shoulder still pressed to his. “What? Do you have plans?”
He crouches down to get his Gatorade. “I was actually planning to study for my Philosophy class. I have an oral exam coming up.”
She snorts; an ugly, raw, Angel sound that automatically makes Garrett feel ten thousand times lighter. “Oral exam? Oh, is that what you were doing when I walked in on you–”
“Shut the fuck up,” Garrett interrupts her with a hand to her mouth, the tips of his ears burning. That only serves to make her laugh more, the heat of her breath scorching his palm.
“Come by my place later, come on,” she tells him, one hand reaching out to grip at his hoodie.
Garrett throws his head back in exasperation. “Angel, I really need to do well on this exam. I might not be allowed to play if I fuck it up.”
“I’ll help you!” She raises her voice, lips stretching into a smile at his disbelieving look. “I swear! I took that class freshman year.”
He immediately frowns at that. “Wait, you did?”
“Yes?” She gives him a weird look, tugging at his hoodie to get him to start walking with her. His feet follow immediately. Traitors. “It’s a pre-requisite to this class I really wanted to take.”
“How the fuck did you pass that class? It’s hell!” Garrett says, lips turning into a slight pout. “And you passed it your freshman year?”
She laughs again, a high, twinkling sound, looking back at him. “Oh, babe. Don’t you worry. I got you.”
“What’s the catch?” He continues to ask, taking her hand from his hoodie so he could grip it with his own. It feels natural, just like the hundred thousand times they’ve held hands before she got herself a boyfriend. Garrett tries to ignore his heart pounding in his chest.
“You’re my best friend,” she widens her amused eyes at him, squeezing his fingers. “There’s no catch.”
“I don’t believe you for a second, Angel.”
Over the next few weeks, Garrett tries to convince himself he’s being totally normal about the fact that his best friend is taking over his life.
She texts him after practice to go have dinner. After he bullshits his way to a B+ for his Philosophy oral exam, she drags him to IKEA and makes him help her pick out new furniture for her place. He’s over at her apartment nearly every single day, helping assemble said furniture and unpack her moving boxes (it takes too long because she forgot to label them). She bullies him into studying with her, and it’s the most time Garrett has spent in the library since his first year (except he doesn’t actually study; he tries to do his course work for about twenty minutes before giving up and going on his phone while she’s nose-deep in her readings beside him). She shows up at the hockey house unannounced like she usually does, but this time more frequently, sometimes even getting the other guys to join in on their movie nights. One time she even helped Tuck with dinner. They go on random drives so much that his car feels practically hers as much as his. Their Saturday brunches become a daily thing.
And Garrett knows nothing is wrong about any of this. It’s nice to not have to schedule their hang-outs anymore. It’s refreshing that all he has to do to see her now is to send her a text and vice versa. He doesn’t even care that the last time he hooked up with someone was that interrupted time with Zoe more than a month ago. Nothing is wrong about his best friend suddenly just being there. All the time. Except when they’re walking together around campus and she’s hooking their arms together or, God forbid, intertwining their fingers, Garrett’s breath catches in his throat and he finds it a little harder to breathe. Or when she shows up at practice unannounced wearing his old high school jersey with a tray of coffee for him and the other guys in the team and his heart stutters in his chest.
So no. He’s not being completely normal about it. He just can’t figure out the reason why.
He slams his locker shut before leaning against it. “It’s weird.”
Dean looks up at him from where he’s unlacing his skates. “What’s weird?”
Garrett frowns down at him for a second before averting his eyes. “Angel.”
“Oh, boy,” Logan says, and he sees the rest of his friends exchange knowing looks.
“What?” Garrett asks, looking between them. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
They’re still smiling at each other like they know something he doesn’t, which fucking sucks.
Dean’s shoulders begin to shake in laughter. “I have never been wrong a day in my life. Goddamn.”
“What?” Garrett presses, growing more annoyed by the minute.
Dean continues to laugh, even tutting at him appeasingly. “Don’t you worry your pretty curly head about it, G. You’ll know soon enough.”
“Fuck you,” he says automatically, but the heat isn’t there.
Dean takes the curse in stride. “So what about your ‘Angel’ is weird?”
The words distract Garrett enough that he forgets about their weirdness entirely. “I don’t know. Everything? I know we’re best friends. She’s the most important person in my life. But I feel like we’ve been…I don’t know, spending so much time together recently. Like, we haven’t spent this much time together since high school, probably, and we were stuck in the same boarding school and taking all our classes together then, so that’s saying something.”
Logan chuckles and shakes his head at him. “G, your best friend just got out of a serious, 3-year relationship. They were living together at one point. Of course you’re going to spend more time with her now. More than half of her day just freed up by being single alone.”
“And I bet she’s bored,” Tucker adds, nodding. “Imagine all the free time all of a sudden. Even her own apartment is probably too quiet now. I remember that Jason guy can talk.”
“Yeah, about apolitical bullshit that no one but him cares about,” Garrett mutters under his breath.
Dean makes a face. “I’m not getting the problem here. Are you boys getting the problem?” Logan and Tucker dutifully shake their heads, making Dean point at him. “See? That’s such a non-issue, dude. So you’re spending more time with your best friend. Your steak is too buttery. Your bread is too soft. Nyada nyada.”
Garrett throws a glove at his face that he manages to dodge at the last minute. “It’s not that. It’s just…Okay. If one of you makes fun of me for what I’m about to say, I will crush you like a bug. Get it?”
The three look at him expectantly.
Garrett sighs, training his eyes up the ceiling. “When we were in our senior year in high school and Angel started dating Jason…I kind of had a hard time adjusting.”
Dean looks way too delighted at his words, making Garrett throw another glove at him. This time it hits him right in the center of his chest.
“Don’t make it a thing,” Garrett warns, giving them a look before sighing again. “Back then we were–I don’t know how to explain it. Attached at the hip? Two halves of the same person? Just. Inseparable, I guess. No one could tell where she ended and I began. And I loved that about us. She was the only family I have. The one I chose. And then Jason happened, and I lost that. The casual intimacy and closeness. It suddenly wasn’t appropriate anymore. I never heard a peep from her, but I was a guy. I could tell our closeness bothered him. So eventually I dealt with it. I adjusted. But it was hard. And to say I didn’t mourn our relationship then would be a lie.”
Tucker leans forward. “How did you adjust?”
Dean smirks. “Let me guess: by fucking half of the senior year population?”
“Fuck you,” Garret tells him again. “But yeah. Kind of. But that’s not even the point! The point is I get the sudden free time, okay? That’s what I felt when she got a boyfriend. All these things I used to do with her suddenly aren’t feasible anymore, so instead I spend hours of my day with nothing to do. Eventually, yeah, I found something to fill the time, but it was hard. I thought I was losing my best friend, and I couldn’t do anything about it because then I might lose her for real. I was a dramatic 18-year-old. Whatever. But what happens when she glues us together again, forms us a routine of being constantly together, and then she gets another boyfriend? That’s bullshit.”
Logan, Tucker, and Dean slowly exchange another look.
“What?” Garrett asks.
Logan shakes his head. “Are you hearing yourself, man?”
“What?” He repeats, getting even more confused than before.
“Oh my god,” Dean laughs, slapping his thighs. “He’s fucking hopeless, man. I give up.”
She’s already drunk when Garrett gets to the party, and he knows this because she lights up instantly at the sight of him, her entire body practically vibrating from where she’s standing. “Garrett!!!”
“Hey, Angel,” he says, receiving her tackle with a short grunt. “How much have you had to drink?”
She ignores his question completely, burrowing her face in his chest. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for ages.”
Garrett allows himself to chuckle at how obnoxious his best friend is being. He shuffles both of their bodies so that he’s leaning against the fridge, his feet planted firmly on the ground in case she intends to tackle him again. His hands rub her back in slow circles, and Garrett immediately takes note of the goosebumps lining her skin. She’s wearing a tight brown tank top and low-rise jeans, and he puts his hands on the slit of skin of her back showing underneath her top and pulls away just enough to see her face to face. “You cold?”
“No,” she answers instantly, then steps forward even closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I need to tell you something, Charles.”
It takes him a moment to place the name, and when he does, he rolls his eyes. He’s never living down that fucking buzzcut. “What is it, Angel?”
“I ran into Jason’s friends at lunch,” she continues saying, voice low enough that Garrett has to strain his ears. He nods at her to continue, which she does, voice shaking. “He hates me.”
For a second Garrett isn’t sure whether she’s going to cry, but then her shoulders start shaking, giggles leaving her lips uncontrollably. “He fucking hates me, Prof.”
Garrett tightens his arms around her, unsure how to approach the situation. “I’m sure he doesn't, Angel.”
“No, he does,” she nods her head in resignation. “And I don’t think I care. I’m a horrible person.”
He pinches the exposed skin of her back, making her yelp. “Enough of that. I won’t let you talk shit about my best friend anymore. Stop it.”
She shuffles closer again, getting on her tiptoes and burying her face against his neck. Every word out of her mouth sends a hot breath against his skin that Garrett tries hard to ignore. “I wish he cheated. Or neglected me. I just wish he did something bad so I wouldn’t be feeling all this guilt.”
“You don’t mean that,” Garrett says against her hair, squeezing her tightly against him.
“I wish I could say that I’m in love with him,” she continues. “What if I never was? Isn’t that crazy, G? We’ve been together for almost four years. We’ve exchanged I love you’s countless times. But in hindsight, what the fuck do I know about love? If I had truly loved him, how can I wake up one morning and just…stop?”
“That’s just it, though,” Garrett says, which makes her pull away to look at him. “It’s scary.”
“What?”
“Love,” he shrugs. “How fickle it is. What happened to you scares me. What if it doesn’t stop at just romantic love?”
She almost smiles at that. “What, you think I’m going to wake up tomorrow and just decide you’re a repulsive best friend and I want you out of my life?”
“Don’t even joke about that, Angel,” he chides with a fake shudder, and something in her expression melts and softens.
She steps closer, enough that their noses are touching. “Wanna know something?”
Garrett swallows the lump that suddenly formed in his throat. “What?”
“Jason would hate to see us like this,” she says, and Garrett tenses up instantly, intending to pull away, but she tightens her grip around him.
He takes a few seconds to reply. “I know.”
Garrett sees the way her eyes dilate at his words. “Is that why you pushed me away?”
“I didn’t push you away,” he denies immediately, but even as he says the words his breath stutters in his chest.
She smiles a little sadly. “Of course you did, G. One minute we’re inseparable and the next we had to pre-sched our hang outs because you’re fucking every girl in school.”
The blunt way she puts it makes Garrett squeeze her hips, and he doesn’t miss the way her breath hitches at the action. He feels like he’s underwater, like everything suddenly became muffled around them. The only clear view is her. His best friend. The most important person in his life.
Best friend, he repeats the words in his head. Come on, Graham. That’s your best friend.
“Want to know the funny thing?” She asks again, nudging their noses together.
Garrett almost chickens out and doesn’t ask. But her gaze is a challenge in itself, and he’s nothing if not competitive, so he forces the words out of his mouth. “What, Angel?”
“The night before I broke up with him, I closed my eyes and imagined my future. Ten, fifteen, twenty years from now. What I wanted it to be. What I think it would be. And,” she cuts herself off with a chuckle, alcohol breath fanning against Garrett’s face. “Jason wasn’t there. He was nowhere to be found.”
Garrett clenches his jaw. “Really?”
“Uh huh,” she confirms, extending one hand up to push back his hair. “Wanna know who was?”
But Garrett already knows the answer. It’s clear as day. Still, when she pushes up on her tiptoes to whisper it to his ear, he feels his world begin to crumble, the words devastating in their honesty.
“You,” she says, and then she smiles a little cruelly. “My best friend.”
That night wouldn’t be the first time Garrett Graham jerks off to the thought of his best friend. But it’s the first time he doesn’t feel guilty about it.
He swings his stick harshly. The puck misses the goal.
Another swing. Miss again.
Swing. Miss.
“Fuck!” Garrett throws his stick to the ice, skating away.
From the stands, his three friends watch him, faces in varying states of winces.
“That,” Dean says, voice low. “Is a cry for help.”
Logan scrunches his nose up. “Amen, brother.”
Tuck nods along. “Amen.”
“What can we do about it, boys? Our cap needs an intervention.” Dean says, still eyeing Garrett’s form critically.
Logan chuckles. “Unless we get him to admit he’s in love with his fucking best friend? Nothing.”
“Not nothing,” Dean says with a smirk, lifting up his phone.
Twenty minutes later, she’s there in the tunnels, head whipping around in search of Garrett.
“Angel!” Dean calls out, making her turn towards him. “Over here!”
She speedwalks towards where he’s standing, wearing a Briar U hoodie Dean’s pretty sure is Garrett’s and loose sweats that may or may not also be Garrett’s. “What happened? Where is he? And don’t call me that.”
“Oh right, sacred nicknames, I forgot. Sorry.” Dean says all of this with a knowing smile on his face, which she decides to ignore. “G’s in the shower. We’re gonna head out. You go do your best friend magic on him and take care of our cap.”
She rolls her eyes but dutifully drops down to one of the benches in the hallway to wait for him. When Garrett steps out of the locker room, he’s wearing a navy zip-up hoodie and his hair is still dripping wet from his shower. He almost jumps at the sight of her.
“Angel,” he says in surprise, his grip on his bag tightening. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know, Prof X. You tell me,” she says, getting up and dusting off her sweats. “Dean says you need an intervention.”
Garrett closes his eyes at that. “I fucking hate him.”
“Come on,” she inclines her head before hooking her arm to his. “You can hate him in the comfort of my new apartment. Movie night?”
The last thing Garrett wants is to spend an entire night pressed up against the best friend he’s trying and completely failing to convince himself he feels nothing for, pretending to watch a movie he could care less about. But clearly the universe had other plans, so now they’re cuddled on her couch, a half-empty box of pizza on the coffee table in front of them and High School Musical 3 playing on the tv.
“Troy Bolton is so hot,” she comments after one of the song numbers, licking her fingers to clean off the pizza sauce.
Garrett clears his throat and tells himself the view doesn’t affect him. “He’s so short, though. How does he expect to be a collegiate point guard with that height?”
“Good thing it’s a movie,” she emphasizes the last word, nudging his stomach with her elbow. “It’s escapism. Besides, with a pretty face like that, size won’t even matter.”
That makes Garrett’s eyebrows raise to his hairline, his head twisting to shoot her a knowing smirk. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” she juts her chin out and insists, glaring at him. “Sorry you can’t relate.”
Garrett knows she’s making a dig at his looks, but he can’t help but twist her words, his smirk practically a permanent fixture on his face at the moment. “Yep. Never had a problem with size, I’m afraid.”
He watches her jaw drop at his words, laughs out loud when she suddenly slaps his shoulder multiple times. “You are infuriating.”
“You love me, Angel,” Garrett teases her, hoping she doesn’t hear the way his heart jumps at the bold words.
“I wish I didn’t.”
He’s still chuckling when he finally catches her hands, stopping her continued assault. “You don’t mean that.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“You love me,” Garrett says again. And maybe this time she hears the catch in his voice, the underlying seriousness beneath the teasing, because she freezes in her spot, both her hands still held tightly in his.
She looks at him for a few seconds. “I do, yeah.”
Garrett feels like he stops breathing. When he speaks again, the word sounds like a warning even to his own ears. “Angel.”
He feels her shift against him until she’s practically on his lap. “What? Don’t you love me too?”
Garrett is suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact; her thighs almost bracketing his hips, the heat of her skin seeping through their clothes, her hands still dwarfed by his. In the background, Zac Efron is singing something about screaming, but the sound is dull and muffled. He can’t focus on anything except her.
“You’re dangerous,” he manages to rasp out.
He thinks of all the times they found themselves in this position; all the times Garrett found himself wanting to cross the boundary they’ve drawn when they were twelve and decided they needed to be in each other’s lives forever as best friends. The summer before high school when they became each other’s first kiss because it’d be embarrassing to be in 9th grade without any experience. His sixteenth birthday when a game of spin the bottle had them doing it again, deeper that time, with tongue. Junior prom when they went together as friends and right there on the dancefloor, Garrett had to grapple with the fact that he wanted to kiss his best friend badly.
It had always been there in the crevices of their friendship; the unspoken need for more, for intimacy and connection. It had been easier to handle when Jason happened, because finally the boundaries were physical and concrete in the form of another person. But now, in the couch he helped her assemble in the new apartment he helped her find and move into, with her body pressed against his so closely and tightly he can feel every breath she takes, the boundaries might as well be nonexistent.
“This is a bad idea. You just got out of a relationship.”
She almost smiles. “I know.”
“You’re my best friend,” Garrett says again, but he’s not sure whether it’s her he’s convincing or himself.
She shifts again. Garrett closes his eyes at the feeling. “Garrett. You’re my best friend, too.”
A pause.
They’re not really sure who moves first, but in the next breath their lips are pressing together, a moan punching out of his throat from the sensation. She plants her hands on his shoulders to anchor herself, straddling him properly now. Almost immediately, she begins grinding down on him, and his body’s reaction is instant.
“Fuck, Angel,” Garrett exhales a heavy breath, torn between wanting to close his eyes or savoring the sight of his best friend on top of him. “Come here.”
He guides her by her jaw so he can kiss her again, deeper, his tongue tracing her lower lip before slipping inside her mouth. She tastes like the soda she had been drinking. It takes Garrett back to that birthday party when they were sixteen, their classmates all around them cheering while he got to properly taste her for the first time. He thinks about sitting there finishing the spin the bottle game with a raging hard on inside his pants, hoping the light is too dim for anyone to notice.
He bites at her lips again, causing a soft noise to come from her mouth that absolutely destroys him, enough that his hips juts up without control.
She pulls away and begins tugging at his zip-up hoodie, chest heaving harshly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Take this off.”
He helps her along dutifully, watching with dark eyes as she tosses the piece of clothing behind her. “Fuck, Garrett, I love your shoulders.”
“Yeah?” He breathes out, letting his hands bunch her top upwards and over her head until she’s left in a lacy lilac bra, sheer enough to leave nothing to the imagination.
She gives a trembling nod, taking his tank top off too. Her nails trace down his torso, watching his abs contract in fascination. “Got myself off for the first time thinking about them.”
“Jesus Christ, Angel.” Garrett huffs, his breath leaving him. It only gets worse when she reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra, revealing her full breasts, nipples dark and tight just like he imagined. As if he can’t help himself, his face drags forward until he’s close enough to close his mouth around one bud, his hand taking care of the other.
A choked cry leaves her mouth, head throwing back in pleasure. One of her hands skirts the waistband of his sweats, and then she palms his cock through the fabric like it wouldn’t absolutely ruin him. His hips jerk up again. “You want me?”
The question almost comes off as cruel. Does he want her? As if there’s a world in which Garrett doesn’t. As if he doesn’t feel as if he had been born to worship her like this.
“You don’t even know how much,” he murmurs against her skin. He kisses over the moles in her chest and shoulders that he used to make fun of when they were kids.
She shimmies out of her shorts and underwear, and the sight of her thin damp curls short-circuits Garrett’s brain. He isn’t even aware of her hands sliding his sweats down, just enough to free his cock with an angry bob. His blood thuds in his ears loudly.
She shuffles closer again, until they’re almost chest to chest, hovering above him and teasing the head of his cock at her entrance. “Since when?”
Maybe it’s the intimacy he’s been craving since he first learned what it’s like to want his best friend, or maybe it’s his dick talking, but the honest words are out of his mouth before he could stop them: “Since forever.”
He feels more than sees her body tense up, and in mere seconds she has shuffled away, still within reach but the inch of increased space makes his heart drop to his stomach nonetheless. Shit.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks, face going pale. Her eyes scan his face steadily, and he knows guilt is written all over him in capital letters.
Garrett tugs his sweats up with a sigh. “Angel–”
“Garrett,” she says, voice hard. The lack of a nickname sends a pang through his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He pushes his hair back and leans his head against the couch, eyes trained to the ceiling. “I’m sorry.”
He hears her shuffle around, knows that it’s her getting dressed, the final nail in the coffin that was their night together. The panic is slowbuilding in his stomach; half of his wits are still stuck to two minutes ago when they were flushed together making out with wild abandon.
How the fuck did he let this happen? More than that, what the fuck is going to happen to them? She’s his best friend. She’s been in his life for over ten years. She’s held him during losses, nursed him when his dad beat him to shit. She’s the only one who truly knows him inside out, and now he’s on the verge of losing her because he couldn’t keep it in his pants.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Garrett attempts to look at her. She’s wearing her top again, arms crossed over her chest and still staring at him in horrified expectancy. He pries his eyes away immediately, instead focusing on the loose thread in the throw pillowcase next to his lap. When he speaks, his voice comes out defensive. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“The truth, Garrett,” she says, the hard edge to her voice still there.
Garrett throws his head back again. Anything just to avoid her eyes. “I know it’s wrong, alright? You’re my best friend. We shouldn’t–I shouldn’t have ever—but I couldn’t help it. I’ve wanted you probably since before I even knew what wanting someone meant.”
She inhales a sharp breath. “High school?’
“Yeah, mostly,” he admits, clenching his jaw. “Maybe even before then.”
“Fuck, Garrett,” she breathes out, making him shut his eyes tight.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
They’re silent for a few seconds before she speaks again. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
That finally gets him to look at her, if a little incredulously. “Are you kidding? I didn’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you.”
Her face twists, like she’s in pain. “But you blew me off.”
He sits up at that, his confusion clear as day. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Garrett,” she laughs his name out tiredly, shaking her head. “Don’t you remember? The summer before our senior year. We spent almost every day together. We held hands and cuddled and you kissed me everywhere except my lips constantly. Everyone else thought we were dating. And I thought…I thought we were getting there.”
He swallows harshly. He doesn’t know what to say. The memory of that summer hit him like a brick. The train rides spent flushed against each other, his hands on the back pocket of her jeans. The amount of times he stopped himself from just crossing the line and kissing her for real.
“I fell for you. Hard.” She tells him, causing his mouth to gape open. “I thought we were on the same page. But then we got to Stacy’s party at the end of summer and everyone asked where we stood and you completely blew me off. She’s just my best friend–that’s what you said. And then you let all these girls hang all over you the entire night. It doesn’t get any clearer than that.”
Garrett opens his mouth. “But–”
“Jason asked me out a few days later and I figured why not. Might as well.” She shoots him a sad smile. Her eyes are wet, and Garrett hates himself for making it happen. “I grew to like him eventually. And you started pulling away. Maybe part of it was on me for getting a boyfriend and not having enough time for you anymore. But every time I saw you with a different girl, it just proved to me what I realized at that party. You didn’t want me. I was just your best friend. And if I wanted to keep you in my life, I had to be okay with that.”
Garrett shakes his head. His heart is thrumming so loudly in his chest he’s sure she can hear it from where she’s sitting. “I wanted you. So bad. I was so scared that it would ruin everything that I never said anything. And then you got together with Jason. It killed me to see you with him. To know that I could never hold your hand or kiss you or put my arms around you anymore because he might get mad. Those girls were just–”
“I know what they were,” she interrupts, a resigned smile on her face. “Still sucked, though.”
“Yeah.”
A cheer comes from the TV. Garrett almost forgot it was still playing. The characters launch into the finale song, the one at graduation. At least it does the job of filling the silence.
Finally, she lets out a long sigh. “This was a mistake.”
He can’t even explain the hurt that shoots up his chest at the words that just left her mouth. He wants to build a time machine and go back to three hours ago, debating pizza flavors and movie options without a hint that their night will get derailed. He wants to go back to that summer before their senior year and kiss her right there on the train. But Garrett is no scientist and time travel doesn’t exist, so instead he chooses to say nothing, waits for more hurtful words to come.
“You’re right,” she continues, beginning to play with her fingers. “I just got out of a relationship. This isn’t–” she shakes her head. “It’s not good. For me or for you.”
Garrett shakes his head. “Don’t say that. Don’t–” His mouth struggles with the words. “You can regret this. Me. But don’t ever think that there’s a reality where you’re not good for me. That’s impossible.”
She looks at him like it hurts her to do it. Garrett reaches down to get his shirt off the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and somehow that makes it worse.
Garrett puts his shirt back on with as much dignity as he can muster. He bites his lip in contemplation. “Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kiss me.” He can tell by the look on her face that she wants to argue about who did the kissing, but thankfully she drops it.
“The truth?” She asks quietly, making him nod his head. She pauses again, like she’s thinking about lying anyways, and then thinks the better of it. “I’ve wanted to do it for so long, and for the first time in my life I felt like you actually wanted to do it too.”
“I did,” he tells her, voice just as quiet. “I do.”
“I’m sorry, prof,” she smiles at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Did I ruin everything?”
Garrett wants to cross the space between them and hold her. It kills him that he hesitates. “No. Never. I love you, Angel.”
“I love you too,” the words get caught in her throat the way they tend to do when she’s about to cry. “And it’s because I love you that we can’t do this. Not now, anyway. Four years is a long time, G. Even if I’m not in love with Jason anymore, jumping into something with you so quickly after him would feel…I don’t want to use you in that way. Not if…”
“What?” He asks. “Not if what?”
She blows a deep breath. “Not if I want this to be for real. Us.”
Garrett feels his own throat constrict at that. “You do?”
“Of course, I do,” she almost laughs, but instead she settles for a shy smile. “What do you say, Xavier? You down to wait a few more months?”
When Garrett laughs back, it’s breathy and wet and all embarrassing. “Angel, I’ve been waiting for years. A few more months is nothing.”
She finally shuffles over and sits next to him, nudging his shoulder with hers. “You don’t have to leave.”
He feels himself grinning. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, voice more casual now, one hand reaching for the remote to pick their next movie. “Zac Efron looked super hot in Hairspray too.”
Garrett lets out a groan in complaint, but inside his blood is singing, a kind of happiness settling in his bones that he’s never felt before.
The only thing John Logan wants after a bad practice is you.
wc: 2.2k
warnings: 18+, oral fem receiving, new relationship nerves, reader is a little shy and john is down bad. very little plot here folks, just our boy being a grade A certified eater.
author’s note: I’m ovulating and have been having john ‘munch’ logan thoughts and i’m making it everyone’s problem. sorry not sorry! if you’re also having these thoughts, my asks are always open :)
John doesn’t know what happened at practice today, it was like he’d never played hockey a day in his life. He missed the net every time he went to take a shot while simultaneously botching simple pass off’s that should be muscle memory. After his third missed goal, whatever determined spark that was left fizzled, letting the fear of never getting drafted take up space in the forefront of his mind distracting him even more.
His hair is still wet from his shower when he barges into his room in a huff tossing his gym bag to the ground. He’s so lost in his own head that he doesn’t notice you haven’t moved from your place in his bed since this morning. Grumbling to himself, he pushes his hair out of his face, turning his back to you kicking off his sneakers.
John stretches, long lean arms reaching towards his ceiling flexing the taut muscles in his back. They move under his black dry fit shirt like there’s nothing there at all, every ridge and dip reminding you of his subtle strength that feels more like a secret than the other guys.
The waist band of his boxer briefs peek out over the top of his blue low hanging gym shorts, giving you a glimpse of his tan skin underneath. His abused cartilage pops loud enough for you to hear across the room, the air between them escaping from his neck when he leans his head to the side.
The release earns a deep groan from him that warms in your belly, heat spreading across your body at the grunt that follows when he cracks his knuckles after. Running a hand down his face, he turns around lifting his head in your direction, big brown doe eyes finally meeting yours.
“Hey..” He sighs as if he’s trying to exhale the frustration from his chest, mood visibly shifting into something happier, a small easy smile spreading across his face even if it doesn’t meet his eyes. “You’re still here.”
“I was feeling lazy.” You admit sheepishly, toying with the sleeves of his hoodie you’d thrown on after the quick shower you took when he left. “I hope that’s okay. It seems like you’ve had a bad — I can leave if you —“
“No! I mean — stay, please.”
John’s eyes plead with you, quick strides closing the space between you, easing the new relationship anxiety that’s rearing its ugly head with every step. These sleepovers are new, the uncharted territory into each other's spaces becoming hard to navigate despite them turning into something that's happened every other night since it started.
“Practice was…. not great.” He admits with defeat evident in his voice, long fingers wrapping around both of your ankles. Distracting you with a flash of his teeth, he tugs you to the end of the bed, chuckling at your surprised squeal before finishing. “I just couldn’t get out of my head today.”
“Anything I can do to help?” You whisper looking up at him from under your lashes, something flirty in the way you flutter them.
He hums like he’s deep in thought, brows furrowing, pulling one of your legs up so the bottom of your foot lands on his chest. Your lids turn heavy watching the way his biceps flex under the thin fabric, and how the muscles in his forearm dance under tan skin as he plants a kiss on the soft spot above your ankle. Fingers squeezing your wiggling toes, he moves your foot over his shoulder, starting a wet path up your calf.
“John.” His name leaves your mouth wrapped inside a shaky giggle, spurring him on even more with a nip of his teeth at the bend of your knee.
“Just being here, in my bed, wearing my clothes is enough.” he smiles, unmistakable admiration shimmering in the chestnut of his gaze.
Smelling his favorite vanilla lotion on your skin, his eyes close for a moment like he’s basking in you, rubbing his dark stubble covered cheek against your calf. Pulling away, something shifts in his gaze as he plants a kiss to the bottom of your foot before dropping to his knees.
“But, selfishly, I think I need a little more.”
John loves the way your face flushes under his undivided attention like this, and how goosebumps pebble uncontrollably under his fingertips. The light amber in his eyes fades into something dark, glazing over as they watch you squirm under their scrutiny. Your breath comes out a little quicker, thighs desperate to meet searching for impossible friction as he pulls you to the very edge of his bed.
Hooking your knees over his shoulders, the ends of his curls drip, ticking the inside of your thighs. Words lose themselves on the tip of your tongue when his big hands squeeze at the soft apple of your ass. He hums appreciatively, tugging his full bottom lip between perfect teeth. Lifting up the hem of his hoodie over your hips, his gaze darkens, eyes becoming hooded meeting the wet patch on the cotton of your panties.
“Just wanna make you feel better.” You whisper with something needy inside of it, feeling the tip of his nose run along your seam.
“Fuck. ” He groans, letting his teeth scrape against your swollen bundle of nerves over the fabric before curling his fingers around the elastic, pulling the offending garment out of his way. “You are gorgeous. Look at you.”
Another string of curse words slips out from under his breath seeing the way you already glisten for him, big hands wrapping around the outside of your thighs, holding you open. He looks up at you from under his thick lashes, planting a kiss in the small space where your hip meets what he wants most. The blunt ends of his nails digging into your skin feeling the shiver that runs down your spine in anticipation.
“Baby,” The new endearment comes out of you, breathy and desperate, fingers weaving into the wet thickness of his hair.
“Do me a favor?” His teeth flash in a small smile, looking at you from between your legs. “Don’t ever stop calling me that.”
He gives you no warning, flattening his tongue along your seam, running the muscle up the length of you agonizingly slow. Taking his time, he laps up everything you’re already giving him like he’s been craving it all day. Full pink lips wrap around your swollen clit, the tip of his tongue testing the waters with a smirk before sucking it, hard. A deep groan rumbles from his throat, eyes rolling in the back of his head at the way you tug at his roots in response.
His grip on your thighs becomes iron clad, the whites of his knuckles showing, tugging you even closer to his hungry mouth. The bow of your back and the gasp of his name encourages the relentless quick circles of his tongue. It’s easy to lose yourself in the feeling of him taking exactly what he wants, something he’s been getting better at. Even if that means pinning your hips down no matter how much they try to escape overstimulation.
John dips his tongue into your entrance, greedy walls trying to keep him there, begging him for more. Never denying you anything, he gives into what you both want without hesitation, letting his tongue find that spot that gets your legs shaking the way he likes. He holds you open, no matter how much your thighs try to close around him, or how hard you pull at his roots.
“Oh my fucking god. John!”
Throwing your head back with a scream, you’re quickly met with the realization that if he was home, most of the other boys probably are too. The thought has you hiding the next moan of his name inside your palm, eyes squeezing shut when the tip of his nose presses into your already sensitive clit while his mouth explores so deep it feels impossible.
Too lost in the way your body reacts to him, it takes John a minute to realize how quiet you are. How he’s not hearing any of the pretty sounds you make, the ones he imagines every time he fists his cock when you’re not here. He finally lifts his head to catch his breath, cheeks rosy and eyes black with a sheen of what he does to you coating his swollen lips. The sight alone makes you tremble, squirming for more and you don’t miss the proud twitch at the corners of his mouth.
“The guys aren’t home, they’re at Malones.” He assures quietly as if he can read your mind, planting a wet kiss on the inside of your slick covered thigh. “So, if you want to help me feel better, let me hear how good I’m making you feel, baby.”
Nodding, you slowly move your hand away from your mouth, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth because you like how that nickname sounds too. You don’t think you’ll ever get over the sweet way John talks to you, even when his shoulders are still tense from his bad day. He doesn’t hesitate to bring your hand back to join the other in his hair, squeezing your fingers, his bruising grip returns to your thighs.
“You’re so pretty, you know that?” He hums, pupils dilating at the view in front of him. “I’m so lucky”
He doesn’t let a response formulate inside of your head before he’s devouring you again. This time it feels like his tongue is everywhere all at once, greedily exploring every inch of you like it might disappear. The wet sounds filling his quiet room are enough to make your cheeks heat. But when he brings his full attention back to your clit, and his name comes out just the way he likes spurring him on, you can’t bring yourself to care. He lets your hips rock against his face, encouraging them by tugging you closer to his mouth every time they rise, earning him just the kind of sounds he was looking for.
The coil inside of you starts to tighten, the sheets underneath you feeling damp, and John can tell you're close by the way you start to move without abandon. Completely lost in the chase of your high, getting you right to this moment is always his favorite part. So he doubles down, taking control by pinning you to the mattress, opening his jaw so his mouth can claim every part.
”Oh god, John — don’t - don’t stop. Please.”
Tossing your head back into the mattress, you hardly recognize the whiney timbre of your voice. Tugging hard enough at his roots, you earn a grunt that vibrates against the most sensitive part of you. So you do it again. The movements of his tongue become determined, completely focused on your imminent demise, dipping into you again. His nose brushes against your bundle of nerves with every swipe of that sweet spot, eating you from the inside out, threatening you to see stars in the late afternoon.
“Come for me.” He murmurs, pulling his mouth off of you replacing his tongue with two fingers. Hooded eyes stare up at you in a daze, face shining in the low light of his room with your slick. “I want to watch.”
All you manage is a nod, eyes rolling in the back of your head at the way he fills you up, back bowing as the pad of his thumb presses into your clit . He rests his head against the inside of your thigh, working you open on his fingers, jaw going little slack at the tight flutter of your walls around them.
“It feels — it feels s-so” you whimper, toes curling over his shoulders as that coil inside of you reaches its limit. “I think I’m gonna —“
“Do it, baby.” He encourages with a thick needy rasp in his usually soothing voice.
That’s all you need for everything inside of you to snap, tumbling over the edge with John whispering praises against your shaking thighs the whole way down. He waits until your eyes finally open and meet him to replace his fingers with his tongue, relishing in the way you chant his name on a loop rolling your hips to meet his pace, chasing the last of your high.
Cleaning up the mess he helped you make with an appreciative groan, the sight is almost enough for your stomach to tighten again, especially when he circles your clit, sucking it into the heat of his mouth one more time before finally letting you go with a loud pop.Your body goes limp, muscles relaxing into his soft bed as you try to catch your breath. Lacing his fingers with yours, he peppers kisses on your trembling legs till they stop before resting his cheek against your thigh again like it’s his favorite pillow.
You meet his eyes that stare back at you dazed and content, all the resentment from the day gone just like chestnut still drowned in his pupils. Nuzzling into you, a slow content smile spreads across his face, and while making no effort to move, he asks:
a/n: as a board game LOVER, i loved writing this fic. definitely play codenames with your friends if you haven't already!! 💗.
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader
warnings: fluff (the best kind)
Empty pizza boxes scattered around the living room, coffees left on the kitchen counters unattended and the group sitting in a round circle on a Saturday night could only mean one thing. Game night.
In the hockey house, the tradition was taken as seriously as Christmas or even birthdays. It was sacred and it ought to be respected. The thing about the boys was, they could get competitive, extremely competitive.
During your first game night, Garrett attempted to plant a card on Logan’s pocket without him noticing so he’d be able to accuse him of cheating, and Tucker threatened to stop cooking for the whole house if they didn’t let him win a specific round.
Winning during game night was their non-athletic equivalent to beating the rival university team by a long shot in an important match. Safe to say, it was fun.
Your family was big on board games when you were younger, therefore you started with a superior level of skill to all of them in games like Cluedo, Trivial or Wingspan. That was why Logan proposed switching to Codenames as a way to level the playing field after losing to you for a semester’s straight game nights. Oddly enough, you’d heard of the game, but never actually played it at home.
That was why Dean offered to be your teammate for the evening. It was a perfect excuse to be coupled up together without making the fact that you were an actual couple known to the others. Hannah and Garrett were the opposing team, while Logan and Tucker were the designated ‘judges’ who ensured there was no cheating involved.
It was safe to say that you were nervous, especially because you’d gotten used to being able to master any game during game night, but being in Dean’s team made you feel comforted somehow. What didn’t make you feel that way was the fact that he had volunteered to be the person who said the clues you had to connect the right words from the board, the spymaster.
So, when the card revealed Hannah and Garrett were going first, you felt relieved. That was your chance to get an idea of how they played the game, and a live demonstration of the rules.
“Wellsy, think, be open minded,” Garrett said, tapping his temple a couple of times.
“Objection, your honor, that’s cheating!” Dean called out to Logan, who was too busy chatting his ear off to Tucker to pay attention to what the players said before the round even started.
“Overruled. Garrett, go on,” ordered Logan, finally directing his full attention toward the game.
“Music, three,” announced Garrett before covering his face with his hands so he wouldn’t give any clues as to what the right words were.
“What the fuck Garrett? That is an awful clue. There are no words on display that are even remotely related to it!” echoed Hannah, who was clearly upset at the fact that her boyfriend had chosen such a vague and horrible clue.
Meanwhile, your eyes tentatively met Dean’s. He immediately grinned at you with that smile that made your stomach do flips and you felt your cheeks flush in a way they shouldn’t, especially not in front of the rest of the group.
Hannah ended up getting one word right out of the three, which Garrett whined about for a good two minutes until Judge Tucker told him to shut the fuck up and let you and Dean play.
Dean looked hypnotized by the words in front of him as he attempted to make a mental connection in his head that you would understand. The wait seemed like it was never going to end, but then Dean’s face lit up like a cartoon character’s and he pressed his hands to the table to stand up and say the code word.
“Slipping, two,” he said, eyes fully on you.
You felt the pressure creep up your neck, and your brain seemed to turn to mush, not able to comprehend any word on its own. That was when you spotted them. Angel on the right corner, and snow on the second row.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It had been a cold winter morning, and Boston got swarmed by snow. It rested atop flowers, on cars, backyards and rooftops. Class got cancelled because of a snowstorm alert, and all of the boys decided to go to Malone’s to resume the pool games they’d left unfinished the previous night.
Dean, however, had called in sick just so he could spend some overdue alone time with you. Not being able to touch you as he pleased, as much as he pleased, was one of the many things he hated about dating you in secret. But it had to be done, because from the second Hannah introduced you –her childhood best friend– to the friend group, she’d made it very clear that you were off-limits. Particularly to Dean, due to his reputation.
But he fell. Hard, fast and unexpectedly. Because Dean Di Laurentis didn’t do feelings, he hadn’t for a while. The universe, however, had other plans for him. Now, he was the one whose words got lost whenever you entered the room.
As soon as you got Dean’s call, you grabbed your car and headed to the hockey house. Snow squeaked under your boots when you got out of the car, and the sound made you uncomfortable in a way that made you rush to the front door.
Dean was standing in the doorway with one of the smiles he reserved just for you plastered on his face, waiting for you to reach him, to feel the warmth of your body clash against the cold exterior of the world.
Before he could do that, you unknowingly stepped on a patch of ice in front of the stairs, which made you slip and fall on your ass.
“Ow!” you cried out, grimacing.
“Careful there, angel. I don’t want you getting hurt,” said Dean, rushing over to you.
You felt his hands slide under your knees in order to pick you up, so you slung your arms around his neck and pressed a thankful kiss to his lips.
When you felt him smile into the kiss, you realized just how deep in the throes of love you actually were.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“I’m gonna lock in angel and snow,” you told Dean, without a glint of hesitation in your eyes.
Dean placed the red cards over the words and cheered, not being able to hold back the urge to.
The rest of the group looked at the two of you in a puzzled manner, struggling to piece together how you would’ve been able to form the connection between two words that seemingly had nothing to do with each other.
“Your honor, they have to be cheating, that was an impossible guess,” Garrett pointed out to Tucker, running a hand through his hair.
“Isn’t that the whole point of the game, Graham?” you countered, and the two judges couldn’t help but agree.
“But slipping’s most obvious connection is hockey,” said Hannah.
You shrugged, and Dean spoke up from the spymaster seat shortly after. “What can I say? We have superior intellects.”
The pair rolled their eyes in sync, making the rest of the group laugh. They were truly made for each other.
Garrett actually gave poor Hannah a decent clue this time around, and she got three words right. That wasn’t enough to catch up to you and Dean, but it was cutting it close. Too close for Dean’s liking.
“Regret, three,” Dean said.
This time, your eyes scanned the board in a quick and swift movement. When you spotted the words you were sure he was referring to, you laughed and shook your head, reminiscing.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The doorbell rang, and you and Dean raced downstairs hoping it would be the Indian food you’d ordered for dinner. The food’s smell flooded your nostrils, wiping away any sliver of doubt that had settled in your minds.
Dean had decided to order the extra vindaloo, despite being warned against it by you numerous times. Your boyfriend had lots of virtues, but a high spice tolerance wasn’t one of them, and he seemed to forget that whenever you got Indian or Chinese.
Once the vindaloo settled on his mouth, a wave of regret crashed over him. His mouth felt as if it had been set on fire, and there was no extinguisher that could put it out. He then made the rookie mistake of trying to soothe the pain with water instead of milk, which only made the pain worse.
Despite being concerned for him, you couldn’t help but let out a laugh at the sight of him searching frantically for a jug of milk in the fridge.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
After you tapped the words in a flash, you were surprised to see an embarrassed look creep up on Dean’s face. It only made your celebratory grin wider, though, it was nice to see he wasn’t the only one that made the other crumble in the relationship.
What you didn’t notice was how Hannah’s gaze shifted between the two of you, growing more suspicious by the second. She looked at Logan, who was also observing the quiet exchange with determination, and mouthed ‘what the fuck?’. Logan just raised his eyebrows in response.
“Guys, do you have mind reading abilities you’d like to tell us about?” she asked, her eyes widening.
Dean and you laughed, and your hand reached for his out of instinct. When you realized what you were doing, you played it off as if you were just stretching, which only furthered Hannah’s intrigue.
What you assumed would be the final round dawned upon you, and the opposing duo managed to bag all of their remaining words, except for one. That still left you and Dean, who had two words left, an opportunity to win.
Victory clouded Dean’s vision, blurring the lines of coherence in his head and completely taking over him. He saw the wind as clear as day, and no one could stop him from getting it.
The words lined up in a way he couldn’t have expected, but he knew that to make the connection land, he needed to act it out. Otherwise, you wouldn’t get it and you’d be up for a loss. That he simply could not have.
So rational thought was not on his mind as the gears for how to play it out turned in his head. Clearly. And rational thought included hiding the fact that he was your boyfriend.
Dean cleared his throat, and instead of simply saying the code word out loud, he leaned in. The action was exactly the same as always, but he usually reserved it for private moments. Most of them happened whenever you decided to watch a movie late at night, and therefore you had to be even quieter than usual.
Once he’d leaned in, his voice dropped to that tone that he knew made your head go dizzy and your chest flutter.
“Watchlist, two,” he said, letting a teasing wink slip through.
There was a sudden silence in the room, and you turned to find the rest of the group fixated on you and Dean. Tucker had stopped eating, a chip midway to his open mouth; Logan stared at you two with furrowed brows, as if he thought he was seeing things; Garrett and Hannah just looked at each other, then back at you.
Panic entered your lungs, but it dissipated as soon as your eyes landed on Dean’s. He was looking at you with that expression that reminded you of why you went through all of the hassle in the first place, a look full of love.
“Wait. You guys share a watchlist? A romantic watchlist?” Tucker asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dean rolled his eyes playfully, but cracked you a grin from where he stood, his eyes silently asking if you were good with him telling the group everything.
You nodded, waiting for the chaos to unfold.
“Yeah, Tucker. We share a watchlist, a closet, a bed on some nights and now, according to you all, a brain. We’re together,” Dean announced, coming over to you and sneaking a hand to your waist.
“Logan, pay up!” Hannah exclaimed, leaving you and Dean perplexed.
“I bet money on next month,” Logan winced.
“Just because I’ve made twenty dollars off this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, Di Laurentis. I’ll be coming to you for an interrogation very soon,” said Hannah, grabbing the dollar bill Logan had on his hand.
“Y’know what this means?” Dean whispered mere seconds before turning you to face him and placing a kiss on your lips.
You kissed him back, but laughed as soon as you started hearing the noises the rest of the boys were making.
“That is actually disgusting, Dean,” Tucker said, shaking his head.
“Get a room, man!” Garrett yelled, covering his eyes with a hand.
After pulling away, you realised the important thing about tonight hadn’t been winning at Codenames, or at anything else.
The important thing was that you could love Dean whenever and wherever you wanted to, without the fear of being seen.
summary: when things get rough, john logan disappears. good thing you know exactly what to do and how to get him back to himself again. (3.7k)
warnings: mentions of logan's dad and his alcoholism, mention of injury (bruises) but nothing graphic. tooth rotting fluff!
a/n: the moment i laid eyes on this man i knew i'd be down bad and now here we are! john logan you have bewitched me, body and soul <3
"What's up, fuckers?"
A chorus of half-assed returned greetings reach your ears, but it looks like the boys are too busy playing video games to pay you any attention. You shrug off your jacket, throwing it on one of the hooks by the door before venturing deeper into the house.
It may be cold outside, but this place is always toasty. You always joke it's because of the testosterone of the four college boys living here.
One of those college boys is your boyfriend, but upon a glance around the living room, the only one who isn't sprawled out on the couch.
"Logan upstairs?"
The boys look towards each other, a silent conversation amongst the three of them that you aren't privy to, but know can't be a good thing. Dean's nostrils flare in retaliation to Garrett's ever so slight shake of the head, and Tucker's eyes widen, paired with a tilt of his chin in your direction.
"Uh, nope," Tucker says carefully. You raise an expectant brow. "Jeff called earlier."
Your heart sinks in your chest.
Whenever Logan's older brother, Jeff, calls him, it's never a nice conversation. It usually has to do with their father, always a sore subject between the two Logan boys. Whether their old man has been arrested again for being drunk and disorderly, or failed to show up for work or something important, everyone close to John Logan knows his complicated feelings towards his family.
"Shit. What happened now?"
Dean shrugs. "Dunno. He wouldn't say, just got up and left."
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose with two fingers. "Alright. I know where he is."
"You got him?"
"Always do."
The only other car in the parking lot when you get to the Hawks practice facility is Logan's beat up truck. The main doors to the building get locked at night, but you know from experience the maintenance door around back is easy to get open if you have the right touch, it isn't hard to get in. You assume that's how Logan got in, because he's the one who taught you the way to jiggle the lock.
You already know your way around, and you can already hear the telltale scraping of blades on ice, over and over and over.
Normally, the whole arena is lit up, but in the after hours only the main light over the ice is on, shining over one lone figure in the middle of the rink. Logan takes off from the center, legs and arms pumping, skates flying across the slippery surface back and forth, from wall to wall and then again.
He does four more runs before he takes a break, shoulders heaving from the effort of pushing hard.
You rap your knuckles against the sideboards, the sound echoing through the empty space, and it gets Logan's attention immediately. He yanks his helmet off as he glides over, and the closer he gets the more frustrated you can tell he is.
"Hey, you," You greet, palms bracing on the wall.
Logan scrapes to a stop mere inches from your face, mouth set into a thin line, eyes hard, chest heaving. Those eyes soften just the slightest bit when you reach out and brush the sweaty hair out of his eyes, but still, you can clearly see he's upset.
"How'd you know where I was?"
"You always come here when you're trying to get your mind off something."
Something in Logan's jaw ticks. "The boys told you then, huh?"
"When did your brother call?"
"About an hour ago."
"And you've been here ever since."
Logan doesn't have to say a word for you to know you're right, that he's been here busting his ass off for the past hour, pushing himself to the brink like he's punishing himself for something.
You run your hands over his shoulders and let them link around the back of his neck, tugging him closer to kiss him gently. His mouth works against yours on instinct, head tilting to get a better angle, one gloved hand curling around the small of your back. When you pull away some time later you're both panting into each other's space, eyes fluttering open slowly.
"I don't really wanna talk about it," He murmurs. He looks a little more at ease now, that little crease in between his eyebrows he gets when he's upset nowhere to be found.
Shaking your head, you flatten a palm against his cheek, stroking your thumb over sticky skin. "We don't have to, baby. Just…maybe get off the ice soon? Don't overwork yourself because of him."
Logan looks like he wants to protest, but one look at you and that sweet face he can never say no to and he sighs, nodding. "Lemme do my warm down and change, then I'm yours."
Satisfied, you press another quick kiss to his lips, before settling into one of the rinkside seats to wait while he finishes up.
He emerges from the locker room soon after in sweats and a hoodie, dark hair wet from a shower and curling at the ends, with his hockey bag hiked over his shoulder, managing a small smile at the sight of you waiting for him as he makes his way over.
Only then do you notice the slight lean while he walks. The way he seems to be favoring his left side a little more than his right, hiding it well but not well enough for your watchful eyes.
You stop him with a hand to the chest before he gets close enough to hug you, fingers gripping the hem of the heavy fabric.
He inhales sharply. "Wait—"
But you're quicker than him. You lift his hoodie and hold back a gasp at the sight underneath, eyes going wide.
Bruises like patchwork lick over half his ribcage and around his back, a blossom of colors that skin definitely isn't supposed to be. Some are old, however, some look to be newer.
"What the fuck, Logan?" You huff, letting your fingertips ghost over the injuries lightly.
"Shit, it—they look worse than they really are, sweetheart. They're just bruises, I promise," He insists, placating you with both hands up in surrender. You narrow your eyes at him and his hands go higher. "I'd go see our trainer if something was really wrong, you know I would."
"You're gonna ice that when you get home, right?"
Logan winces, turns on his big brown eyed pleading gaze, paired with a small pout of his lower lip.
"Can I stay at yours?" He asks hopefully, lacing his fingers with yours. You must give him some sort of look, because he shakes his head. "Just for tonight. They're gonna look at me weird if I go home and I can't deal with that shit right now."
"Okay, fine. But tomorrow you're facing your friends, because they might be stupid sometimes, but they mean well."
"I know," He sighs, dragging a hand back through his hair. "I'll talk to them."
"And you're lucky my roommate went home to visit her boyfriend for the weekend."
"Why? We gonna get up to some stuff later tonight?" Logan leans into your space with wiggling eyebrows, the scruff on his cheeks tickling the side of your face where he nuzzles against you.
You stifle a laugh when he presses a kiss to your neck, shoving him away gently. "Not with those bruises we aren't. The only thing you're gonna be all up on is an ice pack."
"You're not even gonna take pity on the injured guy and give him a back rub?"
"Maybe if you don't put up a fuss about icing."
He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulder to pull you against his good side as you make your way outside. "You're amazing and I love you."
"Yeah, I love you too, you idiot."
Your apartment is small compared to the boys' house, but Logan seems to enjoy it here a little more these days. It's quieter, and he gets to spend time with you, away from the always crowded house where you can never seem to get a moment alone.
He makes himself right at home, kicking off his shoes by the door and heading immediately for the cold pack you keep in the freezer specifically for him.
"Did you eat?" You ask, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. Logan's silence is answer enough, so you make your way to the fridge, grabbing what you need for a quick sandwich.
"Hey, no, I can make my own sandwich," He protests, pushing off the opposite counter. He doesn't grimace with the effort, but you can tell he's in obvious discomfort.
"It's not your sandwich. It's mine. I'm just letting you have half," You say, very matter-of-factly.
He shakes his head, chuckling in amusement at your obvious workaround. "Okay, fine. I will gladly take that half sandwich, thank you."
You hum in approval and whip one together quickly, sliding it in front of him. "Eat," You say, pushing a stray curl out of his face with a look that screams no nonsense as you hop up onto the counter beside where he leans. Of course, he obliges, scarfing down a bite that nearly engulfs his entire half.
He sighs appreciatively, grinning at you through a mouthful of turkey and cheese. "Fantastic. Better than Tucker's cooking."
"Better not let him hear you say that!"
As usual, Logan starts to eyeball your sandwich as soon as he finishes, and as usual, you give it to him. You aren't really hungry anyways.
"Thank you," He says quietly after he's polished off the entire thing, stepping in to cage you between his arms.
"Darling, it was a sandwich. I'll make you one anytime you want."
"Not just for that. For getting me out of that rink. For caring about me, loving me the way you do. I don't think I'll ever get over how lucky I am that you chose me."
"I'd choose you in any lifetime, John Logan," You murmur, arms draping over his shoulders.
His mouth crashes against yours without further ado, body slotting itself between your legs, pulling your hips against his until there isn't an inch of space left between you. Your fingers bury themselves in his already messy hair, using the soft strands to tilt Logan's head in a way that allows you to lick deeper into his mouth.
You're lost in him. The feeling of his mouth on yours, the warmth pooling low in your belly, as Logan uses a hand to guide your legs around his waist. Somewhere in it all, your top winds up on the floor across the room, and you're half a moment away from starting to undress him too.
In the distance, the front door opens.
For two whole seconds, you pay it no mind. In the third second, when the same door slams shut, it hits you like a freight train.
Much to Logan's dismay, you pull away quickly with a sharp inhale.
"Baby, what—" He murmurs, eyes heavy lidded as he attempts to go back in for another kiss, only to be stopped by a pull to his hair. Letting out a little huff, he pinches your hip gently, brows creasing. "Literally what is going on right now?"
You tug at the hem of Logan's hoodie, panicked at what's about to happen. "Give me your hoodie."
"What?"
"Logan! Hoodie!"
"Okay, okay!" He yelps, grabbing at the back of it to pull it over his head. "Care to fill me in on what the hell is happening?"
"For whatever reason, my roommate is home and about to find us here, and I'm not wearing a shirt!"
Logan lets out a appreciative groan from the back of his throat, head tipping back. "Fuck, I know."
All you can manage to do is clutch the piece of clothing to your chest and pray your tits aren't out before your roommate appears in the doorway, coming to a standstill.
"Hi! I thought—" Your voice comes out all strangled and squeaky, so you clear your throat. "Erm, I thought you were heading home for the weekend?"
For a few seconds, she stares at you, expression unreadable. She doesn't seem to notice your lack of clothing, the shirt a few inches away from her foot, or your boyfriend trying and failing to seem nonchalant as he blocks most of you from view.
Then, much to your surprise, she bursts into tears.
You share identical wide eyed looks of shock with Logan, equal parts confused and taken aback. He shrugs helplessly.
Yanking his hoodie over your head, you scramble across the room just in time for the girl to collapse into your waiting arms, shoulders shaking as she sobs into your shoulder.
You rub soothing circles over her back on the way to the couch, because the two of you aren't the closest, but she's a nice girl and you're not heartless.
Eventually you manage to figure out that her boyfriend had broken up with her through text as she'd been about halfway through the drive, and then accidentally sent her a shirtless pic that was meant for another girl. It wasn't too hard for her to put the pieces together, and she'd decided to come home rather than spend two days in a town where everything reminded her of him.
To be completely honest, the guy was kind of a dick anyways, so you aren't too surprised. It was a borderline scum of the earth move—devastating for her, but fitting for him.
After you've console the poor girl the best you can and have coaxed her to sleep in her bed with assurances that he's the biggest asshole ever and promises that she'll be okay, you close her bedroom door, ever so gently, letting your forehead rest against the smooth wood just for a moment.
Your shoulders slump, the weight of all the heightened emotions crashing over you at last.
You turn back to the couch, to where Logan has been trying to remain supportive from a distance for the past half hour. "That's never happened before."
"I think you did great," He insists, shaking his head. "We handled the situation perfectly."
"We? You just sat here looking like a deer caught in fucking headlights!" You let out bark of laughter, flopping onto the cushion beside him, tucking your legs underneath yourself comfortably. Logan immediately shifts to let you lean against him, but you stop short when you feel a wet patch along his injured side as you go to drape an arm over his torso. "Why is your shirt wet? You're not the one she cried all over."
"Been trying not to let the ice pack drip all over the place. I was too scared she'd get worse if I got up to put it back in the freezer," He whispers. He looks entirely serious too, bordering on worried.
So worried that you can't help it—you burst into laughter, burying your face into Logan's hoodie to dampen the noise. Logan's lips press into your hair to quiet chuckling of his own, arms wrapping around you snugly.
For a while, you soak each other's company. Your chin snuggled in the dip of his shoulder, his fingers skimming your arm aimlessly. Not kissing, not talking, just comfortable silence. Everything quiet and calm in a way it hasn't been in a while. You quite enjoy these moments with Logan—just the two of you really able to relax together without having to worry about anything for the time being.
In a world where everything is always busy and full of people, some alone time is much needed.
From down the hall, you hear a loud thud. You pause and lift your head from Logan's chest, squinting.
"Twenty bucks she just rolled out of her bed in her sleep?"
Logan shakes his head vehemently, brows flying high. "No way I'm taking those odds. She definitely just fell out of bed."
"I should go check on her," You sigh. You go to clamber out of his warm embrace, but he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you back down with a mumbled reluctance. "Babe, what if she's hurt? Hit her head, or something?"
"She's a big girl, she'll be fine!" He whines, giving your face a smattering of kisses all over. "C'mon, stay. Please? No fair she gets all the love and care when I'm still here too."
You curl back into his side, nestling your cheek to his chest, fingers intertwining right above his heart. "Thank you for bearing through all of that."
"You're a really good roommate, y'know. She's lucky to have you."
"I'm gonna go check on her." You smile at him, quick and a little guilty.
"Babe!"
"Just really fast, and then I'll come right back. I swear," You insist, wriggling out of his embrace with a kiss pressed to his cheek. Despite his grumblings, you dart off, and true to your word you do come back within a few minutes, grinning sheepishly as you settle back in next to him. "She's fine. Got back into bed herself."
"Have you ever thought about, like, getting a place together?"
You blink and cock your head at the sudden ask. "You and me?"
"No, me and fuckin' Beau," Logan snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yes, you and me, babe. Us having our own place, not having to worry about roommates breaking down, or random people in our space at all hours of the day. Just…the two of us."
His voice goes softer, almost wistful, with that last sentence, smile gracing his lips as he continues on. "I mean, I'm making a little extra money with my handyman business around campus, you just got that promotion. I'd have to crunch some numbers but I think we could swing it. Get someplace nice, make it our own," He muses. "And…I've been saving some of my sponsorship money. That Liquid IV thing with Garrett has been pretty sweet."
"Logan, that's your money. It's for your future, I can't ask you to spend that on us."
"Kinda got my future laid out for me already, don't I?"
You know the deal Logan has with his brother. After college, instead of pursuing his dream, he'll move back home and take over the family business from Jeff, look after his drunk of a father. It makes your blood boil even just thinking about it, but a promise is a promise, and John Logan is nothing if not a man of his word.
You, on the other hand, made no such promise. You want the best for Logan, and as much damage his addiction did to his family, for Ward Logan as well.
So you've been researching rehab facilities—around the area, up and down the East Coast. As of right now, you haven't found the right place, but when you do, you'll find a way to take care of the garage and get Logan out of that fucking town.
He'll get back on the ice where he belongs, even if you have to move heaven and earth to do it.
"Miracles can happen to anyone, y'know."
Logan shakes his head, smiling so soft, so fond that you nearly spill your plan. "I don't need a miracle. I've got you."
Instead, you giggle, leaning in and kissing his cheek. "You're so cheesy it's sickening."
"Laugh all you want, but I'm serious. You're it for me, baby. So long as you'll have me, you're my future," He says softly. He takes your hand in his, dropping a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist. "But hey, no pressure. It doesn't have to be now if you think it's too soon. Just putting it out there, food for thought."
Well, the truth is, you have thought about it.
Your places are a fifteen minute drive apart, which isn't long by any means, but you'd love to come home to Logan—on the shitty days, the good ones. All the days.
You'd love to unwind with him after a long day of classes and work, to study with him on the couch and dance like fools together in the kitchen at two in the morning, to see him off before every hockey game and be right there for him when things get rough.
Movie nights with friends, hangouts and dinners in a place that didn't smell like testosterone and sweat all the damn time. Sharing a bedroom, a bathroom sink, his everyday life mingling with yours in a space that you create together.
Someplace you could call yours.
So yeah, safe to say you've thought about it quite a bit.
"We could get a dog!" He sing-songs, wiggling his eyebrows like that alone would entice you. And because he knows you so well, he also knows that it might just work.
Still, you hmph despite the offer he dangles in front of you, ever the realist. "John Logan, we are not getting a dog. We don't have time to be—"
Logan surges forward across the couch and smothers your words with a searing kiss, cone hand sliding around the back of your neck as he lays you down against the cushions. He hovers over you, lips just inches from yours, pulled into a perfect, hopeful grin.
"Don't worry about it. Just say yes," He breathes, eyes bright. "Say you wanna live together. Say you'll move in with me."
You reach up and cup his face, bringing him down the rest of the way to press his forehead against yours.
"Yes," You giggle quietly, smiling from ear to ear. "Yes, of course I wanna live with you."
"Good. 'Cause I may have already started looking for places around here," He admits sheepishly, returning himself to a sitting position, and you follow, throwing your legs across his lap.
"You already knew I'd say yes."
"Of course I did. Because I know you and I love you, and I know you're just as all in with me as I am with you."
You lace your fingers through his, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "And aren't you just the luckiest guy in the world because of it?"
"Yeah," He murmurs. "I am pretty lucky."
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Summary: Forcefully dragged out of a lecture with the news that his perfectly healthy 22-year-old girlfriend had a heart attack at work, John Tucker meets his girlfriends parents for the first time in a hospital waiting room.
Pairing: John Tucker x Paralegal!Reader
Warnings: Angst, hospitals, mentions of panic attacks and the physical effects of anxiety on the body, medical inaccuracies because I have no idea how hospitals work,
He doesn’t remember what he was doing when he got the call. What the teacher in his lecture hall was talking about when Dean phoned, voice gentle as he tried to explain the situation.
“Listen, Tuck, don’t panic, but I’m with Allie. She just got a call from YN’s mom. She’s in the hospital. The ambulance came to get her from work, and the office manager said she was displaying classic heart attack symptoms.”
Heart attack. Those words almost gave Tucker one of his own.
He threw his things into his backpack, taking off out of the lecture hall without a word, a concerned Beau shouting after him. He was shaking so much that he almost dropped his truck keys four times trying to get the driver’s side door open.
It isn’t until he’s pulling out of the student parking lot that he realizes nobody ever told him which hospital to go to.
He turned down the radio, which was currently blasting Pearl Jam in an attempt to keep himself calm, dialling Dean’s number over the Bluetooth.
“Hey, Tuck. We’ve just gotten to the hospital. Allie and YN’s mum are talking to the doctors. Her dad is still en route.”
“What hospital?” His voice cracked. “She works in Hastings, but Boston has a better cardiac unit-“
“John.” Deans voice was firm. “She’s at Hastings University Memorial. And she is going to be fine. But you’re no good to her if you ram your truck into a pole trying to get here. So stay calm, and Allie or I will call you with updates.”
He white-knuckled the steering wheel of his Frontier the whole way to the hospital, zoning out as he turned off the freeway and onto the side road to the hospital. He parked crookedly and almost dropped the paper receipt for his three hours of overpriced parking before running like a mad man towards A&E.
He found Dean right away. He was talking to an older man in paint-stained construction pants and a t-shirt advertising the local trade school.
Tucker took a deep breath before he approached.
“Dean,” his voice shook. “How’s she doing?”
Dean put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “They took her in for an emergency ECG. Allie’s in pieces. YN is the only family she has.”
“She’s twenty two years old.” Tucker stammered. “How the hell did this happen?”
“She collapsed in the copy room.” Allie’s equally shaky voice piped up from behind him. “I talked to Mary Ellen, one of her coworkers. She’d been complaining about chest pains all morning, and her breathing was laboured when she bumped into Mary Ellen in the copy room. And then her legs gave out, and that’s when Wayne called the ambulance.”
“Do they think it’s a heart attack?”
Allie nodded, leaning on Dean for support. “That’s what the paramedics said when they brought her in.”
“I’m sorry,” the man in the construction clothes piped up. “who are you and how do you know my daughter?”
Time seemed to slow as Tucker turned to face him. He saw the resemblance now. They had the same eyes, the same cheekbones. It was occurring to Tucker that even though he and YN had been together for four months, he has still never met her parents.
“John Tucker, sir.” He swallowed nervously, hand shaking as he reached to shake hands. “I’m your daughter’s boyfriend.”
“David.” Her father said stoically. “You make my daughter very happy, young man. She’ll be glad to know that you’re here.”
“David!” A woman’s voice carried down the hall as a middle aged woman in a pea coat and riding boots hurried towards them. It was clear from her harried nature and the way she carried herself that it was YN’s mother “She’s awake!”
“Oh thank god.” David exhaled, slumping back on one of the plastic chairs. “My little girl is going to be okay.”
Dean gripped Allie’s shoulder reassuringly, attempting to take charge. “Did they say what happened?”
“It wasn’t a heart attack. She had a panic episode that caused her chest to constrict and her lungs to fail momentarily.”
“Jesus Christ.” Tucker sighed, running a hand down his face. “Are they keeping her in.”
YN’s mom gave him a strange look before Allie piped up. “It’s okay, Aunt Charlotte. This is Tucker.”
“Oh,” Charlotte breathed, “oh, I imagined meeting you so much differently. There was going to be pot roast, and garlic bread-“
“It’s okay, Mrs. YLN.” Tucker soothed. “How’s she feeling? Is she allowed visitors?”
“They want to run a few more tests. Someone just came in to take some blood from her, but once the results come in, they’ve told her she can go home.”
Charlotte moved to sit next to her husband, and Dean urged Allie to do the same. Bursting with nervous energy, Tucker offered to do the Starbucks run while they waited for YN’s blood results. Dean came with him, the walk to the hospital cafeteria dreadfully silent.
“How did this happen?” Tucker mumbled, fumbling with the Starbucks app on his phone to make sure he’d gotten everyone’s orders right. “I mean, I knew her anxiety was bad, but this?”
Dean sighed. “She works too hard. Always has. And this whole having a full time job thing…according to Allie, it sounds like it’s been really tough on her. What she does, it’s not easy. Trust me, I should know. I’ve seen what my parents put their paralegals through, and they have so much more experience than YN does.”
“I love her, Dean.” The conviction in his voice startled him. “I love her so much that it fucking hurts, and when I thought I was losing her, I didn’t know what to do.”
Dean looked at him knowingly, resting a hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “Tell her that, Tuck. Tell her how you feel. She needs to know that there are people who care about her and have her back. She’s had far too many shitty friends and it’s given her a complex.”
for a brief moment, Tucker wondered if he should be worried that Dean knew so much about YN. But he knew it all came from Allie, and that Allie would have mentioned it out of love and care and concern, never to spread any kind of gossip.
The walk back to the waiting room was quiet. Almost too quiet, Tucker thought, hearing the bustling sounds of the active hospital behind him.
When they made their way back, the sight of YN almost made him drop the tray of coffees. She looked terrible. The nurses had brought her out in a wheelchair, and Tucker could see just how unsteady she was from where he was standing. She looked almost hollow. There were dark bags under her eyes and her hair was pulled into a messy and ungraceful ponytail. She was arguing with her parents about something, but all of that faded away when she saw Tucker.
She rose, trying to find her balance on the tile floor as she made her way over to him. With a a sigh of relief, Tucker pulled her into his arms.
“I’m so fucking glad that you’re okay. You scared the shit out of me, darling.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft. “But I’m fine, you didn’t need to come.”
“Yes I did. I care about you, YN. I wasn’t just going to go about my day while you were alone and scared in the emergency room.” He breathed heavily. “What did the doctors say?”
She exhaled, holding up a small orange bottle. “They want to put me on anti-depressants. And they’ve given me a referral for a therapist and a week of paid sick leave that will use up my allowance of sick days for the year. Officially, they called it self-neglect. The doctor said she’d never seen such low iron levels in someone who presents as heathy as I do.”
He gripped her hand tightly, hoping it came across as reassuring. His phone had vibrated non stop in the truck, and he knew that as soon as he looked at it, it would be filled with missed calls and concerned texts from Garrett, Logan and Beau.
“Tuck?” She asked softly. “Can you take me to go pick up my car from the office?”
Behind her, David rose from his seat. “Honey, I can drive you.”
“No, dad.” Her voice was firm. “You don’t need to hover over me. I’m fine. Please go back to work.”
David hesitates slightly before wrapping his arms around his daughter. “I love you, kiddo. Never scare me like that again.”
She nodded, obviously butting back tears as she separated from her father’s embrace. “You too, mom. Go to the rink. I don’t want to be reason that Eloise doesn’t have anybody cheering her on from the stands.”
Charlotte nodded weakly, giving her daughter a kiss on the cheek and smoothing out her hair. Her goodbye was less wordy than her husbands, but somehow more heartfelt. Dean and Allie were the next to leave, and once all the discharge papers were signed, Tucker and YN started the quiet walk back towards his truck.
“What happened?” Tuck asked softly. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
She exhaled, opening his passenger door. “I just snapped. Four different people wanted eight different things from me at once, the phone kept ringing and Wayne gives us shit if we don’t answer and I’m sick of always being late to things because of fucking work and late leaving this morning so breakfast was a granola bar that I ate while I was waiting in traffic. I guess my body finally caught up to my mind and decided that I’d had enough.”
Tucker settled next to her in the drivers seat, gently brushing a hand over her wrist. “Have you been sleeping?”
“Not well. I usually wake up in the middle of the night for no reason. The last time I slept for a full, uninterrupted eight hours was the last time I stayed over at yours.”
Tucker knew she was talking about the night she lost her virginity. He remembered that night, and how content he had felt falling asleep with YN in his arms, her fingers gently combing through his hair.
“I didn’t have a lot of the same experiences other kids did. I spent a lot of time on my own because I had shitty friends, and I used to tell myself that it was okay because once I was an adult, I’d be able to do all of these things myself and I’d have better friends and the jokes on me because now I spend all of my waking hours at work while other people my age are out frolicking in the sun with their friends and doing whatever the fuck they want.”
Tucker took a deep breath, letting go of her wrist as he moved to put the keys in the ignition. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to take you out for lunch, and then I’m taking you to get your car. And then we’re going to go back to your place, and you are going to have a hot shower and a nap. Only after you’ve done all of those things are we going to talk about what comes next.”
His carer instincts were going into overdrive, and he ached with the knowledge that she was going through something that he couldn’t help with.
Food and comfort he knew well.
Medical issues? That was so not his domain.
He pulled of the freeway at an earlier exit than the one for YN’s office, pulling into a quaint roadside cafe which John knew carried decadent sandwiches and soups rich in protein.
Exactly what someone who had skipped breakfast needed.
She was still toying nervously with the plastic hospital bracelet on her wrist. It would need to be cut off. He was relieved when she ordered a massive chicken ceasar sandwich and a side potato and bacon soup. She ate the entire thing, easing away a worry that he didn’t even realize that he had.
“Tuck?” She asked softly, stirring her soup. “These meds I’m supposed to start, one of the possible side effects is a loss of sex drive. If that happens, I need to know you’re okay with that. I know we’ve only slept together the once but I really enjoyed it and-“
“YN.” Tuckers voice was firm as he reached for her hand across the table. “That doesnt matter to me. What does matter is that I love you, and I want you to be happy and healthy more than anything. If that means less sex, then that’s completely fine. You have nothing to apologize for or feel guilty about. I’m happy to just kiss and cuddle. I just want you to be happy.”
That wasn’t how he’d meant to say it. It wasn’t until just recently that he even realized that it was how he felt.
“You love me?” Her voice sounded small. And scared. He hated that she sounded that way because of something that he’d said.
“Yeah, I do.” Tucker smiled shyly. “And you don’t have to say it back if you’re not ready. But I wanted you to know. And if your sex drive does decrease, who gives a shit? There are other ways to be intimate.”
Her heart swelled. Her chest felt funny, but not the way that it had earlier when she’d collapsed. No, this wasn’t a pain. It was a warmth that only John Tucker seemed to be able to cause.
And that was when she knew. She’d thought about it for weeks, and figuring out how she felt had likely been one of the things contributing to her breakdown, but now she was certain.
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ jealousy + insecurity, ex mentions, crying (both), drunkenness/intox, miscommunication, possessive!dean, pet names (princess, baby, angel, baby doll + no y/n), angst with comfort, party setting + language
“There you are, princess.”
You smile before you can stop yourself as Dean presses a rough kiss against your cheek, his body sliding in behind you, big and warm against your back while the crowd moves around both of you.
“Havin’ fun?” He asks, mouth brushing your neck while his hands settle on your hips.
“Mhmm,” you giggle.
“You drunk, baby doll?”
“Mhmm…”
His laugh rumbles against your skin. “Yeah? Are you askin’ me or tellin’ me?”
You laugh harder at that, turning your head slightly when he nudges his nose against your cheek. Dean catches your mouth, kissing you deep and slow before pulling back with a grin still spread against your lips.
“You wanna dance?”
“Okay,” you say, and the second that word leaves your lips he’s pulling you away.
The dance floor is packed by the time the two of you push your way into the middle of it. Bodies crowd tight around you beneath flashing lights, Dean’s hand tightening on your waist, pulling you against him.
The two of you start dancing, your body moving easily with his while the crowd shifts around you.
“You look so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles, low and deep against your ear, making you press into him a little more.
His hands hold your hips again, turning you and pulling you close, your arms wrapping loosely around his neck while a smirk tugs at his lips and his hands move lower.
The chain around his neck glints beneath the lights as he dips in, pulling you closer by the small of your back, his lips on yours, sending a wave of warmth rushing through you.
A smile breaks across his lips as the music changes—something slower—putting you right where he wants you. Your back hits his chest, breath catching in your throat.
His hands wrap around your body, his face tucked so close you can feel every warm breath, the two of you grinding slower now.
Your eyes flutter open and a wave of unease rushes over you as you lock eyes with a few people you recognize from the rink. The second you catch them staring, they look away, one of them muttering something into his red SOLO cup while the other nods in agreement.
Dean starts singing along to the music, his deep voice vibrating against your neck. You focus on that, the corners of your lips trembling as they pull into a smile you wish wasn’t so weak.
You try to let yourself fall back into him, focusing on the heat of his body and the smell of his cologne. His hands drag you closer, but it doesn’t stop the unease this time. When you open your eyes again, the insecurity hits harder.
Wellsy… She gives you a small smile, tight around the edges just like yours.
You close your eyes again before the doubt can settle too deep, Dean’s head tucking back into your neck. His lips move slow against your skin beneath the pounding music, his grip firming on your waist instinctively.
He turns you around again, one hand sliding over your waist while the other curls loosely around your throat, pulling you back against him before kissing you so deep your thoughts scatter for a second.
His mouth moves against yours, slow and messy, warm from beer. Dean kisses like he gets distracted by it—like he forgets there are people around once he gets ahold of you.
Your fingers tighten in the front of his shirt, as a lump forms in your throat, your breathing tightening in your chest as the thoughts come rushing in.
Maybe if she called, it would be over.
What if he wishes he were kissing her instead?
What if he wishes you were someone else?
“Dean,” you whisper softly, your voice breaking against his lips.
“Angel,” he murmurs, kissing you again.
You swallow hard, collecting yourself for a moment. “Do you wanna go upstairs?”
Dean grins so boyishly it makes the hurt worse.
He grabs your hand, pulling you through the crowd so fast you barely have time to keep up with him. He drags you through the packed house, still glancing back at you with that stupid excited smile.
And when you reach the steps he hooks an arm underneath your thighs and lifts you clean off the floor, starting up the stairs with you. A startled laugh slips out of you, but he swallows it, not catching the way it waivers on his lips.
Your fingers slide into his messy blond hair as he carries you farther upstairs. You close your eyes tighter, stomach sinking as you become all too aware of the sting building behind your eyes—tears balancing dangerously along your lashes.
You’ve felt weird all day. Ever since this morning when you opened Instagram and saw Dean’s name underneath one of Allie’s posts.
One stupid comment. Congratulations!
That was it. Nothing flirty. Nothing inappropriate.
Nothing that should latch on and refuse to let go, but it does.
Allie was standing on some giant stage in New York smiling beneath bright lights while thousands of people flooded the comments underneath her post and somewhere in between all of them was Dean.
And now, those weird looks and whispered conversations downstairs suddenly feel loaded. Every glance feels like the people around you know something’s going to happen, and you don’t, and they don’t want to miss the chance to see when he finally finds his person again.
Like you’re temporary.
Just the girl standing in the middle of whatever unfinished thing still exists between Dean and the girl everybody thought he’d end up with.
Dean shoves the bedroom door open, and kicks it shut, the bass downstairs making the pictures in his room rattle against the wall, the hum of the party seeping through the bottom of the door.
You reach for the ties of your top, trying to pull yourself together as he tears the t-shirt over his head, the both of you stripping between messy kisses before he’s dragging you down onto the mattress with him.
You crawl toward him slowly, knees sinking into the comforter while Dean watches. “Fuck, baby…” He lies down on the bed, guiding you on top of him as he brushes his hair off his face, biceps flexing with it. “Been waiting for this all day.”
Those six words heal something in you for a moment. Inching you back to that place you had been before you woke up this morning.
He reaches his arm up, hooking his hand around the back of your neck, lowering you toward his lips. “I love you—”
“Allie?”
You blink down at Dean once, thinking you heard him wrong, but it sounded like he said her name. Dean’s head snaps toward the door—all the color draining out of his face.
A person from behind the door tries again. “Allie, Dean? You in there?”
Dean goes completely stiff beneath you. “No—” The word flies out of him. “No, dude, what?”
Your stomach drops so hard it makes you sick.
Dean’s already trying to recover before you can even think straight.
“You need something?” He calls quickly, voice tighter now.
“Just wanted to say ‘hi’, man. Sorry.”
You shove off him, knee catching in the comforter as you stumble toward your discarded clothes on the floor, heart shattering so hard it aches.
“Hey—hey.” Dean catches your wrist, fingers wrapping around you fast enough to stop you mid-step. “Baby.”
“Let me go,” you whimper, and he does, his hands drawing back but he follows after you anyway as you struggle back into your clothes.
“What—what’s goin’ on?” He asks breathlessly. “I’m sorry about the Allie thing, alright? I’m sorry, baby.”
The room around you swims with the tears waiting to fall from your eyes, trying not to blink because you know once they fall there’s no stopping them. But you break anyway.
“That’s just Cooper,” Dean says quickly, words starting to trip over each other now. “I haven’t seen him in forever, he just—he’s fuckin’ dumb, alright?” He laughs nervously, but there's nothing funny about it and he can feel that.
Your fingers shake so badly fumbling with the zipper of your jeans it takes three tries to get it up.
“Baby, c’mon.” Dean’s voice whispers over your shoulder, his big hand coming down to rest on your hip. “Just talk to me.”
You lift the sleeve of your top, brushing away your emotion. You can feel him staring at you now, looking over your shoulder, but he can't see enough—not yet.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, turning you toward him, hands gripping your arms. “Baby—hey, hey.” His blue eyes search your face desperately. “No, no, no. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
You try to look away from him, but Dean pulls you into his chest before you can, his arms wrapping around you tight. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other pressed against your back, trembling with adrenaline.
“Baby,” he says again, softer now. You can feel his heartbeat pounding underneath your cheek, suddenly sober, that loose buzz he’d been feeling downstairs long gone.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, big hands cupping your face while his thumbs swipe beneath your eyes trying to catch the tears.
“Baby… I—That. That can’t just be because of that, right?” He asks, voice stumbling over itself now. “I mean—yeah, okay, wait. That—that was insensitive as fuck…” His brows pull together harder the longer he looks at you. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Your lip trembles, and Dean’s entire expression shifts, his thumb brushing along it too like he's trying to stop that from happening. The panic on his face gets worse, blue eyes moving frantically over your face, trying to figure out how this got so bad.
“Talk to me,” he whispers but you bite your lips instead to keep from crying, complete whiplash from the girl laughing and wrapped around him downstairs twenty minutes ago—but you were putting on an act for the both of you.
Allie’s name breathing into the room at the same time that Dean was telling he loves you was just it… the breaking point. The moment you couldn't keep up with the lie that you were okay, because you're not.
His hands tremble as he holds your cheeks, leaning in to kiss you, gentler than he ever has, like he thinks he can soothe this out of you if he’s soft enough.
He draws back a little, the air between you tight and heavy, as you whisper.
“You’re not over her, are you?”
“What?” He asks, not angry or defensive, just hurt. “Allie? I am. I promise you, I am.”
“I don’t think you are,” you whisper. “Or…” Your voice cracks a little and you look away from him, embarrassed the second more tears start slipping loose. “Maybe you are, I don’t know.” You laugh, but it sounds miserable. “I just—”
“Talk to me,” he says quickly, following your face when you turn away, trying to catch your eyes again. One of his hands slides down your arm, rubbing nervously while he watches you unravel. “Please.”
You stare down at the floor for a second before finally whispering, “I saw the comment… On her post,” you continue quietly. “It sounds so stupid out loud. Oh my god,” you sigh heavily, burying your face in your hand.
“It doesn’t—”
“And, people…” You swallow hard, trying to get the words out confidently but they sound so small. “I know they were talking about us downstairs.” Your throat tightens harder.
His brows pinch in confusion, stepping a little closer. “What people?”
You shrug defeatedly, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s so stupid,” you whisper.
“It’s not,” he stops you from brushing it off as his hand slides down your arm, fingers threading through yours. “Seriously, who?”
“People expect you to be with her.” Your eyes finally lift back to his. “They do, Dean.” You wipe a few tears away, watching your hand tremble out of the corner of your eye. “I mean, she’s Allie. She’s beautiful and everybody loves her—”
Dean’s face softens. “Hey,” he says quietly.
“I just feel like—” Your throat tightens before you swallow. “I don’t know. Like maybe I’m just the girl in the middle of all that.”
He looks down at you, his lips pulled tight, the pink flush in his cheeks deepening, blue eyes shimmering now with tears of his own.
“Allie is a good person,” he says honestly. “She is.” He squeezes your hand in his. “She’s funny and she’s kind… I cared about her for a long time.”
Your stomach sinks hearing those words leave his lips. His forehead presses against yours, breathing deeply with you.
“But she’s not you.” His voice comes out low and certain this time. “She’s not the girl I’ve been thinking about nonstop for months. She’s not the first thing I think about when I wake up or the last person I talk to when I go to bed at night.”
He steps a little closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. Dean blinks and a tear rolls down his cheek. You reach up, cupping your hand against his face, brushing it away and he leans into it, looking down at you.
He grabs your hand, kissing your palm, then your wrist, guiding you to wrap your arms around his neck.
“She’s not the girl I dragged upstairs tonight because I couldn’t stop looking at her downstairs,” he continues, his voice gentle and broken. “And she’s definitely not the girl making me panic because she thinks I want somebody else.”
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding your head.
“It ended. We both knew it was ending before it actually did. I moved on,” he says softly. “And then I met you. Not the other way around. I swear.”
You nod up at him, feeling guilty for even bringing it up in the first place, maybe because he’s making you feel the opposite of what any guilty person would make you feel. There’s no defensiveness. No twisting it back on you. Just honesty.
“I just…” Your voice breaks, fingers twisting weakly in the front of his shirt again. “I don’t want to be the placeholder. The girl that’s here until you get your girl back.”
“Holy shit,” the words trip out fast. “How can you think that?” You can hear the hurt in his voice now as he buries himself in your neck. His breath comes out shaky as a few warm tears fall on your shoulder, seeping through your shirt. “You’re perfect,” he mumbles against your skin. “You’re mine.”
Your fingers slide in his hair, holding him closer and he exhales.
“I hate seeing you cry,” he whispers.
“I hate seeing you cry too. I’m sorry,” you answer, your voice just above a whisper.
“Please believe me, alright?” Dean asks as he pulls back and matches your gaze.
“I believe you. I do.”
“I’m sorry, baby. I should’ve caught this sooner.”
“You’re okay,” you whisper.
He inhales sharply through his nose, an anxious laugh slipping through his lips with your own. You rub the little rivers of wet off the apples of his cheeks, embarrassment crawling warm up your neck now after seeing his reaction.
“If it helps,” he says softly, “everybody downstairs already knows I’m crazy about you. I’m serious.”
“I’m crazy about you too.”
“I am obsessed with you.”
“Stop,” you laugh weakly, rolling your eyes while he bends suddenly, lifting you again.
“I mean it,” he mumbles as he nuzzles into your neck before dragging back. “You gotta promise me something, though.”
You look back at him and nod.
“You gotta promise me you’re not gonna sit in your head thinking shit like that by yourself. Because I swear to god, baby, I’m gonna prove to you that I got you. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I promise—”
“I can’t lose you,” he pushes out before you can even finish.
“You won’t,” you whisper softly.
“Me and you,” he says quietly.
“Me and you.”
dividers @uzmacchiato
🌻🐝taglist on my pinned post 🏒 @rafesthroatbaby @liss2709-blog @sushi-girl04 @judesgfirl @cdiaz18 @fiercetigerpoison @obsessedwrafe @vanillaiceyhot @maialopez23 @rexit-mo @georgiastars13 @princessaaa13 @dragonvalyria @livlovesfastcars @thebitchylibra @corvusmorte @st8rkey @imperfectlyperfect78 @winchestersbgirl @glitterandviolence13 @miramindlesslywriting @slut-4-rafey @emelia07
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ oral sex (m. receiving), shower sex, unprotected p in v (consensual condom removal), using the shower head, dirty talk, praise, possessive!dean, pet names (baby, angel, bunny <- jokingly, sweetheart + no y/n), teasing, multiple orgasms, mild choking, wrist pinning, overstim., playful power dynamics, language + he fell first + he’s been pining ever since ⋆˙⟡♡
“You’re gonna love it,” he mumbles as he turns the handle, water spilling from the showerhead, introducing one of his favorite ways to hook up like the two of you don’t spend half your time together in here already.
“Never have I ever,” you laugh, stumbling a little as you kick off your bar heels.
“Really? It’s a crowd favorite,” he mumbles as he tugs down his jeans and boxers. “Shower sex is seemingly the third hottest thing, after me, then you.” He winks at you as he holds up a number one with his calloused finger before pointing in your direction, waiting for you to crack.
“You’re so annoying,” you laugh.
“You’re number one—”
“I caught that. Thank you.”
“Hot as fuck,” he breathes out, his dick already painfully hard. He glances down at himself before looking back up at you. “I’m excited. Can you tell?”
“A shame you’re so nonchalant,” you giggle as your dress falls into a puddle at your feet.
A dramatic moan rips out of his throat. You slap your palm over his mouth and his blue eyes twinkle on yours.
He peels it off his lips, amusement flickering across his face. “You can be rough with me, bun. I can take it.”
“Bun?” You echo with a raised eyebrow as you unclasp your bra.
“Bunny,” he grins, his eyes zeroing on your tits as the lace material falls as well. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath, his rough fingers reaching out, looping around the band of your panties at your hips, tugging them lower. A deep groan rumbles out of him, vibrating against your lips.
He dips in kissing his way up your stomach, over your chest, up your neck, his hands resting against your back, pulling you into him.
“I was minding my business, Di Laurentis. You are the one that begged me to come here—”
“I did,” he answers honestly. “And aren’t you glad you did?” The look he gives you makes your heart flutter, dimples popping into his cheeks. “You love me.”
“I like you,” you say, fighting a grin.
“Give it another week. You’ll be at the bar next weekend fighting for my attention. I know it. I’m perfect.” His mouth curves. “Boyfriend material.”
“Boyfriend material? Says the man that’s never asked me on a date,” you whisper as your lips press against his neck. You feel his pulse race and, as cool as he’s playing it, you can tell he’s nervous.
“Lies. Didn’t know that was still an option,” he says as your mouth traces a path over his chest and stomach as you sink to your knees. “You gonna say ‘yes’ this time?”
“You’re keeping score?”
“I always keep score,” he huffs out a breath.
Your fingertips skim along the sharp lines of his hips, making the muscles in his stomach tighten. “You’re growing on me, Dean. What can I say,” you whisper.
“Oh?” His eyebrows lift as a stupid-excited laugh slips out of him. Steam curls through the room as the water grows warmer. “You know what?”
“What?” You murmur as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. His breath catches in his chest when you press a kiss on his tip.
“I…” He mumbles, watching you lay out your tongue and glide up the side of him. The thought dies behind his eyes in real time. “S’unimportant,” he murmurs as your lips wrap around him.
You take him in your mouth inch by inch, his lips parting, brows softening. The wet sounds of your mouth on him leave him reaching out and squeezing the edge of the sink for support, his other hand resting on your head.
“There is no way you’re gonna stand there and pretend you don’t know what you’ve been doing all night,” he grits out.
You pop off his cock and the breath punches out of him, spitting on his dick before you smile, stroking him lazily with your fist. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” he grins. “You spent three hours winding me up.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” he snorts. “You love that shit.”
“Maybe a bit,” you whisper, your breath ghosting across him and making goosebumps fan across his tanned skin.
“Knew it.” Dean smirks, that smug little look he had when he walked out with his arm around your shoulders at Malone’s tugging at his lips again.
“I was just having fun,” you look up at him through your lashes, far too innocently for how you’re working him in your hand.
“Trust me, I noticed. Love when you tease me—love when I get anything from you.”
You roll your eyes, warmth pooling in your cheeks, running your nails up his thighs.
“I’d sit through another three hours of it.”
“That so?” You ask.
“Mhmm,” he hums as his hold on your head gets tighter, guiding you back toward him. You wrap your lips around him and his jaw clicks, eyes rolling back in his head when you let him use you a little. The head of his cock kisses the back of your throat, spit seeping from the corners of your lips.
“So fuckin’ good at suckin’ cock, baby. Jesus Christ,” he rambles breathily, thrusting deeply a few more times before giving you back the reins.
You moan around him and his eyes screw shut, the thick muscles in his thigh shaking as his dick swells on your tongue.
“Not gonna last if you let me use you like this. I’m gonna—Fuck,” he gasps when you release him from your lips, stroking him with your tongue flat and your breasts pressed together.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, white ropes of cum landing on your tongue and chest as steam hangs heavy in the air.
Dean catches your wrists, pulling you up off your feet and into his arms. You wrap your legs around his trim waist, melting into him as he breathes laboriously, coming down from his high.
“Goddamn, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good at that,” he mumbles breathlessly. “Do you know how good you make me feel?”
You hum into the kiss, catching his bottom lip between your teeth as he steps into the shower with you.
The water is warm, remnants of his release rise off your body, swirling down the drain. He tilts in, tongue slipping in your mouth before your lips even touch.
Your gasp breaks the kiss as your back presses against the cool tile wall, so cold it sends shivers straight through you.
Dean reaches for the shower head, taking it off the base and turning it to a steady stream. He sets you down on your feet and your brows furrow in confusion because no matter how many times you've found yourself in Dean Di Laurentis's shower, he's never done this.
He kicks your foot out gently. The corner of his mouth curls as he sees you start to put the pieces together.
“Dean?” You breathe out a laugh.
“You ever done this before?” His voice drops as he grips the detachable shower head in one hand, the other pinned just over your shoulder as he looks down at you.
“I mean maybe,” you admit.
“Well,” he laughs, clearly excited by the idea. “We’re gonna have to talk about that later. No one’s ever done it for you?” His eyes flick down as the warm water sprays against your thigh, working upward.
You bite your lip and shake your head ‘no’.
“How romantic,” he whispers. “I’m your first and only. Love that for me.”
“Shut up,” you chuckle, your focus falling to the narrow space between you.
You gasp when the water hits your pussy, surging over your clit and making your knees buckle. Your arms quickly wrap around his neck for support, a moan echoing through the bathroom.
“Baby… Fuck, baby. Too much?”
You shake your head rapidly, feeling your heartbeat climb, nails clawing into his skin. “So good,” you pant. “Don’t stop.”
Dean moves his arm from the wall to your waist, drawing you closer, rocking slowly, increasing and decreasing the intensity, making you throw your head back in pleasure. Dean’s lips quickly lock onto your skin, kissing you harshly before biting down, making you cry out.
He watches your face as you drift closer and closer to your breaking point.
You feel your pleasure building fast, the pressure mounting stronger than anything you’ve felt in a while.
“You like that, huh?” He grunts.
”Mhmm,“ you whimper as your vision starts to cloud.
“I can’t wait to fuck you, baby. This is just a warm-up—”
“Dean!” You cut him off, crying out in pleasure as you wrap your arms tighter, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He lets out a devilish laugh, forcing the stream a little closer. “D-Dean,” you stutter.
“What, angel?” Your body jolts as you fight him slightly in overstimulation, continuing to ride the waves of your orgasm, pussy clenching around nothing. ”Does it feel good, baby?“
“Yes, fuck!”
“Then just take it,” he soothes, your heart pounding in your chest as you reach for air. Dean returns the water head to the base, cranking up the heat, pressing you into the wall once more as you continue to kiss, ears ringing, body tingling head to toe.
“Fuck me?” You whimper, desperation laced in your tone, but he’s already reaching above the shower, patting around the windowsill until he finds a condom.
He brings the package to his teeth and tears it open, watching as you roll it on, the thick weight of his cock squeezed in rubber.
Dean reaches down, taking a grip on your thigh, looping it in his bicep, muscles flexing as he lifts you slightly.
“Shit,” you whine as he circles your sensitive clit with the ribbed rubber on his tip, making him smirk. Dean traces the tip through your folds, teasing your entrance.
“Dean. Please.“
“Please what?” He teases you again.
“Fuck. Me.”
“Baby…” He lets out a gravelly laugh. “Beg harder.” Dean swipes his head across your clit again, making you gasp.
”Dean, can you please fuck me? Ple—” He thrusts his cock into you, rutting up, breasts pressing flush to his broad chest as he steals your breath.
Dean grabs your ass and picks you up swiftly, causing you to sink deeper on his cock and moan onto his lips.
He pins you to the wall, tilting in, drilling you into the tile quickly. His strokes are merciless, incredibly deep as you cling to his shoulders again. The hot water cascades down your body, flowing between the two of you, the sensation on your clit alone almost enough to send you over the edge. But it’s not enough. You want to feel him.
“Baby,” you murmur and he melts at the sound of your voice, pushing himself even closer. “Can we… I—” Your voice stutters with each snap of his hips.
“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your mouth.
“I wanna feel you—”
His hips lose their rhythm and his reaction speaks for itself, but he’d never leave it like that. “You serious?” He pants, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Please,” you whisper, and he growls out a breath. “Is that okay?”
“Begging too? Fuck me. You even gotta ask?”
“Take it off,” you whisper, and the look on his face is so pleased it nearly makes you laugh.
“Hands against the wall,” he mumbles, chuckling under his breath when he sees your legs trembling after he pulls out.
He grabs the condom by the tip, tugging it off, letting it slip down the drain without a second thought.
Dean grabs your hips impatiently, bullying you toward the wall before pressing himself deep. Your eyes slam shut as you tip your face toward the ceiling. Your mouth falls open as his big hand comes up, curving around your shoulder, the other drifting to your waist, using his hold to fuck into you harder.
“Holy fucking shit,” he pants, every muscle at work, water flying with each rough clap of his hips against your ass, his blonde fringe, wet and messy when you look over your shoulder, his parted lips curling into a smirk.
“Dean…” You sigh, feeling yourself about to cum again, your head throbbing with your heartbeat.
“Yeah? That’s the spot, huh?”
“Yeah,” you whine, cock-drunk, thighs quivering uncontrollably, making you lose your rhythm.
“Let me, baby. Let me,” he groans.
Dean fucks into you, striking the perfect angle, making your muscles tense up. “Shit… Right there, Dean. You’re gonna make me cum.“
“Pussy was made for me. Cum on my cock.”
You let out a cry far louder than intended in a house full of hockey boys. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand.
Dean quickly grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your mouth, shaking his head ‘no’ as he tacks it and the other to the small of your back.
“Never do that again,” he pants through parted lips, punctuating each word with a rough snap of his hips.
The knot in your stomach tightens—threatening to snap. “Dean,” you gasp.
“Me too, baby. Fuck. Me too,” he moans, as his hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, squeezing just enough to have your eyes rolling back.
Your orgasm spills over, your hand coming back to wrap around his wrist, pussy squeezing him so tight he’s hissing out a breath.
“That’s it… Good fuckin’ girl.”
His hips snap into you one last time, filling you with his warmth, his blunt nails digging into your skin as his rhythm stutters out.
You can feel everything at this moment—the spasm of your sex and the throb of his cock. Your head falls between your shoulders in exhaustion, but he uses his hold on your neck to guide you back to his lips instead.
A soft laugh escapes him against your mouth, your post-sex giggles bouncing off the walls of the shower as you soften into his arms.
“Aren’t you glad you came home with me?”
You go to say something smart, but he kisses you instead, stealing the words before they leave your mouth. He turns you back toward him, not letting you get far at all. His big arms wrap around you, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“What I tell you, huh?” He grins, still trying to catch his breath. “Shower sex is hot.”
“Mhmm,” you hum into yet another kiss and he can’t stop grinning.
“Tomorrow. Seven PM. You and me. What do you say?”
Your lips brush over the top of his, the tension between you thick and charged as you make him sweat it out a little more. His fingers flex against your waist.
“Okay, Di Laurentis,” you say, unable to hide your smile.
“That a yes?” He asks.
“That’s a yes,” you answer, and he sighs in relief.
“I mean did you wanna hear the speech I had in case you said ‘no’ again?”
“Was it good?” You taunt.
“Amazing—pathetic as hell,” he answers simply, his hand following the rush of water down your skin.
Your fingers drift into his hair, tugging at the root and he smiles, the stupid-pretty dimples popping yet again, making you absolutely weak.
“See? You love me.”
“I like like you at best,” you smile, matching his hushed tone.
And for the first time all night, Dean goes quiet. A smile pulls at his lips as he tilts in, cupping your cheeks in his hands.
“No shit? Like like, huh?” He teases against your mouth, chuckling when he says it back. “That’s pretty goddamn close if you ask me—”
“Don’t start,” you whisper, fighting a smile before he kisses you.
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : none! mention of dicks, walking into changing room full of guys? swearing? dramatic, feral Hannah. Established Hannah X Garrett, Allie X Dean, crackfic!
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : If a small, angry music major student were to a) be one of your best friends and b) insist on going to hunt down her boyfriend to shove her phone up his ass. would you argue, even if it meant bursting into the locker room after practice?
or
When you, Allie and Hannah walk into the changing rooms, omitting the fact that they'd just finished practice.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 4.5k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : something to tide ya'll over as I work through my big bertha fics for yall, and yes, I will start planning the first part of my series... when I feel like it! She's a slow grower ykwim? grower not a shower? whatever helps me sleep at night. Hope you like this little piece! Thank you @mndvx for the gif and @somebitchprobably-graphicdump for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
One thing you learnt about Hannah Wells, being one of her best friends and all, was that she was normally- a very reasonable person. She was the one to keep electrolyte sachet’s in her bag during a night out, the one to book the uber a day in advance and the one to always text check-ins on the group chat during finals week.
That was her, normally.
Unfortunately, ever since she decided to become the first hockey WAG in the group, the captain she shared a bed with had spent their entire relationship testing that theory. The relationship was undoubtedly adorable, some may say to a disgusting, how-to-lose-a-guy-in-10-days level, but sometimes Garrett would feel the need to use Hannah's tightly strung mental stability as a pair of chopsticks.
“Just, tell me again why we’re doing this?” You watched Hannah with a concerned expression, she was aggressively highlighting a sentence that had absolutely nothing to do with the paragraph she'd just read.
The yellow highlighter squeaked angrily across the page,"You know why," She gritted out.
"No, I know why you're angry,” You pointed at the highlighter.
"I'm asking why that textbook is suffering for it."
The answer never came, but that was attributed to the fact that Hannah was still busy glaring at her notes like they had personally offended her. Beethoven was a bitch.
The study room had fallen suspiciously quiet about twenty minutes ago, with Allie laying on the sofa in the corner going through a script for class and you and hannah sitting on the large table in the centre of the glass box, you scribbling out statistics equations and Hannah trying to compose a new piece.
The initial productivity went out the window when Hannah began to complain about Garrett, either of you could have stopped her, put a pin in it and dealt with it at home. Instead, Allie and you happily discarded your work and quipped helpful bits of advice during her rant.
"You know what his problem is?"
You exchanged a glance with Allie, both of you knew it was better if nobody answered- experience had taught you this was a trap.
"He says he'll call me."
Hannah pointed at her phone that she had flung across the table at the beginning of her speech, "then doesn't call me."
You nodded, the man had a habit of saying he’ll call after practice- then take hours in the locker room with the boys. Your own boyfriend had done that more times than you could count, but you made peace with it very early on; assuming it was because the boys were engrossed in some weird, hockey bro hangout while they changed.
It was nonetheless a reasonable complaint, because the team was AWOL for nearly the entire day, and the three of you were suffering for it. Ever since Garrett returned from the bench, after the fight that led to his suspension, training was 24/7 and you were lucky to get a morning kiss at the crack of dawn and a small whisper of seeing you later before the door shut, leading their phones seeming to have fallen off the face of the planet.
So, if Graham had promised he’d “see his girl tonight” because he “missed her so much” and then had the gall to not reply to her messages for half an hour. You were prepared to ride at dawn, and steal his skates to rub against concrete for as long as your drill sergeant ordered.
However, currently the drill sergeant was pink in the face and grabbing at her phone, stretching herself over her textbook to wave the device angrily.
"And then when I text him asking where he is-"
You already knew this wasn't going to end well.
"He sends me a thumbs up."
The silence was immediate, you gaped at Allie, she gaped back. It was two fishes staring at each other while Hannah slumped into her chair.
It shouldn't have been shocking, it was exactly the sort of thing Garrett would do. But he was an idiot for deciding to not fight against his nature during this trying time.
Allie lowered the script she had folded against her legs, flopping it onto her chest as she sat up. Slowly, carefully, as if she’d been told there was a rabid animal that could sense her fear.
"A thumbs up?"
"A thumbs up."
"Oh."
"Exactly."
You shook your head and closed your eyes. This was rough, like Liverpool F.C rough.
"I know he meant well."
That sentence was somehow worse, because she was trying to be rational. And when Hannah was angry and tried to be rational, it usually resulted in disaster.
"Did he think?"
Allie's contribution was deeply unhelpful.
Hannah jumped and gave her a thankful clap, "THANK YOU."
"I'm just saying."
You groan and give her a look of deep regret, "You are not helping."
"I wasn't trying to." She grinned at you.
Hannah dropped her head onto the table, face first into her music sheets. The universal sign of academic and emotional defeat.
You watched her lie there for a moment.
Then another
Then-
"I am going to kill him."
You roll your eyes and cross your arms, there it was. The threat you’d all been waiting for, Allie checked her phone, nodding her head.
"Only ten minutes."
"A personal best." You added.
Hannah stood up immediately, the chair scraped obnoxiously against the floor- as if warning her not to do the thing she was absolutely going to do. Both you and Allie looked up, concerned at the way she blinked quickly, the cogs in her head turning so fast that you were sure smoke would start spilling from her ears.
You recognised the look on her face, a dangerous determination, masked by an eerie calm. In actuality it was a complete loss of common sense
"Hannah." Allie started, warningly.
"No."
"You haven't even heard the question."
"I know the question."
The smile spreading across Hannah's face made your stomach drop. It was a Hannah Has An Idea smile and historically speaking, those had a terrible survival rate.
You racked your brain for what she could possibly be plotting. Then your face fell. Practice had ended approximately fifteen minutes ago. Which meant the boys were currently finishing up at the rink. A fact that should've been irrelevant, so painfully ordinary that it was similar to breathing. Instead, it somehow became the most important detail in the room.
“Hannah, no-”
She had already grabbed her bag and started walking towards the door. Allie scrambled to her feet, shoving her stuff into the tote she randomly picked up when you left that morning. You did the same, not caring that you messily crumpled up your work into your bag, instead more focussed on watching Hannah strut out of the library, stomping through the isles- not paying you any mind.
You panted when you caught up to her, dragging a hand through your hair,
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"Hannah."
"No."
"Hannah."
The door to the outside world opened and Allie squinted against the golden hour glow, Hannah’s smile widened dangerously,
"I am going to find my boyfriend."
The first sign this was a terrible idea came when Hannah ignored the boys leisurely walking out of the athletes' building, their hair damp from showers, you recognised a few, some from the calisthenics club, you waved at the girls on the swim team and pointedly flipped off the lewd comments from the lacrosse team. Eugh.
The second sign came when she didn’t listen to your warnings.
The third came when she barely blinked at the coach giving her a confused greeting.
By that point, frankly, the universe had done everything it reasonably could.
"Hannah."
No response.
"Hannah."
Still nothing.
The woman marched through the arena, stumbling sharply against the chairs. You inched through behind her, holding Allie's hand as she huffed and whipped her bangs out of her eyes, glaring at Hannah, who was already at the bottom of the staircase, about to turn into the back corridor.
Neither of you were particularly interested in letting your best friend commit relationship homicide without witnesses.
"Hannah."
"What."
The answer arrived instantly. She stilled just before the dim pathway towards the locker room, hands braced on her backpack straps, her shoes tapped on the floor expectantly.
"You do realise practice literally just ended."
"Correct."
"You do realise hockey players are probably changing."
"Correct."
You looked at Allie, whose eye was twitching at her best friend's unwavering need for vindication.
"You're concerning me."
She rolled her eyes and dashed down the hallway, you recognised this part of the training facility instantly, it was embarrassing the amount of times you had waited here, leaning against the wall for Logan to emerge, his chain glinting in the yellow lighting as he hauled equipment over one shoulder, the other carried his own gear.
He would kiss you quickly, mumbling against your lips about missing you, and then dump all the random sticks and bags of pucks into the storage before slinging an arm around your shoulder, slowing to a leisurely stroll as you recounted your day.
You rounded the corner, and froze. Allie bumped into you, whining as she rubbed her nose.
The locker room doors sat at the end of the corridor. You stared ahead, and blinked when Hannah barely stopped- charging forward.
"Hannah."
"No."
"Hannah."
You cupped your hands around your mouth and shouted after her, jogging behind. "What exactly is your plan here?"
"I am going to find Garrett."
"Then?"
"Then I am going to explain why sending a thumbs up was stupid."
Allie threw her hands up and blocked her pathway to the door, "Hannah."
"No." She tugged down Allie’s arms, and pushed the girl out of the way. Before either you or Allie could stop her, Hannah grabbed the door handle, and it was like the world slowed.
"HANNAH!"
The door opened and you immediately regretted the day you were born. The silence hit you like the torrential stream of water in a car wash, burning your eyes as a gasp got stuck in your throat.
Then your brain caught up with what was in front of you- because unfortunately, disastrously, hockey practice had ended, extremely recently. So recently in fact, that half the team were still in the showers hooting and hollering, while the other half were dripping wet in front of their cubbies. Staring straight at you, towels paused mid-dry.
You froze.
Hannah froze.
Allie froze.
The hockey team froze.
Time itself appeared to freeze.
"Oh my God." Allie giggled shrilly, her eyes wide as her hand came up to stifle a mix between a gasp and sob.
It wasn’t the shirtless hockey players that disturbed you. It was the penis’.
Everywhere.
Anywhere.
Dicks floor to ceiling, no matter where your troubled eyes would take you, it was phallic body parts all around. A sight that would haunt you until graduation.
The team were the first one to snap out of the trance, some of them barely phased at the intrusion, the other half silently covered their junk and shouted brokenly for the people you were actually looking for.
“What?” Logan’s voice shouted from beyond the showers, luckily you were far enough away to avoid the sight of your boyfriend and his teammates in the steamy, tiled cheap porno setting.
You accidentally made eye-contact with one of the freshmen on the team, and he winked at you. The expression on your face must've been unbelievably unimpressed because he rushed to get dressed immediately after his failure.
That made your survival instincts finally activate.
You spun around immediately, a sensible decision on your part.
Unfortunately, Allie had chosen the exact same strategy.
The two of you collided at full speed.
"OW."
The yelp escaped simultaneously. One second you were turning around, the next your shoulder crashed into Allie's.
Your foot caught on your other ankle, and suddenly gravity joined the party. The floor rushed upwards, the world tilted and you were convinced this was your rapture.
Two seconds away from meeting your untimely demise, strong arms caught you before impact.
"Oh my God, babe?" The voice sounded familiar and you braced yourself for his bewildered expression when you squinted your eyes open. Logan’s face was approximately six inches away and you felt the towel he had hurriedly wrapped around himself slip low down his hips against your waist.
"Nope, don’t ask." You closed your eyes against the water droplets splashing onto your face from his hair. The tickle of his silver chain against your cheek made you wave your hands between the two of you. You could feel him gearing up to ask something,
A finger wag in his face and a simple, "Nope." made him laugh as he hoisted you up.
Across from you, Dean had already reached Allie, looking equally concerned and delighted.
"Are you okay?" His arms were bound securely around her, pressing in front of him.
Allie flicked his forehead, "Stop smiling."
"I'm not smiling."
"You absolutely are."
Dean was moments away from framing the incident and hanging it on a wall, it was when Allie had steadied herself and stepped fractionally away from him that you noticed Dean hadn’t managed to grab a towel. And stood naked, right in front of you. As bare as the day he was born.
You retched loudly and tried to run out the door, forgetting that Logan was still holding you upright, an arm around your waist- hand steadying your shoulder.
Deeply and violently, you groaned- accepting that this was your life right now, "Please tell me I died."
The laughter around you doubled in volume, a few of the guys chirping at you.
Somewhere behind Logan, Garrett appeared, towel around his waist- completely oblivious to the chaos playing out with his team.
"What happened?"
The silence that followed was immediate, the boys pursed their lips together, you and Allie were engrossed in anything that didn't involve Hannah.
She glared at him slowly, dangerously. Garrett took one look at her expression, and his eyes ping ponged around the changing area, the open door, the duo of embarrassed girlfriends- one of them looking at her boyfriend seductively, the other hiding her face in her hands. And finally the boys, Dean who was playing into Allies flirting- butt naked. And Logan who was stifling a laugh against your shoulder as you shook your head silently into your palms.
Understanding dawned, making him rush over to his bag and dig out his phone, his eyes widening at his girlfriend, "Oh."
The idiot actually laughed. Hannah looked ready to gouge his eyes out with his stick. And somehow, unbelievably, things were about to get worse.
By dinner the same day, everybody knew, not just the team, not just other teams. The entire student population.
People in your classes, people in the library, people in the campus cafes. Somehow all of them must've collectively received an email.
You still didn't know how, no matter how hard you searched the gossip account, your dm’s, hunted through stories. There was no way to determine how the hell the situation had reached every set of ears at Briar. You'd spent the better part of twelve hours trying to figure it out.
The incident had happened at approximately 9 am that morning.
By six-fifteen, two members of the lacrosse team had smirked at you in passing.
By seven, somebody in a study group asked if you were "recovering."
By eight-thirty, a girl in your dorm-block had winked.
"Tell me again why I haven't transferred,” You dropped your forehead onto the cafeteria table.
Across from you, Hannah looked equally traumatised as she picked at her dinner, Allie looked murderous as another pair of irrelevant students giggled as they passed by.
The three of you had spent the entire day suffering.
Allie slumped in her chair, "Because we're seniors."
You stabbed aggressively at your salad. "Unfortunately,” mouth half-full of lettuce you continued, "You know what the worst part is?"
Nobody answered, mostly because nobody wanted to encourage you.
"The fact we literally didn't do anything."
"THANK YOU."
Allie pointed dramatically.
"THANK YOU."
The cafeteria table rattled slightly, you winced and gave her an accusing stare. While the passion was appreciated, the volume was not.
"We walked into a room." Hannah shrugged
"Accidentally." Allie added.
"Then left."
"Immediately."
You threw your hands up, "And somehow everyone is acting like we joined an orgy."
The three of you sat in offended silence, completely justified silence. Silence that lasted approximately four seconds.
Then somebody cleared their throat and you closed your eyes, praying to whatever god that put you in that situation this morning, wasn’t just deciding to test your self control.
You swore, if you opened your eyes, and the person who you thought it was, was standing in front of you. There would be a search warrant for your name, and a blown up ice rink in your wake.
"No."
Across the table, Hannah groaned and Allie made a sound like she was ready to throw something. The answer came before you opened them, pressing your lips to your hands that were held together in a praying position, you shook your head, "No."
Because standing directly behind you was, Dean who was grinning so wide, you’d think Santa Clause gifted him a dildo, Garrett, currently more occupied in flashing his puppy dog eyes at Hannah and Logan, the only useful one, who came bearing gifts with an apologetic yet amused smile on his annoyingly handsome face.
The Three Horsemen of Making Things Worse.
"Oh, come on.” Dean looked genuinely offended, hand on his chest as he pulled out the seat next to you, in front of Allie.
She threw one of Hannah’s chips at his face, which he caught in his mouth, "We came to support our girlfriends! amidst their public cancellation from society."
"You came to laugh at us." You corrected, ignoring the paper container that slid in front of your tray and the weirdly shaped Logan entity that sat on the other side of you.
The smile on Dean's face widened, "How ‘bout both?"
Hannah dropped her fork and lunged at him, only held back by Garrett- who had two fingers looped into her belt loop.
During this, you peeked into the container, flicking open the lid to see a slice of your favourite cake- red velvet from the bakery just outside campus.
You glanced at Logan and stuck your tongue out at him in response to his pleading expression. There it was, you thought- your eye twitching, the complete lack of shame astounded you.
You hated the smug bastard. A deep, passionate hate. But you still gave him a quick peck, intertwining your hands beneath the table and placed them on his thigh. He suppressed a grin and leaned back in his chair watching you cut into the pastry with your fork.
"How's recovery going?" Dean rested his chin on his palm, twirling a blonde strand with his finger.
Allie flipped off her boyfriend, "Leave."
Garrett laughed immediately, "You have to admit-"
"No." Hannah interrupted, hands slapping at his wrist which comfortably kept his hand looped into her jeans.
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"Because it doesn't matter."
"It was funny."
"It wasn't."
"It really was."
The idiot looked entirely too pleased with himself, which was particularly annoying because he wasn't even the one receiving the worst of it.
That honour belonged to you and Allie. Specifically because both of your boyfriends had apparently become the main characters of the story. A fact you deeply resented.
"You know what?" You sat up, “How come nobody is talking about Hannah?”
The entire table went quiet.
Hannah blinked.
"Oh my God." Allie said slowly, "You're right."
"I know."
Hannah immediately looked suspicious, "Why aren't they talking about me?"
Then Allie pointed dramatically, "THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN SAYING."
"You haven't said that."
"I've been thinking about it."
Somehow, the entire college manipulated the story into a desperate cliche- that you and Allie were dying to see your boyfriend’s and just. couldn't. wait. for them, so you burst into the changing room, ovulation phase at it's peak and boned down in front of the entire team.
Completely cutting out the bit where you both were trying to stop Hannah from social suicide.
Mission accomplished apparently. The problem now, was that you’d stepped in front of the bullet, and forgot that it meant you’d get shot.
"You started the whole thing." You whined at her.
"EXACTLY."
Dean and Garrett looked delighted.
"You stormed across campus." You held up one finger.
"Correct." Hannah nodded.
"You opened the door." Another finger.
"Correct."
"You ignored approximately fourteen warnings." A third.
"Correct."
"And somehow everyone else became the main characters." You harrumped and slumped back into your seat, glaring at Logan whose arm came up to rest behind you- but you didn’t pull away when he pecked your forehead.
Hannah looked genuinely aghast at her lack of involvement within the gossip mill, "You know what?" She folded her arms, "That is offensive."
"There she is." Dean blew an exaggerated kiss at her, "The victim complex."
Hannah threw a napkin at him.
The situation somehow got worse, a possibility you never thought could be true.
By Wednesday morning, people had started inventing details, ones that didn’t even make sense. Especially because the original story was already embarrassing enough.
Now there were rumours.
Terrible rumours.
Wild rumours.
Factually incorrect rumours.
"I heard somebody say we were recording."
Hannah looked flabbergasted, the pen in her hand creaked as her first tightened.
Across the corridor, Allie stopped walking, "We weren't?"
"Exactly."
"We were too busy being surrounded by cockfest 2026."
The three of you continued toward class, united by shared trauma- forged entirely through public humiliation.
The campus buzzed around you, students heading between lectures, athletes carrying equipment bags, people drinking coffee they absolutely couldn't afford. The usual. Until somebody shouted out your name, the voice was gratingly familiar in a way that made you want to spit out your tonsils.
The guys sitting outside the student centre weren't even subtle about it, the one who called out for you nudged another, the second looked up and smirked.
They were two guys from the lacrosse team. Arguably, you’d think such a fancy sport would produce gentlemen, but the game manufactured slime-balls like the two currently snickering at your deadpan expression.
"Oh look." The smile spread, "The locker room girls."
You stopped mid-step, and you’d known it was a mistake the minute your foot paused, because now they knew you'd heard. The embarrassment hit instantly, like a slap to the face that reached down your throat, hot in a way that made your body burn.
Beside you, Hannah looked ready to throw hands, her eyes narrowing at the boys.
“You got only fans? We’d love to see what happened in the locker room.”
Allie grit her teeth and just as she was about to bite back, a voice interrupted her.
"Say that again."
The atmosphere chilled behind you, one second the lacrosse pair were giggling like little goblins, the next, their faces were frozen with teetering smiles.
You felt an arm wrap around your shoulders. Logan stood next to you, his thumb rubbing soothingly on your arm.
Dean was walking up to Allie, his hands still cupped around his mouth from his interruption. Garrett hung back, but welcomed Hannah into his side when she begrudgingly shuffled up to him.
They had apparently finished a team strategy session, an unfortunate coincidence for the boys in front of you, who suddenly looked significantly less dick-ish.
The one with slicked back, blonde hair looked to his friend- who shrugged and patted him on the shoulder, his lip visibly quivered when he spoke, "What?" the question came out weak.
Dean smiled, two hands braced on his girlfriend's frame. Leisurely almost. "Oh, don't do that." He tilted his head with a pout, "You were really confident thirty seconds ago."
Nobody answered.
Garrett called out, still maintaining a generous distance from the situation- probably not wanting to get too involved with another team as the captain, “You seem like the type to be on only fans Jackson. Is that what you do when you lose to Eastwood?” The disappointment in his voice somehow made it worse.
"Seriously,” Dean shook his head, "Dude, if you're going to talk shit about my girlfriend at least be creative." Allie smacked the front of his chest, but nodded in agreement.
Then Logan spoke, "Find something else to talk about."
Jackson, and the other guy- equally as greasy, dissolved into pitiful excuses and throwaway comments, scoffing as they retreated into the building.
"Holy shit."
Dean grinned, "You're welcome."
"You enjoyed that." Allie poked him accusatorially, leaning up on her toes to kiss his cheek a few times, leaving lipstick prints against his dimple.
"I enjoyed that immensely."
Nearby, Garrett wrapped an arm around Hannah's shoulders and joined the rest of you.
"You know," Garrett said thoughtfully, "I feel like people would've stopped talking about it sooner if Dean hadn't told literally everyone."
The silence was beautiful. The three of you slowly turned to look at Dean, who was gritting out threats at Garrett, a horrified expression gracing his features as he timidly caressed Allie's hair.
"I did not."
Logan punched his shoulder jokingly, like bros talking about whose basketball team won last night, "You absolutely did."
"I told one person."
The universe was finally smiling down on you, since Tucker walked up to the six of you, pushing his curls out of his face.
"You told Tucker." Garrett laughed.
Tucker blinked between the two, who were now engaged in a heated conversation using their eyes.
"That's still one person."
"Dean."
"One person."
"You told the biggest gossip on the hockey team that our girlfriends walked into the changing room after practice and saw everyone's dicks. by accident."
Tucker finally nodded his head with an affirmative sound, “Oh yeah, I’m just annoyed I left practice early for a doctor's appointment.” He patted Dean on the shoulder, grinning as he stirred the proverbial pot, “luckily Dean here, my best friend, the person who tells me everything. Recounted it in perfect detail.”
An argument exploded instantly, involving Allie smacking Dean upside the head and she bickered about how the last 48 hours had been a living hell.
Hannah wasn’t letting Garrett off the hook easily, nagging him that if he had just “replied to her goddamn messages” the three of you wouldn’t have been in there, she quietened and blushed when he whispered in her ear.
Tucker had joined Allie in bashing Dean, but the three of them groaned when Dean promised, “mind-blowing orgasms on every surface of the house”. Allie didn’t say anything further, just glared at him when he hooked a hand onto her waist and pulled her in.
They drifted ahead while they bickered. Leaving you slightly behind with Logan, who had somehow presented an iced coffee from behind his back and was watching you sip it.
"You didn't have to do that." You said mid-sip.
Logan looked over, "What?"
"That."
You gestured vaguely toward the now-empty student centre steps. Logan’s expressions softened slightly as he took your bag from your shoulder and pulled you into him, tucking a hand into your back pocket.
"Yeah." he paused, "Actually, I kind of did."
Your stomach performed a deeply inconvenient little flip.
"Why?"
Logan looked ahead, then to the ground in an almost bashful kind of way, then he shrugged. Like the answer was obvious, "I don't like people making you feel bad."
You cooed at him, grabbing his face with your free hand and squishing his face between your fingers, “You’re such a softie.”
Smacking a kiss to his stubbly cheek, you returned to the drink, gulping it down appreciatively.
He snickered to himself and added unhelpfully, “Plus, kind of owed you since you saw Dean’s cock.”
summary: based on this ask! tucker teaches you how to cook <3
contains: tooth-rotting fluff! established relationship, no use of y/n, pet names (baby), smooching, hugging, tucker being the human equivalent of a cinnamon roll
author’s note: first tucker fic!!! thank u anon for this ask, this was so adorable :3
“Okay, so maybe I cut the vegetables.” Your boyfriend approaches you like you’re pointing a loaded gun at him and very carefully lowers the knife you’re gripping back down to the cutting board.
To be fair, it was still a weapon. One you hadn’t really handled before beyond the menial task of cutting the occasional piece of fruit. And even then, those knives were significantly smaller and much less sharp than this one. This one was horror movie level. And if you knew anything about John Tucker, you knew his knives would be sharpened to professional chef grade.
You pout as he takes over for you, making quick work of the half-onion on the cutting board. Truthfully, you don’t mind all that much. You weren’t especially looking forward to your mascara running and potentially slicing your hand open when tears blurred your vision.
He laughs lightly at your expression, kissing your pouty mouth that quickly forms into a smile at his tenderness.
“How about you wash the veggies and I’ll cut?”
“Now, that’s more my speed.”
You exist peacefully together, gently humming along to the jazz music playing over the bluetooth speakers, watching his deft fingers nimbly slice and dice various herbs and things. You get distracted only twice, letting the water run excessively long over the celery stalks you’re meant to be washing, and snapping back to it when Tucker’s soft, dark eyes flick over to you, an amused smirk on his lips like he knows what his cooking does to you.
What can you say? You love a man who knows his way around the kitchen.
When you’re finished with your task, you watch him complete his, enjoying the aroma of the onion and butter cooking in the bottom of the steel pot on the stove.
“Why do you put the onion in first?” You ask, linking your arms around his waist and watching over his shoulder as he cuts carrots.
“It helps with the flavor. You cook the onion until it’s translucent, then add the garlic. And you don’t want to brown the garlic—that’s a common misconception, actually. You just want it to get fragrant, then you put in the rest.”
You hum like you understand, but you don’t really. You just like listening to him talk. You nuzzle your nose into his neck, loving how the smell of him seems to be most potent there. His body wash, his laundry detergent, and just him.
“Are you paying attention?” He doesn’t sound upset, just amused, as he turns his head to look at you.
“Yes. Sorry.” You straighten a bit, but don’t step away.
“Because you asked me to teach you.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” You reluctantly disentangle yourself from him, stepping to stand beside him instead, a safe distance that didn’t tempt or distract you.
“Alright. Can you grab me some spices out of the cabinet?”
“Yes, chef.” He shakes his head at you exasperated, but the fact that the tips of his ears turn pink at your words doesn’t get past you. As you face the shelves and shelves of spices, you realize there are far too many you don’t recognize. Like, what in the world was ‘Tandoori Masala?’
“I need thyme, oregano, cayenne pepper, cumin, bay leaves, salt and pepper.”
You turn back to look at him slowly, but he’s gone back to chopping vegetables, overly confident in your ability to remember simple instructions.
You do alright, you grab sage leaves instead of bay leaves, but the label was a bit worn and hard to read.
“Now, put in a few shakes, and then we’ll taste it once we put the broth in to see if we need more.”
“Me?” You squeak, like you didn’t voluntarily sign up for this. He nods. “Me put in the seasonings?”
“Yes, you.” He chuckles.
“I don’t think you should trust me with that.”
“It’s just shaking a bottle, baby. You’ll do fine.”
He hands you one of the seasonings and waits for you to comply, which you reluctantly do. You start with one small shake, barely anything coming out, and when you look over to him for confirmation, he nods at you to continue. You do a few more, coating the vegetables cooking in the bottom with a layer of green flakes.
“Good. Next one.” He hands you another bottle, and so on until you get to the salt. “Now, this one—“ He doesn’t get a chance to finish, you’ve already begun shaking the container, the lid flying off and mound of salt falling into the pot. “…has a loose lid.”
You’re panicked, immediately grabbing the spoon to try and scoop some of the salt out, but Tucker is only laughing, reaching out to take the spoon from you.
“I’m so sorry,” you rush to say.
“Baby, baby.” He takes the spoon from your hand and grips your wrist gently. “You’re learning. It’s okay.” You relax a little bit, watching him calmly scoop the rest of the salt out, some already having absorbed into the food.
You look into the bottom of the pot worriedly, but he hugs you from behind and gives you a reassuring squeeze and a sweet kiss on the cheek.
“We still have the broth to put in, which will dilute the flavor some. It’s not ruined, I promise.”
“Okay,” you mutter, unconvinced you haven’t completely ruined the pot of soup. It was his mother’s recipe, too. Her famous chicken and vegetable soup that Tucker had told her you were making. You wanted to start with something smaller, maybe something less sentimental, but he insisted this would be the perfect beginners course. You were still seriously doubting that.
You pour the chicken broth in with his arms still around you and his chin still resting on your shoulder, supervising the whole thing. You wait for it to boil before dipping the spoon in to take a taste. Tucker blows on the liquid pooling in the dip of the wooden spoon and then gently brings it to your mouth for you to try. To your surprise, it isn’t overly salty. In fact, it’s sort of bland for how much seasoning you thought you put in.
“More pepper?” He asks, like you should know.
“More everything,” you correct, getting a laugh out of him.
You carefully add more of each seasoning, this time very carefully pouring some salt into your palm and then sprinkling it over the golden, bubbling liquid. The small veggies Tucker cut float about the pot, the current from the roiling boil churning the ingredients in an almost hypnotic way. You’re starting to understand why some people find cooking therapeutic.
“Alright, now the rice.”
You pour in about a cup of white rice and place the lid over the pot like a mother might place her sleeping baby in a crib. Then, with nothing left to do but wait for the rice to cook, you hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter across from the stove and stare like maybe if you do it hard enough, you could see through the stainless steel.
“Watching it won’t make it cook faster,” Tucker informs you, coming to stand between your legs and block your view.
“No, but it’s less likely something will happen if I’m looking at it.”
“Sweetheart, it’s literally impossible to mess up a soup.”
“Well, you may think that, but you’re talking to the girl who somehow managed to burn pudding.”
He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way you love. You lean in to kiss him then, never able to restrain yourself around him, and wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer to you.
His thumbs rub gently back and forth where his hands rest at your hips, and between his mouth and his hands, you’re too distracted to notice the soup boiling over.
You both break apart once the liquid boils over the lid and starts sizzling as it drips onto the flame of the stove burner. You squeak in surprise as Tucker quickly moves to lift the lid, the frothy bubbles immediately sinking back down.
“I told you!” You motion towards the stove. Your boyfriend just laughs, completely unworried.
When you sit down to eat, you’re more nervous to try the soup than you should be. You and Tucker sit at the island, steaming bowls in front of you. The soup looked okay, but that didn’t mean much.
You blow on the spoon a few times before tentatively taking it into your mouth. It’s still a little too hot, but the flavor you taste overpowers the temperature.
You whip your head over to look at Tucker beside you.
“It’s good!” You exclaim incredulously.
“I told you it would be.”
“I can’t believe I did it! I made soup! And it’s actually good!”
You throw yourself into his lap, your arms wrapped around him as he laughs in surprise at your overreaction. It’s stupid to be so excited about, but Tucker never tells you that. He just squeezes you tighter to him, and murmurs a, “good job, baby.”
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – a few weeks after drunk shakespeare, a coffee shop run-in turns into the conversation garrett should’ve had months ago.
warnings – second-chance romance, post-breakup angst, apologies, jealousy/insecurity references, emotional conversation, strong language
notes from me – so so so many requests for this!! so here you go, loves!! enjoy <3
word count – 9.7k
navigation – part 01 | masterlist | taglist
The coffee shop near campus always smelled like burnt espresso, cinnamon syrup, and wet wool in the winter, the kind of damp, overheated little student place where the windows fogged at the corners and everyone inside looked faintly trapped under their own deadlines.
Backpacks knocked against chair legs. Someone in a Briar sweatshirt was hunched over a laptop at the counter with the desperate, glassy focus of a man about to submit an essay he had not read back once.
The barista kept calling out names that sounded nothing like what people had ordered under, and every time the door opened, cold air slid across the floor hard enough to make her press closer into Garrett’s side without really thinking about it.
Garrett Graham had this stupid, unfair body heat that made him impossible not to lean into, especially when they were standing in line and he had one hand laced through hers, loose but secure, thumb brushing absently over the side of her finger like he didn’t even know he was doing it.
Her other hand was wrapped around his forearm, fingers resting over the thick sleeve of his hoodie, holding him in place with a kind of lazy ownership she would have denied if anyone pointed it out.
He’d come from morning skate, hair still damp at the edges from the shower, curls drying messily over his forehead, the faint clean smell of soap and cold air clinging to him beneath the richer, steadier scent that was just Garrett.
His cheeks were a little pink from the wind. There was a small nick near his jaw from where he’d shaved badly or taken an elbow or committed some other hockey-adjacent act of violence against his own face, and every time he looked down at her, his mouth did that little half-lift like he was privately pleased she existed within arm’s reach.
“You’re staring,” he murmured, not moving his eyes from the menu board.
“I’m reading your face.”
Garrett huffed a laugh through his nose, thumb dragging once over the back of her hand. “Yeah? What’s it say?”
She tipped her head against his arm, squinting up at him like she was studying something academically important and not just the ridiculous line of his jaw. “Mostly, ‘I’m Garrett Graham and I think I’m very charming because strangers clap when I skate in circles.’”
He looked down at her then, grin spreading properly, bright and immediate enough that it made the old lady in front of them glance over like she had felt the wattage shift in the room. “Skate in circles?”
“Fast circles.”
“Baby, I scored twice last night.”
“I know,” she said, because she’d been there in the stands with her hands shoved into her sleeves and her throat going raw from yelling, because she’d seen the whole student section lose its collective mind when he slammed the puck into the net and turned with that sharp, triumphant lift of his chin like he had heard them all and expected nothing less. “Congratulations on your circles.”
Garrett leaned down, mouth brushing the top of her head in a kiss that was barely a kiss, more a warm press of amusement into her hair. “Mean.”
“You like me mean.”
“Mhm.”
She smiled despite herself, cheek still tucked near his bicep, her fingers tightening around his forearm for one second before relaxing again.
The line shuffled forward. Garrett moved with it, bringing her with him by their joined hands, and for a few minutes everything was ordinary in the softest possible way.
The hiss of milk steaming. The sharp grind of beans. Garrett bending slightly to hear her over the noise when she muttered that the seasonal latte sounded like something invented by a candle company. His laugh warming the space just above her ear. Their hands swinging once between them when the guy behind the register dropped a stack of paper cups and swore under his breath.
Then the door opened behind them again, letting in a gust of cold and a cluster of perfume and high voices, and she felt Garrett’s attention shift before she even knew why. His head turned a fraction. His hand stilled in hers. The thumb stopped moving.
“Oh my god, Garrett!”
The voice was bright and delighted and close enough that she felt it hit the back of her neck before the girls fully came into view. There were three of them, all bundled in nice coats and glossy hair and the kind of leggings that had never once been asked to survive a dryer cycle.
One of them had a Briar hockey beanie pulled low over her ears, the logo sitting right above her forehead like a small, knitted declaration of loyalty. They slid into the space beside him with easy confidence, smiling up at Garrett as if the line had simply rearranged itself to accommodate them and anyone attached to his hand was a background character.
“That game last night was insane,” the girl in the beanie said, eyes wide, lashes doing athletic work of their own. “Like, actually insane. You’re so good.”
Garrett’s mouth kicked up automatically, not the soft smile he’d been giving her, but the public one. The one with more teeth. The one that knew how to stand in a hallway after a win and absorb praise without looking too hungry for it. “Thanks. Yeah, it was a good one.”
“A good one?” another girl said, laughing like he’d said something far more charming than he had. “You destroyed them.”
He laughed, easy and low, shoulders shifting under her hand. “Wouldn’t say destroyed.”
“I would,” beanie girl said immediately. “That second goal? Are you kidding? We were screaming.”
“Yeah?” Garrett said, and it was harmless. It was nothing. It was the same voice he used with half of campus because half of campus seemed to know him, or want to know him, or want to be able to say they had stood close enough to smell his shampoo in a coffee shop line.
He wasn’t touching them. He wasn’t flirting, not really. He was just being Garrett, open and amused and casually lit up by attention, the way he had been built to be before she ever got there. Still, her fingers tightened where they rested against his forearm.
Nobody looked at her. That was the part that made the first thin crack open under her ribs, not even a quick polite glance, not even the little social flicker people usually gave when they realised someone was standing close enough to matter.
Their attention moved over her and around her with the smooth indifference of water around a rock, all of them angled toward Garrett like he was the only person in the coffee shop with a pulse.
Garrett shifted his weight. One of the girls said something about the next game, about seats, about maybe bringing a sign, and he laughed again, shaking his head. “Please don’t bring a sign.”
“Oh, we absolutely are now.”
“Great,” he said. “Love that for me.”
The line moved. The girl in the beanie stepped half a foot closer to avoid someone squeezing past with a drink carrier, and Garrett, without looking down, without seeming to register the exact mechanics of it, let go of her hand.
His hand simply opened. Hers was there, and then it wasn’t. The warmth vanished from between her fingers so suddenly that her whole body seemed to notice before her brain caught up, palm cooling in the empty air, arm hovering stupidly for half a second beside her hip. Something in her stomach dropped hard and clean, like stepping onto a stair that wasn’t there.
She pulled her hand back and folded both arms across her body, tucking her fingers under her elbows because she needed them somewhere and she refused to let them hang there looking abandoned.
Her throat tightened in a way that felt childish enough to make her angry. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. It was a hand. He’d dropped her hand, not pushed her into traffic. He was allowed to speak to people. Girls were allowed to compliment him.
The world had not ended because three pretty girls in expensive coats had decided Garrett Graham deserved to be admired over coffee. Unfortunately, her body didn’t seem interested in the rational legal framework of the situation.
Garrett was still talking. “Yeah, playoffs are gonna be brutal,” he said, one hand lifting briefly to rub at the back of his neck. “But we’re good. We’ve got it.”
“Of course you do,” one of the girls said, soft and admiring in a way that made her teeth press together.
She stared at the chalkboard menu until the words blurred into shapes. Latte. Mocha. Dirty chai. Almond milk seventy cents extra, because even milk alternatives had decided to participate in the humiliation.
Her eyes prickled and she blinked once, hard, willing the feeling back down into her chest where it belonged. She would not cry in a coffee shop because her boyfriend was popular. She would not become the sort of girl who stood beside Garrett Graham and made a scene every time someone wanted a piece of him.
“Okay, well,” beanie girl finally said, dragging the words out with a smile, “good luck this weekend.”
“Thanks,” Garrett said.
“Bye, Garrett,” they chorused, all sweetness and perfume and teeth.
“Bye,” he said, giving them a quick little nod as they peeled away toward the pickup counter, one of them glancing back over her shoulder before whispering something that made the others laugh.
For a second, neither of them moved. The line had crept forward again, the old lady in front of them placing an order with surgical precision, and Garrett’s attention came back to her in pieces.
First the side of her face. Then the arms crossed tightly over her chest. Then the way she wasn’t looking at him.
He exhaled through his nose, quiet but not quiet enough. “Can we not do this shit here?”
Her head turned sharply, and the motion made the wetness in her eyes feel dangerously mobile. “Do what?”
Garrett’s jaw worked once. He glanced toward the counter, then back at her, lowering his voice. “This. Can we not have this argument again in public?”
The words landed badly, tired in a way that made the hurt flare into something hotter because now she was not only pathetic, she was predictable. A familiar inconvenience. A weather pattern he could see forming from across campus.
She shook her head, once, small and sharp, her mouth pressing together because if she opened it too fast something ugly was going to come out. “Fine.”
“Don’t do that.”
She looked away, blinking again, furious with herself for the stupid shine gathering at the bottom of her vision. “I’m not doing this here.”
Garrett made a frustrated sound under his breath, dragging a hand over his mouth. “What, I’m not allowed to talk to anyone now?”
Something in her face must have cracked because his expression shifted almost immediately, the defensive edge catching on whatever he saw in her eyes. She hated that too. Hated that he could make her feel small and then notice she was small and soften before she had decided whether she wanted him to.
“You dropped my hand,” she said, and it came out quieter than she meant it to. Worse, somehow. Small enough to be honest.
Garrett blinked. “I didn’t–” He stopped, looking down like his own hand might provide testimony. His fingers flexed once at his side, empty. “I didn’t mean to.”
She swallowed, arms still locked tight across her body. “Okay.”
“Baby.” He sounded less annoyed now, more strained, like the fight had shifted under his feet and he was scrambling to find the right angle before it got bigger. “I didn’t even realise.”
“I know.”
“But you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
Garrett stared at her.
She looked at him then, eyes still watery, face arranged with all the dignity she could scrape together while standing under a chalkboard advertisement for peppermint syrup. “I’m not.”
“Okay,” he said, in the careful voice of a man who didn’t believe her but had, at some point, developed a survival instinct. He reached for her hand again, fingers sliding between hers, warm and familiar, thumb pressing over her knuckles like he could put the thing back exactly where it had been. “There. Better?”
It should have made her angrier. Maybe it did, a little, because there was something so Garrett about the quick fix, the half-teasing delivery, the assumption that touch could smooth the wrinkle if he caught it fast enough.
But his hand was around hers again, secure now, and her body betrayed her with immediate, humiliating relief. The awful hollow place in her stomach eased by half an inch.
She sighed through her nose, looking down at their joined hands. “Kind of.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t let it become a full smile. “Kind of?”
She gave him a look.
“Okay. Taking the win.” He tugged her closer with their linked hands, and after one stubborn second, she let herself be moved. Let her shoulder brush his chest. Let her crossed arm unfold just enough for her free hand to settle against his hoodie again, lower this time, more hesitant. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the top of hers, soft and brief, his lips lingering for a beat like an apology he hadn’t figured out how to say yet. “Come on. We’re up.”
The barista looked between them with the dead-eyed discretion of someone who had seen five breakups, two proposal rejections, and an entire group project meltdown before noon. Garrett stepped up to the counter without letting go of her hand.
“Hey,” he said, easy again but quieter, like some part of him was still turned toward her. “Can I get a large black coffee, and then a medium iced vanilla latte with oat milk, extra shot, light ice?”
She looked up despite herself.
He didn’t look at her when he said it. Didn’t ask. Didn’t check. Simply ordered it exactly right, down to the light ice she always forgot to ask for until the cup came out ninety percent frozen and she got mad about forgetting to ask.
The barista typed it in. Garrett added a blueberry muffin because she hadn’t eaten breakfast and he knew that too because his ability to be an idiot and devastatingly attentive within the same five-minute window remained one of his least convenient qualities.
When they moved to the pickup area, Garrett kept her hand until they reached the little stretch of wall near the napkins and sugar packets. Then he let go only to turn toward her properly, both hands finding the belt loops of her jeans and hooking there with gentle, familiar confidence.
He pulled her in a few inches, enough that she ended up standing between the brackets of his feet with the toe of one sneaker touching his.
She kept her eyes on the centre of his chest because his face was currently a problem. “You’re going to stretch my jeans.”
“They’ll survive.”
“They’re vintage.”
Garrett’s smile softened, and because he was unfair, because he had always been at his worst when he got quiet, he lifted one hand from her belt loop and brushed her hair back from her cheek.
His fingers were warm against the side of her face, careful where they tucked a loose piece behind her ear. The noise of the coffee shop kept going around them, milk screaming, cups knocking, somebody laughing too loudly near the door, but the space between his chest and hers seemed to hush.
“Sorry,” he said.
Her throat moved around nothing. “For what?”
His thumb rested lightly near her cheekbone, not quite stroking yet. “I shouldn’t’ve dropped your hand.”
The words were simple enough that they slipped straight under the part of her trying to stay braced.
She nodded once, small. “Okay.”
Garrett’s eyes searched her face with more patience than he’d had three minutes ago, the crease between his brows barely there but visible if you knew where to look. “I’m serious. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”
Her lashes flickered. “Like what?”
He gave her a look then, knowing enough to make her chest ache. “Like you weren’t there.”
The back of her eyes burned again, which was absurd because he’d already apologised and she’d already decided not to cry in a place that charged six dollars for coffee.
She nodded again, quicker this time, and tried to make her mouth do something normal. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not, really.”
“Garrett.”
“What?” His thumb moved then, a slow pass over the apple of her cheek, catching the edge of whatever expression she had failed to hide. “I’m saying sorry. Let me be mature for, like, ten seconds. This is rare for me.”
A laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. Small, wet at the edges, but real enough that his whole face changed in response, warming with relief like he’d been waiting for that exact sound. “You’re so annoying.”
“I know.” He leaned down a fraction, his forehead almost brushing hers, voice dipping lower. “Still sorry.”
She breathed out. The fight hadn’t disappeared, it had gone somewhere softer, folded itself into the familiar shape of his hands on her waist and his face close enough that she could see the faint shadow of stubble near his jaw.
There were still girls at the pickup counter laughing over something, still a whole campus outside that knew Garrett’s name too easily, still the old sharp little worry that loving someone like him meant learning to share the sight of him with everyone. But right here, with his fingers hooked through her belt loops and his thumb warm on her cheek, the hurt had less room to move.
“It’s okay,” she said again, and this time she meant it enough for now.
Garrett watched her for a second longer, like he was checking whether the words had landed properly or just been placed there to end the conversation. Then he tugged her forward, gentle but decisive, and tucked her into his chest.
She went without much resistance, which was its own form of surrender. Her cheek found the front of his hoodie, right over the solid warmth of him, and she slid her arms around his waist with a quiet, grudging little sigh that made him huff a laugh above her.
He rested his cheek on the top of her head, one arm folded around her back, the other hand still loose at her hip as they stood pressed together near the pickup counter like every other annoying couple on campus.
“You’re still kind of mad,” he murmured into her hair.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Fair.”
“You ordered me a muffin.”
“I did.”
“That helped.”
His hand moved once along her back, not even a full rub, just a steadying pass that settled between her shoulder blades. “You gonna eat the muffin or just pick at it and tell me you’re not hungry?”
She closed her eyes against his chest, listening to the dull, steady thump under his hoodie, the low vibration of his voice moving through him before it reached the air. “Depends how sorry you are.”
Garrett laughed softly, cheek still pressed to her hair. “So I’m buying a second muffin.”
“Maybe.”
“Extortion.”
She smiled against him where he couldn’t see it. “Mhm.”
Their names were called a minute later, mangled so badly that Garrett lifted his head and squinted toward the counter. “Did he just call me Gerald?”
She tilted her face up, chin still against his chest. “Gerald Graham.”
“Don’t.”
“Briar hockey legend Gerald Graham.”
“I’ll leave you here.”
“No, you won’t.”
He looked down at her, and the smile that came over his face was softer than the joke deserved. “No,” he said, thumb brushing once at her hip before he finally let her go to grab their drinks. “I won’t.”
The coffee shop near campus hadn’t changed enough to be fair. That was the first thing she thought when she stepped inside and the bell above the door gave its same thin, tired little jangle, barely audible over the hiss of milk steaming and the flat slap of someone dropping a notebook onto a table.
Same foggy windows. Same uneven line curling past the pastry case. Same chalkboard menu with seasonal drinks written in careful, loopy handwriting. Same smell of burnt espresso and cinnamon syrup and damp coats warming too fast under bad heating.
Different month. Different coat. Different ache under her ribs.
She stood in line with her hands shoved into her sleeves, trying not to look at the stretch of wall near the pickup counter where she had once stood tucked against Garrett’s chest.
It was stupid, how places did that, held onto things without permission. A table wasn’t just a table if you had once sat there with your knee pressed against someone else’s under it. A corner wasn’t just a corner if someone had kissed the top of your head there while your coffee went cold.
It had been a few weeks since Drunk Shakespeare, which meant it had also been a few weeks since Garrett had driven her home while she sat glittering and drunk in his passenger seat, apologising with her fingers caught in his sweater like she could keep the night from ending if she held on hard enough.
She remembered pieces of the drive more clearly than she’d expected to. The low warmth from the heater against her bare knees. Garrett’s hands on the wheel, steady, thumbs resting near the spokes. The quiet between them that didn’t feel empty so much as overfilled.
His voice, once, asking if she was going to make it to her door without eating pavement. Her own voice, offended and slurred, telling him she had incredible balance. The way he’d smiled at the road and not pushed.
He’d walked her up. He’d waited while she found her keys. He hadn’t kissed her, which had somehow felt kinder and worse than if he had. He’d only said, “Text Allie before she murders me,” and stood there with his hands in his pockets until she got inside.
Since then, they’d existed in the strange, charged quiet of almost. A couple of texts about nothing much. One from her the next morning saying, got home alive, sorry if I was insane. One from him ten minutes later, saying, you accused me of whoring for theatre but otherwise pretty manageable. Then a pause. Then, seriously though, you okay?
And she had stared at that one for too long before answering, yeah. hungover but okay. thank you for getting me home. He had replied, always, which was unfairly Garrett of him and therefore had been left unanswered for two full hours because she didn’t trust herself around the word.
After that, campus had become a series of almost-run-ins. Garrett across the quad with Logan and Tucker, head tipped back laughing at something Logan said with too much hand movement. Garrett outside the rink, hair wet from a shower, duffel bag over one shoulder, eyes catching on hers for one second before the flow of people separated them. Garrett in the back of a lecture hall she was passing, pencil between his fingers, looking down at his notes with a focus that made her chest hurt.
And now she had three missed calls from Allie about rehearsal scheduling, a tote bag heavy with scripts and notebooks digging into her shoulder, and an iced vanilla latte waiting at the end of the counter with her name on the sticker, spelled wrong in a way that had begun to feel personal.
She grabbed it too fast, because the strap of her bag was slipping and the student beside her was reaching for their own cup and someone behind her said “excuse me” with the panic of a man late to a class he was already failing.
Her fingers closed around cold plastic. She turned and ran straight into Garrett Graham’s chest.
The lid popped under her palm. Coffee sloshed up against the inside of the cup, a thin beige wave nearly breaching the plastic rim before she jerked it back with a sharp, breathless, “Sorry!”
His hands came up immediately, not quite touching her, hovering in the space around her arms as if his body had started to catch her and his brain had hit the brakes.
“No, no, my bad–” Garrett stopped so abruptly the sentence almost tripped over itself. His eyes flicked from her drink to her face, and then the back of his neck flushed faintly above the collar of his hoodie. “I was, fuck. I was standing too close to you. I wanted to talk to you, but I–” He let out a short breath, half laugh, half embarrassment, dragging one hand through his hair. “Sorry. That’s my bad.”
For a second, she just looked at him. He was close enough that the coffee shop noise seemed to soften into static around them. Navy Briar hockey hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Dark curls a little flattened at one side like he’d been wearing a cap recently and had taken it off without checking the damage.
A faint shadow along his jaw. A healing bruise near one cheekbone, yellowed at the edges, barely visible unless someone had spent too many hours learning the geography of his face from too close. She had the stupidest urge to touch it.
Instead, she adjusted her grip on the cup and shook her head. “No, that’s… that’s okay.”
Garrett’s mouth pulled slightly, careful around the smile like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to use the full thing. His eyes dropped to the drink in her hand, and something softer crossed his face. “Iced vanilla latte. Extra shot?”
The smallness of it got her, like a finger pressed gently into an old bruise. She huffed a laugh before she could stop it, looking down at the cup because looking at him while he remembered things was dangerous. “Yeah.”
“Light ice?”
Her eyes closed briefly. “Fuck.” She looked at the cup, already mostly ice. “I forgot to ask.”
Garrett laughed under his breath, warm and immediate, the little thread between then and now pulling tight enough to feel. “Rookie mistake.”
“I’ve been ordering coffee by myself for weeks, Graham. I’m basically feral.”
“Clearly. No supervision at all.”
She laughed softly, enough that his shoulders loosened by a fraction. The space between them was awkward in that particular way that came after knowing someone’s body better than you knew how to talk to them.
Too close felt reckless. Too far felt theatrical. They stood in the worst possible middle of it near the pickup counter while people moved around them with winter coats and laptops and paper cups, the whole coffee shop politely refusing to pause for the resurrection of anyone’s romantic history.
Garrett rubbed his thumb once along the side of his own cup, which she only noticed because she was trying not to stare at his mouth. “Um.” He glanced toward the door, then back at her. “How’ve you been?”
She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Good. Been… busy. But good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She shifted the tote bag higher on her shoulder. “Rehearsals have been kind of insane. Dexter decided we need to add another audience bit because, uh, chaos is cheaper than therapy.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “That tracks.”
“And one of my classes has decided the end of semester is a great time to discover group presentations, which feels illegal.”
“It should be.”
“Right?” She took a small sip of the coffee and immediately winced at the amount of ice crowding the straw. “Anyway. Busy. But good.”
Garrett nodded, eyes staying on her face like he was trying very hard not to miss any of it. “Same. Hockey’s been…” He paused, because hockey was not simply busy. “A lot. We’ve got playoffs coming up, so Coach is in that fun stage where every drill feels like a personal attack.”
She smiled despite herself. “So normal and relaxed.”
“Very. Love when a grown man with a whistle implies my moral character depends on backchecking.”
Something small moved in her chest. The whistle. She knew enough about that word to hear the edge buried under the joke, even if he smoothed it fast.
Garrett must have seen the flicker in her face because his expression shifted a little. He looked down briefly, then toward the cluster of worn couches near the front window. One was empty, the ugly brown one with the sagging middle and the little round table beside it carved with three sets of initials and what looked like a poorly drawn penis.
He gestured toward it with his cup, casual enough that it was almost convincing. “Did you want to sit?”
The question hung there, stupidly huge for something so ordinary.
She looked at the couch. Then at him. “Sure.”
They moved together without touching, which somehow required more concentration than holding hands ever had. Garrett let her go first through the narrow gap between tables, turning slightly to block the path when a guy with a backpack nearly clipped her shoulder, and she pretended not to notice because noticing all the quiet practical things he did had always been bad for her.
He sat on the far end of the couch, leaving space between them. She sat beside him with one leg tucked slightly under the other, coffee balanced between both hands, the tote bag at her feet. The cushion dipped toward him in the middle, gravity taking a side in the matter.
For a few seconds, they only drank coffee and watched campus move past the fogged glass. Outside, people hurried with their shoulders hunched, scarves pulled up, cheeks pink from the cold. A couple paused under the awning to share one umbrella so badly that both of them were getting wet and laughing about it.
Garrett nodded toward the script peeking from her tote. “So what’s the next one? More public indecency with classical literature?”
She snorted into her straw. “Not this time. It’s technically contemporary.”
“Technically?”
“There’s no good way to explain it without sounding pretentious.”
“I watched a man in velvet call me pookie in front of half of Briar. I think I can handle pretentious.”
“Fair.” She leaned back into the couch, feeling the old shape of talking to him slide in before she could brace against it. “It’s this weird little black-box thing about a family dinner that goes completely off the rails. Everyone’s lying to everyone. Somebody finds out their dad has a second family. There’s a monologue about soup that makes no sense until the last scene, and then it somehow ruins your life.”
Garrett stared at her. “Soup?”
“It’s symbolic.”
“Of the second family?”
“No, of the mother’s emotional repression.”
“Obviously,” he said, nodding solemnly. “My bad.”
She bit back a smile. “I told you it sounded pretentious.”
“No, no, I’m following. Soup equals trauma.”
“Yeah. Kind of.”
“And you’re in it?”
“Yeah. I’m the younger daughter. So basically I spend two hours trying to keep everyone calm and then I scream at a roast chicken.”
Garrett’s eyes lit with amusement. “That feels right for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean that as a compliment.”
“You think I have scream-at-poultry energy?”
“I think you have very strong ‘I’ve been polite for too long and now everyone needs to suffer’ energy.”
She laughed then, properly, and Garrett’s face did that awful, lovely thing where he looked pleased before he could hide it. It softened the line of his mouth, took some of the caution from his eyes, and for half a second they weren’t exes sitting on a couch with weeks of bad history between their knees. They were just them, caught in the tiny relief of making each other laugh.
“What about you?” she asked, because the quiet after her laugh was too warm. “How’s hockey besides the moral backchecking?”
Garrett groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “Brutal. Logan took a puck to the thigh during practice yesterday and spent twenty minutes acting like he’d been shot in a war.”
“That sounds like Logan.”
“He made Tuck look at it.”
“Why?”
“Because he said Tucker has dad energy and would know if it was medically concerning.”
She looked at him over the lid of her coffee. “Did Tucker know?”
“Tucker poked it once and said, ‘That’s gonna bruise.’”
She smiled into her straw. “And Dean?”
“Dean suggested amputating.”
“Helpful.”
“Then he asked if we thought the scar would make Logan hotter.”
“And did you?”
Garrett looked at her, deadpan. “I said nothing because I’m a leader.”
“You absolutely said something.”
“I said scars are earned and whining subtracts sex appeal.”
She dissolved into another laugh, softer this time, one hand coming up to cover part of her mouth. “God, I forgot how stupid your house is.”
“Our house has layers.”
“Your house has mould.”
“We’re working on it.”
“You’ve been saying that since October.”
“Growth isn’t linear,” Garrett said, with such serious conviction that she had to look away before her face gave too much.
The conversation kept going after that, clumsy at first and then less so, like a machine clearing dust from its gears. Classes. Theatre gossip. Hockey gossip. Dean having decided he could cook because he made pasta once and then nearly poisoned the entire house. Tucker quietly throwing it out while Dean was distracted. Logan buying one of those massage guns and using it on his shoulder for approximately eight minutes before deciding it was too intimate and refusing to explain further. Allie texting her a photo of Dexter asleep on a prop couch with a half-eaten bagel on his chest and the caption our fearless leader has fallen.
Garrett laughed at all the right places. Listened at the right places too, which was more dangerous. He asked about the monologue she’d been nervous about, remembered the name of the professor she hated, made a face when she said her group project partner had used the phrase synergy in a theatre presentation.
He talked about practice and team pressure without performing too much around it, one hand wrapped around his coffee, elbow on his knee, his shoulder angled toward her like he’d forgotten the space was supposed to stay neutral.
And she tried not to think about his hand in hers in this exact shop, the sudden empty air when he let go, the way her body had learned that loving Garrett in public meant being prepared to disappear without warning. The problem with trying not to think about something was that it tended to sit down beside you and order a drink.
She turned her cup slowly between both palms, watching the ice shift in the plastic. “I just wanted to say…” Her voice came out too quiet, and Garrett stopped mid-sip, eyes lifting to her immediately. That almost made it harder. “Properly, I mean. Not drunk in your car after calling you a stage whore.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t interrupt.
She breathed out, a careful little stream through her nose. The coffee shop felt too loud suddenly. Too bright. Someone near the window laughed at a video on their phone, tinny audio cutting through the room for two seconds before it stopped. The espresso machine shrieked. Her straw clicked against the lid once when her hand shifted.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking at the cup because the cup was safer. “About how everything went down between us. I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to end like that.”
Garrett didn’t say anything immediately. When she finally made herself look up, his expression had gone quiet in a way that made him look older than he usually did, less like the boy who could turn a whole rink toward him with one goal and more like the person underneath all that noise.
“You don’t have to–”
“I do,” she said, and the quickness of it surprised both of them. She softened her grip around the cup. “I do, Garrett. I was really hurt, and I think I made that your problem in ways that weren’t fair sometimes. Or… I don’t know. Maybe some of it was fair, but not all of it. I don’t think I knew how to tell you what was actually wrong without making it sound like I wanted you to become someone else.”
His jaw shifted once. He looked down at his own cup, thumb pressing lightly into the cardboard sleeve. “Someone less me.”
She swallowed. “Yeah. Maybe.”
A flicker crossed his face. A bruise accepting pressure.
“I didn’t want that,” she said, quieter now. “Not really. I loved you because you were you. The whole stupid Garrett Graham package. The hockey and the charm and the fact that bartenders and professors and elderly women all somehow think you’re delightful.” Her mouth pulled slightly, but the smile didn’t stay. “I just didn’t know how to be next to it without feeling like I was always one second away from being… I don’t know. Replaced? Embarrassed? Like everyone else knew some version of you I was supposed to pretend didn’t matter.”
Garrett looked at her then. Fully. No easy smile, no joke ready in his mouth.
She made herself keep going before she could lose the nerve. “And then I would get upset, and you’d get defensive, and I’d feel stupid, and then I’d be mean because feeling stupid made me want to bite something. So. Sorry.”
His mouth moved, almost. He huffed a breath, not a laugh. “You did bite.”
“I know.”
“Metaphorically.”
“Mostly.”
That got the smallest smile from him, there and gone. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, cup dangling loosely between his hands. For a second, he watched the traffic of people outside the window. Then he nodded, once, not like he was agreeing with everything, but like he was choosing where to begin.
“I’m sorry too,” he said. “For a lot of it.”
She looked at him.
Garrett kept his eyes on the window for another beat before bringing them back to her. “I think I acted like if I wasn’t doing anything technically wrong, then you weren’t allowed to be hurt. Which is…” He grimaced slightly. “Not my best work.”
Her throat tightened with a small, awful tenderness. “No.”
“No,” he agreed, and the corner of his mouth twitched without humour. “And I don’t think I always understood that something could be nothing to me and still feel like shit to you. Like girls coming up after games, or people talking about stuff from before us, or… whatever.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes dropping briefly to the table between them. “I thought if I said it didn’t mean anything, that should be enough.”
She turned the cup again, slower now. “Sometimes I wanted it to be.”
“Yeah.” His voice went softer. “Me too.”
The words settled between them, not fixing anything, but making the shape of the broken thing clearer. She felt herself breathing differently. Deeper, as if her ribs had been holding one position for months and had finally been allowed to move.
“I also got tired,” Garrett said, and the honesty of it made her eyes lift again. He looked careful, but not cruel. “Not of you. I don’t mean that. I just… I didn’t know how to keep proving I wanted you in a way that actually sunk in. And then I’d get frustrated because I felt like I was failing a test I didn’t understand, and I’d make it worse by being an asshole about it.”
She nodded, a small, painful thing. “You did make it worse sometimes.”
“I know.” He glanced at her, mouth softening faintly. “You made it worse sometimes too.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
They sat in that for a moment, the kind of quiet that would have terrified her once because it wasn’t clean. Nobody had won. Nobody had produced the perfect sentence that made all the old versions of them behave better retroactively. There was only Garrett on the couch beside her, coffee cooling in his hand, telling the truth without trying to charm his way around the ugly parts.
She was opening her mouth to say something else – she didn’t even know what yet, only that it felt important, something about how the coffee shop had been one of the places she kept thinking about, how stupid it was, how small things had started to feel enormous because she had been too proud to ask for them directly – when a voice cut through the space beside them.
“Garrett!”
Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. The universe loved symmetry when it was being a bitch.
Garrett turned his head. Two girls had stopped near the edge of the couch, both holding drinks, one with a Briar hockey sweatshirt half-hidden under her coat. Pretty. Bright. Familiar in the campus way, faces she might have seen at games or parties or in the background of someone else’s Instagram story.
One of them was already smiling like she had caught him at a perfect time because Garrett Graham sitting alone with a girl-shaped person didn’t register as occupied in the eyes of the general public.
“Oh my god, hi,” the girl said, stepping closer. “Sorry, we just wanted to say–”
Her fingers tightened around her cup. The conversation they’d been having folded in on itself immediately, delicate as tissue paper in a fist. Heat crawled up her neck, her body remembered before her mind had time to decide what was fair. The hand opening. The sudden empty air. Her arms crossing over her body in this same coffee shop while Garrett smiled for someone else.
Her gaze dropped to the table. That was it, then. Stupid, ugly, inevitable. He hadn’t changed. Not really. Maybe nobody did. Maybe people could apologise and mean it and still remain exactly themselves when the world came knocking.
Garrett would smile politely, and the girls would gush about the game, and she would sit there holding a watery latte while the old humiliation slid itself neatly back under her skin like it knew the route.
Garrett’s voice came before the girl could finish. “I’m having a conversation.”
He didn’t snap it across the coffee shop or make some dramatic scene that would turn heads. He said it evenly, with a polite little smile still on his mouth, but his brow had drawn in just enough to make the words land solid.
The girl blinked. “Oh, but–”
Garrett shook his head once. “But nothing. I’m in the middle of a conversation.” His tone stayed calm, almost gentle at the edges, which somehow made it firmer. “Don’t interrupt.”
The second girl’s mouth parted slightly. The first went pink in the cheeks, eyes flicking for the first time toward the couch, toward the space, toward the drink in her hands and the conversation she had walked directly into like it had been invisible until Garrett made it visible.
“Oh,” she said, awkward now. “Sorry.”
Garrett nodded, not unkindly. “It’s alright.”
The girls retreated with the stiff, embarrassed quickness of people who had expected a fan-service moment and instead been handed a boundary in public.
Garrett turned back to her like nothing especially dramatic had happened, though there was a faint tension in his jaw and a carefulness in his eyes when he found her face again. “Sorry,” he said. “What were you saying?”
She blinked. Once. Twice.
The coffee shop was still noisy around them. The espresso machine still screamed. Someone by the door still laughed too loudly. Outside, students still moved past the window with collars turned up against the cold. Nothing had stopped, and yet the whole air around the couch felt different, rearranged around one ordinary sentence he had not managed to say back then.
I’m having a conversation.
Her fingers loosened around the cup. She looked down at it for a second because her face felt too open, like if she kept staring at him he would see everything move through her at once: surprise, relief, the small sharp grief of knowing he could have done that before but didn’t know how, the softer ache of watching him do it now.
She let out a breath that almost became a laugh but didn’t quite. “I think I forgot.”
His mouth softened. “Sorry.”
“No.” She shook her head, eyes lifting back to his. “No, it’s fine. I just…” Her voice thinned, and she hated it, so she swallowed and tried again. “Thank you.”
He looked down briefly, the tips of his ears going faintly pink in a way that was so stupidly sweet she wanted to be angry about it. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t have to be mean.”
“I wasn’t mean. Kind of proud of myself, actually.”
A laugh escaped her then, small and helpless, and Garrett’s smile appeared in response, cautious but real. The relief of it made her chest hurt. “You want a sticker?”
“Maybe. Depends what it says.”
“Congratulations on basic manners.”
“I’d wear that.”
“You would.”
“On my helmet,” he said. “Very intimidating.”
She shook her head, but the smile stayed this time, even as her eyes stung a little. His expression shifted, humour easing back into something quieter.
“I should’ve done that before,” he said.
The sentence went straight through the middle of her. She looked at him for a long second. “Yeah.”
“I know.” He nodded, taking it without flinching.
There was no point in pretending that didn’t matter. It mattered too much, actually. It mattered in a way that made her want to reach across the space between them and also made her want to sit on her hands to keep from doing exactly that.
Because if he had done it before, maybe some tiny pieces of them wouldn’t have gone wrong in the same way. But he hadn’t. And now he had. And both things existed at once, irritatingly, painfully, without cancelling each other out.
She drew a slow breath, then set her cup on the table because her hands needed freedom from the evidence of how much she was feeling. “I was going to say,” she began, voice more stable now, “that I think I wanted you to guess a lot of things I never actually said.”
Garrett’s eyes stayed on hers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Which is unfair. I know that.” She picked at the edge of the cardboard sleeve he had peeled halfway from his cup and abandoned on the table, just to have somewhere to put her fingers. “But sometimes saying it out loud felt so humiliating. Like, please hold my hand when girls talk to you. Please don’t make me feel like I’m standing beside you with a big invisible sign over my head that says temporary. Please make it obvious that I matter before I have to ask and then feel insane for asking.”
Garrett’s throat moved. He didn’t speak right away.
“And then because I didn’t say it like that,” she continued, softer, “it came out sideways. Like I was mad you had a past, or mad that people liked you, or mad that you were…” Her mouth tilted faintly. “You know. Disgustingly social.”
“Disgustingly social,” he repeated, with a weak little smile.
“You are. It’s one of your illnesses.”
“I’ve been meaning to get that checked.”
She almost smiled back, but the rest of the words were still there, waiting. “And I think you heard it as me trying to punish you for things you couldn’t change.”
“Sometimes,” Garrett admitted.
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“I know that now.”
Her eyes lifted. He leaned back against the couch, but not away from her. His hand was still on his coffee, his fingers tapping once against the lid before stilling. “Or I understand it better now, I guess. I don’t think I did then. I was so focused on the part where I felt accused that I missed the part where you were asking me to make room for you.” He paused, mouth pressing together like the next part did not come easily. “And I should’ve wanted to do that without acting like it was a burden.”
The words weren’t polished. They had little awkward edges. That made them worse, somehow, because she could hear him working through it instead of reciting something tidy.
She sat very still beside him. “I don’t think I made it easy.”
“No,” Garrett said, and the quick honesty of it pulled a startled laugh out of her. His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “You didn’t. You get mean when you’re scared.”
Her laugh faded slowly. She looked down at the table. “Yeah.”
“I get defensive when I feel like I’m failing.” His voice softened. “Great combo.”
“Terrible.”
“Historically bad.”
“People should study us.”
“They’d cancel the course.”
That made her smile, and the quiet after it was gentler than before. Garrett watched her for a moment, then shifted slightly closer, enough that the space on the couch changed by an inch. She noticed. He noticed that she noticed. Neither of them called attention to it.
“I miss you,” he said.
Her breath caught. She looked at him and found no performance in his face, no cocky half-grin waiting to rescue him if she didn’t answer. Garrett Graham, who could walk into any room and let it bend toward him, was sitting on an ugly coffee shop couch with a cooling drink in his hand, looking nervous enough that her chest went tender in self-defence.
“Yeah?” she asked.
His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. “Yeah.”
She nodded, once. “I miss you too.”
Garrett’s eyes closed for half a second. A blink that lasted too long, like something in him had unclenched and needed a moment before he trusted it. When he opened them again, they were warmer. Less guarded.
“Even when I was mad at you,” she added, because honesty had become contagious and she resented it.
“Same.”
“Even when I told Allie I hoped your next shot tasted like hand sanitiser.”
Garrett’s brows lifted. “That’s specific.”
“It was after Drunk Shakespeare.”
“Ah.” He nodded, solemn. “Honestly? Some of them did.”
“Good.”
“Deserved.”
She pressed her lips together around another smile. “You were very annoying that night.”
“I was kidnapped.”
“You thrived.”
“I adapted.”
“You got shirtless.”
Garrett gave her a look. “There was a chant.”
“Oh, well, if there was a chant.”
“I’m an athlete. Crowd energy affects my decision-making.”
“That explains so much about you.”
He laughed, and this time the sound didn’t hurt in the same way. Or it did, but differently, like blood returning to a sleeping limb, pins and needles and relief tangled together.
They stayed there longer than either of them probably meant to. Her coffee watered down. Garrett’s went lukewarm. The afternoon thinned at the windows, pale light sliding across the little table between them, catching the condensation rings and the tiny pile of sugar granules someone had spilled.
People came and went. A study group took over the long table by the wall. The barista changed shifts. A guy in a hoodie knocked over a chair and apologised to it before realising furniture could not accept.
The conversation wandered again after the heavy parts, because neither of them could stand inside all that seriousness forever.
Garrett told her Logan had been banned from using the phrase team morale after trying to justify ordering four pizzas at midnight on a Tuesday. She told him Allie had started referring to one of their castmates as the man with the emotional range of a damp sock and nobody could remember his real name anymore.
Garrett admitted Dean had asked, with disturbing sincerity, whether theatre people did cast parties better than hockey players. She said yes, obviously, because theatre people had more glitter and fewer protein shakers. Garrett said Dean would take that personally. She said Dean took mirrors personally.
At some point, her knee had ended up angled toward his. At some point, Garrett’s hand had shifted from his cup to the couch cushion between them, fingers resting loose near the seam. At some point, she’d stopped planning every breath before she took it.
Eventually, Garrett looked at the time on his phone and made a face. “I’ve got practice in forty.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket but didn’t stand. His eyes came back to her, and the hesitation there made her stomach warm and nervous all at once. “Can I ask you something?”
She tried for casual and only half-landed it. “Depends.”
“Can we get dinner tonight?”
The words were simple. Almost too simple for the way they moved through her. Dinner. Dinner had a time and a table and the possibility of sitting across from each other without using a coffee shop accident as an excuse. Dinner meant choice.
Garrett must have read something on her face because he leaned in slightly, quick to clarify. “Doesn’t have to be a whole thing. I just… I’d like to keep talking. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like burnt milk”
Her mouth twitched. “You don’t find this romantic?”
“I do, actually. That’s the problem. I’m being vulnerable beside a drawing of a penis carved into a table.”
She glanced down despite herself. “It’s a very detailed penis.”
“We deserve better.”
She laughed softly, then looked at him, really looked at him. At the cautious hope he was trying not to let take over his face. At the bruise fading near his cheekbone. At the curls falling over his forehead. At the boy she had loved, the boy who had hurt her, the boy who had just told two girls not to interrupt because he was having a conversation with her.
Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe enough was the wrong thing to be asking for from one coffee shop conversation and one public boundary and one apology that had taken months to become possible. But something inside her had shifted, turned toward warmth.
“Yeah,” she said. Her voice came out quieter than she expected, but steady. “I’d really like that.”
Garrett’s smile spread slowly, like he was trying to behave and failing in increments. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“I would never.”
She gave him a look.
“I would try very hard not to,” he amended.
“Better.”
He laughed, then stood because he actually did have practice and because if they sat there too long, the moment would start growing extra limbs. He grabbed his cup, then hers, nodding toward the trash. “You done?”
“Yeah. It’s mostly ice now.”
“Tragic.”
“You could’ve prevented this.”
“I know.” He took the cup from her, fingers brushing hers for one tiny second. Warm and brief and a little devastating. “Dinner. Seven?”
She nodded, watching him toss both cups into the bin. “Seven works.”
“I’ll text you.”
“You still have my number?”
Garrett turned back to her with the kind of look that made her immediately regret giving him the opening. “Baby.”
The word landed before either of them could stop it. He froze for half a second. So did she. It was soft. Accidental. Familiar enough to hurt and warm enough to make the hurt complicated.
Garrett cleared his throat, his hand going through his hair. “Sorry. Habit.”
Her cheeks felt warm. She looked down, then back up, because pretending it hadn’t happened would somehow make it louder. “It’s okay.”
His eyes held hers for a second, careful again but not retreating. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
The door opened and cold air moved through the coffee shop, lifting the ends of her hair and making the napkins on the counter flutter. Garrett glanced toward it, then back at her, shifting like he genuinely hated leaving and was annoyed at practice for existing in the middle of his own life.
“I should go,” he said.
“You should.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
He still didn’t move for another beat, and the smile that pulled at her mouth was small but real. Finally, Garrett backed up one step, then another, pointing at her as he moved toward the door. “Seven.”
“Practice,” she reminded him.
“I’m going.”
“You’re walking backwards in a coffee shop.”
“Because I’m charming.”
“You’re going to hit someone.”
“I’m very agile.”
He bumped lightly into a chair behind him. She raised her eyebrows.
Garrett steadied it with one hand, dignity only mildly damaged. “Chair came out of nowhere.”
She nodded solemnly. “Violent furniture.”
“Exactly.” He grinned then, full Garrett for one bright second, and her chest answered before she could tell it not to. “I’ll see you tonight.”
She nodded, fingers curling around the strap of her tote bag. “See you tonight.”
He turned and left before either of them could ruin it by adding one sentence too many. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped out into the cold, hoodie pulled up against the wind, shoulders broad beneath the navy fabric.
Through the fogged window, she watched him pause on the sidewalk just long enough to pull out his phone. Hers buzzed a second later.
Garrett: Seven. And I’ll ask for light ice next time.
She stared at the message until her face started doing something dangerously close to smiling, then typed back with cold fingers and a heart that had no sense of self-preservation.
big talk from a man who got humbled by furniture.
The reply came almost immediately.
Garrett: Chair had bad intentions.
She laughed under her breath, small and stupid and impossible to stop, standing there in the same coffee shop where something had once gone wrong in a way neither of them had known how to fix.
Then she slipped her phone into her pocket, picked up her bag, and stepped back into the afternoon with the strange, tender feeling that maybe not everything had to stay broken exactly where it broke.
• ☆ . ° .• ° . ☆ John Tucker looks cute in his bee costume. You get cuteness aggression.
Entering the hockey house and seeing your boyfriend in a bee costume became the highlight of your night.
“Tuck.” You gasp the moment you spotted him, and you have to physically stop the urge from making the most embarrassing squeal. It was muffled against your hand as you weave through the crowd. The moment you stop in front of him, you have to fight back the painfully obvious smile threatening to grow on your face, and he only lifted a hand to you.
“No. Baby no.”
“But Tuck—”
The costume was just the barebones of a bee costume. A black and yellow tank and wings, but it was enough for you to find the idea of a bee costume on your boyfriend adorable.
“No.” His lips curl into what could be a pout, and it definitely did not help the fact that you found him absolutely adorable. You bite the inside of your cheek, and his eyes narrow at you.
“Oh my god you’re so cute.”
“Baby.”
“I want to bite you.”
“Oh god.” Tucker laughs, but he keeps his hand raised it like the distance would keep you away from him. It doesn’t, and you immediately corner him, hands on his cheeks while you squeal.
“Look at you!”
“[Name]—”
“You have little wings!” You squish his cheeks.
“It is a bee costume.”
“You look so cute!”
“Yes, babe-“
“And your stupid face!”
“Stupid??” He sputters, but you interrupt him, pressing a kiss to his lips. Then his cheeks, forehead, and anywhere that you can kiss.
Tucker would only laugh, half-leaning into your touch, half trying to fight back by gently trying to pry you away, but its obvious that he isn’t against the kisses. “Guys.” He manages to call out to Dean and the rest in the kitchen. “Help she’s attacking me.”
“You look happy about it.” Dean snorts.
Logan lets out a laugh, patting Dean’s back. “Don’t help him, he’s exactly where he wants to be.”
Tucker finds himself in the corner of the kitchen, your hands on his cheeks while you aggressively shower him kisses, giggling about how cute he looks.
His cheeks are flushed, and he keeps getting knowing smiles and winks from the others when they walk by, none of them really helping him out, instead laughing at the sight of him being completely smothered in kisses by his girlfriend because she’s currently going through what you call cuteness aggression.
“Baby.” He huffs, but it’s quickly replaced by a smitten grin when you only peck his lips as you beam.” Oh, hush, Tuck.” You squeeze his cheeks, grinning widely as your chest tightens at the sight of him. “You’re just adorable in the costume, let me love you.”
“I know, but I’m pretty sure your lipstick is all over me.”
You beam. “It definitely is, but I’m not budging”
His retort is drowned out by the kiss you pull him into, complaints dying in his throat as his lipstick covered mouth only curls into a smile.
Warning(s); None. Lots of fluff. Not really edited, though, so apologies for any mistakes
Summary; You and Dean take your three year old son, Addison-Maxwell, skating for the first time.
Word Count; 2.6k
Author’s Note; I had fun writing this, I think it's so cute! Would love to expand this universe with other chapters, so if you have anything you'd like to see, please let me know (: Hope all is well in your corner of the world. Go Canucks! - Honey
Dean Masterlist
The rink is empty on Sunday mornings, which is exactly why Dean arranged for the three of you to come at this hour. Addison's been vibrating with excitement since you told him yesterday that today was finally the day. Now, at eight thirty, he's sitting on the bench in front of the boards while Dean kneels in front of him, lacing up the tiny skates that had been wrapped under the Christmas tree two weeks ago.
"Tight, Daddy?" Addison asks, watching Dean's hands work with the laces.
"Not too tight," Dean assures him. "Just right. Can you wiggle your toes for me?"
Addison scrunches up his face in concentration, and his little feet shift in the skates. "I wiggle them!"
"Good job, buddy," Dean says, and he finishes with the second skate before sitting back on his heels. "How do they feel?"
"Good," Addison announces. Then, with the unshakeable confidence of a three-year-old, "I'm gonna skate fast like you, Daddy."
"We're going to start slow," Dean corrects gently. "Remember what we talked about? First you learn to stand, then walk, then glide."
"Then fast," Addison insists.
"Then fast," Dean agrees, exchanging an amused look with you over Addison's head.
You're already in your own skates, having laced them up while Dean helped Addison. It's been a while since you've been on ice, not since before Addison was born, really. Dean still skates regularly, both for his own practice and to demonstrate things for his youth team, but you've had less reason to. Still, it comes back quickly, muscle memory kicking in as you stand and test your balance.
"Mama's ready!" Addison observes, pointing at you.
"Mama is ready," you confirm. "Are you ready, Addy?"
"Ready!" he says seriously, in that way three-year-olds have of making everything sound intensely important.
Dean helps Addison stand, keeping a firm grip on his hands. Addison wobbles immediately, his ankles trying to bend inward, and Dean's there to steady him. "Keep your feet flat, buddy. Don't let your ankles do this," he demonstrates the wobble, "keep them straight like this."
Addison's face scrunches up again with concentration, his tongue poking out slightly as he tries to control his ankles. It's an expression you've seen on Dean's face a hundred times, usually when he's focused on reviewing game footage or planning practice drills. Your son looks so much like his father it's almost comical: the same blonde hair that never quite behaves, the same determined set to his jaw when he's working on something, the same green eyes that can shift from serious to mischievous in seconds.
"Good," Dean says. "That's really good. Now we're going to walk to the ice, okay? Just like regular walking, but I'm holding your hands."
"Okay, Daddy."
The walk from the locker room to the rink entrance is slow and careful, Addison taking exaggerated steps while Dean walks backward in front of him, keeping hold of both his hands. You follow behind with your phone, already recording because you know you'll want to remember this.
The rink is pristine, the ice freshly zambonied and gleaming under the overhead lights. It's cold enough that you can see your breath, and Addison notices immediately. Dean’s rink was one of the colder ones you’d been in.
"Mama, look! Smoke!" he exclaims, breathing out dramatically and watching the cloud of condensation.
"That's your breath in the cold air," you explain. "Pretty cool, right?"
"So cool," Addison agrees, and then he's distracted by the ice in front of him. "That's where we skate?"
"That's where we skate," Dean confirms. "You ready to go on?"
Addison nods enthusiastically, but when Dean guides him to step onto the ice, he freezes. His little hands grip Dean's tighter, and his eyes go wide.
"It's slippery," he announces, like this is a revelation.
"It is slippery," Dean agrees. "That's what makes skating fun. But Daddy's got you, okay? I'm not going to let you fall."
"Promise?"
"I promise," Dean says. "Do you trust me?"
Addison considers this with all the seriousness a three-year-old can muster, then nods. "Yeah!"
Your chest squeezes at that, at the complete faith in your son's voice. You step onto the ice yourself, skating a slow circle to warm up while Dean helps Addison get his bearings. The first few minutes are tentative, Addison barely lifting his feet, essentially just standing on the ice while Dean holds him steady.
"Okay, now we're going to try moving," Dean says. "Just slide one foot forward, like this. See? Then the other foot."
"Slide," Addison repeats, and he attempts to move his right foot forward. It goes too far and too fast, and he yelps, but Dean's grip keeps him upright.
"That's okay," Dean says immediately. "That was good. You moved! Let's try again, but smaller. Just a little slide."
You skate closer, phone still recording, watching as Dean patiently guides Addison through the basics. It's slow going. Addison's legs keep wanting to do different things, his ankles still trying to bend inward despite his concentration. But Dean's patience is endless, his voice calm and encouraging even when Addison gets frustrated.
"I can't do it," Addison says after a few minutes, his lower lip starting to tremble.
"Yes, you can," Dean says firmly. "You're already doing it. You're standing on ice, and you've moved forward. That's skating, buddy."
"But not fast."
"Fast comes later," Dean reminds him. "Uncle Nicky wasn't fast his first day on skates. Daddy wasn't fast, either."
"You weren't?" Addison looks skeptical.
"Nope," Dean says. "I fell down a lot my first time. Way more than you."
This seems to mollify Addison somewhat. The idea that his father, who he thinks can do anything, also struggled at first makes him willing to try again.
"Can Mama skate with us?" Addison asks, looking over at you.
"Sure can," you say, gliding over to them. "Want me on your other side?"
Addison nods, and you take position on his left while Dean stays on his right. Together, you both hold one of Addison's hands, and slowly, the three of you begin moving across the ice. Addison's still wobbly, his feet sliding unpredictably, but with both of you there he's more confident.
"Look, I'm skating!" he announces proudly.
"You are," you agree, smiling at Dean over Addison's head. "You're doing such a good job, baby."
"I'm not a baby, Mama," Addison corrects with the indignation of a three-year-old who's been told he's a big boy now. "I'm three. That's big."
"You're right, I'm sorry," you say seriously. "You're a big boy who's learning to skate."
"Yeah," Addison agrees, satisfied.
You make several slow circuits around the rink like this, Addison between you and Dean, his little legs working hard to keep up. He talks the entire time, a constant stream of consciousness that includes observations about the ice ("it's so white, Daddy"), questions about skating ("when I go fast?"), and random non sequiturs about his life ("my friend Lucas has a dog and it's big").
"You're doing so good, Addy," Dean says after the third lap. "Do you want to try something new?"
"What something?"
"Do you want to try gliding? That means you push with your feet and then you slide."
"Slide is fun," Addison declares.
"Sliding is very fun," Dean agrees. "Okay, so we're going to push with this foot, like this, and slide. Then push with the other foot, and slide."
Dean demonstrates, and you mirror him on Addison's other side. Addison watches intently, then tries to copy the movement. His first attempt is more of a shuffle than a glide, but Dean praises him anyway.
"Perfect! Good job, buddy. Let's do it again."
It takes a few more tries, but slowly, Addison starts to get the rhythm of it. Push, glide. Push, glide. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated, but there's definite progress. And more importantly, he's smiling, that wide unreserved smile that shows his dimples and makes his eyes crinkle just like Dean's do.
"Mama, take picture!" Addison demands suddenly. "I'm skating!"
You've been taking periodic photos and videos throughout, but you stop to take a proper photo of them, then a selfie of Addison between you and Dean, all three of you on the ice. Dean makes a goofy face that makes Addison giggle, and you capture that too, the pure joy of this moment.
"Can I try by myself?" Addison asks after another few minutes.
Your immediate instinct is to say no, that it's too soon, that he'll fall. But Dean catches your eye and gives you a small nod, and you trust his judgment on this. He knows what he's doing.
"You can try," Dean says. "But we're going to be right next to you, okay? So if you start to fall, we'll catch you."
"Okay, Daddy."
Dean slowly releases Addison's hand, and you do the same on your side. Addison stands there for a moment, arms out for balance like a tiny tightrope walker. His face is a mask of concentration, and you hold your breath.
Then, very carefully, he lifts one foot and slides it forward. Then the other. He's doing it. He's actually skating on his own, even if it's only for a few feet before his balance wobbles and Dean has to catch him.
"Did you see?" Addison asks excitedly, looking between you and Dean. "I did it by myself!"
"You did!" you confirm, your voice a little thick because your baby, your three-year-old, is skating. "That was great, Addy."
"I'm just like Daddy," Addison beams proudly.
"You are," Dean agrees, and there's something soft in his expression as he looks at your son. "You're doing so good, buddy. I'm really proud of you."
"Can we do more?"
You spend another twenty minutes on the ice, watching as Addison gets incrementally more confident. He falls a few times, despite Dean and you being right there, but he bounces back immediately each time, that resilient way small children have of not dwelling on failures. By the end of the hour, he's able to move several feet on his own before needing to be caught, and he's absolutely beaming with pride.
"Okay, buddy," Dean says eventually. "I think that's enough for today. Your legs are probably getting tired."
"I'm not tired," Addison protests automatically, even though you can see he's starting to flag.
"Maybe not," Dean says diplomatically. "But the ice needs a break. We'll come back another day, okay?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Maybe not tomorrow," you interject. "But soon. We can practice every week."
"Every week," Addison repeats, nodding like this is a binding contract. "And then I go fast."
"Then you'll go fast," Dean agrees.
Getting Addison off the ice and on the bench isis easier than getting him on was. He's tired now, even if he won't admit it, and he lets Dean carry him to the bench. While Dean unlaces Addison's skates, you pull out your phone to review the photos and videos you took.
"Look at this one," you say, showing Dean a photo of him and Addison on the ice together, both of them with matching expressions of concentration.
Dean smiles, that soft smile he reserves for moments like this. "Send that to my mom. She'll love it."
"Already planning to," you say. "Your dad's going to be so excited that Addy's started skating."
"He's been asking about it every time we talk," Dean admits. "I think he was starting to worry we weren't going to do it."
"Well, now he's done it," you say, looking at your son who's chattering to Dean about how he's going to be the fastest skater ever. "Our little hockey player."
"Maybe," Dean says. "Or maybe he'll decide he hates it next week. He's three. Attention span of a goldfish."
"Fair point."
But watching Addison animatedly describe his skating experience to Dean, his little hands gesturing wildly as he recounts how he "had so much fun, daddy! The most fun!" you have a feeling this is going to stick. He's got the Di Laurentis hockey gene, that love of ice and speed and competition that runs through Dean's family.
Later, after you've gotten Addison changed back into his regular shoes and Dean's packed up the skates, the three of you head out to the parking lot. Addison's holding both of your hands, swinging between you with each step, still talking about skating.
"When we come back, I'm gonna go faster," he announces. "And I'm gonna... gonna do the spinny thing. What's the spinny thing called, Daddy?"
"A spin?" Dean suggests. "Or maybe you mean a hockey stop?"
"Hockey stop!" Addison repeats enthusiastically. "I'm gonna do a hockey stop."
"That's pretty advanced," Dean says. "But we can work on it."
"I can do it," Addison insists with the boundless confidence of a three-year-old who just learned to shuffle forward on ice. "I skate good, daddy."
"You are really good," you agree, squeezing his little hand. "Daddy was impressed, weren't you, Daddy?"
"Very impressed," Dean confirms. "You're going to be better than me someday."
"I wanna be the best," Addison says matter-of-factly, and you and Dean both laugh.
In the car on the way home, Addison falls asleep within five minutes, exhausted from the physical exertion and the excitement. You glance back at him in his car seat, his head tilted to the side, his mouth slightly open, and your heart squeezes.
"He did really well," you say to Dean.
"He did," Dean agrees. "Better than I expected, honestly. His balance was pretty good for a first timer."
"He gets that from you."
"Maybe," Dean says. "Or maybe he's just naturally gifted. Either way, I'm claiming credit."
You laugh softly, not wanting to wake Addison. "Of course you are."
Dean reaches over and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Thanks for doing this. I know you were worried it was too soon."
"I was," you admit. "But you were right. He was ready. And he loved it."
"He did," Dean says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "My kid on skates. That's... that's pretty cool."
"Your kid who looks exactly like you, acts exactly like you, and now skates like you," you tease. "I had no genetic input whatsoever, apparently."
"You gave him his stubbornness," Dean offers. "That's all you."
"Excuse me?"
"In the best way," Dean amends quickly, grinning. "His determination. His refusal to give up even when things are hard. That's you."
That mollifies you somewhat, and you settle back in your seat, watching the city slide past the windows. When you get home, Dean carries a still-sleeping Addison upstairs while you grab the bag with the skates. Inside the apartment, Dean lays Addison on the couch rather than in his bed, knowing he'll probably wake up soon anyway.
You sit on the coffee table across from the couch, just watching your son sleep, and Dean joins you, his arm coming around your shoulders.
"Think he'll remember this when he's older?" you ask quietly.
"Maybe not consciously," Dean says. "But it'll be there somewhere. First time on ice. First time skating with his dad."
"And his mom," you add.
"And his mom," Dean agrees. "Who, for the record, looked very good out there. Maybe we should go skating more often. Just the two of us."
"Is this your way of asking me on a date?"
"Maybe," Dean says. "Would you say yes?"
"Obviously," you say, leaning into him. "Though finding a babysitter might be tough, considering Addison’s a velcro kid."
"We'll figure it out," Dean says, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
Addison stirs on the couch, his eyes blinking open slowly. When he sees you both watching him, he smiles, sleepy and content.
"Mama? Daddy?" he says. "Can we go skating again?"
"Soon, buddy," Dean promises. "Really soon."
“Yay," Addison says, and he closes his eyes again.
You and Dean exchange an amused look. He's definitely a Di Laurentis.
If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it 🤍. -Honey
Anyone and everyone CAN write. The world’s most skilled writer didn’t start off skilled. The key is that they practice hard by writing a lot.
As long as you write, you are practicing your craft and you are getting better at writing. But you will never get anywhere if you let AI write for you.
