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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ patient zero.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – a sick day turns into garrett's worst nightmare: emotional honesty, fever-brain, and being forced to admit this stopped feeling casual a while ago. warnings – fever/illness, coughing, sneezing, caretaking, relationship insecurity, emotional vulnerability, strong language notes from me – this is based on sooo many requests!! hope u enjoy, babes!! word count – 3.6k

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The first thing she thinks, when the knocking starts, is that someone in her dorm has lost their mind. Not in a haha, college girls are so silly and loud way. In a genuine, diagnostic, should-probably-alert-campus-housing way, because the sound is going straight through her skull like someone has taken a tiny hammer to the inside of her forehead and decided to make a morning of it. 

Three knocks. A pause. Two more. Then her name, muffled through the door, low and familiar enough that her fevered brain immediately files it under impossible and tries to go back to dying with dignity.

She’s somewhere under two blankets and one hoodie she’s pretty sure is inside out, curled on her side with one knee tucked up and a tissue crushed in her fist. Her room is too hot. Or freezing. It keeps changing, which feels rude. 

The little desk fan she dragged from the corner is aimed uselessly at her bed, pushing around air that smells like Vicks, stale water, honey cough drops, and the kind of tragic dorm-room illness that makes every surface feel faintly contaminated. 

There’s a sleeve of crackers on the nightstand, three of them eaten. A half-empty bottle of water. Her laptop’s open at the foot of the bed, paused on an episode of something she has absolutely no memory of choosing.

The knocking comes again. She peels one eye open.

“Go away,” she tries to say, except what comes out is a hoarse, shredded little sound that barely qualifies as language.

There’s a pause on the other side of the door. Then, “Baby?”

Oh. Okay. So she’s officially died.

That’s fine. Honestly, it makes sense. Her whole body has been giving up in installments for two days, first the sore throat, then the chills, then the cough. This is probably the part where the afterlife gives her Garrett Graham in a hoodie with damp post-practice hair because her brain is basic and under-medicated.

She lies still for another second, blinking at the wall while her body attempts to boot up. Everything feels far away and too close at the same time. Her skin hurts against the sheets. Her eyes feel hot. There’s a weird ache in her hips like she’s done a full leg day instead of lying in bed sweating through cotton and making pathetic little noises every time she has to swallow.

“Hey,” Garrett says through the door, gentler now. “You in there?”

She pushes herself up on one elbow and immediately regrets every choice that has led her to this moment. The room tilts, it makes her stomach roll and her head pulse behind her eyes. 

“Yeah,” she croaks, then coughs so hard her abs ache with it.

“Can you open the door?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m outside it.”

She frowns at the blanket like that might explain the flaw in his logic. “That’s stupid.”

Garrett laughs once under his breath. Soft and relieved and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, okay. Good to know you’re still mean.”

The insult gets her out of bed on principle. It takes longer than it should. She has to sit up first, then sit there breathing like she’s climbed ten flights of stairs, then shove the blankets away while her body complains. 

Her sock slides halfway off on the way to the door. She catches her reflection in the little mirror beside her wardrobe as she passes and stops for half a second, because holy fuck. 

Her hair is twisted into something that might once have been a bun but has clearly lost its will to live. Her cheeks are flushed too bright. Her lips are dry. Her eyes look glassy and annoyed, which is probably the only part of her still operating at baseline.

The knock comes again, lighter this time, and she unlocks the door mostly to make it stop.

Garrett’s standing in the hallway in grey sweats and a Briar hockey hoodie, one hand braced high on the doorframe, curls damp and messy from the shower, cheeks still a little pink from the cold outside and practice. 

He has his gear bag slung over one shoulder and his phone in his other hand, and for one very weird second, all she can do is stare at him.

He stares back. 

The easy, teasing set of his mouth drops. His brows pull in. His eyes move over her face, her hoodie, the blanket marks on her cheek, the tissue in her hand, the way she’s gripping the door.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, stepping in before she even moves out of the way. “Jesus, baby, are you alright?”

She opens her mouth to answer and sneezes three times in a row instead. One of those full-body, medically humbling sneezes that bends her forward and makes her eyes water instantly, and by the third one her head is throbbing so badly she actually groans.

Garrett’s hand lands at her shoulder, warm and immediate. “Okay. Yeah. Great. That answers that.” He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel and drops his bag near the desk without looking. “C’mon. Back to bed.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you got run over by a Zamboni.”

She blinks at him, offended but too slow to make it useful. “That’s mean.”

“That was me being nice.” His hand slides from her shoulder to her back, steady pressure between her shoulder blades as he starts walking her carefully across the room. 

She coughs again, the nasty deep kind that drags up from her chest and leaves her breathless at the end of it. Garrett’s whole body goes still beside her. His hand tightens once before he gets her to the bed and peels back the blankets like he’s done this before. 

He hasn’t, as far as she knows. Garrett Graham’s sick-care experience probably begins and ends with telling Logan to stop being dramatic about food poisoning and then driving him to urgent care when he turned green.

Still, he gets her tucked in with alarming competence. Blanket up. Pillow fixed. Water bottle shifted closer. Tissues within reach. 

He crouches beside the bed when she sinks back into it, knees bent, forearms resting on the mattress, his face much closer now and much more serious than she’s emotionally equipped to deal with right now.

She frowns at him.

Garrett reaches up and smooths his thumb over the tight space between her brows. “What’s that face?”

Her eyes slip shut for half a second because his hand is cool against her skin. Or maybe she’s just too hot. Everything in her body is confused and dramatic. 

“Why’re you…” She has to stop because the cough comes back, rough and ugly, tearing through her chest until she has to roll halfway into the pillow and ride it out with one hand pressed uselessly over her sternum. 

By the time it eases, Garrett’s gone quiet in a way that makes the room feel smaller.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “That sounds awful.”

“It’s super fun, actually.”

“Yeah, sounds like it.” He waits until she can breathe properly again, then brushes the hair off her damp forehead with the backs of his fingers. “What were you asking me?”

She has to think about it. The thought floats away from her, then returns with the annoying brightness of something she probably should’ve been more embarrassed to ask. “Why’re you here?”

“You haven’t texted me back in two days.”

She blinks. “Have I not?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Her eyes drift toward the dark phone on her nightstand like it’s a separate, mysterious artefact from another life. “I was sleeping.”

“I figured.” He tries to make it casual. He really does. The problem is Garrett has never been as casual as he thinks he is when it comes to her. He can do cocky. He can do lazy grins and half-lidded looks and smug little comments that make her want to throw something. But this, sitting beside her bed in his practice hoodie with worry sitting badly under his skin, doesn’t pass as casual for even a second. “Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

She hums, which is easier than finding a sentence. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah, I’m a sweetheart.” His hand comes to her forehead again, palm settling there properly this time, then sliding down to her cheek, then her neck. His brows tighten. “You’re burning up.”

“I know.”

“You taken anything?”

She nods automatically, then frowns. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I dunno.” She swallows and immediately makes a face because her throat feels like someone has lined it with sandpaper. “I had some.”

“When?”

Her frown deepens. “Time is fake.”

“Right.” Garrett exhales through his nose. He reaches for her phone, glancing at her for permission. “Can I?”

She waves one hand, then lets it flop back onto the blanket with the full weight of her exhaustion. “Don’t look at anything weird.”

His brows lift as he taps the screen awake. “Now I’m definitely worried.”

“I have a lot of photos of wound dressings.”

“That tracks.” He glances down at the lock screen, and his face flattens. “You’ve got a reminder from three hours ago. Due for meds.”

“Oh.” She closes her eyes. “I was sleeping.”

“Yeah, I got that.” His voice gentles at the edges. “You should’ve had more three hours ago.”

“Oops.”

“Big nursing student energy.”

She cracks one eye open to glare at him, but it’s weak and probably mostly watery. “Don’t bully the sick.”

“I’m not bullying you. I’m making observations.” He picks up the packet on her nightstand, scans the label, then checks the other blister pack beside it with a kind of exaggerated seriousness that would make her laugh if her chest didn’t feel like an elephant was sitting on it. “You’ve been eating?”

“Crackers.”

“Plural?”

She gives this due consideration and moves her hand in a little so-so gesture. 

Garrett pauses, packet in hand, and looks at her. “That’s a no.”

“Well, I had soup yesterday.”

“Yesterday when?”

“God, you’re nosy.”

“Yeah, apparently when girls go silent for forty-eight hours and then answer the door looking like Patient Zero, I get curious.” He stands, taking the water bottle with him. “I’m getting you meds and something that isn’t… three sad crackers.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know.” He grabs the mug off the nightstand and makes a face at whatever is inside it. “This tea is fucking freezing.”

“Be nice to her. She was warm once.”

Garrett’s expression softens so quickly she almost misses it. “Okay, fever girl. Stay put.”

“Was gonna run laps.”

“Don’t tempt me, I’ll tie you to the bed.”

“Mmm. Fun, but inappropriate patient care.”

“Write me up later.”

She means to answer. She really does. Something about reporting him to whatever governing body handles smug hockey players with boundary issues. 

But Garrett moves around her room like he belongs there, picking up the cold mug, the empty tissue box, the discarded hoodie from the floor, and her brain snags stupidly on the sight of him in the middle of all her mess. 

His gear bag by her desk. His damp curls. His broad shoulders taking up half the room. The quiet little frown still on his face when he thinks she isn’t looking.

The thought is warm and dangerous and immediately too much work to hold. Her eyes close. 

When she wakes again, it happens slowly and in pieces.

There’s sound first. Low, tinny voices from her laptop, turned down so far they blur into background noise. Then warmth, heavier on one side than the blanket, human and solid and so much better than the weird fever heat burning uselessly under her skin. 

Her head isn’t on her pillow anymore. It’s resting somewhere firmer, the side of her face pressed into soft cotton and the warm line of a thigh beneath it. There’s a hand on her shoulder, broad and absent, fingers curved over the blanket like it landed there a while ago and forgot to leave.

She blinks. Garrett is sitting up against her headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly so she can lie half-curled against him with her head in his lap. 

Her laptop is balanced near his knee, playing some sitcom she vaguely remembers putting on and then abandoning somewhere in the wreckage of yesterday.

There’s a bowl on the nightstand with a spoon in it, crackers on a plate, a fresh bottle of water, and the thermometer she bought during freshman year after a girl on her floor convinced herself she had meningitis because WebMD said so.

Garrett looks down the second she stirs, like he’s been waiting for it. Like some part of him has been tracking her breathing under the dialogue and the fan and the stupid little coughs that keep catching in her sleep.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Her eyes drag over his face. He’s softer from this angle. Or maybe she’s just cooked. His hoodie is wrinkled where she’s been lying against him. His hair is mostly dry now, curling messily around his forehead, and there’s a faint line between his brows that makes him look less like the terrifying Briar captain every freshman stares at in the dining hall and more like a boy sitting in her tiny dorm bed because she forgot how phones worked.

She looks at him for a long second. “You’re pretty,” she says.

Garrett goes still. Then his mouth curves, surprised first, then delighted because unfortunately he’s still himself. “Oh yeah?”

She nods, which makes her head throb a little, so she stops. “Mhm.”

“Finally awake, and that’s what you’re telling me?”

“You have a nice face.”

“Thank God.” He settles his hand more carefully against her shoulder, thumb moving once through the blanket. “I was starting to worry the fever had affected your judgment.”

“No, it’s always been bad.”

He laughs, soft enough not to shake her. “Yeah, that checks out.”

She should probably be embarrassed. She can feel the shape of it somewhere far away, waiting for her temperature to drop and her dignity to come back online. 

Right now, everything is too floaty for embarrassment to stick. Her body feels heavy and loose, the edges of the room blurred by sleep and fever and whatever cold medication Garrett must have coaxed into her while she was only half-conscious. 

Her mouth is dry. Her thoughts are slow. But Garrett’s hand is on her shoulder, and his other hand comes up to push her hair back from her forehead, and the touch goes through her in a soft, aching line. Her eyes sting for no reason.

Garrett notices, because Garrett notices everything when she least wants him to. His smile fades. “Hey,” he says, quieter. “What hurts?”

She frowns up at him. “Am I not good enough to be your girlfriend?”

The words leave her mouth before she even knows they’re arranged that way. They just slip out, small and cracked and awful, and then they’re sitting in the room between the laptop dialogue and the fan noise and the miserable little wet sound of her breathing.

Garrett freezes. His whole face shifts like the question has hit him somewhere he didn’t have padding. His hand stops moving in her hair. His throat works once.

“What?” he says, barely above a breath.

She stares at the drawstring on his hoodie because his face is suddenly too much. “Nothing.”

“No.” His voice is careful now, and that scares her a little, because Garrett being careful usually means something is bleeding. “Baby, what did you just say?”

She presses her cheek more firmly into his thigh, like that might hide her from the consequences of being conscious. “Forget it.”

“I’m not gonna forget it.”

“That’s annoying of you.”

“Yeah, well.” He lets out a rough little breath, his hand sliding from her hair to the side of her face, thumb resting near her temple. “I’m annoying. We know this.”

She closes her eyes. The room rocks a little behind her eyelids, hot and dark. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t sound fine.”

“It’s just the fever.”

“Okay.” He says it like he’s willing to accept that and also absolutely not accepting it at all. “Then fever-you can tell me what that means.”

She opens her eyes again, and Garrett’s looking down at her with something so openly worried on his face that it makes her want to laugh and cry and cough herself into a new dimension. 

“I dunno,” she whispers.

His jaw flexes. “That’s not–” He stops himself, visibly, dragging the sentence back before it can come out wrong. When he tries again, his voice is softer. “That’s not how I think about you.”

“How do you think about me?”

The question is too honest. She hears it after she says it and hates herself immediately. If she were well, she would have turned it into a joke. She would have flicked his drawstring and told him to stop looking constipated. 

She would have found a way to walk the whole thing back with enough sarcasm that neither of them had to stand under the full weight of it. But her throat hurts and her body aches and she’s tired in places she didn’t know could get tired, and she cannot find the energy to save him from answering.

Garrett looks down at her. His hand is still against her face. His thumb moves once, slow and restless.

“I think about you all the time,” he says.

Her chest goes tight. He seems to realise, a second too late, how much that sounds like something real. Panic flickers across his face, quick and bright, and then he starts talking again because he’s Garrett and the solution to an emotional landmine is to skate directly over it at speed. 

“That’s not– I mean, I’m not saying it like– fuck.” He tips his head back against the headboard for half a second, staring at the ceiling. “I’m so bad at this.”

“At what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely between them, then winces like the gesture itself is embarrassing. “You. Us. Whatever the fuck I’ve been pretending isn’t us.”

The laptop keeps playing at the end of the bed. Someone on screen laughs. The sound feels insane in the middle of this.

She swallows carefully. “You don’t do girlfriends.”

His eyes come back to her.

“No,” he says slowly. “I don’t.”

Something inside her sinks, dull and expected, and she hates that it still hurts when she saw it coming from the other side of campus.

Garrett’s hand tightens gently at her jaw before she can turn her face away. “Hey. Don’t do that. I’m not done.”

“You paused.”

“I paused because I’m trying not to be an idiot.”

“Ambitious.”

A laugh breaks out of him, quiet and helpless and a little wrecked. “See? You’re dying and you’re still mean.”

“Efficient.”

“Yeah.” His smile flickers, then fades again. “I don’t do girlfriends because I’m busy, and because hockey eats my entire life, and because most of the time that’s been a pretty convenient excuse to not have to be responsible for anyone else’s feelings.” He exhales, eyes dropping to where his thumb is brushing carefully over the hot skin at her cheek. “And you’re busy. You’re busier than me half the time. You’ve got placement and exams and shifts and you scare grown men with your colour-coded notes. I thought…” He stops again, and this time his mouth twists. “I thought this was what you wanted too.”

She looks at him for a long moment. Her vision blurs a little at the edges, which is deeply inconvenient, because she would like to appear less pathetic during whatever this is. “I don’t know what I want.”

Garrett’s face changes. Worried, like he heard the wrong part first. “Hey– baby. What? What do you mean? Do you not wanna do this anymore?”

She sighs, and it shakes on the way out. Her whole body feels wrung out, too hot and too heavy and too open. “No– yes– I don’t… I dunno.” Her fingers curl weakly in the fabric of his hoodie. “I want you.”

His expression cracks so fast it makes her chest ache. “You have me,” he says, immediate and rough, like the answer is obvious enough to hurt him.

She frowns and shakes her head a little. It makes the room sway, so she stops. “Not really.”

Garrett goes very still. She means to say more. There’s more somewhere. It’s sitting behind her ribs, swollen and fever-soft and hard to name. 

She doesn’t want some grand declaration from Garrett Graham like a man being dragged to public execution. She doesn’t want him to suddenly become someone who buys roses at the campus store and says the right thing because he thinks it’s what she wants to hear.

She wants the thing that already exists to stop pretending it doesn’t.

She wants the car doors and the hospital pickups and his hand finding hers when he thinks she’s asleep. She wants the sleepovers that aren’t called sleepovers. She wants him showing up because she didn’t text back. 

She wants to be able to want those things without feeling like she’s the only one stupid enough to notice them.

She wants to say that. Instead her eyes close.

Garrett’s thumb strokes once over her cheek. “Baby?”

She hums faintly.

“Hey. Stay awake with me for a second.”

“Can’t,” she mumbles, already slipping under again. “Too hot.”

“Okay. I know. I know, I’ve got you.” His voice is close now, low and strained and trying so hard to be steady that even half-asleep, she can hear the effort. “Just sleep, okay? I’m right here.”

“Don’t leave.”

His hand settles over hers where it’s twisted in his hoodie, warm and firm. “I’m not leaving.”

She falls asleep to the feeling of his fingers threaded through hers, and her fevered brain doesn’t have the energy to argue.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ hydration police.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – garrett's girlfriend is drunk, freezing, and extremely loyal. so loyal, in fact, that she refuses his water, his jacket, and his flirting because she’s waiting for… garrett graham. warnings – fluff, drunk antics, alcohol, post-game party, protective boyfriend garrett, reader doesn't recognise him for most of the fic notes from me – part of my 1k celebrations!! & based on this request!! thank u anon, such a cute idea 🥹 word count – 4.4k

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There was two versions of Garrett Graham. The version people got in the rink, all sharp focus and captain voice and that very specific game-day intensity that made even strangers in the stands start sitting a little straighter when he skated past. 

Then there was the version people got after he’d won, showered, changed, and been handed exactly two beers at a party by Logan, who had called it recovery hydration with the confidence of a man who had never once been trusted by medical professionals.

That Garrett was looser. Warmer. Still tired in the shoulders, still carrying the ache of a hard check somewhere along his ribs, but smiling more easily now, head tipped back while Tucker said something dry beside him and Dean yelled over the music from the kitchen like volume could make a story better. 

His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.

He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept. 

Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.

He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing. 

She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.

So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”

“Die.”

Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield. 

She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.

Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”

She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.

“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett blinked.

Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.

“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”

“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”

“And he plays hockey.”

“No shit?”

“And he’s, like, really good at it.”

Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.

He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Baby.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”

“My boyfriend calls me baby.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”

Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”

Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”

She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“I’m taking hydration’s side.”

Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”

She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not. 

Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.

Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”

The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”

“Right. Yep. Forgot.”

“My boyfriend says that.”

“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.

Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.

Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”

Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”

Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”

“She’s drunk.”

“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”

Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”

“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”

Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”

“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”

Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face. 

She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.

His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.

For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument. 

He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.

She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice. 

She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party. 

She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.

Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.

The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears. 

Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.

“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”

She froze.

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”

She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.

“Nope,” she said.

“Baby.”

Her head snapped around. “I said no.”

Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”

“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”

“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”

“Not on this team.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”

Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”

Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”

From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.

She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”

“He’s very hot.”

“Is he?”

“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”

Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”

Logan choked.

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”

“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”

“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”

“No thank you.”

“You’re gonna freeze.”

“I’ll wait for Garrett.”

“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”

She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”

Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”

He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.

“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.

Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”

“She thinks I’m a stranger.”

“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”

“Great. That makes it better.”

Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”

Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”

“She refused me.”

“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”

Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”

Dean grinned. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”

“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”

Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.

By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal. 

Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.

Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”

She frowned up at Dean. “What?”

“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”

She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”

Garrett blinked.

Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.

She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”

Garrett slowly looked at Dean.

“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”

“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.

“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”

Garrett’s eyebrows went up.

Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.

“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.

“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.

“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”

Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”

He froze. “Hi?”

“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”

She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”

Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.

Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”

She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”

His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”

Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”

She shook her head, very firm. “No.”

“No?”

“No. There was just this guy.”

Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”

She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”

Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”

Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Oh, I should?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”

“He kept calling me baby.”

“That’s crazy.”

“And he tried to give me his jacket.”

“What a dick.”

She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”

Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt. 

He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.

She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“Mhm?”

“You wanna get outta here?”

Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”

“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”

“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”

“Yeah, we can go home.”

“And maybe get McDonald’s?”

Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”

She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”

“Confident.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”

She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his. 

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.

“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”

She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”

“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”

She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.

“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.

Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”

She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”

He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely. 

Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.

“You smell good,” she told him.

“Thanks.”

“Like Garrett.”

“Crazy coincidence.”

She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.

The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.

“She found you,” he said.

Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”

She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”

Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”

She nodded. “Way.”

Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”

Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”

She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”

“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.

Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car. 

The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.

“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.

“Yeah?”

“That guy was so annoying.”

Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”

“He was talking to me all night.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“He was kind of hot, though.”

Garrett stopped walking.

She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”

He stared at her. “Hot?”

She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And he had your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”

Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”

“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”

His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”

“And you already won.”

“I did.”

“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”

Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”

Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”

“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”

“Thanks, baby.”

She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”

At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”

“I always watch my head.”

“You don’t.”

“I have one.”

“Having one and watching it are different.”

She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her. 

She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I found you.”

His hand paused on the belt for half a second.

She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”

Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”

“There was this guy–”

“I heard.”

“–and he kept trying to give me water.”

“So rude.”

“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”

Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”

“And fries.”

“Obviously.”

“And a Sprite.”

“You need water.”

She made a face. “The guy said that too.”

Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”

She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”

“My bad.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“I am.”

“And I love you.”

The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.

He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”

She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door. 

He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big. 

When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.

Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.

For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”

Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”

“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”

His grin widened.

“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[sunnydilaurentis]

found family masterlist! ⋆˚࿔

-{𑣲⋆} found family introductory

-{ꨄ︎} found family hockey groupchat leaked, ‘dean’s children’; texting au! garrett graham, dean di laurentis, john logan, john tucker, y/n, allie hayes, grace ivers & sabrina james

-{✩} found family fics!; coming soon

-{𐙚} found family blurbs; coming soon

-{⋆˙⟡} found family social media; instagram

*requests are open for fic ideas, prompts and anything else related to this au series!

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ chain reaction.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – four times garrett’s chain causes problems, and one very smug hockey captain pretends he isn’t loving every second of it. warnings – suggestive content, making out/grinding, mild sexual references, implied oral sex, drinking, party setting, garrett being smug and whipped. notes from me – as part of my 1k celebrations, here's the top requested fic!! enjoy 🫶🏼 word count – 5k

navigation – masterlist | taglist

The first time Garrett realises his chain is a problem, they're in his room with the door locked, the bass from downstairs moving through the floorboards in lazy, uneven pulses and the old house doing what the old house always does around a party, which is pretend it’s not seen worse. 

There are voices below them, Logan’s laugh cutting through once in a bright, drunken bark, Dean yelling something that sounds like an accusation and Tucker answering with the sort of dry, patient tone that means someone is absolutely about to be called an idiot. 

But up here, everything has gone smaller. Warmer. The room narrowed down to Garrett’s weight between her thighs, the soft give of his mattress under her back, the skirt shoved high enough on her hips that there's no point pretending it’s even a skirt anymore, and his mouth dragging over hers like he has all night and no better use for it.

He kisses like an athlete too, which is deeply annoying information to have about him because it makes too much sense. Confident, paced, unfairly good at changing pressure right when she starts thinking she’s adjusted to him. 

One hand is braced beside her head, the other curled around her thigh, thumb pressing absent little circles into skin like he doesn't know it’s making her thoughts get weird and slippery around the edges. He’s still wearing his t-shirt, which feels rude considering she’s in a bra and skirt and whatever dignity survived the trip up the stairs is now lying somewhere dead near his laundry basket. 

His chain has slipped out from under his collar while he kisses her, warm gold catching against the side of her throat every time he grinds down into her and makes her breath come out embarrassingly thin.

“Garrett,” she gets out, though it doesn't have much purpose beyond giving her mouth something to do when his is suddenly leaving it.

He hums like he’s heard her and decided to take it under advisement at a later date. His mouth drifts to her jaw, then lower, slow and pleased and entirely too smug about the way her body moves before she can stop it. 

He kisses down her throat, over the spot where her pulse is doing something humiliating, then lower still, along the top edge of her bra, and she should probably let him. She should probably enjoy the fact that Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, walking campus hazard, has decided her chest deserves sustained attention. 

But the second his mouth leaves hers properly, some spoiled little part of her lights up in objection.

“No,” she whines, which is not her proudest moment, and is made worse by the fact that Garrett pauses against her skin like he’s trying not to laugh. She reaches down and gets her fingers in his hair, gentle but insistent, tugging him back up until his face appears over hers again, curls mussed, mouth shiny, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that makes her want to either kiss him harder or shove him off the bed. “Come back.”

His grin spreads slowly. “Bossy.”

“You stopped kissing me.”

“I was kissing you somewhere else.”

She pouts. “Wrong somewhere.”

He gives one of those little laughs that starts in his chest before it reaches his mouth, warm and low and stupidly pleased, and then he comes back happily, because that’s the worst part of Garrett. 

He has all this cocky-boy resistance in theory, all this mouth and attitude and captain-of-every-room energy, and then she asks for him directly and his body gives him away before his ego can file an appeal. He kisses her again, deep enough that the complaint evaporates under her tongue, and for a few seconds she forgets about the chain entirely.

Then he pulls back to sit up on his knees, one thigh planted on either side of her hips, and reaches behind his neck for his shirt.

“Oh,” she says before she can stop herself.

Garrett pauses with the hem already half up his stomach, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

His teeth catch at his bottom lip. “I was about to ask if you needed a minute to process.”

She narrows her eyes at him, which would probably have more force if she were not lying under him with her skirt bunched around her waist and her hands already drifting up his exposed stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you’re still looking.”

And she is. Tragically. Openly. With no legal defence. The shirt comes off the rest of the way and lands somewhere near the chair, and Garrett is there above her in the soft lamplight, shoulders broad from hockey, stomach tight under her palms, chain resting against his chest like it’s been placed there for the express purpose of ruining her life. 

It's not even that fancy. That’s the insulting part. Just a gold chain. Simple. Warm from his skin. Sitting right at the base of his throat.

Her hands slide up his stomach, over the hard shift of muscle when he breathes, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth without meaning to.

Garrett’s grin softens into something more dangerous because he knows. Because Garrett is many things, but oblivious is not one of them, especially not when a girl is looking at his chest like she’s discovered a new academic field.

“Baby,” he says, amused.

She doesn't answer. She hooks two fingers under the chain and pulls. Garrett comes down with it, one hand shooting to the mattress beside her head, the other catching her waist as he laughs into the space above her mouth. “Jesus. Okay.”

She smiles, breath already uneven again. “Come here.”

“I was here.”

“Closer.”

His mouth hovers over hers, his chain trapped between her fingers, the metal a little warm, a little slick where it’s been resting against his skin. “You always this demanding?”

She tugs again, smaller this time, mostly because she likes the way his eyes drop to her mouth when she does it. “Only when you’re slow.”

Garrett stares at her for one beat, and then the smile goes all bright and helpless at the edges, like she’s pleased him against his will. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, bending until the chain brushes her collarbone and his mouth is almost on hers again. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

The second time is quieter, though quiet in the hockey house is a relative concept and mostly means no one is actively breaking furniture within their line of sight. They're downstairs on the couch after dinner, the living room dim except for the television throwing blue-white light over everyone’s faces and the standing lamp Tucker keeps insisting gives the room ambience, which Dean keeps calling divorced dad lighting. 

A movie’s on, something Logan picked with the confidence of a man who would be asleep within twenty minutes, and sure enough he’s already slumped in the armchair with his head tipped back and one socked foot on the coffee table, snoring faintly through the loudest action sequence anyone has ever failed to respect.

Garrett’s stretched out behind her on the couch, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other lying heavy over her waist. She’s settled half on top of him, half against him, legs tangled beneath the old throw blanket that smells faintly like fabric softener and Garrett’s laundry detergent and whatever popcorn crime Dean committed earlier. 

The whole room has that late-night, lived-in warmth to it. Empty bowls on the coffee table, Tucker leaning on the other end of the couch with his phone in one hand and his attention somehow still half on the movie, Dean sprawled on the floor with his back against Allie’s legs while she runs her fingers lazily through his hair like she’s rewarding a large, badly behaved dog.

Garrett’s chain has worked its way out again. She doesn't mean to start fiddling with it. Her hand is just there, resting against his chest, and the chain is right under her fingertips, cool at first and then quickly warming up. 

Her thumb catches the tiny curve of one link. Then another. Then she’s sliding it back and forth lightly against his skin, not really thinking, only listening to the movie and the steady sound of his breathing under her cheek and the occasional thud of Dean kicking the coffee table because he refuses to understand where his legs end.

Garrett lets it happen for a while. Long enough that she forgets she’s doing it. Long enough for the metal to move in a tiny, repetitive drag under her fingers, a private little rhythm tucked beneath explosions and the muffled rain starting against the windows. 

His chest rises under her palm. His hand at her waist flexes once, absent, and she shifts closer without lifting her head. Then his fingers close around her wrist. Warm and sure, stopping the motion.

She glances up. “What?”

Garrett looks down at her with the deeply patient expression of a man being tortured in a way he’s not allowed to enjoy too obviously. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.”

“Doing what?”

His eyes flick to the chain. Then back to her. “That.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her hand, caught in his like evidence. “Was I annoying you?”

“No.”

“You stopped me.”

“Because,” he says, lowering his voice as Dean makes a disgusted noise at the movie and Allie tells him to stop talking before she smothers him with a cushion, “you keep touching my neck, and I’m trying to be a decent citizen in a communal living space.”

Her mouth twitches. “Your neck?”

“My chain is on my neck.”

She bites back a smile. “That’s very scientific of you.”

“I go to college.”

“For hockey.”

He sucks at his teeth, a grin spreading across his face. “For hockey and the pursuit of knowledge.”

She laughs into his chest, and he immediately looks pleased with himself in that quiet Garrett way, like making her laugh while half the room is asleep counts as a personal win. 

His hand slides from her wrist to her fingers, lifting them to his mouth. He kisses her knuckles once, soft and warm, then again, slower, like he can get away with it because nobody’s looking directly at them. The contact sends a stupid little wave through her, low and gentle, a sudden looseness in her ribs and the sense that her body has settled another inch into his.

“Stop playing with it,” he murmurs against her hand.

“I didn’t know it was an activity with rules.”

“It is now.”

“Sounds controlling.”

“Sounds like you’re too hot for your own good and I’m a responsible man.”

She lifts her head just enough to look at him properly. “You’re so full of shit.”

Garrett smiles like that’s his favourite thing she’s said all day. “A little, yeah.”

Then he threads his fingers through hers and brings their joined hands down to rest against his stomach, trapping her there with him. Garrett’s hand stays wrapped around hers. Firm. Warm. His thumb moves once over the side of her finger, slow enough that it feels accidental and deliberate at the same time.

The third time, she should know something’s wrong with the whole arrangement because Garrett offers it too easily. It's the morning of her exam, a big one, the kind that has lived in the back of her head for three weeks like an unpaid bill and ruined several perfectly good evenings by existing near them. 

She’s already eaten half a banana, stared at her notes until the words lost meaning, changed shirts twice, and accused Garrett of breathing too loudly while he sat on her bed watching her spiral with the sort of affectionate calm that made her want to throw a highlighter at him.

“You studied,” he says, for maybe the fourth time, lying on his side with one elbow propped under him and his curls still damp from the shower. “Like, a disgusting amount. I know because you made me quiz you last night and I learned things against my will.”

She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her top down and then immediately undoing the smoothing because now it looks too deliberate. “That doesn’t mean I know it.”

“That’s actually exactly what studying means.”

“No, studying means I knew it at midnight in your bed while you were half asleep and kept pronouncing things wrong on purpose.”

“I was keeping morale up.”

She turns to glare at him, and he grins at her from the bed, annoyingly gorgeous and unhelpfully relaxed, his chain sitting against his bare collarbone because he hasn’t put a shirt on yet. Which is also rude. Honestly, the whole morning has been a campaign of emotional terrorism.

“I’m serious,” she says, and the words come out thinner than she wants.

His face changes then. The grin doesn't disappear entirely, because Garrett without some amount of grin would be genuinely concerning, but it settles. He sits up properly, feet hitting the floor, and reaches for her when she comes close enough. His hands land at her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs pressing once like he’s reminding her she has a body and it's standing here, not drowning somewhere in the imagined future of a badly answered essay question.

“I know you are,” he says. “I also know you’re gonna kill it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What, kill it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. You’re gonna… respectfully and academically dominate.”

“Garrett.”

He laughs under his breath and tugs her closer until she’s standing between his knees. Then, with the sudden seriousness of someone remembering an ancient ritual and not a bit he came up with seven seconds ago, he reaches behind his neck and unclasps the chain.

She looks down at it. “What are you doing?”

“Good luck.”

Her eyes lift to his. “What?”

He holds it up between them, gold catching the morning light from her window. “It’s lucky.”

She stares at him. “Your chain is lucky?”

“Extremely.”

“You’ve never said that.”

He looks almost offended. “I don’t tell everyone my deeply personal athletic superstitions.”

“You told Dean you had to wear the same socks for playoffs.”

“That was different. He touched them.”

“That feels like a public health issue more than a superstition.”

Garrett ignores this, and gestures for her to turn around. She does, suspicious but too nervous to fight him properly. He stands behind her, and for a second the mirror catches both of them: her in exam clothes and stress, him shirtless and too calm, chain hanging from his fingers. 

He lifts it around her neck, his knuckles grazing the sides of her throat as he brings the clasp together. The metal lands cool against her skin, heavier than she expects, and something in her chest gives one stupid little pull.

“There,” he says, hands settling briefly on her shoulders. “Guaranteed.”

She touches the chain with two fingers. “Guaranteed?”

“Yeah.”

“If I fail, I’m blaming your jewellery.”

“If you fail, I’ll fake my death and start over somewhere chainless.”

She laughs then, finally, and it comes out shaky but real. Garrett’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, his mouth tipped in a way that’s half smug and half proud of having pulled the sound out of her. 

He bends and kisses the side of her head, quick, easy, like he doesn't know the chain suddenly feels like some ridiculous little anchor against her collarbone.

“Go,” he says. “Ace it. Then come back and be unbearable about it.”

She does ace it.

She walks out of the exam hall two hours later with the weird, floating, slightly manic clarity of someone who knows the questions landed exactly where she needed them to, who wrote until her hand cramped, who remembered the thing from the bottom of page seven that she had absolutely expected to die with no audience. 

She calls Garrett from the sidewalk and says, “I think I nailed it,” and he shouts so loudly through the phone that a girl walking past looks over in alarm.

“Tell the chain I said thank you,” she says later that night, when she’s in his room again, sitting cross-legged on his bed with takeout containers open between them and his hoodie swallowed over her exam clothes because the adrenaline crash has finally arrived and brought a mild existential fog with it.

Garrett looks up from stealing one of her fries. “What?”

“The chain.” She taps it where it still sits at her throat. “Your ancient family luck charm.”

There's a pause. It's tiny. Almost nothing. But Garrett Graham has many gifts, and hiding guilt from his girlfriend while his mouth is full of stolen fries is not one of them.

Her eyes narrow. “Garrett.”

He chews slowly.

“Garrett Graham.”

He swallows. “Okay, before you get mad–”

“Oh my God.” She sits up straighter. “It’s not lucky?”

“It’s, uh, lucky adjacent.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve worn it to some good games.”

“You told me it was extremely lucky.”

“I was trying to get you out of your head.”

“You lied!”

“I motivated.” He points at her with a fry. “And you crushed your exam, so actually, where’s my thank you?”

She stares at him for one second. Then another. The chain’s warm now from her skin, and the fact that he made it up should be annoying. It is annoying. 

It's also so Garrett that something in her gives up and goes soft around the edges despite herself, because he saw her standing in front of the mirror two seconds from vibrating through the floorboards and decided the solution was to hand her something of his and make it sound official enough for her nervous system to believe him.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says.

His grin comes back immediately, bright with relief and bad ideas. “But effective.”

“You’re never getting this back.”

“Baby, I look really good in that chain.”

“I look better.”

He studies her for a second, eyes dropping to where the gold sits against the oversized neckline of his hoodie, and his mouth does something slower. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher. “You do.”

Her fingers move to the chain. His eyes track the motion. The takeout goes forgotten between them, steam thinning in the cartons, the lamp laying warm light over his bed and the stupid little lucky-not-lucky object at her throat.

She crawls toward him, slow enough to make his brows lift.

“What?” he asks, though his hands are already moving to her waist when she pushes the cartons aside with the care of someone who doesn't want to get sauce on his sheets but absolutely does want to ruin his evening in other ways.

“You want a thank you?”

Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes. He tilts his head, trying for casual and missing by a heroic distance. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no to gratitude.”

“Good,” she says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft enough that he follows when she pulls away.

His hands tighten on her hips. “Good?”

“Mhm.”

Then she slides off the bed onto her knees between his legs, and Garrett goes very, very still. For once in his life, he doesn't have a comeback ready.

She looks up at him, the chain hanging forward from her neck, gold swinging slightly in the space between them, and his eyes drop to it like he’s experiencing several personal revelations at once.

“Still think it’s lucky?” she asks.

Garrett exhales through his nose, a smile breaking helplessly at one corner of his mouth as his hand comes up to brush her hair back, careful and warm and already a little wrecked. 

“Baby,” he says, voice low with absolute reverence and zero shame, “I’m about to start fucking worshipping it.”

The fourth time is after a home game, which means the hockey house is operating at a volume level that could probably be reported to local authorities if local authorities hadn't long ago made peace with the fact that Briar hockey players were simply going to make too much noise. 

The living room is packed in that loose, post-win sprawl of bodies and beer and boys shouting over one another from distances that don’t require shouting at all. Someone has put the game highlights on the television and every single person in the room is pretending they're not watching themselves while absolutely watching themselves. 

Logan is arguing with a guy from the second line about whether his assist should have been cleaner, Tucker is sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer in hand and the calm expression of a man who played very well and doesn't need to scream about it, and Dean is stretched in the middle of the room like a Renaissance painting sponsored by bad decisions, loudly explaining to Allie that his defensive effort has layers.

Garrett’s on the couch below her, sitting with his legs spread, one arm hooked along the back cushions, hair still damp from the post-game shower and curling messily. He looks good in the obnoxious, lived-in way he always does after a win. Tired under the eyes, mouth lazy with satisfaction, hoodie pushed up at the forearms, chain glinting at his throat every time he turns his head to answer someone. 

There's a faint bruise starting near one cheekbone and stiffness in the way he holds his shoulders that he’s pretending doesn't exist because men who willingly block shots with their bodies have a complicated relationship with the concept of pain.

She’s standing behind the couch with her arms looped around his shoulders, her cheek resting against the side of his head, close enough that when he laughs she feels it before she hears it. The room smells like beer and aftershave and pizza grease and wet pavement dragged in from outside. 

Her chin is tucked near his temple, and his hand comes up every so often to touch her wrist where it crosses his chest, as if checking she’s still there even though she’s been draped over him for fifteen minutes like an affectionate scarf.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs near his ear.

Garrett tilts his head slightly toward her. “I got checked into the boards by a guy built like a refrigerator.”

“I saw.”

“You also yelled ‘get up’ at me.”

“You did get up.”

He huffs. “Supportive.”

“I’m very motivational.”

He smiles, eyes still on Logan across the room. “Yeah, Coach, you’re a real asset.”

She presses her thumb into the muscle at the top of his shoulder before he can get too smug, and his mouth shuts in the middle of whatever he was about to say. There’s a small drop in his posture, a breath leaving through his nose, his head tipping forward half an inch because the pressure hits somewhere useful.

“Oh,” she says softly, pleased. “There he is.”

“Don’t sound so happy about my suffering.”

“I’m happy about being right.”

He hums quietly. “You usually are.”

She starts working at his shoulders properly, thumbs pressing slow circles into the hard knots there, fingers sliding under the edge of his hoodie collar. Garrett tries to keep participating in the conversation around him, because Garrett Graham could be dying and still find time to chirp a teammate, but she feels him lose focus by degrees. 

His answers get shorter. His hand drops from his beer to rest loosely on his thigh. When she presses into the muscle beside his neck, he makes a low sound under his breath that is almost nothing and somehow still deeply satisfying.

Dean notices, of course. Dean would notice a private moment through drywall.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he says from the floor, voice carrying with surgical precision. “Captain’s getting a little spa treatment.”

Garrett doesn't open his eyes. “You jealous, Di Laurentis?”

“Of a shoulder rub? No. Of your girlfriend looking at you like you just returned from war? Little bit.”

Allie leans around him. “He did get slammed pretty hard.”

Dean points at her. “See? This is why I date women. Compassion.”

Tucker takes a sip of beer. “You date Allie because she tolerates you.”

“That too.”

She ignores them, and keeps working her thumbs into Garrett’s shoulders. The only problem is the chain. It keeps getting in the way, slipping under her fingers every time she moves toward the base of his neck, catching lightly against her knuckle, dragging sideways over his skin. She shifts it once. Twice. The third time, Garrett reaches up without looking, catches her wrist, and then lifts his other hand to the clasp.

“Here,” he says.

She pauses. “What?”

He takes the chain off in one smooth motion, turning his head enough to glance up at her with that soft, amused look that always feels worse when other people are around because it's not performative. It's just his face, open for one second before he remembers to make a joke. “Here, baby. Wear it before you strangle me with it.”

The room hears baby. Naturally. The room reacts with the dignity of wolves spotting an injured deer. Logan’s head snaps over. “Oh, wow.”

Dean sits up so fast Allie has to move her knees. “Did he just give her the chain?”

Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Big night.”

Garrett points vaguely at all of them without turning around. “Everybody shut up.”

No one shuts up. That would go against the entire founding philosophy of the house.

She bends down anyway, smiling despite herself, hair falling forward over one shoulder. Garrett lifts the chain around her neck from where he sits, reaching back and up, his fingers careful as they brush the sides of her throat. It's an awkward angle, and he fumbles once with the clasp.

Dean gasps. “He’s putting jewellery on her. In public. Garrett Graham has fallen.”

“I will throw this beer at you,” Garrett says.

“No, you won’t. Your girl’s wearing your chain and touching your shoulders. You’re domesticated now.”

Logan lifts his cup. “RIP to a slut.”

Garrett finally opens his eyes and looks over. “I’m still alive, asshole.”

“Physically,” Logan says. “Spiritually, you’re picking baby names.”

She laughs into Garrett’s hair before she can stop herself, and his hands settle briefly at her collarbone once the clasp is done, thumbs brushing over the chain where it sits against her skin. 

The touch is quick. Almost hidden. But his eyes stay there for a second too long, and the whole loud room blurs slightly at the edges in that private way it sometimes does around him, even when Dean is three feet away preparing to be the worst person alive.

The chain is warm from Garrett’s skin when it lands against her throat. Something about that should not matter as much as it does.

Garrett’s head tips back until he can look up at her. “Good?”

She nods, fingers touching the chain. “Good.”

“Can I have my massage now, or are we hosting a ceremony?”

“Ceremony,” Dean says immediately. “I have a speech.”

“No one wants that,” Tucker says.

“I do,” Logan contributes, raising a hand.

Garrett groans and drops his head forward again, but she can see the grin at the corner of his mouth, tucked away where the boys cannot fully get to it.

She goes back to his shoulders, the chain now resting against her instead of him, rising and falling gently with her breathing as she works the tension out from under his hoodie.

The boys keep going, because of course they do.

“Whipped,” Dean says.

“Tragically,” Logan adds.

“Clinically,” Tucker says, which makes Allie laugh so hard she almost spills her drink.

Garrett lifts one hand just enough to flip them off without opening his eyes. “Keep talking. I’m cutting all of you from the power play.”

“You can’t cut me from the power play,” Dean says. “I am the power play.”

She leans closer, thumbs pressing into Garrett’s neck, and murmurs, “They’re not wrong, you know.”

His eyes open slightly. “Careful.”

“What?” she says, voice innocent near his ear. “You gave me your chain in front of everyone.”

“You were choking me with it.”

“I was massaging your shoulders.”

“Poorly.”

She pinches him lightly.

He laughs, catching her wrist and bringing her hand down just long enough to kiss the inside of it, quick and warm and entirely too natural for a room full of men actively trying to ruin his reputation. Then he lets her go and sinks back against the couch, shoulders finally loosening under her hands.

Across the room, Logan makes a wounded noise. “Oh my God. He kissed her hand. We lost him.”

Dean presses his beer to his heart. “He was so young.”

Tucker, dry as dust, says, “He died doing what he loved. Pretending he wasn’t in love.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks once, but the smile wins. She feels it more than sees it, the small shift under her cheek when she bends down again and rests against him for a second, her arms around his shoulders, his chain warm at her throat, the whole loud, stupid house moving around them.

“Love is a strong word,” Garrett says, which is exactly the sort of thing Garrett says when everyone is looking and the truth has wandered too close to the middle of the room.

She smiles against his cheek. “Mm.”

His hand comes up and covers her forearm, fingers curling there, thumb sweeping once over her skin in a slow little pass that says more than his mouth is willing to risk with Dean waiting to pounce.

Around them, the boys keep chirping, the television keeps replaying Garrett’s goal from the second period, someone in the kitchen shouts about beer pong, and the chain rests against her collarbone like a tiny, ridiculous victory.

Garrett turns his head just enough that his mouth brushes near her temple, hidden from most of the room by the angle of her body.

“You look good in it,” he says quietly.

Her hands pause on his shoulders for half a second.

Then Dean yells, “I can see you whispering sweet nothings, Graham,” and Garrett closes his eyes like he’s begging a very unhelpful God for patience, and she laughs so hard into his hair that the chain jumps lightly at her throat.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[finelinevogue]

baby, i'm back

summary - you surprise Garrett after studying abroad for a year

pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader

word count - +2.3k

a/n - lowkey love this duo enough to continue with either a summer series for them or a mom&dad type series!! lmk what you think!

For an off campus party, Garrett Graham seemed pretty miserable.

The party was small and contained. Only close friends of the guys had been invited to celebrate the start of summer. No more exams or schoolwork. Just sun, sand and sex. 

Everyone had gathered in the back garden, just outside the house on the decking. Tucker was manning the grill, with Logan supervising. Dean and Allie were attempting to play a game of badminton, but were mostly just arguing. A couple other hockey guys were sitting around chatting, with Grace and Sabrina nearby. And it was Hannah who noticed Garrett sat by himself not taking part in anything.

“You okay?” Hannah asked and sat down on a chair opposite Garrett.

“Yeah.” Garrett gave a fake smile.

“Convincing.” Hannah joked, “What’s up?”

Garrett had become close enough with Hannah to know she wouldn’t take the piss out of him. He was glad that Allie kept bringing her around, because she was one of Garrett’s closest friends now.

Garrett held up his phone briefly, “My, uh, girlfriend hasn’t texted me since yesterday and I’m just a bit worried.” Garrett frowned, looking from Hannah down to his notificationless phone.

“You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah.” Garrett’s smile went wide.

He noted the shocked expression on Hannah’s face.

Garrett rarely told people about you - not because he wanted to keep you a secret, but because he was just terrible at opening up to people about things like that. You were always encouraging him to be braver with his feelings.

“Since when?” Hannah leaned forwards with interest.

“Coming up to three years now.”

“I’m sorry… You’ve had a girlfriend for three years and I’m only just finding out now?”

“Well I didn’t know you three years ago, Wellsy.” Garrett countered.

Hannah let it slide. “Okay, whatever. Tell me everything about her.” 

When someone did finally know of your existence, that was one of Garrett’s favourite things to be asked. He could talk about you for hours, days, forever. He was a healthy amount obsessed with you.

Before Garrett could delve into the 101 reasons why you were his favourite person, Dean had to ruin the moment.

“Jheez, Wellsy, are you a witch? How’d you make G smile?” Dean patted Hannah on the back as he came over with Allie in tow. No doubt their game of badminton had gotten too argumentative to continue safely.

“I was just asking Garrett about…” Hannah cut herself short, realising that she didn’t even know your name.

“Y/N.” Garrett added for her.

Dean clicked his tongue and sighed like a man in love. “Ah, mom and dad.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Hannah laughed, looking between Garrett, Dean and Allie for some explanation. 

Allie sat on the arm of the chair that Hannah was sitting on, wrapping her arm around her best friend's shoulder. Dean sat on the same bench that Garrett was sitting on.

“Mom and dad.” Allie repeated, “Y/N and Garrett got the label because they are genuinely like the mom and dad of this group.”

“They’re always keeping us in check. They do the shopping for the house. Y/N actually cleans this place, God knows why. They’re just so mom and dad.”

“She sounds great.” Hannah smiled.

“She is.” Allie nodded.

“Agreed.” Dean added.

Garrett just sat there, quietly smiling to himself as he listened to some of the most important people in his life gush over the most important person. 

“So how come I’ve never met her?” Hannah asked.

“She’s spent the last year studying abroad.” Garrett said, frowning again when he realised that this whole conversation had started because he couldn’t get in contact with you. 

“That’s so cool. Where abouts?” 

“Uh, London– Sorry, I’m just going to–.”

Garrett got up and headed back inside, continuing to stare at his phone like it was personally wronging him.

Allie got up off the end of Hannah’s chair and moved to sit down next to Dean - who immediately pulled her close to his side. Hannah was so happy for her best friend finally being with someone who actually cared for her.

They smiled without looking at each other.

“What?” Hannah asked, wondering what was going on.

“Can you keep a secret, Wellsy, ‘cause we sure can’t.” 

“Yeah.”

Dean leaned forwards, double checking the back entrance to the house to make sure that Garrett wasn’t loitering close by. Hannah leaned forwards too.

“Y/N’s surprising Garrett. That’s why he hasn’t heard from her, because fuck knows she’d ruin the surprise if she opened her mouth.” 

Hannah’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.

“When? Today?” 

Allie checked her phone.

“Like, literally any minute.”

Hannah tried to control her excited smile as she leant back in her chair. Dean moved back too, raising his eyebrows to Hannah as if to silently say  ‘don’t say a word’. 

Logan and Tucker came over minutes later, saying the grill was all prepped and the food was ready to be cooked whenever everyone was ready. They were also in on the secret surprise, so were holding off on cooking until you arrived. 

Sabrina and Grace, along with a couple of other hockey guys, had also joined the group so everyone was sitting together, when Allie’s phone pinged. 

She opened the notification to see you’d texted to say you were outside. 

Allie widened her eyes at the group, all of them visibly lighting up with excitement. 

“Where’s G?” Logan asked.

“He went inside before.” Dean said.

“I think he was going to try and contact Y/N again.” Hannah added with a sad pout. She felt for the guy - especially when he had no clue that he was about to see you in a couple of minutes.

Allie stood up, telling everyone that she was going to go and get you. Everyone was in agreement that you should go and see Garrett first, so Tucker and Logan returned to the grill to start cooking in the meantime.

Allie wandered through the house, with no sign of Garrett anywhere.

She opened the front door quietly and silently screamed when she saw you.

You looked tired - no doubt from the long plane ride, lack of sleep and jet lag - but you also looked so happy to be back. You had a big Briar U hoodie on that was no doubt Garrett’s and a pair of navy jogging bottoms on.

You had a shit tonne of luggage bags surrounding you, which Allie would make Dean take in later. It was a mystery how you managed all these bags through the airport yourself.

Allie squeezed you in a tight hug, both of you trying to be as silent as possible.

She let you go, knowing you’d be eager to see Garrett.

You both had a silent conversation with hand gestures, which basically translated to you asking where Garrett was and letting Allie know that’s where you’d be going first. Allie rushed you off, not delaying your reunion any longer. 

You tried your best to be quiet up the stairs, the familiarity of the house hitting you all at once. Even the feel of your hand on the wooden bannister felt like coming home.

At the top of the stairs you felt a flurry of butterflies start up in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t tell whether you were nervous or excited to see Garrett. It was the anticipation that was causing the feeling, you decided. 

After texts and face-time calls, every day for the last year, it was hard to believe you were about to see him in real life again. It sounded weird to say, but it was true. The last year had been so great, but it had also been so hard living away from Garrett. 

If that made you clingy, then you’d wear that label with pride. So what?

Garrett’s door was closed over, but not shut entirely. 

You pushed the door open to find Garrett sat on the edge of his bed, crouched over with his phone in his hands. 

You knocked gently so as not to make him jump.

Garrett wiped his eyes, not so subtly, before sitting up to look at you.

His whole body sagged as he saw you standing in his bedroom doorway. He closed his eyes and let his body pull him back to lay back on his bed, legs grounding him to the floor. 

Tears started to fill your eyes as Garrett’s chest visibly moved up and down from crying. His hand went to cover his eyes, probably trying to comprehend whether this was a cruel trick or genuinely real. 

You didn’t wait any longer to move closer to him.

“Hey.” You laughed through your own tears. 

“Fuck.” Garrett sat up, taking you in. You watched the disbelief leave his teary eyes, as he fully understood you were right here with him.

He wasted no more time pulling you the rest of the way towards him - absolutely no distance between you allowed again - until you landed on his lap in an awkward straddle. Your arms wrapped around his neck tightly and his wrapped around your waist. 

Both of you sat there, lightly crying.

Your face buried into Garrett’s neck as you breathed in his familiar scent. That smell alone caused a few tears, because it was so nostalgic and homely to you. Garrett’s head rested just beside yours.

Neither of you said anything for what felt like the longest time, both more than happy to just sit silently in each other’s arms. 

“I thought something bad had happened.” Garrett mumbled.

You reluctantly pulled your head away from his neck, blinking away the remnants of tears as you pulled Garrett’s head up to see him. His eyes were red-rimmed and his dark circles were as dark as yours. 

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t text me for so long. I thought something bad had happened.” His eyes traced over every inch of your face, scanning every freckle to make sure they were all still there. 

“I wanted to surprise you.” 

“You did. If 24 hours of no contact is what it takes to be surprised, then, baby, I don’t want it.” He shook his head.

“Okay. Noted.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek back and forth. He melted into your touch, trying to get as physically close to you as possible.

“Can’t believe you’re here.”

“Can’t believe you haven’t kissed me yet.”

Garrett’s hands left your waist instantly to cup your cheeks and bring your lips directly to his, kissing you exactly how one would kiss their significant other after a year apart. The kiss was bruising, barely enough space to breathe between you. 

Garrett tilted your head with his hands so he could kiss you deeper, your hips involuntarily rocking over his. The small movement was enough for Garrett to break the kiss, though the distance between you barely existed.

Both of your chests were heaving and your breathing heavy. You leaned in closer with dazed eyes focused on his lips, kissing him again. This time was shorter and with more feeling, before you pulled away with a soft laugh.

“What?” Garrett asked, still holding you close.

“I missed you.”

Garrett smiled, “Yeah, baby. Me too.” He kissed you four times in a row, before breaking off from your lips to kiss your cheeks, nose, eyes and anywhere else he could. The sound of your laughter filled his room for the first time in a year as Garrett kept kissing you.

You forced yourself forwards to make Garrett fall backwards on the bed, because you knew it was the only way to stop him from kissing you for now. 

Garrett’s hair flopped around him on the bed, with a little curl falling over his forehead. His hands moved to place over your hips, whilst yours pressed into his bed either side of his head to keep you upright.  

“Can’t believe you’re here.” Garrett said.

“You’ve already said that. Have you developed temporary amnesia, baby?” You teased him.

“My brain hasn’t worked since you walked through the door.” 

Garrett’s hand tucked underneath the hoodie you were wearing, and traced up and down your bare skin. The featherlight touch made you smile and you rewarded him with another quick kiss. 

You moved to sit back up less than gracefully. Luckily Garrett’s arms were there to support you as he mirrored you to sit up as well. 

“How was your flight?” He asked, his eyes focused on you. No doubt he wouldn’t be letting you from his sight for the foreseeable future. He was going to attach himself to you like a limpet whether you liked it or not.

“Shall we go downstairs and see everyone so I don’t have to answer that question fifteen more times?”

Garrett grumbled and his eyebrows furrowed, “No.”

“No?”

“I want you to myself.” He said as his hands tightened their grip on your back. 

“Baby, don’t be mean.”

“I’m not being mean, I'm being selfish. There’s a difference.”

“Not a good difference.” You argued.

“Did the Brits teach you to be polite or something?”

You tried not to laugh at your boyfriend’s childish behaviour, because, honestly, some part of you understood what he was feeling. You got possessive when he left for a hockey game for just a weekend, let alone you having been gone a full year. 

Of course you wanted to just be with him too, but your friends were important to you too. They’d all kept close contact with you, always letting you know how Garrett was really doing and being there for him when he needed people around. You owed a lot to them all. 

“C’mon. You’ll get me all evening.” You compromised.

“You’ve finished over there?” 

“Yes,” You smiled, brushing a curl back off his forehead, “Finished last week.”

“So you’re here to stay?” 

“Baby, I’m back. I’m here for summer, then autumn, winter and spring. Then summer again and autumn…”

“Okay, okay,” Garrett cut you off, “Can we spend summer together?”

“I literally brought all my shit here with me, because I intend on moving in. You’re stuck with me.”

“I’m definitely okay with that.”

[broodingboysimp]

High Maintenance - pt. 2

Garrett Graham x Female!Reader

Warnings: anxiety, academic stress, disordered eating patterns, medical emergency

Summary: After the events at the party, you're still trying to outrun the thing you can't outrun. Garrett is being so careful with you it's making everything worse. Then your body decides it's done waiting for you to ask for help.

Part 1

Author's Note: The response to the first part was soooo fun!! I'm glad everyone enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!! Here is more Dean as bestie and Garrett as husband <3. This should also serve as your reminder to take care of yourself and have a snack goddammit! Also sorry if you wanted something happy from this chapter, that is not my brand. I literally only know how to write angst sooooo.....

Four days and one brutal hangover later, you were fine.

You were completely, totally, absolutely fine.

You were fine in the way that meant you'd gotten very good at performing fine, which was a skill you'd apparently had your whole life and had only recently begun to notice the cost of.

You were fine when Garrett texted you good morning with a photo of the dining hall's sad Tuesday breakfast spread. You were fine when Hannah checked in and you told her you were doing better. You were fine sitting in your 8 AM lecture not eating anything because you'd woken up twenty minutes late and told yourself you'd grab something after, and then after came and went, and now it was 11 and you were on your third coffee and the granola bar at the bottom of your bag had been there since Thursday.

The grade calculator was still open in a tab you kept minimizing and reopening. You knew the numbers by heart at this point, which maybe meant you should stop running them, but you kept running them anyway.

The bad exams - the ones you'd told yourself were just a rough patch, just a bad week, just temporary - hadn't been temporary. They'd compounded. Missed readings had turned into missed concepts had turned into two midterms where you'd sat in the exam room and felt the material slide sideways out of your grasp. The grades had come back and they were bad, and then the next ones had come back and they were worse.

You weren't on academic probation. Not yet. If your GPA slipped any lower - if you didn't ace everything left - then you would be.

You didn't let yourself think about it in full. You just ran the numbers. Over and over. You minimized the tab and reopened it and ran the numbers again.

You were, currently, on your third coffee and had eaten half a granola bar since yesterday afternoon.

Fine, you thought, clicking to a new tab. Absolutely fine.

---

You'd been in the library for four hours when Garrett found you.

You hadn't told him you were here. You'd silenced your phone at noon and tucked it face-down under your notebook, which you told yourself was for focus. The other part was that every time he texted you something sweet and normal, some small affectionate thing that cost him nothing, you felt the guilt accumulate in your chest.

He was being so careful. You could feel him being careful, the slightly-more-frequent check-ins, the way he phrased things as just wanted to say hi instead of how are you, giving you room without making it a production.

It was making you want to disappear.

So you were in the library, third floor, the section nobody used because it was all periodicals from 2003. Your notes were spread across most of the table. The grade calculator was open again. You'd been staring at it for twenty minutes without actually doing anything.

You didn't hear him until he was right there.

He didn't say anything. He just slid a paper bag onto the corner of the table - Malone's, your usual order - and sat down in the chair beside you like he'd been planning to be there all along.

You stared at the bag. Then at him.

He was already looking at his phone, one leg stretched out, the other pressed against yours under the table.

"How did you know I was here?"

"You have a library card tap on your student account." He didn't look up. "Hannah mentioned you'd gone out this morning."

"You're not supposed to be able to see that."

"I'm not." A pause. "Eat your wrap."

You looked at the bag. Your stomach did something complicated — hunger, shame, guilt — and you pulled it toward you without saying anything else.

The wrap was warm. You ate half of it before you remembered you'd been starving, and then ate the rest faster, and when you looked up Garrett still hadn't looked away from his phone.

He had, you noticed, the smallest smile.

You looked back at your notes. Minimized the grade calculator. Reopened it. Closed it for real this time.

For a while there was nothing but the quiet of the third floor and the scratch of your pen and the occasional scroll-sound from his phone, his leg steady and warm against yours.

It was the nicest thing anyone had done for you in weeks and it was also, quietly, eating you up inside.

You pulled your notes closer and tried to focus.

At some point - twenty minutes later, maybe thirty - you felt him shift, and then his chin was briefly at your shoulder as he looked at the page.

"Is that even English?"

You laughed.

It came out before you could stop it, and you put your hand over your mouth like you could take it back, and when you looked at him he was already looking back at his phone. The small smile still there.

"It's organic chemistry," you said.

"That's not what I asked."

"Garrett."

"I'm just saying. That looks like a cry for help written in highlighter."

"There's a color system."

He looked at the page again, at the four different colors of highlighting, at the margin notes that had started running up the sides because you'd run out of room. "Babe." He said it gently. "There are six colors."

"The orange is a subsystem."

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

"Okay," he said, in the voice of someone who had decided to love you exactly as you were, chaos color-coding and all, and went back to his phone.

He stayed for two hours. He didn't ask you what was wrong. He didn't ask why your phone was face-down or why you'd been in the library since noon or what the numbers on the top of the page meant - the ones you'd circled in red, the grades, the running average that kept coming out the same no matter how many times you recalculated it. He just stayed, leg resting against yours.

You thought about the grade calculator. About four weeks and what it would mean if you couldn't fix it all.

You pressed your knee harder against his, and he pressed back without looking up, and you didn't say any of it. You just worked. And he stayed.

When you finally packed up your notes - eyes burning from the hours of reading - he walked you back to your dorm with his hand warm around yours, and at your door he kissed you once, soft and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

"Get some sleep," he said, against your hair.

"I'm fine," you said, automatically.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. The look that said I know and I'm not going to push.

"Sleep," he said again, soft. And let you go.

You leaned against your closed door for a long time after.

---

Three days later, on a Thursday, you went to the hockey house to pick up Garrett and ended up waiting in the living room because he'd texted five more minutes roughly twenty minutes ago.

You sat on the couch with your laptop and your notes and your color-coded highlighters and tried to get something done.

"You're in my spot."

You didn't look up. "Your name isn't on it."

"My name is absolutely on it." Dean dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, feet swinging up onto the coffee table, with the energy of someone who had never once felt like an inconvenience in his life. You envied him sometimes. "Move over."

"There are three other cushions."

"I have a system."

You looked up. He pointed at the far left cushion with great seriousness. You sighed and shifted six inches. He immediately sprawled into the space like he'd claimed a country.

"Thank you," he said. "This is much better."

"You're a menace."

"I prefer force of nature." He looked at your screen. Made a face. "Is that the organic chemistry thing?"

"How do you know about my organic chemistry thing?"

"Garrett mentioned you've been doing something he described as 'color-coded suffering.'" He tilted his head at the screen. "He's not wrong."

You closed the laptop slightly. "He talked to you about my studying."

"He talks to me about everything. It's one of the great burdens of being his best friend. I know more about your coffee order than I know about my own family members." He said this completely without self-pity, in the flat tone of someone reciting facts. "You get oat milk even though you claim not to care about dairy. He thinks it's because you actually care about dairy but don't want to seem high maintenance at coffee shops."

You stared at him.

"He's not wrong, is he," Dean said.

"That's-" You stopped. "That's extremely specific."

"He pays attention to everything. It's genuinely concerning." Dean picked up the TV remote, looked at it, set it back down. "He skated into the boards yesterday, by the way. At practice."

"What? Is he okay?"

"Completely fine, thanks for asking, it was hilarious." Dean's expression was deeply satisfied. "You'd texted him. I watched it happen in real time. One second he's running a drill, next second he's checking his phone like a golden retriever who heard a treat bag, then-" He made a sound effect. "Boards. Full speed." A pause. "Coach made him skate laps."

"Oh my god."

"I have zero sympathy. For either of you." He pointed at you. "You made my best friend skate into a wall."

"I texted him about my chemistry notes-"

"And he skated into a wall. That's on you." He seemed genuinely pleased about this. Then, in a tone that was casual enough to be deliberate: "You eaten today?"

The shift was fast enough that you almost missed it. Almost.

"Yeah," you said. A beat too late.

Dean looked at you. Not for long. Just a second, just long enough for you to see it - and then he looked back at the TV like he'd never asked.

"Cool," he said.

"Dean-"

"There's leftover pasta in the fridge. Tucker made too much, as he always does, because he cooks like he's feeding a village." He picked up the remote again. "Just saying."

You looked at him. He was scrolling through channels with complete disinterest.

"You're not going to make it weird?" you said.

"I said there's pasta. I'm not giving you a TED talk." He landed on some sports recap show. "I do that once per crisis and I used mine at the party." He glanced at you sideways. "You're welcome, by the way."

"I thanked you."

"Not enough." But there was no real edge to it. Just Dean, comfortable in his own skin, watching sports highlights. "Garrett's probably another fifteen minutes."

You opened your laptop again.

You went and got the pasta five minutes later. You didn't say anything about it. Neither did he.

When you came back and sat down, he moved over exactly six inches without being asked, making just enough room. You ate. He watched his show.

It was the second nicest thing anyone had done for you all week.

---

The invitation came at 7 PM the next day, after a four-hour study session that had started to feel less like studying and more like sitting in front of words until they stopped meaning anything.

Garrett's name on your screen.

You picked up on the second ring.

"Malone's," he said, by way of greeting. "Everyone's going. Come."

You looked at your notes. At the grade calculator still open in a tab, the numbers you'd been rearranging all afternoon. If you aced the next two exams and the final paper came back strong, the math was possible. Barely.

"I don't know," you started.

"Y/N." His voice was warm and easy, no pressure in it. "You've been studying since noon. Come out for a couple hours. We don't have to stay late."

You thought about the grade calculator. About the math that only worked if everything went right.

You thought about how much you wanted, desperately, to just be normal for one night.

"Okay," you said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Give me twenty minutes."

He made a sound that was embarrassingly close to delighted, and you smiled into the phone before you could stop yourself. "See you soon," he said, like that was the best thing he'd heard all day.

You meant to eat something before you left.

You forgot.

---

Malone's was exactly the kind of loud that used to feel like relief.

The team was already at two pushed-together tables in the back, the particular chaos of hockey players who'd had a decent practice and were feeling it. Garrett found you at the door before you'd even gotten your coat off, hand finding the small of your back, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Hey," he said, into your hair.

"Hey," you said back.

He kept his arm around you as you made your way to the tables, and for a little while it worked - the normalcy you'd been chasing. Someone made a joke. You laughed at it. Hannah and Allie were there. Hannah caught your eye across the table and smiled and you smiled back, real, actual.

Garrett was pulled into a conversation about the upcoming game on your left, animated and certain the way he was when he talked about hockey, and you felt yourself lean into his shoulder a little even as he gestured.

You were going to order something to eat.

There was a menu in your hands and everything on it looked fine and you just needed a minute to look at it properly because the words were doing something slightly blurry and you'd been staring at text for six hours and it would all be clearer in a minute.

Someone asked you something across the table. You answered. You laughed when the response was funny. You were very good at this, the performing fine.

Tucker said something about the power play. Garrett leaned forward, and you set the menu down meaning to pick it up again in a second, and then the second passed and someone else said something and then Garrett's hand found your knee under the table, warm and absentminded, just there, and you thought -

After this drink, I'll order something.

After this.

An hour passed. Then close to two.

The accidently not-eating had stopped feeling like hunger around the ninety-minute mark and started feeling like something else. The edges of things felt slightly further away than they should have been, sounds arriving a half-second late, the overhead lights doing something they hadn't been doing when you'd walked in.

You told yourself it was the noise. You told yourself you just needed air.

You were fine.

In a minute, you thought. I'll get some air and then I'll be fine.

You touched Garrett's arm. "Bathroom," you said when he looked at you. "I'll be right back."

He nodded. His eyes moved over your face for a second and you did your best to keep your expression neutral, and he let you go.

You made it past the bar. Past the first set of tables.

The floor felt strange. The kind of strange that meant it was still there but you weren't entirely certain of it, your body suddenly very loud about several things it had been trying to say for a while. Your vision went static at the edges.

Oh, you thought, with a kind of exhausted clarity. Oh, that's not good.

You reached for the wall.

You didn't find it.

Dean caught you.

He'd been at the bar getting a refill. His hands caught your arms before you hit the ground and the next thing you were aware of was the floor, but not hitting it - sitting against it, the wall at your back, Dean crouched in front of you with an expression you'd never seen on him before.

"Hey." His voice was even. "I've got you. Look at me."

You looked at him. The static was still at the edges. "I'm-"

"Don't say fine." He had one hand at your shoulder, steady. His eyes were moving over you, assessing. "Someone get Garrett," he said, without raising his voice, to whoever was behind him. "Now, please."

Please. You'd never heard Dean say please like that.

"I just need a second," you tried.

"You just went down." His hand moved to your wrist, two fingers, checking your pulse like he'd done it before. "When did you last eat?"

The honest answer was the pasta Dean had made you eat at the hockey house, which had been lunch, which had been -

Yesterday.

His expression didn't change but his jaw did. "Okay," he said, and turned his head. "Tucker. Water. Bar, go."

Then there were footsteps, fast and heavy, and Garrett was there.

You watched it happen on his face. Couldn't look away from it even though you wanted to. The second he saw you on the floor, the split second before he got himself under control - something moved through him. The specific fear of someone who'd been halfway worried for weeks and had just found out he was right to be.

He crossed the distance in three steps and dropped to the floor beside you.

"Hey." His hands found your face. "Hey, look at me. Y/N."

"I'm okay," you said. Your voice came out unsteady.

"I know." He said it like it didn't matter whether it was true. His thumbs moved over your cheekbones. "I've got you."

Dean pressed a water bottle into Garrett's hand without being asked. The two of them moved around each other with an ease that meant they'd been friends a long time, no words needed. Garrett opened the bottle for you. You drank.

"She hasn't eaten since yesterday," Dean said, behind Garrett, in a tone that was quiet and not accusatory and somehow that made it worse.

You felt Garrett go very still.

"I meant to," you said, to neither of them.

"I know," Garrett said again. Still not angry. "Can you stand if I help you?"

You nodded.

He got you up like you weighed nothing, arm solid around your waist, and he didn't let go after you were standing. He just recalibrated, hand flat at the small of your back, body angled toward you.

"We're going to sit somewhere quiet," he said. "Okay?"

You nodded.

He looked back at Dean over his shoulder. Something passed between them - a look, brief and complete.

Dean nodded. "I'll handle it," he said, already turning back to the tables, already sliding back into the noise like he'd never left it. Covering. That easily.

Garrett found a booth in the back, half-hidden, away from the noise. He sat you down and then went and got food - actual food, something from the bar menu, not glamorous - and he put it in front of you without ceremony and sat across from you and waited.

"Eat first," he said. "Then we talk."

You looked at the plate. Your throat was tight.

"Garrett..."

"Please." It came out rough at the edges. "Just eat something. Please."

You ate.

He watched you the way he'd been watching you for weeks, that careful attention he thought he was hiding. He wasn't hiding it.

When the plate was half-empty and the static had fully cleared from your vision and you felt more like yourself than you had in hours, you looked up and found him looking back.

"I'm okay," you said.

"I know." He exhaled. "I need you to tell me what's going on."

Your hands were in your lap. You looked at them.

"Y/N."

"My GPA," you said, to your hands. "It's been... those exams at the start of the semester, the ones I told you were just rough patches? They weren't just rough patches. And then I was sick, and the readings kept piling up, and I thought I could catch up but I just kept falling further behind..." Your voice did something you hadn't authorized. You pressed your lips together.

Silence.

"How much do you need on your remaining work?" Garrett said carefully.

"Everything has to go right." You laughed, and it came out broken. "It's not impossible. Technically. If I ace everything left. But I'm so far behind, and every time I think I'm catching up there's something else, and I just-" The words came faster. "I didn't tell you because you have scouts and finals and I-"

You stopped. Started again. "I didn't want to be one more thing you had to manage..."

Garrett went very still.

"That's what she said," you said, before he could. "At the party. Kendall."

He closed his eyes for exactly one second.

"Of course it was." He said it quietly, not quite to you. Then he looked at you, and his expression had shifted into something more deliberate. "She said that to you."

"I wasn't supposed to hear it."

"That doesn't-" He stopped. Exhaled through his nose. "She wanted something she didn't get. With me, before you. And I handled that badly, and apparently she's still-" His jaw tightened. "That's not about you. That was never about you. That was about me, and she aimed it at you."

"Garrett-"

"I'm not done being annoyed about that." He said it flatly. "I'll be done in a second."

A beat. He looked at the table. Came back.

"Okay." He reached across and took both your hands. "I'm done. Keep going."

"...that's it? That's your processing time?"

"I'm a fast processor." His eyes were still a little flat. "Keep going."

"I just-" You exhaled. "I've been so behind, and every time you showed up I felt worse about it. Like you were going out of your way for someone who couldn't even keep it together enough to-" You stopped. Tried again. "You just showed up with food I didn't ask for and sat down like it was nothing. Like it cost you nothing. And I kept thinking, he's going to get tired of this. Of me being like this. And then you just kept showing up anyway."

"I've been showing up at the library," he said, "texting you constantly, bringing you food you didn't ask for - and you thought that was me managing you?"

"Yes," you said, quietly.

"I've been showing up at the library," he said, "texting you constantly, bringing you food you didn't ask for — and you thought that was me managing you."

It wasn't a question. His voice was even.

"Yes," you said, quietly.

"It wasn't." Simple. Flat. Like he was correcting a fact. "I was doing it because I like you." He said it like it was the most straightforward thing in the world. "I really, genuinely, a completely ridiculous amount - like you. Have you not noticed that? I've been making it extremely obvious."

"Garrett..."

"I skated into the boards at practice because you texted me about chemistry notes." He held up a hand. "I got laps for that. Actual laps. And I would do it again." He looked at you, completely serious. "That's where we are. That's how much I like you. I'm not showing up at the library because I feel obligated, I'm showing up at the library because you're there and I'd rather be wherever you are, even if wherever you are is a depressing corner full of fifteen-year-old magazines." His thumb moved over your knuckles. "I don't show up for things I don't want to show up for. You know that about me."

Your eyes were burning again.

"You got laps," you said, because it was the only thing you could manage.

"I got laps," he confirmed. "Completely worth it."

You looked at him for a second, this person who tracked your library card and brought you food and skated into walls over chemistry notes, and something in your chest did something complicated and enormous that you didn't have a word for yet.

"I don't know what to do with you," you said, very quietly.

"You don't have to do anything with me." He said it simply. "That's kind of the point."

You looked down at your hands in his.

"You scared me tonight," he said after a moment. "That's going to take me a minute to get over."

"I know. I'm sorry - I didn't mean to, I just got so caught up in everything. The studying, trying to catch up, and I just..." You shook your head. "I forgot."

He looked at you for a long second.

"Lucky for you that's not really a problem," he said.

"Garrett-"

"I like taking care of you." Simple. Like it was obvious. "So just let me. Okay?"

You looked at him. Thought about arguing. Decided you were too tired.

"Okay," you said quietly.

"Good." He tilted his head slightly. "Also, for the record - you are supposed to be the brains of this operation. It would be genuinely embarrassing for both of us if you ended up with a worse GPA than a hockey player."

You stared at him. "Are you serious right now."

"I'm just saying. I have a 3.1. The bar is right there."

"You have a 3.1?"

"Don't sound so surprised, that's rude."

"I'm not - I'm just-" You pressed your lips together. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet." He was watching you with that look, the one he thought he was hiding. He wasn't hiding it. "There it is."

"There what is."

"That." He nodded at your face. "You almost smiled."

"I did not."

"You did a little."

"Garrett."

"I'll take it." He squeezed your hands once. "You want to do something useful, talk to your advisor Monday. Figure out what your options are."

"I will."

"Good." A beat. "You're not high maintenance. You're just bad at asking for help. Those aren't the same thing." He squeezed your hands once.

Your eyes burned.

"I've got you," he said. Matter-of-fact.

You stayed like that for a while. The noise of Malone's carried on around you, oblivious. In your corner booth it was just this. Your hands finally, finally still.

Dean appeared at the edge of the booth twenty minutes later, hands in his pockets, expression carefully calibrated to neutral.

He looked at you and did a quick inventory the way he always did, fast and thorough.

"You look terrible," he announced.

"Thank you, Dean."

"Much better than twenty minutes ago, though." He leaned against the side of the booth. Looked at Garrett. Something passed between them. "Tucker's telling the thing about the chirp from the Eastwood game. Everyone's distracted. Nobody made it weird."

"Thank you," Garrett said.

Dean waved this off like it was nothing. Because for Dean, it was. He'd covered, he'd handled it.

He looked at you for a second. Then, with the gravity of someone making a formal announcement:

"For the record, I did not catch you because I like you."

You blinked. "...okay."

"It was reflex. Athletic instinct. I would have done it for anyone." He held up a finger. "The point is it wasn't personal."

"Noted."

"Also-" He pointed at the empty plate. "Eat like that every day or I'm going to have to start caring about you, and I have a very full schedule." He pushed off the booth, already turning. "I'm at capacity. Emotionally. No room."

"Dean-"

"Goodnight, Y/N." He walked away with a sly smile and a wink.

Your throat went tight again.

"He loves you," Garrett said. "He just can't say it like a normal person."

"Neither can you, half the time."

He made an offended sound. "I said it literally last week."

"You said, and I quote, 'you're very tolerable for someone who doesn't understand or appreciate the music of Warrant.'"

"That's a compliment."

"That is not a compliment, Garrett."

He laughed and squeezed your hands again.

"I love you," he said. "Like, a completely embarrassing amount. Dean can confirm, he thinks it's a problem."

Your eyes burned again. Different reason.

"I love you too," you said, quiet.

"I know." He held you tighter. "Now let me take you home."

He stayed.

He helped you change into something comfortable and found your water bottle and filled it and put it on your nightstand, and when you got into bed he sat on top of the covers beside you with his back against the headboard, his hand in your hair.

"I'm going to email my advisor tomorrow," you said, to the ceiling.

"Good."

"I don't know what she's going to say."

"That's what tomorrow's for."

"I'm nervous."

"Yeah." His hand stilled briefly, then kept moving. "I know. That's allowed."

You looked up at him.

"You're going to stop disappearing on me," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I'm going to try."

"Close enough." He brushed the hair from your face. "Sleep."

"Bossy."

"Always." He looked at you, soft. "I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?"

You looked back at him.

"I know," you said.

And this time, you meant it.

[broodingboysimp]

High Maintenance

Garrett Graham x Female!Reader

Warnings: alcohol use, drinking to cope, anxiety, angst

Summary: You've been falling apart quietly for three weeks and you're very good at making sure nobody notices, especially your boyfriend Garrett. You're less good at it after four drinks and one overheard conversation you were never supposed to hear.

Part 2

Author's Note: Thx for all the love on my first Garrett fic! I'm doing an OC rewatch rn and just felt like I needed to get this one off my chest. I <3 bestie Dean fr.

Eight months in and you still hadn't figured out what to do with being someone's favorite thing.

Garrett wasn't subtle about it. That was the thing, he had absolutely no interest in being subtle about it. He'd find you across a dining hall full of people and his whole face would do something embarrassing. He'd mention you to his teammates with the casual frequency of someone who didn't realize he was doing it, which, according to Dean, he wasn't. He'd show up at your dorm with soup when you were sick, uninvited, unashamed, completely certain he was welcome. He was always welcome. That was the other thing.

Eight months. Long enough that his hoodie had more or less permanently become part of your wardrobe. Long enough that you knew exactly which toothpaste brand he preferred, and that he took his coffee wrong, and that he looked up at the stands exactly once per game - same moment every time, right after warm-ups - just to find you.

You were, by every reasonable metric, fine. Good, even. Happy.

You were also, quietly and without telling anyone, coming apart at the seams.

It hadn't started with anything dramatic. That was the part that made it hard to explain. There was no single thing to point to, no moment where it all went wrong. Just a bad exam grade, then another. Readings piling up in two classes, then three. A cold that moved into your chest three weeks ago and apparently liked it there, the kind of tired that sleep didn't touch.

You'd cancelled plans with Garrett twice. Both times he'd said it's okay, babe, seriously, without missing a beat, and both times something in you had gone slightly sideways, because of course he had. Of course he was fine about it. He was always fine about it, which somehow made it worse, because it meant he was noticing, and adjusting around you, and that meant you were someone who needed adjusting around.

He'd started checking in more. Texts a little more often. Soup you hadn't asked for, dropped off with a knock and a smile like it was nothing.

It was nothing. That was the problem. To him it was nothing, and to you it was accumulating into something you didn't have a word for yet.

Too much, something in the back of your head had started saying. Quietly at first. Then less quietly. You're too much right now.

You were good at ignoring things. You'd been ignoring this for three weeks. You were, it turned out, not as good at it as you'd thought.

The party was Garrett's idea. Well, it was everyone's idea. Briar had won the game 4-1, and the hockey house was the kind of loud that rattled inside your skull pleasantly, all bass and laughter and the clatter of the boys being celebratory and stupid. The living room smelled like beer and Axe and the particular chaos of hockey players who were very pleased with themselves.

You'd smiled through most of it. You were good at that, too.

Garrett had kept you close the whole first hour, arm slung around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your temple every time someone stopped to talk to him, like punctuation. Hannah had found you at some point and the two of you had ended up in the kitchen with drinks you weren't really finishing, talking about nothing, which was nice.

But Garrett had gotten pulled away - something about Dean needing him, something about the highlight reel someone had pulled up on the TV - and you'd drifted. Which was fine. You were fine.

You'd ended up on the back porch without fully meaning to.

The night air was cold as you leaned against the railing, tipped your head back, and breathed.

You're okay. You're fine. You're at a party celebrating your boyfriend's win and everything is fine.

You heard them before you saw them. Two girls tucked into the corner of the porch, half-hidden by the shadows. You hadn't noticed them when you came out.

You recognized one of them.

Kendall. You'd heard the name in the careful, neutral way girls mentioned names when they meant something. She and Garrett had hooked up before. Before you. It wasn't a big deal. You knew it wasn't a big deal.

You turned slightly away, meaning to go back inside, meaning to just not be here for whatever this was.

But her voice carried.

"-no, I just mean, look at her. She's been off all night."

A murmur from the other girl. You went very still.

"I'm not being mean, I'm just - Garrett has a lot going on. He's got scouts looking at him, he's got finals coming up, and now he's got-" a pause, something that wasn't quite a laugh, "-one more thing to manage."

One more thing to manage.

The words landed somewhere below your sternum and just sat there.

"She seems kind of high maintenance," Kendall continued, quieter now. "I heard she's been sick, like, for weeks, and he's been running over there constantly. He doesn't have time for that. He doesn't have time for someone like- I mean, it's Garrett Graham. He could have-"

You stopped hearing the rest.

Not because they stopped talking, you just stopped being able to take anything in. The world narrowed down to the railing under your hands and the cold air in your lungs and the feeling of something fracturing very quietly behind your eyes.

One more thing to manage.

High maintenance.

He doesn't have time for someone like-

You turned around and went inside.

You went for the kitchen.

There was a handle of something on the counter - vodka, cheap, the kind that came in a plastic bottle - and you poured it into whatever cup was closest without really looking at what was already in it. You drank it faster than you should have. Poured another.

This was not something you did. You were not, by nature, a drink-until-it-goes-away person. You'd watched enough people use that particular coping mechanism to know better. You knew better.

You poured a third.

The thing was, and you understood this even as you were doing it, which somehow made it worse, that the words were just sitting there. One more thing to manage. Right in the center of your chest, perfectly placed, like Kendall had known exactly where to aim. And you needed them to move. You needed them to blur, or soften, or stop feeling so much like the thing you'd already been thinking at three in the morning for the past three weeks.

So you drank.

Hannah found you twenty minutes later, laughing too loudly at something a guy from the lacrosse team had said. She gave you a look, the kind that meant how many is that, and you smiled wide enough that she let it go. Or seemed to. You slipped away before she could ask a follow-up question.

The party had taken on that particular underwater quality that meant the alcohol was working. The edges of everything softened. The bass felt further away. You moved through the living room with the careful precision of someone who knew they were drunk and was trying very hard not to show it, which probably meant you were showing it completely.

Garrett was somewhere in this room. You could feel it the way you always could, that low awareness, like a compass needle swinging north. Normally you'd find him without thinking.

Tonight you turned the other direction.

You grabbed someone's abandoned drink off the end table. You didn't know whose, you didn't care, which was so unlike you that some distant sober part of your brain flinched, and made your way to the other side of the room. Someone pulled you into a conversation about something. You nodded. You laughed when they laughed. You were very good at performing fine, even now, even like this.

But Garrett kept appearing at the edges of things. You'd see his shoulder, the back of his head, catch a flash of his smile across the room, and something in your chest would do that terrible thing it always did.

So you kept moving.

You ended up in the hallway. Then near the stairs. Then, without fully deciding to, on the stairs themselves, sitting halfway up with your cup.

You sat for a while.

The alcohol had moved past the useful stage and into something messier, the kind of drunk where everything felt slightly too large and slightly too true at the same time. Your eyes were doing something embarrassing. You pressed the back of your wrist to them, hard.

You're fine. You're not going to do this here.

You stood up. Gripped the railing. Made it to the top of the stairs on the second try.

The upstairs hallway was dark enough that it felt like breathing room. You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes for a second, just long enough to get your legs back under you. Your dorm key was in your jacket pocket. Your jacket was downstairs. You needed to find it and leave before Garrett realized you'd been avoiding him for an hour, because if he looked at you right now with that face - the one he made when he was worried - you were going to fall apart in the middle of his own party, and you would not do that to him, you refused to do that to him tonight...

You pushed off the wall.

Misjudged the distance to the opposite side of the hallway by about four inches.

The door swung open before you could knock properly, or maybe you knocked wrong, and suddenly there was light and Dean Di Laurentis was right there, some girl half visible behind him, and all three of you stared at each other.

"Bathroom," you said, except it came out slightly sideways.

Dean blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the cup in your hand, mostly empty. Looked back at your face.

Something shifted in his expression, fast and uncharacteristically serious.

"Babe." Not to you. He was already half-turning to the girl, his voice dropped low. "I need a minute."

"You're kidding-"

"I'm really not." A beat. Something in his tone that left no room for argument. "Please."

The girl left in the precise way people left when they were furious and had decided to be graceful about it anyway. You watched her go down the hallway and felt vaguely guilty about it.

Dean stepped back from the doorway. "Get in here."

"I don't need-"

"You just walked into my door."

"I knocked."

"With your face, a little bit." He looked at you levelly. "Get in here."

You got in there.

He closed the door. The noise from downstairs dropped to a murmur.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"That's a weird opener."

"It's a normal question for someone who just almost fell through my door." He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, "How much."

You thought about lying. Decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Enough."

"Enough," he repeated, in the tone of someone doing math. His eyes moved over you, assessing. Quick and thorough the way athletes were sometimes, used to reading situations fast. "You don't drink like this."

"People drink at parties."

"Not you. Not like-" he gestured vaguely at the cup still in your hand, "-whatever this is." A pause. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I'm fine."

"Okay."

You stared at him. He stared back. He did not appear to be in any rush whatsoever.

You hated that. You hated the waiting.

"I overheard something," you said, and the words came out a little slurred at the edges. "On the porch. Kendall - you know who that is?"

Something crossed his face. "Yeah. I know who that is."

"She was talking about me." The cup in your hand felt very heavy suddenly. You set it down on the nearest surface. "She said I was one more thing Garrett had to manage." The words tasted exactly as bad coming out as they had going in. Worse, maybe, because you were saying them out loud now, making them real. "That I was high maintenance. That he didn't have time for someone like me."

Dean was quiet for exactly two seconds.

"She said that."

"She's not wrong, that's the thing." You laughed, and it came out wrong, too bright and too brittle. "I've been sick for like three weeks, and stressed, and he keeps showing up for it, and I keep letting him, and he has scouts and he has finals and I just-" You stopped. The room was doing something slightly unsteady. You pressed your fingertips to the dresser behind you. "I just didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to stand there in the middle of his party and feel like that, so I-" You gestured at nothing. At the cup. At yourself.

"So you drank a stranger's leftovers."

"I don't know whose cup it was."

"Yeah, that's the part I'm stuck on." Dean pushed off the wall and grabbed the desk chair, set it down in front of you, and sat in it backwards, arms folded over the top, looking up at you with an expression that was not quite his usual one. "Sit down before you fall down."

"I'm not going to fall-"

"You're leaning."

You looked down. You were, in fact, leaning slightly. You sat on the edge of his bed.

Dean watched you with the particular patience of someone who had decided they weren't going anywhere.

"She's not-" You exhaled, stared at your hands. "She's not some villain. She just said the thing I've already been thinking. And I couldn't-" Your throat tightened. "I couldn't stand there and keep smiling, so I thought if I just-"

"Drank enough that it blurred out?"

"I wasn't going to phrase it like that."

"But yeah?"

A beat.

"Yeah," you said, very quietly.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. Looked at the ceiling. Then back at you, and something in his face shifted into something more serious, more deliberate, the version of him he mostly kept underneath all the noise he usually made.

"Can I tell you something without you getting weird about it?"

You made a helpless gesture.

"Garrett talked about you at practice last week," he said. "Full cringe, by the way, I'm doing you a public service by telling you this. Tucker asked how you were doing - just like, making conversation - and Garrett stopped mid-drill to answer. Like, stopped skating. Coach blew the whistle. Garrett didn't even flinch, just full-on answeredTucker like they were at brunch." He paused. "It was genuinely awful. The guys made fun of him for four days."

You stared at him.

"He said - and I am going to say this exactly once and then never again - that being with you was the first time in his life that coming home from a game felt better than the game itself." Dean's expression was the one people made when they'd eaten something sour. "Verbatim. He said that. To the whole team. In the locker room. While wearing his pads."

Your eyes were burning again, for a completely different reason.

"He talks about you like-" Dean exhaled through his nose. "Look, I've lived with that guy for three years. I have never, not once, seen him like this. And I mean the whole team. We all, okay, this is going to sound really weird-"

"Just say it."

"We all kind of think of you as ours too. Like, you're around all the time, and you're funny, and you ate nachos with us during the game and didn't complain about the TV volume once-" A pause. "That matters more than you think."

A noise came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite.

"Kendall doesn't know what she's talking about," Dean said, and his voice had gone flat again. "She's not a bad person, she's just... she wanted something she didn't get, and that makes people say stupid things. It doesn't make the stupid things true."

Your eyes burned. You pressed the heel of your hand against one of them, hard, like you could physically hold it back, and for a second you almost managed it. Then your breath hitched and you didn't.

You hated it. You hated this, you hated that you were sitting in Dean Di Laurentis' room at your boyfriend's party with someone else's alcohol in your bloodstream, falling apart. This was not you. This was so profoundly, embarrassingly not you - and yet here you were, doing it anyway.

"I hate this," you said, rough.

"The crying or the drinking?"

"Both." You dragged your wrist across your face. "I don't do this. Either of this. I keep it together, and I've been keeping it together for weeks, and then one person says one thing and I'm-" You gestured at yourself. At the whole situation. The cup on his dresser. Your face. "This."

"You can't hold it together forever and then wonder why it comes out somewhere inconvenient." Dean's voice was even. "That's not strength. That's just pressure building."

You looked at him.

"Real talk," he said. "You've been running on empty, you've been pretending you're fine, and tonight cracked it open. And instead of letting yourself feel it, you drank half a mystery cup and were about to walk home alone in the cold." He raised an eyebrow. "Which we are going to circle back to."

"I wasn't going to walk home."

"You were absolutely going to walk home."

You didn't answer.

"Also," he said, and the sarcasm slid back in like he genuinely couldn't help it, "if you tell anyone I said any of this, I will deny it completely. I have a reputation and I'd like to keep it."

A sound came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite. But almost.

"Drink some water," he said, standing, already moving to the mini fridge in the corner. He tossed you a bottle without looking. "And hey-"

You looked up.

"He's been looking for you for twenty minutes. Downstairs, increasingly frantic. You should talk to him."

You found Garrett's room because it was the only one with the light on.

The door was cracked. You pushed it open and stood in the doorway for a second, holding onto the frame slightly. The water Dean had given you was helping. A little. The edges of things were still slightly wrong.

You made it to the bed. Sat down. Put your face in your hands.

You heard him on the stairs before the door opened - that particular weight and rhythm, two at a time the way he always took them. And then Garrett was there, filling the doorway, and he stopped.

Just for a second.

Long enough for you to see it, the relief flooding in so fast it almost looked like something else. And underneath it, the residue of the twenty minutes before. He'd been worried. Not panicked, not Garrett, but worried. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he exhaled.

Then his eyes moved over you and his expression shifted into something different.

"Hey," he said carefully. "How much did you drink?"

You laughed, and it came out wrong. "Dean already asked me that."

"Dean texted me that you'd had a lot and that you were upset and to be..." he paused, "gentle. His word."

"Dean used the word gentle?"

"I was also surprised." He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you, and it was such a Garrett thing to do - not sitting beside you, not keeping distance, just immediately down to your level, hands finding yours - that your throat tightened all over again. "Look at me."

You did.

He looked back, and he didn't rush it. Just looked at you the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention. His thumb rubbed circles on your knuckles.

"I'm okay," you said. Force of habit.

"I know you're not." Not a judgment, just a fact. "Talk to me."

Your jaw worked. "I don't want to..." The words snagged. "I don't want to be something you have to manage, Garrett."

He went very still.

"I heard something tonight." Your voice came out thinner than you wanted, and you couldn't tell anymore how much of it was the alcohol and how much was just you: exhausted, hollowed out, finally out of room to hold it. "Someone saying I was... that I'm a lot right now. That you're running yourself into the ground for me, and you don't have time for someone like..." You stopped. "I've been thinking it for weeks. She just said it out loud."

"Who."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Garrett." You shook your head, and the room moved slightly with it. "That's not the point. The point is that I believed it. That I heard it and something in me just - yes, obviously, correct. And I hated that. So instead of finding you and telling you I was upset like a normal person, I-" You gestured vaguely at yourself. At the state of you. "This."

He looked at you for a long moment.

"You've been carrying this for weeks," he said. Not a question.

"I didn't want to make it your problem."

Something crossed his face. "You are not a problem."

"You have scouts. You have finals. You've been coming to my dorm every other day with food I didn't ask for-"

"Because I wanted to."

"-and I keep letting you, and I feel like I'm taking something, like I'm-"

"Stop." His hands tightened around yours. "Listen to me. I come over because I want to be there. I text you because I want to know how you are. That's not- it's not labor, it's not obligation, it's not me managing anything. It's me." He exhaled slowly. "You're it for me. You know that."

"You can't just say that."

"I say it constantly. The guys are sick of hearing it."

"Dean told me about the locker room thing."

"Of course he did." No heat in it. Just resignation, and something softer underneath. "It was embarrassing. I meant every word."

You looked at him, and your eyes were burning again, and this time you let them. You were too tired and too drunk and too emptied out to hold that back too.

Garrett rose off his knees and sat beside you on the bed and pulled you into him without any hesitation.

You leaned.

That was the hardest part, always. The leaning. Letting someone else take some of the weight.

You were so tired of holding yourself upright.

"You're not too much," he said, into your hair. "You have never been too much."

You didn't answer.

"I mean it."

"I know you do," you said, very quietly.

He held you tighter. The party carried on below, muffled and oblivious, bass thumping through the floor, and up here it was just this. His arms. The familiar smell of him. The particular exhaustion of something finally, finally spilling over after being held too long.

You didn't feel better.

Not exactly. Not the way you'd maybe hoped. The shame of the drinking wasn't gone - that would probably be worse in the morning, honestly.

But Garrett didn't let go.

He kept one hand moving, slow and steady, through your hair, the way he did when you were half-asleep and he thought you weren't noticing. Like this was something he wanted to do. Like you were something worth being careful with.

You didn't know how to explain what that did to you.

You weren't sure you had to. At least not tonight. Not to Garrett.

Tonight, you closed your eyes and let him hold you, and tried to remember how to just be here. Without managing, without performing.

Just be here.

[broodingboysimp]

High Maintenance - pt. 2

Garrett Graham x Female!Reader

Warnings: anxiety, academic stress, disordered eating patterns, medical emergency

Summary: After the events at the party, you're still trying to outrun the thing you can't outrun. Garrett is being so careful with you it's making everything worse. Then your body decides it's done waiting for you to ask for help.

Part 1

Author's Note: The response to the first part was soooo fun!! I'm glad everyone enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!! Here is more Dean as bestie and Garrett as husband <3. This should also serve as your reminder to take care of yourself and have a snack goddammit! Also sorry if you wanted something happy from this chapter, that is not my brand. I literally only know how to write angst sooooo.....

Four days and one brutal hangover later, you were fine.

You were completely, totally, absolutely fine.

You were fine in the way that meant you'd gotten very good at performing fine, which was a skill you'd apparently had your whole life and had only recently begun to notice the cost of.

You were fine when Garrett texted you good morning with a photo of the dining hall's sad Tuesday breakfast spread. You were fine when Hannah checked in and you told her you were doing better. You were fine sitting in your 8 AM lecture not eating anything because you'd woken up twenty minutes late and told yourself you'd grab something after, and then after came and went, and now it was 11 and you were on your third coffee and the granola bar at the bottom of your bag had been there since Thursday.

The grade calculator was still open in a tab you kept minimizing and reopening. You knew the numbers by heart at this point, which maybe meant you should stop running them, but you kept running them anyway.

The bad exams - the ones you'd told yourself were just a rough patch, just a bad week, just temporary - hadn't been temporary. They'd compounded. Missed readings had turned into missed concepts had turned into two midterms where you'd sat in the exam room and felt the material slide sideways out of your grasp. The grades had come back and they were bad, and then the next ones had come back and they were worse.

You weren't on academic probation. Not yet. If your GPA slipped any lower - if you didn't ace everything left - then you would be.

You didn't let yourself think about it in full. You just ran the numbers. Over and over. You minimized the tab and reopened it and ran the numbers again.

You were, currently, on your third coffee and had eaten half a granola bar since yesterday afternoon.

Fine, you thought, clicking to a new tab. Absolutely fine.

---

You'd been in the library for four hours when Garrett found you.

You hadn't told him you were here. You'd silenced your phone at noon and tucked it face-down under your notebook, which you told yourself was for focus. The other part was that every time he texted you something sweet and normal, some small affectionate thing that cost him nothing, you felt the guilt accumulate in your chest.

He was being so careful. You could feel him being careful, the slightly-more-frequent check-ins, the way he phrased things as just wanted to say hi instead of how are you, giving you room without making it a production.

It was making you want to disappear.

So you were in the library, third floor, the section nobody used because it was all periodicals from 2003. Your notes were spread across most of the table. The grade calculator was open again. You'd been staring at it for twenty minutes without actually doing anything.

You didn't hear him until he was right there.

He didn't say anything. He just slid a paper bag onto the corner of the table - Malone's, your usual order - and sat down in the chair beside you like he'd been planning to be there all along.

You stared at the bag. Then at him.

He was already looking at his phone, one leg stretched out, the other pressed against yours under the table.

"How did you know I was here?"

"You have a library card tap on your student account." He didn't look up. "Hannah mentioned you'd gone out this morning."

"You're not supposed to be able to see that."

"I'm not." A pause. "Eat your wrap."

You looked at the bag. Your stomach did something complicated — hunger, shame, guilt — and you pulled it toward you without saying anything else.

The wrap was warm. You ate half of it before you remembered you'd been starving, and then ate the rest faster, and when you looked up Garrett still hadn't looked away from his phone.

He had, you noticed, the smallest smile.

You looked back at your notes. Minimized the grade calculator. Reopened it. Closed it for real this time.

For a while there was nothing but the quiet of the third floor and the scratch of your pen and the occasional scroll-sound from his phone, his leg steady and warm against yours.

It was the nicest thing anyone had done for you in weeks and it was also, quietly, eating you up inside.

You pulled your notes closer and tried to focus.

At some point - twenty minutes later, maybe thirty - you felt him shift, and then his chin was briefly at your shoulder as he looked at the page.

"Is that even English?"

You laughed.

It came out before you could stop it, and you put your hand over your mouth like you could take it back, and when you looked at him he was already looking back at his phone. The small smile still there.

"It's organic chemistry," you said.

"That's not what I asked."

"Garrett."

"I'm just saying. That looks like a cry for help written in highlighter."

"There's a color system."

He looked at the page again, at the four different colors of highlighting, at the margin notes that had started running up the sides because you'd run out of room. "Babe." He said it gently. "There are six colors."

"The orange is a subsystem."

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

"Okay," he said, in the voice of someone who had decided to love you exactly as you were, chaos color-coding and all, and went back to his phone.

He stayed for two hours. He didn't ask you what was wrong. He didn't ask why your phone was face-down or why you'd been in the library since noon or what the numbers on the top of the page meant - the ones you'd circled in red, the grades, the running average that kept coming out the same no matter how many times you recalculated it. He just stayed, leg resting against yours.

You thought about the grade calculator. About four weeks and what it would mean if you couldn't fix it all.

You pressed your knee harder against his, and he pressed back without looking up, and you didn't say any of it. You just worked. And he stayed.

When you finally packed up your notes - eyes burning from the hours of reading - he walked you back to your dorm with his hand warm around yours, and at your door he kissed you once, soft and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

"Get some sleep," he said, against your hair.

"I'm fine," you said, automatically.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. The look that said I know and I'm not going to push.

"Sleep," he said again, soft. And let you go.

You leaned against your closed door for a long time after.

---

Three days later, on a Thursday, you went to the hockey house to pick up Garrett and ended up waiting in the living room because he'd texted five more minutes roughly twenty minutes ago.

You sat on the couch with your laptop and your notes and your color-coded highlighters and tried to get something done.

"You're in my spot."

You didn't look up. "Your name isn't on it."

"My name is absolutely on it." Dean dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, feet swinging up onto the coffee table, with the energy of someone who had never once felt like an inconvenience in his life. You envied him sometimes. "Move over."

"There are three other cushions."

"I have a system."

You looked up. He pointed at the far left cushion with great seriousness. You sighed and shifted six inches. He immediately sprawled into the space like he'd claimed a country.

"Thank you," he said. "This is much better."

"You're a menace."

"I prefer force of nature." He looked at your screen. Made a face. "Is that the organic chemistry thing?"

"How do you know about my organic chemistry thing?"

"Garrett mentioned you've been doing something he described as 'color-coded suffering.'" He tilted his head at the screen. "He's not wrong."

You closed the laptop slightly. "He talked to you about my studying."

"He talks to me about everything. It's one of the great burdens of being his best friend. I know more about your coffee order than I know about my own family members." He said this completely without self-pity, in the flat tone of someone reciting facts. "You get oat milk even though you claim not to care about dairy. He thinks it's because you actually care about dairy but don't want to seem high maintenance at coffee shops."

You stared at him.

"He's not wrong, is he," Dean said.

"That's-" You stopped. "That's extremely specific."

"He pays attention to everything. It's genuinely concerning." Dean picked up the TV remote, looked at it, set it back down. "He skated into the boards yesterday, by the way. At practice."

"What? Is he okay?"

"Completely fine, thanks for asking, it was hilarious." Dean's expression was deeply satisfied. "You'd texted him. I watched it happen in real time. One second he's running a drill, next second he's checking his phone like a golden retriever who heard a treat bag, then-" He made a sound effect. "Boards. Full speed." A pause. "Coach made him skate laps."

"Oh my god."

"I have zero sympathy. For either of you." He pointed at you. "You made my best friend skate into a wall."

"I texted him about my chemistry notes-"

"And he skated into a wall. That's on you." He seemed genuinely pleased about this. Then, in a tone that was casual enough to be deliberate: "You eaten today?"

The shift was fast enough that you almost missed it. Almost.

"Yeah," you said. A beat too late.

Dean looked at you. Not for long. Just a second, just long enough for you to see it - and then he looked back at the TV like he'd never asked.

"Cool," he said.

"Dean-"

"There's leftover pasta in the fridge. Tucker made too much, as he always does, because he cooks like he's feeding a village." He picked up the remote again. "Just saying."

You looked at him. He was scrolling through channels with complete disinterest.

"You're not going to make it weird?" you said.

"I said there's pasta. I'm not giving you a TED talk." He landed on some sports recap show. "I do that once per crisis and I used mine at the party." He glanced at you sideways. "You're welcome, by the way."

"I thanked you."

"Not enough." But there was no real edge to it. Just Dean, comfortable in his own skin, watching sports highlights. "Garrett's probably another fifteen minutes."

You opened your laptop again.

You went and got the pasta five minutes later. You didn't say anything about it. Neither did he.

When you came back and sat down, he moved over exactly six inches without being asked, making just enough room. You ate. He watched his show.

It was the second nicest thing anyone had done for you all week.

---

The invitation came at 7 PM the next day, after a four-hour study session that had started to feel less like studying and more like sitting in front of words until they stopped meaning anything.

Garrett's name on your screen.

You picked up on the second ring.

"Malone's," he said, by way of greeting. "Everyone's going. Come."

You looked at your notes. At the grade calculator still open in a tab, the numbers you'd been rearranging all afternoon. If you aced the next two exams and the final paper came back strong, the math was possible. Barely.

"I don't know," you started.

"Y/N." His voice was warm and easy, no pressure in it. "You've been studying since noon. Come out for a couple hours. We don't have to stay late."

You thought about the grade calculator. About the math that only worked if everything went right.

You thought about how much you wanted, desperately, to just be normal for one night.

"Okay," you said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Give me twenty minutes."

He made a sound that was embarrassingly close to delighted, and you smiled into the phone before you could stop yourself. "See you soon," he said, like that was the best thing he'd heard all day.

You meant to eat something before you left.

You forgot.

---

Malone's was exactly the kind of loud that used to feel like relief.

The team was already at two pushed-together tables in the back, the particular chaos of hockey players who'd had a decent practice and were feeling it. Garrett found you at the door before you'd even gotten your coat off, hand finding the small of your back, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Hey," he said, into your hair.

"Hey," you said back.

He kept his arm around you as you made your way to the tables, and for a little while it worked - the normalcy you'd been chasing. Someone made a joke. You laughed at it. Hannah and Allie were there. Hannah caught your eye across the table and smiled and you smiled back, real, actual.

Garrett was pulled into a conversation about the upcoming game on your left, animated and certain the way he was when he talked about hockey, and you felt yourself lean into his shoulder a little even as he gestured.

You were going to order something to eat.

There was a menu in your hands and everything on it looked fine and you just needed a minute to look at it properly because the words were doing something slightly blurry and you'd been staring at text for six hours and it would all be clearer in a minute.

Someone asked you something across the table. You answered. You laughed when the response was funny. You were very good at this, the performing fine.

Tucker said something about the power play. Garrett leaned forward, and you set the menu down meaning to pick it up again in a second, and then the second passed and someone else said something and then Garrett's hand found your knee under the table, warm and absentminded, just there, and you thought -

After this drink, I'll order something.

After this.

An hour passed. Then close to two.

The accidently not-eating had stopped feeling like hunger around the ninety-minute mark and started feeling like something else. The edges of things felt slightly further away than they should have been, sounds arriving a half-second late, the overhead lights doing something they hadn't been doing when you'd walked in.

You told yourself it was the noise. You told yourself you just needed air.

You were fine.

In a minute, you thought. I'll get some air and then I'll be fine.

You touched Garrett's arm. "Bathroom," you said when he looked at you. "I'll be right back."

He nodded. His eyes moved over your face for a second and you did your best to keep your expression neutral, and he let you go.

You made it past the bar. Past the first set of tables.

The floor felt strange. The kind of strange that meant it was still there but you weren't entirely certain of it, your body suddenly very loud about several things it had been trying to say for a while. Your vision went static at the edges.

Oh, you thought, with a kind of exhausted clarity. Oh, that's not good.

You reached for the wall.

You didn't find it.

Dean caught you.

He'd been at the bar getting a refill. His hands caught your arms before you hit the ground and the next thing you were aware of was the floor, but not hitting it - sitting against it, the wall at your back, Dean crouched in front of you with an expression you'd never seen on him before.

"Hey." His voice was even. "I've got you. Look at me."

You looked at him. The static was still at the edges. "I'm-"

"Don't say fine." He had one hand at your shoulder, steady. His eyes were moving over you, assessing. "Someone get Garrett," he said, without raising his voice, to whoever was behind him. "Now, please."

Please. You'd never heard Dean say please like that.

"I just need a second," you tried.

"You just went down." His hand moved to your wrist, two fingers, checking your pulse like he'd done it before. "When did you last eat?"

The honest answer was the pasta Dean had made you eat at the hockey house, which had been lunch, which had been -

Yesterday.

His expression didn't change but his jaw did. "Okay," he said, and turned his head. "Tucker. Water. Bar, go."

Then there were footsteps, fast and heavy, and Garrett was there.

You watched it happen on his face. Couldn't look away from it even though you wanted to. The second he saw you on the floor, the split second before he got himself under control - something moved through him. The specific fear of someone who'd been halfway worried for weeks and had just found out he was right to be.

He crossed the distance in three steps and dropped to the floor beside you.

"Hey." His hands found your face. "Hey, look at me. Y/N."

"I'm okay," you said. Your voice came out unsteady.

"I know." He said it like it didn't matter whether it was true. His thumbs moved over your cheekbones. "I've got you."

Dean pressed a water bottle into Garrett's hand without being asked. The two of them moved around each other with an ease that meant they'd been friends a long time, no words needed. Garrett opened the bottle for you. You drank.

"She hasn't eaten since yesterday," Dean said, behind Garrett, in a tone that was quiet and not accusatory and somehow that made it worse.

You felt Garrett go very still.

"I meant to," you said, to neither of them.

"I know," Garrett said again. Still not angry. "Can you stand if I help you?"

You nodded.

He got you up like you weighed nothing, arm solid around your waist, and he didn't let go after you were standing. He just recalibrated, hand flat at the small of your back, body angled toward you.

"We're going to sit somewhere quiet," he said. "Okay?"

You nodded.

He looked back at Dean over his shoulder. Something passed between them - a look, brief and complete.

Dean nodded. "I'll handle it," he said, already turning back to the tables, already sliding back into the noise like he'd never left it. Covering. That easily.

Garrett found a booth in the back, half-hidden, away from the noise. He sat you down and then went and got food - actual food, something from the bar menu, not glamorous - and he put it in front of you without ceremony and sat across from you and waited.

"Eat first," he said. "Then we talk."

You looked at the plate. Your throat was tight.

"Garrett..."

"Please." It came out rough at the edges. "Just eat something. Please."

You ate.

He watched you the way he'd been watching you for weeks, that careful attention he thought he was hiding. He wasn't hiding it.

When the plate was half-empty and the static had fully cleared from your vision and you felt more like yourself than you had in hours, you looked up and found him looking back.

"I'm okay," you said.

"I know." He exhaled. "I need you to tell me what's going on."

Your hands were in your lap. You looked at them.

"Y/N."

"My GPA," you said, to your hands. "It's been... those exams at the start of the semester, the ones I told you were just rough patches? They weren't just rough patches. And then I was sick, and the readings kept piling up, and I thought I could catch up but I just kept falling further behind..." Your voice did something you hadn't authorized. You pressed your lips together.

Silence.

"How much do you need on your remaining work?" Garrett said carefully.

"Everything has to go right." You laughed, and it came out broken. "It's not impossible. Technically. If I ace everything left. But I'm so far behind, and every time I think I'm catching up there's something else, and I just-" The words came faster. "I didn't tell you because you have scouts and finals and I-"

You stopped. Started again. "I didn't want to be one more thing you had to manage..."

Garrett went very still.

"That's what she said," you said, before he could. "At the party. Kendall."

He closed his eyes for exactly one second.

"Of course it was." He said it quietly, not quite to you. Then he looked at you, and his expression had shifted into something more deliberate. "She said that to you."

"I wasn't supposed to hear it."

"That doesn't-" He stopped. Exhaled through his nose. "She wanted something she didn't get. With me, before you. And I handled that badly, and apparently she's still-" His jaw tightened. "That's not about you. That was never about you. That was about me, and she aimed it at you."

"Garrett-"

"I'm not done being annoyed about that." He said it flatly. "I'll be done in a second."

A beat. He looked at the table. Came back.

"Okay." He reached across and took both your hands. "I'm done. Keep going."

"...that's it? That's your processing time?"

"I'm a fast processor." His eyes were still a little flat. "Keep going."

"I just-" You exhaled. "I've been so behind, and every time you showed up I felt worse about it. Like you were going out of your way for someone who couldn't even keep it together enough to-" You stopped. Tried again. "You just showed up with food I didn't ask for and sat down like it was nothing. Like it cost you nothing. And I kept thinking, he's going to get tired of this. Of me being like this. And then you just kept showing up anyway."

"I've been showing up at the library," he said, "texting you constantly, bringing you food you didn't ask for - and you thought that was me managing you?"

"Yes," you said, quietly.

"I've been showing up at the library," he said, "texting you constantly, bringing you food you didn't ask for — and you thought that was me managing you."

It wasn't a question. His voice was even.

"Yes," you said, quietly.

"It wasn't." Simple. Flat. Like he was correcting a fact. "I was doing it because I like you." He said it like it was the most straightforward thing in the world. "I really, genuinely, a completely ridiculous amount - like you. Have you not noticed that? I've been making it extremely obvious."

"Garrett..."

"I skated into the boards at practice because you texted me about chemistry notes." He held up a hand. "I got laps for that. Actual laps. And I would do it again." He looked at you, completely serious. "That's where we are. That's how much I like you. I'm not showing up at the library because I feel obligated, I'm showing up at the library because you're there and I'd rather be wherever you are, even if wherever you are is a depressing corner full of fifteen-year-old magazines." His thumb moved over your knuckles. "I don't show up for things I don't want to show up for. You know that about me."

Your eyes were burning again.

"You got laps," you said, because it was the only thing you could manage.

"I got laps," he confirmed. "Completely worth it."

You looked at him for a second, this person who tracked your library card and brought you food and skated into walls over chemistry notes, and something in your chest did something complicated and enormous that you didn't have a word for yet.

"I don't know what to do with you," you said, very quietly.

"You don't have to do anything with me." He said it simply. "That's kind of the point."

You looked down at your hands in his.

"You scared me tonight," he said after a moment. "That's going to take me a minute to get over."

"I know. I'm sorry - I didn't mean to, I just got so caught up in everything. The studying, trying to catch up, and I just..." You shook your head. "I forgot."

He looked at you for a long second.

"Lucky for you that's not really a problem," he said.

"Garrett-"

"I like taking care of you." Simple. Like it was obvious. "So just let me. Okay?"

You looked at him. Thought about arguing. Decided you were too tired.

"Okay," you said quietly.

"Good." He tilted his head slightly. "Also, for the record - you are supposed to be the brains of this operation. It would be genuinely embarrassing for both of us if you ended up with a worse GPA than a hockey player."

You stared at him. "Are you serious right now."

"I'm just saying. I have a 3.1. The bar is right there."

"You have a 3.1?"

"Don't sound so surprised, that's rude."

"I'm not - I'm just-" You pressed your lips together. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet." He was watching you with that look, the one he thought he was hiding. He wasn't hiding it. "There it is."

"There what is."

"That." He nodded at your face. "You almost smiled."

"I did not."

"You did a little."

"Garrett."

"I'll take it." He squeezed your hands once. "You want to do something useful, talk to your advisor Monday. Figure out what your options are."

"I will."

"Good." A beat. "You're not high maintenance. You're just bad at asking for help. Those aren't the same thing." He squeezed your hands once.

Your eyes burned.

"I've got you," he said. Matter-of-fact.

You stayed like that for a while. The noise of Malone's carried on around you, oblivious. In your corner booth it was just this. Your hands finally, finally still.

Dean appeared at the edge of the booth twenty minutes later, hands in his pockets, expression carefully calibrated to neutral.

He looked at you and did a quick inventory the way he always did, fast and thorough.

"You look terrible," he announced.

"Thank you, Dean."

"Much better than twenty minutes ago, though." He leaned against the side of the booth. Looked at Garrett. Something passed between them. "Tucker's telling the thing about the chirp from the Eastwood game. Everyone's distracted. Nobody made it weird."

"Thank you," Garrett said.

Dean waved this off like it was nothing. Because for Dean, it was. He'd covered, he'd handled it.

He looked at you for a second. Then, with the gravity of someone making a formal announcement:

"For the record, I did not catch you because I like you."

You blinked. "...okay."

"It was reflex. Athletic instinct. I would have done it for anyone." He held up a finger. "The point is it wasn't personal."

"Noted."

"Also-" He pointed at the empty plate. "Eat like that every day or I'm going to have to start caring about you, and I have a very full schedule." He pushed off the booth, already turning. "I'm at capacity. Emotionally. No room."

"Dean-"

"Goodnight, Y/N." He walked away with a sly smile and a wink.

Your throat went tight again.

"He loves you," Garrett said. "He just can't say it like a normal person."

"Neither can you, half the time."

He made an offended sound. "I said it literally last week."

"You said, and I quote, 'you're very tolerable for someone who doesn't understand or appreciate the music of Warrant.'"

"That's a compliment."

"That is not a compliment, Garrett."

He laughed and squeezed your hands again.

"I love you," he said. "Like, a completely embarrassing amount. Dean can confirm, he thinks it's a problem."

Your eyes burned again. Different reason.

"I love you too," you said, quiet.

"I know." He held you tighter. "Now let me take you home."

He stayed.

He helped you change into something comfortable and found your water bottle and filled it and put it on your nightstand, and when you got into bed he sat on top of the covers beside you with his back against the headboard, his hand in your hair.

"I'm going to email my advisor tomorrow," you said, to the ceiling.

"Good."

"I don't know what she's going to say."

"That's what tomorrow's for."

"I'm nervous."

"Yeah." His hand stilled briefly, then kept moving. "I know. That's allowed."

You looked up at him.

"You're going to stop disappearing on me," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I'm going to try."

"Close enough." He brushed the hair from your face. "Sleep."

"Bossy."

"Always." He looked at you, soft. "I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?"

You looked back at him.

"I know," you said.

And this time, you meant it.

[p1stach-io]

sugar talking: two

summary: dean will do anything to win you back, but winning you over proves harder than why he bargained for. (5.9k)

pairing: dean di laurentis x reader

content warning: relationship dysfunction, dean di laurentis is a mess, yearning, jealousy, language, alcohol, hurt/comfort.

authors note: this is for everyone who wanted to see how taking him back would play out. this may be the longest piece i’ve wrote on record but i couldn’t let this man get off so easily…

part one.

the tail-lights of suni's honda civic bled into the darkness of the gravel driveway, leaving nothing behind but the exhaust fumes and a hollow, ringing silence.

dean stood frozen under the dim glow of the porch light, his hand still half-raised in the air as if he could somehow catch the car and pull it back.

the cold night air slapped against his face, a brutal contrast to the suffocating heat of the house behind him, but he couldn't feel it.

his mouth was slightly open and his throat was completely dry.

i am officially withdrawing my terms.

the words repeated in his head, sharp and clinical, cutting right through the lingering buzz of the alcohol in his system.

dean di laurentis didn't get left hanging on driveways.

dean di laurentis didn't get tongue-tied.

he was the guy who always had the perfect pivot, the effortless laugh, the smooth reassurance that smoothed over any wrinkle.

but as he stared at the empty space where you had just been standing, a sickening wave of realization crashed over him.

he hadn't been playing a game.

you had just seen right through the defense mechanism he had been using his entire life.

the heavy front door thudded open behind him, letting out a brief burst of blaring music before closing again.

two sets of footsteps crunched on the gravel.

"hey, man."

a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.

dean flinched, snapping his head around to see tucker standing there, his face tight with a mixture of pity and disappointment.

right next to him was beau maxwell. his arms crossed over his chest and his usual laid-back energy completely gone, replaced by a rare, dead-serious frown.

"i told you, dean," tucker said quietly, looking down the empty road. "i warned you that she doesn't do the whole half-in, half-out thing."

"i wasn't half-in," dean snapped, his voice suddenly raw, a dangerous edge cracking through his usual easy-going demeanor.

he ripped his shoulder away from tucker's grip, running a frantic hand through his blonde hair. "i was going to tell her tonight. i was waiting for the house to clear out so i could ask her to stay. permanently."

beau let out a low, heavy sigh, shaking his head. "then why didn't you say it in front of everyone? why did you let her watch you flirt with some sophomore if she's the one you wanted? you can't treat a girl like a secret and then expect her to treat you like a priority."

tucker nodded in agreement. "beau's right. you let her think she was just another hookup that half the campus has already been with. you can't blame her for cutting you off."

dean quickly opened his mouth to defend himself.

he wanted to explain that the girl by the keg meant absolutely nothing, that it was just muscle memory.

it just the casual persona he put on so nobody looked too closely at how much he actually cared.

but the words died in his throat.

i know when someone is just trying to win over a crowd.

you had called it.

every single bit of it.

he had been so terrified of admitting, even to himself, that he had finally found the right girl. the one he had been passively waiting for his entire life.

but he had treated her like a secret and in doing so, he had completely destroyed the only real thing he had.

"i fucked up, guys," dean whispered, his voice dropping into a register they had never heard from him before.

it was entirely stripped of pride, heavy with a terrifying, sudden desperation. "i really, really fucked up."

beau looked at tucker, then back at dean, his expression softening into something deeply sympathetic. "yeah. you did. and if i know her? she's not the type to give you a second chance just for the sake of it. you're going to have to actually work for this one."

dean didn't go back inside the party.

he walked straight up the stairs to his room, locked the door, and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark.

the scent of your coconut shampoo still lingered faintly on his pillow.

the hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only sound inside suni's car for the first three miles.

after the oppressive, vibrating bass from earlier, the silence inside the sedan felt less like an absence of noise and more like a physical weight, settling deep into your bones.

you blankly stared out the passenger window, watching the streetlamps bleed past in long, blurry streaks of amber.

"do you want me to say it?" suni asked quietly, her brown eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.

her hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel, still vibrating with that protective adrenaline.

"say what?" you murmured, your forehead resting against the cool glass.

"that you are an absolute fucking badass," she said, a small, fierce smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"i mean it. people don't just walk away from dean. girls usually dissolve into a puddle when he looks in their general direction, and you just destroyed him on his own driveway."

you let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, feeling the tight knot in your chest loosen just a fraction. "i don't feel like a badass. i feel hollow."

"that's just the detox," suni promised gently, reaching over to give your knee a supportive squeeze before putting both hands back on the wheel.

"it's the sugar crash after two months of eating nothing but empty calories. it'll pass."

she was right.

it was a crash.

but as you pulled up to your apartment building, the relief you expected to feel was shadowed by a lingering, dull ache.

you had drawn the line. you had won the argument.

so why did it feel like you were the one recovering from a blow?

four days passed in a tense, quiet limbo. you stayed away from the standard student hangouts.

you kept your head down, and entirely avoided the athletic side of campus.

which was much easier said than done.

it was actually hannah wells who broke the radio silence when you bumped into each other at work.

you two weren't particularly close outside of your shifts, but you had always been good coworkers, and she gave you a sympathetic look the second she saw you.

she admitted right off the bat that garrett had practically begged her to feel you out and see if you would be willing to hear dean's side of things.

but hannah made it clear she wasn't actually pushing his agenda.

you let her know, gently but firmly, that you just didn't want to hear him out right now.

she nodded immediately, completely understanding.

you were halfway through your shift at malone's when the bell over the front door chimed and beau maxwell walked in from the cold.

the dinner rush hadn't started yet, leaving the restaurant washed in a warm, lazy quiet.

soft music drifted through the speakers. behind the bar, hannah was busy polishing glasses, while allie was sitting in one of the booths near the window. she was seemingly looking over her homework but clearly tuned into the room.

you looked up from the hostess stand and immediately narrowed your eyes.

beau rarely came here unless dean dragged him.

and judging by the guilty, deeply uncomfortable look on his face, this definitely wasn't a social visit.

"it's that bad, huh?" you asked dryly before he could even open his mouth to speak.

beau blinked. "what?"

"you drew the short straw." you crossed your arms. "dean sent you to talk to me."

hannah stopped wiping her glass, an amused smirk spreading across her face. the fact that beau's expression instantly gave him away nearly made you laugh.

"oh my god," you said, an incredulous smile finally breaking across your face. "he did."

"to be fair," beau said carefully, raising his hands in surrender, "i volunteered. mostly because i couldn't take another night of him pacing the living room floor like a caged animal."

allie leaned out of her booth slightly. "wait. dean di laurentis is sending representatives now?"

hannah leaned her elbows on the bar, looking entirely entertained. "please tell me he at least prepared a speech."

beau groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "you people are evil."

"no," you corrected lightly, grabbing a stack of menus from the counter beside you, "he's pure evil."

that earned you a reluctant laugh from beau. he shoved his hands into his pockets, looking both amused and slightly helpless.

"okay," he admitted. "maybe this does look a little pathetic."

"a little?" allie echoed from her booth, shaking her head. "beau, i don't know why you're doing this for him."

hannah pointed a bar towel at you. "his approval ratings are in the toilet."

you pressed your lips together, fighting another smile.

it was ridiculous.

dean was apparently moping around because you stopped answering his texts.

a month ago, the idea would've satisfied you.

now it mostly just felt surreal.

beau's expression softened as your smile faded slightly. "i've known dean a long time," he said quietly. "and i've honestly never seen him like this before."

you focused on straightening the menus in your hands even though they were already perfectly aligned. "beau—"

"no, seriously." he leaned against the hostess stand, dropping his voice. "the guy is a disaster. garrett says he's playing like crap at practice because he's distracted all the time. coach yelled at him so hard yesterday his face literally turned purple.”

“and logan threatened to throw dean's phone into a lake because he keeps checking if you texted him back every thirty seconds. he doesn't sleep. he just... he stares at his phone."

a reluctant laugh slipped out before you could stop it, but it died quickly.

"this is insane," you muttered, covering your face briefly with your hand. "he's literally running a pr campaign."

"that's actually exactly what tucker called it," beau admitted.

the amusement faded entirely after a second, though, something heavier settling back into your chest. because underneath all the ridiculousness... there was still hurt.

a deep, aching bruise left by a boy who thought everything in life came easy.

you slowly lowered your hand. "did he send you because he thinks if enough people tell me he's miserable, i'll magically forget why i left?"

the teasing atmosphere immediately evaporated. beau straightened slightly, his voice turning serious.

"no." he shook his head.

"i came because he knows he hurt you. and because for once in his life, he's too scared to make it worse. he's terrified that if he pushes you, you'll completely erase him."

that caught you off guard.

even hannah went quiet behind the bar, returning to her glasses. you looked down at the menus in your hands, tracing your thumb absentmindedly along the edges.

beau hesitated before continuing. "he's not trying to charm his way out of this anymore," he said carefully. "honestly? i think that's freaking him out the most. he doesn't know how to exist without his armor."

before you could respond, the front door opened again and a group of customers entered, breaking the moment apart. hannah immediately pushed off the bar, professional mode clicking back in. "right, back to it before della catches us."

allie slid back into her booth to give the customers room. beau stepped away from the hostess stand, giving you one last careful look. "i'm not saying you should forgive him," he said gently. "that's your call. but i do think losing you finally forced him to become a person instead of just a personality."

and annoyingly enough, that line stayed with you long after he left.

by the end of the week, the hurt had hardened into a reckless, heavy spike of anger.

suni practically forced you out the door to the pre-game mixer at the phi kappa house. "you need to show up, look stunning which isn't hard for you, and prove you aren't hiding in your room crying over a some hockey player," she insisted.

the house was a sensory overload—a wall of thumping bass, sticky floors, and sweat-fogged windows.

it took exactly five minutes for the room to feel subtly dialed into your arrival. across the crowded living room, the hockey team was gathered near the back patio.

and right in the center was dean.

he looked exhausted, his gaze drifting aimlessly until logan nudged him, pointing in your direction. the moment dean's blue eyes locked onto yours, his entire posture changed.

his chest rose sharply, and he took an instinctive step forward, completely abandoning his conversation.

his eyes flared with a sudden, desperate hope.

you felt the invisible weight of the room watching, waiting for the classic fallout. a dark, defiant spark ignited in your chest.

dean had spent months keeping your relationship a secret, acting like a casual observer while he entertained a crowd.

two can play that game.

you deliberately tore your eyes away from him, turning your gaze toward liam. liam was a handsome football player who had been hovering in your orbit since the start of the academic year.

he was tall, built, and more than happy to have your sudden, undivided attention.

out of the corner of your eye, you saw dean freeze. the hope on his face shattered.

you leaned in close to liam, letting your laughter trail off into something softer, low and intimate.

you stepped directly into his space, your hand sliding deliberately up his arm to rest against his shoulder, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck.

liam's eyes darkened instantly with surprise and heat. his hand came up, wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

across the room, dean looked like he had been physically struck.

you could see his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek, his knuckles turning stark white as his grip tightened around his red cup.

garrett muttered something in his ear, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder, but dean brushed him off as his eyes burned into you with a raw, bleeding agony.

you didn't look back at him. instead, you leaned up on your toes, your eyes dropping to liam's lips.

"you're incredibly beautiful tonight," liam murmured, his voice thick, his thumb sliding beneath the edge of your top, tracing the bare skin of your hip.

"thank you," you breathed out, tilting your head up slightly. "liam?"

"mhm?"

"kiss me."

he didn't hesitate. liam leaned down, slanting his mouth over yours.

he didn't hold back at all. his lips were warm and demanding, his hand pressing firmly into the small of your back to hold you tight against his chest.

you let your eyes close and leaned into the weight of him, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss into something slow, deliberate, and deeply sensual.

you made sure it lingered, playing your part perfectly for the crowd.

and for the specific boy breaking apart by the doors.

a low ripple of whispers washed through the immediate room. the kiss was thick with heat, but it didn't ignite that familiar, electric ache you only ever felt with a certain stupid idiot.

when you finally pulled back, liam was breathing heavily, a dazed, smug smile tugging at his lips.

you offered him a quiet, heavy-lidded smile before finally looking past his shoulder.

the satisfaction immediately turned to ash in your throat.

dean looked physically ill. the fierce, possessive anger had completely drained out of him, leaving behind a hollow, entirely defeated devastation.

his face was completely pale, his eyes wide as he stared at you. it was like he was looking at the end of his life.

watching you give someone else that kind of intimacy had entirely undone him.

dean's fingers slacked. his cup slipped from his hand, clattering against the floor and splashing beer across his shoes, but he didn't even notice.

he turned on his heel and blindly pushed through the crowd, fleeing out the back doors into the freezing night air.

beau shot you a heavy, disappointed look before turning to follow him out.

you stood frozen beside liam, the adrenaline completely evaporating, leaving behind a bitter, hollow ache in your chest. you had hurt dean exactly the way he hurt you.

so why did you feel like throwing up?

dean didn't find you until two weeks later. it took him two full weeks after that party to gather the courage to approach you again. when he finally did, it wasn't at a party, or in his bedroom, or under dim lights where he could press his mouth against yours and make you forget.

it was the middle of the afternoon in the campus library.

you were sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs near the back windows, a stack of annotated articles spread across the table beside you.

for a long minute, he just stood at the end of the aisle.

god, he looked awful. the sharp jawline you used to trace was covered in a rough, uneven stubble. his signature silver-tongued confidence was entirely absent.

you sensed him before he even spoke. your eyes lifted slowly from your laptop. no warmth or softening. just... nothing.

dean flinched. "hey," he said, his voice raw and stripped of its usual smooth cadence.

you looked back down at your laptop screen, your voice flat. "dean."

he swallowed hard, stepping closer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if to keep himself from reaching out. "can we talk for maybe a second? please. just... two minutes. i'll leave right after, i swear."

"i'm really busy right now, dean."

"i know. i know you are." his voice cracked. he hesitated, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp spike of residual pain from the party. he swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, but his voice shook. "are you... are you seeing him? liam?"

you didn't even look up from your screen. "that's really none of your business."

"none of my—" dean let out a bitter, breathy laugh, his eyes swimming. he leaned slightly over the table, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. "that was low, you know. even for you. putting on a show like that in front of everyone just to rub my face in it?"

you finally shut your laptop softly, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms.

you scoffed at him, a cold, mocking sound that cut right through his defense.

"low?" you repeated, your voice slicing through him. "you should worry less about who i'm kissing, dean, and worry a lot more about yourself. you don't get to lecture me about public displays when you practically pioneered them."

the reality of your words hit him like a physical punch to his ribs. he actually took a half-step back, his chest heaving as the hypocrisy collapsed on him.

he was desperate to know if you were talking to liam. he was paralyzed by the thought that you had moved on, but he knew he had no right to ask.

"i'm sorry," he whispered, the defensive edge completely evaporating, leaving him entirely exposed. "you're right. i have no right. i just... i think i genuinely don't know how to handle this."

"i think you genuinely don't understand why you hurt me in the first place," you countered calmly, the honesty of it cutting deeper than your anger ever could.

"you understand that i left. you understand that your bed is empty and your ego is bruised. but i don't think you actually understood what it felt like to stand next to you and constantly feel temporary. to feel like a placeholder until someone better, or flashier, caught your eye."

dean went completely still.

"i liked you so much, dean," you admitted quietly. it made you almost sick to say it. the words tasted bitter and heavy as they left your tongue, but unfortunately it was true.

"it was enough to make excuses for things i normally wouldn't tolerate. i let myself believe you actually cared, and you made me feel stupid for it. you treated my feelings like they were disposable. i'm not doing it anymore. i'm done."

"please," he whispered, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate plea. "don't say it's over. just give me something to fix. tell me what to do."

"there's nothing to do," you said, your heart aching behind the wall you had built, but you forced your voice to remain steady. "i just need you to leave."

he stood there for a long, agonizing beat, looking at you like a man watching his life sentence being handed down.

finally, he closed his eyes, took a shaky, ragged breath, and nodded.

"okay," he sighed, his shoulders hunched in complete defeat. "okay. i'm sorry."

he turned around and walked away, his heavy footsteps fading down the library aisle, leaving you alone with a crushing, heavy silence.

two more weeks passed. then three.

if dean's initial reaction to the "breakup" was a loud, messy public moping tour, his reaction to the library confrontation was a total blackout.

the campus gossip machine slowed down because dean stopped giving them material.

he wasn't partying.

he wasn't hovering at the edges of your vision.

but he hadn't given up instead he had just changed his tactics.

the loud gestures were replaced by quiet, undeniable consistency.

every tuesday and thursday morning—the days you had an 10.00 am seminar on the opposite side of campus—there was a large vanilla latte waiting for you at the barista counter, already paid for.

no note.

just your exact, complicated order.

when you tried to refuse it, the barista just shrugged. "he said if you don't take it, i have to throw it out. every day."

you left it on the counter the first three times.

by the fourth time, the cold winter air bit too hard, and you took it.

it tasted like an apology.

then came the hockey games. suni dragged you to the friday night game against yale.

you sat twelve rows up, determined to look indifferent.

but the moment the team skated onto the ice, it was clear dean wasn't playing for the scouts or the crowd anymore.

he played with a brutal, self-punishing intensity. and when he scored the game-winning goal in the third period, the stadium erupted.

normally, dean would skate a lap, flashing his devastating smile to the student section, soaking in the god-like adoration.

instead, he skated straight to the center line, stopped, and looked directly up into the stands. right at you.

he didn't smile. he just held your gaze for three agonizing seconds, chest heaving, before skating back to the bench.

"okay," suni muttered beside you, watching him go. "that was... actually kind of miserable. he didn't even wink at the girls."

the next afternoon, you were heading out of the science building when a shadow fell over you.

you braced yourself, expecting to see blue eyes and a desperate expression, but when you looked up, it was tucker.

he stepped right into your pace, unceremoniously slinging his heavy arm over your shoulders, pulling you briefly into his side to shield you from a sudden blast of freezing wind.

"hey," tucker said quietly, giving your shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze before letting his arm drop back to his side. "you got a minute? i'm not here on his orders, i swear. he doesn't even know i'm talking to you."

you didn't walk away, but you still kept your guard up. "tucker, if this is about dean—"

"it is," he interrupted gently. he gestured toward a quiet bench under a bare oak tree.

once you both sat down, he leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at you with complete sincerity.

"i'm not here to tell you he's miserable, because you already know that, and honestly, he deserves to be. but he's always been the guy who keeps one foot out the door because he thinks if he doesn't fully commit, nothing can actually hurt him."

you let out a bitter, breathy sigh, looking down at your boots. "so i'm just supposed to wait around while he plays psychologist with himself?"

"no," tucker said firmly, catching your eye.

"absolutely not. you did the right thing by walking away. you forced him to look in a mirror, and he hated what he saw. but what i'm trying to tell you, as your friend he's not trying to trick you back. he's genuinely terrified because he realized his own cowardice cost him the only real thing he's ever wanted."

tucker leaned back slightly against the bench. "i've never seen dean look at a girl the way he looks at you. he's not trying to smooth things over anymore, he's just trying to figure out how to be a man you could actually trust. i'm not asking you to take him back. i'm just asking you not to completely write him off before you let him speak."

you sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of tucker's words sinking deep into your chest.

tucker wasn't an enabler. he was your friend, and he was the moral compass of that friend group.

if he was defending the sincerity of dean's change, it had to mean something.

"thank you, tuck," you murmured softly.

he gave you a brief, supportive nod, standing up from the bench. "just think about it, okay? see you around."

you watched him walk away, your mind a chaotic blur.

a few days later, you were sitting on the couch in your apartment, staring blankly at a textbook, when suni dropped a mug of tea onto the coffee table in front of you.

"you're thinking about him," she said flatly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the back of the chair.

you let out a long sigh, rubbing your temples. "i don't want to be. but it's been a month, suni. he's not stopping. every time i turn around, there's a coffee, or he's clearing out of a room the second i walk into it so i don't feel uncomfortable. and his friends are trying to reason with me. it's infuriating."

"why is it infuriating?"

"because it's working," you admitted, your voice cracking. "it's making me remember why i fell for him before he started acting like a coward. but i'm terrified. if i let him back in, what happens when he gets bored of making amends? what happens when the crowd calls his name again?"

suni searched your face, seeing the deep, defensive armor you had built. she slid onto the couch next to you, pulling your hand into hers.

"then you make him earn the right to even ask that question," suni said softly, squeezing your fingers.

"you don't fold just because he's acting like a human being now. that's the baseline expectation, not a reward. if you want to talk to him, talk to him. but don't let him off the hook until you are 100% sure he knows he's lucky to breathe the same air as you."

just promise me you walk away if he slips back into his old habits." she sighed holding onto your hands.

"i promise," you whispered, a sudden wave of clarity washing over you.

you didn't go to the rink to find him.

it was close to midnight when you found yourself walking toward the athletic center to drop off a borrowed, heavily annotated textbook for hannah.

but as you stepped into the corridor, the muffled, echoing thwack of a puck against boards drew you toward the main arena doors.

armed with suni and tucker's advice echoing in your head and a tug in your chest you couldn't ignore anymore, you pulled open the heavy side doors of the rink.

the stadium was dark, except for the bright, stark floodlights illuminating the pristine white sheet of ice.

dean was alone.

he was stripped down to his practice jersey and skates. there was no crowd to impress, no scouts watching, no teammates to joke with.

it was just him, a puck, and a net.

he was doing suicide drills—skating full sprint to the blue line, stopping hard enough to spray a cascade of ice shavings, skating back, and doing it again.

he was panting, his blonde hair soaked with sweat, his movements driven by a furious, desperate energy.

he was trying to skate away from his own head.

you stood by the player's bench, your arms crossed, watching him coolly.

"you're slacking on your defense di laurentis," you called out. your voice echoed sharply in the cavernous, empty arena.

dean froze.

his skates dug into the ice with a harsh screech, breaking the silence.

he snapped his head around, his chest heaving as he stared at you.

for a second, he looked entirely paralyzed, as if he thought he was hallucinating.

"you're here," he breathed, slowly skating toward the boards. he stopped a few feet away, looking up from the ice.

"i'm here," you said softly, your tone steady, giving him absolutely nothing to work with. no smile or softness. you unlatched the heavy wooden door of the player's bench. "i think you've done enough pacing around campus, dean. come here."

before he could answer, you took a tentative step out onto the ice. you were wearing regular winter boots, completely unequipped for a freshly zambonied sheet of ice.

"wait, wait, hold on—" dean warned, his eyes widening in alarm.

naturally, you didn't listen. your heel hit a patch of smooth ice, and your balance instantly vanished. your arms flailed as you slipped backward, a short gasp escaping your throat.

but you didn't hit the ice.

dean moved with the terrifying speed of a professional athlete. in a fraction of a second, he closed the distance, his strong gloved hands catching you right around the waist. he hauled you against his chest, his skates digging hard into the ice to anchor both of your weights.

you gasped, your hands automatically flying up to grip his broad shoulders. you were pressed flush against him, the cool scent of the ice and his familiar cologne enveloping you completely.

"gotcha," dean whispered, his breath puffing white in the cold air.

he didn't let go.

his hands stayed firmly clamped around your waist, pulling you so close that you could feel the rapid, thumping beat of his heart against your chest.

he was looking down at you like you were the only thing left in the entire world, his eyes intense, wide, and bright with unshed tears.

no armor. just dean.

but even wrapped in his arms, you kept your gaze sharp.

you didn't melt….. just yet.

"you're a fucking idiot," you murmured, your voice level and direct. "you really messed up, dean."

"i know," he whispered, his voice cracking as a tear finally slipped down his cheek, cutting through the sweat on his face. he didn't even try to brush it away.

"i'm the biggest idiot. i ruined everything. the night you left... i sat in my room and i realized i've spent my whole life making sure nobody could ever reject me by making sure i never fully committed to anything.” he continued.

“and then i met you. and i was so terrified of how much power you had over me that i tried to make you small so i could feel big."

he took a shaky breath, his grip tightening around your waist as if you might vanish if he let go.

"seeing you with liam? it nearly killed me. but the worst part wasn't jealousy. the worst part was realizing i was the one who drove you into his arms. i am so sorry. i am so, so sorry for making you feel like a secret. i swear to god, i love you. i don't want anyone else. i just want you."

you stood steady in his hold, letting the weight of his words hang in the freezing air.

your heart was pounding, but you kept your hands firm against his shoulders, maintaining your boundary.

"words are easy for you, dean," you said quietly.

"you've always been good with a crowd. you've always known exactly what to say to smooth things over. i don't want a public spectacle. i care about what this is."

"this isn't a performance," he choked out, his shoulders hunching in complete defeat, entirely exposed to you. "tell me what to do. anything. i don't care how long it takes."

you looked at him for a long moment, watching the genuine, stripped-back desperation in his eyes. only then did you let a very small, guarded smile touch your lips. it wasn't a total surrender, but it was a crack in the ice.

"i'm not ready to give you a second chance," you told him firmly, your voice unwavering.

"and i'm definitely not ready to forget how you treated me. but i am willing to stop running so if you want to try and earn my trust back, you can start by taking me on a real date. next friday. and if you slip back into your old habits even once? i'm gone. do you understand me?"

a breathless, stunned laugh escaped dean's lips. it wasn't his usual confident chuckle.

it was a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, heavy with the realization of just how close he had come to losing you.

"yes," he whispered fiercely, his eyes shining as he looked down at you. "yes, absolutely. whatever you want. however long it takes. i'll be exactly who you need me to be."

you let your eyes drop to his lips, then back to his eyes, finally allowing yourself to relax against his chest. "show me."

dean didn't hesitate.

he leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, desperate, passionate kiss.

it wasn't the smooth, practiced kiss of a guy trying to charm his way into a girl's room.

it was heavy with weeks of longing, raw with the terror of almost losing you, and overflowing with a profound, aching relief.

he poured everything he couldn't put into words into the press of his mouth against yours, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as if he could bind your paths together right then and there.

when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. both of you were breathing heavily, the white puffs of your breath mingling together in the cold air.

dean let out a soft, shaky laugh, a brilliant, breathtaking smile finally spreading across his handsome face—the first real smile he had had in weeks.

"so," dean murmured, his thumb gently tracing your jawline, though his eyes still held that cautious, vulnerable edge. "does this mean my approval ratings are finally going up?"

you let out a genuine laugh, but you didn't let him entirely off the hook. "don't push your luck, di laurentis. you are still on probation."

"i'll take it," he whispered, before leaning right back down to kiss you again, your laughter echoing beautifully in the empty arena.

taglist: @strangegirl26sff @soleilgrec @tinkerbelltxt @maybankslover @junipermarche @cloudyzip @smilezzz-artzs @itmekelpy @dedicatedfangirl2001 @otraweasley99 @user2345 @shatteredinkpot @historygeekqueen @brianna28483 @bisexual-and-intellectual @nattieot7 @moonlitastra

[p1stach-io]

sugar talking

summary: you’re done being dean di laurentis’ favourite secret. (1.9k)

pairing: dean di laurentis x reader

content: mild sexual references, language, mild gaslighting, angst, alcohol.

authors note: it’s finally nice to write something small outside of the pitt (even though i’m going straight back because i know where home is).

part two.

the sound from the speakers was vibrating right through the soles of your sneakers. it’s steady, rhythmic thumping matched the chaotic energy of the boys’ house.

it was a friday night after a massive home-game win, which meant the place was absolutely bursting at the seams.

the air was a thick, humid mix of cheap beer, expensive cologne, and the distinct scent of sweat and victory. in the living room, a makeshift beer-pong tournament was underway.

logan was standing on a coffee table, a red cup raised high in the air, loudly arguing the rules of "bitch cup" with a group of terrified-looking lacrosse players while a crowd of students cheered him on.

over by the crowded hallway couch, garrett graham had his arm draped loosely around hannah wells. his head was tilted back as he laughed at something she said, completely oblivious to the rest of the party around them.

they looked solid and steady. everything you wished you had.

instead, you leaned against the wall near the hallway, a lukewarm red solo cup dangling from your fingers, watching the kitchen.

next to you, your best friend suni nudged your shoulder with her elbow, taking a sip of her own drink.

"don't look now," she murmured, her eyes darting toward the island, "but your resident heartbreaker is putting on a clinic."

you didn't need to look because you already knew.

dean di laurentis was in peak form tonight. his hair was perfectly messy, the sleeves of his cardigan pushed up to his elbows to show off his toned forearms.

that ridiculously charming, dimpled smile was plastered on his face as he laughed with a group of sophomores.

he looked effortless.

he always looked effortless.

but tonight, it didn't make your stomach flutter. it just made it twist into a tight, painful knot.

because you knew exactly what happened would happen after the party ended.

for two months, you had lived in the quiet, intoxicating orbit of his bedroom.

you knew the exact weight of his body pressing you down into the mattress. the heat of his skin radiating against yours, and the heavy, breathless way he murmured your name into the hollow of your throat when the rest of the world faded away.

he possessed a devastating, patient kind of touch.

his hands that knew exactly how to trace your spine until you were helpless under him, lips that memorized yours like a language only the two of you spoke.

it was addictive, beautiful, and utterly consuming.

but it always happened behind closed doors, in the dark. it left you with the growing, heavy realization that while he was consuming your entire mind, you were just a recurring chapter in his very long, very public book.

your major required you to analyse empty rhetoric and spotting when someone was using smooth talking to hide a lack of substance.

you were literally being graded on your ability to see through an operator.

yet, every weekend, you walked right into this house and let dean do exactly that to you.

just past dean's shoulder, you caught sight of john tucker standing by the fridge, a bottle of water in his hand.

tucker had become one of your closest friends since your freshman year despite the two you being complete opposites.

the second he noticed you looking, his face softened into an expression of quiet, heavy sympathy.

tucker had warned you. the moment he had noticed dean eyeing you at a different party a few months ago, he had pulled you aside in the hallway of this very house.

"he's a really good guy, i swear," tucker had told you gently, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice laced with a protective streak.

"but he's a rolling stone, alright? he doesn't stay in one place, and he's got half the campus on speed dial. just... watch your heart."

you had smiled, thanked him, and then gone ahead and fallen entirely under dean's spell anyway.

because when dean di laurentis turned his focus on you, it felt like the sun only shone in your direction.

until tonight.

ten minutes ago, you had watched him flash that exact same dimpled smile at a blonde girl by the keg, his hand lingering just a second too long on her hip as he poured her a drink.

you were done.

entirely, completely done with his bullshit.

"i think i'm gonna head out," you told suni, setting your cup down on a nearby table.

suni followed your gaze to the kitchen, her expression instantly shifting from party-mode to fiercely protective. "do you want me to come with you? we can leave right now. we don't even have to say goodbye."

before you could answer, dean's eyes scanned the room, cutting through the haze of the party until they locked right onto yours.

his smile shifted.

it went from his public, generic "party host" grin to something sharper. simmering.

he excused himself from the group with a smooth nod and made a direct beeline through the crowded kitchen for you.

"go ahead," suni muttered, giving your hand a supportive squeeze.

"put him in his place. i'll be by the front door when you're ready." she gave dean a pointed, icy look as he approached, then melted into the crowd toward the foyer.

dean didn't just walk. he glided, carrying the casual confidence of a guy who assumed he was going to get exactly what he wanted by the end of the night.

across the room, tucker watched him go, letting out a small, worried sigh but staying back, letting you handle it.

"you're hiding in the corner," dean said, leaning his hand on the wall right above your head, effectively trapping you in his space.

the familiar, addictive scent of mint and woodsmoke washed over you, and it took everything in you not to lean into it.

"i don't like when my favorite person hides."

"i'm not hiding, di laurentis," you replied, your voice flat, refusing to let him see how much he was getting to you.

"and i'm pretty sure i'm not your favorite person. i think that title belongs to whatever woman stands closest to you."

dean let out a low, delighted laugh, his chest brushing slightly against your shoulder. he thought you were just playing hard to get.

he thought this was part of the game. "ouch. cold. and here i was, about to tell you that that color looks absolutely devastating on you." his voice dropped an octave, smooth as silk, his head tilting down so his lips were dangerously close to your ear, cutting out the blaring music.

"seriously. i've been waiting all night for everyone to leave so i can get you upstairs."

you didn't blush and you most definitely didn't smile.

you just raised an eyebrow.

it was textbook dean.

meaningless, sweet, and addictive words that he handed out like candy to you, to the girl by the keg, and to half the women on campus.

"wow. that was really good," you deadpanned, pushing your palm against his chest to create some distance between you. "did you practice that in the mirror, or do you just keep the same script for all of us?"

dean blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his features before he recovered, his grin turning playful. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"it means it's all sweet, dean," you said, your voice dropping, sharp and laced with all the frustration you'd been bottling up for weeks.

"it tastes good in the moment, but there's nothing actually there. i spend forty hours a week studying empty campaigns, dean. i know when someone is just trying to win over a crowd. you have a lovely way with words, but i'm officially full. i'm not buying what you're selling anymore."

the playful, cocky smirk finally faltered on his face.

the casual warmth in those vivid blue eyes tightened into something tense and alert as he realized you weren't joking.

he grabbed your wrist, not tightly, but firmly, his thumb brushing over your pulse point.

"hey," he murmured, stepping closer, trying to shut out the rest of the noisy, crowded house. "where is this coming from? come upstairs with me. let's just talk."

"no, dean. that's the fucking problem," you said, pulling your wrist out of his grip.

"we don't talk. you just say exactly what you think i want to hear so you can keep me in your rotation. and i'm not doing it anymore. find someone else to fill your bed tonight."

turning on your heel, you started walking toward the front door where suni was waiting.

"wait—hold on" dean called after you, but you didn't stop. you pushed past the heavy front door, suni right at your flank, stepping out into the crisp, cool night air.

the relative quiet of the gravel driveway was a sharp shock to the system compared to the roaring house.

"suni, let's just get to the car," you muttered, picking up your pace.

before you could even reach the edge of the lawn, the heavy front door thudded open behind you.

"hey" dean's voice cut through the darkness, completely stripped of its usual smooth, unflappable charm.

you stopped, closing your eyes for a brief second to gather your strength, before turning around.

he jogged down the porch steps, the golden light from the house framing his silhouette. he stopped a few feet away, chest heaving slightly, his messy blonde hair tossed by the breeze.

for the first time since you'd known him, dean di laurentis looked entirely unsettled, his striking blue eyes wide and fiercely locked onto yours in the dim light of the driveway.

"what are you doing?" dean asked, his voice raw, gesturing back toward the house. "you're just going to walk out? because i smiled at someone at a party? it was nothing. you know how i am."

"yeah, dean. i do know how you are," you said, your voice terrifyingly calm, the cool wind whipping your hair across your face. "that's exactly why i'm leaving."

"come on," he stepped closer, reaching a hand out, his tone shifting back into that desperate, persuasive rhythm he used so well. "you know it's different with you. when it's just us... you know it means something."

you looked at his extended hand, then looked him dead in the eyes.

the spell was completely broken.

"no, it doesn't," you said, your voice steady, cutting through the night. "if it meant something, you wouldn't make me feel invisible the second the sun comes up. i know exactly what a bad deal looks like, dean. and i am officially withdrawing my terms."

dean froze, his hand dropping back to his side. the utter finality in your posture seemed to hit him like a physical blow.

he opened his mouth to speak—to throw out one last charming line, one last sweet promise—but for the first time in his life, the campus's greatest talker couldn't find a single word.

you didn't wait for him to try.

you just gave him a small, sad nod of closure, turned around, and climbed into the passenger seat of suni's honda civic.

as suni backed down the driveway and pulled onto the main road, you looked at your side mirror. dean hadn't moved an inch.

he was still standing under the dim glow of the driveway lights, looking smaller than he ever had, watching the tail lights of suni’s car disappear into the dark.

for two months, he had been the one calling the shots.

but as the house faded into the distance, you finally breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the game was over.

[lacyydollette]

₊  ֹ  ˖ LATE NIGHT SNACKING WITH BF!GARRETT ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

he’s fucked you so good it feels like you’ve just gone through a three hour workout session. you’re sprawled on his bed, his whole weight pressed on top of you, when your stomach clearly didn’t get the memo and lets out a loud grumble.

“you hungry?”

“a little.” you nod, a little breathless. his expression softens instantly, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “say less. your favorite, yeah?”

which is what brings you both into the kitchen at one in the morning.

he’s quietly whipping up the ingredients for your favorite cinnamon pancakes, trying not to wake the others, while you sit on the counter beside him, a bowl of strawberries balanced between your legs. you bite into one, watching—no, openly admiring—your very attractive boyfriend.

soon-to-be husband, if he keeps this gentleman act up.

the whole “being quiet” thing fails miserably because garrett can’t help cracking dumb jokes and throwing in terrible pickup lines. you laugh way too loud, and he uses it as an excuse to kiss you just to shut you up.

“can you get me the chocolate chips, please?” he mumbles, focused adorably on mixing the dry with the wet ingredients.

you reach into the drawer next to you and hand them over. he leans in to peck your lips in return. “thank you, baby.”

“mhm.”

while waiting for the pancakes to cook, he stands between your legs as you feed him strawberries, rewarding you each time with a soft kiss.

who knew garret “i-don’t-do-girlfriends” graham would be standing in a dimly lit kitchen, hand-feeding his girl pancakes he made from scratch at one in the morning without a single complaint—kissing the syrup off her lips after every bite, making her giggle hysterically. the kind of giggle that makes him grin so wide, looking at her like she’s the only girl in the world.

[thoughtdaughtersworld]

The cure

Garrett Graham x f!reader

Summary: You were in a loving relationship with Garrett Graham, and for the first time in your life, you had someone who loved you unconditionally. The problem was that no matter how much he loved you, it couldn't save you from yourself. You still seemed pretty sad for a girl in love.

Word count: 12k+

Author's Note: This fic is inspired by The Cure by Olivia Rodrigo. I wanted to explore what happens when someone has love but still struggles to feel okay because of the battles happening inside their own head. Hope you guys enjoy!!

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, self-worth issues, jealousy, family issues, and themes of depression.

****************************************************

You had been dating Garrett Graham for almost a year now.

Sometimes, that still felt weird to you.

You met sophomore year in a philosophy class after being forced into the same discussion group. At first, it was nothing more than late-night library sessions and sarcastic arguments over assignments. Then came coffee runs between classes, sitting in freezing hockey arenas just to watch him play, and the way he always walked you home afterward even when his apartment was in the opposite direction.

Somewhere along the way, the line between friendship and something else disappeared completely and now he was yours.

Sweet, patient, impossibly loving Garrett Graham. He was the kind of boyfriend people wrote songs about.

He remembered the smallest things about you. He kissed your forehead when he thought you were overthinking. He pulled you into his lap whenever you got quiet for too long, like he could physically hold you together with enough effort. Loving him came easy. Too easy.

But being loved by him?

That was harder.

Because no matter how gentle Garrett was with you, no matter how much he cared, there were still days where sadness clung to you so tightly you thought it might swallow you whole. Days where you looked at him and felt guilty for not feeling as happy as you were supposed to.

Tonight, the boys were throwing a party after beating Eastwood.

The house was loud in the way hockey houses always were. Music shook the walls while people shouted over each other from every corner of the room. Dean was currently making out with Allie against the kitchen island without a single ounce of shame while Hannah sat comfortably in Justin’s lap laughing at something he whispered into her ear. Across the room, Logan and Tucker were on what had to be their third game of beer pong, yelling like the championship depended on it.

You stood near the counter with a drink in your hand, watching everything happen around you without really feeling part of it.

Your mind had drifted somewhere far away again.

A cold can suddenly pressed against the side of your bare arm and you jumped slightly before turning to glare at your boyfriend.

Garrett grinned instantly, completely unapologetic.

“Did you really have to do that?”

You shoved at his shoulder lightly and he only laughed, slipping an arm around your waist to pull you against him.

“Of course I did,” he said. “How else am I supposed to get your attention?”

His tone was teasing, but there was something softer underneath it. Something that made your chest ache a little.

Garrett noticed everything.

He noticed when your smile started looking forced. When you got too quiet in crowded rooms. When your eyes lost focus because your thoughts had carried you somewhere he couldn’t follow.

And somehow, he always managed to bring you back.

The second your eyes met his, the noise around you faded into nothing.

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Garrett sighed into it immediately, one of his hands tightening slightly against your waist like he needed you closer. When you pulled away, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your hip. He’s about to say something when Logan suddenly yells his name from across the room.

“Graham! Come on, man!”

Garrett groans dramatically and you can already tell what it’s about. After every game, the four boys lined up shots on the kitchen counter and took them at the exact same time. They claimed it was good luck. At first you thought it was ridiculous, but considering how well their season was going, maybe they were onto something.

“You gonna survive two minutes without me?” Garrett asks, smiling softly.

You roll your eyes. “Go do your weird hockey cult tradition.”

He laughs quietly before leaning down to kiss you again. Slower this time. His hand cups the side of your face gently like he can’t help himself.

“You okay?” he asks against your lips and there it is again. That look that felt like he was searching your face for cracks. You give him a smile anyway. “Mhm. Go.” 

He hesitates for half a second longer before finally pulling away. The second he disappears into the crowd, your smile slowly fades.

The noise around you becomes unbearable again almost immediately. Music. Laughter. People talking over each other. Everyone seemed to belong somewhere in the room.

And then there was you.

Standing awkwardly in the middle of it all pretending you fit here. You loved them. You really did.

The boys had welcomed you so easily into their lives because Garrett loved you, and Hannah and Allie had done everything they could to make you feel included from the very beginning. They never made you feel unwanted.

But somehow you still kept everyone at arm’s length.

It was like there was a wall inside you that refused to fully come down no matter how badly you wanted connection. You could laugh with them, spend hours around them, care about them deeply but never completely let them in.

Garrett had been the exception and that still scared you a little.

Not because he’d ever hurt you. God, no. Garrett Graham was probably the gentlest person you’d ever known.

But because he mattered.

And somehow, despite every wall you’d tried to keep standing, he’d slipped past all of them anyway.

Not by forcing his way in. Not by demanding pieces of you before you were ready to give them. He’d just stayed. Patient and steady and impossibly warm. He noticed things without making you feel exposed for them. The forced smiles. The quiet spells. The way your eyes drifted somewhere far away when your thoughts got too loud.

And every single time, he found a way to bring you back.

It became one of the best things that had ever happened to you.

Which was exactly why it terrified you sometimes.

Because even with Garrett loving you the way he did, there were still days where your sadness sat so heavy inside your chest it felt unbearable. Days where you felt raw and exhausted and impossible to fix. Like a wound that had healed wrong.

Those were the days you tried hardest to hide from him.

He already carried enough. Hockey. Classes. Expectations. The pressure of always being needed by everyone around him.

He didn’t need to carry you too.

Your chest tightened suddenly, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Before you could overthink it further, you slipped quietly out of the party and headed upstairs toward Garrett’s room.

The music dulled into a distant thump the second the door shut behind you.

You locked it immediately, not trusting one of the drunk hockey guys not to stumble into the wrong room later, then crossed toward Garrett’s dresser. His scent lingered everywhere in here — cedarwood, clean laundry, something warm and comforting that always made your chest ache in the softest way.

You peeled off your clothes until you were standing in just your tank top and shorts before grabbing one of Garrett’s old Briar hockey shirts from the pile near the bed.

The fabric swallowed you whole, hanging past your thighs. You crawled beneath the blankets slowly, curling into his side of the bed while muffled laughter and music echoed faintly through the floorboards below.

For a while, you just stared at the ceiling.

The sound of the lock clicking made you sit up immediately.

Garrett stumbled inside a second later, trying very hard to look sober despite the obvious sway in his step. The second he spotted you, his entire face lit up.

A dimple appeared in his cheek.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you.

“So much for not letting Logan get you drunk.”

Garrett scoffed dramatically as he kicked the door shut behind him. “The guy is relentless,” he slurred, words running together slightly.

You walked toward him before he could trip over his own feet, grabbing his hands and guiding him toward the bed. The second he sat down, he immediately wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face against your stomach with a soft sigh.

“You smell good,” he mumbled into the fabric of his own shirt hanging off your body.

You smiled despite yourself, fingers sliding gently through his messy hair. “That’s probably because it’s literally your shirt.”

“Hm. Still counts.”

A quiet laugh left you as he pulled you closer between his knees, eyes already half shut from exhaustion and alcohol.

“Why’d you leave?” he asked softly after a moment, voice quieter now. “I was looking for you.”

Your fingers stilled briefly in his hair.

“I just wanted you to have fun with your friends,” you said gently. “Besides, I have biology at eight in the morning and my professor is evil about attendance.”

Garrett hummed against you, clearly listening even as sleep threatened to drag him under. His grip around your waist tightened slightly, like he needed the reassurance that you were still there.

“Still wanted you downstairs,” he mumbled.

Your heart squeezed painfully.

“Yeah?”

“Always.”

The word came out so simple. So honest.

You swallowed hard and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Alright, c’mon. You need to sleep, mister.”

He groaned dramatically as you tugged his shoes off, letting himself fall backward onto the mattress the second you finished. He landed crookedly across the bed, one arm immediately reaching for you even with his eyes closed.

You laughed quietly and pulled the blankets over him.

Garrett looked impossibly soft like this. Sleepy and warm and trusting.

His eyes stayed shut as he whispered, almost like it was instinct, “I love you so much.”

For one fragile second, all the noise in your head went quiet. You leaned down, brushing your fingers gently across his cheek.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

A sleepy smile spread across his face almost immediately and within seconds, Garrett was completely asleep, still reaching for you even in his dreams.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Biology was torture.

Not because the material was hard, but because your professor spoke in the same exact monotone voice for an hour and twenty minutes straight while the room stayed unbearably 

By the end of class, you had doodled all over the margins of your notebook and retained exactly three pieces of information, none of which you were confident were actually correct.

The second class ended, you shoved your notebook into your bag and practically bolted for the door heading back to your apartment with Hannah and Allie.

When they had asked you to move in with them for junior year, you'd agreed almost immediately. Part of it was because you genuinely liked them, and part of it was because you'd spent most of your life feeling lonely. The idea of having roommates who actually wanted you around had felt nice.

The second you walked in, the smell of Allie’s famous chicken curry hit you, and when you looked up, you saw both of them in the living room.

“She’s back!” Allie yelled from her seat, making you jump.

“Geez, Als, tone it down,” Hannah said from beside her, covering her ears.

You flopped down in the middle of them and sighed. “I hate bio.”

Then you turned to Hannah. “How exactly did you get an A in that class? The professor is terrible.”

Hannah tapped her temple. “I got the brains, babes.”

You snorted. "Sure."

As an architecture major, you still didn't understand why biology was required as a gen ed. You had yet to find a single connection between cellular respiration and designing buildings.

“Okay, enough of the science talk. It’s giving me a headache,” Allie said, throwing her hands up dramatically.

You rolled your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to deal with it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, already offended. “I would have you know theatre is genuinely harder than anything.”

You and Hannah both raised an eyebrow, and Allie gasped again.

“You know what? I was going to give you chicken curry, but now I’m withholding it.”

You gasped immediately, begging her to change her mind.

After hanging out with them for a while, you texted Garrett. He was at hockey practice.

You: how's the amateur hangover?

Garrett was a lightweight, and teasing him about it was one of your favorite things. He could genuinely get drunk off three shots, and you found that absolutely hilarious.

Garrett: haha

Garrett: Coach is killing us with drills

Garrett: i miss you :(

The stupid smile appeared before you could stop it.

Another message followed.

Garrett: the guys and i are going to malone's later

Garrett: can u come?

Garrett: i think dean would've told allie but if not everyone's invited

Your smile softened.

You: i miss you too

You: and i'll definitely think about it

Three dots appeared.

Garrett: of course

Garrett: gotta go before coach catches me

Garrett: bye. Love you

The words made your chest warm.

You: love you too

The typing bubble disappeared.

You sat there staring at the screen for a second longer than necessary before setting your phone down. After texting Hannah and Allie about Malone's and confirming they wanted to go, you spent the next hour working through assignments.

You were halfway through a discussion post when your phone rang.

You picked it up, automatically assuming it was Garrett.

But you froze the second you heard your father’s voice.

“Dad?” Your voice shook.

“Hey, lovey,” he said softly. The nickname making something uncomfortable twist inside your chest.

In the background, you could hear kids talking and laughing. “Just calling because Rachel wanted to know if you were down to have dinner this weekend?”

You hesitated.

Rachel was your dad’s new wife. He had divorced your mom when you were ten and started dating Rachel soon after. They got married two months later, and he had two kids now, ages eleven and nine.

Your dad had left you screaming and crying for him, and he never looked back. He only called you now maybe twice a year, and even then, it was usually because his wife pushed him to.

“Lovey?” he called again.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah, that works.”

“I’ll let her know.”

He hung up before you could say anything else, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. 

No how are you.

No how's school.

No I miss you.

Nothing.

Then your phone buzzed with a message in the group chat with you, Hannah, and Allie asking if everyone was ready. You typed back that you weren’t feeling up to it anymore, and after a lot of persuasion that didn’t work, they finally gave in. You texted Garrett that you had a lot of assignments to do and would see him tomorrow, and you didn’t wait for a reply before silencing your phone and flipping it over so you wouldn’t have to look at the screen.

You knew exactly what you were feeling.

Every time your dad ended a call, it was like being ten years old all over again, and that feeling of abandonment hit you like a wave. The silence in the room felt too loud, and you knew you could talk to Garrett, but it all felt too raw and ugly to even bring up with him.

So you grabbed your laptop and opened Instagram.

You went to your dad’s page and unblocked him.

Your past therapist had told you that if blocking him was the only way to set a boundary, then that was fine but you never told her that every few months, curiosity won anyway.

You clicked on his profile.

The first picture was of him and Rachel. They were standing on a beach somewhere, smiling at each other like they were the only two people in the world. The caption underneath read, Didn't start living until I found you.

Your jaw tightened.

You told yourself to keep scrolling.

There were family vacations, birthday parties, Christmas mornings, little snapshots of a life that seemed so full of happiness. Every photo looked effortless. Every smile looked genuine.

Then you found a picture of him standing between your half-brother and half-sister.

His arms were wrapped around both of them, pulling them close against his sides. They were grinning at the camera while he looked down at them with a smile you recognized immediately.

The caption was simple.

My pride and joys.

You stared at the screen.

Maybe he didn't mean anything by it. Maybe he wasn't thinking. Maybe it was just a harmless caption that had taken him three seconds to write.

But your brain didn't care about any of that.

All it could focus on was what wasn't there.

Not you.

Never you.

A sharp ache spread through your chest so suddenly that it almost stole the air from your lungs. Before you realized it, tears were slipping down your cheeks.

You slammed the laptop shut and immediately blocked him again.

The room went silent.

And just like that, you weren't twenty-one anymore.

You were ten.

Ten years old, standing on the front porch after he'd driven away.

Ten years old, staring out the window every time a car pulled into the driveway because maybe this time it would be him.

Ten years old, waiting for phone calls that never came and birthdays he forgot and promises he never kept.

The worst part wasn't even that he'd left.

The worst part was that somewhere deep inside you, there was still a little girl trying to figure out why.

Why had it been so easy to leave you?

Why did everyone else seem worth staying for?

What was so wrong with you that your father could love another family so effortlessly while loving you always seemed to feel like an obligation?

The thought hit so hard that your breathing started to shake.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes and tried to force yourself to calm down, but every breath felt too fast, too shallow. The tears wouldn't stop, and no matter how many times you reminded yourself that you were older now, that you had people who loved you, that none of this was your fault, the hurt still felt exactly the same.

A knock at your door pulled you out of it.

You froze for a second before forcing yourself up. When you looked through the peephole, Garrett was standing there, eyes lowered to the floor, a small frown pulling at his face. The sight of him like that made your stomach drop. Panic hit instantly, and without thinking, you turned and rushed back into the bathroom.

You splashed water on your face, trying to get rid of the redness around your eyes, blowing your nose quickly and wiping at your cheeks until you felt slightly more put together. You didn’t want him to see you like this. You didn’t want to see that look on his face either—the one that made it feel like you were something fragile he might not know how to hold without breaking.

By the time you walked back out, your breathing was steadier, your eyes less puffy. You opened the door again.

This time, Garrett was still there, standing a little straighter. In his hands he had a Malone’s bag. His eyes moved over your face immediately, narrowing slightly like he could already tell something was off.

Before you could say anything, he stepped inside and set the bag down without a word. Then he cupped your face gently, tilting your head up so you’d look at him. His arm slipped around you, pulling you into his chest, his chin resting lightly on top of your head.

He didn’t speak at first. He just held you.

And that was almost worse, because it made the lump in your throat come back immediately.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, clinging to him before the tears could start again. The thoughts in your head didn’t stop, though. That quiet voice telling you you didn’t deserve this. That he came here because he felt bad. That you were too much. That he was going to get tired of it eventually. That you were already starting to wear him down.

You clung to him harder, like if you let go even a little bit, you’d fall apart completely.

“What—what are you doing here?” you asked, your voice breaking slightly, like you were trying to distract him, or maybe yourself.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, then pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I brought you some food,” he said quietly.

You frowned at him, because you knew him well enough to know he wasn’t saying the full truth. He wasn’t going to admit he was worried. He never did, not in a way that would make you feel worse.

“Besides,” he added, a small hint of teasing in his voice, “do I need an excuse to see my girlfriend?”

A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

“I guess not,” you murmured.

He pulled you back in again, kissing you softly this time, and you melted into it without thinking. When you broke apart, he guided you toward your room like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He set the food down and ate with you, the two of you falling into an easy quiet after a while. Eventually, he sat back against your headboard, and you rested your head in his lap. His fingers moved through your hair slowly, steady and grounding.

After a few minutes, he spoke.

“Are you going to tell me what’s really wrong now?”

You looked up at him. For a moment, you hesitated, your fingers picking at each other in your lap. You weren’t sure you were ready to go back there fully, but you also knew Garrett wasn’t going to push.

He never did.

“I spoke to my dad,” you said finally.

He didn’t interrupt. He just kept stroking your hair, waiting.

“He has a new family,” you continued quietly. “And he wants me to come visit this weekend.”

Garrett’s expression softened immediately. “And do you want to?”

You shrugged, still avoiding his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

Garrett didn’t respond right away. His hand stayed in your hair, slow and steady, like he was giving you space without letting you feel alone in it.

“I can come with you if you want me to,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

The words hit you immediately.

You shook your head before he even finished the sentence. “Absolutely not. I can’t make you do that.”

Just the idea of it made something twist in your chest. Taking him there, putting him in the middle of that, letting him see all of it—it felt wrong in a way you couldn’t properly explain. Like it would somehow make everything more real, more exposed. Like you’d be dragging him into a version of your life you were still trying to keep separate from him.

Garrett didn’t look surprised by your answer. If anything, his expression softened even more.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Your eyes flicked up to his.

“I’m not doing it because you’re making me,” he added. “I’m offering because I want to.”

Your throat tightened slightly, and you looked away again, focusing on your fingers instead of his face.

“I don’t want you to see it,” you admitted quietly. The words came out smaller than you intended. “I don’t want you to see… that part of me.”

There was a pause, and then his hand shifted, gently tilting your chin back toward him so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“That part of you?” he repeated, not unkindly. Just confused in a way that made it clear he didn’t accept what you were implying.

Your chest tightened again.

You didn’t answer right away, because there wasn’t a clean way to explain it. How do you tell someone that you feel like there’s a version of your life that’s too messy, too painful, too much—and you’re scared that if they see it, they’ll start looking at you differently?

Garrett seemed to understand the silence anyway.

“I don’t need everything to make sense,” he said quietly. “And I don’t need you to be okay all the time.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek like he was grounding you back into the moment.

“I just need you to stop acting like I’m gonna disappear the second things get hard.”

That landed heavier than you expected.

Because that was exactly what your brain kept preparing for.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The entire drive to your father's house felt like you were heading toward an execution.

You sat in the passenger seat with your hands wrapped tightly around the pie resting in your lap. It was something you'd picked up on the way over, a last-minute decision that somehow made the visit feel less empty. The aluminum tin dug into your palms as you stared out the window, watching familiar neighborhoods blur past while your stomach twisted itself into knots.

It had been three years since you'd seen your dad. The last time being at your mothers funeral and even that was just a quick check in with you before he had to leave.

Three years since you'd stood in the same room as him, heard his voice without it coming through a phone speaker, looked him in the eye instead of seeing him in pictures online. There had been the occasional text over the years. Birthday messages. Holiday greetings. Random check-ins that always felt awkward and forced. You usually responded with something short before letting the conversation die.

You still weren't entirely sure why you'd agreed to come.

Maybe it was because he'd mentioned Rachel wanted to see you. Maybe it was because part of you had always been curious about the woman who'd become more important than his daughter. Whatever the reason, it felt too late to back out now.

Every few minutes Garrett's hand would leave the steering wheel and find yours. Sometimes he squeezed your fingers. Sometimes his thumb brushed over your knuckles. He never said anything about it, but you knew he could tell how nervous you were.

The house came into view far too quickly.

Garrett pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine. The sudden silence felt deafening.

You stared at the front door.

You could still leave.

You could text your dad and tell him something came up. You could claim you were sick. You could tell Garrett to put the car in reverse and drive away before anyone knew you'd arrived.

A warm hand settled over yours before you could disappear too far into your thoughts.

You looked over and found Garrett already watching you.

"Last chance to run," you muttered, twisting his fingers between your own in a desperate attempt to calm yourself.

A small smile appeared on his face.

"Not happening."

You sighed dramatically. "No?"

"Nope. I've already spent all morning preparing my polite boyfriend routine."

That earned the smallest laugh from you.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Firm handshake. Good posture. Lots of eye contact. Maybe a 'yes, sir' if I'm feeling ambitious."

You rolled your eyes.

"You're ridiculous."

His smile softened as he squeezed your hand.

"You don't have to do this alone."

The teasing disappeared from his voice completely.

"If you decide you've had enough, just squeeze my hand."

"And then what?"

"I'll tell everyone I suddenly got diarrhea and we need to leave immediately."

A surprised laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

"I'm serious."

"You are absolutely not."

"I am. I'll even add dramatic stomach cramps if necessary."

Your smile grew despite yourself.

The sight seemed to relax him as much as it relaxed you.

He leaned across the center console and kissed you gently. It wasn't a passionate kiss or a dramatic one. It was grounding. Familiar. The kind of kiss that reminded you that no matter how awful tonight became, Garrett would be there beside you through all of it.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment.

"We got this."

You weren't entirely convinced.

But you nodded anyway.

The two of you climbed out of the car, and Garrett's hand settled against your lower back as you walked up the driveway. The gesture was subtle, but it made you feel steadier somehow.

Before you could knock, the front door swung open.

Your father stood there smiling.

"Lovey."

The nickname hit you harder than you expected.

Before you could react, he wrapped his arms around you.

Your entire body went rigid.

It wasn't that you hated him. You weren't even sure if hate was the right word for what you felt. The problem was that he was practically a stranger now, and strangers didn't get to hug you like they still knew you.

When he pulled away, he looked genuinely happy to see you.

"How are you, kiddo?"

"Good. Fine."

The answer came out too quickly.

You immediately thrust the pie into his hands.

"I didn't know what to bring."

His smile widened.

"You didn't have to bring anything."

Then his attention shifted to Garrett standing beside you.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face.

"Well, who's this?"

You opened your mouth, but Garrett beat you to it.

He stepped forward and held out his hand.

"Garrett Graham, sir. Her boyfriend."

For a split second your dad looked genuinely caught off guard.

Then he laughed and shook Garrett's hand.

"Nice to meet you. You can call me Aaron."

Garrett smiled politely.

"Nice to meet you too, Aaron”. Your father stepped aside and invited both of you in. The first thing you noticed wasn't the furniture or the decorations. It was the photographs,they were everywhere.

Family vacations. Christmas mornings. Birthday parties. School pictures. Smiling faces frozen behind glass frames lining shelves and walls. An entire life. An entire family.

"Rach," your father called. "She's here."

Rachel appeared from the kitchen almost immediately, two children following behind her.

The second she saw you, her face lit up.

"Oh my gosh." Before you could react, she pulled you into a hug.

"It's been so long."

The last time you'd seen her in person had been your father's wedding. You'd still been a kid.

"Yeah," you answered quietly.

The silence that followed felt awkward until Garrett smoothly stepped forward.

"I'm Garrett, by the way. It's nice to meet you Mrs Hale"

Rachel smiled and shook his hand.

"Well, luckily I made enough food for a small army."

Garrett grinned.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Oh, don't call me ma'am. You're making me feel ancient." That made him laugh.

"Sorry. Thank you, Rachel."

Your father pointed toward the two kids. "This is Rowan and that's Reagan ." The older boy gave a small wave and the younger girl immediately hid behind Rachel's leg before peeking around it and waving shyly.

You waved back.

The moment felt strangely surreal. You already knew what they looked like. You'd seen enough pictures over the years for that. But standing in front of them felt different. Real.

Dinner was ready soon after, and everyone gathered around the table. You ended up seated beside Garrett while your father sat at the head. Rachel sat across from you with the kids on either side of her.

The longer dinner went on, the harder it became to ignore the ache in your chest.

Your eyes drifted toward Reagan.

She leaned against your father's shoulder while she talked. Without thinking, he reached over and helped cut up her food. A moment so small nobody else noticed but it hit you like a punch. She was the same age you'd been when he left.

Looking at her made it impossible not to think about that little girl you used to be. The one who waited by windows. The one who thought every phone call meant Dad was coming back. The one who couldn't understand why she suddenly wasn't enough anymore.

The lump forming in your throat became difficult to swallow.

Under the table, Garrett's hand found yours. His fingers slid between yours naturally, like he already knew exactly where your thoughts had gone. Two gentle squeezes.

‘Are you okay?’

The code had developed over months together. Small signals exchanged in crowded rooms and long lectures and uncomfortable situations.

You squeezed his hand once.

‘I'm okay.’

It wasn't entirely true but Garrett didn't let go. Throughout dinner, Rachel made a noticeable effort to include you. She asked questions about your classes, your friends, your plans after graduation. Whenever conversation started drifting away from you, she found a way to bring you back into it.

You appreciated it more than you could admit, but at the same time, every attempt somehow reminded you how much time had already passed.

How many years had existed without you sitting at this table.

How many dinners had happened before this one.

How many memories filled the walls around you.

You answered politely when spoken to, but the entire evening felt distant, almost unreal, like you were standing outside a window looking in.

Thankfully, Garrett seemed to sense it. Whenever attention shifted toward you for too long, he effortlessly redirected it toward himself. He answered questions, told stories, and made everyone laugh.

Within twenty minutes, Rowan was asking him about hockey, Reagan had decided he was her favorite person at the table, and even your father seemed amused by him.

Garrett handled the conversation so naturally that nobody appeared to notice how often he was shielding you from it.

Nobody except you.

After the dinner, Your father stood in the driveway long after dinner had ended, insisting on walking the two of you to the car despite your quiet protests. The evening had already drained you enough. The last thing you wanted was to be left alone with him, waiting for whatever apology or explanation he thought would somehow make things better.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Garrett,” he said, reaching out to shake Garrett’s hand. His smile was polite, almost strained at the edges, like he was trying too hard to make the moment look normal. “Hopefully this won’t be the last time we see each other.” 

The words were directed at Garrett, but your father was looking at you when he said them. You immediately looked away because you couldn't bear the hopeful expression on his face.

“It was nice meeting you too, sir,” Garrett said, courteous as always, his voice calm and steady in a way that made you feel even more fragile by comparison. He looked at you then, his expression quietly asking whether you were going to be okay, and you gave him the smallest nod you could manage before he slipped into the car.

You wrapped your arms around yourself while your father remained standing beside the driveway, the night air suddenly feeling too cold against your skin. He was smiling, but it did not reach his eyes. If anything, it looked like the smile was hurting him.

“I’m happy you gave us a chance and came over,” he said softly.

You did not know what to say to that. You had given him a chance, maybe, but you still did not understand why you had agreed to come in the first place. Maybe a part of you had been tired of carrying all that anger alone. Maybe a smaller, sadder part of you had wanted to see if he would be any different now that enough time had passed.

“Rachel and the kids were really happy you came,” he added.

You nodded, still saying nothing, because your silence was safer than your voice. If you spoke, you knew the words would come out sharper than you wanted them to.

“I know with your mum gone, I haven’t—”

That was enough.

Your chest tightened immediately, and before he could finish, you cut him off. This was not a conversation you were willing to have standing in a driveway, as though one dinner could somehow erase everything that had broken between you. You could feel your pulse in your throat, the old grief and the newer anger twisting together until you could hardly tell them apart.

“I would rather not talk about that,” you said, your voice strained but controlled. “Thank you for inviting me. You have a beautiful family.”

You did not wait for him to answer, and turned away before he could say anything else, because if he kept talking, you were not sure you would be able to keep yourself together. You slid into the car and shut the door behind you, and Garrett started the engine without asking questions, pulling out of the driveway and leaving your father behind in the light spilling from the porch.

The drive to Garrett’s apartment was painfully quiet. It was not an uncomfortable silence, exactly. You stared out the window and tried so hard not to cry that your throat began to ache. You were angry, but you were also ashamed of how much it still hurt. You hated that he could still get to you. 

You hated that a single dinner had dug up all the things you had tried so hard to bury. And underneath all of it was the awful, quiet fact that you did not even fully understand what you were feeling. Grief, resentment, humiliation and loneliness all blurred together until your chest felt heavy enough to collapse under.

When you finally looked up, you realized you were already in front of Garrett’s apartment. You did not have to say that you did not want to be alone. You would never have admitted it out loud, not with your pride and he knew that.

Tears began to spill over before you could stop them and you did not even know what you were crying for at first. Maybe it was for your father, and all the years of being left behind. Maybe it was the humiliating ache of seeing him happy while you were still carrying everything he had done. Maybe it was the way Garrett could look at you and seem to understand the whole mess of your heart without you having to explain a single thing. Whatever it was, the tears came faster once they started, and suddenly you could not hold yourself together anymore.

“Baby…” Garrett said, and his voice cracked with concern.

He did not hesitate. He reached for you immediately and pulled you into him and the second you were in his arms, something in you finally gave way completely, like your body had been waiting all evening for permission to fall apart.

“I’m sorry… I don’t know why—” you managed, embarrassed even through the tears, because crying in front of someone always made you feel raw and exposed .

Garrett pulled back just enough to look at you, and when he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushed gently over your skin. His frown was soft, not disappointed or frustrated, just full of quiet concern that made your chest ache all over again.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said. “Never apologize for showing your emotions.”

That made your chin wobble, and the helplessness of it only made you cry harder. His tenderness was almost worse than anger would have been, because there was no edge to hide behind with Garrett. There was only honesty and care.

“Seeing him happy should make me feel good,” you said, voice trembling as it finally broke open. “But it doesn’t.”

Your breath hitched.

“He left me,” you continued, words spilling faster now, like once they started they couldn’t be stopped. “And he didn’t look back. I wasn’t enough for him to stay.”

Your fingers curled tighter into Garrett’s shirt as if it was the only thing anchoring you.

“When my mum died, he came to the funeral,” you said, swallowing hard, your voice shaking more with every sentence. “And all he did was talk about how sorry he was. How he should’ve been there. How he failed her.”

A bitter laugh slipped out through your tears, but it didn’t hold any humor.

“And I just sat there listening to him talk about her like she was the only thing he lost.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“She wasn’t the only person he abandoned.”

The words came out quieter this time, heavier.

“I lost my mum,” you whispered, “and somehow I ended up comforting him.”

You shook your head slightly, like you were still trying to make sense of it years later. Like it still didn’t sit right inside you.

“And tonight,” you continued, voice cracking again, “watching him laugh with his kids… acting like this version of him actually exists… I just kept thinking—”

Your breath broke.

“Why couldn’t I get that?”

.The words hung in the air between you, raw and aching, like once they left your mouth there was no taking them back. For a second, you almost wished you could swallow them again. You could still feel the weight of them settling in your chest, the sting of admitting something you had spent years refusing to say out loud.

Garrett’s face softened. He pulled back just enough to brush the hair away from your face, but he didn’t let you go. His hands stayed on you as if he was afraid you might disappear if he loosened his grip even a little.

“You were a kid,” he said quietly, each word careful and steady. “You didn’t do anything to make somebody stay or leave. That was on him. Not you.”

His jaw tightened for a second, and you could see the anger he was trying to keep under control, not at you, never at you, but at the man who had made you carry this for so long.

“I know it hurts,” he added more softly. “And I know it messes with your head seeing him be a different person with someone else. But that does not mean there was something wrong with you. It means he failed you.”

His thumb brushed gently over your cheek.

“You were always worth staying for,” he said, his voice lower now, almost tender enough to break your heart. “He just wasn’t capable of doing it.”

Something inside you cracked open at that, and you felt yourself love him even harder for saying exactly what you needed to hear. You leaned in before you could overthink it and kissed him, putting every bit of love and pain and relief into it.

Garrett kissed you back immediately, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as he pulled you closer. Your fingers slipped into his hair, and for a moment it felt like everything else disappeared. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing a little harder.

“Trust me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lips, “I want nothing more than this right now, but not when you’re hurting like this.”

You groaned softly, but you nodded because you understood, even if you were still a little frustrated.

He kissed your forehead once, then got out of the car and came around to your side before you could protest. When he opened the door, he lifted you into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your head against his chest as he carried you inside.

The apartment was quiet when you got in.

Too quiet.

You looked around, surprised. “Where are the boys?”

It was Saturday night, and usually that meant noise, movement, people somewhere in the background. At least one of them should have been here.

You caught the small hesitation in Garrett’s face before he answered, and your brows drew together.

“They had plans tonight,” he said. You frowned a little but you let it go.

Garrett carried you upstairs without another word. In his room, you changed into one of his hoodies while he took off his clothes, and soon you were both under the covers.

He pulled you close immediately, wrapping himself around you until his face was buried in your neck, holding you like he knew exactly how much you needed it.

**************************************************************************

The next morning, you woke slowly to the sound of water running in the bathroom. For a few seconds, you lay there half-awake, staring up at the ceiling, until the events of the night before began to settle back over you in pieces. The dinner. Your father. The tears you had tried so hard to hold back. Garrett’s arms around you when you finally gave in.

He was in the shower.

You turned onto your side and stayed there for a moment, still wrapped in the warmth of his bed, listening to the sound of the water and letting yourself breathe before the day fully began. You wanted to do something nice for him. After last night, after everything he had done without asking anything in return, making breakfast felt like the least you could do.

So you got up quietly and made your way downstairs, still half asleep but smiling a little at the thought of surprising him.

By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, voices drifted out from the kitchen. Dean, Tucker, and Logan were in there, talking as they moved around, and you instinctively smiled, already ready to step inside before one word caught your attention and stopped you cold.

Garrett’s name.

Your feet came to a halt before you even realized you were listening.

“Coach almost lost his mind,” Logan said. You frowned, standing still in the hallway, unsure what they were talking about but unable to make yourself walk away now.

“I mean, what else was he supposed to do?” Tucker replied. “He spent two months setting that dinner up.” A chair scraped against the floor and your stomach tightened for reasons you didn’t understand yet.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that angry,” Dean said, sounding tired. “Especially because Garrett didn’t show up.” Didn’t show up to what?

“He kept calling him,” Tucker said. “I’m pretty sure he called him like ten times, but his phone was off. I honestly thought he was gonna throw it.”

You took a small step closer without meaning to, your body moving before your mind could stop it. You were still hidden from view but still close enough to hear everything

“The Bruins guy looked pissed too,” Logan muttered. Your face fell the second you heard that.

“What was the point of getting scouts there if the captain couldn’t even show up?” Logan added, and the word landed like a blow.

Your thoughts started moving too fast, too scattered to catch. A dinner. Coach. Garrett not answering. Last night flashed in your head all at once, your question, the hesitation in his voice, the way he’d said the guys had gone out like it was nothing important.

But it hadn’t been nothing. It had been important. Important enough that he should have been there.

Your mouth went dry.

“Has anyone seen him this morning?” Tucker asked.

“No,” Logan said. “He replied to my flood of messages at like twelve.”

“Coach is gonna kill him when he gets to practice,” Tucker said, and the three of them laughed again, but you couldn’t focus on that. All you could focus on was that Garrett had missed something big for you.

“Yeah, he better have a damn good excuse,” Logan said. “Coach was really adamant about Garrett meeting the scouts.” You already knew the answer. You knew exactly where Garrett had been and why he hadn’t gone and it made your throat tighten so suddenly it hurt to swallow.

Then Dean’s voice cut through the silence, lower now.

“Do you think it’s because of her?” The kitchen went quiet after that. No one answered right away.

“I don’t know,” Tucker said eventually, but his voice had lost some of its ease. Your fingers curled tighter around the hoodie you were wearing, the fabric bunching in your fists as you stood frozen in the hallway.

“I’m just saying Garrett’s never blown something like that off before,” Logan said.

Nobody rushed to defend you or argued that the statement he made was false.

Dean spoke again, and this time there was something gentler in his voice, something tired and conflicted.

“I love her,” he said. “I really do. She’s good for him. But Garrett’s been dropping a lot lately. He missed practice when she was sick, which I’m not saying was wrong. I just—I don’t think it’s healthy.”

The words settled over you like cold water.

“Garrett loves people hard,” Dean said after a moment. “When he cares about someone, he gives them everything. But lately it feels like he’s been giving so much of himself away that there might not be anything left.”

You stood frozen in the hallway, your heart beating too hard, too fast, as if it had suddenly forgotten how to be calm. The space around you felt smaller somehow, the walls closing in until it was hard to breathe properly.

And just like that, every ugly thought you had ever tried to bury came rushing back.

The missed practices. The late nights. The way he always showed up the second you needed him. The way he had stayed beside you yesterday instead of being wherever Coach had expected him to be. The way he had held you all night while you cried over a man who had already hurt you more than enough.

Garrett never made you feel guilty, not once. He never sighed like you were asking too much. Never acted irritated. Never made you feel like loving you came with a price. He gave and gave and gave, as if caring for you was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe that was exactly what scared you because Garrett loved so completely that he didn’t seem to know where to draw the line. He kept reaching, kept giving, kept choosing you so easily that it almost felt like he didn’t notice what it cost him.

Your throat tightened at the thought of the scouts. The Bruins. All the opportunities that people spent years fighting for, hoping for, praying for. And Garrett had let one of them go.

For you.

The realization should have wrapped itself around your heart like warmth. Instead, it sank there like a stone.

Because no matter how many times Garrett told you otherwise, you couldn’t stop thinking the same thing anyway.

He shouldn’t have had to do that.

Your eyes stung.

You loved Garrett. God, you loved him so much it almost hurt to admit it even to yourself. You loved the way he remembered the smallest things about you, the way he reached for your hand without thinking, the way he looked at you like you were delicate in all the right ways—not broken, not a problem, just worth caring for.

But standing there, listening to his friends worry about him, something inside you shifted.

Not because you loved him any less.

Because you loved him enough to be afraid.

Afraid that one day he would wake up and realize how much he had given up for you. Afraid he would look back and see all the things he missed because he chose to stay by your side. Afraid that somewhere down the line, all that love would turn into regret.

And the worst part was that you weren’t sure you would survive it if it did.

A shaky breath left you.

Maybe Dean was wrong. Maybe Garrett would laugh it off and tell them they were overreacting. Maybe none of this meant what your mind was trying so hard to make it mean.

But the thought had already taken root inside your chest and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t pull it out.

You didn’t remember walking back upstairs, only that somehow your legs carried you there.The conversation from the kitchen replaying endlessly in your head.

Garrett’s been dropping a lot lately.

I don’t think it’s healthy.

You were still shaking by the time you reached his bedroom door, and for a few seconds you just stood there with your hand around the handle, trying to convince yourself that there had to be some other explanation for what you had heard downstairs, some version of the truth that did not leave you feeling like you were about to split open from the inside, but deep down you already knew there wasn’t. 

When you finally pushed the door open, Garrett was standing near his dresser pulling a clean shirt over his head, his hair still damp from the shower and darkened at the ends with water, and the second he looked up and saw you, his whole face softened in that easy, familiar way that usually made your chest feel warm.

“Hey,” he said with a small smile, “I was wondering where you went.”

The smile disappeared almost immediately when he got a proper look at your face, and concern replaced it so fast it made your stomach turn. He crossed the room in a few quick steps and stopped in front of you, his hands settling gently on your arms as his eyes searched your face like he already knew something was wrong but needed to hear it from you anyway. “What’s wrong?”

You swallowed hard, because your throat already felt too tight to let the words out easily, but once you spoke there was no stopping it. “Did you miss the scouts dinner yesterday?”

Everything in him seemed to still, not in a way anyone else would have noticed, but you noticed because you knew him too well by now, because you could read the smallest changes in his face like other people read a page. His fingers tightened slightly around your arms before he took a slow breath and looked at you with something that already looked too close to guilt.

“How did you—”

“You did.” Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to. “Please tell me you didn’t miss it because of me.”

He looked away first, and a hollow, disbelieving laugh slipped out of you, though there was nothing funny about it at all, nothing even remotely close to it, and you took a step back before you could stop yourself because suddenly you couldn’t stand the feel of his hands on you anymore, not because he had done anything wrong, but because the guilt inside you was crawling under your skin like something alive.

“Why would you do that?” you asked, shaking your head as if you could physically shake the answer loose. “Why didn’t you tell me? Garrett, I would’ve been fine. It was one dinner.”

His expression softened immediately, and it made him look so sincere, so gentle, so heartbreakingly convinced that he had done the right thing. “You weren’t fine.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“You weren’t fine,” he repeated, quieter this time but no less certain. “You were crying in my car. You could barely breathe. You spent the whole night convincing yourself that your father leaving was somehow your fault.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Your eyes burned instantly. “No, it doesn’t. Hockey matters. Your future matters. Scouts matter.”

“You matter.”

The answer came so fast it sounded like instinct. He said it like he had already decided, already chosen, already let his heart go exactly where it wanted to go, and all you could think about was the cost.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, and even to your own ears it sounded like the beginning of a confession you were trying very hard not to make.

He frowned. “Doing what?”

“Choosing me.”

Garrett looked genuinely confused, like he could not understand how something so simple could feel so impossible to you. “As opposed to what?”

“As opposed to everything else.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh and ran a hand through his damp hair. “You say that like I’m being forced into this. I missed one dinner.”

“One dinner with Bruins scouts.”

“So?”

You stared at him, because the fact that he could say it like that, like it was nothing, like it was just one unimportant thing on a long list of other things, made your chest ache in a way that felt almost unbearable. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“Do you?” His voice wasn’t raised, but there was an edge to it now, frustration finally slipping through. “You needed me.”

“And you needed to be there.”

“I wanted to be with you.”

Tears stung your eyes harder now, and your voice cracked around the next question before you could stop it. “Why?”

The frustration disappeared from his face all at once, replaced by something that looked almost like heartbreak. He seemed to understand then that this was not really about the dinner, or the scouts, or the missed opportunity, and the realization passed between you both in one silent, devastating second.

“Because I love you.”

Your head shook before you could stop it. “That’s not enough.”

His eyes widened slightly. “What?”

“It shouldn’t be enough.” You wiped angrily at the tears slipping down your cheeks, furious at yourself for crying, furious at him for saying the exact thing that made everything inside you feel worse. “You shouldn’t be missing important things because your girlfriend is having a bad day.”

“A bad day?” He looked at you like he couldn’t believe what you were saying. “That’s what you think last night was?”

You looked away, because you did not know what else to call it, and the truth was that you had spent the whole night feeling like something inside you was coming apart. All you knew was that he had given up something important because of you, and the weight of that had begun settling in your chest like lead.

“You don’t understand.”

“No,” Garrett said quietly, “I don’t think you understand.”

You looked up at him again, and there was something in his eyes that made your stomach twist. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t annoyance. It was pain, pure and open and immediate. “You keep acting like loving you is some kind of burden.”

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“It is.”

His voice cracked just slightly, and the sound of it nearly split you in half.

“You keep acting like every time I choose you, I’m losing something.”

“You are.”

“I’m not”

The force in his voice startled both of you into silence, and for a second all you could hear was the sound of your own uneven breathing. Garrett dragged in a breath, his eyes bright now, and you could tell he was trying not to push too hard, trying not to turn this into something uglier than it already was.

“You don’t get to decide what matters more to me,” he said.

And that was the problem, because he meant it. He meant every word, every choice, every sacrifice, every missed dinner and skipped practice and late night spent holding you together when you were falling apart. There was no resentment in him, no frustration, no regret, nothing you could point to and say this is why I’m leaving, this is the reason it hurts, because he had none of that, and somehow that made everything feel even worse.

You thought about what you had heard downstairs. Dean saying Garrett loved people hard. Logan and Tucker talking about the scouts and Coach and how Garrett had never blown something like this off before. Nobody had denied it, and that silence had scared you more than actual blame would have, because if even they could see it, then maybe the truth had been there all along.

“One day you’re going to regret it,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Garrett went very still. “What?”

“One day you’re going to wake up and realize how much you’ve given up.”

His face changed immediately, like the words had hit somewhere deep and ugly and tender all at once. 

“You’ll resent me.”

The pain in his eyes was immediate and raw, and it made your throat close up because you had hurt him now, really hurt him, and you hated yourself for it even as you kept going. “I could never resent you,” he said, and his voice was breaking now. “You don’t know that.”

You loved him. God, you loved him so much it was almost cruel, because if you didn’t love him this would have been easier, this would have just been anger or fear or a stupid misunderstanding you could laugh off later, but you did love him, and that made every sacrifice feel heavier, every compromise feel dangerous, every choice feel like another thing waiting to collapse. The realization hit you so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs: you were not afraid he would stop loving you, you were afraid of what happened after he finally realized how much of himself he had given away.

A sob caught in your throat.

He stepped toward you. You stepped back.

You closed your eyes for a second, because you could feel the end of this already, and you knew that if you looked at him too long, you would lose your nerve. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The room went still.

When you opened your eyes again, he looked like he had not understood the words, like maybe if he just stared at you hard enough the sentence would somehow rearrange itself into something kinder.

“What does that mean?”

Your tears came harder now, hot and unstoppable. “I think we should break up.”

The color drained from his face so fast it scared you, and for a second all he did was stare at you, waiting for you to laugh, waiting for you to tell him you were spiraling and overreacting and never meant it, but you didn’t say any of that, because you knew if you did you would never leave, and leaving had become the only thing that felt remotely possible.

“No,” he said finally, but it was quiet, like the word had fallen out of him more than been spoken. 

“Garrett—”

“No.” He took one step toward you, his eyes locked on yours. “ because this doesn’t make any sense. You’re upset because I missed a dinner. Fine, be upset. Be angry. Yell at me if you want. But we are not breaking up over this.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?” he asked, and now there was genuine confusion in his voice, almost desperation. “Because I don’t understand. I chose to be there for my girlfriend. Why are you acting like I did something horrible?”

You looked away because he couldn’t see it. Garrett loved you in a way that made sacrifice feel natural, and all you could think about was how much he had already given up to stay beside you. You thought about last night, how he had sat with you through the dinner, how he had squeezed your hand every time he felt you drifting, how he had held you until you fell asleep as if your sadness was his own burden to carry, and now you knew what had cost him that time, what he had walked away from, and suddenly it felt unbearable.

You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand. “I’m tired.”

His expression softened instantly. “Then let’s talk about this when you’ve calmed down.”

Your voice cracked on the word. “No, because if I don’t say it now, I never will.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, forcing yourself to look at him even though it felt like looking straight at the thing that would destroy you. “A part of me was relying on you.”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

“A part of me was relying on you to fix me.”

The words tasted awful the second they were out, humiliating and ugly and too honest to take back. Garrett shook his head immediately. 

“No, you weren’t.”

Your voice broke completely this time. “Every time I was sad, every time I felt awful, every time I started spiraling, you were there. Every single time.”

“Because I wanted to be.”

“I know,” you cried, and that was the problem, because you did know. “That’s the problem.”

He looked lost now, and the sight of it made your heart twist with guilt because you had been his whole world for a moment too long, and you had let yourself depend on that feeling because it was easier than facing the mess inside your own head.

“I kept thinking,” you said, voice trembling, “if you loved me enough, maybe eventually all this would go away.”

You gestured helplessly toward yourself, toward the sadness, the anger, the loneliness you had carried for so long you barely knew what it felt like to be without it. “The heaviness. The overthinking. The part of me that always feels wrong.”

“But it didn’t,” you whispered. “It didn’t go away.”

The room blurred through your tears. “I love you so much, Garrett.”

That hurt him. You could see it instantly.

He took a step toward you. “Stop. You don’t have to be fixed.”

“Maybe not.” Your breath shook. “But you shouldn’t have to carry me while I figure out how to fix myself.”

The silence after that was heavy and awful, because he understood now, maybe too much, and the realization sat between you like something fragile and doomed. “I don’t carry you,” he said quietly.

The pain in his voice almost made you change your mind.

“You do,” you whispered back. “You notice everything. When I get quiet. When I stop eating properly. When I start overthinking. When I spiral. You notice all of it.”

“Because I care about you.”

“And I care about you too,” you said, the words coming out desperate now, almost pleading. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

“No,” he repeated, this time with more force, though it still sounded like it was tearing something open inside him. “Don’t say that.”

“You deserve somebody who doesn’t need this much from you,” you said, talking over him now because if you stopped you might lose the nerve to keep going. “You deserve somebody who isn’t sad all the time. Somebody easy.”

His face twisted like you had struck him.

“You think you’re hard to love?” he asked, and the devastation in his voice nearly made you take it all back right there. “You actually think that?”

You looked away, because yes, you did, every day of your life, and hearing it from your own mouth made it worse. Garrett stared at you for a long time before he dragged a shaking hand down his face and let out a breath that sounded like it hurt.

“I’ve spent almost a year loving you,” he said, rough and raw now, “and somehow you’ve convinced yourself I do it because I have to.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“I don’t stay because I feel sorry for you. I don’t choose you because I’m trying to save you. I choose you because you’re you.”

The tears would not stop now, and you wished they would, because all of this was too much, too honest, too painful to survive in one room. You wanted to believe him, you wanted to take the words and hold them somewhere safe, but there was still that terrified part of you, the part that had been abandoned once and never really recovered, whispering that nothing this good could last.

“What happens when you get tired too?” you asked quietly.

Garrett looked at you like that broke him in a place he had no words for.

He took a breath, and when he spoke again his voice was almost gentle. “Then we deal with it together.”

He always wanted to fix things together. Always wanted to stay, always wanted to talk, always wanted to build something strong enough to survive whatever came next, and you could not stop thinking that someday he would wake up and realize how much he had already given and how little he had gotten back in return.

Maybe that made you a coward. Maybe it made you cruel. But all you could see now was the future, and in it Garrett looked tired and disappointed and quietly resentful, and the image was enough to make your chest hurt all over again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. You could barely see through your tears anymore, but you forced the next words out anyway because this was the part that would break both of you, and once it started you couldn’t stop it. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” His voice cracked. “We can figure this out.”

You shook your head.

He was already trying, already reaching, already turning this into something solvable, and all you could think was that he should not have to do any of that for you, not after last night, not after the scouts, not after all the pieces of himself he’d already given away just to stay beside you.

The room suddenly felt unbearable. You could not breathe. Could not think. Could not stay one second longer without either collapsing into his arms or saying something even worse.

So before your courage failed you, before you turned into a mess of apologies and broken promises, you reached for the door.

“Please.”

The word stopped you because it wasn’t loud, it wasn’t angry, it was worse than that, it was broken, and hearing him sound like that nearly made you turn around.

You almost did it, almost turned back, almost let him pull you into his arms and undo every word you had just said, but if you looked at him again you would not leave, and if you did not leave now, you knew you never would.

So you opened the door and walked out.

By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs your vision was blurred completely, and the boys were still in the kitchen. Dean looked up first, then Logan, then Tucker, and the second they saw your face, all three of them froze. Concern flooded the room immediately.

“Hey—” Dean stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor. “What happened?”

You could not answer, because if you tried, the sob that had been sitting in your throat for the last ten minutes would finally tear loose and leave you wrecked in front of all of them. Tucker looked toward the stairs, then back at you, and the understanding that slowly settled over his face was almost worse than the confusion.

“Where’s Garrett?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head.

The silence in the kitchen was deafening.

Nobody knew what to say. Nobody knew what had happened. They only knew something terrible had. Behind you, there were footsteps upstairs, fast and urgent, followed by Garrett’s voice calling your name, and the sound of it nearly destroyed you because it was so full of panic and grief and love and everything you could not bear to hold anymore.

You reached for the front door.

You heard someone move behind you, heard Garrett’s voice again, more desperate this time, but you did not turn around, because if you did, you would stay.

So you opened the door and stepped outside, and for the first time in almost a year, you walked away from the person you loved most.

[evermoresqueiswriting]

My Regards

Dean Di Laurentis

pairing: dean di laurentis x figure skater!reader

plot: Beau's childhood best friend is going to be studying at Briar after a winning a few medals at the Olympics. Dean is very interested in her, and he might just have met his match in terms of freakiness. And it turns out, it was very easy for Dean to settle down when things were right.

tags & notes: fluff, includes social media au (EDIT: i used olivia rodrigo for these posts!!) & notes, yes this is alysa liu i just love the asian women representation BUT all descriptions are inclusive (i try my best at least) <3 AND there is a little bit of badly written smut only because i don't know how to write it 😔

might also rewrite to edit some things in the future but i just love dean and off campus so much 😪

word count: 10.9k

“Beau! My favorite person ever!” you screamed, running at full speed toward your best friend. 

You let go of your suitcase and threw yourself in Beau’s arms. He squeezed you tightly before letting you back on the ground. 

“I missed you!” Beau smiled.

“I missed you too! Arh!” you shouted excitedly. “Smile for my picture,” you took out your phone. 

You pressed on your screen to take the picture when you noticed a third person posing. A tall, very hot, blond guy with your suitcase in hand. 

“Thief!” you pointed at him. 

“Not a thief,” the blond smiled at you before approaching you and Beau.

“Beau fight him!” you pushed your friend toward the stranger. 

You watched Beau wrapping his arm around blondie’s neck, and hugging him. You frowned, confused. Maybe he wasn’t a stranger after all. 

“Not a thief,” Beau patted blondie’s chest with his hand. “This is Dean who, very nicely, agreed to drive you, us, because I’m still slightly hungover from yesterday,” he grimaced. 

“Oh,” you gasped. “You’re that Dean.”

“What Dean?” he tilted his head, still smiling. 

You slowly approached them, and when your face was only a few inches from Dean’s, you whispered. “Whore Dean. Which,” you tilted your head, “respect. I can’t wait to see what that’s like,” you winked. 

You didn’t break eye contact when you went to grab your suitcase, your hand brushing his. 

“We should go,” you turned to Beau. “I can’t wait to sleep in a real bed, the flight was so long.” 

Dean took back your suitcase and you let him, while Beau grabbed your bag. His car was parked near the airport exit, which was a blessing because you were exhausted. Beau opened the passenger’s seat door for you, but you dragged him with you behind. 

“I want to sleep, so I’ll need something comfortable. You.”

The moment you laid down, you fell asleep. 

“Is she asleep?” Dean asked in a low voice. 

“Yep, out cold.”

“Good,” Dean nodded and then looked at his friend through the rearview mirror. “Whore Dean?” 

Beau laughed. “That’s the nickname she came up with,” he shrugged.

“From where? Based on what?” Dean laughed. 

“From what I tell her. She loves gossip, and your lives are like soap operas to her.”

“Well, does she have nicknames for everyone?”

Beau took a minute to think about it. “Nope. Just you, guess you’re special.”

The rest of the ride was spent in silence because Beau fell asleep too, still tired from the last day’s party. When the car stopped, you had been awake for a while already, but you kept your eyes closed, not wanting to get out of the car. You felt Beau carefully remove your head from his lap, and get out of the car. You heard them whispering and then you felt two hands wrap around you and lift you up to get you out of the car. 

“Just take her bag, and I can drop you two off after,” Dean’s voice was very close to you. 

You opened one eye and it was indeed Dean holding you. It felt nice, he felt nice. You closed your eyes back and sighed into Dean. 

“I know you’re awake princess,” Dean whispered. 

“Mmh, worth it,” you opened your eyes. “You can put me down now.”

Dean nodded, and then pretended to drop you off which made you yelp and grab onto his neck. But then, he just laughed, and tightened his grip around you, and walked up the stairs to the house. 

“What is wrong with you,” you slapped his chest, your heart racing. “Put me down you whore.”

Dean gently put you down, and when you turned around, you realised you weren’t alone. There were a lot of people. You were going to murder Beau for not warning you earlier. You glared at Beau, and then a gasp made you turn your head around. 

“Oh my god, y/n y/l/n, Olympics gold winner in figure skating,” a short-haired brunette stood up, smiling. 

“I actually won silver for women’s singles,” you faked a sad pout. 

“Yeah but you won gold in 2022, and won gold in the pair skating category a few months ago! Ah,” a wavy, long-haired brunette squeaked. “I’m Allie by the way.”

“I’m Hannah,” the other girl smiled. 

“Nice to meet you,” you smiled back. 

Beau leaned into you, and put his arm around your neck before dragging you closer to the group. Dean was following very closely behind.

“This is y/n, my childhood and oldest—”

“–and best,” you pointed out.

“And my best friend, who is also an Olympic superstar, and she transferred to Briar for this year.” Beau pointed at the guy sitting next to Hannah. “This is Garrett, the hockey team captain,” Beau then pointed at the guys sitting around the kitchen counter, “this is Logan, and Tucker who are also on the hockey team.”

You waved at them all. 

“Hannah and Allie,” Beau pointed at the girls. “And Dean, but you already met.”

“Beau talks about you a lot,” you put your hands behind your back. “I’m really happy to finally put a face on all these familiar names.”

“Well, now that the introductions are done,” Beau turned to you, “do you want something to drink?”

“Water?”

Beau nodded and went to grab some drink. You felt Dean leaned closer to you, with his hand on your back. 

“You can sit on the couch you know, they won’t bite,” Dean whispered. 

“I know,” you turned your face to look at him. 

Dean’s face was very close to yours because he had leaned down to be on your level. He pushed you slowly toward the couch and sat next to you. He left you the spot on the outside of the couch, so you wouldn’t be sitting next to someone you didn’t know yet. Beau gave you a bottle of water straight from the refrigerator, and sat between Garrett and Dean. 

“What are you guys playing?” you pointed at the TV.

“It’s their little hockey video game,” Hannah explained. “We could put on something else if you want.”

“Oh no,” you smiled. “I’d love to watch… you play this.”

“We’ll change it,” Logan laughed, grabbing the remote. 

He pushed a few buttons, and he put on a sports channel, which was covering the winter Olympics. Well, it wasn’t technically about the sports, but it was coverage of the sex ban lift for the Olympics. You let out a laugh escape you.

“Care to elaborate about this?” Dean smirked at you. “I heard Olympic athletes fuck like rabbits, is that true?”

“Dean!” they all shouted in unison.

You kept your eyes on Dean, your head looking up. 

“Yeah,” you smiled. “Like, all the time. Non-stop. I’m sure you would’ve loved that.”

“I would’ve. Especially if it was with–”

“Please stop talking about sex with the person I see as my sister in front of everyone,” Beau grimaced. 

Dean pouted, looking at his best friend. 

“Don’t worry,” you leaned into him, “I’ll tell you about it later,” you winked. 

You all watched TV, and then they replayed the highlights of the winter Olympics. You all talked together, and commented on the athletes and their sports. It was fun, they were fun and very nice and they all included you in their conversations. Hannah and Allie were the nicest. They told you about their majors, music composition and theatre, while you told them that you studied history with Beau. 

While the boys talked among them, you and the girls were in deep conversation, but no one changed places on the couch which meant you were slumped over Dean’s thighs. He had his arm lazily laying on your back, while talking to the boys and that lasted for a while until the TV started showing highlights of figure skating. 

“y/n y/l/n, the only skater this year to compete both in the single’s category and the duo category. During the last Olympics, y/n y/l/n won gold with a score of 178. Let’s take a look at what her routine looked like in Beijing in 2022.”

A montage of your training, the routine, the podium and you biting your gold medal was shown on the screen. 

“I can’t believe people are just able to do that on ice,” Allie sighed. 

“It’s incredible,” Dean agreed. 

They showed your whole routine on the pair skating and the zoom in on the throw jump, which was the scariest throw of your life. Everyone could see the smiles you and your dance partner had, but no one knew about the falls, plural, you had the day prior. But then thanks to the gods of winter sports, the throw was high, the spins came out good, the landing was stable, and then you continued to skate in sync. So everything was perfect. 

“My ego tells me I can do all of that,” Dean commented. 

“We can try it later if you want,” you laughed softly. “We could all do it someday, it’d be fun.”

“Mh, ‘scuse me,” Beau intervened. “I tried and you banned me for life,” he scoffed playfully. “Remember, ‘Maxwell, you are the worst skater I have ever seen’,” he imitated your voice. “I’m still wounded by those words, just so you know.”

“Well, you should move on, it’s been half a decade,” you hit him in the arm.

“I can confirm that Beau isn’t at his best when he’s on skates,” Dean shook his head. 

The day went on smoothly and very quickly. At some point, Tucker started to make dinner with Hannah’s help and you helped Garrett setting up the table. The meal went on very smoothly, conversation flowing through. 

When they all started to load the dishes into the dishwasher, and started to clean things up a little bit, Beau went to retrieve your coats, and your bag. 

“Dean, time to go,” Beau grabbed his friend. 

Dean nodded, went to grab his keys and the three of you left together to get in the car. Beau and Dean were in the front, and you went behind alone this time. You sat in the middle, so it’d be easier for you to see both of them. 

“So where am I dropping you off to?” Dean turned back to you.

“Beau’s place, my apartment isn’t ready yet.”

“And I told you it was a waste of money,” Beau added. “You could’ve just stayed with me.”

“Actually I’m not renting anymore,” you said, “the tenants in my parents’ apartment are moving out, so they decided to not rent it anymore and just give it to me,” you smiled. “But they’re not moving out until the end of the month, so I’m still waiting.”

“That’s nice of them,” Deann nodded, starting his car. “So you’d be living alone?” he glanced at you through the review mirror. 

“Yep,” you smirked. “No disturbing anymore, no need to be quiet for anything.”

“Good to know.”

Beau just stared at his phone, glancing back and forth between the two of you, but he said nothing. 

“Can’t wait,” you whispered before leaning back into the seat. 

Then Beau put on music, and he knew exactly what he was doing because when the first notes of Satisfied played, you gasped and started to sing along Renée Elise Goldsberry. The rest of the car ride was spent with you duetting with Beau. 

When Dean stopped the car, you all got out of the car. Dean grabbed your suitcase, and your travel bag before handing them to you. 

“Thank you for driving us around,” you smiled. “I will make sure to give you a five star review for your Uber skills.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Dean leaned against his car. 

“Alright,” Beau took your suitcase. “Let’s go.”

“Ok,” you waved Dean goodbye, before following Beau.

“If you need a car ride,” Dean shouted, which made you turn around. “You can call me. I hear my reviews have been stellar.”

You chuckled. “I will.”

There were still a few weeks left of vacation before school started again, so you spent your days hanging out with Beau and his friends. And when you weren’t, you were shopping for the apartment. Your mom had called you, telling you that the tenants were taking all the furniture with them since they had bought everything. You laid lazily on Beau’s bed while he was on his desk. 

“Is everything going to be shipped on time?” Beau asked. 

“Yep, I paid extra so I’d have everything delivered tomorrow before noon,” you continued to look through online furniture. “Oh now that I think about it, thank you for asking the guys if they could help me move tomorrow. That was nice of you.”

“It was all Dean actually, he heard me talking about it and volunteered himself and the rest of the team.”

“Oh,” you looked up from your phone, smiling. “That’s… really nice of him.”

“He always is,” Beau laughed. “So,” he jumped on his bed, “are you planning to sex with him?”

Your eyes widened, and you gasped.

“Excuse me, who do you think I am? A common whore?”

Beau looked at you knowingly.

“Fine, I am,” you shrugged. “Would I love to have sex with your very hot and very nice friend? Sure. But, would it make things weird for you? For me?”

“Why would it?”

“Because, from your very detailed stories, he hooks up with people and then that’s it. So if we were to hook up, we’d still see each other because you’re friends, and you’re my friend so we’d all still hang out together as friends.”

“I mean if it’s only casual, why would it be weird?” 

You sighed, looking at Beau, nodding. He was right, hooking up at the Olympic village didn’t make things weird or awkward at all. But then again, you didn’t even know the names of some of the athletes. No strings attached. Casual. But this couldn’t be casual when you knew Dean’s name, and how he volunteered to help out his friends without a second thought, and how nice he was. 

“You’re overthinking this,” Beau shook you out of your thoughts.

“I know. We should do something else instead.”

“Like?”

“Let’s shop, I still need a few things for tomorrow’s move.”

You ended up buying a lot of things. A new adjustable desk so you can work while standing, plants, a bunch of them, new clothes, a few notebooks, a few new pens and then, you made a stop at Barnes & Noble. Every trip to Barnes & Noble was expensive. And with an extra pair of hands, strong ones at that, meant the trip ended being even more expensive than usual. 

“Worth it,” you smiled at Beau when you paid. 

Beau was driving you home, when you received a notification from Dean.

Moving day was busy. Everything you had piled up at Beau’s place had to be put in his car. And you had to get to the apartment early to sign off your deliveries. Beau dropped you off first thing in the morning, and then went back to his place to get the rest of your stuff. You were pushing some of the boxes inside when you received a message from Dean. You quickly pushed the box from the elevator to your apartment before running down the stairs.

“Dean!” you yelled when you opened the main door. 

He was leaning against his car on the other side of the street, and looked up from his phone. When his eyes fell on you, his face broke into a grin. 

“Didn’t know you were such an early bird,” you smiled when Dean was standing in front of you. 

“I’m full of surprises.”

“Good ones,” you nodded. “Well now that you’re here, can you help me bring these up?” you pointed at the boxes left on the sidewalk. 

These were all books you had bought or your parents had shipped to you. Dean leaned down and grabbed two of them effortlessly, and followed you to the elevator. 

“I hope it’s not too heavy,” you pressed on the tenth floor, the highest one. 

“No it’s fine.” 

Your eyes were glued on his flexed arms. The short sleeves stretched out, clinging onto his skin. How was that possible? Probably because of hockey. Dean brought everything you had very quickly, and while you waited for the first few deliveries, you rested on the floor of the living room.

“This place is nice,” Dean said, sitting across from you. “Very…” he looked around, “spacious.”

“Yeah, might be too big for just me here.”

“Well, if you’re scared of the dark, I’m only a call away.”

You stared at Dean. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So,” you dragged on the vowel. “Should I only call you when—,” you paused, “for the light issues?” 

Dean stared at you for a whole minute before shaking his head. “No,” he whispered. “You can call me for anything,” Dean’s dimple appeared. 

“Good,” you nodded, smiling back at him. 

“Maybe we could–”

But whatever Dean wanted to say was interrupted by your phone. The first delivery of the day. Soon after that, Beau arrived with the rest of your belongings. Around 9, Garrett, Logan, Tucker and Hannah and Allie arrived and after that, the deliveries didn’t stop. The boys worked hard under the hot weather. Logan built everything you had bought at Ikea, while Dean, Beau, Tucker and Garrett brought everything up. Allie and Hannah helped you put every piece of furniture where you wanted. Around noon, the sidewalk was full of your stuff. 

“It’s so hot,” Hannah sat on the couch you had just moved. 

“I know right!” you sighed, already tired and irritated from the heat. “How are the boys doing this?”

“Naked,” Allie laughed, standing next to the window. 

Hannah and you ran to stand next to her, and indeed, the boys had all taken off their shirts. Your eyes couldn’t leave Dean’s body and how his muscles flexed whenever he moved or grabbed something. You cleared your throat and stepped back. 

“I ordered some fresh drinks, and some food. We all deserve a big break,” you announced. 

When the food came in, you all sat around your table and dug in the food. Dean was sitting very close to you, feeling the heat his body was producing. 

“This place is starting to come along nicely,” Tucker looked around. 

“It is!” you smiled. “Thank you so much for this again.”

“That’s what friends’re for,” Beau smiled. 

“Yeah,” they all agreed. 

This much love could make you cry, but the heat made you sweat out all the water you had in your body. You all continued to talk, and joke around while you ate, and after the meal you went to cut out some fresh watermelon. Two gigantic watermelons that were inhalated by these five athletes. 

Once everything was fixed, and built and put at the right place, they all started to leave one after the other. You hugged them all, thanking them again. Beau stayed behind to help you tidy some things up, and Dean insisted on the fact that he needed a shower before leaving. 

“I’m gonna go, have to wake early tomorrow for practice,” Beau hugged you. 

“Oh, ok,” you hugged him back. “Thank you again for helping.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

“Tell Dean I said bye,” Beau put his shoes on. “‘Kay, love you, bye.”

“Love you too, bye!” you waved at him until the elevator’s doors closed.

You put your phone to charge next to your bed, when you heard your name being called from the bathroom. You ran, and knocked on the door. 

“Is everything ok?” you asked, slightly worried.

“Yep, just hm, there aren't any towels.”

“Oh! Right, I’ll be right back!”

You ran around the house, looking into a few boxes before you found the towels and knocked back on the door. 

“My eyes are closed, you can open the door,” you said.

You heard the door opening, and he grabbed the towel. You could still feel his body being close to yours, and you opened your eyes slowly. He had wrapped the towel very low around his waist. Your eyes drifted down, and you kept them there on his V line. You noticed your breathing coming out in rapid-fire, and then you slowly looked up to see that Dean was already looking at you. 

“Enjoying the view?” Dean whispered. 

“I could get used to it,” you shrugged. 

“I’m still waiting for you to tell me all about the athletes’ sex drive during the Olympics.”

“I could tell you,” you nodded, “or I could show you too.”

“Mmh, I am a kinesthetic learner. I learn best when I’m practicing.”

“Oh, is that so? Then,” you trailed your fingers along his chest until they reached the towel, and you tugged on it to bring him closer to you, “we should probably do something about it.”

“Anything,” Dean nodded hazily. “Anything you want.”

Dean hung his head low, and you had to stand on your tiptoes to reach him and kiss him. The moment your lips touched his, Dean lost all composure and grabbed your hips, gliding them down until they reached your thighs and lifted you up. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and your legs around his waist. 

He kissed you hungryly, pressing you against the wall. Your hands travelled up to his hair and tugged on it lightly which made him stop momentarily. 

“Good?” Dean frowned. 

“Very,” you panted, “it’s just, I can feel your dick against my ass, and I think we should go to my bedroom.” 

“Ok,” Dean nodded. 

His towel was long gone by the time he put you on your bed. He stood naked, while admiring you laid out on your bed, slightly out of breath. 

“You have too much clothes on baby,” Dean leaned down on you. 

His hands trailed down your body until they reached the hem of your skirt. He pulled it off in a single tug, with your panties with it. And you took off your top and threw it with the rest of your clothes. 

“Better,” Dean stared at you hungrily. 

Dean grabbed your calf and pulled you closer to the edge of your bed before leaning down to kiss you again. His kiss trailed down your neck, slowly, and then he continued to go down until his mouth was on your breast. You moaned, tugging on his hair hardly. 

“I love that sound,” Dean smiled smugly. 

Dean went down further, and his mouth finally reached your sweet cunt, which made you let out a sigh of relief. 

“So wet for me,” Dean smiled.

His hand went up and grabbed on your breast, while you pushed on his head harder. Dean kept on going until you came. You looked down, panting, and watched Dean staring at you as he went to grab his dick and stroke it while continuing to eat you out. 

“Dean,” you moaned, “I’m—”

Close is what you were going to say, and so was Dean. He came to kiss again, and you found out you didn’t mind the fact that his mouth was on your pussy just a second earlier. 

“Go grab a condom on my nightstand,” you smirked. 

Dean nodded and followed your instructions, put it on and went back to you. 

“Ok?” Dean grabbed your thigh to put it around his waist. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out. 

He slowly slid his dick inside of you, and stayed still for a second. Dean was staring at you and it wasn’t until he felt you moving your hips around that he kept going. It kept going on and on and on, until you pushed Dean around so he’d be the one laying on his back. You rode him, while his hands roamed free around your body. You finally collapsed on him, panting for your life. 

“Good?” Dean asked smugly. 

“Incredible,” you pulled yourself off of him and laid on your back. 

Dean turned around and laid on his side, his fingers tracing around your body. He planted another kiss on your lips before he got out of the bed. He came back a minute later with a clean towel in his hands before wiping off his cum.

“Thanks,” you smiled. “But I think we should take a shower after everything we did.”

The shower lasted longer than you’d expected because Dean insisted on having shower sex which you couldn’t say no to since you always wanted to try it out. 

“Never again,” you moaned once you came. 

“Didn’t like it?” Dean asked between kisses. 

“You were perfect,” you smiled. “Being under the hot water was uncomfortable, and if I wasn’t under it, I was freezing my tits off.”

“I can see that,” Dean smirked looking at your breasts. 

You went to the kitchen and grabbed some leftovers before you went back to your bedroom. You both laid down and turned off the lights. Dean wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you close to him. 

“Didn’t take you for a hugger,” you chuckled. 

“I am, so get used to it.”

“Dean,” you said after a moment of silence.

“Mmh?”

“I can feel your hard dick again.”

“Sorry,” Dean pulled away. 

“Don’t be,” you climbed on top of him. “I can go for another round.”

You did, but as soon as you came, you fell asleep on Dean.

The warm sun in your room woke you up slowly. You tossed around in your bed, noticing it was empty before you grabbed your phone to check the time. It was already past 11, and Dean was nowhere to be seen. No in the room, not in the bathroom next to your room. And there were no messages from him either. 

Fuck, you thought. Did he regret what happened the previous night? You groaned into your pillow and stood to grab some clothes. You went to wash your face and brush your teeth before finding new underwear and a t-shirt, and then you stopped dead in your tracks when you heard noises coming from outside. You grabbed your phone, pulling out Beau’s contact just in case. You slowly walked toward the living room, and then the kitchen when you saw Dean preparing food. 

“Is that the treatment you give to everyone after sex?” you joked, sighing in relief. 

“No,” Dean chuckled, looking you up and down. “Just you.”

“I thought I was getting robbed by the way,” you quickly changed the subject. “I was ready to call Beau while getting murdered.”

“That was your first thought?”

“Well, yeah,” you sat down next to Dean. “You were gone, I didn’t think you'd stay.”

Dean smiled softly. “I did leave for an hour to get food. I took your keys by the way.”

“You can keep it,” you said. “Beau has a double, and I feel like someone else should have another set just in case.”

“Sure,” Dean nodded. 

You both started to eat in silence. The TV wasn’t on, there wasn’t any music, and you were still exhausted from the night. 

“So,” Dean started, turning his chair a little to face you, “how was last night?”

You smirked. “Mmh, decent.”

“Decent?” Dean laughed. “You came like so many times.”

“I know… I guess,” you paused, then stared at him, “we’ll just have to keep doing it for your rating to get up.”

“Yeah?” Dean leaned in. 

“Mmh hm,” you hummed.

Dean pushed the food away, placed his hand around the nape of your neck and brought you closer to him. You moaned into his mouth, and you were glad to be sitting because your knees couldn’t handle all his prowess. Your hands quickly found his pants, and unbuttoned them. You pulled his pants off slowly, gliding your fingers along his erected dick, never once breaking off the kiss. 

“I didn’t get to last night,” you kneeled down, smiling up at him.

Dean was already panting, his cheeks a rosy tint. He had his legs spread to give you all the space you needed.

“I’m all yours,” Dean breathed.

Dean came to your place at least once a day. And the sex was mindblowing, better than anything happening at the Olympics. He paid attention to your likes and preferences, he put your pleasure above anything else and he was just very good at it. 

It was finally Thursday which meant Beau was at your place around 4pm to get you to hockey practice. Beau, being your longest and best friend, had the privilege to know everything about your life. From Olympics gossip to what food gave you a stomachache. But if you told Beau about the sex with Dean, then you’d have to tell him that it wasn’t just one hookup. It was a daily hookup type of situation. And you didn't want to yet.

“Are you ready to skate?” you smiled at Beau once you were in his car.

“Sure,” Beau laughed. “Are you ready to hold my hand when I inevitably die from a cracked skull on the ice?”

“Ha ha,” you rolled your eyes. “As if I’d let you get hurt. I will body slammed any of these fuckers to protect you, don’t worry about it. I got your back boo.”

“It’s actually pronounced Beau,” he chuckled.

“You’re hilarious,” you deadpanned. 

When you arrived at the rink, practice was still going on. So Beau and you sat on the stands and watched. They pushed each other, and ran into each other while an adult was shouting things at them. 

“What’s happening now?” you frowned.

“I have no idea,” Beau shrugged. 

“You should put skates on, I’ll help you tie them up.”

Practice ended right when your skates were on. Half of the guys left while your friends stayed. 

“You should run to Dean and tackle him,” Beau suggested with a grin. 

“I will,” you grinned back. 

Dean had his back to you, and the moment you came on the ice you sprinted toward him. Garrett’ eyes widened when he saw her which made Dean turn around. Your eyes were fixated on his jersey number, and wrapped your arms around his chest to tackle him just like how Beau taught you. Dean was a great hockey player, he was good on skates, he was solid. But when he saw you skating to him, he loosened up which ultimately made him lose balance. 

Dean’s first instinct was to wrap his arms around your head because you weren’t wearing a helmet and if you hit your head, then it’d be his fault. Then he did his best to fall first so you’d stay on top of him. 

“What the hell,” Dean worried, “are you ok?”

Dean held your body against his then stood slowly. Once he made sure you didn’t injure yourself, he backed away a little. 

“I’d be good at hockey I think,” you nodded satisfied. 

“I wasn’t ready,” Dean shook his head.

“Guys!” Beau yelled from the stands. 

You all turned to him, and he held out his hand so you went to fetch him. Beau was grabbing onto your shoulders tightly. You all helped Beau gain a little confidence on the ice before they could start teaching you the basics of hockey. 

When Beau could hold his own, you divided into two groups of three. Dean, Logan and you against Garrett, Tucker and Beau. The first first rounds were easy, they let you and Beau score a few points to build your confidence up. 

You were all skating around, playing hockey when Beau went for the puck, skating a little too quickly, and slammed his body into yours. As a figure skater, you learn very early on how to fall on the ice so you wouldn’t get hurt or break a bone. But falling while playing hockey was different, mainly because your body was thrown against the barriers before you fell on the ice. 

“Beau! What the fuck!” you moaned. 

“I’m sorry!” Beau tried to help you up. “I couldn’t stop.”

He tried to squat down to help you up, but Dean quickly came to you and helped you up, and the rest of the guys gathered around.

“Your sport is too dangerous,” you mumbled. 

“My sport?” Dean snorted. “Yours is just as bad, have you seen some of the falls you can get, and how dangerous a throw is?”

“It’s not,” you looked at him and then smiled. “You guys should try out some figures. You’re comfortable on ice, so it should be fun!” 

It was so much fun. All of them were great, trying out spins and little jumps. There were some falls, but they were used to it. And then Beau suggested trying out your duo routine. Skating with someone who had to throw you in the air required a lot of trust. It didn’t happen overnight, but you trusted these people. Or you trusted them enough to know you wouldn't die. 

Garrett and Tucker opted out because it felt dangerous, but Logan and Dean were in. You all gathered around the edge of the rink, and Beau took out his phone to show your routine.

“We can try out some of the simpler figures, and we’ll do another type of throw,” you said confidently. “Ok, Logan you first,” you held out your hand. 

You skated around a bit before you positioned his hands firmly on your waist. 

“I can hear your teeth grinding from here dude,” Beau laughed at Dean.

“I’m not,” Dean laughed it off. He was definitely grinding his perfect teeth.

“We have to skate a bit, and then you just bend your knees a little, lift me up to throw me away,” you explained very badly. 

Training usually started off the ice, with harness and on ground training. But you were good, so if half of the duo knew what they were doing, then it should be fine. 

It definitely wasn’t. First of all, your explanations weren’t nearly as good as your coach’s. Second, maybe you should’ve told Logan to not use all his force to throw you away. Hockey players had more brute force in their arms than figure skaters. 

The fall wasn’t bad at all. It was controlled, with minimum damage and you got up immediately. But that wasn’t enough to convince them. 

“I’m sorry,” Logan winced. 

“It’s fine,” you repeated. “I swear I had worst falls with a professional. So stop apologising, honestly.” You turn back to Dean. “Your turn.”

“Uh, I don't want to anymore,” Dean frowned. 

“What, why?”

“Because you just fell on hard ice without any protection!” Dean choked out. 

You stared at Dean, just like everyone else in the room. Was he worried about you? 

“Dean, I’m fine,” you assured him. “And you said you wanted to try this out.”

“When?” Beau wondered out loud, with a smug look on his face.

“Fine, let’s do this,” Dean ignored his friend.

He took your hand and you both skated away from the guys. He planted his hands firmly on your waist, a place he knew too well.

“Just, don’t use too much force,” you warned him. 

“I won’t,” Dean said. “You know what I’m thinking about?” he whispered in your ear. 

“What?” you looked up, smiling.

“How fun it’d be if we had sex here.”

You felt goosebumps forming all over you, and you knew Dean could too. That little fucker. And then, Dean lifted you up and threw you away. Your spin and landing were perfectly done, and it was met with applause and whistling. After a few more rounds of skating around, it was time to leave. 

They all walked to the changing room, and you meant to follow them too but Beau had other plans.

“Where are you going?” Beau asked.

“Following your friends, where are we supposed to go?”

“Home.”

“You’re ruining things for me,” you complained. 

Dean, who was the last one to go in, laughed. He stopped at the door and took off his jersey, revealing his broad, toned, and very familiar chest to you. He winked and smiled at you, and started to untie the lace of his pants before going into the changing room. 

“That little shit,” you snickered. “Right?” you turned to Beau.

“Meh,” Beau shrugged. “He’s naked all the time, so you’ll see it someday. Eventually.”

If only he knew.

“Right,” you nodded. “Let’s just go.”

Your headache didn’t go away, it got worse. It turned into a sore throat, and a fever and an even worse headache. Your body ached so much you couldn’t get any medicine, which meant recovery was even slower. Dean volunteered to come but you refused categorically, insisting that you only needed rest. A day before the party, you called Beau to get you medicine because you were still determined to go. 

“You look really bad,” Beau gave you the meds. 

“Gee thanks,” you coughed. 

“You don’t have to come tomorrow you know,” he sat on your bed. 

“Don’t come too close or you’ll get sick too,” you scootched away. 

“Fine, just take your meds and I’ll–” Beau’s phone rang. “Dean… Yeah she’ll be fine… She just didn’t check her phone. Don't worry… Yep… Yea I’ll tell her, bye… See ya tomorrow,” Beau hung up his phone. 

“Wha’ d’he say?” you mumbled into your pillow. 

“He was worried you didn’t answer any of his texts, and he said you should rest instead of trying to come tomorrow.”

“Mmh, so he doesn’t wanna see me ‘nymore,” you wined. “Great.”

“That’s not what I or he said. Just take your meds y/n,” Beau insisted. 

Beau helped you take your meds and a few minutes later you were out cold. Beau made sure you were all covered up with a fresh bottle of water on your bedside table before leaving your room. He cleaned up your house, put your dirty clothes in the washing machine, did your dishes, opened the windows to get some fresh air and checked on you again. You were still sleeping heavily, snoring a little. He had to wait for the clothes to be done before he could leave and once that was done, he left. 

When you woke up again, you did feel slightly better. Your first instinct was to check your phone. A few messages from Dean, one from Beau saying he was home and that you shouldn’t forget to take your meds and another one from your dad, sending you a funny video. 

You took your meds, and slept for another few hours before waking up. The first thing you did was take a long and cold shower because of the mild, persistent fever. You put on your bathrobe before dragging yourself to the living room.

“Fuck!” you shouted, clutching your heart. “Beau I will fucking kill you right now! What are you doing here?”

“Driving you to the party even though you shouldn’t go,” Beau looked up from his phone. 

“Then why are you here?”

“Because the alternative was to let you take an Uber and that’s not safe enough.”

You sat next to him, resting your head against his shoulder. Beau put his hand around you.

“Thank you,” you mumbled. 

“Promise me if you start to feel like you’re going to faint, you’ll come to me or Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. I promise,” you nodded. “Now, help me pick an outfit.”

Once you picked your outfit, Beau handed you your meds.

“Wait,” Beau frowned, “when was the last time you took ‘em? It has to be at least eight hours apart.”

“It was this morning, very early.”

You took them with some water, and grabbed your bag before you left for the boys’ house. It was already past 8 when Beau parked his car. The house was packed, loud music, lots of light and people making out outside. 

“Are you ok?” Beau walked beside you.

“Surprisingly fine,” you admitted. 

The house inside was even fuller, people dancing around and singing along the music. You hands were glued to Beau’s shirt so you wouldn’t lose him.

“Jules!” Beau waved. “Logan,” he dapped him up.

“Hey you alright?” Logan asked you. “Dean has been worried about you for days.”

“I’m fine,” you nodded, smiling at him. 

“This is Jules,” Logan introduced you two. “They’re managing the fifth line’s account, and Jules, this is y/n, Beau’s dearest friend.”

“Hi,” you gave Jules a hug. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Hm, what’s fifth line by the way?”

“An account dedicated to Briar’s hockey team,” Jules explained. 

“Oh,” you smirked. “I’ll have to check that out.”

Beau started to talk but your name being called made you all turn around. Dean.

“What are you doing here?” Dean frowned, worried. “Are you ok?” he gently held your face, checking if it was hot. 

“I’m doing better than this morning so yep, all good.”

They all observed the scene with great interest, so you backed away a little. If Jules managed a gossip account about them all, then you were in gossip territory. 

“Drinks,” you shouted. “Beau, let's get something.”

“Alright,” he threw Dean a questioning look. 

On your way to the kitchen where all the drinks were, you bumped into Hannah and Garrett. You talked a little while Dean handed you a cup. You clanked your cups before drinking it down in one go. First mistake of the night, as that cup held a shot of vodka. 

“Couldn’t have found something softer?” you slapped Beau’s arm.

“Sorry, it was the first thing I found.” 

You danced with Hannah, and Allie who joined a little later and sang all together. You were alternating between dancing around and going in the kitchen to find alcohol. Fresh canned beer, or weird homemade cocktails, that was the question. 

“You should drink water,” Dean’s voice appeared behind you. 

“Water robing,” you slurred out. “Robing? Boring.” 

Dean placed his hands on your stomach and brought you closer to him, your back pressed against his chest. 

“I missed you,” Dean whispered. 

“You missed having sex with me,” you chuckled. 

“Two things can be true.”

“Well,” you turned around, wrapping your arms around his neck, “I missed having sex with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But let’s have a drink before,” you pushed Dean away.

You filled your cup with the mixture, and grabbed a beer to pour it into your cup before gulping it all down in one go. You grabbed another beer and pressed it into his chest.

“Drink, and we should dance!” 

Dean gulped the beer in one go, before tossing it aside. He grabbed your hand and led you to the corner of the living room where there were less people. His hands on your hips kept you held on to him. You moved together with the music, and then suddenly, you were facing him. 

“I want to kiss you,” Dean whispered. 

“Mmh,” you paused to think about it, “you should then.”

Dean leaned down and kissed you slowly, his hands sliding down to rest on your ass. 

“I’ve missed this,” Dean mumbled against your lips. 

“Mmh,” you closed your eyes, leaning against Dean. 

You were very grateful for Dean’s strong hands, because you would’ve fell on the floor if it weren’t for him. 

“Dean,” you whispered. “You’re so hot.”

“Yeah?” Dean smirked, looking at you smugly but his smile fell once he realised how warm your face felt. “Fuck, how much did you have to drink?”

“A lot,” you laughed, eyes still closed.

“Fuck,” Dean looked around, looking for Beau, but when he couldn’t find him he let it go.

Dean carried you in his arms to his bedroom.

“Ooh, are we going to have secret sex in your bedroom?” you bit your lips.

“No,” Dean put you in his bed. “You’re going to sleep because you’re clearly out of your mind.”

“Aren’t you gonna stay with me?” you pouted. 

Dean stared at you, and sighed. He touched your forehead and it was warm, too warm for someone who wasn’t still sick. 

“I’m staying,” Dean whispered, stroking your cheek. 

Dean watched your breathing slowly become more even before he cracked his window open. He went back to the party, looking for Beau but that was difficult with all these people. And then, people handed him drinks, and shouted his name and he found himself doing shots. After a few drinks, he finally spotted Beau outside. 

“Dude!” Dean ran after him. “Where’re you goin’?”

“Looking for my very sick and drunk best friend,” Beau sighed. 

“She’s in my room, I was looking for you.”

“Is she ok?” Beau frowned, going back into the house.

“I don’t–” Dean hesitated, following his friend.

Beau was walking very fast, and he ran up the stairs two at the time and reached Dean’s bedroom in record time. You were still sleeping soundlessly, Dean’s comforter on the ground, with your clothes too, and you had one of Dean’s t-shirts on. 

“Hey,” Beau squatted down next to you. 

“Heeey,” you opened your eyes. 

“Do you want to go home?” 

You shook your head. 

“‘m gonna sleep here,” you mumbled into Dean's pillow before falling back asleep.

“Ok. Let’s hope it’s just the alcohol,” Beau sighed. 

“She has a fever,” Dean leaned against his door. “I don’t think she had fully recovered yet before coming.”

“Yeah… Just-- I’ll check on her again tomorrow, can you keep an eye on her until–”

“Of course. I’ll call if anything happens.”

“Thanks, I’m gonna head home,” Beau stood, and then stopped in front of him. “Please don’t have sex with someone when she’s in your bedroom.”

Dean scoffed, slightly offended. “I know!”

“Just to be sure,” Beau put up his hands. “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

The party was still going on strong, but Dean didn’t go back. He made a promise to his friend, and even if Beau didn’t ask, Dean would’ve stayed and looked after you. He took a quick shower before laying in his bed next to you. It wasn’t the first time you two slept in the same bed, Dean often spent the night when he came to your place. 

Dean was a physical touch type of person, which meant he loved to hug the person he’s sleeping with. He loved sleeping with you wrapped around him, safely tucked away in his arms. You usually enjoyed the feeling, but that morning, it felt anything but nice. 

It felt suffocating, with a touch of hungover and sickness. You tried to leave the bed, but Dean had his leg over your body, his arms wrapped tightly around you. 

“Dean!” you tapped lightly on his leg. “I need to get up.”

Dean groaned and let you go, and went back to sleep, his limbs sprayed out. You needed to take a shower. You opened a few doors before you found it and took a quick shower. You weren’t going to risk it and use one of the towels in there, which meant putting Dean's t-shirt back on while you were still damp. You took some toothpaste and used your tongue to spread it around your teeth, and rinse it off before going back to Dean. 

You didn’t want to wake him up. He looked peaceful, and he needed the rest but you had no other option if you wanted to go home.

“Dean,” you sat on his bed. “Dean,” you shook him a little. 

“Mmh,” Dean groaned, opening his eyes. “‘m awake.”

Dean rubbed his eyes to wear off the sleepiness and sat up. 

“Are you ok?” Dean frowned, slightly worried. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I just– I think I need to go home.”

“You can rest here if you need,” Dean took your hand in his. “We don’t have anything planned, you’ll be able to rest.”

“Uh…” you hesitated.

“Or not,” Dean finished for you. “Give me five minutes ok?” 

You nodded, relieved. You went to grab your clothes and put them with your bag on Dean’s bed. Then you went to his closet, and took one of his jackets to put on. The sleeves were too long, but it covered your ass. 

When Dean came back he froze for a second before he went to put on some clothes and helped you carry your clothes and bag before you went down. 

No one was up in the house yet, the party had ended late so they were all getting their beauty sleep in. You watched Dean grab two apples, wash them and a bottle of water and then, handed them to you.

“I’m not hungry,” you still took everything. 

“For later then.”

“Thanks,” you smiled weakly.

The moment you sat down in Dean’s car, you started to feel nauseous. You rarely regretted decisions you took in life, but coming to the party yesterday was one of them. You were definitely still sick, and when you had realised that you were drinking alcohol on an empty stomach it was already too late for you. And it turned out, sleeping didn’t help at all since you were still feeling like shit. You closed your eyes, trying everything to stop your head from spinning. You drank the water and it didn’t help. You focused on your breathing until Dean called your name.

“Are you alright? You look…” Dean grimaced.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. 

“We’re almost there,” Dean stroked your thigh with his thumb.  

By the time you reached your apartment, you ran out of his car and rushed to your place. You sprinted to the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. There wasn’t anything consistent since you hadn't eaten in a while, but still, it made you feel a little better. You flushed the toilet and went back to the living room. 

“Fuck,” Dean ran in your apartment. “You scared the shit out of me,” he took you in his arms. 

“I didn’t want to puke in your car,” you joked, a small smile forming on your face. “Thank you for driving me home, mh—,” you rested your face against his chest, “you can go back home and rest— I’m sorry again for waking you and—.”

“I don’t mind. Let’s get you back to bed.”

You couldn’t fight him even if you wanted to. You simply nodded and let him lead you to your bedroom. A place he was very familiar with. You took off his jacket and threw it on your bed.

“Call me if you need anything,” Dean sat on your bed.

“I will.”

“‘Kay.”

Dean leaned down, but you quickly pushed his face away with your hand. He gasped, and stood from your bed.

“I’m sick you weirdo,” you laughed. “Were you really going to kiss me?”

“Fine, but you owe me a kiss,” Dean stared at you and sighed. “I’m gonna go now.”

“Mmh,” you nodded. 

Once you heard your front door closing, you closed your eyes and tried to sleep again but unlike the few previous days, it didn’t come to you. You constantly felt you wanted to vomit made it impossible to rest, so you slowly stood. You went to your kitchen and drank a little bit of water. You should eat some chicken soup, but you certainly weren’t going to cook that. You could do some avocado toasts, but you didn’t have any avocados. You grabbed some plain bread and ate half a toast before you felt sick. You should call someone, call Dean back or call Beau but you couldn’t find your phone anywhere.

“Fuck this,” you sighed. 

You turned on your TV and watched your current series, Abbott Elementary, white munching on plain toasts to fill your stomach. That did not work because then, you spent a few hours laying on your bathroom floor to be close to the toilet. And without your phone, you couldn't even update your friends. 

You spend the day alternating between watching your series and the bathroom. You were dozing off on your couch when you heard your front door opening. You quickly stood, which was a mistake because it made you nauseous, and trip over your blanket. 

“Fuck,” Dean ran to you, “baby are you ok?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you grabbed his arms to steady yourself. 

“You don’t look like it,” Beau stood next to Dean.

“What are you two doing here?” you changed the subject.

“I was worried, and you weren’t answering your phone,” Beau said.

“I lost it!” 

“Then I called Dean, and turns out, your purse was in his car.”

“Oh.”

“And,” Beau stared at you, “we’re going to the hospital because you’re clearly dying over there.”

“I’m sorry,” you sighed. 

“It’s ok,” Dean reassured you, shielding you from Beau. “You’ll be fine.”

You looked up at him and gave him a shaky nod. 

“I’ll help her change into some clean clothes,” Dean held you against him, “and you can…” his voice trailed off, not knowing what to say.

Beau looked smugly at Dean, and waited for his friend to continue. 

“Or you could help her find some clothes because you’ve been friends forever and I’ll check her bag,” Dean frowned, “to see if… yeah.”

Dean smiled and handed you to Beau before leaving your apartment. Once it was only the two of you, Beau looked at you expectantly. 

“Your friend’s weird,” you shrugged, walking away slowly. 

“Ok,” Beau smiled, shaking his head a little.

The trip to the hospital wasn’t very long, but waiting for someone to get to you and take care of you felt never-ending. Then, unsurprisingly, you had alcohol poisoning and it got worse very quickly because you were sick and you hadn’t eaten anything. And then, the alcohol poisoning induced the vomiting and the severe dehydration made you feel lightheaded and weak. 

They were going to keep you overnight, and pump your stomach and rehydrate you through IV before you could go home. 

“I already feel better,” you smiled once you were settled in your room for the night. “At least I’ll be all good to go back to school next week.”

“You have weird priorities in life,” Beau commented. 

“I know…”

Then a nurse came in to tell you it was way past visiting hours, and they could come back tomorrow at 8am. Dean made sure your phone was charging next to your bed before they left. Another nurse came in to check on you before leaving you alone. 

That was a complete lie. You didn’t know how to answer Dean saying he didn’t want to have sex with someone else, so you lied. You still called Beau, because that way, it would only be partially lying. 

When morning came and you woke, Dean was already in your room. He was sitting on the chair next to the door, looking through his phone. 

“What time is it?” you yawned. 

“Past nine,” Dean looked up. “Are you feeling better?”

“A lot better,” you nodded.

“The nurse came in earlier.”

“Oh?”

“She said you were clear to leave when you were ready, just needed to check out. For the food, you’d have to eat chicken broth for a few meals before going back to full, real meals. And don’t forget to drink water. And she also mentioned that it was normal if you felt like you wanted to puke, just if you do puke a lot, you should come back to the hospital.”

“Ok,” you nodded. “That's– alright.”

“Beau is grocery shopping which is why he isn’t there,” Dean explained. “And, I picked up some clothes for you so you could change,” he handed you a bag. 

You’d thanked him so many times by now it felt like it lost its meaning. So you stayed silent, and just stood from your bed and walked to Dean. He looked at you with a hint of concern, but then you just wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his chest. His arms instinctively went around you, one holding the back of your head. 

You could get used to this, to Dean. And that was something new that made your heart flustered. You could picture it, eating with him, going to his games, skating together, sleeping together, but then that wasn’t the lifestyle he was leading. But then again, these past few days, he hadn’t slept with anyone. 

You were overthinking this. This was casual, you could do casual, it’s all you knew how to do things. So, you grabbed your bag and left for the tiny bathroom to change. 

“Ready?” Dean stood when you came back out. 

“Yep.”

Dean held his hand out for you to take it, and you did only after a second of hesitation. How could you keep telling yourself that this was casual when he kept doing these things? These very couply things. It was fine, you’d just follow Dean’s lead. Whatever he did, you would do and keep things casual-ish. 

Things went back to normal once you were fully recovered. Meaning, Dean was spending every single day at your place, even if school started again, even if he had practice, even if there was a party at his house, he always ended up at your place. Some of these nights were spent watching your series, you had forced him to watch Abbott Elementary with you, some other nights were spent on working on school assignments, but most nights were spent with Dean naked. And you still didn’t tell Beau about it.

“Have you told anyone about this?” you asked Dean one night, while you were both in your oversized bathtub. 

“About?”

“Us having sex, you spending all your free time here.”

“The guys know, yeah,” Dean nodded, tracing his fingers along your arm. 

“Do ‘the guys” include Beau Maxwell?” 

Dean stayed silent for a moment. “No,” he breathed out. “Did you?”

“Nope. I–” you sighed, throwing your head back, resting it in the crook of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about it, and the more I wait, the weirder it is. What would I even say?”

“That you’ve been having the time of your life with his best friend,” Dean kissed your cheek, and then his kisses trailed down your neck. 

Sex in the bath was messy. Literally. Because you both spent at least fifteen minutes cleaning up the spilled water. But it was stil better than shower sex.

“Never again,” you glared at him knowing damn well you’d be doing it again soon. 

You were eating with everyone near the school’s restaurant, you all listened to Garrett talking about the next game they had. Beau, who sat in front of you, looked at you with a confused look and you only shrugged. 

“y/n?” a voice called you from behind. 

Garrett stopped talking, and you all turned around. You had to take a double take before standing up. 

“Jake!” you gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he laughed, giving you a tight hug. “But I go to school here, have been for a couple of years now. What about you?”

“I transferred here,” you turned around. “Hm, this Jake Huges and these are my friends.”

“Hi,” Jake smiled at them. “I saw you guys play hockey for Briar right?”

“Yeah,” Garrett nodded. “You’re–”

“Yeah, do you play?” Dean snarked.

You glared at Dean, because you knew for a fact he knew who that was. 

“I do play,” Jake laughed. “A little.”

“Yeah, a little at the Olympics,” you laughed. 

“Ah,” Dean nodded, still smiling politely. “Must’ve missed it.”

“Well, there were better programs,” Jake looked at you. “The best one, figure skating.”

“Ha, ha,” you gleamed. “Oh my god. We should have lunch someday, together.” 

“Yeah or we could catch up after you’re done here?”

“Yeah, sure,” you smiled.

“Well it was nice meeting you all,” Jake gave them a nod and then turned to you. “See you later?” 

“Yep.”

Jake gave you a quick embrace before joining his friends again. 

“Who was that?” Hannah asked.

“Jake Hughes, NHL player, playing for Montreal,” Garrett said. “Won silver at the Olympics.”

“And you didn’t know who that was?” Hannah looked at Dean suspiciously. 

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Dean shrugged.

“Right,” Beau smirked. “Must’ve.”

Dean glared at his best friend, and went back to eating. Garrett continued to talk about hockey strategy until Hannah stopped him and then you all talked about other things. School, assignment, the next drunk Shakespeare play. 

Dean was a casual type of guy, breezing through life, with little to no worries in life. He was having the time of his life ever since he met you, and everything was great until Jake came in, because why did he feel like starting a fight with that guy when he took you in his arms. That little fucker. 

When they were done eating, Dean watched you walk away to that guy while they all walked in the opposite direction. Dean took Beau aside while the rest of the group talked a little further away. 

“What’s wrong?” Beau asked.

“Nothing,” Dean shrugged. “We should go to Malone’s tonight.”

“Alright,” Beau nodded, “why are you being so weird about that?”

“I’m not.”

Beau sighed. “Fine, I’ll believe you. Is this about her,” he nodded toward the restaurant where you were still sitting with Jake. 

Dean looked back, and sighed, rolling his eyes. “No. Maybe. Yes.”

“We can go to Malone’s right now if you need.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah.”

They told the guys, and then Beau drove them to Malone’s. It was fairly empty, people had already eaten. They sat in a booth, far away from people, and they ordered drinks. Dean still didn’t know what to tell his friend, and stayed silent until their drinks were served. Dean took a sip of his drink before pushing it away. 

“I’ve been hooking up with y/n,” Dean blurted out, staring at Beau.

Beau stared at Dean for a minute before nodding. “I know.”

“You know?”

“Well, I suspected it and you’re only confirming it for me now,” Beau smiled. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“What?” Dean huffed. 

“You’re always together, you’re always the one driving her home when I could do it because she lives closer to me, you calling her baby. And when we’re spending time together, she’s always on her phone, smiling at it and I can see that she’s talking to you. You’re very comfortable with each other. You get weirdly jealous whenever there’s someone else close to her or touching her. I can go on.”

“No it’s fine, I get it.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Nothing,” Dean shrugged. “Not between us, it’s been great.”

“But?”

“But I fucking hate Jake,” Dean lashed out. “That fucker—”

“Because?”

“Because he’s with her right now, and maybe she’ll stop whatever we have and go back to–.”

“Olympic athletes she has had sex with before?” Beau finished for him.

Dean nodded.

“And you have a problem with that?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Dean sighed. 

“Dude,” Beau grinned,” you like her.”

“Of course I like her.”

“No, you like like her.”

Dean leaned back on the couch. 

“Dean you’re fucking awesome,” Beau crossed his arms on the table. “I know that, she knows that. You just gotta stop being a chicken and tell her about how you feel and what you want.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiled after a minute. “I know.”

“And gotta do it quick before she has sex with that Jake, hockey, Olympic medal guy,” Beau grabbed his phone.

“I will,” Dean stood. “I’m going back to that restaurant and I’ll—”

“She’s at her place,” Beau stood. “We share our locations,” he shrugged when Dean gave him a weird look. “Just, go to her and do your thing.”

“Yeah,” Dean walked away but then stopped. “You drove us here though,” Dean turned back. “Can you drive me to hers?”

Beau drove like a maniac, that man was on a mission. 

“What if he came back to her place?” Dean clenched his jaw.

“Then fuck that guy,” Beau said. “You got this.”

Twenty minutes later, they were at your place. Dean got out of the car, thanked Beau for his pep talk and went to your apartment. He stood in front of your door and hesitated. Should he ring the doorbell or just use his spare key? 

“Fuck,” Dean mumbled to himself. 

Dean banged his fist on your door. He waited a minute, then two and then three. And then he took out his key and came in. He directly went to your bedroom, and swung the door open. 

“Oh! What the fuck Dean!” you screamed, clutching your heart, taking off your headphones. 

“You weren’t—,” Dean coughed nervously, “answering your door.”

“Couldn’t hear,” you showed him your AirPods. “What happened?” you left your bed to join him. “Did something happen? Is Beau ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean frowned. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I saw you leave together earlier, and you look like something wrong happened.”

“Beau’s fine. I— How was your date with Jack?”

“Jack?” you laughed. “I know you know it’s Jake.”

“Do I?”

You stared at Dean. “It wasn’t a date, I was just catching up with a fellow athlete.”

“Good.”

“Good?” you smiled. 

Dean leaned against your door, crossing his arms. 

“I haven’t had sex with other women ever since we started to hook up,” Dean blurted out.

“Ok,” you nodded slowly. “Do you want to?”

“No! I just wanted to let you know. And I won’t and I don’t want you to… also.”

“I’m not,” you smiled. 

“Good,” Dean smiled, approaching you slowly. 

“Is that your weird way of asking me, us, to be exclusive and monogamous?” you joked. 

“Yeah.”

Dean pulled your face closer to his and sighed into the kiss, like something had been lifted off his shoulders. Dean continued deepening the kiss while bringing you to your bed. 

“We’re not leaving this place for the next twenty four hours,” Dean grinned. 

[broodingboysimp]

High Maintenance

Garrett Graham x Female!Reader

Warnings: alcohol use, drinking to cope, anxiety, angst

Summary: You've been falling apart quietly for three weeks and you're very good at making sure nobody notices, especially your boyfriend Garrett. You're less good at it after four drinks and one overheard conversation you were never supposed to hear.

Author's Note: Thx for all the love on my first Garrett fic! I'm doing an OC rewatch rn and just felt like I needed to get this one off my chest. I <3 bestie Dean fr.

Eight months in and you still hadn't figured out what to do with being someone's favorite thing.

Garrett wasn't subtle about it. That was the thing, he had absolutely no interest in being subtle about it. He'd find you across a dining hall full of people and his whole face would do something embarrassing. He'd mention you to his teammates with the casual frequency of someone who didn't realize he was doing it, which, according to Dean, he wasn't. He'd show up at your dorm with soup when you were sick, uninvited, unashamed, completely certain he was welcome. He was always welcome. That was the other thing.

Eight months. Long enough that his hoodie had more or less permanently become part of your wardrobe. Long enough that you knew exactly which toothpaste brand he preferred, and that he took his coffee wrong, and that he looked up at the stands exactly once per game - same moment every time, right after warm-ups - just to find you.

You were, by every reasonable metric, fine. Good, even. Happy.

You were also, quietly and without telling anyone, coming apart at the seams.

It hadn't started with anything dramatic. That was the part that made it hard to explain. There was no single thing to point to, no moment where it all went wrong. Just a bad exam grade, then another. Readings piling up in two classes, then three. A cold that moved into your chest three weeks ago and apparently liked it there, the kind of tired that sleep didn't touch.

You'd cancelled plans with Garrett twice. Both times he'd said it's okay, babe, seriously, without missing a beat, and both times something in you had gone slightly sideways, because of course he had. Of course he was fine about it. He was always fine about it, which somehow made it worse, because it meant he was noticing, and adjusting around you, and that meant you were someone who needed adjusting around.

He'd started checking in more. Texts a little more often. Soup you hadn't asked for, dropped off with a knock and a smile like it was nothing.

It was nothing. That was the problem. To him it was nothing, and to you it was accumulating into something you didn't have a word for yet.

Too much, something in the back of your head had started saying. Quietly at first. Then less quietly. You're too much right now.

You were good at ignoring things. You'd been ignoring this for three weeks. You were, it turned out, not as good at it as you'd thought.

The party was Garrett's idea. Well, it was everyone's idea. Briar had won the game 4-1, and the hockey house was the kind of loud that rattled inside your skull pleasantly, all bass and laughter and the clatter of the boys being celebratory and stupid. The living room smelled like beer and Axe and the particular chaos of hockey players who were very pleased with themselves.

You'd smiled through most of it. You were good at that, too.

Garrett had kept you close the whole first hour, arm slung around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your temple every time someone stopped to talk to him, like punctuation. Hannah had found you at some point and the two of you had ended up in the kitchen with drinks you weren't really finishing, talking about nothing, which was nice.

But Garrett had gotten pulled away - something about Dean needing him, something about the highlight reel someone had pulled up on the TV - and you'd drifted. Which was fine. You were fine.

You'd ended up on the back porch without fully meaning to.

The night air was cold as you leaned against the railing, tipped your head back, and breathed.

You're okay. You're fine. You're at a party celebrating your boyfriend's win and everything is fine.

You heard them before you saw them. Two girls tucked into the corner of the porch, half-hidden by the shadows. You hadn't noticed them when you came out.

You recognized one of them.

Kendall. You'd heard the name in the careful, neutral way girls mentioned names when they meant something. She and Garrett had hooked up before. Before you. It wasn't a big deal. You knew it wasn't a big deal.

You turned slightly away, meaning to go back inside, meaning to just not be here for whatever this was.

But her voice carried.

"-no, I just mean, look at her. She's been off all night."

A murmur from the other girl. You went very still.

"I'm not being mean, I'm just - Garrett has a lot going on. He's got scouts looking at him, he's got finals coming up, and now he's got-" a pause, something that wasn't quite a laugh, "-one more thing to manage."

One more thing to manage.

The words landed somewhere below your sternum and just sat there.

"She seems kind of high maintenance," Kendall continued, quieter now. "I heard she's been sick, like, for weeks, and he's been running over there constantly. He doesn't have time for that. He doesn't have time for someone like- I mean, it's Garrett Graham. He could have-"

You stopped hearing the rest.

Not because they stopped talking, you just stopped being able to take anything in. The world narrowed down to the railing under your hands and the cold air in your lungs and the feeling of something fracturing very quietly behind your eyes.

One more thing to manage.

High maintenance.

He doesn't have time for someone like-

You turned around and went inside.

You went for the kitchen.

There was a handle of something on the counter - vodka, cheap, the kind that came in a plastic bottle - and you poured it into whatever cup was closest without really looking at what was already in it. You drank it faster than you should have. Poured another.

This was not something you did. You were not, by nature, a drink-until-it-goes-away person. You'd watched enough people use that particular coping mechanism to know better. You knew better.

You poured a third.

The thing was, and you understood this even as you were doing it, which somehow made it worse, that the words were just sitting there. One more thing to manage. Right in the center of your chest, perfectly placed, like Kendall had known exactly where to aim. And you needed them to move. You needed them to blur, or soften, or stop feeling so much like the thing you'd already been thinking at three in the morning for the past three weeks.

So you drank.

Hannah found you twenty minutes later, laughing too loudly at something a guy from the lacrosse team had said. She gave you a look, the kind that meant how many is that, and you smiled wide enough that she let it go. Or seemed to. You slipped away before she could ask a follow-up question.

The party had taken on that particular underwater quality that meant the alcohol was working. The edges of everything softened. The bass felt further away. You moved through the living room with the careful precision of someone who knew they were drunk and was trying very hard not to show it, which probably meant you were showing it completely.

Garrett was somewhere in this room. You could feel it the way you always could, that low awareness, like a compass needle swinging north. Normally you'd find him without thinking.

Tonight you turned the other direction.

You grabbed someone's abandoned drink off the end table. You didn't know whose, you didn't care, which was so unlike you that some distant sober part of your brain flinched, and made your way to the other side of the room. Someone pulled you into a conversation about something. You nodded. You laughed when they laughed. You were very good at performing fine, even now, even like this.

But Garrett kept appearing at the edges of things. You'd see his shoulder, the back of his head, catch a flash of his smile across the room, and something in your chest would do that terrible thing it always did.

So you kept moving.

You ended up in the hallway. Then near the stairs. Then, without fully deciding to, on the stairs themselves, sitting halfway up with your cup.

You sat for a while.

The alcohol had moved past the useful stage and into something messier, the kind of drunk where everything felt slightly too large and slightly too true at the same time. Your eyes were doing something embarrassing. You pressed the back of your wrist to them, hard.

You're fine. You're not going to do this here.

You stood up. Gripped the railing. Made it to the top of the stairs on the second try.

The upstairs hallway was dark enough that it felt like breathing room. You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes for a second, just long enough to get your legs back under you. Your dorm key was in your jacket pocket. Your jacket was downstairs. You needed to find it and leave before Garrett realized you'd been avoiding him for an hour, because if he looked at you right now with that face - the one he made when he was worried - you were going to fall apart in the middle of his own party, and you would not do that to him, you refused to do that to him tonight...

You pushed off the wall.

Misjudged the distance to the opposite side of the hallway by about four inches.

The door swung open before you could knock properly, or maybe you knocked wrong, and suddenly there was light and Dean Di Laurentis was right there, some girl half visible behind him, and all three of you stared at each other.

"Bathroom," you said, except it came out slightly sideways.

Dean blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the cup in your hand, mostly empty. Looked back at your face.

Something shifted in his expression, fast and uncharacteristically serious.

"Babe." Not to you. He was already half-turning to the girl, his voice dropped low. "I need a minute."

"You're kidding-"

"I'm really not." A beat. Something in his tone that left no room for argument. "Please."

The girl left in the precise way people left when they were furious and had decided to be graceful about it anyway. You watched her go down the hallway and felt vaguely guilty about it.

Dean stepped back from the doorway. "Get in here."

"I don't need-"

"You just walked into my door."

"I knocked."

"With your face, a little bit." He looked at you levelly. "Get in here."

You got in there.

He closed the door. The noise from downstairs dropped to a murmur.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"That's a weird opener."

"It's a normal question for someone who just almost fell through my door." He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, "How much."

You thought about lying. Decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Enough."

"Enough," he repeated, in the tone of someone doing math. His eyes moved over you, assessing. Quick and thorough the way athletes were sometimes, used to reading situations fast. "You don't drink like this."

"People drink at parties."

"Not you. Not like-" he gestured vaguely at the cup still in your hand, "-whatever this is." A pause. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I'm fine."

"Okay."

You stared at him. He stared back. He did not appear to be in any rush whatsoever.

You hated that. You hated the waiting.

"I overheard something," you said, and the words came out a little slurred at the edges. "On the porch. Kendall - you know who that is?"

Something crossed his face. "Yeah. I know who that is."

"She was talking about me." The cup in your hand felt very heavy suddenly. You set it down on the nearest surface. "She said I was one more thing Garrett had to manage." The words tasted exactly as bad coming out as they had going in. Worse, maybe, because you were saying them out loud now, making them real. "That I was high maintenance. That he didn't have time for someone like me."

Dean was quiet for exactly two seconds.

"She said that."

"She's not wrong, that's the thing." You laughed, and it came out wrong, too bright and too brittle. "I've been sick for like three weeks, and stressed, and he keeps showing up for it, and I keep letting him, and he has scouts and he has finals and I just-" You stopped. The room was doing something slightly unsteady. You pressed your fingertips to the dresser behind you. "I just didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to stand there in the middle of his party and feel like that, so I-" You gestured at nothing. At the cup. At yourself.

"So you drank a stranger's leftovers."

"I don't know whose cup it was."

"Yeah, that's the part I'm stuck on." Dean pushed off the wall and grabbed the desk chair, set it down in front of you, and sat in it backwards, arms folded over the top, looking up at you with an expression that was not quite his usual one. "Sit down before you fall down."

"I'm not going to fall-"

"You're leaning."

You looked down. You were, in fact, leaning slightly. You sat on the edge of his bed.

Dean watched you with the particular patience of someone who had decided they weren't going anywhere.

"She's not-" You exhaled, stared at your hands. "She's not some villain. She just said the thing I've already been thinking. And I couldn't-" Your throat tightened. "I couldn't stand there and keep smiling, so I thought if I just-"

"Drank enough that it blurred out?"

"I wasn't going to phrase it like that."

"But yeah?"

A beat.

"Yeah," you said, very quietly.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. Looked at the ceiling. Then back at you, and something in his face shifted into something more serious, more deliberate, the version of him he mostly kept underneath all the noise he usually made.

"Can I tell you something without you getting weird about it?"

You made a helpless gesture.

"Garrett talked about you at practice last week," he said. "Full cringe, by the way, I'm doing you a public service by telling you this. Tucker asked how you were doing - just like, making conversation - and Garrett stopped mid-drill to answer. Like, stopped skating. Coach blew the whistle. Garrett didn't even flinch, just full-on answeredTucker like they were at brunch." He paused. "It was genuinely awful. The guys made fun of him for four days."

You stared at him.

"He said - and I am going to say this exactly once and then never again - that being with you was the first time in his life that coming home from a game felt better than the game itself." Dean's expression was the one people made when they'd eaten something sour. "Verbatim. He said that. To the whole team. In the locker room. While wearing his pads."

Your eyes were burning again, for a completely different reason.

"He talks about you like-" Dean exhaled through his nose. "Look, I've lived with that guy for three years. I have never, not once, seen him like this. And I mean the whole team. We all, okay, this is going to sound really weird-"

"Just say it."

"We all kind of think of you as ours too. Like, you're around all the time, and you're funny, and you ate nachos with us during the game and didn't complain about the TV volume once-" A pause. "That matters more than you think."

A noise came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite.

"Kendall doesn't know what she's talking about," Dean said, and his voice had gone flat again. "She's not a bad person, she's just... she wanted something she didn't get, and that makes people say stupid things. It doesn't make the stupid things true."

Your eyes burned. You pressed the heel of your hand against one of them, hard, like you could physically hold it back, and for a second you almost managed it. Then your breath hitched and you didn't.

You hated it. You hated this, you hated that you were sitting in Dean Di Laurentis' room at your boyfriend's party with someone else's alcohol in your bloodstream, falling apart. This was not you. This was so profoundly, embarrassingly not you - and yet here you were, doing it anyway.

"I hate this," you said, rough.

"The crying or the drinking?"

"Both." You dragged your wrist across your face. "I don't do this. Either of this. I keep it together, and I've been keeping it together for weeks, and then one person says one thing and I'm-" You gestured at yourself. At the whole situation. The cup on his dresser. Your face. "This."

"You can't hold it together forever and then wonder why it comes out somewhere inconvenient." Dean's voice was even. "That's not strength. That's just pressure building."

You looked at him.

"Real talk," he said. "You've been running on empty, you've been pretending you're fine, and tonight cracked it open. And instead of letting yourself feel it, you drank half a mystery cup and were about to walk home alone in the cold." He raised an eyebrow. "Which we are going to circle back to."

"I wasn't going to walk home."

"You were absolutely going to walk home."

You didn't answer.

"Also," he said, and the sarcasm slid back in like he genuinely couldn't help it, "if you tell anyone I said any of this, I will deny it completely. I have a reputation and I'd like to keep it."

A sound came out of you that was almost a laugh. Wasn't quite. But almost.

"Drink some water," he said, standing, already moving to the mini fridge in the corner. He tossed you a bottle without looking. "And hey-"

You looked up.

"He's been looking for you for twenty minutes. Downstairs, increasingly frantic. You should talk to him."

You found Garrett's room because it was the only one with the light on.

The door was cracked. You pushed it open and stood in the doorway for a second, holding onto the frame slightly. The water Dean had given you was helping. A little. The edges of things were still slightly wrong.

You made it to the bed. Sat down. Put your face in your hands.

You heard him on the stairs before the door opened - that particular weight and rhythm, two at a time the way he always took them. And then Garrett was there, filling the doorway, and he stopped.

Just for a second.

Long enough for you to see it, the relief flooding in so fast it almost looked like something else. And underneath it, the residue of the twenty minutes before. He'd been worried. Not panicked, not Garrett, but worried. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he exhaled.

Then his eyes moved over you and his expression shifted into something different.

"Hey," he said carefully. "How much did you drink?"

You laughed, and it came out wrong. "Dean already asked me that."

"Dean texted me that you'd had a lot and that you were upset and to be..." he paused, "gentle. His word."

"Dean used the word gentle?"

"I was also surprised." He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you, and it was such a Garrett thing to do - not sitting beside you, not keeping distance, just immediately down to your level, hands finding yours - that your throat tightened all over again. "Look at me."

You did.

He looked back, and he didn't rush it. Just looked at you the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention. His thumb rubbed circles on your knuckles.

"I'm okay," you said. Force of habit.

"I know you're not." Not a judgment, just a fact. "Talk to me."

Your jaw worked. "I don't want to..." The words snagged. "I don't want to be something you have to manage, Garrett."

He went very still.

"I heard something tonight." Your voice came out thinner than you wanted, and you couldn't tell anymore how much of it was the alcohol and how much was just you: exhausted, hollowed out, finally out of room to hold it. "Someone saying I was... that I'm a lot right now. That you're running yourself into the ground for me, and you don't have time for someone like..." You stopped. "I've been thinking it for weeks. She just said it out loud."

"Who."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Garrett." You shook your head, and the room moved slightly with it. "That's not the point. The point is that I believed it. That I heard it and something in me just - yes, obviously, correct. And I hated that. So instead of finding you and telling you I was upset like a normal person, I-" You gestured vaguely at yourself. At the state of you. "This."

He looked at you for a long moment.

"You've been carrying this for weeks," he said. Not a question.

"I didn't want to make it your problem."

Something crossed his face. "You are not a problem."

"You have scouts. You have finals. You've been coming to my dorm every other day with food I didn't ask for-"

"Because I wanted to."

"-and I keep letting you, and I feel like I'm taking something, like I'm-"

"Stop." His hands tightened around yours. "Listen to me. I come over because I want to be there. I text you because I want to know how you are. That's not- it's not labor, it's not obligation, it's not me managing anything. It's me." He exhaled slowly. "You're it for me. You know that."

"You can't just say that."

"I say it constantly. The guys are sick of hearing it."

"Dean told me about the locker room thing."

"Of course he did." No heat in it. Just resignation, and something softer underneath. "It was embarrassing. I meant every word."

You looked at him, and your eyes were burning again, and this time you let them. You were too tired and too drunk and too emptied out to hold that back too.

Garrett rose off his knees and sat beside you on the bed and pulled you into him without any hesitation.

You leaned.

That was the hardest part, always. The leaning. Letting someone else take some of the weight.

You were so tired of holding yourself upright.

"You're not too much," he said, into your hair. "You have never been too much."

You didn't answer.

"I mean it."

"I know you do," you said, very quietly.

He held you tighter. The party carried on below, muffled and oblivious, bass thumping through the floor, and up here it was just this. His arms. The familiar smell of him. The particular exhaustion of something finally, finally spilling over after being held too long.

You didn't feel better.

Not exactly. Not the way you'd maybe hoped. The shame of the drinking wasn't gone - that would probably be worse in the morning, honestly.

But Garrett didn't let go.

He kept one hand moving, slow and steady, through your hair, the way he did when you were half-asleep and he thought you weren't noticing. Like this was something he wanted to do. Like you were something worth being careful with.

You didn't know how to explain what that did to you.

You weren't sure you had to. At least not tonight. Not to Garrett.

Tonight, you closed your eyes and let him hold you, and tried to remember how to just be here. Without managing, without performing.

Just be here.

[sighmaii]

epilogue

steve harrington x single mom!reader

a sneak peek into the life you've built with steve harrington

you're a catch!: chapter ten

wc: 682

warnings: pregnancy mention

“Nathan!” you called from the kitchen of Steve’s home, of your home, together. “Breakfast!”

Nathan’s feet don’t stumble down the hallway the same way they used to, but then again, nothing else is like it used to be either. 

When your son finally joins you around the table, Steve is already sitting across from you, enjoying a cup of coffee and flipping through his third baby-name book.

“What about Lucy?” He murmurs after taking a sip.

You laugh softly and turn your attention to Nathan, who is very grumpily making a plate of pancakes in front of you.

“Still mad?” You really don’t mean to laugh, but you can’t help it.

“Do you know how uncool it is to have your dad be the sex ed teacher?” He grumbles, a mouth full of pancake. “It was cool when he was the baseball coach, but now it's just…weird.”

Steve smiles across from you, even though the “dad” title wasn’t really new anymore. Nathan had picked it up only months after you two first started dating, not even waiting for the two of you to get married, but it still made Steve giddy every time. 

“You know I don’t treat you any different, bud, and trust me, I don’t like teaching it either.” He shrugs, trying to comfort him even a bit. But if he’s being honest, he completely understands why Nathan is upset. 

“It doesn’t matter! It’s still weird!” He murmurs.

“At least it’s only for a few weeks, you can survive, can’t you?” I give him an apologetic smile, gently squeezing his hand across the table. 

Nathan doesn’t answer, but that doesn’t surprise you. The middle school angst had been hitting him recently, and after finding out that Steve had to teach the sex class wasn’t helping his attitude at all. 

After stuffing his face with the last of his pancake, he grabs his bag off the ground, “I’ll be in the truck.”

I frown a bit at his exit, and Steve lets out a sigh. “Don’t worry about it, you know he’s gonna grow out of this.”

“I know… It’s just so hard. He’s always been such a sweet boy.” I say, my eyes trailing over the front door he had just walked out of.

Steve stands and places a soft kiss on the top of your head. Usually, the mornings consisted of all three of you heading to school together, but since you’ve been out on maternity leave, Steve has had to adjust to leaving you behind, something he isn’t too fond of.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?” 

“You say that every day, and every day I’m just fine.” You laugh softly at his worry.

“That little girl is coming out any day now, sue me for being a little worried about my wife.” He holds his hands in mock defense. 

He was right, you had to admit. You were bound for labor at any point now, and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t a little nerve-wracking. However, if you let Steve know that, he’d refuse to do anything but sit by your side, and you knew there’d be no point. 

“Just go. You’re both going to be late.” His head shakes softly, like he’s scolding your stubbornness, but the smile on his face tells you that he loves you for it. 

“Fine. I love you.” He says softly with one last kiss to your cheek before grabbing his keys and heading toward the door. 

The silence that follows after the door clicks shut behind him is the kind of silence that used to eat you alive. The kind that reminded you that your life was nowhere close to what you’d planned it to be, or reminded you that you had much to maintain to ensure Nathan had a good life.

Now there is room in the silence to breathe; to look around your home and see the photos of Nathan growing up, of your wedding, of every other unforgettable moment that Steve crafted out of your life since he stepped into it, and to smile. 

taglist: @4ria790 @moonjellyfishie @swirledyouintoallmypoems @white-wolf-buckaroo @khaibdl @jamieexistss @hottie-bishop-belova @caitsymichelle13 @xceafh @jellyfishjpeg @gatorgirlie @exooojongdaeee @bluegardenn @strangegirl26sff @joekeerylice @incrediblycosmicscythe @st4rg1rl88 @micheledawn1975 @leclercdream @pinkpunkdynamite @silenthappyplace @xennavx @offbrandhandymanny

[sighmaii]

steve harrington is a real catch

steve harrington x single mom!reader

basically, you finally come to your senses.

you're a catch!: chapter nine

wc: 1k

warnings: mentions of evil father who sucks, suggestive ending

Your memory didn’t serve you as well as you thought it could, but eventually, you did make your way to Steve’s home. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as you brought your hand to knock on his door, cringing a bit as you caught a glimpse of the slippers adorned on your feet. You do wish you’d taken the few minutes to put on real shoes, but in the moment, it felt as though you needed to get to Steve as soon as possible. 

After a few moments of silence, your lips fell into a small frown before giving another knock, quieter this time. It was getting late; it wouldn’t be a huge shock if he’d already called it a night. I mean, between the time you got home from the bar and the time it took you to actually locate his home, most normal adults would already be in bed. Luckily for you, Steve is a really light sleeper. 

He’d begun making his way to the front door after the first knock, and opened the door just as you were removing your hand from the second. He was too dazed from sleep to even begin to think about hiding the shock on his face at seeing you on his doorstep. 

“You’re here.” He whispered, taking you in. You looked nice, he could tell you’d been out. 

“I’m here. To apologize.” You nodded, your heart fluttering more than you expected it to. 

“Apologize?”

“I shouldn’t have walked away from you like that, and… I shouldn’t have pushed you away after.” You muster all the courage you have in you to look him in his eyes. “You were only trying to help, and I’m so grateful to have met someone who wants to stand up for my son and me. It was just a stressful moment, and I wasn’t sure how else to react…” You pause, “I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t ruined things.”

Steve is frozen for a moment, only spiking your nerves all the more. “Ruined things?” He laughs softly, a smile breaking out onto his face, “Come inside, please.” He steps aside, clearing the doorway for you to come in, the distant familiarity hitting you the second you pass through the doorframe. 

“You know, I was worried when I saw Nathan go home with Mrs.Carls this afternoon. I thought you’d start avoiding practice too.” He mumbled, leading you to his sofa. Flashbacks of the way you two had been pressed against it the first night you met lingered somewhere in your mind. 

You shook your head slightly, “No, Nathan is just staying with them for the night, I uh- I went out with a few friends.” You explained, taking the seat across from him on the sofa. 

He didn’t respond much other than a soft hum and nod of acknowledgement before an awkward silence filled the air. It didn’t last long, though, before Steve was speaking up, turning his body to face you properly. 

“I didn’t want to come to Hawkins,” you sigh, the admission feeling like a weight off your shoulders, even more so as you continue, “It was always supposed to be temporary.”

Steve doesn’t answer immediately, and you take that as your chance to continue, “I only moved here so that I could afford a lawyer to take Nathan’s father to court for paying child support. It was meant to be a quick trial, then we’d pack back up and go back home. I never wanted to stay here.” Your voice tapers off, a bit too scared now to look back up at him. 

You know that you should’ve told him from the start that you always planned to leave, but you were afraid that you’d no longer be able to enjoy the benefits of the relationship you’d built with Steve, and you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Realistically, you know this was also what was keeping you from giving Steve everything. 

“But he just…refuses. He doesn’t see Nathan. After Nathan’s third birthday, he started getting to aggressive, scaring him, and when I called him out on it, he bailed. He was never excessively present before that, but after that, he just wanted nothing to do with him. Since then, he says that Nathan isn’t his son because Nathan isn’t in his life, and therefore, he shouldn’t have to pay. I don’t know how much he’s spending on a lawyer, but they must be awfully good for him to have gotten out of paying this long.” I laugh dryly before shaking my head. 

“So, moving back isn’t so much an option anymore, at least not for a while, but if I’m honest, I’m not sure I even want to anymore.” You murmur, finally carding your eyes over his face to hopefully gauge some sort of reaction from him. 

“I mean, Nathan’s having a great time, and Hawkin’s is a lot cheaper than Chicago. Plus, Nathan really likes his baseball coach, and… so do I.”

“I want to be your boyfriend. Like, for real.” He says quickly, almost as if he’s ripping off a Band-Aid. 

You pause a moment, then let out a breath. Not quite a sigh, but too intentional to be a regular exhale. “Yeah, I’d like that.” You nod, giving him the softest smile, sliding your hand along the cushions of his sofa to grasp his hand. 

“Yeah? You aren’t going to put up a fight?” His laugh is like music to your ears. 

“No, I don’t think so.” Now it’s your turn to laugh. “Thank you for letting me explain. And for being patient with me.” You hum softly, shifting ever so slightly closer. 

“You said Nathan is staying the night with the Carls’, right?” Steve’s voice was almost a whisper, and his hand was already raising your wrist to his lips, placing feather-light kisses along the inside of it. 

At your nod, Steve’s kissed become more firm, and the dust over your knuckles. “Let me show you how badly I want space in your lives.” His whisper sends a shiver down your spine, and for possibly the first time since Nathan was born, you take what you want without thinking about everything that could go wrong, and let him whisk you back into his bed, where it all began.

taglist: @4ria790 @moonjellyfishie @swirledyouintoallmypoems @white-wolf-buckaroo @khaibdl @jamieexistss @hottie-bishop-belova @caitsymichelle13 @xceafh @jellyfishjpeg @gatorgirlie @exooojongdaeee @bluegardenn @strangegirl26sff @joekeerylice @incrediblycosmicscythe @st4rg1rl88 @micheledawn1975 @leclercdream @pinkpunkdynamite @silenthappyplace @xennavx @offbrandhandymanny

[harringtonsdiaryxx]

tiktok pranks w/ joe ♡

based on these two requests!! thank you so much <3 remember you can request and ask me anything. btw i have lots of ideas for this kind of imagines so if you like it i will do a part two.

pairing: joe keery x reader

summary: the best part about being in a relationship with someone like joe —who’s so head over heels for you that he’d never take any of your jokes the wrong way— is that you can use him as the subject of your tiktoks (which go viral instantly just because you’re the couple of the moment), and he’ll always play along, following your lead and doing whatever you say.

warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, use of pet names, use of y/n. mention of javi reyes and harry styles lol (love them). and i haven't specified what currency the money is in, so i'll leave that to everyone's imagination.

author’s note: hi hi hi hi my loveeeesss!! unfortunately, i don't finish my exams for another couple of weeks, but i've been working on this little by little to entertain you all!! (and myself hahaha). it's not proofread because i don't have time. remember that english is not my first language! so there may be some grammatical mistakes. aand i hate capital letters so you won't find any of those on here lol.

word count: 2167

MAKING UP BRAND NAMES

this was supposed to be a normal get-ready routine. showing off your outfit of the day with your boyfriend, simply describing each item (even though joe never remembers and you both end up laughing hysterically), but you decided to play a prank on him.

it all started normally, as usual. but joe still hadn't realized he was about to be the butt of your joke again. when he finished showing off the secondhand wide-leg pants he was wearing for the first time that day, it was your turn.

"your turn, love. well, guys, as you can see, y/n looks gorgeous today, as always," joe said, his hands in his pockets, still looking at you from a distance.

"thanks, sweetheart. well, today i'm wearing this t-shirt from watermelon sugar high boutique. it's beautiful and…"

"what?" joe interrupted, with a hint of laughter. "is that a real brand?"

"of course it is, why?"

"…watermelon sugar high, like the harry styles song…?"

“you’re right! it’s just like the song. hey, can you let me continue or are you going to keep interrupting me?”

“sorry, honey. you’re absolutely right, go on,” he said, even more confused as he scratched the back of his neck, turning his attention back to you.

“well, this leather jacket is from rock and rolling, specifically from the heavy metal fists collection, it’s super high quality.” out of the corner of your eye, you could see joe’s eyebrows getting more and more furrowed. you tried to hold back your laughter a little longer.

“and… oh yeah! these leopard-print pants are old, but i remember they’re from meow meow the cat on the roof. they sent them to me a couple of years ago and they’re super cute,” you finished, now looking at him directly.

joe burst out laughing, doubling over slightly. "okay, you just made that up."

"what? of course not."

he moved a little closer, grabbing your waist. "honey, the tag's still on the outside and uncut. these are from zara," he said, showing them to the camera.

you started laughing, covering your face. you were so bad at these kinds of jokes. "i can't believe it."

"oh, my absent-minded girl. next time, look carefully before you try to pull a fast one on me alright?" he said, smiling and planting a kiss on your head, still caressing your waist. "meow meow the cat on the roof? seriously? you're unbelievable."

you couldn't stop laughing, grabbing your phone and saving the video like it was gold. "come on, let's go," you huffed while your boyfriend was still laughing at you, affectionately.

WHY AREN’T YOU HOLDING MY HAND?

coming back from vacation was always a hassle, especially with you. the fact that you'd taken one suitcase and four bags overflowing with clothes just for five days at the beach didn't exactly make the return trip any easier. at least not for your boyfriend, whose legs looked like they were about to give way at any moment as he carried two bags on each shoulder, one suitcase at each side, and his phone in his other hand, answering messages.

you were a little behind him, just carrying your handbag while scrolling through social media. suddenly, a video popped up that made you burst out laughing; it was a trend that had apparently gone viral. it was about asking your partner to hold your hand when he was already loaded down with stuff and… wait. your boyfriend was loaded down with stuff.

you couldn't help but crack a mischievous smile. back to the routine also meant back to the weekly pranks you played on joe.

you approached him, reaching him in two steps, and started recording with your phone, discreetly.

you decided to start the joke slowly. first you sighed, then a little louder until…

“is everything alright, princess?” joe asked, trying not to let a bag slip from his arm.

you didn't answer; you simply looked at him and sighed again. now that you were closer, you could see the beads of sweat on his forehead and how his arms were trembling slightly. those blessed flexed arms, those biceps that… focus. the joke.

“does this seem normal to you?” you said, in a tone of slight offense, trying to keep a straight face. when you saw your boyfriend raise an eyebrow, while looking through the bags in case he'd left something at the hotel, you continued with the plan: “why aren't you holding my hand, huh? people are going to think we don't even know each other.”

joe froze. he looked down at his busy hands, completely serious. just when you thought he was going to get angry at you for demanding it after walking in the sun for 20 minutes with all your luggage, he took one of the bags from his right hand, transferring it to his other arm, struggling but managing.

“you’re right, princess, i’m sorry. come here” he said, completely honest, as he gently took your hand and pulled you closer, kissing your temple.

“…omg. you’re the cutest thing in the world!” you replied, smiling while pouting and holding up your phone camera, showing him you were recording. “but how can i demand you to hold my hand when you’re already carrying so much?!”

“oh here we go again with your jokes. what can I say, darling, i’m being a real gentleman,” he smiled cheekily, kissing your knuckles. now that he’d managed to create a tandem of bags to hold your hand, he wasn’t going to let go.

MAKING UP THE PRICE OF MAKEUP PRODUCTS

it was a saturday afternoon, you were going out for drinks with some friends, and when you opened your vanity and realized that the big makeup bag you'd bought the week before was still untouched, and that joe had no idea you'd bought it, you knew it was the perfect moment for one of your pranks.

your boyfriend came out of the shower, dressed up but casually, his hair still a little wet at the ends. he looked you up and down as you sat down in front of the vanity, all the products already laid out on the table, careful not to get any on the summer dress you were wearing.

“i'm ready, babe. are you almost done?" he asked, not in a desperate tone, just curious. it was your moment.

"yeah, i just have to do my makeup and i’m done. we're on time, i think i’ll make a video showing the products i bought. do you want to be in it?" you asked, even though you knew the answer was obvious because your boyfriend loved being part of everything that made you happy.

“of course,” he said as he sat on the edge of the bed next to the vanity. you positioned the phone so you were both in the frame, and without waiting any longer, you pressed record.

let the show begin.

“hey everyone! today we’re going to a casual event, so i decided to record this short makeup routine in case it’s helpful to anyone.” you paused, pretending to think, “i should say what each product is and the price, right joe?”

“yeah, sure, in case anyone wants to buy it,” he said, a little distracted as he inspected a lipstick he’d picked up from the side of the vanity.

you turned your gaze back to the camera and took a deep breath, trying not to laugh. “okay, let’s start with this foundation, it’s charlotte tilbury’s no. 02. i really recommend it, especially now because it’s quite lightweight on the skin…oh! and it’s on sale, because i only got it for 110, it’s so great!”

joe slowly raised his head, turning over what you’d said in his mind. however, he didn’t say anything, he just put the lipstick back on the table and fixed his gaze on you, now listening closely.

you bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “okay, let’s see what else…this liquid blush is amazing! the color is perfect and the pigmentation is really good. It’s from rare beauty, i think it costs around 95, but i got the two-pack because it was cheaper, around 182, it’s a steal!”

okay, so joe hadn’t imagined it. you’d actually just mentioned that price and you’d been so calm about it. “182 for this?” he said, mouth agape, as he picked up the bottle, “this holds 10 milliliters, honey.”

“yes! it is very profitable,” you feigned excitement, returning to the video. you picked up a gold palette, which looked elegant… and expensive. it was perfect, the final test.

“well, what can i say about the dior neutral color palette? it’s wonderful,” you exclaimed as you opened the lid and showed the four tiny colors inside.

before you could come up with an outrageous price, joe jumped in, “and that one, baby? how much did that cost you?” he asked, brow raised, waiting.

“oh yeah. well, you’re going to be blown away, girls, because they were on clearance and it was a spectacular discount,” you heard joe exhale, relaxing. you smiled inwardly.

“can you believe the four nude shades only cost me 254.45?! i just had to have it,” you said, as calmly as possible, while scooping pigment with your index finger and placing it on the palm of your hand, showing the shimmer of each color in the video.

“…what? you’re kidding, right?” joe said, letting out a small, incredulous laugh.

you frowned, pretending not to understand. “what are you laughing at? it’s really good.”

“did that cost you 255?”

“254.45.”

“that’s still two hundred fifty…”

“no. you can buy four strawberry gums for 55 cents.”

“what’s that makeup made of? gold?!” he said, ignoring your jokes. he wasn't angry with you at all, just incredulous that a palette the size of his palm cost as much as his entire outfit. he'd never really understand the whole world of makeup.

you couldn't help but laugh when he cracked a voice in the middle of his rant.

"what are you laughing at?"

"sorry, honey, it was just a trend... say hi to tiktok! of course this didn't cost me that much," you said, slouching in your chair. "you should have seen your face."

he chuckled. "very funny, miss. well, you should know that what bothered me most was that you wouldn't let me pay with my card," he replied, completely serious. and he wasn't joking; joe always wanted to buy you things and would get mad if you wouldn't let him.

"oh, shut up," you said, throwing yourself at him so the video wouldn't capture your flushed cheeks.

I FOUND JAVI ON TINDER

you were sprawled on the sofa, covered with a blanket, each on one side and in silence, spending sunday afternoon as peacefully as possible. joe was on his phone, so you took the opportunity to discreetly shift so the camera would point directly at him.

"i can't believe it," you said, exaggerating as you sat up slightly and covered your mouth in mock astonishment.

"what? what happened?" he replied instantly, putting his phone down and giving you his full attention.

“i found javi on tinder," you answered, still feigning surprise, trying to hold back the laughter that threatened to burst out.

joe's eyes widened, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "my javi? wow, i can't believe it!" he exclaimed, before bursting into silly laughter, his head tilting back. "he's quite the ladies' man. i never expected him to have one of those."

he hadn't even noticed, so you decided to play along. "i was just browsing and it popped up. i swear i didn't realize until i saw the description: guitarist and music lover," you pretended to read from your phone.

"of course that's his description. it's like his most characteri-… wait," he cut himself off. you saw his smile fade slightly and his eyebrows furrow. "and what are you doing on tinder?"

"what?"

"you found him on tinder. what are you doing on tinder?" he repeated, a puzzled pout escaping him.

"oh, nothing. i was just browsing and it popped up," you replied calmly.

“but…honey. i exist,” he said, pointing to himself, still pouting and with his eyebrows raised in confusion, like a lost puppy.

that's when you couldn't hold back your laughter any longer, bursting into laughter. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry. it's a joke!” you said, sticking your tongue out triumphantly and showing him you were recording him.

at that moment, you thought you'd never seen someone relax so much in a second. joe's entire body and every feature of his face relaxed. “don't ever do that again,” he said seriously, but with a teasing little smile.

“i love you.”

“i love you more, princess. by the way, i’ll have to ask javi, because now that you mentioned it it wouldn’t be so weird to see him on tinder”

the video ended with both of you laughing, still lying on the sofa.