summary ⠀♱ you never imagined your junior year of college would turn you into a mother—but alas, here you are.
pairing ⠀♱ garrett graham x fem!dilaurentis!reader
warnings ⠀♱ smut, unprotected p in v, mentions of birth control, pregnancy, mentions of abortion, angst, garrett is lowk a dick, garrett is scared of being like his father, reader is dean’s twin sister, john tucker being a cutie, reader ends up living in the hawks house, overprotective dean, overprotective garrett, mentions of phil (yikes), garrett and reader have a…complicated relationship to say the least, mentions of violence (dean punches garrett, garrett punches dean, they fight), reader’s nickname is DiDi (pronounced deedee, come from the di in di laurentis), reader is a child development major, mentions of nausea and throwing up—SKIP IF EMETOPHOBIC
a/n ⠀♱ belmont cameli has genuinely taken over my life. THIS WORK WAS WRITTEN BY ME, NOT AI. DO NOT PLUG MY WORKS INTO AI. not proofread, ignore any errors.
-1 MONTHS
“Oh my God, Garrett!” Your lips part in a pornographic moan, the veins in your neck popping out as your head thumps against the bed frame. Currently, you were in the Hawks House, Garrett thrusting into you slow and deep as your head hangs over the bed—Hang Loose was always his favorite position. Your tits bounce lightly with each of his thrusts, his chain grazing over your skin as he lets out a soft grunt.
“So fucking good for me,” He murmurs, his hot mouth moving over your smooth skin until his lips wrap around your nipple. Your hips jerk up from the contact, nails digging into his back. “Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?” He teases, flicking his tongue over the bud. You get louder, hands frantically moving from his back to his dark curls, tugging.
“Oh my God, I’m gonna cum—I’m gonna cum, ohhh, yes!” You whine, letting out a sob as you clench around Garrett’s dick. He chokes out a groan, his hips stuttering as he fucks you through it. “Where do you want—”
“Inside,”
“But you’re not—”
“I don’t care, just cum inside of me—oh my God, I’m cumming!” Garrett swears your moans echo across the entirety of Briar University’s campus—and he has to admit, it makes him even cockier than he was before. With a soft moan, he lets go, filling up your tight pussy with ropes of cum.
He pulls you up so you’re fully on the bed before collapsing on top of you, both of you panting, and you smile, letting out a soft laugh as you rake your manicured fingers through his hair. “That was fucking amazing,” He murmurs, pressing kisses to your sweat-soaked skin. You nod, humming, still a bit hazy from your orgasm.
You tap Garrett’s shoulder, and reluctantly, he gets up with a sigh, grabbing your silk leopard print robe from his desk chair and handing it to you. Most of the time, you were at Hawks House more than you were at your dorm with Hannah and Allie, and you had accumulated a small collection of clothes which Garrett kept in his top drawer.
You sit up and tie the robe around your naked body, going on your tippy toes to press a kiss to his cheek as he puts on a pair of boxers. You’re about to open the door to go downstairs to the kitchen, but Garrett stops you, his large forearm wrapping around your waist and pulling you back into him. “Your legs aren’t shaking,” He murmurs into your ear, making you shiver, “do we need to go again?”
You laugh, twisting yourself out of his grip, “Maybe later. I’m plenty satisfied, baby. Mama needs some water.”
Garrett pouts, his eyes practically as soft as a puppy’s fur, “Oh yeah, mama needs some water? We can get you water,” He teases, throwing you over his shoulder. You yelp, hands flying to his lower back for stability, “Garrett, put me down!” You shriek, but Garrett shakes his head as he exits his bedroom and thunks downstairs.
“No can do, gotta get water for m’lady,” He laughs, “hey, boys,” He greets his roommates—who all look disgusted. Dean rises up from the couch as Garrett finally puts you down, grinning as he smacks your ass and jiggles the fat with his palm. Your brother gags at the sight, “Next time you guys want to fuck, can you please, for the love of all things holy, fuck a little quieter?” He pleads, pinching his fingers together.
“I’ve had to hear you having sex since we were fifteen,” You deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest, thanking Garrett when he hands you a glass of water and smoothes your hair with his palms.
“Yeah, but like—that’s different,” Dean grumbles, “I never had sex with your best friend.”
“You’re literally dating one of my best friends, Deanie.”
“That’s different!” He repeats, whining theatrically as he stomps back over to the couch, before throwing himself over the back of it and doing a backwards somersault, kicking over a bowl of popcorn in the process.
“Oh come on bro, that was perfectly buttered!” Tucker groans, putting his game controller to the side as he begins to pick up the buttered kernels. Dean does too, popping some in his mouth, which makes everyone in the room—including you and Garrett, who had been watching this scene together from the kitchen, unfold—recoil with disgust.
MONTH ONE
About three weeks later, you’re in a lecture hall for your major—Child Development. You wanted to be an elementary teacher, so you chose Child Development as a way to jumpstart your career.
Suddenly, a wave of nausea overcomes you—you quickly gather all of your things and exit the lecture hall as fast as you can, dropping to your knees in the closest toilet stall before heaving your guts out.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” A concerned voice says from behind you. You can’t turn your head, but are able to see strawberry blonde hair in your peripheral as the girl kneels next to you, pulling your hair back.
Kendall, one of Garrett’s ex-hookups.
Great.
You nod slowly, wiping your mouth with a piece of toilet paper that she hands to you. “Yeah, thanks—probably just stress from my classes,” You say softly, giving her a genuine smile.
You felt bad for the girl—she had been hooking up with Garrett before you, and as soon as you and Garrett had sex for the first time, he kicked her to the curb. He always told you the split was a mutual decision, but you could see in her eyes, now, that she was still pained by his words from that night.
“Of course,” She murmurs, “hey—you’re Dean’s sister, right? The one who’s dating Garrett?”
You nod at the first part of her sentence but quickly shake your head at the last part of her sentence, which you regret as soon as it brings on another wave of nausea as you retch into the toilet.
Kendall grimaces, handing you another piece of toilet paper, and you thank her, wiping your mouth before responding to her. “I’m Dean’s twin, yeah. Unfortunately,” You snort, “but I’m not dating Garrett—we’re just friends who like, fuck around, you know?”
You stand up from the tiled bathroom floor, dusting off your pants, and finally start to feel a bit better. “Oh, I just thought—you know, with all of the stuff posted on Fifth Line…” Kendall says shyly, scratching at her forearm.
“Jules just loves to stir shit,” You giggle softly, squeezing Kendall’s shoulder. “They’ve been like that since I met them. It was nice talking to you, Kendall, but I should probably get back to class—thanks for taking care of me!”
“Yeah, of course,” She smiles, waving goodbye as you exit the bathroom.
After a day of classes, you immediately flop down onto Allie’s bed with an exasperated huff. “Oh honeybun, what’s wrong?” She asks, setting aside her gel polishes from where she was doing her toenails.
“I spent half of today in the lecture hall bathrooms,” You mumble, lifting your head from her duvet. She frowns sympathetically, rubbing your back as you continue talking, “and my boobs are sore, but my period’s late, and all I want is Garrett, but he’s at practice.”
“Oh, shit.” Allie says abruptly, and you look at her confused. “What’s wrong?”
“When was the last time you and Garrett had sex?”
“Three weeks ag—oh, fucking shit.”
Two hours later, Hannah and Allie both have their hands on your arm, squeezing you from time to time. Hannah rubs your back as you whine nervously, watching the timer count down on your phone. When it beeps, you go to reach for it, hand shaking, but Allie stops you for a second.
“Hey, DiDi,” She says softly, “whatever it says, we’ll be right here. And I know it’s bad timing—but really, whatever it says, whatever you want to do, we’ll be here. No matter what.”
You nod, sucking in a breath, and go to look at it.
Your heart drops to your ass. You blink, twice, making sure that your eyes don’t deceive you.
Pregnant, 2-3 weeks.
You stifle a sob as your hands come up to your mouth, and your legs give out like jelly, both Hannah and Allie hugging you tightly as you wail on the bathroom floor.
MONTH TWO
You still haven’t told Garrett.
You’re eight weeks pregnant, still haven’t told your—whatever he is—and are trying to hide it at a party. Where there’s drinks.
You always drink at parties.
Dean can notice something is wrong—and so can Garrett, whose brows furrow as you reject his offer to go get you a Smirnoff Ice for the third time. “Baby, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been off for a few weeks.”
You smile as you twirl a toothpick between your fingers, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess. Professor Nolan’s lectures are always a bore,”
He kisses your temple, dark brows furrowed as he stares directly into your eyes, “Do you wanna leave? Because we can go, baby.” You shake your head. “No, no—go, have fun. Dean has been waiting for you to go do shots with him,” You giggle, pointing over at your twin, who’s already drunk off of his ass and about to jump onto a wooden table.
Garrett sighs and kisses your temple once more before leaving to go take care of Dean, and Hannah walks over to you, nibbling at her lip. “You still haven’t told him?” Your walls immediately crumble, and your bottom lip starts to tremble, chin quivering, “Oh, DiDi,” She tuts, pulling you in for a hug.
“I’m so scared,” You whisper, “what if he hates me? What if he tells me to get rid of it?” Hannah shakes her head, “That’s not gonna happen, DiDi. You know Garrett, he’s a big softie under all of that hockey gear. You just have to be honest, okay? Go with your heart—and he loves you, DiDi. He may deny it whenever anyone asks, or teases him about it, but I see it in his eyes. You’re it for him.”
You sniffle, and Hannah wipes your tears away, before dragging you out to the dance floor. You giggle as she twirls you around, and for a moment, all of your worries are gone.
Until a week later, when you’re sat in front of Garrett, sitting on his bed in one of his t-shirts and baby pink sleep shorts. “We need to talk,” You say abruptly, and he pokes his head out from his closet, turning around to face you in only Calvin Klein boxers and messy curls.
“What’s up?”
You nibble your bottom lip, already nervous, and fiddle with your fingers. “Can you sit down? It’s important,”
Garrett nods, moving from the closet to his bed, sitting down next to you and taking one of your hands between both of his. “Baby, you’re shaking. What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
“I’m pregnant,” You blurt.
Garrett’s brows furrow, and he goes stiff beside you. You hate that you can feel the change in his body from the way that his thumb has stopped rubbing the back of your hand.
“I’m pregnant,” You repeat, quieter now, but Garrett’s ears still pick it up. “Please say something,” You sigh, voice shaking with nervousness.
“Are you sure it’s mine?”
His words hit you like a slap in the face, and you pull your hand away from his grip. “What?”
“I mean, are you sure it’s mine? I’m trying to make sure you’re not baby trapping me—”
You stand up from the bed, angry now, “Baby trap you? Are you fucking serious Garrett?”
He stands up now too, crossing his arms over his chest, “What? It’s a very reasonable question to ask! We’re just fucking around, I didn’t ask to be a father!”
“And you think I asked to be a mother?” You yell, scoffing as you wrap your arms protectively around yourself, “I can’t even believe the words that are coming out of your mouth right now! ‘Just fucking around’? You tell me that you love me, Garrett! You call me baby, you-you cuddle me, you take care of me!”
“You say that too! You do those things too!” He exclaims, eyes widening as he extends his arms towards you as to prove a point.
“We’re not ‘just fucking around’,” You mutter, “we’re practically dating, and you know it.” You go to leave his room, but he grabs your arm, “DiDi, we’re not done with this conversation—”
“Ow—let me go, Garrett, you’re hurting me!”
Those three words feel like a punch to Garrett’s heart. He swallows, letting you go, but his eyes are pained.
You’re hurting me.
As soon as you leave, Garrett flops back down onto his bed. He lifts his arm above his head, tears beginning to sting at his waterline as he stretches and bends his fingers. The fingers that had just gripped your arm, so tense with confusion and irritation and anger that he had squeezed you hard enough to hurt you.
He never wanted to hurt you.
You’re hurting me.
Your words echo in his head. “Fuck,” He chokes out, sniffling as he turns on his side, trying to sleep.
He’s going to be a father.
As he drifts to sleep, on your side of the bed, all he can think about is your words—you’re hurting me—and the fact that he’ll probably be like his father.
Sick. Quick tempered.
MONTH THREE
It’s been a week since you told Garrett.
A week since he accused you of baby trapping. Since he had accidentally squeezed you too hard—the bruise was fading on your forearm—and looked at you after you had said those words—you’re hurting me—like he was a scared little boy.
God, you missed him. Missed his laugh, the way he laughed with his whole body, his smile, the dimples on his cheeks, the scar on his abdomen from where he had donated a kidney when he was in high school.
It’s only been a week, and he had already missed so much. The first ultrasound. The day that you popped, which Allie eagerly took a picture of as she suggested baby names and nursery themes, and the day that you got your first craving: a dill pickle, hollowed out, stuffed with cream creese, Takis, and popcorn.
You had asked Tucker to make the craving on the down low—and when he got suspicious, you spilled your guts to him. You told him about the pregnancy, the argument with Garrett, but left out the part where Garrett had accidentally hurt you—it wasn’t important. You knew he hadn’t meant to do it—he would never hurt you, or anyone he loves.
You had also sworn Tucker to secrecy—no telling Logan, and especially not Dean. If Dean knew, he would flip, and he would flip even more if he knew that Garrett had practically kicked you to the curb.
The doorbell outside of your dorm room rings, and you grin, squealing excitedly—you had been waiting for Tucker to bring you your newest craving, which he had to make in secret and also secretly bring it to your dorm. Coconut popsicles wrapped in Fruit Roll-Ups, dipped in Juicy Drop Pop syrup.
You open the door, and your face falls. Instinctively, you go to cover your stomach, the small curve of it visible underneath your butter yellow tank top.
Phil Graham stands at your door, a hardened expression on his face as he looms over you with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “So the rumors are true,” He says quietly, glancing down at your stomach, “my son knocked up the Di Laurentis slut.”
“Excuse me?” You scoff, hand gripping the doorknob as you stand somewhat behind it, preparing yourself to shut the door and lock it, if necessary.
Phil says nothing, just looks down at you with disgust, before pulling a hand out from his pocket and shoving a piece of paper into your chest—not hard enough to hurt, but it’s enough to make sure that you’re intimidated by him.
You’re not.
Garrett has told you about him. The things that he did, the things that he said, the bruises he’s left. But it didn’t make you scared, it made you angry. For Garrett. For his mother. For your unborn child.
“Two million dollars,” He sneers, “for you to do one of two things: drop out of college and raise this baby on your own, moving far away from my son. Or get a fucking abortion, and never talk to my son again.”
He walks away before you can speak. As you stare down at the check, you don’t feel anything for it—you only feel anger.
You arrive at Hawks House in a record time—two minutes, considering it takes seven to get there, and stomp up the porch, ripping open the front door. “Where the fuck is Garrett?” You seethe, chest heaving as you glare at Tucker and Logan, who both point upstairs.
You stomp up to Garrett’s room and rip open that door, too, throwing the piece of paper at his sock-clad feet. “You told your dad? Are you fucking kidding me, Garrett?”
A look of confusion crosses Garrett’s dark features. “What are you talking about?” He picks up the piece of paper thrown at him, and his fingers grip it so hard it almost rips a hole through the check.
“He gave this to you?”
“Just now,” You laugh dryly, “you know, I knew you were angry about me being pregnant, but I never knew you would tell your father to pay me off to abort my baby.”
“You’re fucking pregnant?” A voice says from behind you—and it’s definitely not Garrett’s. You freeze as you turn to face your twin brother. Your mouth opens as shock washes over your features. “Deanie—”
Dean charges into Garrett’s room, seething with anger, and it’s like he doesn’t even see you. He goes straight for Garrett, punching him square in the jaw. “Dean!” You yelp, but he can’t hear you as he goes for Garrett’s ribs.
“You got my sister pregnant and then paid her to get an abortion? Are you fucking serious, man?” Dean yells, letting out a grunt as Garrett lands a punch back. Soon enough, the two boys are scrambling, throwing punches at each other until they’re both on the floor.
“A little help in here!” You yell for Tucker and Logan, who quickly hurry up the stairs, both of them letting out a synchronized “oh, shit” as Tucker goes to pull Dean off of Garrett and Logan pulls Garrett out from under Dean.
There’s blood splattered across the wooden floors of Garrett’s room, seeping into the cracks between the panels, and you feel sick. You can’t tell whose it is, but there’s so much of it.
Ten minutes later, the blood has been cleaned up, Garrett and Dean have been separated, and you’re sitting on the bathroom sink, Garrett standing between your legs as you clean the dried blood from his face.
Garrett sighs softly as he continues to stare at you—your lips are parted, tongue poking out slightly as you focus, chest moving up and down as you breathe. “I’m sorry,” He says gruffly, his hands gripping the edge of the sink, “for what I said. About the baby. And for hurting you. I—I never meant to—”
Your breath hitches, and you try to ignore his words by saying, “This is gonna sting,” before you press a cotton ball to his sliced open cheekbone. He hisses, groaning as he white knuckles the counter and drops his head to your chest. You freeze, and so does he, before nuzzling himself deeper into your cleavage.
“Garrett!” You squeal, trying to pull him away, but he whines in protest. “These things are so soft…” He murmurs, “is there milk in them already?”
You flick the back of his neck. “Don’t be weird.”
He just hums, smiling against your skin, before lifting his head so you can keep attending to his wounds. His eyes are half-lidded as he continues to stare at you with a dopey smile. “I’m gonna do good by you,” He says seriously, one of his hands moving from the sink to hold yours, which was resting on top of your growing bump, “and this kid. When I turn twenty-two, I get access to a trust made by my grandparents—it’s got enough for us to live off of, baby. Us and the kid, on a giant piece of land in the outskirts of Boston.”
“Garrett…” You say softly, “you still haven’t asked me to be your girlfriend, you know.”
He stands up straight, puffs out his chest, and then grips your cheeks, squishing them so your mouth is in a pout. You giggle at his serious expression as he says your full name, before adding, “will you be my girlfriend?”
You nod, a grin on your face, and lean in to kiss him. “Yes,” You say simply.
Garrett pumps his fist in the air before returning the kiss, mumbling against your lips, “When’s your due date?”
“January,” You respond, letting him pick you up and take you to his bedroom.
Garrett’s birthday is January 1st.
a/n (again) ⠀♱ splitting this up into two parts because tumblr only allows for 10 pics and my dividers count as pictures…
c/w ❀.ೃ࿔ angst, silent treatment, he logs into reader’s IG, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, #male tears, groveling, one-sided voicemails, make-up sex, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, praise, jersey stays on, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, babydoll, sweetheart, honey, pretty + no y/n) + dean climbs onto reader’s roof ❀⊰ *
By the seventh day, Dean had officially decided something was wrong with your phone.
Not because you never got mad at him—you absolutely did—but because this wasn’t how you fought. You’d tell him exactly what he did wrong. You expected him to listen. You expected the two of you to work through it together. But seven straight days without a single word? That wasn’t you.
He’d texted enough times that your conversation sat permanently pinned to the top of his messages. Half of them had gone unanswered. The other half were just him talking to himself because apparently he couldn’t stop.
Links to TikTok edits that reminded him of the two of you. A screenshot of some guy getting absolutely leveled during practice because he knew you’d laugh. A question about how much sugar he needs for those cookies he loves.
Then the inevitable spiral. You okay? Baby? You still mad? Can you at least tell me if you’re still alive? Nothing.
His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?
He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.
Dean dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.
Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.
Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.
He closed the app and opened it again.
Nothing.
His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.
Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.
You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.
This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”
You opened your settings again. Your blocked list was empty.
You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.
Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.
Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.
Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”
You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.
Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜
You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.
“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”
You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.
“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.
You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Dean let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.
“Babydoll?”
Silence.
“Honey?”
Still nothing.
“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”
You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.
“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone—Garrett and Tucker walking through the kitchen, talking about something he couldn’t even make out, Logan yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.
Dean clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Garrett or Tucker can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.
You always come.
So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.
You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.
Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.
“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? Left you some tickets at will-call like always. Just—wish me luck. Something?” Click.
You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.
The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.
The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.
He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.
His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Garrett finally nudges him. Dean ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.
“You good?” Garrett asks through a weak laugh, searching for Dean’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he hums.
“Everything alright?”
“Great.”
Garrett snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”
The words hit harder than Dean expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.
That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.
“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Dean shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”
“Yeah?” Garrett tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”
No, it doesn’t.
Dean can’t even come up with something in reply.
“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”
Garrett nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.
The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.
Dean skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.
Your seat is empty.
His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Dean catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.
The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.
Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’s taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.
The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.
The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving Briar with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.
Dean drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.
He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Graham said it best. “This isn’t like you.”
His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.
Straight to voicemail.
His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.
Another call. Another voicemail.
The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Dean fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.
“Rough one tonight, Di Laurentis,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.
Dean ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Garrett yells something back in Dean’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.
“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”
“Fuck you,” Dean barks and Garrett grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.
“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”
The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Garrett nods Tucker and Logan toward his Jeep. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.
He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.
He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”
His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.
“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.
The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.
The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.
You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.
And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.
His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.
“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.
“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”
He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.
“That game, baby. That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been at Briar. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those pricks from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”
The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.
And he still doesn’t have an answer.
He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.
He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.
And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.
He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.
Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.
It means admitting he might actually be losing you.
If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.
His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”
His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.
And still, nothing.
What the fuck did I do, baby?
His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.
For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.
“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.
He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.
By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.
Dean waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.
His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.
Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.
He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.
“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.
Nothing.
He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.
His eyes stay fixed on the window.
The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.
What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.
His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.
You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.
The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.
He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.
He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.
Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.
He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.
The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.
By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.
Dean steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.
His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.
You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.
You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Dean’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.
You were supposed to be at the game.
You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.
His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.
Dean doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.
“…Don’t you fucking dare, Dean.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.
“Just leave.”
“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why would I leave?”
Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”
Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Dean lets go of the window frame completely.
Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.
He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.
Dean finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby.”
The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.
“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you. I...” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better, but I will.”
He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.
“You’re killin’ me.”
Dean blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.
“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”
“Fucking finally, Dean.”
“What am I missing, baby? Holy shit,” his voice breaks.
“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”
“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
“I've always cared about you—”
“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.
“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”
“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”
“I—”
“You forgot. So I made them.”
“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “I just… I didn’t. I don’t know. I'm sorry—”
“I'm not done.”
His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.
“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”
Dean’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.
“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”
“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.
“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”
“I remember,” he breathes.
“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”
He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.
“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.
“What did you eat?” he asks softly.
“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”
His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C'mon," he panics. “That’s not what this is—”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”
“You know I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”
He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.
“I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I ask you to come with me. I didn’t know that’s how you were feeling.”
“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”
Dean lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.
“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”
He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”
Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.
“And look,” you sigh, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get your attention. I didn’t know how to handle this, okay? I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”
“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.
“What?” he asks.
“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Dean. $2.99? Really?”
He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.
“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”
Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.
“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”
He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.
“That’s why you’re here, Dean,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”
“Sweetheart…” he starts carefully, his voice softer than it’s been all night. “We’re halfway through the season. It’s been a lot. I know that.” He nods to himself like he’s finally found the answer. “But it’s not forever. Think about this summer.”
A tired smile tries to find its way onto his face. “We practically lived together. We stayed up ’til three in the morning watching shitty movies. We took road trips because we could. Dates all the time. We were good.” His eyes lock onto yours. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Dean knows it’s the wrong answer.
You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”
“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”
“We’re still together.”
He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”
“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”
“I know,” he whispers.
“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”
He nods in agreement, waiting for more.
“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Dean.”
“Of course, honey.”
“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”
“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.
“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”
“Of course.”
“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”
Dean bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.
“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”
“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.
“Obviously.”
“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.
“I know who you are, Dean. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”
His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.
“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. I need that… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”
He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.
His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to Malone’s instead.
His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.
And now, he knows you were all alone.
And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.
His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.
“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”
He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.
“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”
He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”
Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.
“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I loved you less. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted.”
You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.
He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.
“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”
“Dean—”
“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.
“Go ahead,” you whisper.
“I don’t want someone easier. I don’t want somebody who expects less from me. I don’t want any girl. I want you. I can handle you.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.”
His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”
You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.
“You fucking hate this color. I’m sorry,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”
He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently against your knuckles.
“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”
“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”
“I’m tailgating in your front yard. I’m so serious. I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.
He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.
“I want you here.”
“Let me in? Please,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.
“You can ask me sweeter than that, Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be so fuckin’ good for you. I missed you so much.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
Dean’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.
“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.
You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.
“Okay,” you breathe.
“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”
“Promise,” you whisper.
“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.
“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.
“Unblock me.”
“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.
“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”
“I promise,” you whisper.
“Thank you, baby.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know. I hear you,” he says quietly. “I heard every word you said out there.”
He shakes his head once before speaking again.
“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You deserve to know how important you are to me. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”
“I love you,” you murmur.
His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.”
He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.
“Stay?” you ask as he tilts closer, your fingers popping open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”
He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.
“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough. “If that’s what you want.”
“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.
You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.
He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.
You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.
You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back to the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.
He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.
You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.
“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.
Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.
“Been so lonely,” he whispers, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”
“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.
“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.
“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.
“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”
“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.
“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.
Dean’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.
You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.
You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.
Dean kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.
His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.
Dean trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.
He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.
“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.
He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.
Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.
He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.
He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.
“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.
“Dean…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”
Dean’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.
He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.
Dean wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.
Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.
Dean pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.
“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.
You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”
“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, babydoll?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Di Laurentis is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”
“Yes.”
“Made for me, weren’t you?”
“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.
Dean moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.
“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Dean picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.
“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”
“Harder,” you whimper.
“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.
Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.
“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.
Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.
“Dean—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.
“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.
Dean pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.
“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.
“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.
“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”
Your eyes roll back as you climax, Dean moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.
Dean moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.
You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Dean back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.
“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.
You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”
pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – between wound reviews, vaccination clinics, asthma education, and stolen lunch breaks, garrett makes sure his girlfriend gets fed and reminded how good she is.
warnings – medical placement, primary care setting, vaccination clinic mention, wound care mention, asthma review, food/eating.
notes from me – MY SWEET DOMESTIC BABIES HOW I LOVE THEM!! based on these requests combined! thank you babes!
word count – 3.1k
navigation – masterlist |
Monday
By twelve-thirty, the medical centre has already taught her three important things: the blood pressure machine in room four lies, children can sense fear more accurately than most diagnostic equipment, and nobody working in primary care gets to eat lunch at the time written on the roster.
She comes out through the side entrance at twelve forty-seven with her scrub top pulling strangely beneath her cardigan, one pocket weighted down by three pens, a folded observation sheet and a tiny glittery sticker she’d found stuck to her elbow after the morning vaccination clinic.
The air outside is cold enough to make the inside of her nose sting. Garrett’s already sitting on the little bench beside the staff car park, one ankle resting over his opposite knee, a paper takeaway bag tucked between his shoes and his phone loose in one hand.
He looks up before the door has finished closing behind her. The change happens quickly, his attention lifting away from the screen and landing fully on her like he hasn’t spent the last twenty minutes surrounded by traffic, bare winter trees and a medical centre sign advertising flu shots. “Hey, baby.”
She makes it halfway across the patch of grass before the smell reaches her. Warm bread, roasted chicken, something garlicky. Her stomach pulls painfully beneath her ribs, reminding her that breakfast had been half a piece of toast eaten while standing over the kitchen sink because she’d misplaced her other shoe. “What did you bring?”
Garrett’s grin starts. “Hi to you too.”
“Hi.” She stops between his knees, and he catches her automatically by the hips, pressing his mouth to the centre of her stomach through her cardigan before tipping his head back to look at her. “What did you bring?”
“Lunch.”
“That’s not specific.”
He tilts his head to the side. “That’s because you’ll start negotiating before I show you.”
“I don’t negotiate.”
“You told me yesterday you only wanted something small.” His hands remain at her waist while he looks up at her, dark curls disturbed by the wind and one faint crease still pressed beside his cheek from whatever lecture he’d spent resting his face against his fist. “You’ve been here since seven.”
“Eight.”
“You left the house at seven.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s worse.”
She tries to look stern, but Garrett pulls her closer until her knees touch the bench and kisses the little strip of skin beneath her scrub top where it has ridden up. It’s difficult to maintain authority while Briar’s hockey captain is kissing her stomach beside a sign asking patients not to smoke within five metres of the building.
“Sit down,” he says. “I brought chicken wraps, those potatoes you like and actual fruit because Tucker said grapes don’t count as a side dish.”
“Tucker’s becoming controlling,” she grins.
“Tucker packed the grapes.”
“Oh.” She sits beside him at once. “Tucker’s an angel.”
Garrett hands her the container with a look of deep personal betrayal. “I drove it here.”
“You’re useful too.”
“Thank you.”
She’s halfway through her first bite when the side door opens again. Janelle, the practice nurse supervising her placement, steps outside with a mug in one hand and a lanyard tangled around the other. She’s in her forties, quick-moving and kind in the specific way of nurses who can reassure an anxious parent while opening six packets with their teeth.
“There you are,” Janelle says, then notices Garrett and smiles like she has been expecting to eventually find the source of the lunches arriving in increasingly respectable containers. “You must be Garrett.”
Garrett stands immediately, because beneath the hockey-house manners and constant obscenity there’s something in him that responds to older women with professional authority like a student unexpectedly called on in class. “Yeah. Hi.”
“I’ve heard about the food.”
She closes her eyes briefly. “Oh my God.”
Janelle laughs, then looks back at her. “You did really well this morning, by the way. Especially with the twins. Vaccinating one four-year-old is hard enough without the other one providing live commentary.”
Heat moves quickly from beneath her collar to her face. The fork in her hand pauses over the potatoes. “Oh. Um. Thank you.”
“You kept both of them calm, and you explained everything to Mom without drowning her in information. That’s good.” Janelle takes a sip from her mug, already turning back toward the door. “Enjoy your lunch. Don’t let us steal you before one.”
The door closes behind her. For a few seconds, Garrett says nothing. That’s worse than if he had immediately started being annoying. She looks down and spears one potato with more concentration than it deserves, aware of his face angled toward her, his knee pressing warmly against hers.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“My girlfriend vaccinated twins this morning.”
She rolls her eyes. “I assisted with vaccinations.”
“Four-year-old twins.”
“Under supervision.”
“And one of them was heckling you?”
“She kept telling her brother the needle was going to be enormous.” Her mouth twitches despite herself. “Then she screamed before anyone touched her and scared him so badly he started crying.”
Garrett’s grin breaks wide and bright. “And you handled it.”
She shoots him a look. “I gave her a sticker.”
“Medical genius.”
“She liked stickers,” she mutters.
He nudges his shoulder into hers. “You were good.”
The praise catches in the same difficult place Janelle’s had, somewhere high beneath her breastbone, warm enough to feel almost uncomfortable. She looks down at the container. “I didn’t do much.”
Garrett doesn’t argue immediately. He reaches over instead, takes the fork from her hand and uses it to gather a piece of chicken she had pushed toward the edge. “You’ve gotta stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Turning every nice thing someone says about you into something else.” He holds the fork near her mouth. “That nurse was there. She probably knows if you did well.”
“She does.”
“And she said you did.”
She looks at the chicken, then at him. Garrett’s expression is easy, but there’s something steady underneath it, no teasing escape built into the moment. She opens her mouth and lets him feed her mostly because refusing would make this into a larger emotional event beside the staff car park.
After she swallows, she says, “I did do pretty well.”
Garrett leans in and kisses her temple.
Wednesday
By Wednesday, Garrett has been recognised by reception. He discovers this when the woman behind the front desk sees him through the glass doors carrying two containers and presses the release button without making him use the intercom.
He gives her a small wave as he crosses the foyer, and she points toward the side exit with the expression of someone directing a regular delivery.
His girlfriend emerges four minutes later with her stethoscope still around her neck and a smear of something pale across one sleeve. Garrett eyes it as she drops onto the bench beside him. “What’s that?”
She follows his gaze. “Dressing adhesive, probably.”
“Probably?”
“Nothing infectious.”
His nose scrunches. “That’s not as reassuring as you think.”
She lets her head tip onto his shoulder while he opens the first container. Today it’s soup in a sealed thermos, two toasted sandwiches wrapped in foil and a yoghurt Garrett has selected because the label contains the word protein in lettering large enough to appeal to him.
“I only have twenty minutes,” she murmurs.
“You said thirty.”
“Mrs. Patterson’s wound review ran over.”
Garrett unwraps the sandwich and places it into her hand before she can decide she isn’t hungry enough. “Bad?”
“No. It’s actually healing really nicely.” Her voice changes on the last part, tiredness thinning out beneath interest. “She had a skin tear on her shin that got infected, but the redness has come down and there’s way less exudate. I got to clean it and redress it today.”
He’s learned enough nursing vocabulary through forced exposure not to make a face at exudate. “That good?”
“Very.”
“So you fixed her leg.”
She snorts softly. “I didn’t fix her leg.”
“You helped.”
“I helped,” she nods.
The side door swings open before he can improve the claim. Dr. Shah steps out with his phone in one hand and a set of car keys in the other, a slim man with silver beginning at his temples and the permanently hurried posture of someone who’s been running fifteen minutes behind since medical school.
He sees her and slows. “Good work with Mrs. Patterson.”
Her shoulders pull in by less than an inch. Garrett feels it because they’re pressed together from hip to knee, because he’s become embarrassingly fluent in the small movements she thinks nobody notices.
“Thank you,” she says, a little too quickly.
“You were gentle, but you didn’t hesitate. Patients notice when you’re nervous, particularly with painful dressings.” Dr. Shah nods once, like the matter is settled. “She asked whether you’ll be here for her next appointment.”
Her fingers tighten around the foil. “She did?”
“She likes you.” His phone begins ringing. He glances at it and sighs with his whole body. “Enjoy lunch.”
Garrett waits until Dr. Shah has crossed the car park before turning his head.
She’s staring down at her sandwich. The tip of one ear has gone pink. “Don’t,” she warns.
Garrett takes a drink from his coffee and tries, unsuccessfully, to flatten his mouth. “Mrs. Patterson requested my girlfriend specifically.”
“She asked if I’d be there,” she grumbles.
“Requested.”
“She probably just doesn’t want to explain the whole wound history again.”
“Or she likes you.”
“She barely knows me.”
“She knows you don’t rip bandages off her leg like you’re waxing a car.”
“That’s not how anyone removes dressings,” she replies.
“You said one of the nurses at the hospital did.”
She holds up a finger. “One nurse, one time.”
He looks down at her, taking in the tired little shadows under her eyes, the escaping strands of hair around her face, the stethoscope bumping lightly against her chest each time she moves. “You know you’re good at this, right?”
Her chewing slows. Garrett lets the question stay where it lands. He doesn’t push it toward a joke or ask her to say something she cannot yet make fit comfortably in her mouth.
Eventually, she swallows and wipes her thumb over the corner of the foil. “I’m getting better.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You are.”
Her gaze lifts to his, cautious at first, then warmer when she realises he means the answer exactly as she gave it. She’s getting better. At dressings. At talking to patients. At hearing something kind without immediately dismantling it for parts.
Garrett bends and kisses her once, slow and ordinary, tasting faintly of coffee when she kisses him back. Her phone alarm goes off between them.
She groans into his mouth. “I hate employment.”
“You don’t work here.”
“I hate unpaid employment more.”
He gathers the containers while she stands, then catches the back of her scrub top before she can escape and pulls her in for one more kiss. “Text me when you’re done.”
“I finish at five.”
“Text me anyway.”
“You’ll be at practice.”
“My girlfriend always says phones work in locker rooms.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’ve never said that.”
“Pretty sure you did,” Garrett shrugs.
“That sounds nothing like me.”
Garrett kisses her forehead and lets her go. “My girlfriend’s also very argumentative.”
The side door closes on the sight of her giving him the finger.
Friday
On Friday, the bench is wet from morning rain, so Garrett brings a towel. This is apparently the final stage of whatever has happened to him. He arrives with lunch in one hand, a folded beach towel in the other and Dean’s voice still ringing in his ears from the kitchen that morning.
“Do you hear yourself?” Dean had asked while Garrett packed pasta into a container. “My girlfriend likes the pesto. My girlfriend hates raw tomato. My girlfriend says I need more fibre. You’ve become a doll with one phrase.”
“She does hate raw tomato.”
“We know,” Logan had said from the table. “We all know everything about your girlfriend. Against our will.”
Tucker, slicing strawberries at the counter, had quietly pushed a second container toward Garrett. “She’ll need more than pasta if she’s there until six.”
Garrett had looked at Dean. Dean had pointed the knife he was using to spread peanut butter. “Don’t.”
“My girlfriend–”
“I’ll kill you.”
Now she sits on the towel beside him, one knee tucked toward her chest, eating pesto pasta while the medical centre moves through its afternoon behind them. Cars roll in and out of the lot. Someone’s toddler is crying near the pharmacy entrance. Garrett has practice in forty minutes, but his gear is already in the back of the car and the rink is seven minutes away.
She looks exhausted. It’s in the small things: the way she keeps rubbing her thumb over the side of her index finger, the slow blinks, the faint crease between her brows even while chewing.
Garrett puts the strawberries closer to her without mentioning it. “Eat those too.”
She glances at the container. “You sound like Tucker.”
“Tucker packed them.”
“Of course he did.”
A nurse comes out carrying an empty mug, sees them and smiles. She’s younger than Janelle, maybe late twenties, with bright blue glasses and a name badge that says MELANIE, RN.
“There’s our lunch visitor.”
Garrett lifts his hand. “Hey.”
Melanie looks at her. “I meant to tell you before you disappeared– you were excellent with Noah this morning.”
She straightens slightly. “The asthma review?”
“Mhm. His mom said nobody’s ever explained the spacer properly without making her feel stupid.” Melanie shifts the mug between her hands. “You gave her time to ask questions. That’s harder to teach than people think.”
Her fingers curl lightly around the plastic fork.
“Thank you,” she says.
No apology attached. No immediate reason it didn’t count. Just thank you, quiet and a little pink around the cheeks.
Melanie grins. “You’re welcome. See you inside.”
When the door shuts, Garrett looks down at his own lunch because he knows better now than to turn every moment into an audience. Beside him, she takes another bite, chews, then says, almost carefully, “I was good with them.”
His whole chest seems to shift forward. He keeps his eyes on the container for another second so he doesn’t frighten her by looking as pleased as he feels. “Yeah?”
She nods. “The little boy wasn’t using the spacer right, and his mom thought she’d been doing something wrong, but nobody had actually shown her. So I demonstrated it, and then I got him to teach it back to me with his teddy first.” Her hands start moving as she talks, fork drawing small shapes through the air. “He kept putting the mask over the teddy’s whole face, which was, like, completely ineffective, but he got it eventually.”
Garrett watches her now. He cannot help it. The tiredness is still there, but something brighter has pushed through it, colour high in her cheeks and the words coming faster because she knows this, because she had been useful in the middle of somebody’s confusing morning and knows exactly how.
“You taught a teddy bear how to use an inhaler,” he says.
She gives him a look, but her mouth has already betrayed her. “Technically.”
“That’s huge.”
“It’s a bear.”
He shrugs. “Could’ve died.”
“It was stuffed.”
“Still. Brave work.”
She laughs, leaning sideways until her head rests against his shoulder. Garrett puts his container down and slides an arm around her, his hand settling over the soft cotton at her waist. She smells like hand sanitiser, rain caught in her hair and the faint medicinal sweetness of whatever soap sits beside the clinic sinks.
For a minute, neither of them speaks. She eats one strawberry from the container in his lap, then another. Garrett watches a leaf drag along the wet pavement near his shoe and thinks, with an intensity that would make Dean genuinely ill, that there may be nothing better than this.
Her weight against him. Food packed by Tucker. Practice waiting. A plastic fork balanced crookedly across her container. The knowledge that people inside that building see what Garrett sees when she talks about work with her whole face.
She nudges her nose into the shoulder of his jacket. “What?”
“What?”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
She smiles up at him. “Looking pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not pleased with myself.”
“No?”
Garrett turns his head and presses his mouth to her hair. “I’m pleased with my girlfriend.”
She groans, but her body folds closer, one hand slipping into the pocket of his jacket like it belongs there. “The boys must hate you.”
“They’re jealous.”
“They’re exhausted,” she sighs.
“Tucker supports me.”
“Tucker feeds you so the rest of the house survives.”
He takes a moment to consider this. “That’s still support.”
Her break alarm sounds from inside her cardigan pocket. She doesn’t move immediately. Neither does Garrett. They sit through the first three beeps with her cheek against his shoulder and his thumb moving slowly over her side.
Then she sighs and lifts her head. Garrett catches her chin before she can stand and kisses her, gentle at first, then a little firmer when her fingers curl into his jacket and pull him closer.
When they separate, she keeps her forehead against his. “Thank you for coming all week.”
“Course.”
She presses her forehead against his harder. “You don’t have to come every day.”
“I know.”
“You have classes and practice.”
“I know.”
“And Dean said you missed lunch with them yesterday,” she murmurs.
“Dean was offended because nobody wanted to hear his story about a girl from his economics class.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I was having lunch with my girlfriend.”
She closes her eyes. “There it is.”
Garrett grins and kisses the corner of her mouth. “Go be good at your job.”
“Placement.”
“Mm. Go be good at that.”
She gets up, gathers her stethoscope and starts toward the side door. Halfway there, she turns. Garrett’s still sitting on the towel with the empty containers stacked beside him, watching her like he plans to keep doing it until the building physically removes her from view.
She lifts one hand. “Bye, baby.”
“Bye.” He waits until her fingers touch the door handle. “Hey.”
She looks back.
Garrett’s grin spreads slowly, helplessly, all bright teeth and curls and entirely too much feeling for a staff car park at one-thirty on a Friday afternoon. “Proud of you.”
She rolls her eyes so hard it should hurt, but she’s smiling when the door closes behind her.
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like a fantasy in front of me, i know that something special’s going down | garrett graham
“May I?” He asks quietly, his voice deep and rough from lust, and you nod wordlessly. He groans into your mouth as his lips finally meet yours, his hands wandering around your skin over the fabric of your dress. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I saw you in this damn dress—been wanting to kiss you senseless, to fuck you in this very dress until your mind goes blank. That what you want, baby? To be fucked stupid?”
contents — 18+ content, fluff to smut, public sex, unprotected piv, degradation, brief fingering, dirty talk, there’s not much of a foreplay eueueue, reader wears a dress | word count — 2.2k | title — confident by justin bieber
request — what starts out as a picnic for yall ends up in picnic sex!!!! snacks and drinks pushed to the side as he fucks you on the iconic white and gingham blanket
gabby says — this is a repost from my old blog, @fictionallygabby. i have decided to start my blog all over, so please feel free to read here for the explanation.
gabby also says — reposting a fic as a compensation for the lack of updates until sunday :)
“Hi, I’m ready!” You grin as you exit your bedroom. Garrett is waiting on the couch in your living room, his eyes trained on his phone as he scrolls through Instagram.
He looks up from his screen when he hears your voice, and his eyes immediately trace your figure standing by the door of your room, wearing a floral sundress that hugs your frame just right. The color of your dress complements your skin almost perfectly, and he notices that it matches the color of his polo shirt. “Damn,” he whistles with a smirk on his lips as he finally looks back up at your face. “You think we can reschedule the picnic?” His tone is mostly joking—mostly.
“Babe!” You groan, glaring at your boyfriend, who is still sitting there with that cocky, infuriating, but attractive smirk. You nearly cave in—nearly fold under his heated gaze, but you stay strong, crossing your arms over your chest. You see how his eyes drop back to your chest at your gesture, and you smirk inwardly. “We’ve waited a week for this, Garrett, we cannot reschedule.”
“I was joking, baby.” He laughs quietly, stands from the couch, and walks towards you. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against him so suddenly you have no choice but to let your hands fall on his broad shoulders. “But I hope you know that your dress is doing wonders for your body,” he growls under his breath, his lips finding the corner of your mouth.
“Thanks, but we have to go.” You giggle as he digs his face into your neck stubbornly. “Babe, we have to go before it gets too hot.”
“It’s so hot in here already,” he mumbles into your skin, pressing featherlight kisses everywhere he can reach.
“Garrett,” you whine, but you don’t push him away. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through the tight-fitting polo shirt he’s got on. “We’ve got to go. I’ve been waiting for this for days.”
He chuckles, kissing your neck one last time before pulling away. “We’re going, baby.”
“Finally!” You grin excitedly. “Have we gotten everything?” You eye the basket on the coffee table. “Food, drinks, dessert, the blanket—Gare, we can’t forget the blanket.”
“They’re all packed and ready to go, baby, don’t worry about them,” he says, his smirk softening into a smile as he keeps his gaze on your face.
“Are you sure? The lake is about an hour away—we can’t afford to forget something.”
He gently dabs the sweat forming on your brow with a facial tissue from a pack he had apparently been carrying in his pocket. “We’ve got them, sweetheart. Don’t worry about them, okay? I’ll handle everything,” he says, letting you keep the pack of tissues in your bag.
“Okay.” You nod slowly. It’s not that you do not trust your man, but you have been looking forward to this day for a week—maybe more—and it has to be perfect. Everything has to be planned accordingly beforehand. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess over this.”
“You’re allowed to be excited, baby, and if you go a little crazy, then that just means you care.” He smiles at you. He so badly wants to kiss you breathless until every negative thought is banished from your head, but he knows you have spent time on your makeup, and he is not about to ruin that for you, so he settles with a sweet smile. “It’s really sweet. You’re sweet, and I love you.”
The drive to the lakeside park takes about forty-five minutes, and for the whole time, Garrett does not keep his hands off you. His hand keeps finding your thigh throughout the drive—thank the heavens for automatic cars—stroking and squeezing the fat of your thigh over the fabric of your dress.
When you finally arrive, he parks his jeep near the spot you had agreed on earlier. He does not immediately kill the engine; instead, he keeps the air conditioning unit turned on. “Stay here while I set up, baby,” he murmurs with a quick kiss to your cheek. He exits the car and sets up outside, while you watch as his polo shirt rides up every time he moves and the fabric tightens around his bicep deliciously.
By the time he finishes, he has sweat dripping down his face. Without thinking, he raises his shirt to wipe at his sweat, revealing his toned stomach, down to his v-line that trails beneath his low-slung chino shorts.
You are too busy staring at Garrett to realize that he has started walking towards the jeep, and by the time he opens your door, your eyes are still trained on him.
He chuckles softly at your reaction, reaching out to cup your cheek affectionately to ease you back to reality. “Where’s your head at right now, gorgeous?” he whispers, his voice slightly teasing and rough. “Come back to me, baby.”
Your breath hitches as you snap out of your hot-boyfriend-induced trance—Garrett is closer than you have anticipated, and one small move has your lips pressed against his.
His grin widens, his eyes darkening as they drop to your lips, but you pull away before he can lean in any further.
“No, Gare, we have a picnic to attend to.”
Your words make him groan. “Baby, you’re killing me here, but fine. I’ll back off—for now.”
You spend the next hour eating and chatting—well, you are talking while he listens, responding when the conversation calls for it, but most of the time, his eyes are staring into yours as you talk.
“I can’t believe you tried to postpone this,” you say as you pluck a grape from the bunch. “Gare, I love you so much, but I would have actually broken up with you.” You joke, and he gasps, mocking offense.
“Excuse me? You would have done the same thing if you were in my position,” he says, flicking your forehead as gently as possible. “You are being such a brat right now, you know that?”
“I have every reason to be a brat.” You laugh. “I just got what I want—I’m having the best picnic with my silly boyfriend who does not let me lift a single finger. I’m eating good food in a great place. You’re spoiling me, Garrett Graham, so don’t blame me for being a brat.”
“Wow, okay.” He bursts into laughter. “Maybe we should have just stayed home. If I knew you were going to be this insufferable, we wouldn’t have left your dorm room.”
“Whatever, dick.”
“Don’t ‘whatever, dick’ me right now, you spoiled brat.” He stands, walks toward you, and easily throws you over his shoulder, careful not to let your dress ride up. “We’re going home right now. The picnic is over.”
“Gare!” You squeal and burst into laughter, swatting his back as you dangle from his shoulder. “Baby, I’m sorry, please put me down!”
He chuckles before sitting you back down on the blanket gently. He smiles at you, his eyes twinkling as he pecks the corner of your mouth, still mindful of the makeup you have left on your face.
Later on, there is a lull in the atmosphere as soon as you finish putting everything away after eating. You are silently gazing into the calm water of the lake, while Garrett has his eyes on you.
“It’s so beautiful here,” you murmur, in awe of what you are seeing.
“Yeah,” Garrett whispers back, his eyes still focused on your face. “Yeah, it is.”
You have an inkling that he is not talking about the same view you are focused on, so you tilt your head, diverting your attention to him, and you are right. He has not taken his eyes off you for the past several minutes you had been looking around the place.
“You’re staring.” You chuckle, but he does not return the gesture. He instead leans closer until his lips are only a hairsbreadth from yours, his darkened eyes dropping to your slightly parted lips.
“May I?” He asks quietly, his voice deep and rough from lust, and you nod wordlessly. He groans into your mouth as his lips finally meet yours, his hands wandering around your skin over the fabric of your dress. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I saw you in this damn dress—been wanting to kiss you senseless, to fuck you in this very dress until your mind goes blank. That what you want, baby? To be fucked stupid?”
“Yes,” you whimper against his lips softly, but he’s not having it.
One of his hands trails up from your torso to your chin, squeezing firmly as he pulls away from your mouth. He laughs darkly at the sight of your smudged gloss all over your lips. “You’re going to need to speak louder than that if you want to get what you want, baby.” He grins when you whine, squirming on the blanket. “What? Is your pretty little head all empty now? But all I did was kiss you,” he coos mockingly, his other hand crawling beneath your sundress. “Your pussy’s all wet, baby, holy shit.” He laughs as his fingers nudge your damp underwear. “You’re soaking your panties, gorgeous.”
“Gare,” you whine, your hips unconsciously bucking against his hand. “Please.”
“You’re already humping my hand, and I haven’t even done anything.” He grins, his hand moving from your chin to wrap around your throat loosely. “Please what, baby? Have you lost your manners over the simplest touch?”
“Please touch me.” You gasp when he swipes your panties to the side, his finger immediately finding your clit.
“Like this, baby?” He whispers into your skin, slipping a finger inside you. He pumps it slowly into your hole, his eyes fixed on your face—his shorts tightening as your face twists and contorts into an intense expression of pure pleasure. He inserts another finger into you, curling them just right to nudge that spot inside, but it’s still not enough.
“More,” you whine, “I need more. Please, Gare. I need you to fuck me.”
“Aw, baby, all you had to do was ask.” He slips his fingers out of you, laying you gently on your back. His hand crawls back under your dress to slide your panties down your legs, before slotting himself between them. He raises the skirt of your dress, letting the fabric bunch around your hips. He unbuttons his chinos, pushing them down along with his boxers enough to free his cock.
You watch with bated breath as he strokes his cock, and he immediately notices your stare.
“Like what you see, pretty?” He grins, slapping his hard dick against your throbbing clit, making you twitch in his hold, and he laughs. He gently maneuvers your legs over his shoulder, your hips raising slightly. His cock is now lined with your hole, but his eyes soften ever so slightly as he gazes down at you. “Are you absolutely sure you want this? We can stop right now, baby.”
You roll your eyes at his words. “Garrett Graham, if you don’t fuck me right now, I will—” You don’t get to finish your statement as he pushes into you in one thrust, knocking a choked up moan out of your throat, while he groans audibly above you. “Fuck, baby.” You gasp as you look into his eyes now devoid of any softness. “God, you’re so fucking big.”
“Yeah?” He is breathless as he leans down and braces his forearms on either side of your head, nearly folding you in half. He starts thrusting shallowly, letting you adjust to his size. You meet his movements with an upward force, and he laughs under his breath. “My impatient girl.” He drives his hips all the way, pinning your hips down on the blanket.
“Gare, please move.” You squirm beneath him anyway, your nails digging into his back. Your legs are already trembling in the air, and he has not even done much yet. “Please, I’ve been so good.”
“Oh, have you?” He teases you with a few more shallow movements. “Have you been a good girl?”
“Yes! I’ve been such a good girl for you, baby, please, please fuck me.”
He wordlessly leans back, pulling away from you. He wraps his thick arms around your legs, and starts thrusting into you, pulling out until only his tip remains inside you just to push back all the way in. He pauses for a second to readjust himself, but before you can whine, he is thrusting back into you from a different angle. He is driving straight into that spongy spot inside you, and he knows it.
“Fuck, you just got tighter, baby,” he *whimpers above you, his hips stuttering slightly. “You’re choking my dick, sweetheart. Are you close? I know you are.” He pants, thrusting harder into you.
You can’t do anything but let out nearly pornographic sounds as your thighs tremble even harder around his hips. “Gare!” You scream and your cunt starts quivering.
“You’re right there, baby,” he groans, “Come for me, baby. Milk my cock just like that.”
You finally come with a sob, and he continues thrusting into you, letting you ride your orgasm, before he pushes all the way into you, groaning as he comes.
Just as you thought he would pull out, he manhandles you into sitting on his lap, his cock still nestled inside your pulsing walls.
“If you think we’re done, you’re wrong,” he whispers into your ear as he starts thrusting upwards. “We have the whole day to ourselves, baby. We’re far from over.”
summary: after a nasty breakup that left both you and logan absolutely reeling, you moved across the country for college. when you suddenly transfer to briar your junior year, logan feels like the world is ending. (enemies (exes) to lovers)
each part alternates POVs between y/n and logan.
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v
series expected to be completed by 07/20/26.
(anything with an asterisk (*) contains smut and/or tiny bit of spice. minors dni.)
edit: someone on tuesday, 06/30 sent me an ask requesting to be added to the taglist and i didn't write down their account name before replying. their account name started with a K. please let me know if i forgot to add you!
if you want to be added to a taglist to any ongoing fics, you can either message me, comment on the fic itself, or comment on the masterlist! once i either reply back to your message or like your comment, you're added to the list.
SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and she’ll do anything to change the way people on campus see her — especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into “Ice Heart.”
SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and she’ll do anything to change the way people on campus see her — especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into “Ice Heart.”
⌗ synopsis — After discovering your boyfriend's infidelity at a party and smashing his car with a golf club, you run into Logan in the morning fog and hand him the weapon—leaving him completely fascinated once he discovers the truth in the locker room.
⌗ author’s note — Female empowerment in the face of betrayal, rumors versus the reality of a stellar reputation, and the undeniable initial chemistry rooted in complicity and mystery.
⌗ MAIN MASTERLIST
The entire group’s attention shifted to the entrance of the living room, following Jules’s line of sight. Walking into the foggy, chaotic warmth of the house was none other than the coach’s daughter herself.
You stood at the threshold, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. You were dressed with your usual sharp, effortless style, completely distinct from the over-the-top party outfits surrounding you. Under your arm, a sleek leather folder was tightly secured—a dead giveaway that even on a Friday night, your mind was still running numbers, schedules, and strategies for Briar's hockey roster.
As soon as your eyes swept the room and landed on the couch, the atmosphere at the core of the team shifted instantly.
Garrett’s arm, which had been draped casually over Hannah’s shoulders as part of their public arrangement, stiffened for a fraction of a second before he subtly let it drop. His gray eyes locked onto yours, the relaxed, smug expression he usually wore around the house evaporating into an intense, quiet focus.
"Well, well," Tucker murmured, a slow, southern drawl breaking his quiet observation as he set his beer down on the side table. "If it isn't the real boss of the rink. Didn't think we'd see you outside the athletic department lines tonight, Jensen."
Allie tilted her head, her bright smile widening as she looked up from the rug. "Alii! Hey! Come over here before Tucker drinks all the good stuff."
Hannah glanced between Garrett and you, a perceptive, knowing glint in her eyes. She shifted slightly on the leather cushion, giving Garrett a subtle nudge with her elbow, though her voice remained perfectly friendly. "Hey. Are you here to finally tell Garrett his stats from Thursday were terrible, or are you actually here to have a drink?"
You took a step forward, the steady thud of the bass vibrating beneath your boots, fully aware that every eye at the table was on you—and that Garrett hadn't looked away once.
You had just crossed the entrance. You didn't carry an exaggerated attitude, nor did you intend for everyone to look at you, but your mere presence seemed to impose a different rhythm on the place. You walked with incredible tranquility, an innate confidence that caused a mix of deep respect and absolute mystery to many at Briar. You weren't one to go to parties, or at least not like you used to; you preferred to keep a lower profile and enjoy things quietly. However, you had a massive reputation on campus. People who didn't know you often rumored you were a "bad girl," a myth fed simply because you were an empowered woman who took nothing from anyone, tolerated no hypocrisy, and carefully selected whom to share your time with.
You headed straight toward the living room's secondary bar, staying on the sidelines of the noisy crowd. You stood there, chatting in a relaxed, chill manner with the few people you considered reliable inside that chaos, holding your drink with elegance and observing the place without any rush.
—Wow...— Allie murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked at you. —I thought she didn't frequent the hockey house parties anymore. Jules, doesn't she go to your faculty?—
—Yeah, we share a couple of strategy and marketing classes,— Jules replied, crossing her arms and flashing a smug smile. —And let me tell you, she is an incredible chick. She doesn't waste her time on just anyone, and she doesn't care about pleasing the whole world. She has a vibe that demands respect the second she walks into a room, but it's better to have her as a friend. If you make her mad, start praying.—
A few meters away, on the other side of the main bar where strong drinks were being passed around amid laughter, Dean Di Laurentis and John Logan observed you from afar. Logan had his plastic cup halfway to his mouth, completely frozen in place from the exact second you had walked through the door. Your dark eyes and confident stride had completely thrown him off balance.
At that exact moment, the party's DJ seemed to catch the room's energy and dropped a heavy transition, shifting the pop rhythm into something much more loaded with attitude. The dark, electronic, and heavy chords of Taylor Swift’s End Game began blasting in the background, making the wooden walls vibrate and blending perfectly with the flashes of neon lights cutting through the dimness.
—I wanna be your endgame... I got a big reputation, big reputation, ooh you and me we got big reputations...—
—That girl is a walking hazard, Logan,— Dean muttered in a low whisper, breaking the silence while sporting one of his typical half-smirks, absolutely fascinated by the scene. —Look at her. There’s something about the way she moves, her features... she's completely unpredictable. Hard to tame, you can tell from a mile away. She’s the kind of woman who detonates a room if she sets her mind to it.—
Logan didn't look away a single millimeter. His jaw tightened slightly under the blue neon light, but his eyes remained locked on you, trapped by your tranquility.
—She takes no crap from anyone,— Logan commented, his voice a bit lower and more intense than usual. —Jules has told me things about her in class. She doesn't tolerate anyone's nonsense or cheap games.—
—Well, then I hope her boyfriend has a good memory and remembers that right now,— Hannah chimed in from the couch, leaning forward after following the direction of the guys' gaze, —because the idiot is at the corner of the hallway walking straight into the lion's den.—
You, who were listening to your friend tell a story, glanced over at that moment toward the side hallway that connected to the back rooms. Your relaxed, serene expression changed in a heartbeat. Your features hardened, transforming into a mask of cold, lethal determination.
There he was. Your boyfriend. Or rather, the guy who was about to lose that title permanently. He was cornered against the wall, laughing in a clumsy, pretentious way while holding one of the faculty’s so-called hockey bunnies by the waist, acting entirely careless, convinced the crowd hid him from your eyes. But you were an empowered girl. You weren't going to burst into tears in the middle of the living room, nor were you going to put on a dramatic show screaming so everyone would feel sorry for you. You weren't going to let anyone step on you, and least of all him.
—Oh, no. This is about to get truly interesting,— Garrett opined, straightening up on the couch with a morbid grin, rubbing his hands together. —Should we go throw him a lifeline?—
—I wouldn't step into that blast radius even if they paid my entire season scholarship,— Tucker let out a short laugh, shaking his head with conviction. —Look at the way she’s walking over there. She’s not going to argue; she’s going to execute.—
You set your drink down on the bar with a sharp but controlled thud and walked with a firm step, cutting the distance. Logan and Dean watched the entire interaction from afar, completely magnetized by the scene. You planted yourself right in front of the two of them. The hockey bunny, seeing the absolute coldness in your eyes, wiped the smile off her face and instantly took a step back. Your boyfriend froze, the blood draining to his feet.
You didn't yell. You spoke little, maintaining control of the situation, but your words were so precise, direct, and sharp that you reduced him to absolute nothingness in a matter of seconds. The guy tried to stammer a cheap excuse, reaching out a hand, but you cut him off with a single look of contempt that left him speechless. You turned your back on him with your head held high, never looking back, and headed straight toward the back porch exit to breathe the fresh night air, leaving behind the whispers that were already starting to spread like wildfire through the house.
Walking quickly toward the door, seeking to leave the suffocating environment behind, fate caused you to run dead into John Logan, who had moved toward the hallway trying to process what he had just witnessed. Your gazes locked in a super intense second, stopping time around you.
You paused for a moment, catching your breath, and stared at him. You recognized him from the team photos Jules sometimes mentioned.
—Oh... you’re John, the hockey guy,— you said, allowing yourself a slight ironic but completely unfazed smile, showing you were entirely holding it together.
—Logan,— he corrected you immediately, taking an involuntary step forward and flashing a captivated half-smile. —John Logan.—
—You’re Jules’s brother,— you continued, sizing him up with a calm gaze that sent his pulse racing. —I know you.—
—And I know perfectly well who you are,— he countered, dropping his voice lower, fascinated by the proximity. —Though I admit I didn't picture you at a party like this.—
—I don't usually come, and tonight I just confirmed why,— you replied calmly, keeping that undeniable spark in your eyes. —But it was a pleasure to meet you, John Logan.—
You gave him a subtle nod, one last look that left his wires crossed, and brushed past him with total elegance, stepping out into the night and losing yourself in the darkness of the campus.
Dean immediately approached from behind, landing a rough, loud slap on his friend’s shoulder to snap him out of the trance.
—Earth to Logan. Are you still alive, or did you just fall in love with the most dangerous girl at Briar?—
—Shut up, Dean,— Logan replied, exhaling a sigh while keeping his eyes glued to the door through which you had vanished.
He tried to act normal and head back to the group, but the truth was that your confidence, your eyes, and your specific way of handling betrayal had been burned into his mind. John Logan wouldn't be able to get you out of his head for the rest of the night.
Saturday dawn at Briar University arrived blanketed in a thick, freezing layer of grayish fog rolling down from the mountains, blurring the outlines of the brick buildings and leaving the campus grass covered in icy dew. The morning wind blew harshly—the kind that freezes the tip of your nose in two seconds flat and forces you to bury your hands deep into your hoodie pockets. However, for the hockey team, there was no rest; Coach Jensen didn't believe in weekends off, much less the morning after a party.
Around six-thirty in the morning, the courtyard leading to the back doors of the hockey rink was a parade of sluggish silhouettes. Garrett Graham, Dean Di Laurentis, John Tucker, and John Logan trudged along, heavy black duffel bags slung over their shoulders, packed with skates, shoulder pads, and helmets that clinked rhythmically with every step.
—If Jensen makes us do suicides on the ice at this hour, I swear on my life I’m throwing myself on the floor and faking a heart attack,— Garrett groaned, adjusting the collar of his team hoodie, his eyes half-closed from exhaustion.
—Shut up and walk, Graham. At least you didn't down three consecutive tequila shots before they closed the bar,— Dean snapped back, though he looked equally destroyed, wearing sunglasses despite there being no trace of sunlight. —Tucker, tell me you brought coffee in a thermos. I’ll pay you whatever price you want for it.—
—I brought coffee, but it’s only for me, Di Laurentis,— Tucker replied with his usual Southern calm, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. —Besides, the cold helps you wake up. Look at Logan; he hasn't uttered a single word since we left the house. He looks like a ghost.—
Dean let out a short laugh and glanced sideways at his friend.
—Logan is still trapped in Friday night,— Dean teased, nudging him with an elbow. —He’s still thinking about the girl from the party. Come on, John, admit she left your wires completely crossed.—
Logan exhaled a long sigh, his breath forming a small white cloud in the frosty air. He didn't answer, but it was the truth. He hadn't been able to sleep a wink all night. Every time he closed his eyes, your look of contempt toward your ex appeared, along with the calm, confident, and magnetic way you had spoken to him before walking away. He was completely in limbo.
—I’m just tired, Dean. Shut up,— Logan muttered, quickening his pace to forge ahead toward the stadium entrance.
Just as the group was a few meters from crossing the double doors that led into the locker rooms, the fog seemed to part. A subtle but firm and sudden impact against his chest caused Logan to take a step back to keep his balance. Someone had crashed directly into him.
The words caught in his throat. As he lifted his head, he found himself face-to-face with the exact same eyes that had kept him awake all night. It was you.
You were wearing dark athletic gear that fit your style perfectly, your hair pulled back into a high ponytail, and your cheeks slightly flushed from the morning chill. Your breathing was a little rushed, as if you had been jogging across campus, but your face maintained that unbothered serenity that defined you.
You took a small step back to stabilize yourself on the damp asphalt, and as you locked eyes with him, an instant spark of recognition crossed your features.
—Oh... you’re John, the hockey guy,— you said with a slight ironic smile, utilizing the same chill, confident tone from the night before.
—Logan,— he corrected you immediately, taking an involuntary step forward, feeling the exhaustion completely wipe from his body in a single second. —John Logan. I see you like an early start.—
—You’re Jules’s sister,— you continued, ignoring his comment and sizing him up with that calm gaze that could disarm anyone. —You say you know me, and I know you. I know who you are.—
They stood there interacting for a bit longer. Despite the extreme cold and the fog swirling around them, the spark between the two was undeniable—an electric yet comfortable tension that made the rest of the campus simply fade away. Garrett and Dean had frozen three meters back, blatantly pretending to check their phones while keeping their ears wide open so as not to miss a single word of the conversation.
—You don't strike me as the type of girl who goes for a run at six on a Saturday morning,— Logan commented, crossing his arms, trying to maintain his confident guy posture even though inside, his heart was racing a mile a minute.
—There are a lot of things you don't know about me, John Logan,— you replied calmly, holding his gaze without shrinking back a single millimeter. —Let’s just say I like to handle my business early.—
Before Logan could decipher the double meaning behind your words, furious shouting and the echo of hurried footsteps resonated in the distance, down the campus pedestrian path. The noise shattered the bubble instantly, dragging you brutally back to reality. You glanced toward the source of the sound for a microsecond, and your features hardened back into that cold, determined, and entirely unpredictable expression from the previous night.
You snapped your eyes back to Logan’s, locking them with an intensity that left him breathless.
—I have to keep running,— you stated with an enigmatic smile, the kind that said you were in absolute control of the situation.
Before turning around to disappear into the fog, you reached out and placed a long, heavy, cold object directly into the palms of his hands. Logan looked down by pure instinct, utterly confused. His fingers closed around a gleaming metal: it was a titanium golf club.
—It was a pleasure talking to you, Logan,— you said with total carelessness.
You spun around instantly and resumed a perfect, swift, and steady stride, vanishing down the campus path toward the female dorms before the fog could swallow your silhouette entirely.
Logan stood at the stadium entrance, completely motionless, staring at the titanium golf club in his hands with a mix of confusion, shock, and an absolute intrigue creeping up his spine.
Garrett and Dean rushed over, practically running, and stood beside him, staring at the metallic object.
—Okay... am I hallucinating from sleep deprivation, or did that girl just hand you a titanium golf club before a hockey practice?— Garrett asked, blinking repeatedly, completely thrown off.
—I have absolutely no idea what the hell just happened,— Logan admitted in a whisper, tightening his grip on the cold titanium, feeling an inevitable, stupid smile trying to form on his lips.
—Man...— Dean let out a laugh full of awe, patting Logan on the back. —I don't know what you did to catch her attention, but that woman is from another planet. Let’s go before Jensen comes looking for us.—
Logan nodded in silence, tucking the golf club under his arm the same way he carried his hockey sticks, heading into the stadium with his mind in absolute chaos. The story was definitely getting interesting as hell.
The sound of skate blades hitting the rubber flooring, the scent of disinfectant mingled with sweat, and the echo of running showers flooded the Briar team's locker room. Practice with Coach Jensen had been a two-hour hell of on-ice suicides and tactical drills, but for John Logan, the real game was being played inside his own head.
Logan sat on his wooden bench, his team hoodie only half-on, staring intently into the open locker in front of him. Propped naturally against his massive hockey duffel rested the titanium golf club. Its gleaming surface contrasted ridiculously with the worn, black protective gear around it.
—Are you going to keep staring at that piece of metal like it’s going to speak to you, or are you going to get changed before Jensen comes back in here to scream at us again?— Garrett Graham tossed a damp towel his way, which Logan dodged out of pure instinct.
—Leave him be, Garrett,— John Tucker interjected, stepping out of the shower area with a towel around his neck and his usual calm. —The poor guy is still processing how a girl who stands shorter than him completely disarmed him with a single look at six in the morning.—
—She didn't disarm me,— Logan shot back, though his voice lacked any real conviction as he nudged his locker door slightly to hide the golf club. —I’m just... still trying to figure out why she left me this. It’s a titanium club. It makes no sense.—
Dean Di Laurentis, who was finishing buttoning a linen shirt, looking completely relaxed, let out a clean laugh from the far end of the bench row.
—It makes all the sense in the world, John. It’s a message. A riddle. That woman operates on a level of genius that your average athlete brain just can't compute.— Dean crossed his arms, shaking his head with a smirk of pure admiration. —She knows you can't stop thinking about her. She handed you the smoking gun to something, I’m positive.—
Before Logan could respond to Dean’s comment, the heavy security door of the men’s locker room swung open with a metallic crash.
—Alright boys, shut down the hormones and pull out your phones right now!— Jules Logan’s voice boomed through the space, instantly shattering the heavy locker room atmosphere.
Jules marched in with a firm stride, entirely ignoring the fact that she was inside the inner sanctum of the hockey team. She held her phone in her right hand, screen lit, with an expression that mixed disbelief with absolute know-it-all self-assurance.
—Jules, for God’s sake, this is the men’s locker room,— Garrett complained, dramatically covering himself with a t-shirt. —One of these days you're going to see something that’ll traumatize you.—
—Please, Graham, I’ve seen worse things in biology lab,— Jules brushed it off, walking straight toward the bench where her brother and Dean were sitting. —Besides, this warrants it. Remember my classmate? The girl from the party last night?—
Logan snapped upright, the post-practice sluggishness draining from his system in a microsecond.
—What about her?— Logan asked, trying to sound casual, though his eyes locking onto his sister’s phone completely gave him away.
—Well, it looks like her morning 'jog' around campus included a little pit stop at the male dorms’ parking lot.— Jules slid her finger across the screen and spun the phone around so the four guys could see the video she had just uploaded to her Briar gossip blog. —My source sent me this ten minutes ago. It’s already the highest-engagement post of the entire semester.—
Dean, Garrett, and Tucker crowded around Jules immediately, craning their necks to look at the screen. Logan froze for a second before stepping closer.
The video was recorded in high definition. The footage displayed the ex-boyfriend's luxurious sports car, parked under the shade of one of the campus trees. Well, what was left of it. The front windshield was completely destroyed, cracked into a perfect spiderweb of shattered glass originating from several brutal impacts right in the center. The side mirrors hung tragically by their wires, the headlights were pulverized over the asphalt, and the carbon-fiber hood sported a series of deep, cylindrical dents that perfectly matched the shape of a metallic object.
The caption on Jules’s post, true to her direct style, read: Lesson of the day at Briar: karma is fast, but she is faster. Note to cheaters: think twice before playing with the wrong girl.
—Holy shit!— Garrett let out a long whistle, his eyes widening. —She completely totaled the car. We knew she had an edge by the way she left him standing at the party, but this... this is a whole new level of savage.—
—He cheated on her with a hockey bunny in our own house,— Jules explained with a proud smirk, crossing her arms. —He completely deserved it. She’s an empowered chick, I told you guys last night. She wasn't going to sit around crying in her room. She took matters into her own hands and handled it.—
Tucker stared at the screen, then glanced sideways at Logan, connecting the dots with that silent shrewdness that defined him.
—Hold on a second...— Tucker murmured, scratching his chin. —What time did this happen?—
—The report says security found the car an hour ago, but they estimate it happened between six and six-thirty this morning,— Jules answered, slipping her phone back into her jacket pocket. —Her idiot ex is crying in the security office right now.—
Logan felt his breath hitch for a second. He slowly shifted his gaze toward his locker, locking his eyes onto the titanium golf club resting innocently amid his uniform. Everything made a perfectly wild, brilliant kind of sense in his mind.
She hadn't been jogging across campus to blow off steam; she was fleeing a crime scene. And not only that—in an act of pure audacity, defiance, and trust, she had handed the weapon to him, the brother of the girl who ran the campus gossip page, right before everything blew up. She had crossed paths with him, held his gaze with total tranquility, and left the secret in his hands as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Dean Di Laurentis looked at the screen of Jules’s phone, then followed the line of Logan’s stare toward the locker, taking in the titanium club. Comprehension illuminated his face, and after a second of absolute silence, Dean let out a clean, resounding laugh filled with genuine, infinite admiration.
He crossed his arms, leaning back against the row of lockers, shaking his head as a brilliant, knowing half-smirk settled onto his lips.
—It’s fascinating,— Dean mused, his eyes gleaming with pure amusement. —Absolutely fascinating. That girl just committed the perfect crime and used John Logan as her accomplice without him even knowing it.—
—She’s a psycho,— Garrett corrected, though there was a look of deep respect on his player face. —Logan, man... you are in serious trouble. That woman is going to eat you alive if you drop your guard.—
Logan didn't say a single word. He walked over to his locker, reached out, and gripped the titanium golf club by the handle, feeling the cold metal against his palm. He shut the locker door with a sharp thud, but a slow, dangerous, and utterly captivated smile appeared on his lips for the first time all day.
—No,— Logan murmured to himself, ignoring his friends' teasing as he slipped the golf club into his personal bag. —She’s perfect.—
Jules looked at him with a raised eyebrow, sensing something was up, but Logan simply winked at her, knowing that starting this morning, his life at Briar University was about to get a whole lot more interesting.
Summary: A Hawk House Party leads to devastating news about the team's new Physical Therapist, who just so happens to be the girl John Logan can't seem to keep out of his head.
Warnings: Alcohol Consumption, Crude Language, Protective John Logan, Mentions of SA/R, Descriptions of Panic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Overprotective Hawks Team
A/N: I genuinely hope you enjoy this fic, because I had so much fun writing it. My birthday is today, so this fic feels like a present from my brain <3
_____
Music thumps loudly, practically shaking the walls as you and Allie dance around one another, keeping close on the packed, make-shift dance floor of the hockey house’s living room. The home is brimming with people after yet another triumph on the ice, the second of three games that will lead The Hawks closer to winning the NCAA knockout rounds.
Tuck weaves through the crowd, flashing stressed smiles at everyone he passes before finally reaching the kitchen and sighing as he pulls out his fifth appetizer of the evening.
Logan stands from fixing yet another leak under the sink, “Jesus, Tuck. When do you sleep?” He breathes, shaking his head as he pulls off the bandana he had on, “You are incredible. Cooking for these drunks.” He teases. “You are far better than I.”
Tuck’s hand’s brace on his hips as he smiles at his friend, “I really appreciate that, man. Thanks.” He turns and grabs a sample of his freshest dish, holding his hand under the food as he nods - “Bite?”
“Much obliged,” John leans towards his friend, basically inhaling the snack from Tuck’s hand. His brown eyes roll as he hums, chewing and swallowing the food quickly.
“Good?” Tucker’s eyebrows raise as he awaits his friend’s reply, “I hope?”
Logan’s brow lace together as he snarls, “You hope? That shit is delicious, Tuck!”
Tucker smiles, “Thank you. Really, dude. Thanks.” He turns to his phone, scrolling through his Spotify before he looks back up to John, “What’re you thinking?”
Logan’s eyes shift over to where you and Allie dance, “Whatever keeps those two dancing. I haven’t seen this kind of entertainment since Dean and Graham went streaking on the ice sophomore year.”
“What have I missed?” Dean’s wide hands playfully slap down onto Tuck’s shoulders, scanning the room before his gaze quickly falls back to his friends, “Busy night, huh?”
John Logan nods as he braces his hands on the kitchen island, “Damn right, Di Laurentis. Packed house, yet again.”
“I haven’t seen this many people in our house since fall semester. I’m just happy no one’s called the cops.. Coach would kill us,” Tucker slightly shakes his head before stress eating an hor d'oeuvre. “Maybe we should shut things down? Call it a night? The house is definitely beyond capacity.”
“Hell no!” Dean protests, rubbing his hands together as he walks around the island and towards the crowd. “Let's ride things out and see where the night takes us, huh?”
“Whatever you say, man,” Logan’s eyes remain on where you continue to dance. A ridiculous smile spreads across his face as he sees you and Allie start to scream hearing the beginning notes of some Charlie XCX song.
“You know you can go talk to her, right?” Dean says as he nods towards the living room. “Just because she’s our physical therapist doesn’t mean you can’t converse with her. We’re all adults here.”
John’s forehead creases as his eyes shift back to his friends, “I thought Garret said she has a fiance?”
“Nah, man.. I haven’t seen a ring on her finger,” Dean’s brows raise as he eyes Logan. “She’d have a ring on her finger right now if she were engaged.” All three men stare, trying to scope out an engagement ring on your finger.
“What the hell are you guys looking at?” Jules says, startling the hockey players.
Logan turns towards Dean, looking embarrassed as he looks down at his sibling. He shrugs, slightly shaking his head, unable to find the words to say.
“Alright, Fifth Line. What’s the deal with Stretch?” Dean leans towards Jules. “Why did she leave MU?”
Jules inhales with a hiss, “She actually got fired from Minnesota.”
“There’s no way she got fired,” Beau interjects as he saunters up behind the boys. “She puts up with all of us idiots daily, and then puts up with you idiots too. I dare say she might be a saint. No one fires a saint.” He takes a sip of his beer.
“She has to be a saint to have put up with the assholes at Minnesota,” Dean shakes his head. “So pretentious and entitled.”
“Wait,” Tuck sounds concerned as he pulls out his phone. “We play Minnesota tomorrow, do we not?” He scrolls and clicks on the screen before laying his phone down on the countertop.
ROUND THREE: BRIAR HAWKS V MINNESOTA FROST 6 PM
“Shit,” they all collectively curse before directing their attention to where you and Allie dance.
Jules blinks before making a face, “Well, that’s not gonna be good.”
“Yeah, it’ll probably be super awkward,” Tucker puts his phone back into his pocket.
Jules' head shakes, “It’s not as simple as her just ‘getting fired’. She got fired after accusing three MU hockey players of sexual assault... I thought this was known news.”
The guys turn towards Jules immediately, shocked and disgusted at hearing what you had endured.
“What?” Logan’s voice is flat, his nostrils flair as he grips the liquor bottle in his hand.
“Yeah,” Jules takes another sip of their drink. “Her case didn't even make it to court, which is insane because of what she accused them of doing to her.” Their eyes roll before glancing over to you, “At least she’s made friends here already. She seems like a great addition.”
“She is,” Tucker says as he mixes ingredients in a bowl. “She fixed my hamstring! She clearly has a gift.”
Dean’s eyes are locked in on the dance floor, “Minnesota will have to face us if they fuck with Stretch.”
“Wait, what happened with the hockey players?” Logan asks as he opens the bottle of liquor and pours it into a shot glass before tossing the liquid into his mouth.
“Absolutely fucking nothing,” Jules pulls out their phone and scrolls before pointing at the screen. “The accused are actually Minnesota’s starting line.”
The men all share the same primal look before Dean says, “Guess we’re wrecking Minnesota tomorrow.”
“You’re damn right,” Logan agrees before taking another shot. He watches you dance around, carefree and happy. His stomach ties in knots thinking of what you had been through.
You can’t help but to feel like you’re being watched as you start to scan the room, still dancing around Allie. Your line of vision lands on the kitchen where a small group of athletes stand awkwardly behind the kitchen island; each of the men stare off into different parts of the room. Jules smiles and waves before taking another sip of their drink.
You wave back, confused before turning back to Allie. “What is that about?” You ask, breathless as you continue to dance along to the rhythm of the loud music. “That was weird, right?”
Her brown eyes shift over to the kitchen before falling quickly to the ground, “I- uh.. Y-you know them- there’s no telling.”
Your brows lace together seeing Allie’s apprehension, “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, “Nothing, nothing. I think the crowd might be getting to be too much.” You notice her eyes shifting over to the kitchen island again, her gaze lingering before ultimately falling back to the carpeted floor, “Maybe I’ve just drank too much.”
“I’m sure Tuck would be more than happy to feed you,” You motion towards the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you sober.”
As the two of you push through the crowd, Hannah and Garrett descend the stairs, looping around the foyer to the kitchen and running into you and Allie at the island.
“Holy shit at this crowd,” Hannah says loudly over the bumping music.
“How have you guys managed?” Garrett asks.
“Alcohol, Graham. Alcohol,” Dean teases, taking a shot before he turns away from the group and heads towards the dance floor. “In fact, I’m about to be managing even better.”
“So, were you helping tutor Garrett?” Allie teases as she gives Hannah a hip bump.
Hannah smiles widely, blushing as she bumps her hip back at Allie, “Oh, shut up.”
Garrett’s hand wraps around Hannah’s waist as he plants a gentle kiss on the back of her head, “I’m gonna take the trash out real quick, okay?”
“Okay,” She nods as she turns her head towards her boyfriend, kissing him sweetly before turning back towards you and Allie.
“You guys are adorable,” you smile.
“Thanks,” she peeks over her shoulder, watching her boyfriend head out towards the trashbin outside. “He’s pretty great. I’m lucky.”
“Han,” Allie says, her brown eyes darting towards the staircase. “Bathroom trip?”
“Of course,” Hannah replies before she looks at you, “Bathroom trips are for the girlies only. Would you like to join?”
“I’m actually good,” you flash them both a smile. “I’m honored to have been invited though. Next time!”
“Fine,” Allie says. “You’ll be missed.”
“However will you pee without me?” You tease.
“I’ll hold her hand, don’t worry,” Hannah jokes. “Be right back!”
“Good luck!” You say before turning towards the countertop where most of the hockey players stood, bumping right into Logan’s chest. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” he shakes his head, his warm eyes gaze down at you. Beau accidentally backs into you as a group of puck bunnies make their way through the house, pushing you back into John’s chest. “Are you good?” he gulps at your nearness.
“Feeling a tad squished,” your chest presses firmly against the man towering over you, “And very short.”
Logan nods, “You are quite short.”
“Hey!” You give him a sassy look. “Maybe you’re just insanely tall?”
John’s face is only inches from yours as he says, “You know, I just realized I never thanked you for fixing my neck a few weeks ago. That thing was killer and you magically made it go away.”
God, he smelled so good.
“Thanks, Logan.”
“No, ma’am. Thank you,” he licks his bottom lip before smiling at you again.
“I am so sorry, Stretch,” Beau turns, dusting you off and giving you room to breathe again. “It was a little cramped there for a bit. Sorry about almost squeezing you to death.”
“It’s okay, Beau,” you reply, feeling like you should be standing on a step stool as you stand sandwiched between the two athletes. “Would you guys want to do a shot with me? Hannah and Allie aren’t here and I don’t like drinking alone. It’s okay if not.”
“Hell yes!” Beau grabs three shot glasses and nods at Logan, “Three shots, good sir.”
“Gladly,” John bows, smiling widely as he fills the small cups with liquor. You each grab your respective glass.
“Cheers to our incredible physical therapist,” Beau says as he holds his shot glass up.
“No, no, no,” you raise your glass. “Cheers to the Hawks being undefeated this semester!”
“To Stretch!” Dean yells from across the living room, holding up an invisible glass as he dances behind a beautiful redhead.
“When did he get so plastered and who allowed it?” You turn to both boys. “Who was on Dean watch?”
The guys look at each other and then to you.
“It was Tuck,” Beau says quickly, shrugging.
“Oh, no no no, Maxwell, you two aren’t pinning this on Tucker, because he has been graciously hosting all of us. You-,” you point at Beau. “-were on duty tonight. Weren’t you?”
“I can try to wrangle him in,” Beau says before abruptly knocking back his shot and stretching his neck from shoulder to shoulder. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck!” You yell over the music as Beau shimmies his way into the crowd.
Logan’s laugh grabs your attention.
“What’s so funny?” you ask, still holding your full shot glass.
“Nothing, really. There’s just never a dull moment. Hasn’t been one since I’ve gotten to Briar U,” He watches his friends before directing his brown eyes at you. “We still need to take these shots!”
“Oh, shit!” You hold your glass up to the man. “Cheers to you, John Logan.”
“No, ma’am,” he touches his glass to yours. “Cheers to you. We’re lucky to have you.”
“You are always so sweet to me, John. Thank you,” you nod before taking your shot, shaking your head as warmness spreads through your stomach.
“You’re easy to be sweet to, Stretch,” his cheeks hurt from smiling as he throws the shot into his mouth, hissing before placing the glass back onto the island countertop.
“Looks like Beau has successfully corralled Dean,” you nod towards the two men wrestling on the living room floor, grunting and laughing as they each take turns overpowering the other. “I guess?”
“This is normal behavior, so I say Beau’s wrangling of Dean was a success. Now to get Dean to go to sleep..” John laughs as he watches Beau get Dean into a playful chokehold.
“How are you feeling about tomorrow’s game?”
His question makes your heart race.
“I- uh, I think you guys will do well if you all stop drinking,” you tease, though your voice is laced with melancholy. “No, really. I think you guys will easily win. Your line of defense is too strong to lose.”
John’s eyes look sad as he stares down at you.
“What?” Your brows furrow. “Did I say something?”
“No, no,” he shakes his head. “I.. uh-I was asking because Jules kind of told us why you left MU.” He shakes his head at his sudden word vomit. “But- but, it's not a big deal, I swear.”
Your heart sinks into your stomach. “What? Oh god.. You guys know?”
John is at a loss for words, swallowing hard before he clears his throat.
“Oh my god,” you feel lightheaded from the rush of anxiety washing over you. Faint ringing silences the noises from the party around you. “I-uh, I have to go.”
You feel like you’re outside of your body as your feet begin towards the front door of the house. John quickly follows as you head out of the house and start down the sidewalk, not even walking in the direction of your room.
Your feet pick up the pace as you begin to run, hoping to escape the shame and embarrassment you felt as hot tears run down your face.
Logan runs after you, his long legs catching up with you as his large hands reach out to grab your arm. “Hey, hey-” he coos, bringing you both to a halt. “Hey, look at me. Please.”
You blink back tears as you stare at the ground. “You guys weren’t supposed to find out.. no one was. Coach Jensen said the news would never get out,” you shake your head. “I told him you’d all find out eventually and that you’ll think differently of me.. Maybe even hate me. Or-or maybe you’d be uncomfortable to be around me if you knew.”
“You thought we would hate you after finding out three grown men sexually assaulted you?” He lets out an exhausted scoff. “You should have been worried that we would kill the assholes that hurt you after we found out what happened.”
Finally, your saddened gaze meets John’s deep eyes. The tears streaming down your face shine under the streetlamp, breaking Logan’s heart as he swallows down his building rage, not wanting his defensiveness to scare you.
He points in the direction of the stadium, “If any of those motherfuckers even look your way tomorrow I will personally beat the shit out of each one of them.” His lips press together as he exhales slowly, shaking a bit as his fingers rake through his locks. “Look.. No one is ever hurting you again. None of us will allow that shit.. Especially me.”
“I don’t know what to say,” you murmur, staring at the beautiful man in front of you. “I-I was so scared for you guys to find out why I had to leave Minnesota. Especially you..”
“Me?” He’s taken aback, brows furrowing as he blinks. “Why?”
“Who wants to be with a girl who got raped by three different guys?”
“I’m sorry, what? They raped you?” John starts seeing red as he begins to pace. “And no one believed you?”
“People would rather not believe me than believe their star hockey players are monsters,” you try to relax your aching jaw from clenching your teeth so tightly. “I should have never come forward. I probably should have just stopped being a physical therapist after everything happened.”
Logan stops pacing, “You were right in coming forward. I believe you. We all believe you.”
Your voice is small as you say, “I’m scared to see them tomorrow.”
“You can be scared, that’s valid,” he locks eyes with you again. “But you need to know, no one will hurt you while I’m around. I swear on my life.”
“You don’t think differently of me?” You ask, confused by his protectiveness after finding out your deepest shame.
“Hell no,” he says, stepping closer to you. “If anything, it makes me even more protective of you than I was before.”
“You wanted to protect me before?” You choke in disbelief that John Logan even thought of you outside of being the hockey team’s physical therapist.
“Yeah, I did.. And I still do,” his chest rises and falls as he looks down at you, his fingertips brushing against yours before his hand wraps around your shaking palm. “You are an incredible woman.”
You instinctively stretch out onto your tippy toes and plant a chaste kiss on Logan’s stubbly cheek. “Thank you, Johnny,” you whisper. “Thanks for believing in me.”
His cheeks flush as he nods, his hand reaches out to wipe the tears from your face. His voice is so kind as he whispers, “You’re welcome, Stretch.”
You look away bashfully just as John’s warm lips meet your cheek, shocking you as you turn back to him, blinking wildly as a gleeful smile spreads across your face, “Thank you.”
“For what?” He looks confused. You point to your cheek, blushing. “Are you thanking me for kissing you on the cheek?” He smiles, “I’ll do it again.”
His free hand gently cups your face as he slowly leans down and lovingly kisses your cheek before moving to your opposite cheek, tenderly kissing your flesh and sending butterflies rushing through your gut.
He stands a little straighter, your cheek remains cradled in his large hand as he says, “Let me take you home. I’ll even come get you tomorrow before morning skate so I can take you to get brunch at Malone’s before my pre-game nap.”
You laugh, “You take a pre-game nap?”
“Yes ma’am. They’re glorious, and greatly encouraged by Coach,” he smiles. “You’re more than welcome to join me in whatever you feel comfortable doing. I do happen to have an incredibly comfortable blow up mattress I can sleep on, so you can take my bed if you decide to partake in nap time at the hockey house.”
You can feel your cheeks heating up as you reply, “I’ll have to consider that. I guess we’ll just see where the day takes us, Logan.”
“Whatever you do tomorrow, please don’t be alone,” he sounds like he’s pleading. “You need to stick with me and the boys, or Hannah and Allie tomorrow since those assholes will be around town.
The anxiety from early comes creeping in as your heart starts to race.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Hey, look at me.. Please.”
Your wary eyes scan up to meet his deep gaze.
“Remember that I am right here, always. You need me at 3 am? Call me. You want me to go egg the hotel where MU is staying? Say less, let's go right now.”
You smile weakly at John, “You’re too sweet to me.”
“I’m serious. Please.. If you need anything or feel scared.. Anything.. Just, please- please promise me that you’ll call me so I can be here for you,” he pleads. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. I need you to know that I’m here for you.”
“I promise, I will,” you nod. “Walk me home?”
“Okay, Stretch,” his thumb strokes the apple of your cheek before he motions towards the Hawk House. “Lets get out of here.”
———
A/N: soooo, what did you think? I hope you enjoyed this read and that you have a great day <3 - Cait
Summary: he asks you to trust him. you almost do. one misunderstanding is enough to bring every fear you've been carrying back to the surface.
note: part 3!! sorry for not posting sooner, I had college finals and was stressedddd but thank you for all the love shown to this <B
Link to Other Parts || masterlist
PART lll
Lunch with Hannah’s friends was supposed to be a one time thing.
At least, that was what you told yourself as you sat beside her, trying very hard not to look across the table at Dean.
It didn’t work.
Every few minutes, you caught him watching you.
When Logan made you laugh.
When Tucker offered you some of his fries.
When Hannah started telling you about an argument she and Garrett had been having for three years about whether a hot dog was technically a sandwich.
Each time your eyes met, Dean smiled.
Not the charming smile you had seen him use on half the girls at Briar.
Something softer.
Something that made you look away first.
“So,” Logan said eventually, looking between the two of you. “How exactly do you guys know each other?”
You nearly choked on your drink.
Dean kicked him under the table.
“Jesus,” Logan muttered.
“Drop it.”
Hannah looked between you curiously.
“We met at a party,” you said quietly.
Understanding crossed Allie’s face.
Logan, apparently realizing he had made you uncomfortable, immediately looked guilty.
“Sorry. I was teasing Dean, not you.”
“It’s okay.”
Dean’s jaw remained tight.
You noticed that too.
He had never acted embarrassed about what happened between you.
If anything, he seemed determined to make sure you knew he wasn’t.
By the time lunch ended, Hannah had invited you to a movie night.
You almost said no.
Then she looked at you expectantly.
“Okay.”
Her entire face brightened.
“Perfect.”
You told yourself you probably wouldn’t go.
You did.
And then somehow, without realizing it, you kept going.
Movie nights became dinners.
Dinners became hockey games.
Hannah started saving you a seat in class, and Allie started sending you pictures before dates asking which outfit looked better.
Tucker discovered you liked baking.
Logan started calling you Sunshine.
The first time he did it, Dean looked personally offended.
“She has a name.”
Logan grinned.
“Jealous?”
“No.”
“You look jealous.”
“I look irritated.”
“Same thing.”
You laughed.
Dean looked at you instead.
He always did that.
It was strange how quickly the hockey house became somewhere you stopped knocking before entering.
How quickly there was always room for you on the couch.
How easily they noticed when you weren’t there.
The first time Garrett texted the group chat asking where you were, you stared at the message for nearly a full minute.
You were at the library.
Everyone else was ordering dinner.
You typed that you were studying.
Dean answered immediately.
I’ll bring you something.
you don’t have to.
His response came seconds later.
i know.
Forty minutes later, he appeared with a paper bag and your usual tea.
“You remembered?”
Dean dropped into the chair across from you.
“You get the same thing every day.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to remember.”
He looked at you strangely.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
You had no answer.
So you looked down at the food.
“Thank you.”
Dean stayed to study.
After that, he kept finding reasons to be around you.
Sometimes he needed notes.
Sometimes he happened to be near your class.
Eventually, he stopped pretending.
“I wanted to see you,” he would say.
And every single time, your heart betrayed you.
You liked him.
That was obvious now.
You liked him far too much.
Which was exactly why you couldn’t let yourself believe he felt the same way.
Dean Di Laurentis did not do relationships.
Everyone knew that.
Maybe you were simply interesting because you were the first girl who had told him no.
Maybe once you stopped being a challenge, he would lose interest.
You knew it wasn’t fair.
Dean had never treated you like a game.
Still, the fear stayed.
One evening, the two of you were alone upstairs while everyone else argued over dinner downstairs.
Dean leaned against his desk.
“Can I ask you something?”
You nodded.
“Why do you keep waiting for me to do something wrong?”
Your stomach tightened.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
He looked almost tired.
“Every time we get close, you pull away.”
You stared at your hands.
Dean was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “I haven’t been with anyone since you.”
Your head snapped up.
“What?”
“I haven’t wanted to.”
You laughed nervously.
His expression fell.
“You think I’m lying.”
“No.”
“You laughed.”
“Because I don’t understand why you’re telling me.”
“Because I want you to know.”
He stepped closer.
“I asked you to get coffee because I wanted coffee. I keep showing up because I want to be around you.”
“Dean…”
“I know what people say about me.”
“You’ve never exactly hidden it.”
“No.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“But that was before you.”
Your heart hurt.
You wanted to believe him so badly that it terrified you.
“You barely know me.”
“I know more than you think.”
Dean moved closer.
“I know you sit near doors because you like knowing you can leave. I know you apologize when other people interrupt you. I know you give everyone the best cookies and keep the broken ones for yourself.”
Your throat tightened.
“I know you pretend you like being alone because it hurts less than admitting you wish someone would ask you to stay.”
“Dean.”
His expression softened.
“I’m sorry.”
“You can’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because you make it sound real.”
“It is real.”
You looked away.
“You feel that way now.”
Dean went quiet.
You hated yourself immediately.
“That’s what you think of me?”
“No.”
“You think I’ll get bored.”
“I think you’ve never wanted this before.”
“So I’m not allowed to want it now?”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
He dragged a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know what else you want me to do.”
“I never asked you to do anything.”
“That’s the problem.”
You flinched.
Dean closed his eyes.
“That came out wrong.”
“No. It didn’t.”
He stepped toward you.
“I’m not asking you to trust me because I deserve it. I know my reputation.”
His voice softened.
“I’m asking you to let me earn it.”
You looked at him.
“How?”
“Have dinner with me.”
You blinked.
“A real date,” he clarified. “Just us.”
Every instinct told you to say no.
Instead—
“Okay.”
Dean stared.
“Okay?”
“One date.”
His entire face changed.
“One date.”
The date was perfect.
Which almost made everything worse.
Dean had chosen a quiet restaurant because he knew you hated crowded places. He remembered what food you liked and held your hand on the walk back to your dorm.
At your door, he stopped.
“Can I kiss you?”
You smiled.
“Yes.”
The kiss was soft.
Different from the first night.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“Can I see you again?”
“You see me every day.”
“You know what I mean.”
You did.
You nodded.
After that, things changed.
Slowly.
Dean held your hand beneath tables.
He kissed you when no one was looking and sometimes when everyone was.
He sent you good-morning texts.
He still didn’t pressure you to call whatever was happening between you a relationship.
He just kept showing up.
And slowly, you started believing him.
Then you saw the girl.
It happened on a Thursday.
You had gotten out of class early and decided to surprise Dean after practice.
You even bought him coffee.
You were almost at the athletic center when you spotted him standing beneath the awning of a nearby dorm.
A girl stood in front of him.
She was beautiful.
Tall.
Darkhaired.
The sort of girl you could immediately picture beside Dean.
His hands rested on her arms.
She stepped forward.
Dean hugged her.
Then he brushed wet hair away from her face.
You stopped walking.
Everything you had spent months fearing suddenly felt real.
Of course.
Of course this was how it ended.
You backed away before he could see you.
The coffee slipped from your hand and hit the pavement.
You left it there.
Dean texted after practice.
how was your day?
You ignored it.
Then—
you alive?
Later—
did i do something?
And finally—
please talk to me.
You ignored that one too.
Two days later, Hannah appeared at your dorm.
She took one look at you.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
Your eyes filled immediately.
Hannah’s expression softened.
“I saw Dean with someone.”
She frowned.
“Where?”
You told her.
Understanding crossed her face.
Your stomach dropped.
“You know her.”
“That was Sophia.”
You looked away.
“Of course you know her.”
“She’s his cousin.”
You froze.
“What?”
“Her boyfriend cheated on her. She came to see Dean because their families are close.”
The room went silent.
You sat on the edge of your bed.
“Oh.”
Hannah sat beside you.
“You should have asked him.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
You wiped your face.
“Because I was waiting for it.”
“For what?”
“For him to prove me right.”
Hannah looked at you sadly.
“I don’t know how to trust him,” you whispered.
“Then tell him that.”
“I have.”
“No.”
She reached for your hand.
“You tell him he’ll leave. You tell him he doesn’t really want you. You tell him how he feels.”
Her voice softened.
“You never tell him you’re scared.”
You looked down.
“I am.”
“I know.”
“What if he gets tired?”
“What if he doesn’t?”
You shook your head.
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand that Garrett had to stop him from coming here three times.”
You looked at her.
“He did not.”
“He absolutely did.”
Despite everything, you laughed.
Hannah squeezed your hand.
“Talk to him.”
You met Dean by the frozen lake the next morning.
He looked exhausted.
You felt worse.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.
Dean looked toward the water.
“For what part?”
You flinched.
He sighed.
“That was mean.”
“No. It was fair.”
You stared at your hands.
“Hannah told me about Sophia.”
Dean nodded.
“I should have asked you.”
“Yes.”
The answer hurt.
“But,” he added, “I understand why you didn’t.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I know who I used to be.”
“That isn’t all of it.”
Dean looked at you.
You swallowed.
“I kept waiting for you to prove me right.”
His expression tightened.
“When I saw you with her, part of me was almost relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“Because waiting was worse.”
Your eyes filled.
“I kept thinking every good thing would be the last one.”
Dean looked away.
“I don’t know what else I can do.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been honest with you.”
“I know.”
“I haven’t been with anyone else. I haven’t wanted anyone else.”
“I know.”
“Then why isn’t that enough?”
Your voice broke.
“Because I don’t understand why you want me.”
Dean went still.
You looked at him through your tears.
“I look at you and understand why everyone wants you. Then I look at myself and I don’t understand why you stayed.”
His expression crumbled.
He crossed the space between you.
“You think this is about my reputation.”
“It was at first.”
“And now?”
You looked down.
“Now it’s about me.”
Dean touched your cheek.
“I can’t fix the way you see yourself.”
“I know.”
“But I can tell you how I see you.”
Your tears slipped free.
“And you can decide whether you want to believe me.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
Dean pulled you against him.
You folded into his chest.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
His arms tightened.
“I know.”
“What if you get tired of answering?”
“Then I’ll be tired.”
You pulled back.
Dean brushed a tear from your face.
“But I’ll still answer.”
You stared at him.
“We’re not fixed,” he said.
Your heart dropped.
“But we’re not over either.”
“You still want this?”
Dean gave you a tired smile.
“I still want you.”
You reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around yours immediately.
Nothing was magically better.
You were still scared.
Dean was still hurt.
But as you walked back toward campus together, he stayed beside you.
And for once, you tried not to wonder how long it would last.
You simply held his hand.
And let him stay.
End of Part Ill.
-------------------
taglist: let me know if you'd like to be added :) thank you for loving this.
When Luca left four years ago, he took your heart with him and left you with a decision that changed your entire life. When he finally returns, rebuilding what you had is a little harder when you have a daughter he doesn't know about. A daughter who belongs to him.
▸ PAIRING: Chef Luca x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: Mature rating mostly due to making out (no explicit sex scenes), hurt/comfort, reader is a big scaredy cat, some angst, amelia's personality inspired by morgan stark (marvel) but race is neutral/ambiguous <3
▸ WORD COUNT: 9.7K
▸ A/N: told myself i wanted to write something small in honor of the bear s4 and luca's sexy return (esp him holding that baby!!) but i clearly have zero self-control. second part which is slightly longer than this one coming in a week :)
↤ main masterlist | part two ↦
You always knew your past would come back to haunt you. All the secrets and vague responses. Deflecting questions like it’s your full-time job. The first year was the roughest. You practically wrote the book on how to avoid FaceTime calls with your best friend.
With Luca, you can imagine how difficult that would be. The man was too kind, too thoughtful, always making time for you despite the timezone difference and the fact that he was being ground down to the bone across the Atlantic.
Now you’re staring at the consequences of your actions.
Luca: Heading to Chicago in two weeks. Do you have time to catch up?
Every expletive you could think of leaves your lips. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s been four years since you saw him last. Four years since he left Chicago and never looked back. Maybe he’s only here for a few days. What’s a few days of hiding the biggest secret of your life from a very observant man who cares way too much about you?
“Shit,” you groan as you stare at the blinking line where your reply should be.
“Shit.”
The echo has you jerking up. Amelia stands in the doorway, grinning cheekily up at you.
“You can’t say that word. It’s a bad word.”
“But you said it.”
“Yes, but I’m an adult.”
“So just because you’re older, you can say it but I can’t? That’s not fair. Kids can do anything adults can too.” Her r’s aren’t even fully formed yet so her challenge just sounds endearing. You have a smart kid. Too smart.
Sighing, you scoop her up, which earns you giggles. She knows she’s won the battle. “Maybe when kids start paying taxes, we’ll talk. Ask me again in a few years. I don’t want you getting in trouble with Miss Glinda.”
Amelia grins down at you with those big green eyes. An exact replica of her father’s. She also picked up a lot of his kindness and patience, his tenacity. Thank goodness, because if she picked up any of those from you, you don’t think she would have made any friends. God knows your stubbornness has gotten you into more messes than your parents would like.
Said father is the man whose text you still haven’t responded to. Whose text led you to curse in front of your daughter. Your daughter who said father has zero awareness of.
This is going to be fantastic.
When you tuck Amelia back into bed, she peers up at you curiously. Sometimes, it’s like staring right at Luca. Her inquisitive eyes. The ones that could see right through you.
“Why were you saying a bad word, Mommy?”
You tug the blanket up to her chin as she sinks back into the mattress. “Sometimes, when I feel really strongly about something, I say a bad word. It’s not really a bad thing, but it might not be a good thing either. It’s just when I feel so emotional that I have to use a word that you’re not supposed to use.”
Amelia quietly considers this. You can see the gears turning in her head. “So was it a good thing or a bad thing that made you say it?”
Honestly, you’re still not sure. While you’re more than thrilled at the idea of reconnecting with a good friend and a former co-worker, his arrival in Chicago means that your current situation – in other words, you having a daughter – complicates things. For the duration of time that he is here in the city, you have to figure out how to ensure he never finds out about Amelia. It would be difficult to explain. Even harder now that she’s four.
Plus, it’s not like you have to. He has a life of his own in Copenhagen now, working for the best of the best. He hasn’t been back in Chicago since he left and he likely will leave again to never return. He doesn’t need to know about her. You’ve been just fine on your own.
“A little bit of both,” you smile. “Now, sleep. This is the second time I’m putting you to bed. If I reach a third time, the ogre underneath your bed is going to wake up and eat you.”
She frowns, “There’s no ogre under my bed. You told me this last year.”
Curse your good parenting. “It’s the ogre’s other friend.”
Amelia offers you a sympathetic smile. It’s a sad day when your daughter begins to pity you and your weak attempt to be stern. “Okay. Goodnight.”
“Sleep tight.”
God knows you won’t be doing that tonight.
–
Perhaps the situation merits some context. For starters, Amelia is your four-year-old. She’s bright and optimistic, but she’s also quick and snappy. She’s the type to challenge teachers at school as evidenced by the number of times she – and you – have been summoned to the principal’s office due to a teacher’s bruised ego. However, she’s a good student and she makes friends. She’s never been too much of a handful.
Raising her has been relatively easy, particularly with the help of your parents and Rebecca, your other and current best friend, who adore her.
When you had gotten pregnant, your parents were unsurprisingly upset. They weren’t happy that their only child was knocked up without the father around. No matter how many times they asked who it was, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell them. You dodged the question multiple times, claiming that the father had nothing to do with the baby because it was your call.
It wasn’t Luca’s responsibility. He didn’t know.
Still, Amelia has been winning hearts left and right since the day she was born. With her bright green eyes and mischievous nature, she quickly captured your parents’ love.
With regards to Luca, she does ask about it from time to time. The father she never knew.
It isn’t as if you and Luca ended on bad terms; you clearly didn’t given that you still consider him one of your closest friends. Close friends with a massive secret between you.
It was just – there was nothing between you to begin with.
A drunken one-night stand. That’s all it was. The two of you were tight at Ever, the entire staff knew that. He had been the one to pull you out of your cold shell, introduce you to the rest, and ensured you fit in with the group. Ever wouldn’t have been the same without him.
So after a particularly tough day and a particularly long night of downing two bottles of wine, it happened. The next morning is something your wine-addled brain had really thought about.
“Last night…” he starts.
“I know,” you clear your throat, covering your naked chest with your duvet. The last thing you want is to lose your friendship with him. No matter how much you love this man. “We don’t have to— I mean, I get it. We had both been drinking.”
Luca nods slowly. “Yeah, of course.” He’s still shirtless from waist up as far as you could see. His broad shoulders even more prominent in the daylight. Golden skin through and through. You can see why your brain thought it was a good idea last night.
You’re not blind. You’ve always known your best friend is attractive. You’ve seen the looks some of the servers give him, and even the customers when he takes the occasional step out of the kitchen and into the limelight.
But you can’t lose him. Not to this.
You look up at him. “We’re good right?”
“We’re good.”
And the two of you never spoke of it again. A couple of weeks later, Luca hears that he received the opportunity to stage at Noma. No chef would pass that up. So within a week, he packs his bag and, with tearful goodbyes to the rest of the Ever crew, he is on a flight to Denmark. What was supposed to be a two-month stint turned into four then a full-time gig. Before long, he was bouncing around every fine dining establishment in Copenhagen and making a name for himself as a pastry chef. He eventually returned to Noma to take over pastry work there.
A week after his departure, you land with your face in your toilet to hurl your guts out. Then came the nausea and the odd food cravings. Working at Ever became unbearable with the mix of smells and your constant fatigue. When all the symptoms finally sink in, you decide to take a pregnancy test.
Lo and behold, two pink lines.
The shock electrocutes you. You’re slumped against your bathroom dresser when Rebecca finds you the first time, panicking since you weren’t exactly moving. Or breathing. It took a lot of crying and ginger ale (no more wine for you) on the floor before she managed to help you move to the bed where you proceeded to repeat the cycle.
Telling your parents was the easy part. Getting through the pregnancy was rough. Late nights of being sore all over, the constant trips to the bathroom, fielding concerned calls from your parents.
Some of the worst parts were Luca reaching out. Between calling you at times most convenient for you (he would be up until dawn trying to call you) and sending you check-in texts, you were consumed with guilt. You constantly skipped his calls, claiming you were too busy even as you stared at his name lighting up your phone in the quiet of your room. You told people at Ever that you were leaving to pursue another career path. When your body started to change, you took video calls with him with only the top half of your face visible.
You never told him. You knew what he would’ve done. He would’ve given up his dream and, knowing him, he wouldn’t have even resented you for it. He would have taken responsibility. But that’s not what you wanted for him. Luca was – is – meant to do great things.
His career so far is proof of it.
So you sucked it up. You had the chance to get rid of this unborn, nameless, faceless baby, but it didn’t feel right. You could feel her growing inside you and, once you had that first ultrasound with your mom by your side, it was decided. You were keeping her.
Amelia came in wailing, kicking, and screaming at three in the morning.
The greatest gift you could ever imagine.
She’s been the lighthouse of your life ever since. She is the reason you get up in the morning.
That’s the gist of it. Now, here you are at the age of thirty, staring at your phone dreading typing a mere response.
You look down at yourself. Despite the frumpy clothes being all you find comfortable these days outside of work, you don’t look that much different than you did before, so you could definitely pass as a woman who has never gone through pregnancy. You can do this. One meeting. Then he’ll be back on a plane and gone again for good. No big.
You: Coffee? I could do weekdays afternoon
Luca: Sounds good. I’ll lock in a time with you closer to the date. Looking forward to seeing you again :)
The urge to bang your head against a wall grows stronger by the moment.
Two weeks to prepare for his visit. Two weeks to come up with a believable story for how your life has been going for the past four years as if you never had your beautiful, smart, amazing daughter. You could do that.
Your only concern is whether you’re able to lie to Luca. He’s always been good at making an honest woman out of you. Keeping the truth from him when he’s thousands of miles from you is easy. But when you’re looking into those earnest green eyes, your integrity and skills will be tested.
This will be fun.
The café is busy particularly this time of day. You’ve got office workers making their late afternoon coffee runs, tourists popping in for a midday snack, and regulars trying to shoulder past people to get through to the exit. You manage to put in your order – and his, hoping it’s still the same – and snag a seat in the back corner of the shop. Work is relatively slow today so you called in a half day, which your manager only waves off unconcerned. It also works out because you can pick up Amelia right after this.
You can’t help the way your fingers wring together fearfully. It’s a nervous tic. Your espresso sits steaming across from Luca’s mocha latte. You could use the extra dose of caffeine to get through this conversation.
Hey, how’s it going? What’s new with you? Me? Nothing much, just raising the daughter I’ve been keeping from you and I’m working in a boring office now. How’s the life of your dreams?
A groan escapes your lips. You need to stop throwing this pathetic pity party for yourself. Now that Amelia is four, there’s really no excuse. You could go back to the kitchen and chase that lifelong dream again. There’s nothing stopping you. Your parents are fully retired and would be more than happy to take her off your hands on long days.
But you’re not entirely sure you’re ready. You’re much older than when you left. The stamina of these new and rising chefs is stronger than yours. Then again, you’ve been through hell and back with Amelia’s toddler years – god knows you barely got any sleep and became an expert on multi-tasking.
With Amelia, you also don’t know if being a chef is even your dream anymore. You still cook at home, it gives you a chance to experiment and be creative. There’s no one breathing down your neck on how to properly prepare a plate – aside from your mom who makes sure Amelia gets her main food groups every day.
It’s not as if you spite him for it. It’s not his fault. You just need to hold yourself accountable for your decisions. That includes having your wonderful daughter and keeping her a secret from her father.
The sound of your name rolling off his tongue is all too familiar. It’s almost like a caress. A ghost of a touch. You resist the shiver that snakes up your spine and look up to see him.
Fuck.
All those video calls did not do him justice. It’s been a couple of days since he landed in Chicago and clearly vacation suits him. There is a slight dusting of stubble along his jaw and his hair is a little unruly, far from the poised and elegant styling he usually has in the kitchen. He looks older. Better. You didn’t think it was possible for Luca to grow more into himself but he proves you wrong.
“Luca.” You stand, bumping into the table slightly. Curse your lack of cool.
The smile that spreads across his face is blinding. Familiar. Warm. “God, it’s so good to see you,” he says first, voice dripping with honey. He wraps you in a tight hug. It’s been a while since you’ve been this close to him, since you’ve been able to smell his cologne mixed with that unceasing scent of pastries. “You look… wow. You look amazing.”
“Now you’re just being mean,” you laugh. “Look at you. All grown up. You weren’t scrawny the last time I saw you, but I didn’t think you’d be so… big?”
Something flickers across his eyes, but it’s gone the moment you blink. “Well, all that dough kneading had to go somewhere. Thankfully, that means I don’t really have to hit the gym as much.”
“Life isn’t fair,” you tease. “What are you doing back in Chicago? I thought someone would have to drag you here kicking and screaming.”
While Chicago had been home for Luca for a while, you knew it wasn’t entirely easy. There is a lot of history in the city that he wants to let go, people he chooses to eschew if he can.
Luca looks a little confused by your question. “Ever is closing. Funeral dinner is tomorrow.”
It’s been years since you’ve been involved in the restaurant scene in the city. Admittedly, it’s too painful to be reminded of the past that had once been your dream. So you nod slowly. “Right, of course.”
“Are you not going?”
You hadn’t been invited, which also isn’t surprising. You weren’t a star like Luca or Carmy. You had been a line cook at the time and blended into the other chefs doing menial work in the kitchen. “No, I don’t really talk to anyone there anymore.”
“Oh, where are you working now? You’ve never told me that actually.”
You’re still not entirely sure how you managed to do it but, in the four years since he left, you did not tell him how you pivoted from cooking to an office job. It was more stable, better pay, and the hours were better. God bless company-sponsored healthcare. It was more conducive to raising a child.
“I work a finance role now. Boutique tech firm in the city.”
If anyone else knew Luca as well as you did, they would see the metaphorical jaw drop. “What? Since when?”
“Two, three years.” Four.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You mean since I left? What happened? Why did you switch?”
The lump in your throat refuses to go down. “I couldn’t handle the hours anymore. I wanted to get home at a good time, make more money.” It isn’t a lie per se. You just had bigger responsibilities that had you prioritizing reality over idealism.
Luca leans back, seeming to appraise you carefully. There are certainly more lines on your face now, weariness clinging to your skin. While life hasn’t been too tough on you, it hasn’t been particularly kind either.
“I didn’t know that,” he mutters, “why didn’t you tell me?”
Your lips quirk up in a small smile. “I didn’t want you to worry. Knowing you, you’d be on the first flight back here to drag me back into a kitchen.”
A charming snort escapes him. You didn’t know snorts could be charming until him. God, it’s stupid how fast your heart still races with him. “You’re not wrong. I just never thought this would happen. I heard that you left Ever but since you didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to touch on a sore subject.”
“Not too sore, I promise. It’s been good. I like it. It’s straightforward and nobody’s constantly yelling at me. There is functioning air conditioning instead of constantly sweating by grills,” you grin.
“That’s definitely appealing.”
“Enough about me. Tell me all about Copenhagen.”
And that gets Luca going. While you’ve heard bits and pieces on your short calls with him, it’s another thing entirely to have him narrate this live in front of you. His hands gesture wildly to describe the chaos of the kitchens he’s been in. He swipes through photographs of menu items he worked on recently. Each piece is more impressive than the next. You truly understand how much he’s grown then. How talented he is.
Somehow, his being here and all these stories reassure you in your decision not to tell him about your pregnancy. This is Luca’s dream. This is what he is meant to do.
“So when are you heading back? Seems like you have a lot in the works,” you ask as you take a sip of your now-cold coffee.
“I’m actually here for a few months.”
Your blood runs cold. If this were a movie, you would do a spit-take. “W-why are you here for a few months? What about Noma? Are you taking a sabbatical? Do they even let you take sabbaticals?”
“I left.”
He says it so simply. Like a thing he does so casually. Leaving Noma of all places – arguably the best restaurant in the world and every chef’s dream. His dream. “You’re going to have to elaborate here. What do you mean you left?”
Luca takes a deep breath and looks at you. Really looks at you. He looks contemplative, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve learned a lot there but I think I’m ready to move on.”
One doesn’t just move on. “So what’s your plan now? Are you starting your own place?”
“Someday. I still want to learn. There are a lot of great places here that I can bring my experience to. I’ve started asking around.”
Fuck. Here. “So you’re staying in Chicago?” Your voice comes out as a squeak.
“Yeah,” he smiles. “I’m excited. I mean, there’s a lot I have to do still. I have to find a place to live. And my sister…”
Luca’s relationship with his sister is rocky at best. With his parents divorced – not amicably at that, the two barely interacted. Even when the two were living in the same city, Luca buried himself in his pursuit of becoming a chef. You hear slices of her from him, but you know it’s a painful topic, so you don’t try to push.
“I’m trying to rebuild the relationship there. It’s going to take a while.”
“Right, yeah. I’m glad to hear. I’m sure it’s not easy so I’m proud of you for taking that step.”
“Right,” he clears his throat, eyes dropping to his hand on the table where he fiddles with his napkin. “And you’re here.”
His eyes flick back up to you. Sharp green. Your breath hitches in your throat.
Fuck.
You cannot do this. All that hope that you’ve quashed from your years knowing him, it’s coming back up. It’s engulfing you in this warm, tingly feeling that should definitely not be there. The you that he knows, she’s gone. She has changed so much that you can’t even see her in your reflection anymore.
So no, you can’t start this with Luca. Not when he doesn’t know you. Not anymore, at least. “So Ever funeral, are you excited to see everyone again?”
A brief look of disappointment blankets his features for a moment and you refuse to succumb to the urge to smooth out the creases on his face. “Yes, Carm’s going to be there too so I’m excited to see him. All the greats, of course. Chef Terry is still a legend.”
You hadn’t even thought about Carmy Berzatto in years. The man terrified you back at Ever, and he still terrifies you today. Last you heard, he started his own place. He’s always been intense, so you can imagine that he runs that place with an iron fist.
“Have you been to his new spot, The Bear?”
“No, I haven’t.” You haven’t been anywhere fancy in a while. It’s been a mix of Chuck E. Cheese’s, Cheesecake Factory, and anywhere that has mozzarella sticks. Amelia is a big fan of cheese, apparently.
“We should go,” Luca beams. “I’d love to take you there.”
On a date? You cannot even begin to hope that’s what he meant. Again, you deflect. “What kind of cuisine is it?”
Luca doesn’t miss that attempt, but smartly chooses not to address it. “Contemporary American, I suppose, but you can imagine the Italian and French influences just given where Carmy has been.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Yeah, shall we go maybe next week? I’m seeing Carm and his CDC Sydney tomorrow, I can ask them for a reservation spot. I heard it’s tough to get. What time works for you?”
Luca is moving incredibly fast for someone who just arrived, and who plans to be there for a long time.
“We don’t have to rush it,” you laugh awkwardly, “you’re going to be here for a while right?”
“Yes, but I have a feeling you’ll try and get out of this dinner with me if I didn’t get you to agree today,” he says, his voice tinged with humor, but the arrow still sticks painfully in you.
He isn’t wrong. You probably would use work as an excuse, despite talking about the better hours. But you have other responsibilities like picking up Amelia from school, feeding her dinner, and making sure she does her homework:
None of which he knows about.
“Weekdays can be a bit tricky with my schedule.”
“The weekend perhaps? How about Saturday?”
Amelia has French lessons in the morning (her request, not yours) and then Rebecca is coming over so the three of you can do a quick painting session. Rebecca is insistent on nurturing her artistic skills from an early age.
The Bear is only open for dinner service which you can’t escape without Amelia asking questions; the girl is too smart for her own good and you haven’t been out with plans that she doesn’t know about. Ever.
The dating scene changes a little for single moms. You haven’t been on a date in a very long time. It’s tough to get into a committed relationship with a child when you've just completed your twenties.
“Let me think about it?”
He studies you for a moment. “Are you seeing anyone?”
You make the mistake of taking a swig of your coffee when you cough, sputtering embarrassingly. Luca flails before offering you a napkin.
“Sorry, shite, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no, it’s okay,” you wheeze, “it just caught me off guard.”
“Sorry,” he repeats awkwardly, “is that a bad question to ask?”
You shake your head, urging your skyrocketing heart rate to let up. “No, um, it’s fine. I’m not— I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Right, cool.”
The faint pink painted on his cheeks is noticeable but it’s better not to comment.
“I’m not either,” he adds, “seeing anyone, that is.”
You fight the amused smile on your lips. He’s already scratching his cheek, a nervous habit that he hasn’t lost. “Cool.”
“Cool,” Luca echoes in a chuckle.
For a minute, the two of you sit there in silence. All those years apart seem to evaporate, vanishing into the crowd. The comfort that you’ve always felt around him sinks into your bones.
“I should get back to work, can’t have my boss thinking I’ve disappeared on her.”
“Right, of course. No rest for the weary.” Luca smiles. When the two of you are outside, Luca turns to you and immediately pulls you in for another embrace. “It was really good seeing you.”
It’s too easy to burrow your face into his broad chest. That nostalgic ache persists inside your heart. You don’t feel like you’re thirty. You’re twenty-two again in that kitchen, standing next to Luca. Both of you are young and carefree. The aroma of freshly baked goods that clings onto his skin and the sweat that dots his brows.
But when a car honks in the distance, reality settles back into your gut.
“You too,” is all you can muster. “See you around.”
By the look on Rebecca’s face, you can’t exactly pinpoint what emotion she’s feeling. It started off with surprise and then confusion and more surprise. “So he’s just back now?”
“Uh-huh,” you say from your spot in the kitchen as you’re preparing dinner. Mushroom risotto, one of Amelia’s favorites. This one is a labor of love but it’s always rewarding when you see the look on her face when it’s plated in front of her.
Thankfully, she had fallen asleep right after she and Rebecca spent the afternoon playing a game of water tag in the backyard so now it’s just you and Rebecca in the kitchen as you recount The Meeting with Luca.
Rebecca pops another olive into her mouth. “So are you going to hook up with him again?”
“Bec!” You gasp. “Absolutely not.”
“Clearly he was good enough the first time to give you a child.”
An exasperated sigh of disbelief leaves your lips, which only amuses her more than anything. “I will not be hooking up with him again. It was one time. We’re friends now.”
“Honey, friends don’t fuck.”
“Friends can fuck once.”
“If you finish twice in one night, does that count as once still?”
You wave a hand in front of her. “I’m not debating the technicality of this. Point is, I’ve seen him once and I will not be seeing him again.”
“Why not? He’s clearly interested. He asked you if you were single.”
“So?”
“And then he tells you – unprompted – that he’s single too.”
“I get it, maybe he’s interested. But I’m not.”
Even your words sound unconvincing in your ears.
“I’m—” fuck. “—not. I’m not. Anyways, I didn’t make plans and I hope he doesn’t follow up—”
As if on cue, your phone begins vibrating on the table. Both your eyes drop to it as Luca’s face and name pop up on screen. Rebecca’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Superpowers. Good in bed and reading minds.”
“I’m not going to deal with that.”
“You have to.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you five? Why are you avoiding him? You claim he’s your best friend – which I take full offense to by the way – but you can’t even talk to him.”
Groaning, you stare at the device still circling the surface of your counter. “I don’t want to risk him meeting Amelia, especially if he’s going to be here a while.”
“He’s definitely going to meet her eventually. It’s a matter of when. Are you never going to invite him over?”
“What possible reason would I have to invite him over?” Rebecca opens her mouth and you quickly interject, “Don’t answer that.”
Her gaze falls back to the device, then flicks up to you, then back to the device. Before you can stop her, she’s swiping to pick up the call and putting it on speaker. You want to slap the proud grin off her face.
“Hey, hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Luca’s gravelly voice carries over the speakers.
“No, no. Just making dinner,” you respond, ignoring the way Rebecca keeps mouthing at you about his British accent.
“What’s on the menu?”
“Mushroom risotto,” you say as you look over the boiling pan again.
“I remember that one. One of my favorites of yours.” You can practically hear his smile. Your heart skips a little too fast at the thought. “If you’re willing, I’d love to have that again sometime.”
Rebecca mutes it quickly just to say, “Fucking Jesus, he wants in your pants again.” Then unmutes.
With a glare her way, you direct your attention back to Luca. “Yes, maybe.” Noncommittal. Safe.
“Listen, I was with Carm and Syd at Ever and they invited us to come for dinner at The Bear. Wondering what your schedule looks like next week and if you’d be interested.”
“Oh, I don’t know, it’s a little— oh fuck.”
“You okay?”
You shoot Rebecca a dirty look after she launched a fucking olive at your head. “Yeah, fine, sorry.”
“Go,” she whispers.
“Um, I’m not sure about my schedule next week.”
“I can be flexible. I know you said weekdays are a little tough but what about after work? Thursday night?”
Fuck. If Luca is one thing, he’s persistent. And he knows how your bad tendency to avoid things you’re scared of – which in this case is dinner with him, so he’s not letting this one go. “It’s a school night so I’m not sure.”
He chuckles. The sound reverberates straight through your core. “And you can’t go out on school nights, can you?”
Crap. His voice is like a siren’s, luring you in to confess your secrets. The way he says it too – Jesus, the delivery of that question has sparks blowing up inside you. More importantly, you almost let it slip that school nights are usually a no-go because you need to get Amelia ready for the next day. “Still have to work the next day,” you laugh awkwardly.
“Friday then?”
“Friday is better…”
There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment. You know he’s still there but he’s in deep thought. This happens sometimes. You’ve grown attuned to notice these moments even without seeing his face on the call.
“I just want to say there’s no pressure. If you’re not interested, please feel free to say no. I don’t want to force you to spend time with me if you don’t want to. You’ve got your own life, I completely understand. I apologize, I don’t want to overstep my boundaries.”
Fuck. Of course, he would be a complete gentleman in this situation. It’s not that you don’t want to. Everything is just complicated. Pushing aside those worrying thoughts, you say, “No, I’d love to. Sorry. I just have a lot on my plate right now so I don’t want to make plans I can’t commit to.”
“Do it,” Rebecca mouths. For someone who’s supposed to be a fly on the wall, she is oddly intrusive. “I’ll take Amelia.” You hesitate for a second and she gives you another look before she mutes the call again. “Honey, do it. You deserve to do something nice for yourself okay. And if it’s a nice dinner with a hot British chef, then so be it.”
Sighing, you unmute the call and talk to Luca again. “Friday works. I’ll be coming from work.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“No, you don’t have to—”
“I insist. Text me the address. I’ll book for 7:30 to be safe.”
“Alright, sounds good,” you reply weakly.
“See you then.”
When the line goes cold, you look up to find Rebecca with a shit-eating grin on her face. “I’m so proud of you,” she exhales dreamily. “It’s like seeing a teenage daughter grow up and plan her first date.”
“Shut up.” You roll your eyes and turn back to the stove. Your cheeks are flushed with warmth.
This is a date. Luca probably considers this a date. Right? It would be embarrassing if he didn’t and you did. Maybe he’s just being nice and taking out an old friend to a restaurant he has been meaning to try.
“I can hear you spiraling,” Rebecca singsongs.
“Why did you let me say yes?”
It is then that Rebecca physically gets up, rounds the counter, and grabs hold of both your arms. “I need to shake some sense into you. You are still a person. You are allowed to go out and have fun. There are people around you who can help you with Amelia. You’re not alone.”
“I know this,” you grumble under your breath.
“But I think sometimes you need a good reminder of it. You’ll have fun at dinner, I just know it. You spent so long pushing away that part of you because you think you’ll never have it again, but – you know what – I think you can. You’ve always loved food and cooking. I can see it in the meals you make for Amelia. Maybe it’s just time for you to go out and explore again.”
Smiling softly, you always knew that Rebecca was your better half. She took you under her wing in college, stood up for you, and gave you the confidence to pursue your dreams. You had graduated with a degree in finance but worried for your life when you had to tell your parents that you were going to be a chef instead. She stood by you through it all.
“Thanks, Bec.”
“Where would you be without me?”
With a laugh, you nudge her away as you turn off the fire. Right on time, Amelia wanders into the room, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “Hungry.”
Classic. She truly is your daughter.
When seven rolls around, you’ve already spent the last thirty minutes fretting over your hair and the state of your makeup. The office has cleared out for the day, but you spent the last working hour playing catch-up. It’s been a busy week for Amelia at Pre-K – who knew they could have so much homework even before reaching kindergarten?
You smooth out the wrinkles on your pale blue dress – work appropriate with the blazer, and chic dinner fit without. Since Amelia, you’ve foregone wearing heels, opting instead for flats or sneakers since you’re constantly on your feet. But you pull out your white, open-toed pumps from your closet for this dinner.
Yes, you can readily admit that you are at least trying to look nice for this dinner non-date.
When you told Amelia earlier this week that you had plans on Friday night to go out for dinner and that she would be staying home with Rebecca, she didn’t blink twice. She only asked what Aunt Rebecca had planned. When she saw you this morning dressed up with a little more blush on your cheeks, she didn’t question it. Instead, she just smiled quietly and complimented you on your dress.
You can’t believe you’re at a stage where she is making space for you. You nearly get teary just thinking about how quickly she’s growing up.
A black sedan pulls up in front of you and Luca is immediately out the door. You’re so used to seeing him in t-shirts, aprons, and sweatshirts that you forgot how delectable he can look when he cleans up. His blonde hair is neatly coiffed and he’s shaved his face clean. You find yourself almost missing that rugged stubble on his face. His navy shirt is freshly pressed with sleeves rolled up close to his elbows to reveal all his tattoos.
God, he looks good. Too good. Tempting even.
“You look fantastic,” Luca beats you to the punch, leaning forward to kiss you on the cheek. His eyes peruse you shamelessly, dragging from the tip of your toes to the top of your head.
It’s a European thing, you remind yourself. “You do too. Almost didn’t recognize you out of your stained tees.”
His mouth curls into a smirk. “Believe it or not, I do have clean laundry these days.” He swings open the door for you and offers a hand to help you slide inside.
Once the two of you are settled in, Luca pulls up the restaurant on the navigation system. He fills the silence with small talk, asking you how your day went and how work is going.
When you finally arrive at The Bear, Luca drops you off at the front and goes to park around the corner. Ever the gentleman. Stepping inside, you’re immediately impressed by how elegant the entire place is. It’s neat with that fine dining touch, but there’s a certain coziness in the air that makes it more welcoming. Luca joins you shortly after, stating his name for the reservation.
A tall man dressed sharply in a black suit comes up and greets Luca first. “Glad you could make it!”
“Thanks for having me,” Luca beams back. He introduces the two of you quickly and you learn that his name is Richie and he is Carmy’s cousin.
“Not real cousin but his brother was my best friend,” Richie corrects easily. “Let me take you to your table.”
The service is impeccable and the ambiance even more so. You’re marveling at how polished everything is. The window strip into the kitchen gives a sneak peek into the work behind the scenes, but your focus is on the main dining room. Beautiful booths against the wall, tables spaced just enough apart. You can’t imagine that this place had been a casual fast food joint just months ago. They’ve truly outdone themselves with the transformation.
“Impressive bunch,” Luca notes your expression. “Not to mention it’s most of their first time working in fine dining. While there have been some inconsistent reviews, the menu is generally delicious overall.”
“Yeah, I don’t recognize it anymore. I remember visiting this shop back then and it was holding on to its last hinges. Now look at this place.”
The tasting menu is even more stunning. The bread is crisp on the outside, fluffy and warm on the inside, paired perfectly well with the option of freshly made butter. Appetizers were light, perfect to get you warmed up for the series of main courses. Desserts – don’t even get you started on the desserts. You’re pretty sure you let out an inappropriate moan at some point.
Your diet these past few years has consisted of whatever is microwavable, preparable with hot water, or whichever dish Amelia is craving. So you’ve had your fair share of ramen, mac and cheese (Amelia’s three-year-old phase), and lunchables (ongoing, on-and-off phase).
It’s been a while since you’ve had a proper sit-down meal at a fancy restaurant. It’s hard to believe that you used to work in these kitchens. You used to be the person creating these meals. While your parents and Amelia let you take your own spin with the dishes you prepare for them, most of the time you’re too exhausted to do anything experimental and stick to what you know – and have in your cupboards.
It’s nice to enjoy this kind of meal again.
You and Luca discuss dinner throughout, talking about the flavor profiles and the potential inspirations, the influences of each dish. Each item was made meticulously with careful thought placed into the flavor. It didn’t feel extremely polished, but that just meant there’s still a lot of heart that went into it.
“That was just… wow.”
“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Luca chuckles as he wipes with a napkin. “I was already expecting to be blown away but that was out of this world. As expected from Carmy. And Syd.”
Richie comes back around and the two of you gush over how wonderful everything is. “Great to hear it, team. Love the enthusiasm. Carmy and Syd have some time right now by the way, if you wanted to go say hi.”
“That would be perfect. Let me just close out and not walk out on my tab.”
“I can definitely get you that.”
When the bill arrives, Luca is quick to swipe it off the table. “Luc—”
Luca immediately shakes his head, dropping his card on top of the receipt and hands it back to the waiter. “My treat. For putting up with me all these years.”
A frown forms on your face as you watch his hands fold on top of the table. “What are you talking about? Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll split. It’s an expensive dinner.”
“Let me do this one thing for you, love,” Luca says. “I wanted to try this place and I invited you so it’s only fair that I cover the bill.”
“Luca, that’s not— come on. I’ll send you the money. This isn’t a—” you bite your tongue, stopping yourself before you can say the word date.
He catches on anyway, lips tugging into a smile. “If I told you this is a date, would you let me pay for it then?”
Warmth creeps up your cheeks again as you wring your fingers on the napkin on your lap.
“Folks, are we ready to meet the chefs?” Richie returns, clapping his hands together.
“Yes, we are.” Luca answers. He’s giving you yet another out. Still the gentleman, he offers a hand to help you to your feet.
Richie leads you towards the kitchen door, drawing curious eyes from surrounding guests over this special treatment you’re getting. When you step in, your senses are immediately overwhelmed.
The kitchen is alive. Not just loud. Alive. A symphony of sizzles rises from the skillets as flames dance around the pans, blues and oranges glowing bright. Metal against metal as hot pans hit the stovetop, the scraping of spatulas against the surface. Another chef yells corner as they appear carrying trays of baked meringues. The chef at expo is reading out orders from her list, her voice slicing steady and clear across the cacophony of sounds.
The light overhead is cold and clinical, sharp fluorescents that bleach the space in blue. But the kitchen burns bright. The heat in this room is significantly higher than the carefully controlled temperature of the dining room.
It’s nostalgic. It reminds you of all those years working alongside Luca. Your fingers wrapped around a cool piping bag, swirling icing on top of tarts. The aroma of pastries baking — golden crusts, caramelized sugars, berries roasting – was consistent in the air. There is a quiet in the chaos. Controlled chaos.
A comfort that you’ve longed for. Your kitchen isn’t the same. The people aren’t the same, but there’s a beauty in the newness. In the challenge.
You’re pulled out of your thoughts when Richie yells, “Yo! Cousin! Chef Syd! Luca’s here.” The brunette woman at expo give him a warning look, which withers him only slightly.
There is a chorus of greetings when people spot Luca. Clearly he’s a fan favorite. When you turn to look at him, he’s already looking back at you. A gentleness to his gaze that catches you off guard.
Before you can attempt to decipher that look, two chefs make their way over to you. One you recognize as Carmy. His intensity is palpable, obvious. If there’s anyone who could put these chefs on edge, it would be him. The other woman is calmer. A friendly face but an equally controlled presence. The two make a terrifying pair.
Carmy’s eyeing you with interest, eyes flicking between you and Luca. “I’ve met you before,” he says simply.
You laugh and Luca rubs his face. “Mate, you guys worked together.”
“We did?” He asks the same time Syd asks, “You did?”
“Yeah, she was my second for pastry.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Syd laughs, crossing her arms over her chest. Carmy still looks completely befuddled, but also distracted by the stream of activity going on behind him. He mutters to give him a second as he deals with the searing steak. “I mean Luca’s great but forgive Carmy, he’s not best at… remembering anything. Or math. Or picking up the phone.”
“Alright, alright, I get it,” Carm calls out, hands still moving quickly and efficiently to turn the steak and then quickly plate it for service. You can’t help but marvel at how speedy he is. He’s always been good but he’s only gotten better. It’s terrifying knowledge. “Hands!” Then he’s back in front of the two of you.
“No, it’s fine. I wasn’t there for very long—”
Luca chuckles. “You were there for at least two years. You definitely overlapped for a while.”
“Shit, sorry, I’m just bad with – well, like Syd said – most things. But yeah, good to meet you again.”
“You too, the food was delicious. As expected,” you shrug with a smile. “Out of this world.” Luca smiles quietly at the echo of his words.
“Thanks, it took a while to get the menu to this place,” Syd nods.
Carmy’s still looking at the two of you. “This is a mess, though. Don’t let us ruin your date.” You see Syd elbow him, leaving him with another look of confusion.
Before you can correct him, Luca is already responding, “No, this is great, mate. I’ve missed the Chicago food scene a lot. Ever was clean, but this feels very lively.”
“Yeah, it’s been great. Budget’s fucking fucked but it’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”
Luca looks at him in concern but the two chefs wave him off. “Well, I don’t want to interrupt too long. I’m just going to say hi to Marcus and head out.” A hand settles on the small of your back and suddenly you’re being directed towards the back corner of the kitchen where a man who is even taller than Luca stands (you note that there are many tall men in this establishment), his hands working away at these delicate little desserts.
“Luca, my man,” the man who you assume to be Marcus grins wide, dapping Luca. You’re more bewildered that Luca knows how to dap than anything. “Heard you were on this side of the pond.”
“Yeah, for a little bit actually.”
“Nice,” he nods slow then looks at you. “Marcus.”
You introduce yourself too and add, “Desserts were perfection by the way. Sundae was inspired, love the olive oil.”
“Thank you. I have to give this man right here his flowers. Learned a lot from my time there.”
Luca laughs, scratching his cheek. “No, it was all you, man. Echoing that desserts were superb.”
“Thanks, man. I actually wanted to run some ideas by you if you’ve got time.”
“Time is all I have.”
Marcus grins. “Perfect, I’ll text you.” He turns to you. “Good to meet you. Never thought Luca would have time for a girlfriend.”
This time, you do jump in. Perhaps a little too fast. “I’m not his girlfriend,” you blurt out, “I’m a… friend.”
Marcus’ gaze darts between Luca and you. Shame sinks quickly into you. The defensiveness in your voice was maybe unnecessary. You can’t see Luca’s face but you can feel his hand shift slightly away from your body. The lack of touch leaves you feeling a little cold in the warm kitchen. “Right, my bad. Anyway, good seeing you both.”
“You too, talk soon,” Luca says.
With a flurry of goodbyes, the two of you are finally out of the restaurant, standing in the slightly brisk evening air. A wind whips by, leaving you shivering slightly. “Are you cold?” Luca asks. “You can wait inside and I’ll pull the car around.”
“No, don’t worry. I’ll just grab an Uber from here.”
“Nonsense, I have a car. I’m happy to drop you off at home.”
“Luca, you’ve done more than enough. Dinner was wonderful. I can get myself home.”
Luca hesitates, gaze drifting into the street.
“There’s no meaning behind it. I really just don’t want to trouble you any more than I already have.”
“You could never trouble me,” he says. It’s almost a promise. You blame the heat on your cheeks on the touch of wind outside. “It’ll make me feel better knowing that you’re getting home safely.”
You don’t think he would drop this. Not to mention, it would save you the money on a long drive back home. Finally, you nod in agreement and he tells you to stay put as he grabs the car.
On the ride home, you quickly shoot a text to Rebecca.
You: Luca’s dropping me off. Can you make sure Amelia’s in bed? Thanks :)
“So you liked dinner?”
You snort, “That’s an understatement. I don’t think I’ve had a meal like that in a long time.”
“I’m surprised. You’ve always been the first to try new restaurants, especially ones by reputable chefs. As intense as Carmy is, he is a fantastic chef. So is Syd, she’s brilliant.”
A weak smile settles on your face as you turn to look out the window. The sparse traffic blurs before you in streaks of red. “Just haven’t had the time, I suppose.”
Luca clears his throat and your glance flies back to him. His grip is tight on the steering wheel, his neck flushed pink. “Well, if you’re interested in exploring more places, I have a lot of catching up to do. We could go together?”
You’ve never been able to tell him no. Not when you want it for yourself as well. “That sounds nice.”
When you get to your home, Luca pulls up along the curb. Just as you’re about to thank him again, he’s already stepping out to get your door. Fuck. “Thank you,” you whisper, slipping your hand into his for the nth time that night. You’re getting used to the feeling. “Thank you again for dinner. I had a great time.”
“Me too,” he smiles. “Hopefully the first of many.”
“I’ll get the bill next time.”
Luca shrugs. “We’ll see.”
When he makes no move to leave, you tilt your head. “Shouldn’t you get going? It’s late.”
“Let me walk you to your door.”
Your heart drops to the ground. You haven’t gotten a response yet from Rebecca which is hopefully a good thing. Maybe they’re both fast asleep, it wouldn’t be the first time. The energy-exerting activities work as well on Rebecca as it does on Amelia.
“You really don’t have to.”
“I insist. It’s the Brit side of me. I want to make sure you get in okay.”
All you can do is nod and walk up the pathway to your door. Your knees feel a little weak. If it’s the nerves or the proximity to Luca, especially since his hand has returned to your lower back, you’re not entirely sure.
When you reach for your keys, Luca shoves his hands into his pants pockets. His hair is a touch mussed up now, a strand falling attractively across his forehead. He’s looking at you with that calm gaze, one that has your body all too aware of his presence.
“You look beautiful tonight.”
“Pretty sure you already said I looked fantastic earlier, beautiful feels like a downgrade.”
Luca laughs, the sound low and familiar. Your chest warms as you look at him.
“Thanks again, I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m just grateful you agreed to go with me.”
“We’re friends, Luca. We can hang out.”
He hums, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Something about the act has your heart rate picking up. “Didn’t seem like you really wanted to.”
“It’s just been a while since I’ve been… out.”
“Well, if you’re not opposed, then I’d be honored to take you out again.”
Oh boy. This is venturing into dangerous territory.
“I should head in,” you say, teeth catching your bottom lip before you can say something stupid like would you like to come in?
However, before Luca can respond, the front door swings open and you hear—
“Mommy!”
Shit.
Amelia stands in the doorway in her purple unicorn pajamas. She’s looking up at you with bright eyes but then her curious gaze wanders over to the blonde man in front of you.
Double shit.
Her hair isn’t an exact replica of Luca’s, but the eyes are unmistakable. All three of you seem to freeze in time.
Amelia is staring at Luca, Luca is staring at Amelia, and you’re trying to figure out how to dig yourself out of this hole. First things first, you crouch down to Amelia’s height. “Baby, why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Aunt Rebecca fell asleep but I wasn’t tired yet.”
You purse your lips. “Let’s get you inside, it’s chilly out.”
“Who’s that?” Amelia peeks around you to look at Luca again.
The thought of even looking at him right now is terrifying. “He is my friend.”
“You’re not going to introduce me?” Amelia asks, eyes widening. You know exactly what she’s doing. Manipulative. The guilt-trip, puppy-dog eyes.
So you grit your teeth and plaster on a smile as you straighten back up and turn to Luca. He’s still rooted to your porch, mouth pressed into a thin line and his brows puckered in confusion. “Luca, this is Amelia. Amelia, Luca.”
“Hi, Uncle Luca.”
Polite, you taught her well.
It is then that Luca seems to snap out of it, clearing his throat awkwardly as he crouches to her level. He sticks out a hand, which she immediately accepts. “Hi, Amelia. It’s very nice to meet you. Though, it seems like it’s way past your bedtime.”
Amelia disregards his comment and instead responds with “You have a cool accent. Where are you from?”
“I grew up in London but I’ve lived here in Chicago and also spent the last few years in Copenhagen. In Denmark.”
“That’s so cool, I’ve never been,” Amelia beams, eyes sparkling in delight.
“Well, if you ever decide to go, I could take you around.”
“Do you live there now?”
His eyes snap up to you briefly, the movement surprising you, before they return to the little girl before him. “No, I’m moving back here to Chicago.”
“Why?”
Luca is quiet as he pulls together his words. “Because there are a lot of people I care about here.”
“Is my mommy one of them?”
The lump in your throat has only grown. The word mommy usually warms your heart but you can feel it stuttering instead. Your mind is running awry, wondering if he’s connected the dots yet, what answers you should give him if he asks. He doesn’t need to know, you remind yourself. He’ll be here a few months and then he’ll be gone again – and you and Amelia can go back to the life you’ve always lived. Just the two of you.
“Yes, your mum is definitely one of them,” Luca softly says, “Speaking of, she’s very sleepy. Maybe it’s best that you tuck her in for the night.”
Amelia giggles, “That’s a great idea. She always tucks me in so it’s my turn.”
“Mhmm, then you can go to sleep knowing your mum’s tucked away safely in bed.” Luca reaches out to ruffle her hair, which pleases her as she preens to the touch. His eyes widen for a second before they melt again and he strokes her head. “Have a good night, Amelia.”
Amelia remains by the door when he finally turns to you. There’s a storm clouding his usually bright eyes as he looks at you. You’re not even sure what words are caught on the tip of your tongue, but they never come out.
“Have a good night, love,” Luca murmurs and leans forward to press a kiss on your cheek. Your eyes slide shut. God, you’ve missed this intimacy with someone. Nothing could compare to his touch. The loneliness that has ebbed and flowed over the years seeps back into your lungs.
But your heart is still rattled by what just happened. You can barely move, let alone respond.
Then he’s gone, the roar of his engine echoing down the quiet street as he drives away.
Your mind is numb as you prepare Amelia for bed. She’s chattering about how nice Luca seems to be and how she’s excited to see you making friends again. The only thing you can offer her is a weak smile as you press a kiss to her temple. She slides under the covers and is out cold in minutes. You leave her room quietly to drape a blanket over Rebecca, who’s sleeping on the couch.
Only then do you head to your own room, weary from a long day.
The last thing you see before sleep pulls you under is your phone lighting up.
heheh may I request a luca piece where maybe reader owns a cafe or something and he pops in out of curiosity once but is captivated by the place and goes out of his way to stop by and chat with reader and reader is all like ‘??? why???? i’m not special???’ and luca is all 🥺 *cue Let Me Love You by Ne-Yo* 🫶🫶🫶
Espresso
luca the bear x f!reader
sinopsis: You worked for years to open your café. Months later, a quiet chef becomes a regular and somehow sees the place the way you always hoped someone would.
rate: 16+
wc: 1.3 k
warnings: none, this is pure fluff
a/n: i really loved this request, thank you for all the support and i really hope you like this as much as i did writing it. <3
—————————————————————————————
Starting a business was not as easy as it was portrayed in those magazines. Nor also finally get the courage to tell her parents that she was planning to open her own coffee shop for living. They didn't take the news as positive, they didn't even liked her old job or what she decided to do for living. But they never said it cruelly, not really.
But as her two sisters were involved on law and married with two successful business man, her aspirations sounded nothing.
As the middle child, the attention usually wasn't on her, nor any sort of direction. Mostly comparison and judgement, the usual phrase: "Why can't you be like you sisters?" was her daily bread. Disappointing her parents was something she knew how to perfectly do.
So once her parents finally ended up with the typical lecture she simply nodded and left the house.
Getting the local and afford it was complicated but with her savings from years she could afford a small place, she kept living with her parents and started another job to add to her savings and invest on the cafeteria.
It went on for three years of early mornings, late shifts, and saving every penny you could. Three years of working in other people's kitchens and cafes, watching carefully, learning everything.
Learning how to negotiate with suppliers. How to repair a temperamental espresso machine. How to bake six different pastries before sunrise and still smile at customers by eight in the morning.
So when she finally signed the lease and opened the door to the space that would become the cafe, it then felt unreal.
And when the day finally arrived, she decided to threw a small inauguration party. Nothing fancy but music, pastries and a chalkboard sign outside that read:
Grand Opening Today!
All of her friends helped with the decoration and attending the customers.
She invited her parents and sisters but, they didn't arrive. They didn't dropped any text message or call, they simply weren't there, as usual.
But their presence wasn't really noticed, the café filled up anyway.
Neighbors wandered in. Curious strangers stopped by. Someone complimented the pastries. Someone else complimented the quality of the espresso.
And when she locked the door at the end of the evening, exhausted but glowing, her best friend leaned against the counter and said,
“You built something really beautiful, you know.
She looked around the small café—the mismatched mugs, the plants in the windows, the warm lights they had carefully chosen.
"I could have never done all of this without you."
"Don't mention it, I'll be always happy to see you happy." she smiles and both hugged each other.
"I really thought they would come..."
"Don't think about them, you're who matters now." she smiles softly.
"You're right."
-
Months later, the café had settled into a rhythm. Mornings were busy.
Afternoons were slower, filled with quiet conversations and the soft sound of music drifting through the room. The place smelled constantly like coffee beans and cinnamon.
Sometimes, when the sunlight hit the windows just right, the whole room glowed. She was finally able to afford two waitress as she was the responsible to make the beverages.
It wasn't a very busy day, but unfortunately, as she attended the orders she heard the espresso machine making weird sounds.
“Come on,” she mutters under her breath, tapping the side of it. “Don’t do this today.”
The machine hissed aggressively as she sighed.
“Unbelievable.”
Then a soft chuckle, not loudly but enough to make her turn her head around.
Tall, blonde, broad shoulders and forearms full of tattoos. Slightly awkward. Hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. The light of the afternoon caressing his cheek as the reflection of it making his blue eyes look bright.
He's smiling.
“Oh—hi,” she said quickly. “Sorry. My espresso machine and I are having a disagreement.”
He nods softly.
"...looks intense."
"It is."
She wipes her hands on a towel and step forward.
"What can i get you? Well, everything besides coffee... I know you're here because it's supposed to sell coffee but-"
"Don't worry." He says softly, his voice tender as honey. "I'll just take that cookie, looks delicious."
"It is, it's my grandma's recipe." she smiles as she wraps the cookie. "Excellent choice."
"Thanks." he grabs the small box and pays.
"I hope the next time your machine works." he chuckles. "I want to try the expresso."
"Strong coffee man?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, I do hope i can fix this thing by today."
He nodded and waved as he walked away, his figure disappearing in the crowded streets.
After that, he started coming back.
Once a week. Then twice.
Then often enough that she started expecting the bell above the door to chime sometime in the afternoon.
Eventually he stopped sitting by the window and started sitting at the counter while you worked. That’s how you learned his name.
Luca.
He worked in a restaurant kitchen. A serious one, judging by the long hours he mentioned and the quiet way he talked about food like it mattered deeply.
He didn’t talk much but every time he did, his tender voice sweetened her ears, like pleasant music.
One afternoon the café was quiet again. Golden sunlight stretched across the counter while the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls filled the air.
Luca sat on one of the stools, hands wrapped around a mug.
You leaned your elbows on the counter across from him.
“Okay.”
He looked up.
“…okay?”
“I have a question.”
“Okay.”
You gestured around the café.
“Why do you keep coming here?”
He blinked.
"uhm... for coffee?"
"The first time you didn't even tried coffee, Luca."
"I told you i wanted to try the espresso." He chuckles
"Don't laugh!"
"I'm not!"
“There are six coffee places within three blocks.”
“…yeah.”
“And two of them are objectively better than mine.”
“Debatable.”
"Don't play nice."
"I'm not, i just like it here."
“But why?”
He shrugged.
“It’s quiet.”
You waited.
“And?”
“It’s warm.”
You crossed your arms.
“And?”
Now he laughed softly.
“And you’re here.”
You blinked.
“…what?”
Luca shifted slightly.
“You talk to me,” he said.
“That’s customer service.”
“Not like that.”
You frowned.
“What does that mean?”
He hesitated before answering.
“You actually listen and engage when i talk."
"I talk most of the time."
"Yes, i like that."
The café felt strangely still for a moment.
You laughed awkwardly.
“Luca, I promise you I’m not that interesting.”
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
“I mean it,” you said. “This place isn’t even that special.”
You gestured around the room.
“It’s just a small café.”
Luca looked around slowly.
At the plants in the windows.
At the mismatched mugs.
At the chalkboard menus you rewrote every morning.
At the pastry case filled with things you woke up at four a.m. to bake.
Then he looked back at you.
“You built this.”
You shrugged.
“Yeah.”
“And you think that’s not special?”
You laughed awkwardly.
“My family doesn’t seem to think so.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Luca studied you for a moment, his blue eyes scanning your face tenderly.
"Well, they're wrong." he said with his usual tender tone.
She looked at him.
"Come on, you built this, you gave this place life, you didn't need their help because you were strong enough to actually follow your dreams. You make people want to stay" He made a small pause. " Me included."
His eyes never left hers, the soft warm light touching their skin.
She looks away as a small smile formed on her face, she pointed at his mug.
"It's getting cold."
"Still good."
She nods, looking away.
"I mean it, everything i said."
She clears her throat as she pretended to organize some napkins.
"uh... thanks." She says softly.
"Of course." He smiles at her
And for the first time since opening day, you looked around your café the way someone else might. Not like something small but like something you built.
coach!steve harrington x single mom!reader
(18+; MDNI; 13.5k words)
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
(Your five year old daughter wanted to sign up for the newly established Hawkins Little League Softball team. To your surprise, the coach is your old high school fling, Steve Harrington.)
cw: pregnancy/shitty exes/custody; mentions of family death in a vague way; masturbation; p-in-v sex; sort of unprotected sex (reader has an IUD); tit worship; body worship; creampies; pussy eating; porn with plot!!!; reader has stretch marks from pregnancy; soft!steve; big dick!steve; yearning; reader and steve graduated high school together are both 25
masterlist || divider by @/saradika-graphics || ao3 link
Your life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.
Not that you would necessarily complain, but when you were eighteen and fresh faced, ready to take on the world, you’d had a very clear plan in your mind of how life was supposed to go.
College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.
(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)
Then the car crash happened.
You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you think hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.
You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion.
Your family did not.
You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.
You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.
Different, maybe, but stronger.
And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.
Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you healed.
But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.
And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.
Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?
It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.
Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.
He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.
Alone.
And it was fine. It was fine.
It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.
And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”
You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.
Mark, clearly, did not care.
In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.
He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything.
So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.
The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that she snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made.
She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.
And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.
(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)
Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.
A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.
Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.
(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)
You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.
And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.
You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span.
It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.
The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated five year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.
You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”
“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.
Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.
Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?
“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”
You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.
“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”
“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”
A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.
“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”
Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”
You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”
She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.
“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”
“Long story,” you offer.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”
You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.
If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark.
“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.
But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”
“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”
“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”
Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin.
As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.
(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)
And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”
“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”
She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.
Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.
There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base.
And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit.
You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”
“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”
If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”
Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”
She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.
You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.
It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.
(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)
(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)
After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”
She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.
“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes.
Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.
Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”
“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”
“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.
You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”
The smile Steve sends you is blinding.
He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”
Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”
“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.
Steve coughs.
You freeze, face burning.
“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”
“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”
And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”
“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”
(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)
“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.
“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.
“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”
Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.
He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.
And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.
As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”
You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”
Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?
(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)
The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what.
And for a moment—
For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.
But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.
Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.
Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.
It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones.
Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.
(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)
And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s waffles, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”
You think that you could cry.
Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”
He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan.
It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.
But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.
(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)
“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”
Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”
“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”
Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.
“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”
You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”
“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”
You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.
“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”
“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”
“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”
Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.
“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”
“I do.”
You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”
A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”
“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”
“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”
Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.
A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.
“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”
This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school.
“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?
She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”
You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”
Something in your gut curdles.
And here’s the crux of the issue:
You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.
(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)
You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”
You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”
“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies.
“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”
“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”
“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re there and send me the copies.”
“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”
That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”
And the line goes dead.
You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.
Adrift.
You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast.
Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.
Who are you when you aren’t that?
You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.
The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.
What did you do for fun before you were a mother?
You genuinely can’t remember.
Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register.
For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children you were as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.
If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.
So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.
Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.
Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”
You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.
“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”
The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?
But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”
Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”
He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.
“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”
“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”
There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”
You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”
“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.
“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.”
An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right?
“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”
His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.
“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”
“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”
“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”
“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”
He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”
You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.
But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”
“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”
“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”
You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you choke out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”
“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”
You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”
Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.
“Am I?” he asks.
For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.
You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”
And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.
You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.
It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.
Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed.
There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in so long. Too long.
While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers.
You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.
It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.
You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.
It’s intense, and your orgasm builds fast, faster than it usually does in quick, stolen moments. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.
You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.
If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.
The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.
(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)
Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”
“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”
“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”
“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”
“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”
You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”
It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.
Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.
Fuck.
You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.
And for once, luck is on your side.
His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”
“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”
There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”
“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”
“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”
Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”
“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”
“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.
“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”
“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew then. ”
“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”
You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”
“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”
“See you then,” you promise.
The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.
Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.
You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.
(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)
It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”
You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”
With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.
“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.
You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.
For you.
“You look handsome,” you say shyly.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”
You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”
“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”
It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.
It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.
It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve.
Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.
You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.
“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”
“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”
Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”
You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage.
“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.
“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”
“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”
(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)
Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.
She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pry Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.
You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”
There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”
“The town was in lock down,” he argues.
You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”
“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”
The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.
You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.
(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)
Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you.
Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.
You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”
“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says.
A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”
A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”
“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test said that he was the father.”
“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”
“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”
“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”
“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”
A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body.
It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you're left feeling half the time after interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.
The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.
And dinner is…
It’s nice.
It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.
He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.
“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”
“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”
He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it.
“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”
“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”
He beams, but shrugs bashfully. “It’s no big deal.”
“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”
“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”
“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”
“Not everything has to be,” he says.
And that’s all the assurance you need.
He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.
You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.
You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever hope to provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted.
You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”
He nods. “Yeah?”
“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”
“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, a nervousness dissipating.
Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.
And his lips crash into yours.
Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.
It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.
His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in.
It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.
“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”
“More than anything,” he admits.
You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.
It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”
“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.
“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”
“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”
A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”
“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”
“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”
Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.
The reaction is immediate.
It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”
He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.
That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.
You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.
He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school.
The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.
You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.
It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation.
Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.
He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”
“You’re cheesy,” you say.
“Only for you,” he replies.
A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.
“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.
He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.
It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.
“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”
He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes.
Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”
“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”
“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”
Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.
You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.
“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.
The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.
Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—
“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”
And you do.
Loudly.
A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.
You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.
“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”
“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”
You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”
He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.
It’s perfect.
You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”
“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”
His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.
His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”
“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”
His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations.
“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”
“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturously slow—he pushes in.
Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.
He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.
And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.
He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”
Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin.
It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust.
It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”
“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”
He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.
“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”
“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.
He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.
It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”
You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.
“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”
It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.
He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin.
He also, in the years apart, has apparently lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.
It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.
Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric.
The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.
“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”
“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.
He nods, his hair ticking the soft skin of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”
Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”
His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”
“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”
“Yes?”
“Mia was born in ’87.”
“I know,” he says.
“No, no, you don’t—”
A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”
“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”
“Honey?”
“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”
“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”
There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.
And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.
Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.
It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.
“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”
You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.
He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back.
“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me. I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”
summary: after finding out that your fiancé had cheated on you with his childhood best friend—who just so happened to be Rafe's fiancée— Rafe proposes a reckless plan: follow them across Italy and Greece and ruin the dream honeymoon they stole. but somewhere between petty sabotage, breathtaking views, and far too much time together, the two of you begin to discover there's more waiting for you than revenge.
content warning: strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity, one bed, sexual tension, explicit sexual content 18+ MDNI
a/n: okay I was too excited not to share this but here's a little preview!! coming soon!!
“Rafe, I’m really not in the mood—”
“Just listen to me,” Rafe interrupted, wrapping his hands around your wrist as he pulled you towards the hallway. As soon as you closed the door to your bedroom, Rafe was leaning his hands on your dresser, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “Charlotte never changed the passwords to her email. I still have access to everything. They think they’re being slick, but I just saw the confirmation emails. They are taking the exact same honeymoon itinerary that we planned. The one I paid for.”
You stared at him, confused. “What?”
“I overheard it from Topper at the country club, they’re going to Italy and Greece,” Rafe said, a dark, vindictive smirk spreading across his lips. “It was supposed to be my wedding gift to her since her type A ass couldn’t stop perfecting her dream trip.”
“Okay, so what am I supposed to do about that?” You countered, shrugging your blazer off as you approached your closet. He tapped the folder, the noise almost as loud as your heart thumping as Rafe replied, “I want you to come with me. We're going, and we’re going to follow them and make ‘em pay for the shit they pulled on us.”
You blinked, your brain struggling to process the sheer audacity of the words coming out of his mouth. “You want me to WHAT?” you hissed, your voice rising in pitch, not entirely caring if Sage could overhear your conversation with Rafe. “You want to follow our ex-fiancés on their makeshift-honeymoon wannabe trip and sabotage everything they do?”
“Yes,” Rafe’s expression was serious as ever, not a flicker of sarcasm in his voice. He leaned closer, his voice dropping into that persuasive, lethal cadence. “Think about it. We show up at the same places they go to and boot them out, then take every opportunity to ruin their entire trip. C’mon, they wasted all of these years of our lives just to fuck each other behind our backs, you don’t want a little bit of payback?”
The problem with school spirit was that it had rules.
Not official rules. Nobody had handed you a handbook titled Appropriate Emotional Dress Codes For Supporting College Hockey Players You Were Not Dating But Had Recently Been Invited By In A Way That Felt Technically Ambiguous.
That, frankly, would have been useful.
You liked a framework. You liked knowing whether something was normal, sweet, too eager, or the kind of thing Allie would describe as “girl, stand up” while actively placing the item in your basket.
Instead, you had Hannah sitting cross-legged on your bed with a Briar sweatshirt folded in her lap, Allie standing in front of your open wardrobe with the focus of a woman selecting a dress for an assassination, and you hovering between them in a tank top and white socks, holding two different hair ribbons like one might represent a reasonable level of casual support and the other might represent emotional self-immolation.
“This one is too red,” you announced.
Allie turned slowly, “Are we talking about you…?” She pointedly bounced her eyes around your room. You rolled your eyes and shook the hair accessories in response,
“Yes, and therefore I must be careful. There is branding, and then there is propaganda.”
Hannah glanced at the ribbon, “It’s a hair ribbon.”
“A hair ribbon can still communicate intent.”
Allie’s grin arrived immediately, “And what intent are we communicating?”
You looked at her through the mirror. “School support.”
“Mhm.”
“And friendship.”
“Sure.”
“And general athletic enthusiasm.”
Hannah’s mouth twitched, “General athletic enthusiasm.”
“Yes.” You held the ribbon up to your ponytail and frowned,“Obviously.”
Allie leaned one hip against your wardrobe, “You bought a Briar sweatshirt yesterday.”
“That is what people wear to games.”
“You changed your earrings three times.”
“Because the first pair was wrong.”
“For hockey?”
“For symmetry.”
“And you asked if white socks were too suggestive.”
You lowered the ribbon, “I asked if they were too schoolgirl.”
“That’s worse.”
“It is not worse. It is a separate aesthetic concern.”
Hannah finally laughed, quiet and warm, the kind of laugh that made you feel less like you were being judged and more like you were being loved through a mild crisis. She stood, sweatshirt in hand, and crossed the room toward you.
“Put this on,” she said.
“I haven’t chosen the ribbon.”
“The ribbon will become clearer once you stop arguing with your reflection.”
“I am not arguing.”
“You told yourself to calm down five minutes ago.”
“That was encouragement.”
“That was a threat,” Allie said.
You ignored her and took the sweatshirt from Hannah. It was new, soft inside, oversized in the way all university sweatshirts seemed to be, the Briar logo bold across the front in a shade of blue that looked fine in the shop and suddenly looked like a declaration in your bedroom. You pulled it over your head, emerging with static in your hair and immediate emotional uncertainty.
The sleeves covered down past your arms, you pushed the cuffs over your wrists, praying they'd stay there.
Allie gasped like she had just witnessed art in the making, “Oh, he’s cooked.”
“Who?”
“Don’t do that.”
“I am just asking.”
“Allie,” Hannah said, though she was smiling too.
“No, because look at her.” Allie pointed, frankly, which was rude, “Briar sweatshirt, tiny skirt, red lip, ribbon. It says "supportive” in every hockey guy’s wet dream."
“It says I am attending a sports fixture with weather-appropriate layering.”
“It says you want Logan to skate into a wall.”
“I do not want him to skate into a wall.” You paused, “Also, given what Hannah has told me about hockey, that might happen regardless of my outfit.”
Hannah winced, “Try not to panic if it does.”
You turned to her, “That is not a comforting sentence.”
“It’s honest.”
“Your honesty is often hostile.”
Allie moved behind you and started gathering your hair before you could overthink the ponytail. You met her eyes in the mirror and immediately narrowed yours.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“It was fixed.”
“It was okay. I’m fixing it.”
“That sounds like criticism with kindness."
“It is.”
You huffed, but stood still as Allie smoothed your hair back, efficient and surprisingly gentle. Hannah sat on the edge of the bed and began sorting through the little pile of things you had decided might need to go in your bag, lip balm, gum, hand cream, tissues, a mini packet of plasters, a pen, a hair clip, and two emergency safety pins because sports venues felt like places where one might unexpectedly require hardware.
Hannah picked up the plasters.
“Cherry.”
“What?”
“Why are these coming?”
“Blisters. Cuts. Unexpected failure.”
“At a hockey game?”
“Have you met athletes?”
Allie, still behind you, said, “She has a point."
“Thank you.”
“She also made Logan a first-aid kit for his truck.”
Hannah’s head snapped up,“You did?”
You looked at Allie in the mirror, betrayed. “That was confidential information.”
Allie tied the red ribbon around your ponytail with the smugness of a woman who knew she had found the correct thread to pull, “Confidential information?”
“His previous kit was unacceptable.”
“It had one plaster and a protein bar,” Allie told Hannah.
“It also had receipts,” you said.
“Oh, sorry. One plaster, a protein bar, and archival trash.”
Hannah’s smile softened into something more dangerous than teasing, “You’ve been in his truck enough to audit his first-aid kit?”
You lifted your chin, “Winston required transport.”
“Once.”
“Winston’s transport needs are emotionally ongoing.”
Allie laughed and released your hair, “You also left a scrunchie on his gear shift.”
“It kept falling out of my bag.”
“And the cherry lip balm?”
You turned, “That one has a tint. I warned him not to use it.”
Hannah pressed her lips together.
“What?” you demanded.
“Nothing.”
“That is not a nothing face.”
“It’s just…” Hannah’s eyes moved over you, fond and far too perceptive, “You’ve become part of each other’s routines.”
The room went quieter than it had any right to.
You looked away first, “That is a very dramatic way to describe emergency lip balm.”
“It’s not just the lip balm,” Hannah said gently, “You study at the hockey house now.”
“I study with you.”
“And somehow Logan always ends up at the same table.”
“He lives there.”
“You went to the shop twice this week,” Allie added, climbing onto the bed beside Hannah with the delighted cruelty of a friend who had been waiting to cross-examine you, “Once without cherry.”
“The garage has good coffee.”
“The garage has coffee that tastes like a tire fire.”
“Logan made the second one.”
Allie pointed at you,“Exactly.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“That is not evidence.”
“It is absolutely evidence,” Hannah said.
“Of what?”
“That he knows how you take coffee now.”
“Friends know things.”
“Does Dean know how you take coffee?” Allie asked.
“Dean once asked if cappuccino was a pasta.”
Hannah laughed. You turned back to the mirror, pretending the warmth in your face had been caused by the sweatshirt. It had nothing to do with Logan knowing your coffee order. Or Logan at the Boston farm on Sunday, holding a gate while you tried to convince Winston to stop eating the edge of a laminated safety notice. Or Nana watching him fix a loose latch near the feed room without being asked and later telling you over the phone, with frightening calm, “Useful boy,” in a tone that had made your mother clasp her hands together like a wedding planner discovering an open church date.
It did not have anything to do with the fact that Logan had been to the farm twice now.
Once for Winston.
Once because he had come to drop off a part for Cherry and somehow stayed long enough to help one of the farm-boys move an old tool cabinet that three grown men had called “temperamental” instead of “impossible.”
He had done it without complaint, sleeves pushed up, hands steady, listening when you explained briefly that the animal farm was the original Boston property, that the orchards were further out, that the cherry farm had once been smaller until your Nana decided “small fruit operations encourage small thinking.”
Logan had smiled at that, like he understood the way you came from people who spoke in dramatic declarations. You still hadn’t decided what to do with that knowledge.
Allie’s reflection appeared beside yours, “Oh, she’s thinking about him.”
“I am thinking about agriculture.”
“That’s worse.”
Hannah stood and handed you your little bag, “You do look good.”
You glanced at yourself again. The sweatshirt was a stark, briar blue against your skin, swallowing you slightly because of it's oversized fit, but the hem of your skirt peaked from below, leaving a sliver of your thighs exposed between it, and the white lacy socks you had tugged up past your knees from where they were tucked into the only pair of sneakers you owned, since Hannah had confiscated the original choices, reprimanding you with a, “absolutely not, rink floors are evil.”
You looked like yourself, just, translated into his world- the thought made your stomach twist.
“You’ll be fine,” Hannah said, reading your face again.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to understand every rule.”
“I would like to understand some rules.”
“Garrett can explain.”
“Allie said Dean explains hockey like he’s narrating a crime.”
Allie nodded, “Because he is.”
You turned to her, “Is that good or bad?”
“Depends how much you enjoy men being dramatic about violence.”
You thought about Logan at the garage, oil on his wrist, vest damp with heat, saying you kept getting close and acting surprised when he noticed. You thought about his mouth hovering over the inside of your wrist, not quite kissing, the warmth of his breath there staying long after you left.
Your face warmed and Allie’s eyes sharpened.
“No,” you said immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked.”
“I have eyes.”
Hannah zipped your bag shut with finality, “Come on. If we leave now, we can get decent seats, and you can panic in an educational environment.”
“I am not panicking.”
Allie opened your bedroom door, “You asked if a sweatshirt could be theoretically slutty.”
“I asked in confidence.”
“You asked in front of Hannah.”
You grabbed your bag and followed them out, trying not to think too hard about the fact that you were going because Logan had asked.
The rink was louder than you expected.
Not in volume alone, though there was plenty of that. People shouting across rows. Music pulsing through the speakers. Skates cutting the ice in sharp bursts. Sticks knocking. Whistles shrieking. The whole building seemed to hold sound and throw it back harder, every cheer bouncing off the walls, every slam against the boards cracking through your ribs like the arena wanted to make sure you understood impact as a concept.
You sat between Hannah and Allie, hands tucked into the long sleeves of your sweatshirt, eyes wide as the players moved through warmups.
You spotted Logan before either of them pointed him out.
It should not have been easy. Everyone was in helmets and gear, bodies bulked out by pads, jerseys moving fast across the ice. But you knew him anyway. The shape of him, maybe. The way he moved. Right wing, Hannah had said on the way over, and now you watched him skate down that side of the ice with a kind of controlled speed that made your fingers tighten around your sleeves. He looked different yet somehow completely recognisable.
His body was all purpose- knees bent, shoulders angled, stick low, head up, scanning like he could see lines before they formed. He took a pass along the boards, cut forward, snapped a shot toward the net that the goalie blocked with a thud, and circled back like the whole thing had been a question he intended to ask again.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
Allie leaned closer, “Did you say something?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re glowing.”
“It’s cold.”
“That is not how an indoor rink works.”
Hannah bumped your shoulder gently, “He’s good.”
You nodded, eyes still on the ice, “Yes.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I just…” You watched him chase a loose puck into the corner, press hard along the boards, shoulder in, stick working quickly until he knocked it loose to a teammate. “He’s very decisive.”
Allie smirked, “Decisive.”
You ignored her with dignity. Then Logan looked up.
It was quick. So quick you might have missed it if you had not already been tracking him with an attention span that felt both embarrassing and highly justified. He skated past centre during the warmup rotation, turned his head toward the section where families and friends were beginning to crowd together, and found you.
The look lasted maybe two seconds- the helmet and cage didn't allow much expression, which should have been your saving grace. It was not. You saw the pause in his body before you saw anything in his face. The tiny delay in his turn. The way his stick dipped slightly before he caught himself. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you long enough that one of his teammates bumped his shoulder with a gloved hand as he passed.
Logan looked away.You stopped breathing like an idiot.
Hannah noticed.
Allie noticed.
A small, evil silence settled over the three of you.
“Do not,” you said.
Allie leaned back in her seat, smiling at the ice, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were spiritually loud.”
“He saw you,” Hannah said, softer.
You pulled your sleeves over your hands, “He saw the section.”
“He saw you.”
On the ice, Garrett skated close to Logan and said something you could not hear. Logan shoved him lightly with one glove, and Garrett grinned before skating away. Allie made a sound of pure satisfaction.
“Oh, he is being bullied already.”
“That could be unrelated,” you said.
Allie looked at you, unimpressed.
“What?”
“There are coincidences, and then there are hockey boys chirping their friend because he just forgot how warmups work after seeing you in his school colours.”
You stared straight ahead, but your mouth betrayed you by smiling, “I’m wearing Briar colours.”
“Sure,” Allie said, “For the institution of it all.”
“For general athletic enthusiasm,” Hannah added.
“You are both demoted.”
“From what?” Allie asked.
“My styling committee.”
“You need us.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
The game started faster than you imagined and it was futile to try and follow the puck- you immediately understood why people on television yelled at screens. The puck was an inconsiderate object. It vanished under skates, ricocheted off boards, flew across the ice, and somehow everyone else seemed to know where it was except you. Hannah explained quietly when she could, pointing out offsides, icing, line changes, and why Garrett kept talking to the ref like he owed him money. Dean chirped from the bench with such visible enthusiasm that Allie covered her face with both hands and muttered, “I love an idiot.”
“You say that with concern,” you said.
“I say it with lived experience.”
The first time a player took a hit along the boards, you flinched so hard your knee knocked into Hannah's- however, much to your surprise, the Briar player got up instantly, rebounding onto his skates in less time than it took you to find your breath.
You stared.
“Is he dead?”
“No,” Hannah said.
“He hit the wall with his whole soul.”
“He’s fine.”
“That is not fine.”
Allie leaned around you, “That’s hockey.”
You turned slowly, “That is not an explanation.”
“You get used to it,” Hannah said.
“I don’t think that should comfort me.”
It did not. For the next period and a half, you learned that hockey was essentially a sport built from speed, strategy, and the collective refusal of men to admit that being thrown into a wall was unpleasant. Logan took a hit along the boards and kept moving. Garrett made a pass so clean that Hannah actually gasped before the crowd did. Tucker looked calmer than everyone else until the puck got near the crease, at which point he became unexpectedly terrifying.
And Logan was everywhere, down the right side, forechecking hard enough to make the Harvard defense rush a pass. Cutting toward the slot. Battling near the crease. Taking a shot off the rush that snapped into the goalie’s pads and made half the arena groan. He played like he knew exactly where the game wanted to go and intended to get there first.
You were worried, you were also impressed. And were starting to understand that those two feelings could apparently coexist in deeply inconvenient ways.
Then came the fight. It started after a hit that, to your untrained eye, looked both too hard and extremely personal. One of the Harvard players shoved Logan near the boards after the whistle. Logan shoved him back. There was a sharp exchange of words you could not hear but could absolutely read from body language. Then gloves were dropping, the crowd was rising, and your entire body went still.
“Oh my God,” you gasped.
Hannah’s hand found your wrist, “It’s okay.”
“That does not look okay.”
Allie craned her neck, “Oh, that’s definitely a fight.”
“Why are you saying that like you’re identifying a bird?”
On the ice, Logan had one hand fisted in the Harvard player’s jersey, the other swinging once before both of them locked up, bodies twisting against the pull of referees trying to get between them. It was not elegant. It was not cinematic in the clean way you might have imagined if someone said hockey fight. It was rough, fast, messy with adrenaline, and your heart was in your throat the whole time.
You curled your fingers into the hem of your skirt.
The Havard player grabbed at Logan's helmet, and almost mercifully, Logan ripped it off after two swipes. He hit his gloved hands against his chest, baiting the player into taking off his own protective gear. Which he did. The two then lunged at each other, barely breaking apart when their bodies tangled in the most painfully inhumane ways, but you couldn't see a hint of discomfort on their faces, just pure adrenaline and anger coursing through their jerky movements, like the only thing they truly cared about was beating the others face off.
“Do they just let them do this?” you demanded.
Hannah winced, “Sometimes.”
“That is insane.”
“Yes.”
“But you still come?”
“Yes.”
“You all need supervision.”
The refs managed to separate them fully, along with more dangerous shouts from their respective teams. They were each shoved towards their penalty boxes, drips of blood followed the Havard player, you angrily slumped into his seat whilst Logan glided away with visible irritation, breathing hard from beneath his pads- mouth tight as he entered the box. The first thing to go were his gloves, he tugged them off and threw them towards the plexiglass glass, the newfound freedom let him thump a fist against the clear barrier before he stepped back, unlocking his mouth guard from his teeth and barely blinking at the blood stained saliva that spilled from the exposed end. Logan fell into the seat, pushing a hand through his hair as he focussed on the game. It was almost worse that he didn't look up at you once, he wasn't softening because you were in the stands watching him, he wasn't performing as the perfect prince on ice just for your reaction. He threw his stick to the ground when the team took a few seconds to recalibrate from his penalty.
Your fingers tightened around your skirt, you'd grown up around blood, violence as well. Farmers weren't always the kind-hearted souls people believed them to be. They could be cruel, tyrannical even, and when as a child you'd visit your family's farms, managed by those who worked on them day and night, you'd watch them argue with neighbours over land disputes, and order fights- bordering on illegal, based on livestock trades. You'd realised how far violence could take you.
But watching Logan currently visibly fight with himself to calm down, his face stone cold and eyes flitting around the ice as the game progressed, you felt an oddly timed shiver down your spine that made you straighten.
“Oh no,” you whispered.
Allie leaned closer, “What?”
“Nothing.”
Hannah glanced at you. “You look worried.”
“I am worried.”
You were. You were horribly worried about the source of blood from Logan's face. You were also horribly worried about the fact he was pressing into his side and arm- his face changing minutely with each laboured press of his fingers.
Unfortunately, that was not the only thing you were. Allie looked at the penalty box, then at your face, then back at the penalty box. Her expression turned delighted in the way only a best friend’s could when your life had become inconveniently obvious.
“Do not,” you said again.
“I didn’t.”
“You are looking with punctuation.”
“I am admiring the violence.”
“And you looooove what it does to Logan.”
You looked aghast at the suggestion, even if the sight of him panting heavily, sweat dripping from his hair, made you press your legs together just for some form of relief. But it was terrifying at the same time, watching him so easily enter a state of mind where he wasn't the Logan you knew, the patent, soft-spoken man who stayed up with you in the library, assuring you that the 5th time you recited the same flashcard about reptile digestion was in fact, correct.
Hannah squeezed your wrist once, half comfort, half warning, “Breathe.”
You tried to.
Briar won with a late goal in the third period. Not Logan, but Logan was part of the rush, drawing the defence wide and sending a pass into space before a teammate buried it. You did not understand the geometry until the crowd exploded and Hannah yelled, “That was beautiful,” which gave you permission to feel triumphant about something you had only half-tracked.
Logan skated through the celebration cluster, helmet back on, stick lifted briefly. Then, as he circled away, his head turned toward your section again.
This time, you were ready, you clapped and jumped in time with Allie and Hannah, who were just as excited as you were. Before you could think better of it, you pressed your fingers to your lips and blew a kiss sin his general direction, and the sheer happiness that washed over you prevented you from realising he had briefly stopped, and blinked before getting dragged back into the victory pile.
“Allie,” you said without looking away.
“Yes?”
“If you speak, I will push you into the row below us.”
She laughed, “I said nothing.”
“Spiritually,” you repeated, “you are deafening.”
The corridor outside the locker rooms was crowded with girlfriends, friends, parents, students, and the general post-game chaos of people trying to look casual while waiting for men who smelled faintly like soap, sweat, and violence. Hannah stood on her toes every few minutes to look for Garrett. Allie pretended she was not waiting for Dean. You stood between them, still buzzing, your hands wrapped around the strap of your little bag.
Garrett came out first, hair damp, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, face splitting into a grin when he saw Hannah. She walked right into his arms like that was where the game had been leading the whole time. He kissed her quickly, then again, softer, and you looked away because it felt rude to watch tenderness too closely.
Dean came out next and immediately lifted Allie off the ground when she hugged him.
“Put me down,” she laughed.
“Say you missed me.”
“You were on the ice for two hours.”
“Say it.”
“I missed you, you idiot.”
He kissed her loudly on the cheek, “Good.”
Tucker followed, quieter, smiling at the scene with a fondness that made him look older than the rest of them. He came over to you first.
“First game,” he raised his eyebrows at you, questioning.
“Yes.”
“How’d you survive?"
“I loved it.”
Dean, still attached to Allie, turned, “You looked terrified.”
“I was terrified. That was part of the experience.”
Garrett laughed, one arm around Hannah, “You picked a good one. Harvard games always get weird.”
“All games where people are thrown into walls are weird.”
“That’s hockey,” Dean said.
“You all keep saying that like a legal defence.”
“It is,” Tucker said mildly.
You pointed at him, “Et tu?”
He smiled into his water bottle. Dean leaned a shoulder against the wall, welcoming Allie into his front with an arm banded around her waist, “What was your favourite part?”
You thought about Logan in the penalty box, helmet off, breathing hard, hair damp, jaw tight. Then immediately thought about something else because that answer was not fit for public consumption.
“When Garrett did that pass in the third period,” you said, “The one where everyone made the noise before the goal actually happened.”
Hannah beamed like you had complimented her personally.
Garrett looked pleased, “You caught that?”
“Yes. It was very elegant.”
Dean made a gagging sound, “She called a pass elegant.”
“It was,” you insisted, “It had the same satisfaction as watching an animal move correctly after you’ve been staring at a limp for twenty minutes.”
Tucker nodded thoughtfully, “I get that.”
Dean stared at him, “No, you don’t.”
“I kind of do.”
Allie grinned, “She’s converting him.”
Garrett jerked his chin toward the locker room door, “Logan’ll be out in a sec. Trainer’s patching him up.”
Your throat tightened immediately, “Patching him up?”
“Nothing bad,” Garrett assured you quickly, “Cut near his jaw. Maybe a bruise on his arm.”
“Maybe?”
“He and Kyle got into it.”
“Who is Kyle?”
“Harvard guy,” Dean said, “Right wing too. Logan and him always get stupid.”
“Always?” you repeated.
“Yeah. Kyle’s actually decent off the ice,” Garrett said, “In game, he’s a prick.”
“That is the second time today someone has explained attempted murder with personality differences.”
Dean smiled, “You’re learning.”
The locker room door opened again.
Logan came out with his hockey bag in one hand and his suit jacket in the other, shirt collar open at the throat, hair damp and curling slightly from the shower, a small line of red near his jaw where the cut had been cleaned but not fully hidden.
He looked tired and wired at the same time, flushed from the win, eyes bright with the kind of post-game energy that made him look younger, rougher, more like a college boy who had just fought someone and won a hockey game and still had adrenaline running through his bloodstream.
He spotted the group.
Then you.
You moved before you thought.
One second you were standing beside Allie, and the next you were crossing the little stretch of hallway toward him, the sleeves of your Briar sweatshirt falling from where you had scrunched them to your elbows, your bag bumping your hip.
Logan barely had time to set his feet before you hugged him. Because he had the hockey bag in one hand and his jacket in the other, he caught you with one arm around your waist, rocking back half a step from the force of it. You rose onto your toes, arms around his shoulders, face pressed briefly into the warm line between his neck and shoulder.
“You were so good,” you said.
His arm tightened half a second late.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Terrifying, but good.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his arm lingered around your waist like he had forgotten it had somewhere else to be.
His eyes flicked over you quickly. Sweatshirt. Skirt. Ribbon. Red mouth.
His mouth curved.
Dean made a sound behind you. You ignored it and insteadnoticed the cut near Logan’s jaw properly, you frowned, “The fight looked like it hurt.”
Logan glanced down at his own arm as if checking which injury you meant, “Oh. Yeah. Kyle and I somehow always end up doing that.”
“Kyle is the Harvard guy?”
“Yeah. He’s a good guy off the ice. Just pisses me off in the game.”
“You almost killed each other.”
Logan snickered, “Yeah, that’s kind of the point, Cherry.”
You turned to the rest of the group, “This is a masochistic institution.”
Hannah nodded, “I’ve said that.”
Allie lifted her hand, “Many times.”
Garrett sighed, “It’s controlled.”
“Controlled violence is still violence,” you said.
Dean slung an arm around Allie’s shoulders, “But with rules.”
“Bad rules.”
“Fun rules.”
“Morally suspicious rules.”
Logan’s hand had moved from your waist by then, but as the group began walking down the hallway, it hovered at the small of your back. Close enough that when someone passed too near, his fingers brushed the fabric of your sweatshirt. Close enough that you noticed. Close enough that he probably noticed you noticing.
The argument about hockey violence continued all the way outside.
The boys defended it like theology, but you remained unconvinced.
“It’s part of the game,” Garrett said, holding the door open with one hand, Hannah tucked against his side.
“So is injury,” Allie said, “That doesn’t make it romantic.”
Dean looked offended. “Nobody said anything about romance.”
“You looked very emotionally fulfilled after Logan punched Kyle.”
“I was proud of him.”
“Exactly.”
Tucker walked behind them, hands in his pockets, “She has a point.”
Dean turned, “You’re supposed to be on our side.”
“I’m on the side of accuracy.”
Outside the arena, the afternoon had started tipping toward evening. The air was cool, a little damp, the pavement still crowded with people spilling out in clusters. You stood with Allie and Hannah near a low brick wall while the guys stopped to talk to someone from the team. Your cheeks still felt warm from the building, your pulse still not entirely settled from the game, and your phone buzzed in your bag with a text from Mama.
Mama 🌽❤️
Did you eat real food or only stadium items?
You typed back
You
A pretzel with structural integrity.
Mama 🌽❤️
That is not dinner.
You were about to defend the pretzel when someone said your name. Nathan stood a few feet away, backpack slung over one shoulder, cheeks pink from the cold. You knew him well enough to smile. Bovine seminar. Sat two rows ahead. Once lent you a pen and then forgot to ask for it back, which you still felt guilty about because it had been a good pen.
“Hi!” you chirped, “You came to the game?”
“Yeah. A few of us did.” He smiled, glancing toward the arena, “Didn’t know you were into hockey.”
“I’m newly informed.”
Allie coughed softly into her hand. You ignored her.
Nathan laughed, “Good game to start with.”
“Apparently. Though I do think Harvard and Briar might benefit from structured conflict resolution.”
“You mean the fight?”
“Yes. That felt avoidable.”
“It was Logan, right? The guy who fought?”
You nodded before you thought better of the speed, “Yes.”
“He’s good. Right wing?”
“Yes.”
“He had a hell of a game.”
The boys returned just in time to hear that.
Logan walked beside Garrett and Tucker, Dean slightly ahead of them, still talking animatedly about some third-period call. His eyes moved from Nathan to you. Just once. But you saw the flicker because you were apparently close enough to notice these kinds of tiny things.
He approached with an easy expression.
“Nathan, right?” he greeted.
Nathan looked surprised but pleased, “Yeah. You’re Logan. Hell of a game, man.”
“Thanks.”
Logan’s smile was genuine. Nathan had done nothing wrong except stand near you and say nice things, so Logan was nice back.
They talked briefly about the game, about Kyle, about Harvard’s defense, and you watched with a strange warmth in your chest because there was something very weird about Logan noticing how Nathan would grin at you after every joke, and could still be polite, friendly even.
A cluster of people passed too close on your left, loud and jostling, someone backing up without looking.
Logan’s hand moved before you did.
He set it lightly at your waist and drew you half a step closer, out of their path. Quick and warm through your sweatshirt. His attention stayed on Nathan for the first second, still answering something about the second period, but his hand remained at your waist until the group passed.
Nathan’s eyes flicked down. Then back up.
You looked at Logan but he had released you smoothly, like the gesture had been nothing.
Nathan smiled, but something had changed,“I didn’t realise you were close with the team,” he said.
You opened your mouth. The answer should have been easy. You were friends with Hannah. Hannah dated Garrett. Allie dated Dean. Logan had fixed your car. Winston had needed transport. The truck had become complicated. You had become part of each other’s routines in the way Hannah had said that morning, though you had rejected the phrase on purely emotional grounds. But Logan was standing beside you, just close enough that the sleeve of his suit jacket brushed your wrist, and his hand had been on your waist five seconds earlier.
“Everyone sort of knows everyone,” you offered.
A technically useless answer.
Nathan nodded anyway, “Yeah, that makes sense.”
Allie looked away with the expression of someone eating a laugh. Logan did not look at you, and you were too scared to look up at him. To see if your answer affected him.
Nathan stayed for a few more minutes, focussing his attention back to you, asking how your practical placement was going, whether the farm was doing their yearly internships, whether your equine course was still difficult.
“Not really!” Your chirped, fingers brushing the hem of your skirt as you bounced on the balls of your feet, “I mean-” You corrected yourself, remembering how you’d complained to him after your last seminar together, “It is difficult, and I wish my professor had more practical knowledge. But the work is interesting, so I’m enjoying the challenge.”
Nathan laughed and shook his head, “You’re always so positive,” He sighed, eyes flicking to Logan who had taken your bag from your shoulder while you were speaking and was now miming something to your friends.
He took the cue to leave, his own group starting to get restless behind him, “I’ll see you in bovine seminar Monday, yeah? Dr. Patel said she’s using your gait notes.”
You brightened, “Really! I submitted those a while ago,” you clapped to yourself, “I’ll see you then Nathan.”
Nathan left to his friends, and Dean immediately announced that everyone needed to stop standing around like a badly organised tour group and go back to the hockey house before the afterparty.
Garrett had the Jeep. Logan had the truck. This created what Dean called strategic distribution and what Hannah called do not overthink it, Dean.
The final split placed Garrett, Hannah, and Tucker in Garrett’s Jeep, while you ended up in Logan’s truck with Allie and Dean in the back. This, according to Dean, was suspicious before anyone had even opened a door.
“It is not suspicious,” you said, climbing into the passenger seat.
Dean appeared behind you, one hand on the frame of the open back door, “You said that too fast.”
“I speak efficiently.”
“You panic efficiently.”
“I am not panicking.”
Logan came around the front of the truck, keys in hand, still damp-haired and post-game bright, his suit jacket folded over one arm, “Dean, get in.”
“Bossy.”
“Now.”
Dean climbed into the back with the offended dignity of a man being unjustly prevented from investigating romance in real time. Allie slid in beside him, already smiling at the ceiling like she was trying to ask God for patience and receiving none.
You reached for the seatbelt, only for Logan to open his door, get in, and say, without looking over, “Seat’s too far back?”
You paused.
Allie paused.
Dean paused.
Your fingers hovered over the belt, “What?”
Logan put the key in the ignition, “The passenger seat. Tucker drove with me last week. He pushes it back.”
You furrowed your brows at looked down, the usual spot where your feet rested, just slanted onto the floor- was now inches ahead of your toes. The seat was too far back.
“Oh,” you said, “Yes. A little.”
Before you could blindly search for the lever to launch yourself forward, he reached over the dash, not looking away from the flow of cars exiting before you- his semi-dry hair brushed against your nose and it took the strength of multiple ancestors not to inhale deeply, not that you needed to. The scent of his body wash, which you knew he packed blindly into his game day bag, mixed with the heady scent of the garage that never seemed to escape his tresses, but together along with the faint hint's of his deodorant, it made you want to nuzzle into the curls and force him to stay parked in the bay for hours until you had your fill.
With a practiced pull, you jolted ahead, your chin bumping against his ear, Logan pulled away quickly, fast enough that you hadn't; t noticed the faint pink that drenched into the tips of where your mouth had hovered over. He sat as normal, resting an elbow on his window while threading his hands through his hair, as if he hadn't adjusted your chair from memory.
The silence in the back seat went so loud it nearly became structural.
Dean whispered, “Bro.”
Logan started the engine, “Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You breathed weird.”
“I witnessed something.”
“There is nothing to witness,” you said, clicking your seatbelt with more force than necessary.
Allie leaned forward between the seats, “He knows your seat setting.”
“It is a seat,” you said.
“It is your seat,” Dean said.
“It is the passenger seat.”
“In his truck.”
“Many people sit here.”
Logan reversed out of the space, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the mirror, “Not really.”
You turned to him.
He looked entirely too calm.
“What?”
His mouth twitched, “What?”
You narrowed your eyes.
Behind you, Allie made a tiny sound into her hand.
Dean slapped the back of Logan’s seat once, triumphant, “Not really.”
“Dean.”
“I’m repeating evidence.”
“Stop saying evidence,” you and Logan said at the same time.
There was a beat. A truly horrible beat.
Then Allie burst out laughing, “Oh my God.”
“That was a coincidence,” you said.
Logan pulled out of the lot, “Yeah.”
“Do not agree like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I’m driving.”
“Smugly.”
“I’m driving smugly?”
“You have smug shoulders.”
Dean leaned toward Allie, “She knows his shoulder moods.”
“I do not.”
“You literally named one.”
“It was observational.”
Allie rested her chin on the space between the front seats, eyes bright with delight, “Are we going to discuss the fact that there’s a blanket folded under your feet?”
You looked down. There was, in fact, a blanket folded neatly beneath the dashboard, tucked beside your bag. Soft cream fleece, rolled tight and held with one of the red ribbons you had used last week to tie up a feed sack after Winston had tried to destroy the original twine.
Your face warmed instantly.
Logan’s eyes stayed on the road.
“It gets cold in the truck,” he said.
Dean leaned forward, “For who?”
“For passengers.”
“Which passengers?”
“All of them.”
Allie reached down and touched the ribbon, “This is her ribbon.”
“It was available,” Logan said. He changed lanes.
Dean looked around the back seat with renewed purpose, as if the truck had become an archaeological site.
“Oh, absolutely not,” you scolded, turning in your seat, “Do not rummage.”
“I’m not rummaging.”
“You are rummaging.”
“I am appreciating the environment.”
Allie had already noticed the folded paper tucked into the pocket behind Logan’s seat. She pulled it out before either of you could stop her. You saw the top corner and immediately made a sound of distress.
“Allie.”
She unfolded it.
Then stopped.
It was a printed map of the Boston animal farm, one you had marked up weeks ago for Logan after he had driven Winston over the first time and then asked, very reasonably, why every gate had a name and why those names were not written anywhere useful.
You had circled the animal barn, the feed room, Nana and Granddad’s house, the staff lot, and the back lane that avoided the orchard road when delivery vans were blocking the front. Logan had added his own pencil notes in the margins.
Gate sticks in rain.
Do not trust Winston near office.
Cherry’s grandfather's tools: left shed.
Cherry says cows by name. Don’t guess.
Allie stared at the map and then looked up.
Her smile was gone now, replaced by something softer and infinitely more dangerous.
“Oh.”
You reached for it, “Give me that.”
She held it out, but Dean leaned over her shoulder before you could take it.
“What is that?”
“Nothing.”
Dean read upside down with surprising accuracy, “Do not trust Winston near office?”
“He ate a visitor badge.”
Logan sighed, “And a corner of a clipboard.”
“Three clipboards,” you corrected.
“Right. Three.”
Dean looked between you, “He knows clipboard history.”
“Everyone knows Winston’s crimes,” you said.
“I do not know Winston’s crimes.”
“That’s because Winston has no interest in you.”
Dean looked wounded, “That goat and I haven’t even met.”
Allie quietly refolded the map and handed it back to you, still looking at you like she had just found a love letter disguised as livestock logistics.
You shoved it into your bag, “This is practical.”
Hannah would have said something kind but Allie, because she was Allie, said, “You made him a farm cheat sheet.”
“He needed directions.”
“And he kept it.”
Logan’s hand shifted on the wheel.
Your face warmed.
Dean, unfortunately, noticed both things.
“He kept it,” he echoed.
Logan glanced in the mirror, “It’s useful.”
Allie laughed softly, “I bet.”
You turned forward again, flustered and pretending not to be. Outside, the campus streets slid past in grey flashes. The truck smelled faintly like Logan, clean fabric and old leather and the cold damp air coming in through the vents.
The heat was on low, angled slightly toward your side because you always got cold at this time in the evening, and you were beginning to suspect that had not been an accident either.
You reached for the dial to turn it down.
Logan glanced over. “Too hot?”
You stopped.
Allie made another tiny noise.
“No,” you said, quieter, “It’s fine.”
His eyes returned to the road, “Okay.”
Allie sat back slowly, “You two are actually worse than Hannah and Garrett.”
Dean gasped, “Do not disrespect the captain’s marriage.”
“Hannah and Garrett are dating.”
“Exactly. These two are doing whatever this is without benefits.”
You choked, “Allie.”
Dean considered, “Is emotional support a benefit?”
Logan made a sound that might have been a laugh and might have been a prayer for death.
At the first red light, you turned toward him properly and saw the cut near his jaw again under the streetlight. It looked small but angry, a neat scrape at the edge of his jaw where the trainer had cleaned it quickly. You frowned before you could stop yourself.
“Hold still.”
He did.
The truck idled at the light while you leaned closer, your fingers hovering near his jaw before brushing lightly below the cut. His skin was warm. Clean from the post-game shower. You could smell the faint sharpness of antiseptic beneath soap.
“It doesn’t even hurt,” he said.
“That is a suspiciously specific thing to say before anyone has asked.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You said that about your hand last Sunday.”
“My hand was fine.”
“Your knuckles were swollen.”
“I fixed the latch.”
“You punched the latch.”
“It was stuck.”
“It was a gate latch, not a sworn enemy.”
Dean leaned forward, “Wait. What latch?”
You dropped your hand from Logan’s jaw, but not quickly enough to hide the fact that you had been touching him, “The back gate at the animal farm.”
Dean looked at Logan, “You fixed a gate?”
Logan’s attention moved back to the road as the light changed, “It was sticking.”
Allie sat forward again, “When were you at the animal farm?”
You answered too quickly, “Sunday.”
Dean stared, “This Sunday?”
“Calendars would suggest yes.”
“With Logan?”
“Winston needed supervision.”
“Winston is a goat.”
“Exactly.”
Dean looked like he was trying to put the world into categories and failing, “So Logan goes to your farm on Sundays and fixes gates?”
“It happened one time.”
Logan said, very unhelpfully, “A few times, if you count the feed room shelf.”
You turned to him in outrage.
He looked calmly ahead.
Allie’s mouth fell open, “Feed room shelf?”
Dean’s voice went reverent, “Brother.”
“It was loose,” Logan said.
“You are going to make me sound like I'm inviting you to the farm for manual labour,” you said.
“You don’t.”
“Thank you.”
“Your granddad does.”
You made a scandalised sound.
Dean laughed so hard he hit his head lightly against the window.
Allie was staring between you again, but there was something sweet under the glee now. “Her granddad likes you?”
Logan’s face did something small.
Careful.
“I’ve never met him in person, normally he tells Cherry to call me over- but he seems nice.”
“He called you steady,” you said, then immediately wished you had not.
The truck went quiet, and you briefly considered praying for one merciful catastrophe to interrupt the conversation
Logan glanced at you. You looked out the windshield- waiting for your prayed upon disaster.
“He did?”
You adjusted your sleeves with as much dignity as you could muster, “Maybe.”
“Cherry.”
“It was a private conversation.”
Dean whispered, “Steady.”
Allie slapped his thigh, “Shut up.”
Logan drove one-handed for a stretch, the other resting low on the wheel, streetlights sliding over his face in alternating gold and shadow. You tried not to look at the cut again. Failed. Tried not to look at his hands. Failed more.
Your phone buzzed.
Mama.
You answered because family calls, in your experience, did not wait for optimal context.
“Hi, Mama.”
Logan’s eyes flicked to you, then back to the road, but you saw his attention sharpen.
“Yes, the game was good. Very violent. No, I ate a pretzel, but it had structural integrity. Yes, Hannah was there. Allie too.” You paused, listening, “No, Mama, Daddy made it to the harbour dinner, he texted me the picture of Uncle Robert with the lobster napkin.”
Logan glanced at you.
Dean leaned forward, “Lobster napkin?”
Allie slapped his arm, “Shut up.”
“Yes, he met Logan. No, he behaved. Daddy, not Logan. Well, both. Yes, Logan showed him the garage.”
A pause. Your face warmed.
“Mama.”
Logan’s mouth curved.
You turned slightly toward the window, pretending to study traffic.
“No, I did not say boyfriend. Marian said boyfriend. That was a separate incident.” Another pause, “No, Mama, I am not collecting incidents.”
Logan’s hand tightened once on the wheel.
Dean made an inhuman noise in the back seat.
Allie whispered, “I’m telling Hannah.”
You covered the phone and hissed, “You are not.”
“Yes, I can come to the farm in the morning before class,” you said into the phone again, “Only if Winston is not doing public relations. Why is Winston doing public relations again?” A pause, “Nana said what?” You looked horrified, “He is not an ambassador. He has eaten three clipboards.”
Logan lowered his head briefly, laughing under his breath.
“No, I do not need the blue cardigan sent by the driver. I already have a Briar sweatshirt.” You looked down at yourself, “Yes, it’s cute. No, I am not receiving agricultural envoys tonight. I’m going to a hockey party.”
A longer pause.
“Mama, please stop saying Garage Logan like that.”
Logan’s head turned and you ignored his pleased smile.
“Yes. I’ll call after. Love you.”
You hung up and dropped your phone into your bag.
The truck was silent.
Dean leaned forward again, “Garage Logan?”
“No.”
Allie clapped a hand over her mouth.
Logan looked like he was trying very hard to hide his smile.
You turned to him, “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You are about to.”
He shook his head, eyes on the road- but the corner of his mouth remained lifted.
Dean was still staring, apparently not finished with his investigation, “So your mom knows him as Garage Logan, your dad met him, your granddad called him steady, your nana trusts him around goat ambassadors, and he keeps a map of your farm in his truck.”
You stared out the windshield.
“That is an extremely manipulative sentence.”
“It was a summary.”
“It was an attack.”
Allie leaned forward and rested her chin against the space between the front seats, she plucked at your bow and called your name wistfully.
“No.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to say something.”
“That is worse.”
Allie’s voice softened, though the smile stayed. “You know this is a lot, right?”
The truck moved through another pool of streetlight.
You did not look at Logan.
You could feel him beside you anyway.
The steady line of him. The attention he was pretending not to give the conversation. The quiet in his body when people pointed too close to the truth.
“It’s not a lot,” your voice came out less sharp than you meant it to.
“It’s just…” You looked down at your hands, one sleeve pulled over your fingers, “He helps.”
Logan’s hand went still on the wheel.
Allie’s face softened fully then.
Dean did not make a joke.
You cleared your throat immediately. “With farm gates and expired protein-bars.”
Logan exhaled, almost a laugh, “Important work.”
“Crucial.”
Dean recovered first, obviously, “So, to clarify, normal friend stuff.”
You looked at him, “Yes.”
Logan glanced at you then, brief and warm.
“Normal friend stuff,” he said.
It should have sounded like a joke.
By the time the hockey house came into view, Allie had her phone out and was texting Hannah with such focus that you knew you were being discussed in real time. Dean was humming wedding music under his breath until you threatened to tell Allie about the sock inside-out incident in full detail.
Logan pulled into the driveway and parked behind Garrett’s Jeep.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Dean opened his door and announced, “I need a drink and a lawyer.”
Allie climbed out after him, “You need water.”
“Same thing.”
You reached for your bag, but Logan got it first from where it had slipped against the centre console. He held it out to you without comment.
You took it from him, and your fingers brushed against his.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
His eyes met yours for half a second too long.
Then Dean stuck his head back in through the open rear door, “Garage Logan, are you coming?”
Logan closed his eyes with a self-suffering sigh and you burst out laughing.
He looked at you then and you quietened slightly, still breathing out small chuckles.
Cut at his jaw, tired eyes, mouth curved despite himself, one hand still resting on the gear shift with your red scrunchie tied around it from the week before. Something in your chest folded.
You opened your door before it could become a problem.
“Come on, mechanic,” you said, climbing down.
Behind you, Logan’s laugh followed you into the cold.
By the time the party at the hockey house got going, the sky had gone dark and the whole downstairs smelled like beer, pizza, warm bodies, and someone’s terrible decision to mix citrus vodka with blue sports drink.
Music shook through the floorboards. People moved through the kitchen in clusters, laughter spilling into the hallway, doors opening and closing, the living room packed with players and friends and people you half-recognised from campus.
You fit better than you expected.
Maybe because Hannah and Allie were there. Maybe because Garrett, Dean, Tucker, and Logan had already made the group feel less like entering a party and more like entering a conversation that had been waiting for you to catch up. Maybe because you were still buzzing from the game, warm in your Briar sweatshirt, red ribbon loose in your hair, carrying a bowl of crisps Tucker had handed you like it was a noble responsibility.
Dean challenged you to shots within the first half hour.
Allie told him not to be stupid.
You asked what kind.
Hannah looked at you, “No.”
“What?”
Dean grinned, “Oh, she’s dangerous.”
“I am not dangerous.”
You beat Dean at shots.
Dean stared at the empty shot glass in your hand like it had personally betrayed him.
You placed it down neatly, “My uncle would be disappointed if I lost to a man wearing one sock inside out.”
Dean looked down and his mouth fell open- he shot Allie a betrayed glare when she screamed with laughter.
Logan, who had watched from the edge of the kitchen with a beer in his hand, looked at you like he was learning a language that kept changing its alphabet.
“You good?” he asked when you passed him a few minutes later.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“I am pleasantly warm and victorious.”
“Over Dean?”
“Yes.”
“Low bar.”
“I accept all victories.”
He smiled into his beer.
You reached up without thinking and touched the collar of his shirt, straightening it where it had folded slightly beneath the edge of his jacket.
Logan went very still.
The movement was small, inconsequential even, just a piece of fabric adjusted between two people standing too close in a crowded kitchen.
But your fingers lingered for half a second at his throat.
Long enough for his eyes to drop to your hand and for you to realise what you were doing.
You pulled back, a drunken warmth leaking into your cheeks, his gaze lifted to yours- and neither of you spoke.
Then across the kitchen, Dean yelled your name, “Rematch!”
You turned too fast, “Absolutely not. I have already defeated you.”
“That was round one.”
“There are no rounds. This is not a boxing match.”
Logan did not say anything as you walked away. But when you looked back, because of course you had to look back, he was standing there, half listening to what Garrett and Tucker were talking about with his beer in one hand, the other loosely resting on the counter next to him- his eyes on you.
The party kept moving.
You spent twenty minutes talking to Hannah about the game and pretending not to ask too many questions about Logan’s fight. You helped Allie bully Dean into drinking water. You listened to Tucker explain why the snack selection was unbalanced and then watched him fix it with the solemnity of a man repairing society. You congratulated random players politely when they came through the kitchen, and somehow this resulted in two of them telling you long stories about blocked shots you only half understood but fully appreciated.
Logan was everywhere and not always near you.
He moved through his team, laughing with the guys, taking teasing, giving it back, two beers in, then three, but still steadier than Dean had been after one and a half drinks and an argument about whether tequila had a personality.
Sometimes you caught Logan’s eye across the room.
Sometimes he smiled.
Sometimes he lifted his bottle slightly, a small check-in from across the room, then turned back to the conversation.
Around the time the kitchen became too crowded, you found yourself near him again without remembering the route. He was standing by the counter with Tucker and two guys from the team, one hip against the cabinet, sleeves pushed to his forearms. Someone had given him a fresh beer, though from the look of it, he had been nursing it for a while.
You slid into the space beside him because the living room had become loud enough to rattle your teeth.
Logan looked down, “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“You hiding?”
“I am observing from a calmer location.”
“You’re hiding.”
“A woman can do both.”
His mouth curved.
You leaned your shoulder against the cabinet beside him, close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm. He glanced down at the contact but did not move.
“What are we talking about?” you asked.
Tucker lifted a bowl of pretzels, “How Dean has survived this long.”
“Luck,” you said immediately.
“Hey!” Dean shouted from across the room, apparently able to hear criticism at any distance.
Allie, seated on the arm of the sofa beside him, lifted her cup, “Accurate!”
You laughed and tipped slightly into Logan’s side without meaning to.
His arm lifted instinctively behind you, not around you, just catching your shoulder before you fully lost balance.
“You good?”
“Yes.” You looked up at him, “Your house has uneven gravity.”
“That’s the vodka.”
“I have had minimal vodka.”
“You had shots with Dean.”
“I had an honourable duel with Dean.”
“You beat him.”
“Exactly. Honourably.”
Logan’s hand was still near your shoulder, you noticed at the same time he did, but instead of stepping away, you reached for his wrist, turned his hand over, and studied his palm with the solemnity of a scholar discovering an old text.
Logan stared at you, “What are you doing?”
“Comparing.”
“To what?”
“My hand.”
You placed your palm against his.
His hand was much bigger.
You knew this already, too well and for too long- some may argue. But knowing didn't make the real-time comparison any less interesting.
Tucker looked between you and Logan, then silently turned away to refill the pretzel bowl.
Logan’s fingers flexed against yours; your pulse jumped but you blamed it on the rum and tequila mixing.
“Scientific?” he asked, voice lower.
You nodded, “Very.”
“And what’s your conclusion?”
You looked at your hand pressed to his.
Then, because the drink had warmed the space between thought and speech, you said, “You have good hands.”
Logan’s expression changed, slowly, his eyebrows raised fractionally.
Your brain caught up, “Oh.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes had gone darker.
“Oh?”
“I meant mechanically.”
“Mechanically.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“Because it remains true.”
“Right.”
“You fixed Cherry.”
“I did.”
“And the gate latch.”
“Yeah.”
“And the shelf in the feed room that Granddad said was cursed.”
Logan laughed softly, “He did say that.”
“He likes you.”
His smile softened, “Yeah?”
“Yes. Nana too.”
“She scares me.”
“She should.”
His thumb moved once against the side of your hand and your mouth dried as your brain emptied. Across the kitchen, Allie shouted your name, waving you over to adjudicate something Dean had apparently done with a bottle opener.
You pulled your hand back too quickly.
Logan let you, like always, but his eyes stayed on you as you left.
By eleven, the party had loosened around the edges.
You were not drunk in a catastrophic way. You were simply warm and bright and less interested in the invisible line between wanting to touch Logan and actually doing it. The line had become foggy. Soft. Badly lit. Whenever you saw him, your body seemed to make decisions before your mind could form objections.
You grabbed his wrist when you wanted him to hear a story.
You leaned into his side while laughing at something Hannah said.
You touched two careful fingers near the cut on his jaw and told him, with grave seriousness, “Still ugly, but healing.”
He blinked,“Thanks.”
“Not you. The wound.”
“Good to know.”
“You are visually acceptable.”
“High praise.”
“You’re welcome.”
You stole a sip of his beer because yours was too sweet and then made a face because his tasted worse. He laughed and took the bottle back, fingers brushing yours. You rested your chin on his shoulder for approximately three seconds while trying to see what Garrett and Hannah were doing across the room, and Logan went so still beneath you that you lifted your head.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
“You looked injured.”
He took a slow drink of beer.
“I’m fine.”
You narrowed your eyes. Logan looked away and you decided, magnanimously, to let him live.
Dean and Beau announced the costume party from a table in the courtyard.
That was not a metaphor.
They were physically standing on one of the outdoor tables behind the hockey house, which looked like a very poor structural decision, though no one else seemed alarmed.
People had spilled out after them in laughing clusters, drawn by Dean’s shout of “COURTYARD, EVERYBODY, OFFICIAL BUSINESS,” like he had been elected mayor of terrible choices.
The cold air hit your warm face as you stepped outside with Hannah on one side and Allie on the other. Your sleeves were pulled over your hands again, red ribbon looser now, ponytail slipping slightly from the careful shape Allie had given it that afternoon. Someone had brought the blue sports drink vodka outside, which felt illegal under the night sky. Someone else had a speaker balanced on a windowsill. The music from the house bled into the courtyard in muffled pulses.
Dean cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and emotionally unstable athletes-”
“Speak for yourself!” someone yelled.
“I am!” Dean shouted back, “Beau and I are proud to announce that next weekend is our annual birthday costume party.”
The courtyard exploded.
Beau lifted his drink, “No shitty costumes!”
Dean pointed into the crowd, “No repeating last year’s costumes. No lazy jerseys, no bedsheet ghosts, no I’m a tired student bullshit. We want commitment.”
Beau grinned, “Couples costumes will be judged, mocked, and possibly rewarded.”
A wave of cheers and insults rolled through the group.
You stopped halfway beside Hannah.
Costume party.
Annual birthday costume party.
Your eyes widened.
Allie looked at you.
Hannah looked at you.
You looked at the crowd, the table, Dean and Beau, the phones beginning to ping as the invite went live in whatever group chat held the hockey house’s social infrastructure together.
A slow smile spread across your face.
“Oh,” you said.
Allie started laughing before you even finished.
You clasped your hands together, delighted,“I love costume parties!”
Hannah groaned affectionately, “Of course you do.”
“They are the last true social art form.”
“They are fabric-based warfare,” Allie said.
“Yes,” you said happily, “Exactly.”
Dean, still on the table, saw your face from across the courtyard and pointed at you with prophetic intensity.
“She gets it!”
“I do!” you called back.
Logan, standing a few feet behind Beau with Tucker and Garrett, turned at the sound of your voice.
You did not mean to look at him.
He was leaning against the brick wall, beer bottle low in one hand, the cut at his jaw catching the courtyard light. His hair was curling slightly where it had dried badly. He looked relaxed now, looser from the party and the win, but the moment he saw your expression, something in his face shifted.
Like he knew, immediately, that a costume party was not just an event to you. It was a battlefield. A runway. A moral test.
You pointed at him across the courtyard without thinking,“You need a costume.”
His eyebrows lifted, “I do?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t aware I’d been assigned homework.”
“You have now.”
Dean shouted, “No mechanics!”
You turned on him, “That was not my suggestion.”
Beau cupped a hand to his mouth, “No goats either!”
“Winston is not a costume,” you yelled back, offended on the goat’s behalf, “He is a citizen.”
A cheer went up from three people who had no context but enjoyed your delivery.
Dean looked deeply pleased.
Allie leaned toward Hannah, “She’s drunk enough to defend goat rights publicly.”
“I am not drunk,” you said.
Hannah smiled, “You are warm and morally invested.”
“Thank you.”
Logan had started smiling into his beer.
The costume party announcement changed the party’s texture immediately. The courtyard became a chaos of ideas and claims: group costumes, couples costumes, threats of terrible outfits, arguments over whether angels and devils counted as lazy if done “with a fresh perspective.” Dean insisted he and Beau already had “vision.” Beau insisted Dean’s vision involved too much aviator energy. Allie said if Dean went as anything involving sunglasses indoors, she would end the relationship for aesthetic reasons.
You drifted back inside with the girls, still talking too fast,“Betty Boop,” you said.
Allie stopped in the doorway, “What?”
You turned, already seeing it. Red dress. Black curls. Little heels. Garter, maybe. Not too obvious. Not too babyish. Vintage. Playful. Hot without looking like you were begging for attention, which was always the best kind.
“Betty Boop.”
Hannah’s eyes lit, “Actually…”
Allie grabbed your arm, “Wait. That’s perfect.”
“I know.”
“You have the red dress?”
“My nana might have something.”
Hannah blinked, “Your nana?”
“Her attic has better archival value than most museums.”
Allie stared at you, then laughed, “That sentence just came out of your mouth like it was normal.”
“It is normal in my family.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
The three of you reached the kitchen again, and somewhere between the doorway and the counter, you found Logan.
Or he found you. Or the room simply folded around the fact that you had looked for him and he had already been looking back.
He was standing near the fridge, talking to Tucker- who was saying something vaguely related to the birds and the bees, but his attention moved to you the second you stepped in. It was subtle enough that anyone else could call it nothing. You were beginning to learn the difference.
You walked toward him with full intention.
Or at least, what felt like full intention until the floor tilted slightly beneath your feet.
You caught his sleeve, Logan’s hand came out immediately, steadying you by the elbow.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“You good?”
“Yes.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep being good.”
Garrett, who had somehow joined you, snorted into his drink.
You looked at Garrett, “You were also good today.”
He blinked, “Thanks.”
“Very elegant pass.”
Garrett smiled, “You keep saying elegant.”
“Because it was.”
Logan’s hand stayed at your elbow.
Garrett looked between the two of you, then glanced toward the living room where Hannah was talking to Allie, “I’m gonna go find my girlfriend.”
“Good,” you said, “She is unsupervised.”
Garrett laughed and walked away.
Leaving you with Logan.
In the kitchen.
Again.
His hand slipped from your elbow to your wrist for half a second before letting go. You felt the ghost of it after,“Betty Boop?” he asked.
You blinked, “What?”
“For the costume party.”
“Oh.” You smiled, “You heard that?”
“You were yelling.”
“I was speaking with confidence.”
“Right.”
“Do you know who Betty Boop is?”
His mouth curved, “Yes.”
“Good. I was worried you might be culturally malnourished.”
“Mechanics know cartoons.”
“You’re not just a mechanic.”
The words came out too easily.
Logan’s expression shifted.
You realised, belatedly, that your drink had removed some of the usual insulation between thought and speech.
“I mean,” you continued quickly, “you are also hockey Logan.”
He leaned back against the counter, watching you.
“And?”
“And Winston Logan.”
His smile grew, “And?”
“Truck Logan.”
“Truck Logan?”
“You have a truck.”
“Strong classification system.”
“Garage Logan is Mama’s term, not mine.”
“I heard.”
“I told her to stop.”
“I appreciate that.”
You nodded gravely, “You’re welcome.”
He looked down at you, something warm and amused sitting in his eyes. The party moved around you. People came into the kitchen, grabbed bottles, yelled over music, and left again. Someone bumped the counter behind you. Logan’s hand moved to your waist without hesitation, pulling you closer to him and away from the jostle.
Your breath caught as you braced yourself against him.
His hand stayed,“You okay?”
You nodded and blinked when his thumb moved once over the soft Briar fabric at your waist.
“You keep doing that,” you said.
His brows lifted slightly. “Doing what?”
“Moving me.”
His hand loosened at once, “Sorry.”
“No.” You caught his wrist before he could pull away fully, “No, I didn’t say stop.”
The words made both of you still.
Your fingers were around his wrist.
Logan looked down at your hand around him, then at your face, “You didn’t say stop,” he repeated.
“No.”
His voice lowered, “What are you saying?”
You stared up at him.
Your thoughts arranged themselves very slowly. Badly.
Then Dean burst into the kitchen and yelled, “WHO’S READY FOR THE THIRD ROUND?”
You jumped and his hold and Logan closed his eyes briefly, his hand loosening against your side.
You dropped his wrist, “Absolutely not,” you said.
Dean pointed at you, “You’re scared.”
“I’m victorious. There is a difference.”
“You know what winners do?”
“Retire before their legacy is compromised.”
Allie appeared behind Dean and grabbed his arm, “You are not challenging her again. She has class tomorrow.”
Dean looked horrified, “Class after a win?”
“The university is oppressive- and I’d like to graduate as a semi-qualified vet,” you said.
Hannah slipped into the kitchen with Garrett behind her, cheeks flushed, smile loose and pretty, “You also have to be at the farm in the morning too.”
Logan’s gaze flicked to you, “You’re going to the farm?”
You nodded, still trying to recover the shape of yourself after the almost-question he had asked, “Nana wants me to check Winston’s ambassadorial conditions before class. ”
“His what?”
“He has been assigned public relations duties.”
Logan’s mouth twitched, “He ate a clipboard.”
“Exactly. He is unfit for office.”
Tucker entered behind Garrett, holding a glass of water and looking like the only person in the house still connected to logistics, “How many people are being dropped off?”
Garrett checked his phone, “Usual route. Hannah, Allie, Cherry.”
Dean gasped, “My girlfriend is leaving?”
Allie pecked his cheek, “I told you twenty minutes ago.”
“I didn’t consent.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I object.”
“Noted and dismissed.”
You looked toward the clock on the microwave and frowned. The numbers seemed unnecessarily bright.
“I should probably go,” you said, and immediately disliked how final it sounded.
Logan looked at you, you looked back whilst the kitchen felt louder than it had previously- maybe that was because the distance between you had become too thin for ordinary noise.
“You leaving now?” he asked.
“Soon.”
“Need your bag?”
You blinked, “My bag.”
“You left it in the living room, by the chair.”
Before you could answer, Logan pushed away from the counter,“I’ll get it.”
“You don’t have to-” He was already gone.
Allie appeared beside you like a summoned demon, and hummed, “Normal friend stuff.”
“Do not.”
“He knows where your bag is.”
“Many people have spatial awareness.”
“He knows where your bag is because he watches where you leave things.”
“That is practical.”
“All romance is practical if you’re boring enough.”
“I am not boring.”
“No,” Hannah said softly from your other side, smiling, “You’re terrified.”
You looked at her, “Maybe,” you said, because the drinking had made honesty too accessible.
Hannah’s eyes softened.
Allie’s hand slipped into yours and squeezed.
That was friendship, you thought. Not simply telling you to kiss him or stand up or stop being ridiculous. It was Allie squeezing your hand because she knew the joking could only carry you so far, and Hannah standing close enough that you felt surrounded in the best way.
“It’s scary when it’s real,” Hannah said.
You swallowed, “Is it?”
Allie’s mouth softened, “Yeah.”
You looked toward the living room where Logan had disappeared.
Then he came back holding your little bag in one hand, strap looped over his fingers, your lip balm already tucked safely inside because apparently he had checked.
Your chest did something stupid.
“Found it,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He handed it to you.
Your fingers brushed.
You both noticed.
Dean, fortunately, chose that moment to yell from the doorway, “COURTYARD AGAIN! BEAU SAYS I CAN’T DO A BACKFLIP!”
“You cannot,” Allie shouted.
“That sounds like doubt.”
“It is a certainty.”
People began moving again, pulled by the horrifying possibility of Dean attempting gymnastics. The leaving plan dissolved temporarily as the girls were dragged toward the back of the house, Garrett groaning, Tucker muttering something about liability, Allie already shouting at Dean not to climb anything.
You followed because leaving a tipsy Dean unsupervised near raised surfaces felt irresponsible.
Logan followed because everyone followed.
The courtyard was colder now. The night had deepened, breath showing faintly as people crowded near the table again. Dean did not do a backflip, because Allie threatened to call his mother. Beau did, however, demonstrate something he called “controlled athletic commitment” which was essentially jumping off the low table with unnecessary flair. The courtyard cheered anyway.
You laughed so hard you stumbled backward into Logan's chest, his hand found your waist and before you could step away for propriety’s sake, you drunkenly leaned back into it, his fingers spread fractionally at your side.
“You’re gonna fall,” he said near your ear.
“I am structurally sound.”
“You are swaying.”
“The ground is moving from poor party infrastructure.”
“Sure.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“No.”
You turned your head, almost enough for your cheek to brush his jaw.
“You’re very rude for someone with a head wound.”
“It’s not a head wound.”
“It’s on your head.”
“It’s my jaw.”
“Part of your head.”
“Your farm logic is terrifying.”
“You love my farm logic.”
He did not answer, that made you look back at him, that's when you cursed your drunk brain for not realising how close he was. Warm breath puffed against your face, slightly stained by beer but mainly minty fresh from the quick brush the team doctor made him do before his checkup.
His eyes were on your face, warm from his drinks and night air and something else you were increasingly less capable of naming without wanting to run away. His hand was still at your waist. Your back was still almost against his front. Around you, the courtyard was loud, stupid, alive.
“Yeah,” he said finally, “I do.”
Your laugh caught in your throat.
Allie shouted your name from near the gate.
“We are actually leaving now before Dean becomes a headline!”
Dean yelled, “I would be a good headline!”
“You would be a cautionary tale,” Hannah replied.
Garrett had the Jeep keys in hand. Tucker was already doing a headcount with the patience of a man who had discovered his true calling was herding drunk idiots. Allie was tipsy enough to be giggly and mobile in a concerning way. Hannah was softer drunk, leaning against Garrett while insisting she was perfectly capable of walking and then proving it by walking directly into his side.
You started toward them and Logan walked with you, watching carefully as you tripped over your feet but managed to stay upright, with the help of your hand braced on his arm.
At the side of the driveway, the goodbye became complicated.
It should not have been. But your drunk friend group treated departures like military extractions. Garrett unlocked the Jeep, Tucker opened the back door, Hannah immediately forgot which side she was supposed to enter, Allie began telling Dean an emotional story about how proud she was of his lack of backflip, and Dean looked genuinely moved despite not having done anything.
“I could have done it,” he said.
Allie patted his face, “I know, baby.”
“You stopped me because you love me.”
“I stopped you because I enjoy your spine intact.”
“That’s love.”
Tucker looked at Garrett, “I’ll get the door.”
Garrett had Hannah tucked under one arm, laughing as she tried to explain something about Garrett’s third-period pass being “hot in an upsetting way.” He looked over her head at Tucker with the expression of a man deeply happy and deeply exhausted.
“I’ve got Hannah,” Garrett said. “Can you get Allie?”
Tucker turned just as Allie suddenly gasped.
“My jacket!”
Dean blinked, “What jacket?”
“My jacket. The little black one. I left it inside.”
“I’ll get it,” Dean said, far too confidently for a man who had almost attempted a backflip four minutes ago.
Allie narrowed her eyes, “You will get distracted.”
“I will not.”
“You once went to get me water and came back with a sandwich.”
“I thought you were hungry.”
“I was thirsty.”
“You were also hungry.”
“Dean.”
“I’ll go with him,” Tucker said, already moving because he understood the crisis before it fully formed.
Then Allie, spotting someone near the porch holding up what looked like her jacket, pointed triumphantly.
“There!”
And ran.
“Allie!” Garrett shouted.
Dean turned, “Baby, wait-”
He tried to follow her, stumbled once on the driveway curb, and Tucker caught the back of his shirt before he could launch himself after her in the least graceful pursuit ever witnessed.
“Absolutely not,” Tucker said.
“I’m saving my girlfriend.”
“You are endangering both of you.”
Garrett, still holding Hannah, laughed so hard he nearly lost his grip on her. Hannah laughed too, face pressed into his shoulder, which made Allie turn around halfway across the driveway and shout, “I’m fine!”
“You’re not wearing a jacket!” Dean yelled.
“You were supposed to get it!”
“You ran!”
Tucker sighed with the air of a man considering retirement. Logan stood beside you, one hand in his pocket, watching the chaos with quiet amusement.
You, meanwhile, had reached the open passenger side of Garrett’s Jeep and sat down sideways on the edge of the seat because the world had become slightly too full of movement. Your legs hung out of the Jeep, white socks bright in the driveway light, skirt tucked carefully beneath your thighs, Briar sweatshirt soft around you. The cold air felt nice as you sat facing Logan. You exhaled.
He turned toward you immediately, scanning you for discomfort. Instead he was met with your giddy, swaying from, your head rested on the seat as your fingers curled around your bag, slightly red from the bitter cold as it turned sour as the hours dragged on. He could barely make out on the other side of the vehicle, beyond your shoulder, Garret stood with Hannah wrapping his jacket around her shoulder and warming her up with firm rubs of his palms against her arms.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer, stopping in front of you, “Sleepy?”
“No.”
Your eyelids felt heavy. He looked unconvinced.
“I am resting with my eyes closed,” you clarified.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
His mouth curved.
Garrett called from across the driveway, “Logan, can you watch her for one sec?”
Logan lifted a hand, “Yeah.”
Garrett shifted Hannah toward the back seat, Tucker dragged Dean toward Allie, and suddenly the driveway noise moved away from you in layers. Distant enough that you and Logan stood in a pocket of quiet beside the open Jeep.
You looked up at him, he looked down at you.
The air between you changed softly.
You were sleepy now. You could feel it settling over you, heavy and warm, the party’s brightness folding itself away. Your legs swung slightly over the edge of the Jeep. Logan’s hand hung at his side, close to yours.
You reached for it. His fingers stilled when yours slipped into them.
“Cherry.”
“Hm?”
“You good?”
“Yes.”
His hand was warm.
Very warm.
You looked down at your joined hands with the kind of serious attention drunk people gave simple discoveries.
You turned his hand in yours, palm up, then pressed your fingers against his like you had done in the kitchen. His hand engulfed yours easily. You smiled at that.
Logan was very still.
Around you, Allie was arguing with Dean about jacket custody. Hannah was telling Garrett she could absolutely climb into the Jeep without help, while actively not doing that. Tucker sounded like he was counting people under his breath.
You lifted Logan’s hand.
Then, because you were tired and wanted warmth and Logan was warm, you guided his hand down to rest on your thigh. Over the bare skin above your sock, where the cold air had made you shiver.
You patted his hand once, as if placing it somewhere useful.
“There.”
You felt Logan stop breathing and you looked up at him from under sleepy eyelashes.
“What?”
His eyes were fixed on his own hand, they then flicked to your thigh, then your face.
“Cherry.” He started carefully.
“Hm?”
“You know where my hand is?”
You looked down,“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re warm.”
His jaw flexed, “I’m warm.”
“Yes.”
He did not move his hand.
He also did not let his fingers flex, or stroke, or do anything except rest exactly where you had put it. His thumb stayed carefully lifted, like touching too much would be crossing a line he had drawn in his own head.
You found this interesting, “Why are you being a statue?”
His mouth twitched despite whatever private suffering was happening in his head.
“Statue?”
“Yes.”
“I’m trying not to die.”
You blinked at him. Then smiled, slow and pleased.
“You’re dramatic.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
His gaze moved over your face.
Soft. Sleepy. Warm from the party. Your red lipstick had mostly worn down to a stain. The ribbon in your hair had slipped almost completely loose. The Briar sweatshirt had fallen off one shoulder enough that the neckline pulled wide, exposing the curve of your collarbone to the cold.
Logan’s hand stayed still on your thigh.
You were suddenly aware of the silence between you.
He swallowed, “You remember what you told me inside?”
You frowned slightly, trying to gather the party back into order.
“I told many people many things.”
“Yeah.”
“I was educational.”
“You were.”
“And morally victorious.”
“Also true.”
“And Dean needs supervision.”
“Definitely.”
His mouth curved, then faded into something quieter.
“You told not to move my hand.”
Oh.
Your fingers tightened around his.
The driveway did not go silent. Not really. Allie was still laughing somewhere. Dean was still protesting something. Garrett was opening another door. Tucker was saying, “No, that’s not your jacket, that’s Beau’s.” The world continued.
But your little pocket by the Jeep became very still.
“Oh,” you said.
“Yeah.” Logan’s voice was quiet. “Oh.”
You looked down at his hand on your thigh.
Your hand over his.
The sight made your stomach feel strange, “I didn't mean to say that out loud.”
“You told me.”
“That was a error.”
His mouth twitched, “Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Because you didn't want me to move my hand?”
Your eyes lifted to his.
The question was soft. It would have been easier if he had teased you. Easier if he had smiled and made it a joke. Easier if he had given you somewhere to hide.
Instead, Logan looked at you like he genuinely wanted the answer and would take whatever you gave him. Like he was not going to reach for something you had not placed in his hands sober. Like his own hand on your thigh, exactly where you had put it, was not currently destroying his ability to appear unaffected.
You swallowed.
The words felt slow with sleep trying to pull at their edges.
“I don’t lie,” you said finally.
“No,” he said softly. “You don’t.”
You smiled faintly and then yawned.
Logan’s expression went through at least three emotions, one of which looked very close to pain.
You blinked up at him, offended by your own body, “No.”
His mouth curved. “No?”
“I was saying something.”
“You were.”
“It was important.”
“I know.”
Your head felt heavy.
So you leaned forward without thinking, forehead dropping against his stomach. His free hand came up instantly, hovering at the back of your head before settling there lightly, careful not to disturb the almost-dead ribbon.
You sighed.
He was warm there too.
His hand was still on your thigh, yours was still over it.
“Cherry,” he said.
“Hm?”
His voice was different when he said your name now, low and soft- as if he were afraid of the answer, but was too far gone not to ask.
"Why didn't you want me to move my hand?”
You smiled against his shirt.
“You know,” you murmured. Logan went completely still but your eyes closed, like a weight had been taken off your shoulders, “That’s the problem.”
For a second, nothing happened.
Then Logan inhaled like the night had punched him in the chest, “Cherry.”
You meant to lift your head. You really did.
You meant to look at him, maybe. Say something else. Something clear. Something clever enough to make the confession survivable. Something that would put the power back in your hands before the softness could swallow you whole.
Instead, sleep took you.
Your forehead stayed against him, your hand going lax over his, breath evening out in the middle of the open Jeep door, with half the friend group ten feet away and the rest of the party still roaring behind the house.
Logan stared down at you.
His hand on your thigh did not move for several seconds, because he seemed to have lost the ability to send instructions to his body.
Then, slowly, carefully, he slid his hand out from beneath yours and moved it to the hem of your skirt, tugging it down just enough to cover more of your thigh against the cold. He adjusted the Briar sweatshirt where it had slipped off your shoulder. His fingers were gentle at the back of your head as he eased you upright, keeping you from tipping sideways.
“Tucker,” he called, voice rougher than usual.
Tucker looked over from where he was helping Dean identify the correct jacket while Allie stood wrapped in it, triumphant.
His expression changed when he saw Logan’s face.
He walked over immediately, “She out?”
Logan looked down at you. Your cheek had settled against the side of the Jeep seat now, eyes closed, one hand curled loosely in the sleeve of your sweatshirt.
“Yeah.”
Tucker studied him for a second, “You good?”
Logan did not answer right away.
Across the driveway, Garrett had Hannah safely in the back seat. Allie was laughing into Dean’s shoulder while Dean insisted he had completed a rescue mission. The porch light flickered slightly. The party carried on behind them, loud and bright and completely unaware that Logan’s entire world had just tilted on its axis beside an open Jeep door.
Finally, Logan looked at Tucker.
“Yeah.”
Tucker waited.
Logan’s jaw tightened.
Then, quieter, “No.”
Tucker’s face softened, but he did not ask, “Alright,” he said instead, “Help me get her buckled?”
Logan nodded.
They moved carefully. Tucker shifted your bag from your lap. Logan slid one arm behind your back and one beneath your knees, lifting you just enough to angle you properly into the passenger seat. You stirred once, head turning toward him.
“Mechanic,” you mumbled.
Logan froze. Tucker looked away very deliberately.
“Yeah,” Logan said, voice low. “I’m here.”
Your hand found his sleeve, “Don’t go.”
He closed his eyes. Then he crouched beside the open door, bringing himself level with you.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re warm.”
His mouth pressed into a line, “I know.”
“You’re not just mechanic,” you murmured, eyes still closed.
Logan’s face changed.
Tucker, still looking away, suddenly became extremely interested in the driveway.
You did not say anything else, hand loosening on his sleeve as sleep pulled you under again.
Logan stayed crouched there for another second too long. Then he carefully buckled your seatbelt, making sure the strap did not catch your hair or wrinkle the sweatshirt oddly at your neck. He tucked your bag by your feet. He adjusted the red ribbon that had half slipped out, then seemed to realise what he was doing and stopped, hand hovering.
Garrett came around the Jeep, Hannah already drowsy in the back, Allie tucked beside her and whisper-laughing with Dean through the open door on the opposite side. He kept pecking her lips and giggling drunkenly as she would scrunch up her nose.
“All set?” Garrett asked.
Tucker answered for both of them, “Yeah.”
Logan stood. His hand brushed once over the top of the Jeep door.
Garrett looked at him briefly,“You okay to get back inside?”
Logan nodded. “Yeah.”
“You had a few.”
“I’m not driving.”
“I know. Just checking.”
“Yeah,” Logan said. “I’m good.”
Dean appeared around the side of the Jeep, tipsy enough that he swayed when he noticed your sleeping frame against Hannah’s droopy shoulder.
“Is she asleep?”
“Yeah,” Tucker said.
Dean leaned down toward the open door and whispered, loudly, “Goodnight, tiny farm tyrant.”
You did not stir.
Allie, from the back seat, gasped, “She won’t be happy with you tomorrow.”
“She can try. I’m beloved.”
“She will weaponise Nana.”
Dean went pale.
Garrett laughed and shut the back door.
Tucker climbed into the passenger seat beside Garrett after helping Allie adjust her seatbelt. Garrett started the Jeep, headlights washing over the driveway. Logan stepped back, hands in his pockets, watching through the open passenger-side door until Garrett leaned across and pulled it mostly closed. Before the door shut fully, your head shifted against Hannah.
For one second, under the porch light, Logan saw you in Briar blue and Cherry red, sleeping like the confession had not just left him standing in the cold with nowhere to put his hands.
Then the door clicked shut and Garrett drove away.
Logan stood there until the Jeep turned out of sight. The cold settled around him as the party noise rushed back in.
Tucker’s words from earlier seemed to echo in the space where you had been.
You good?
Logan breathed out once, slow.
No.
Not even a little.
Inside, Dean shouted something about leftover pizza.
But Logan stayed in the driveway a moment longer, looking at the empty space where your legs had been hanging out of the Jeep, where your hand had guided him to your thigh with sleepy certainty, where you had answered and not answered all at once.
You know.
That’s the problem.
He pushed a hand through his hair. Laughed once under his breath, but there was no humour in it.
Just the awful, perfect knowledge that he could not unknow it now.
He went upstairs for a minute and stood in his room where your red aux cord was still coiled on his desk because you had replaced it with a better one in his truck, where the faint cherry tint of your lip balm had once marked the rim of his water bottle by mistake, where small pieces of you kept appearing in his life and refusing to leave.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he pulled out his phone- mentally scolding himself for expecting a message from you. He was the one who had tucked
your sleeping figure into the car, but after five minutes his phone buzzed.
Mommy Tuck 🍼
She’s dropped off. All good. Hannah and Allie inside too.
Logan stared at the text.
Then typed back.
Emotionally stunted third child
Thanks.
She say anything?
Mommy Tuck 🍼
She said Winston should not hold public office.
Logan laughed despite himself.
Mommy Tuck 🍼
And she said that “mechanic” was warm. Whatever that means.
Logan looked at the screen for a long second.
Then locked the phone and set it face down on the bed.
Outside his room, the party continued, someone shouted for him- along with the mention of tequila. But he didn’t move.
He sat there in the quiet, cut on his jaw starting to sting now that the adrenaline had worn off, and thought about your hand over his, the warm bare skin of your thigh under his palm, your sleepy voice saying words he would hear for days.
You know.
That’s the problem.
He wanted to kiss you in that moment, but he didn’t. You were drunk. Sleepy. Soft enough to confess and gone before you could choose what came after. Logan had enough beer in his system to know he should not pretend the night was cleaner than it was, and enough sense to know that being good meant doing nothing with the answer except keeping it safe.
So he kept it.
Like your bag.
Like your lip balm.
Like your red ribbon, nearly undone and still somehow the only thing he could see.
And downstairs, the costume party invite kept buzzing through everyone’s phones, setting the stage for next weekend like the universe had decided to be obvious.
Logan realised he was, finally, fully, absolutely cooked.
Morning always made Logan softer. Not in the most obvious ways, but it managed to make his edges quieter. You’d wake up to one of his arms banded heavily around your waist, his skin warm beneath your cheek as you’d rise to the view of his hair flattened from one side of sleep and his voice a lower baritone than usual.
The room was pale with early light. A thin, grey-blue wash coming in through the blinds, catching on the dresser, the abandoned hoodie near the chair, the water glass on the nightstand, the edge of the shirt you were wearing.
His shirt.
Because at some point during the night, after the party had ended and the hockey house had gone quiet in waves, you had stolen it from the floor and put it on without asking. It smelled like Logan. Laundry detergent, skin, something warm and clean beneath it. It hung loose over your body, soft from use, the hem falling high on your thighs when you shifted.
You had woken before him.
That was rare.
Rarer still was the fact that you had not immediately moved. Normally, your brain began making lists the second your eyes opened. Things to do. Texts to answer. Hair to fix. Lip balm. Water. Breakfast. Whether it was socially acceptable to leave without speaking to Dean if Dean was in the kitchen.
But Logan was behind you, breathing slow against the back of your neck, and his hand was tucked beneath the shirt at your stomach, palm warm against bare skin.
So you stayed.
For a while, at least.
Then he woke. You knew because his fingers moved first. A slow flex against your stomach. Then his breath changed, mouth brushing the back of your shoulder in something too lazy to count as a kiss.
“Morning,” he murmured.
His voice did something unfair to your spine.
You closed your eyes again.
“Morning.”
His hand shifted under the shirt, not quite purposeful yet, just finding you. His thumb dragged softly over your skin. You felt him inhale against your neck, felt the pause that followed.
Then, lower, “This my shirt?”
You smiled without meaning to.
“No.”
“No?”
“I found it.”
“In my room.”
“Possession is complicated.”
His mouth pressed to your shoulder,“You look good in it.”
You opened one eye,“You can’t see me.”
“I know.”
“That’s not how looking works.”
His hand slid over your stomach, fingers spreading against you, pulling you back a little more firmly into his chest, “I remember.”
Your body warmed so quickly it was embarrassing,“Ridiculous.”
“Yeah.”
But his mouth had moved to your neck now, lips slow and warm, and ridicule became difficult to maintain under such conditions. His hand moved higher under the shirt, then lower again, teasing in no particular hurry. Morning Logan did not rush. Morning Logan seemed to have decided that time was something other people worried about.
You tilted your head without meaning to.
He noticed, “There?” he asked, mouth at the side of your throat.
You swallowed, “You know.”
“I want to hear you.”
You made a small, irritated sound and his hand stilled.
“Too early for that?”
“It is too early for you to be smug.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You’re horizontally smug.”
He laughed quietly against your skin, and the sound made your stomach tighten.
Then his hand slipped lower, suddenly you stopped caring about smugness.
Your breath caught, and Logan’s arm tightened around your waist, holding you steady as his fingers moved beneath the hem of his shirt. Slow and careful.
The room grew smaller.
It was always like that with him when he touched you in the morning. There was no lipstick to hide behind. No dress. No heels. No red nails arranged carefully around a glass. No sharp little comments delivered from a position of social control. Just your bare legs tangled in his sheets, your hair loose against the pillow, his shirt riding up your thighs, his hand between your legs while he kissed your neck like he had all morning to learn you again.
“Logan,” you breathed.
“Yeah?”
You had no follow-up and he smiled into your skin like he knew that too.
His fingers circled slowly, and your hips moved back before you could stop them. He inhaled sharply.
That was when you felt him properly, hard against you, warm through the thin fabric of his boxers, pressing into the back of your thigh.
Your eyes opened.
He went still, “Sorry,” he said immediately.
You turned your head slightly, though you could not fully see him from this angle.
“Why?”
His mouth brushed your shoulder again.
“Didn’t mean to rush you.”
“You didn’t.”
A pause.
“I like it.”
His hand on your waist tightened, “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He kissed your neck again, this time with intention. His fingers moved again, and your thighs parted under the shirt, one knee sliding forward over the sheets.
“You want me?” he asked.
Your breath left you in a soft laugh, “What a humiliating question.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you know.”
“I still want you to say it.”
You closed your eyes.
The curtains glowed faintly with morning. His hand moved steadily. His mouth was warm at your shoulder. Your body was already softening for him in a way that made denial feel stupid.
“Yes,” you breathed, “I want you.”
His breath changed.
“Good.”
The word settled low in your stomach.
You would have complained, but he chose that moment to push his fingers inside you, and your complaint dissolved into a gasp.
“There you go,” he murmured.
You reached back, hand finding his hair awkwardly, fingers sliding into it as he worked you open with a patience that made you want to crawl out of your skin. He knew you too well now. Not fully, and there were still discoveries. But it was enough to make you resent his competence when it was being used against you.
“Slow,” you said, though you were not sure whether you were telling him or yourself.
He kissed your shoulder.
“I’ve got you.”
When he finally rolled you onto your back, the shirt slid up your thighs, and Logan looked down at you like the sight had interrupted every remaining thought in his head.
You looked away immediately, “No.”
His hand paused at your hip, “No?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re making notes.”
His mouth curved.
“You’re wearing my shirt and nothing else.”
“That does not require documentation.”
“It might.”
“Logan.”
He leaned down and kissed you, smiling into it, one knee pressing between your thighs. You bit gently at his lower lip because he deserved it. He groaned because apparently punishment and reward had become indistinguishable to him.
The kiss deepened.
Morning softened, then heated.
His boxers went somewhere. You did not know where. The shirt stayed, though by the time he rolled a condom on and came back over you, it had been pushed up over your waist, bunched beneath your ribs, leaving you bare under him except for the fabric tangled around you like a weak argument.
He kissed you when he pushed in.
You needed that. The first stretch made your fingers dig into his shoulders, mouth opening against his.
He stopped immediately.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Colour?”
“Green.”
His forehead lowered to yours.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Just-morning.”
He huffed a soft laugh.
“Morning?”
“Everything feels more.”
His expression changed into something warmer, more focussed on your reactions.
“I’ll go slow.”
At first, he did, slow, deep strokes that made the room blur at the edges. His chest brushed yours, his mouth moved against your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips. Every sound you made seemed louder in the quiet morning, every shift of the mattress too obvious, too intimate.
He kissed you again, and his hand slid beneath your knee, lifting your leg higher around his hip, and you stopped thinking about daylight entirely.
For a while.
Until he shifted.
Until one of his hands slid to your waist and the other braced beside your head, and his mouth paused near your ear.
“Cherry.”
You made a small sound of acknowledgement.
“Can we try something?”
Your eyes opened.
He lifted his head so you could see him properly.
“What?”
His thumb moved once over your waist.
“Turn over.”
Your stomach dipped.
You looked at him and he held your gaze.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“We can stay like this.”
“I know.”
“Colour?”
You swallowed, “Green.”
His eyes darkened.
“You sure?”
You nodded.
Then, because nerves made you sharp, “Logan, I’m asking you to fuck me, not invest in a pension.”
He blinked and then laughed, head dropping briefly to your shoulder, “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You like me.”
“I really do.”
The softness of it made you quiet.
That was inconvenient.
He kissed you before you had to answer.
Then pulled out slowly, carefully, and helped you turn onto your stomach. The first thing you noticed was how exposed it felt. Which felt stupid because you had just been naked under him in the morning light. But for some reason, this felt different. You were on your knees now, forearms against the bed with his shirt falling beneath you, the hem still twisted around your waist. The second thing you noticed was that you couldn’t see his face- couldn’t read the little changes there, couldn’t watch his mouth part when you shifted against him. You couldn't see whether he looked wrecked, whether he looked too composed, whether he was looking at you the way you wanted him to.
You could only feel his hands.
One on your hip, the other smoothing up your back beneath the shirt.
“Still green?” he asked.
His voice came from behind you, lower than before. Different.
Your fingers curled in the sheets, “Yes.”
He kissed the back of your shoulder. Which helped as he guided himself back to you and pushed in slowly.
Your breath caught immediately and he stopped, “Too much?”
You shook your head quickly, “No.”
“Cherry.”
“No, it’s good.” You closed your eyes. “Just different.”
His hand moved along your spine.
“Different good?”
You exhaled, embarrassed by the answer before you gave it.
“Yes.”
He stayed still for another second, letting you adjust. Then he moved.
The angle made your whole body go tight.
“Oh.”
The sound left you before you could make it pretty.
Logan’s hand tightened on your hip.
“Yeah?”
You pressed your face into your forearm.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Sound pleased.”
“I am pleased.”
“Quietly.”
His laugh was rough.
But he listened.
For a few strokes, there was only the quiet rhythm of it. His hips meeting yours slowly, the bed shifting beneath you, his breathing getting heavier behind you. One hand stayed on your hip, guiding. The other moved under the shirt, over your back, over your waist, like he was trying to keep contact with as much of you as possible.
It was good. It was very good in fact.
It was also strange. Not in a bad way that made you want to change colours, but strange enough that you went quiet. Too quiet.
Logan noticed after maybe ten seconds and slowed,“Hey.”
You swallowed.
“What?”
His hand moved up your back again.
“You with me?”
“Yes.”
“You got quiet.”
“I’m allowed to be quiet.”
“You are.”
There was no argument in his voice. No push. Just his observation.
Then his body leaned over yours, chest pressing to your back, mouth near your shoulder, “I just like knowing where you are.”
Your breath caught for a reason that had nothing to do with the angle.
You turned your head slightly on your forearm, trying to see him- but you could not.
Logan seemed to understand at the same time you did.
“Oh,” he murmured.
Your face heated,“What?”
“You can’t see me.”
“I can see the pillow.”
“Not the same?”
“Not remotely.”
He laughed softly and kissed the back of your shoulder again.
Not teasing this time.
“You want to stop?”
“No.”
“You want to turn back over?”
You hesitated. Because no, you didn’t. The position was too much and not enough and exactly enough, all at once. You wanted to stay there. You wanted him behind you. You wanted the weight of his hands and the sound of his voice and the sharp, deep pleasure of the angle.
You also wanted to see him.
Logan’s hand slid to your jaw, gentle, turning your face just enough for him to kiss your cheek.
“Cherry.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“Okay.”
“I just…” You exhaled, “I don’t like not knowing what your face is doing.”
He went still for half a second.
Then his forehead dropped between your shoulder blades.
The sound he made was not quite a laugh, and not exactly a groan.
“You’re worried about my face?”
“Not worried.”
“No?”
“I like evidence.”
His hand tightened on your jaw.
Then, low, “Evidence.”
You immediately regretted the word.
“No.
His mouth brushed your shoulder.
“No evidence?”
“Do not start.”
“I’m not starting.”
“You absolutely are.”
He kissed the top of your spine, still half over you, still inside you, and the intimacy of that nearly took your knees out.
“Look at the dresser,” he said.
You blinked.
“What?”
“The mirror.”
Your head lifted.
The dresser mirror sat across from the bed, half cluttered by a water bottle, his watch, and an abandoned roll of tape someone had left in his room for reasons you did not understand. It caught the bed at an angle. Not perfectly. But enough.
Enough to see yourself on your knees in his shirt. Enough to see Logan behind you, bent over your back, hair messy, jaw tight, eyes dark and fixed on your reflection. Your whole body reacted.
Logan felt it and his gaze flicked to yours in the mirror.
“There she is,” he murmured.
Oh. That was worse. That was so much worse.
You looked away immediately.
His hand slid from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, guiding your face back up.
“No hiding.”
“You are behind me.”
“Still no hiding.”
“That is unreasonable.”
“Look.”
Your pulse jumped.
“Bossy.”
“Green?”
You swallowed.
“Green.”
“Then look.”
You did.
Your eyes met his in the mirror, and Logan moved again. Your mouth fell open.
His face changed behind you, composure cracking just enough for you to see it. His jaw flexed. His eyes went darker. One hand gripped your hip while the other stayed at your throat, holding you steady and visible.
That was what you had needed.
Not to be looked at like an object.
To be seen. To know he was with you. To know he was losing it too.
Logan’s voice dropped, “Good girl.”
Your body clenched around him.
His eyes shut for half a second, “Fuck.”
You would have smiled if you had not been too busy trying to remember how breathing worked.
He straightened behind you, just enough for you to see more of him in the mirror. His hands moved to your hips again, dragging you back onto him with careful pressure.
“Still good?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You like seeing?”
You made a sound that was not an answer.
He slowed, “Cherry.”
You glared at his reflection.
“I hate when you require verbal participation.”
His mouth curved, “I know.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?”
“Because you like it.”
You did not answer. Which was the answer he was looking for.
He leaned over you again, mouth near your ear, eyes still on yours in the mirror, “You like seeing what you do to me.”
Your fingers twisted in the sheets and a flush washed over your body.
“Logan.”
“You do.”
“Don’t make it sound like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know.”
His hips rolled into yours, and your answer broke apart, “I do know,” he murmured.
The next stroke made you drop your head. Immediately, his hand came to your jaw.
“Uh-uh.”
You groaned.
“Logan.”
“Look.”
You did, because apparently your body had decided obedience was the theme of the morning.
And there he was.
Behind you in the mirror.
Flushed and focused and so visibly affected by you that the exposure no longer felt one-sided. His hands on your hips. His body moving behind yours. His shirt bunched around your waist. Your own face wrecked in the reflection, mouth parted, eyes glossy, hair loose around your cheeks.
It should have embarrassed you more.
It did.
But the embarrassment fed the heat instead of stopping it.
“There you go,” he crooned, “That’s better, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be smug.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
“Try harder.”
His laugh broke into a groan when you pushed back against him, just a little, just enough to prove you could. His hands tightened.
“Oh, you’re gonna be like that?”
You glanced at him in the mirror, “Like what?”
His eyes darkened, “Careful.” He shifted the angle, one hand sliding around to your stomach, pulling you up slightly so your back arched against him.
The next thrust stole your breath. “Logan.”
“I know.”
His hand pressed gently over your stomach.
“Right there?”
You nodded, too fast.
He kissed your shoulder.
“Words.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Your eyes fluttered as his mouth brushed your ear, “So good for me.”
You hated the sound you made.
Logan loved it.
You knew because his rhythm stuttered, his hand slid lower, fingers finding you beneath the shirt, and your arms almost gave out.
“Wait-”
He stopped instantly. Everything stopped, his thrusts paused suddenly, his breathing was still heavy behind you but his spine had straightened as his hand lifted away.
“What? Too much?”
You shook your head, breathless.
“No. Just-” You laughed once, broken and embarrassed,“I need a second.”
His hands went gentle at once.
“Okay.”
He stayed still inside you, chest against your back, mouth at your shoulder, breathing hard. The restraint in him made your head spin almost as much as the pleasure had.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Still green?”
“Yes.”
His hand moved slowly over your side.
“No rush.”
That was the thing that ruined you. As if he was perfectly content to stay there, holding you together, waiting for your body to catch up to what it wanted.
You turned your head enough to find his mouth.
He met you halfway, kissing you awkwardly over your shoulder. It was not elegant. The angle was terrible. Your neck protested. His nose bumped your cheek. Somehow, that made it better.
When you pulled away, you were smiling faintly.
“What?” he asked.
“This is logistically complicated.”
He huffed a laugh.
“Yeah?”
“Emotionally also.”
His expression softened in the mirror.
“Yeah?”
You looked at him, then nodded.
He kissed your shoulder again, “Good different?”
You closed your eyes.
“Unfortunately.”
His laugh warmed your skin.
Then, carefully, his hand returned between your thighs. He moved slowly at first, building you back up with maddening patience, fingers circling in time with the deep drag of him inside you. The mirror kept catching pieces of everything. His face. Your hands in the sheets. The flex of his arms. Your own expression every time he found the right angle.
You could not hide from it.
After a while, you stopped trying.
“That’s it,” Logan said, voice rough, “Look at you.”
Your breath broke, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say things.”
“You like when I say things.”
“I like when you are quiet.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted, because there was no point lying to someone currently making you shake, “I don’t.”
His eyes met yours in the mirror, “There she is.”
Your body tightened.
Logan felt it immediately, “Close?”
You nodded.
He kept you there. One hand between your thighs, the other at your hip, his mouth at your shoulder, his gaze holding yours in the mirror as the pleasure built fast and bright and inescapable.
You tried to drop your head when it hit.
His hand caught your jaw gently.
“Look at me.”
You did.
And came with your eyes on his reflection, Logan’s name breaking out of you as your body clenched around him. He held you through it, hips stilling, fingers working you softly until you were trembling and breathless beneath him.
“That’s it,” he murmured, “I’ve got you.”
Your arms gave out properly then.
He caught you before you collapsed fully, easing you down onto the mattress, turning you gently onto your side without pulling away too quickly. His body curved behind yours, one arm around your waist, mouth against the back of your neck.
For a few seconds, all you could do was breathe.
Logan’s breath was ragged too.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Words, Cherry.”
“Yes.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Good different?”
You shut your eyes, “Very.”
His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder and you could feel his smile.
“Don’t be pleased.”
“I’m a little pleased.”
“You would be.”
He kissed your shoulder, “I liked that.”
Your face warmed.
“I noticed.”
“Yeah?”
“You were not subtle.”
His hand moved over your stomach beneath the shirt.
“Neither were you.”
You opened one eye.
“I was extremely subtle.”
“Baby.”
“What?”
“You came looking at me in the mirror.”
Your whole body went hot.
“That was an accident.”
“Was it?”
“An emotional accident.”
He laughed softly.
You turned your face into the pillow.
“No.”
“No what?”
“No discussing.”
“Okay.”
“Immediately.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
Then, because he was himself, “Just one thing.”
You groaned into the pillow.
“Logan.”
His mouth brushed the back of your neck.
“You were so pretty, “His arm tightened around your waist, “Not teasing,” he said quietly.
You swallowed.
The morning light had gone warmer now, spilling across the sheets, catching the bare line of his arm over your body, the wrinkled fabric of his shirt still on you, the reflection of both of you faint and softened in the dresser mirror.
“Thank you,” you said, very softly.
His hand flattened over your stomach.
“You’re welcome.”
You lay like that for a while, half tangled, half dressed, both still trying to become normal again.
Eventually, because you could not allow sincerity to remain unattended for too long, you said, “That was logistically intense.”
His laugh hit your shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“And suspicious.”
“Suspicious?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I feel like you learned something.”
“I did.”
You turned your head slightly to find him smiling against your skin.
You narrowed your eyes, “What?”
“You like seeing my face.”
“That is not new information.”
“You really like seeing my face.”
“That phrasing is vulgar.”
“You asked for evidence.”
“Don’t.”
He laughed harder when you elbowed him lightly, “Sorry.”
“You are not sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re going to become insufferable.”
“Probably.”
You sighed.
He kissed behind your ear.
“But not right now.”
You softened despite yourself.
“No?”
“No.” Another kiss, lower this time. “Right now, I’m going to clean you up, get you water, and maybe steal my shirt back eventually.”
You looked down at the shirt. Then pulled it closer around yourself.
“No.”
“No?”
“This is mine now.”
“It says Briar Hockey.”
“It says mine.”
He laughed.
“Fine.”
You smiled into the pillow.
Behind you, Logan’s hand moved slowly over your waist.
𝐒𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: Dean knew you weren't just another fling that he could simply forget about. A well earned nudge from John Logan was proof of that.
Also — Who knew the best way to solve his issues was for you to come undone beneath his touch?
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Making out, swearing, dirty talk, praising, hickeys, explicit sexual content
a/n: I'm still watching the show so the characters may seem a little ooc. Dean has a literal crisis, Reader majors in art + stays at the hockey house after a flooding issue in her dorm room. This lokey sucks and I'm tempted to delete it but I tried my best :<
More here if you guys like this piece!
You weren't sure how you got in this predicament. One moment you were downstairs enjoying the party. The next you're beneath Dean, whimpering and cheeks damp from tears of pleasure. Sheets rustling while he pounded into you in a relentless manner. His large, veiny hands greedily keeping you in place.
"Dean..." His name spilling from your kiss swollen lips with a restrained sound. Breath hitching in your throat as you mumbled incoherantly. "S-slow down...!"
Although your voice was like a sweet melody to his ears. He silences you with another kiss. Insatiable for your taste on his tongue. Breaking the kiss briefly to whisper hoarsely against your lips. "Just let me fuck you babygirl. "
Fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your bare hips as your satin dress had been hiked up completely. The wings that were part of your outfit for the party, crumpled. He made you keep them on the whole half an hour into the session. Dean claimed he found it a turn on.
The air was thick with a mix of your arousal and of his strong cologne. As he continues to kiss you, all tongue and teeth. Sloppy and messy due to one too many drinks from the party. Perhaps from the drink challenge he had with Beau.
"Fucking Logan." He'd growl against your reddened lips. Abusing the soft muscle, before prodding past your lips. Thumbing over your hardened nipples while he does so.
Causing you to moan louder and your stomach to flip as he pushes into you further. Skin slapping against skin in as he gathered your slick. Defining every thrust, the filthy sounds filling the room as he does so. "He can't fucking make you cum like I can."
Breathing heavily as his golden chain swings above you in sync with his rugged thrusts. Honestly, you were so dumbed out that you couldn't respond.
Instead, your fingers tugged at Dean's soft, golden blonde locks. As you both kissed eachother breathlessly. With Dean whispering praises at how good you were to him. Your hips arch upwards out of instinct when you lift off the bed to press against him more. A tug of a smirk plays on his lips at your reaction. So pliant, so needy. Just for him.
Your only response resorting to short, breathy moans while Dean engulfs every delectable noise that you made.
"Fuck princess —" He murmers into the kiss. Your face being held in his large hands, rough and insanely warm. But clammy. Angling your head to get a better angle. While he slowly starts to lose himself in pure bliss. "Mmph. You're so good f' me. So fucking good."
Dean's kisses never failed to leave you wanting more. They felt hot, feverish and like always, very driven. Much like how he was on the ice rink.
Overstimulated and sweaty, he tugs off the top half of his Maverick uniform. Right — he hadn't taken it off yet. He was too focused on making you feel good than to think about himself. Which was a first for him.
After 6 months of not seeing you after you departed for your art trip abroad in England. He was determined to prove you now that he was commited. He didn't have to say it. Because you already knew. You always knew.
And the dark hickeys littered on the inside of your thighs, stomach, chest and neck proved it. Much like a messy painted canvas.
Which makes you wonder. Why did he get mad in the first place?
Dean, like usual, was splayed out on the couch. Shirtless with an empty beer bottle in hand, arm dangling off the edge carelessly. And a random puck bunny who he forgot the name of in his arms. He stared up at the ceiling blankly, with sweat clinging to his skin. His mind starting to drift due to the buzz from the alcohol.
Thinking back to distant memories. Not about the time he spent with the boys in the hockey house. No — But of you.
Dean had a crush on you for a while now. A long time actually. A year and a half be exact. Unusual for a guy with a fuck boy reputation.
Since you were Beau's cousin, he'd see you often at family events or small gatherings with friends. And what started as casual conversations, gradually became something more.
He admires your paint stained fingertips whenever you finished an art piece and showed off your portfolio to him. Bright eyed and relieved whenever Dean complimented your work.
He also loves how you're so observant and kind, yet impossible to impress with Dean's charm. Albeit being a lie. You were actually quite smitten by him but you were good at hiding it from him.
Unlike most girls he's met. You carried yourself with a quiet maturity. Meaning, Dean could rely on you for advice. Or emotional support after a bad hockey match. Feeling safe in your arms whenever you comforted him in rare cases where he felt vulnerable.
Then there was last year. Days spent in the Maxwell's summer home for the holidays. Was a memorable summer that he'd never forget. Beau was there too ofcourse. Protective over you as always, even if your mentality was much more mature than his own.
A summer fling. That's all it was. That's all you were meant to be. Yet Dean was finding it ridiculously hard to keep you off his mind. He was obssesed really. Obsessed with your scent, your smile, your sweet voice whenever he had you writhing beneath him.
Bare, with your legs entangled with his under the fresh bedding in a dazed manner. Whispering sweet yet incredibly dirty nothings into your ear in the morning after a night of intamacy.
But most of all, he missed you.
"Can you guys maybe not makeout on the counter during breakfast." Beau would say with a look of disgust. Walking by the couple in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal in hand. Mouth full as he spoke as he pointed at them with his spoon. "It's fucking gross."
You scramble away from the blonde man with flushed cheeks and messy hair. Dean, however, tried to go in for another kiss without a care in the world. Even with Beau's judging stare burning into his skull from behind.
"Sorry Beau - " you apologise with a shy grin, breathing heavily. Placing a hand infront of Dean's mouth to stop him from kissing you. Only for him to press a cheeky kiss into your palms. Making you laugh softly. Still, you tried to the insatiable man at a distance. "You heard him Dean. No kissing on the counter."
"Bummer. Beau could've been our audience." Dean mused. Reaching forward to tuck hair behind your air with a smug grin. The suggestive comment causing Beau to choke on his cereal. "DUDE! Nuh uh. Don't drag me into this!"
"I agree with Beau on that one." You chimed in. Getting ready to hop off the counter to make breakfast. Dean helped you in the process since last night's antics made it hard for you to walk. You hold onto his shoulders for support before pressing a small kiss to his cheek with an appreciative smile. "Thanks Deanie."
"Thanks Deanie ~" Beau mimicks you in an overexaggerated childish way. Breaking up the otherwise cute moment. When Dean sets you back down on your feet. His hand slides around your waist, tucking you into his side. He had a sense of pride with you wearing his jersey. It fit you like a glove, like it was meant to be yours.
"Ah -" He spots an empty beer can in the corner of his eye. Snatching it quickly then chucked it towards the brunette. Hitting him directly on the head which even caught Dean by surprise. "Oops. Must've slipped from my hands."
"Oh. So you wanna play it that way huh?" Beau sasses back. Setting aside his cereal bowl with a clatter. He then ran towards the cooler to grab a full can of beer, shaking it up violently. Looking straight at the pair with a smirk and playful glint in his eyes.
"Oh fuck no -!" Dean's mutters, eyes widening in fear before turning to you to lift you off your feet. You let out a surprised sound as he makes a beeline towards the backdoor. Beau chases after the couple as he opens the beer can with a click.
Dean almost trips over the wooden stairs that led to the beach down below. Feeling the warm sand beneath his bare feet with Beau not too far behind. Not even bothering to close the door despite being told off about it multiple times.
Dean turned a corner sharply. Kicking up sand when he does so as he made a run for it. All while you clung onto him for dear life as the two of you laugh uncontrollably.
At some point you look over Dean's shoulder to see that Beau's not too far behind. Hitting his chest dramatically to let him know. "He's gaining on us - Run faster! "
Beau catches up to them eventually with the beer can frothing at the surface in a menacing pace. Albeit the lack of oxgen going to his lungs since Dean was well fater than him. "Can't run from me forever bro!"
Unfortunately for him. Those summer nights weren't long enough for him. Soon being brought back to a cold, seemingly lonely reality. When Beau walks into the dimly lit living room. Making a look of disgust when he see's his semi nude friend on the couch.
He sticks his head in the refrigerator to look for cool beverages. Considering how hot and sticky he felt after hanging outside with Tucker out in the garden. "A little birdy told me something that you'd wanna hear."
Dean lifts his head at the mention of your name falling from Beau's lips. Now more aware of his surroundings as he registers the girl in his arms. Then he groggily asks Beau to confirm what he had just heard. "Come again?"
"Right uhh. She's coming back tonight." Beau replies calmly. Chugging from the can casually like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell of valuable info.
"The fuck you mean she's coming back tonight?!"
Beau just sighs with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "Bro. Do you even read your texts? No wait -- did you look at your phone at all today?"
Dean gets up so abrutly that the girl in his arms fell straight onto the floor with a surprised yelp before staring up at the culprit with a dirty look. He mutters a quick apology before frantically searching for his phone ontop of the kitchen counter where he had last left it.
He lets out a sigh of relief when he does then switches it on, the bright screen making him squint as the sound of multiple pings go off. Sure enough, you had actually sent texts and 10 miss calls. All in the past hour or so.
By the time he was reading through the texts in a panicked manner, you had already landed and were on your way by taxi. Turns out, your trip had to be cut short due to delays at the airport. So you made sure both Beau and Dean knew about it beforehand.
Little did you know that your text messages would send the blonde jock into a worried frenzy.
"Fuck! Uhh." Dean pauses for a moment, hand dragging through his messy locks. Trying to process everything. While the girl who had fallen onto the floor gathers her clothes with a scoff. Pissed yet also confused as to what was going on as she mutters curses to herself about Dean on the way to the front door.
Dean could care less. As harsh as that may seem. He then turned to stare at Beau, wide eyed and utterly dazed due to being drunk. "When did she say she was coming over?"
Beau sighs yet again at his best friends lack of awareness and points to the clock with a cheese stick. "In 15 minutes. She said she's near campus. But I guess I could call her again if you're so worried."
Dean nods in agreement, swallowing nervously as his adam apple bobs from the motion. Watching Beau intently as he rings your number on his phone.
"It's alright Beau. I'll be fine." You reassured the fussy brunette over the phone. As he kept on insisting that he could help you with your things. "Thanks anyway. Oh — And say hi to Dean and the others for me too."
"Sure no problem. But you can tell Dean yourself." Beau muses. When a voice that you knew all too well spoke nearby. Despite his words sounding a little slurred, you knew it was Dean. "Come by yourself Maxwell!"
"Missed you too Dean." You smile to yourself after hearing his voice. Knowing he must be right next to Beau with a boyish grin that you grew to love, and a beer in hand. "Oh right. I just got a call from Allie saying that my dorm room's flooded. So I might have to stay over for a couple of days."
Beau being Beau, ignores your last comment entirely and decides to make fun of the situation instead. While Dean starts to freak out at the mention of you staying over. Immediately wondering where you should sleep.
"Aww Deanie she missed you ~" Beau mirrors your comment in a highly exaggerated way. Throwing in kissing noises while he was at it. Causing quite the commotion as the boys started to laugh and you assumed they were also shoving eachother due to the clatter of plates.
Which then earned a good scolding from Tucker in the process. You shook your head with a smile on your face, ending the call not soon after. "Idiots."
It had been a couple of days since your arrival and you seemed to fit in just fine. The boys tried to stay as respectful as the could around you. Meanwhile Dean let you stay in his room. Which came as a surprise to them. Usually because he never brought women to his own bedroom. Notoriously using the living room couch or floor for his hookups.
So imagine Garretts surprise when he walks out his room to see you standing in Dean's bedroom. Quietly painting on your canvas with the faint sound of music playing in the background. As Dean talked to you animatedly behind you with his chin resting ontop of your head.
He didn't really question it. Figuring because you were close with Dean, like a friend, that it should be normal for you to sleep in the same room as him.
"Are you sure you don't want to sleep on the bed?" You ask for the a hundreth time that week. Feeling bad as you peer down at the blonde man, fingers reaching down to brush through his perfectly tamed hair. He looks up at you with a surprisingly soft gaze. For reassurance, he brings your fingers to his lips. Pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips with a low whisper. "I'm good down here."
What Dean wasn't expecting at all was for Logan to step in and make breakfast for you one morning. A simple, innocent gesture. Yet for some reason, it bugged Dean. Normally he wouldn't be the jealous type. But the way you thanked Logan with such an adoring look in your eyes made him wonder. Should he be jealous?
Another time was when he caught Logan sneaking glances at you at the stands during practice at the hockey rink. Without thinking, the grip around Dean's hockey stick tightens.
Thinking surely, you wouldn't be staring back at him too.
His grip loosens once he see's that you weren't looking at Logan, but at him. Giving him a small wave and a gentle smile. Your fingers like always, covered in paint since you were finishing an art project in your large sketchbook.
A weight lifted off his shoulders as he waves back with his usual boyish grin. Flashing you his dimples that you always adored as he playfully blows you a kiss.
However, that didn't stop you from liking Logan. That was the worst part. Not romantically ofcourse — well, Dean hoped not. But they clicked effortlessly. You two traded sarcastic comments across the dinner table. Logan would remember what items you liked for breakfast, lunch and dinner so that he could help Tucker make them for you. Watched movies together. Spent hours talking together in the living room, helping you with your art projects. Flaunting his 'boy next door' persona.
Meanwhile Dean transformed into some grumpy idiot whenever Logan was around. With the party being his last straw.
The boys decided to throw yet another big party one weekend. Dean was searching for you in the large crowd. His head thumping rigorously and adrenaline pumping through his veins due to the cheap alcohol and beer he consumed in the past hour or so. Doing drink challenges with his friends and most importantly Beau. Considering it was their shared birthday.
It made sense, Dean being dressed as Maverick. While Beau was Goose. An iconic dynamic pair.
Dean wondered who you'd come as. He figured maybe Hannah would come as your partner. He stops dead in his tracks when he see's who you're with.
Logan was with you in the living room. His arms around your shoulder as the pair engage in a conversation on the couch. You wore a satin white dress that stopped just above your knees, exposing your thighs. Paired with little angel wings on your back and a pair of satin embossed heels that looked just like ballerina shoes.
Dean was about to turn around and leave them alone.
That was until he see's Logan whisper something in your ear. And the look you had on your face made Dean wonder what he could have possibly said. You were at a loss for words, mouth agape and the tips of your ears turning pink. Then, Logan smiles at you. A genuine smile. And like the gentleman that he was, he leans in to wipe off the smudges of left over icing on your cheeks.
"Holy shit." Garrett mutters. Interrupting the somewhat intense staring session Dean had just now. Dean turns to look at him with an exhasperated groan. "What?"
"Dude. You're jealous. Don't even deny it."
"No I'm not." Dean scoffs. Quickly glancing at the pair as he picks up a red cup from the counter. Taking a swig before chucking it near the overfilled bin, completely missing it as it lands on the outside.
He takes another look that would inevitably piss him off. Logan whispered something in your ear again that made you laugh. As he not so descreetly point to Dean with his cup.
Garrett starts to wheeze when he see's his friends face. Deciding to put an arm around him and give him some advice. "Just talk to her man. I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding."
Yet Dean could'nt stop looking at the couple. Garretts words going in one ear and coming out the other. Soon he's at a breaking point when he see's Logan lean in impossibly close. Without thinking, he pries away from Grarretts clutches and weaves his way through the crowd.
'Yeah. He's pissed.'
Garrett doesn't stop him, wanting to see what sort of Drama would unfold as Hannah joined his side. Also curious.
Both you and Logan looked up towards the distresses blonde. You were the first to speak up. Growing slightly concerned as Dean seemed to find it hard to say something. Chest heaving and sweat clinging to his skin. "Dean? You okay?"
Logan knew exacly why came over as he fought back a grin. He had an inclining that Dean had a crush on you. But had no reason to make a move unless he witnessed something he couldn't ignore. "Need something?"
"Yeah. You bet I have a fucking problem." Dean replies quick and sharp. Almost catching Logan offguard as the tall man in the khaki green costume reaches for you.
You let out a small gasp as Dean bends down to hook his hands under your thighs. Lifting you effortlessly infront of everyone. Stormy blue eyes staring down at Logan before turning on his heel. While you clung onto him, looking around frantically as your cheeks began to feel warm from everyone staring as Dean walks past to head for the stairs.
Some guests cheered Dean on while others murmured amongst themselves. Jules ofcourse, caught everything with their phone as Dean makes it up the stairs with ease. "Oh this is Gold. "
"Took him long enough." Logan muses while Garrett handed him a $20 bill. With Garrett adding in another comment with a breathy laugh. "Didn't know he had it in him."
"God -- I'm so gonna walk in on them making out on the kitchen counter tomorrow." Beau groans in annoyance. Once again traumatised by the whole ordeal. Also hands Logan the same ammount. Leaving only Tucker as the exempted one since he knew Dean would break at some point.
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