When Did You Get Hot?
Fraser Minten x female reader
mbf masterlist
a/n: he's so fine and cute he can multitask like crazy
wc: 2.9k (I'm sorry ik this one isnt short I got carried away !?)
The first time you saw Fraser Minten after the summer, you stopped walking. Not dramatically, not in a way that would tip him off immediately.
But enough that your friend had to lightly shoulder check you to keep you moving through the crowd of people drifting in and out of the convention hall.
“You good?” she asked, already half distracted by the music and the line of players set up along the far wall.
You were not good, you were, in fact, staring. Fraser stood near one of the sponsor banners, talking to two guys you vaguely recognized from development camp. He was holding a water bottle in one hand and laughing at something one of them said, head tipped back slightly, smile easy and unguarded, that alone should not have felt illegal.
The problem was that he did not look like Fraser Minten anymore, not exactly.
He still had the same face, technically. The same mouth, the same eyes, the same stupidly earnest expression he got whenever he was trying to seem more relaxed than he actually was.
But he had grown into all of it in a way your brain had clearly failed to prepare you for.
His shoulders were broader, his jaw looked sharper, his hair had gotten longer on top, falling in a way that made him look annoyingly composed for someone who used to trip over his own skates when he got excited.
And then there was the rest of it. The way his shirt sat on him, the way his forearms flexed when he lifted the water bottle, the way he looked older somehow, not just in the obvious “athlete with a full season behind him” sense, but in the more infuriating sense that made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.
You blinked once, then again, because apparently your eyes had stopped functioning correctly. Your friend noticed exactly none of your internal collapse and kept walking toward the player area, which meant you had no choice but to follow. By the time you got close enough to be in Fraser’s orbit, he had already looked up; his expression changed almost instantly.
Not into something dramatic, not a grin that would give you away, just a subtle shift of attention, like the rest of the room had softened behind you. Then his face did something worse.
It lit up. Not in a flashy, public, hockey player way. In a very Fraser way; open, genuine, slightly stunned, like he was actually happy to see you and had not thought about making that reaction less obvious.
That should have been comforting, it was not. “Hey,” he said, voice warm. You had the sudden and devastating realization that his voice had also gotten deeper.
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful timing for your body to discover that. “Hi,” you managed, which was so bare minimum that it should have been embarrassing.
Fraser laughed under his breath like he found that reaction charming. You hated how immediately that made your brain go blank.
Your friend, who had the emotional intelligence of a fish on heroin, looked between the two of you and then, because she apparently wanted to die young, said, “Oh, you two know each other?”
Fraser nodded before you could answer, “We grew up around the same people,” he said, and then looked at you in that quiet, attentive way he always had. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
A while was generous. You had seen him, technically, at a distance. In passing, on TV, on social media when someone tagged him in a post you definitely did not click on more than once. But in person, this version of him was unfair.
You tried to recover dignity from somewhere on the floor, “Yeah,” you said, still slightly breathless for reasons that were absolutely unrelated to staring at his arms. “I guess some people grow up.” Fraser’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. You immediately regretted saying that.
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile too much. You knew that look, it was the look he used when he was on the verge of teasing you and wanted to see if you were going to fold first.
He always did this, even when he was younger, even when you were both awkward and all nervousness and bad posture, Fraser had this irritating ability to look at you like he was in on a joke you hadn’t heard yet. Only now the joke seemed to be that he had somehow become devastatingly attractive without warning you.
One of the guys next to him smirked and muttered something under his breath before walking off, leaving the two of you with the awkward little pocket of space that always appeared when people noticed tension and thought better of stepping into it.
You considered fleeing immediately. Instead, because your nervous system had betrayed you, you stayed. Fraser glanced at the line of badges hanging around your neck, then back at your face, “You here with friends?” he asked.
You nodded, “Dragged here against my will, mostly.”
A faint laugh escaped him. You let your eyes travel once, quickly and catastrophically, over him again. The broad shoulders. The fitted team polo. The faint shadow of scruff along his jaw that made him look even more impossible.
The question popped out of your mouth before your brain could stop it, “When did you get hot?” The silence afterward was immediate and horrifying, it felt like your soul left your body.
Fraser stared at you, you stared at him. Somewhere in the distance, a sponsor rep laughed too loudly into a microphone.
Then Fraser’s expression changed in a way that made the whole room feel suddenly too bright. He smiled, slowly. Not smug, exactly, more like he had been personally handed a gift and was deciding whether to be gracious about it.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you.
“Wow,” he said, clearly trying not to laugh. “That bad?” You covered your face with one hand, “I did not mean to say that out loud.”
He only smiles, cocking his head to the side,“And yet?”
You think you might be blushing now, “You know what I meant.” You mumble defensively.
Fraser shrugs, smiling down at you, “I might need a little more detail.”
You groaned. Fraser, unfortunately, looked delighted.
He was having a completely unfair amount of fun with your suffering, which meant your humiliation had become his favorite form of entertainment, and that was so annoyingly on brand for him that it almost made the situation worse.
You lowered your hand and glared at him, “Don’t get weird about it.”
“I’m not the one who asked when I got hot." He was leaning against the barrier behind the table now, relaxed and easy in a way that did not match the way your entire brain had started glitching.
The worst part was that he was clearly aware of what he was doing to you; not maliciously, but still enough.
You could see it in the way he kept looking at you, not at all in a hurry to rescue you from your own comment; like he wanted to see how far you’d let this go, like he knew there was already something off balance in the room and wanted to enjoy it a little longer. You hated that you liked it.
“So,” he said at last, voice mild, “should I be offended I missed the memo?”
“You were a teenager,” you muttered. Fraser laughed properly then, and the sound did worse things to your stomach than the rest of him had. The line of people behind you moved, and your friend eventually realized she had wandered off into a universe of her own and drifted away with a cheerful, unconcerned wave that made you want to physically pursue her just to shake some sense into her.
Now it was just you and Fraser and the bright noise of the convention hall. The air between you felt charged in a way that was deeply unfair for a random afternoon in the middle of a hockey event.
He picked up his bottle again, took a sip, and watched you over the rim of it, “So what,” he asked, “I disappear for a bit and come back to get interrogated?”
“You did not just come back.”You scoff, shaking your head at his words.
His eyes narrowed just slightly. That seemed to entertain him more than anything else, “You’re right,” he said. “I was here the whole time. You just weren’t paying attention.”
That was a ridiculous thing to say Unfortunately, it also flustered you. Your face got warm, Fraser noticed immediately. Of course he did.
A few people drifted by behind you, phones out, asking for photos. Fraser handled it automatically, smiling, signing, nodding when he needed to, but even while he was doing all that, he kept catching your eye between interruptions like he was privately amused by your inability to stop looking at him.
Every time he returned his attention to you, the whole dynamic shifted again, tighter and more intimate than it had any right to be; and when the crowd thinned for a moment, he tilted his head toward the side exit, “You want to get out of here?”
The question was casual enough that you almost mistrusted it. You looked at him, he looked entirely too composed, “No,” you said carefully, “because that sounds like how people end up in situations they talk about later.”
His grin widened, just a little. You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was already losing the fight. He pushed off the table and gestured for you to follow him. You should have refused. You absolutely could have refused.
Instead, you followed him through a side corridor lined with closed doors and stacks of folded chairs, your heart beating with the weird, breathless speed it usually reserved for catastrophes and very specific bad decisions. Fraser led you into ana quieter lounge area near the back of the building, where the lights were softer and the noise from the convention hall dulled into a low murmur.
He leaned against the wall by the vending machines and folded his arms, and you became immediately aware of everything.
The width of his shoulders, the shape of his hands, the fact that he was taller than you remembered, or maybe just closer now, or maybe you were losing perspective because he had become a walking inconvenience to your nervous system.
“This is better,” he said. You let out a breath “Less likely to have witnesses, you mean.” Correcting him teasingly.
That tiny, crooked edge of a smile he had was making you reckless, or weaker. Probably weaker. You folded your arms too, trying to look less affected than you felt.
Fraser’s gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second and then lifted back up. It was such a quick, almost careless movement that you should have been able to ignore it.
You did not, your brain did the exact opposite of helping.
The problem with having known him for so long was that you could remember who he had been before all of this; the kid version. The one with the shy laugh and the earnest, concentrated way he used to talk about hockey like it was the only thing keeping him from floating off into space, the one who had always looked like he was trying to catch up to his own life.
And now here he was, all grown into himself in ways you had not been emotionally prepared to witness, “You’re staring again,” he said softly.
You nearly short-circuited, shaking your head defensively, “I am not.” Fraser looked at you with maddening calm, shrugging, “You are.” He insists.
That should have been enough to make you deny it again. Instead, you asked the question that had been sitting in the back of your throat since the moment you saw him.
“Did you do that on purpose?”
His expression shifted, just slightly, confused, or maybe pretending to be, “Do what?” He asks.
“This.” You gave him a vague gesture that covered everything from his shoulders to his face to the entire concept of his existence being inconveniently attractive. “The whole… whatever this is.”
Fraser’s mouth twitched, “Whatever this is? His gaze stayed on you, intent, quiet, way too steady, “I think you’re the one making it weird.” He finishes.
You inhaled sharply, affronted despite yourself, “Excuse me?” He pushed off the wall and took one step closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to make you acutely aware of the fact that he was choosing to stand there instead of anywhere else.
“You walked in,” he said, voice low and amused, “looked at me like you’d seen a ghost, and then asked when I got hot.” You had the decency to look away for a second, then he added, “I’m still recovering.”
That got a laugh out of you; you hated that too. Because the sound seemed to satisfy him in a way that made his eyes go softer, and suddenly the whole thing felt less like teasing and more like the beginning of a disaster.
Maybe he noticed the change too. His expression mellowed first, the humor still there but quieter now. He looked at you like he was considering something and hadn’t decided whether it was a good idea.
For once, he seemed a little less certain than usual, it made him even worse. You swallowed, staying silent, he took the opportunity to step closer again, and this time the movement mattered.
The air changed. Your chest did something inconvenient. He looked at you for a long moment, and the teasing faded until it was just a kind of open attention that made you forget how to behave, “When did you get so flustered?” he asked.
You scoffed weakly, shaking your head, “I am not flustered.”
Fraser’s smile turned knowing, “No?.” The worst part was that he said it like he liked the answer.
You tried to hold the stare, until it became harder than expected. Because suddenly his expression wasn’t just amusing anymore. There was a carefulness to it now, something quieter tucked underneath the humor, like he was enjoying the game, yes, but not enough to miss the fact that you’d gone suspiciously still.
His eyes dropped again, slower this time, to your mouth, then back up; there it was. Just enough to make your pulse kick sharply.
You could feel it in the space between you, the enormous, stupid thing neither of you was saying. The one that had probably been hiding under years of friendship, mutual comfort, and too many moments where you were both a little too aware of each other.
The quiet hum of the convention hall felt miles away, Fraser’s voice dropped lower, “If I keep standing this close,” he said, “are you going to get even more distracted?”
You should have had a clever answer, you did not. What you had was a breath that caught in your throat and a very strong urge to stop pretending this was about nothing.
His mouth curved, like he’d gotten exactly the reaction he wanted, “Thought so.” That was deeply unfair. And also, unfortunately, not the worst thing in the world.
You opened your mouth to recover some shred of dignity, Fraser beat you to it, “Come on,” he said, and the softness in his voice was new enough to make your brain stall. “Let’s get out of here before you say something else that ruins my cool guy act.”
That should not have sounded flirtatious. It did; it sounded like an invitation wrapped in a dare.
You stared at him, trying to decide whether he was serious, teasing, or some dangerous combination of both. Fraser had always been good at acting easy when something mattered. That was probably the only reason he got away with it now, “You’re impossible,” you muttered.
He looked almost pleased by that, “Yeah?” The word came out low, warm, and entirely too close to the edge of something else.
You should have stepped back. Instead, you stayed exactly where you were, pinned by his attention and the absurd new fact of him.
The lights in the lounge were dim enough to make the corners softer, the whole place feeling tucked away from the noise and the people and the parts of the day where you could still pretend this was just a reunion with a friend you had not seen in a while.
But standing in front of him now, with his gaze lingering on you like he had all the time in the world, pretending got difficult. Very difficult.
Your eyes dropped, almost against your will, to the line of his mouth. Fraser noticed.
His expression changed in a way that made your stomach clench hard enough to be annoying. Not smug this time. Not playful, either, but intentful.
Quietly, he shifted closer. You could feel the change before he even touched you, that electric little stretch in the air that made everything else disappear to the edges.
Neither of you spoke, the silence was doing far more damage than words would have.
Fraser’s hand lifted slowly, stopping just before your wrist, as if he was giving you room to move away if you wanted to. The gesture itself was so careful it nearly undid you.
Then his fingers brushed lightly against your hand. Barely anything, yet, enough. Your breath caught as his thumb traced once over your knuckles, gentle in a way that felt almost reckless given how loudly your heart was suddenly behaving.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he said.
You gave him a look that was supposed to be irritated and came out shaky instead, “You’re the one who started this.”
His mouth curved, just faintly, “I think you started it when you looked at me like that.”
He was still close. Closer now than he had any real right to be.
You could smell his cologne under the faint clean scent of detergent and summer air, could see the tiny freckle near his jaw that you were absolutely not going to think about later, could feel the heat of his hand without him even fully touching you.
The whole thing was becoming difficult to contain. The kind of difficult that made your thoughts go fuzzy around the edges. Fraser seemed to notice the same exact moment you stopped making any real effort to recover. He tilted his head, studying you with a look that made your stomach turn over once, “Are you going to tell me I’m imagining this?” he asked.
The question should have been easy, it should have been a joke. Instead, you felt your whole chest tighten because he sounded too calm, too honest, too aware of what he was asking. You swallowed, “No.”
That one word seemed to change the air. Fraser’s gaze held yours for a beat longer, like he was making absolutely sure he had heard you correctly. Then the faintest smile touched his mouth, not triumphant, not even particularly amused.
More relieved than anything else. He let out a breath through his nose, almost a quiet laugh, and looked down for a second like he needed it.
When he looked back up, his expression was softer than before, “You’ve been looking at me like this all night,” he said, and there was a little warmth in it now, a little disbelief. “I thought maybe I was getting ahead of myself.”
Your pulse kicked hard, “Fraser…”
He seemed to like the sound of his name in your mouth. That realization hit you right after you said it, which was unfortunate timing for your dignity. His gaze dropped to your lips again, and this time he didn’t bother pretending it was accidental.
For a second, neither of you moved, neither of you breathed right, either. The whole room felt suspended.
Then, just as his hand slid a little more securely around yours, a noise from the hallway broke the silence.
A laugh, footsteps, someone calling his name. The spell cracked instantly.
Fraser closed his eyes for the briefest second, like he was physically offended by the interruption.
You almost laughed. The corners of his mouth twitched when he looked back at you, and now the expression there was unmistakably annoyed, which somehow made him look even better than before.
“Of course,” he muttered. You weren’t sure whether he meant the interruption or his own timing, but you sympathized deeply with both. The hallway noise got closer, and Fraser finally stepped back half a pace, just enough to make room for the world again. But the air between you had already changed too much for that to matter.
