when the couple behind your table starts fighting.
will smith, macklin celebrini, connor bedard, fraser minten x reader
will smith
oh he is absolutely trained by his older sister. it's shocking how he's noticed before you. while his intuition when something... juicy and gossip-worthy is about to happen is uncanny, the way he still can't control his expression is painfully obvious.
he's mid-bite of the steak he cut up when his eyes dart behind you. he's immediately dialed in, eyes hilariously wide and focused. you glance over your shoulder to find what he's looking at. their table is tilted in such a way that you get a full scope of the scene.
the guy sits with both hands on the table, talking like he’s trying to carry the entire conversation on his own. across from him, the girl looks anywhere but at him, her responses short and barely there.
you think nothing of it at first, opting to focus on the food in front of you but the way will's eyes dart over your shoulder (more often that you'd like) makes you all the more curious about the scene behind you.
their food arrives, and whatever conversation he was trying to keep afloat dissolves. they eat in silence. every now and then, he looks up at her, offering small, hopeful smiles she doesn’t return.
finally, you turn to will and he's genuinely locked in, sitting slightly forward just to get a tiny bit of the couple's conversation. "will, are they fighting?" your voice is barely loud enough to hear over the restaurant's ambiance.
he looks at you like he's been waiting for you to say that. "oh my god you noticed too?" you let out a little laugh, "hard not to when you're dialed in on them like that. let's maybe not be too obvious, babe!" your foot nudges his under the table. he let's out his own laugh.
"no but i've been looking over there and that girl's been waiting on that table since we've sat down" he says through gritted teeth, eyes wide and shocked at the situation, your face mirrors his instantly and your hand goes up to cover your mouth. "fuck, seriously? what an ass. who even does that?"
"right?!" will's voice slips out loud enough that the table beside you looks at him, he offers them a short apology and clears his throat. "right?" he tries again, voice appropriately low this time.
you both fall into a quieter kind of watching after that, less obvious but no less invested. the girl finally sets her fork down, says something you can’t quite catch. and suddenly, she stands, grabs her bag, and walks out without looking back.
you and will exchange a look at the exact same time. “good for her,” you murmur.
“good for her,” he echoes, a little too satisfied, before catching himself and ducking his head with a grin. your foot nudges his again under the table, and this time he nudges back.
macklin celebrini
you notice it before he does. the mood of the table beside you is dark and brooding, distracting you from the shared pizookie you and mack have. you angle your head to hear the conversation between the couple. a lot of quiet back and forths.
he notices your inattentiveness when he doesn't hear you say anything about one of his teammates slipping on the ice in practice earlier. then he notices you're barely eating any of the dessert, your spoon just pushing it around more than anything.
his brows knit as he watches you, following the tilt of your head. clearly, he's bothered that your attention isn't on him. "what is it?" his spoon clinks yours to grab your attention.
you don't answer him just yet, eyes flicking to the table beside you.
“what?” he whispers, leaning in. “what’s going on?” your tongue clicks, head shaking slightly, like you’re trying not to get caught. “mack,” you murmur, barely moving your lips, trying not to get frustrated at his cluelessness “just— just listen.”
he frowns, clearly unsatisfied with that answer. “listen to what?”
your eyes roll behind your closed eyes, they open just to flick toward the table again “shh—” he exhales quietly through his nose, frustrated himself. but he listens. really listens this time.
mack's brows shoot up and he lets out a sound of realization, a little too loud for your liking. "mack—" you hiss and hit his spoon this time. you cough, a bit too fake but it's enough that the couple beside you doesn't notice that both of you are now leaning in on their argument.
he mutters a small apology as his lips press together and his eyes are wide—fully invested. the girl’s voice comes through a little clearer now that both of you are silent as a mouse.
the girl is undoubtedly irritated and all the more frustrated at the man in front of her. she says something about him never taking her seriously, about how every time she brings something up, he brushes it off like it’s a joke. the guy says something in response, low and defensive, and she immediately cuts him off.
the pizookie between you goes mostly untouched now, your spoons moving absentmindedly, more habit than hunger. every now and then, one of you takes a bite, but it’s not for the dessert anymore—it’s something to do while you listen, like buttered popcorn at a movie.
mack leans in closer, voice barely above a whisper. “he’s deflecting,” he says, way too serious about it.
you stifle a laugh. “i know, the audacity of this guy” you let out a scoff.
you both fall quiet again, listening like it’s the most important thing in the world.
a few minutes passes.
and then another.
you glance at your phone briefly, eyes widening just a little. “oh my god,” you whisper. “we’ve been here way longer than we planned.” your realization only deepens when the vanilla ice cream on top has now melted into a puddle of white.
your own boyfriend doesn’t even look at you, eyes still fixed past your shoulder. “in a minute,” he murmurs.
you stare at him in disbelief.
“i need to see how this ends.”
connor bedard
you've barely handed back the menu to the waiter before your ears perk at the sound of quiet screaming laced with frustration and disbelief. you look to your left to see a couple at the next table, the woman throwing her hands up in exasperation while the man fumbles to say something.
connor, with nothing else to do, follows your gaze. he understands immediately and he lets out a breath. he hums, dismissive. “couple fight. happens.”
a breath comes through your nose and you shake your head as you try and make sense of the situation, your hand even comes up so you can rest your chin there. "what the hell could they be fighting about," you mutter, more to yourself than anything.
connor reaches for his water as he leans back on his chair, "probably something stupid." but then the girl's voice is an octave higher and says something about him not having any more time for her, with practices early in the mornings until late at night, and his gear is all over their place.
your own boyfriend perks up, because even if the girl never explicitly said anything about hockey, it's undeniable that the guy across your table is an athlete.
“…no way,” he mutters, almost to himself. your eyebrows raise as you glance at him, already knowing.
his posture changes instantly—no more leaning back, no more letting whatever conversation was happening next to you go in one ear and out the other. he sets his glass down slowly, eyes widening slightly as he looks at you, properly this time.
“hey,” he says quickly, leaning forward, voice low but urgent. “i would never do that to you.”
you blink at him, a little lost on what he’s trying to say. “what?”
“i wouldn’t–” he cuts himself off and breathes out heavily, like he's trying to calm himself down. “like... early practices—sure i can't control that—but I wouldn’t just… leave my stuff out everywhere and also ignore you. that’s—no.” he shakes his head, almost offended at the idea. “that’s bad.. really bad.”
you laugh at his internal panic. “oh my god connor,” you whisper, half amused, “no one said you would.”
he puts his hands up in mock surrender, “i’m just saying,” he continues anyway, “i wouldn’t do that.”
before you could provide any more assurance, the guy on the other table speaks up, his expression is annoyed more than anything and says that she should have seen it coming and that she knew what she was signing up for.
"what the fuck?" there's an incredulous look to connor's face and his head shakes in disbelief, you can't help but mirror his own disbelief with a hand over your open mouth.
the next few minutes pass with him barely touching his food. his fork only moves to push the vegetables around his plate.
“…he’s deflecting,” he whispers suddenly, leaning forward just a little.
you blink at him but nod in agreement “he is.”
"which means he's guilty." he adds, finally putting some food in his mouth, like he's sure of what he's saying.
"of what exactly?"
"of being wrong? of being an absolute trash of a boyfriend and man—if he even is one."
you turn back to him, eyebrows raised. “oh so you know them now?”
“i can tell,” he insists, leaning in a little more as his shoulders shrug, voice dropping like he’s breaking down post-game footage. “look at her, she’s not even surprised. she’s just… done.”
right on cue, theres an abrupt screeching noise from the table beside you, the girl's chair moves as she stands up.
you watch as his entire posture changes, sitting up straighter now, completely dialed in. his fork is abandoned on the plate as his hands come together, preparing for the worst.
“wait–wait, this is where it gets good,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. and you stare at him in pure amusement "you're acting like this is a live game or something."
"because it is." he shoots back quietly, not even bothering to look at you. "incredibly high stakes here."
a string of profanities leaves her mouth as she reaches for her glass and throws the contents of it over her now ex-boyfriend.
"oh my god.." you and connor say at the same time, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them
the entire table—and restaurant goes still. the guy looks completely stunned, water dripping from his hair and collar, while she stands there—chest rising and falling, hands shaking just slightly as her hand forms as fist.
connor slowly leans back in his chair, both hands coming up to rest on his head like he just witnessed the craziest play of his life.
“no way,” he breathes out, half in disbelief, half in awe.
“that was absolute cinema.”
fraser minten
you're halfway through putting a forkful of pasta in your mouth when you notice it. the uncomfortable kind of silence and the intimidating aura radiating from the table behind fraser.
you notice the way the guy’s fork scrapes a little too loudly against his plate. the way the girl hasn’t touched her drink. then suddenly, a sharp exhale and a serious, irritated look comes from her.
your eyes widen as you lean in closer, trying to make sense of the situation.
“…not what i'm trying to say,” the guy mutters.
“then what are you trying to say?” she shoots back, harsh yet quiet.
across from you, your boyfriend is focused on his food. he's getting his last chew of his chicken when he notices your line of sight falls behind him.
"what?" he says a little too loudly as he looks directly at the couple's table.
your feet moves quickly to kick at his shin. "don't make it too obvious!" you say through gritted teeth.
you both overcompensate by looking down at your food and picking at it. thankfully, the couple is too absorbed in their own fight that they paid no mind to both of you.
both of you remain quiet after that, with fraser taking quick glances behind him sometimes craning his head to hear their fight better.
gradually, you see his expression shift from confusion to a slight irritation.
"i have to go." he says with the kind of urgency that's almost worrying.
you don't get a single word in when he's already pushing his chair back as he makes a beeline towards the bathroom, which is coincidentally right past their table.
you watch him go, narrowing your eyes slightly as he just so happens to slow down near them, head tilting the slightest bit.
“unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath.
he's gone longer than necessary.
when he finally comes back, he doesn’t even try to act normal, sliding into his seat with a look that says everything.
you don’t even bother easing into it "what did you hear?” you lean in close, grabbing his sleeve.
"no—genuinely you cannot make this shit up babe," your boyfriend laughs to himself, knowing what he's about to say is absurd.
“he turned his phone off during his game without telling her beforehand,” he explains. “i think she was checking in because she didn’t know where he was or if something went wrong. totally reasonable, right?”
you nod along.
“and then, he got annoyed at the messages instead of... i don't know—understanding why she was sending them?!” fraser's voice heightens and the tension in his body is visible as he continues.
“so now he’s saying stuff like she’s the problem for not ‘knowing he’d be busy.’” the last part he air quotes with all the sarcasm in his body, eyes rolling.
you scoff at the audacity of the man, eyes flickering to him. "yeah he seems like the type," your head shakes in disappointment.
"hmm," your boyfriend hums in agreement. "you don't get to disappear on someone like that and then get mad when they react and get worried." he shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and it is. but it apparently is not for the man in the table next to yours.
suddenly, you start to make sense of the situation, and how silly it is (at least from your perspective)
because how can fraser know all this?
you barely know the couple. you've caught maybe half a dozen of cut-off conversations at most. and yet he manages to get a full narrative before the clock's even had the chance to change the hour.
you eyes narrow a him just a little and he notices, he shifts in his seat like he's the one in trouble now.
"how do you know all this frase?"
he shrugs and looks down, seeming guilty. "i listened when i went to the bathroom."
"right..." you trail off, waiting for him to say anything else. he doesn't.
"you barely passed by their table though?" your head tilts, catching his eyes for a moment.
"i may have... stayed back to listen to the servers gossip." he confesses, muttering the last part like he's admitting to a crime.
you stare at him, deadpan. "fraser,,, babe."
"what?" he replies quickly as he straightens a little and finally makes eye contact with you. "it wasn't my fault they were loud enough for me to hear!'
you shake your head, a laugh slipping out despite yourself. “you’re unbelievable.”
he shrugs, completely unbothered now and he smiles at himself. "this is peak citizen journalism, babe."
notes: i HAD to get this out today. also.. got suddenly invited to a summit/seminar thing WHEN HALF MY STUFF IS AT HOME SO IM DOING WITH WHAT I HAVE IN MY DORM. which means i wrote this on my ipad and phone. no one gets to judge me if its buns 🥹✌️
Hiii!!! I was wondering if you can do a reaction fic with Macklin, Connor, Fraser, and Will of how they would react to reader sleeping on the couch after a argument
back to bed
pairings: macklin celebrini, will smith, fraser minten, connor bedard x reader
summary: arguing with you is bad, but seeing you on the couch is worse
warnings: fluff
wc: 1.5k
MACKLIN CELEBRINI
the argument doesn't even feel that big now. it had started over something small -- him being late again, you feeling like hockey always came first. words were sharper than either of you meant them to be. and mack...he's competitive. on the ice, sure, but off it as well. he doesn't back down easily. not when he thinks he's right.
so when you grab a blanket and a pillow and head for the couch, he thinks you're being dramatic.
"seriously?" he calls from the hallway, frustration still lingering in his voice. "you're not actually sleeping out here."
you don't answer.
the apartment is quiet except for the soft rustle of you settling in. mack stands there for a minute, jaw tight, arms crossed. he hates losing arguments, hates feeling misunderstood more.
but what he hates most? the silence.
he lasts about five minutes in the bedroom before he exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair. he replays everything in his head -- your expression, the way your voice wavered at the end. he's good at reading plays developing on the ice, but he'd not always as quick at reading emotions.
still, he tries.
when he walks into the living room, you're already half-asleep, curled up on the couch, blanket barely covering you. you look smaller somehow. not stubborn, not dramatic, just hurt. his chest tightens at the sight of you.
"hey," he says softly, kneeling beside the couch.
you don't move.
he sighs, guilt finally outweighing pride. "i'm sorry, okay? i shouldn't have snapped at you. i just-" he pauses, searching for words like he's searching for an opening. "i don't ever want you thinking hockey matters more than you. it doesn't."
your eyes flutter open, glassy with sleep. "you could've just said that," you mumble.
"i know." he gives you that crooked, sheepish grin -- the one he's caught using all the time when he knows he's messed up. "i'm still working on the whole communication thing."
he gently tugs the blanket higher around your shoulders. "come back to bed?"
you hesitate for a second.
and that's when he does something very earnest, and direct. he rests his forehead against yours lightly. "i don't like sleeping without you," he admits quietly. "it feels wrong."
the sincerity in his voice melts the last of your resistance. for all his competitiveness, for all his intensity, when it comes to you? he chooses you every time.
WILL SMITH
you don't mean to fall asleep. you told yourself you were just going to lie down on the couch for a minute -- just until the sting of the argument fades, just until the tight feeling in your chest loosens. the tv is off, the apartment is too quiet. you hug one of the throw pillows to your chest and stare at nothing.
you hear the bedroom door open down the hall. will doesn't slam doors. he never has, even when he's frustrated, he's always controlled. intense, but controlled.
his footsteps pause when he sees you. he stands there for a moment, arms folded over, replaying the argument in his head. the stubborn back and forth, both of you refusing to give up. will hates unresolved tension. on the ice, problems are solved fast -- once the short shift's over, move on. but this? this lingers.
"c'mon," he says softly, stepping closer. "you're gonna wreck your neck out here."
you stir on the couch, still refusing to wake. his expression shifts completely then -- the frustration from earlier melting away completely. the steady, dependable energy he always carried with himself at the rink slips into place here. he kneels beside the couch and brushes your hair away from your face.
"i don't like fighting with you," he admits quietly, even though you can't hear him. "you know that."
when you shiver slightly, he doesn't hesitate anymore. he slides one arm under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you easily. he's careful with you, like you're something precious he doesn't want to mishandle.
you blink awake halfway down the hall. "will...?"
"yeah," he murmurs. "i've got you."
you bury your face into his shoulder automatically. he sets you down on the bed instead of retreating to his side. he sits beside you, thumb brushing slow circles against your arm.
"we can be mad," he says quietly. "but don't sleep out there."
there's no sense of ego in his voice, just sincerity. he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
"we'll figure out everything in the morning. together."
FRASER MINTEN
the apartment is quiet in that heavy, stubborn way that only happens after an argument. you're curled up on the couch, wrapped in the throw blanket you always steal from his side of the bed. the lights are low, and you'd told yourself you didn't care if he noticed you weren't in bed.
you absolutely care.
the bedroom door opens softly down the hall. you hear his footsteps -- slow, and hesitant. fraser isn't the type to slam doors or raise his voice, even during the argument. he'd just stay frustratingly calm, hands on his hips, jaw tight.
now he stands at the edge of the living room, taking you in.
knowing he was staring at you, you don't turn over to look at him. "i'm fine."
there's a pause. you can practically feel him thinking. he runs a hand through his hair -- he always does that when he's trying to figure out what he needs to do.
"you're not fine," he says quietly. "you're on the couch."
you shrug. "didn't want to bother you."
that makes him sigh in a soft and controlled manner, but still hurt. he walks over and crouches beside the couch so he's eye level with you. his voice loses its edge.
"you don't bother me. ever."
you finally glance at him. his expression isn't angry anymore, it's worried. fraser's steady like that -- he cools down fast, but he hates the distance. he hates feeling like there's a space between you.
"i don't like fighting with you," he admits. "but i like you out here by yourself and uncomfortable even less."
you swallow. "you were mad."
"i was frustrated," he correct gently. "there's a difference."
his hand brushes yours, tentative at first, then firmer when you don't pull away. reassuring in a quiet way that was warm and solid.
"come back to bed," he murmurs. "we can still be annoyed at each other. we just don't have to do it in different rooms."
a tiny smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. "that's your solution?"
"it's a good one," he says, almost defensive, but softer now. "we're a team. teams don't split up over one bad moment."
that does it. you sit up slowly, and he immediately stands, holding the blanket out like it's part of the negotiation. when you step into his space, he wraps his arms around you without hesitation, resting his chin on your head.
"i'm sorry," his whispers.
you nod against his chest.
he presses a small kiss to your hair. "next time, you're not allowed to sleep on the couch otherwise i'll just follow you out here."
CONNOR BEDARD
the argument had been stupid. you both knew it. it started over something small -- him being late again with practice running long, and his phone dying. it built into something bigger. you'd crossed your arms. he'd gone quiet, eyes distant like he was replaying a moment he wished he could redo.
now you're curled up on the couch, blanket half-draped over you. you don't hear him at first. connor moves quietly, almost cautiously. he stands there for a second, just looking at you.
you look uncomfortable. your neck bent at an awkward angle, one hand tucked under your cheek. he exhales through his nose. "really?" he mutters softly to himself.
he disappears down the hall, and for a second you think he's just going to leave you there. he comes back with your favourite hoodie of his, and another blanket. he drapes them over you carefully, trying not to wake you.
you stir anyway.
"go to bed," you mumble, eyes barely open.
he rubs the back of his neck. "i was going to tell you the same thing."
silence lingers. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other -- nervous energy, and a restless movement.
"i hate it when we fight," he says finally, voice quieter than usual. "i'm not...great at it."
you sit up slightly, the blanket falling into your lap. "you kind of shut down."
"yeah." he gives a small, sheepish huff. "i know. i just- when things get heated, i don't wanna say something stupid. so i don't say anything. which is...also stupid."
despite yourself, you almost smile. he closes the space between you, meeting your eyes. there's something earnest about him, something genuine and sincere.
"you sleeping out here isn't fixing anything," he says gently. "if you're mad, be mad at me in our bed. don't freeze yourself out here."
he reaches for your hand, squeezing it. his grip is warm and steady.
"i'll try to be better at talking," he adds. "you deserve that."
and the way he looks at you -- focused and determined, like you're the only thing that matters -- you know he means it.
SUMMARY: When you overhear Fraser admitting that being in a relationship has made his life more complicated, you leave before hearing the rest of the conversation—and convince yourself that the person you love regrets ever choosing you.
Requested: Fraser Minten + where you overhear a conversation and think your partner regrets your relationship
You hadn’t meant to listen.
That was the part you kept repeating to yourself afterward, as if it somehow made the ache in your chest less humiliating.
You hadn’t followed Fraser into the hallway. You hadn’t pressed your ear against the door or deliberately hidden around a corner, waiting to hear something private.
You had simply been looking for him.
The apartment was louder than usual, crowded with Fraser’s teammates and a handful of their girlfriends, everyone gathered for a casual dinner that had quickly turned into drinks, cards, and heated arguments over which movie should be playing in the background.
You had spent most of the evening beside Fraser, your thigh pressed against his on the couch while his fingers absentmindedly traced circles against your knee.
He had been affectionate, normal, he had kissed your temple when he got up to refill his drink and squeezed your shoulder as he passed behind you.
Nothing about him had suggested that anything was wrong, that was why the words hit so hard.
You were walking toward the kitchen when you heard his voice coming from the small hallway near the laundry room. You slowed automatically, thinking you had found him “I don’t know,” Fraser said quietly. “Sometimes I think everything would’ve been easier if I hadn’t gotten into a serious relationship so young.”
You stopped.
Completely.
Your hand remained suspended near the kitchen doorway, one of his teammates replied, but his voice was too low for you to understand.
Fraser gave a humorless laugh “It’s just complicated now. Everything I do affects someone else. Every decision. Every move. I can’t only think about myself anymore.”
Your stomach dropped, you should have kept listening, you should have stepped into the hallway and asked what he meant, you should have trusted him enough to hear the entire conversation.
Instead, your brain latched onto one sentence.
Everything would’ve been easier if I hadn’t gotten into a serious relationship so young, you backed away before either of them could notice you.
The room seemed unbearably loud when you returned to it. Someone laughed from the couch. A glass clinked against the counter. The television played a scene no one was watching.
You sat down in the same spot you had occupied before, pressing your hands between your knees so nobody would notice them shaking.
Fraser regretted you, maybe not you specifically, maybe he still cared about you.
But he regretted the relationship, he regretted the responsibility, he regretted having to consider you when he made decisions about his career and his future.
Suddenly, every conversation from the past few months replayed itself differently, the times he had discussed where he might be playing next season, the nights he had worried about being sent somewhere new, the way he had hesitated when you mentioned that you could potentially relocate your work if necessary.
You had thought he was concerned about uprooting your life.
Now you wondered whether he simply didn’t want you following him, maybe he wanted the freedom to go wherever hockey took him without having to worry about a girlfriend waiting at home, maybe you had become an obligation.
A complication.
Someone else he was forced to think about “Hey.” you jumped when Fraser sat beside you, he frowned immediately “You okay?”
“Yeah.” the response left your mouth too quickly.
Fraser’s eyes moved across your face, studying you with the same focus he usually reserved for game footage “You sure?”
You forced a smile “Just tired.”
His expression softened “We can leave soon.”
“No, it’s okay. You’re having fun.”
“I’m having fun because you’re here.” the words made your throat tighten, you looked away before he could see your eyes beginning to sting, Fraser rested his hand on your thigh “You want me to get your coat?”
You wanted to ask him, you wanted to turn toward him and say, Do you regret me?
But there were people everywhere, and your pride refused to let you break down in front of them “I think I might head home,” you said instead. “You should stay.”
His hand stilled “Without me?”
“You don’t have to leave because I’m tired.”
“I’m not letting you go home alone when something’s clearly wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
Fraser leaned closer “You haven’t looked at me once since I sat down.”
You finally met his eyes, the concern in them nearly broke you “I just have a headache.” he clearly didn’t believe you, but after a brief pause, he nodded “Okay. Let me grab our stuff.”
“You don’t have to come.”
“I know.”
His answer was gentle “I want to.”
The drive back to Fraser’s apartment was painfully quiet, he kept glancing at you from the driver’s seat, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel every time you turned your face toward the window.
Usually, you filled the silence.
You talked about something funny someone had said, complained about the song playing on the radio, or rested your hand on his thigh while he drove. Tonight, you folded your arms over your stomach and stared at the lights passing outside.
Fraser didn’t push, that almost made it worse.
He waited until you were inside the apartment, until the door had closed behind him and the quiet had settled around you then he placed the keys on the entry table and turned toward you “Talk to me.”
“I told you, I have a headache.”
“And I told you I know when you’re lying.” you flinched, Fraser’s face softened instantly “Sorry, that came out wrong.”
He stepped closer, but you moved away before he could touch you, the hurt that crossed his face was immediate “Did I do something?”
You looked down at your shoes “No.”
“Did someone say something to you?”
You swallowed “No.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Something happened.” His voice remained calm, but the worry underneath it was becoming more obvious. “You were fine, and then I came back into the room and you looked like you were trying not to cry.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You are now.” you wiped at your cheek quickly, frustrated when your fingers came away wet, Fraser took another cautious step toward you “Please.”
The quiet desperation in his voice made it impossible to keep pretending, you drew in an unsteady breath “Do you regret being with me?”
Fraser froze, for a moment, he said nothing at all, then his eyebrows pulled together “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I did. I just don’t understand why you’re asking.”
You laughed weakly, but there was no humor in it “You don’t have to pretend.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“I heard you.” Fraser’s confusion slowly shifted into realization, your chest tightened as you watched him piece it together “In the hallway,” you continued. “You said everything would’ve been easier if you hadn’t gotten into a serious relationship so young.”
His lips parted “You heard that?”
“I wasn’t trying to listen. I was looking for you, and then I heard my boyfriend telling someone that his life would be easier if he was single.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It was exactly what you said.”
“It’s part of what I said.”
You shook your head and turned away “I don’t want you to explain it just because I caught you.”
Fraser stepped in front of you before you could walk past him “I’m not explaining it because you caught me. I’m explaining it because you left before hearing the rest.”
“I heard enough.”
“No.” His voice sharpened slightly, not with anger, but urgency. “You didn’t.”
Your chin trembled despite your efforts to remain composed “You said being with me made everything complicated.”
“It does.” the honesty felt like another blow, you stared at him, Fraser immediately reached for your hands, but you pulled them back “Let me finish,” he pleaded.
You blinked rapidly “Fraser—”
“Being with you does make things more complicated.” his voice softened “Because I love you.” you stopped breathing, he moved closer, slowly enough to give you time to step away, you didn’t “When I was younger, every decision was mine,” Fraser said. “I could go wherever I was told. I could change teams, change cities, change everything, and the only person who had to deal with it was me.”
He rubbed a hand over his face “But now I have you. And I don’t mean that like you’re a burden. I mean I have someone I want to build a life with.” you looked at him uncertainly “The conversation wasn’t about whether I regretted you,” he continued. “It was about how scary it is knowing my career could affect your entire life.”
“Then why did you say it would be easier if you hadn’t gotten into a relationship?”
“Because it would be easier.” your eyes dropped, Fraser gently lifted your chin before you could turn away again “Easier isn’t better.”
His eyes searched yours “Being alone would be easier. I wouldn’t have to worry about whether you’re happy in a new city. I wouldn’t have to wonder if you’re sacrificing too much for me. I wouldn’t have to think about apartments with enough space for both of us or whether you can find work nearby or how long I can stand being away from you.”
His thumb brushed beneath your eye “But I also wouldn’t have you.”
Your lips trembled “What did you say after I left?”
Fraser’s expression broke “I said I wouldn’t change it.” the room went silent “I told him that, yeah, my life was simpler before you,” Fraser said. “But it wasn’t half as good. I said you’re the best thing that’s happened to me and that every complicated part is worth it because I get to come home to you.”
A sob escaped you before you could stop it, Fraser immediately wrapped his arms around you, this time, you let him, you buried your face against his chest, gripping the back of his shirt as the panic and shame of the past hour finally spilled out “I thought you wanted me gone,” you cried.
“No.” his arms tightened around you “Never.”
“I thought I was holding you back.”
“You’re not.”
“You said every decision affects me.”
“Because it does,” he murmured into your hair. “And because I care about how those decisions affect you.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him “What if you do get tired of it?”
Fraser frowned “Of what?”
“Having to consider me. Having to worry about me every time something changes.”
His hands settled against your cheeks “I’m not being forced to consider you. I choose to.” he wiped away your tears with both thumbs “I want to know what you think. I want to know what you need. I want my decisions to include you because I want my future to include you.”
You looked at him for several seconds, searching for any hesitation, there was none, only fear, not fear of being trapped, fear that you still didn’t believe him “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I should’ve asked you instead of assuming.”
“You were hurt.”
“I didn’t even give you a chance to explain.”
Fraser shook his head “I probably should’ve explained this to you before discussing it with someone else.”
“You’re allowed to talk to your friends.”
“I know, but you should know how I feel too.” his fingers slid gently into your hair “I’ve been worried about next season, about where I’ll be and what that means for us.” you tensed, Fraser noticed immediately “Not because I’m questioning us,” he clarified. “Because I don’t want you constantly changing your plans for mine.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know you don’t. That’s what scares me.”
You blinked.
“You would follow me anywhere, wouldn’t you?”
You hesitated “Yes.”
Fraser gave you a small, sad smile “And I love you for that, but I never want you to wake up one day and realize you gave up everything you wanted just to fit into my life.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“But we still need to talk about it. Together.” his thumb stroked your cheek “I don’t want you following behind me, i want us making decisions side by side.”
The tears returned, quieter this time “You really don’t regret us?”
Fraser stared at you as though the question physically hurt him, then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours “I regret that you heard the one sentence that could make you believe that.” his nose brushed yours “I regret not noticing you were there.”
He kissed one tear from your cheek “I regret that you spent even one minute thinking I didn’t want you.” another kiss, this time near the corner of your mouth “But I have never regretted loving you.”
You closed your eyes, Fraser kissed you gently, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was soft, lingering, and careful, like he was trying to pour every reassurance he couldn’t articulate into the space between you.
When he pulled away, he kept his forehead against yours “You’re not a complication,” he whispered. “You’re the reason the complicated parts matter.”
You let out a watery laugh “That was disgustingly sweet.”
“I’ve had a stressful night.”
“You had a stressful night?”
“My girlfriend looked at me like I broke her heart, wouldn’t let me hold her hand in the car, and then asked if I regretted her.” his arms tightened around your waist “I nearly died.”
Despite everything, you laughed again, Fraser’s shoulders relaxed at the sound “There she is,” he murmured.
“I’m still upset.”
“You’re allowed.”
“And embarrassed.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“I almost cried in front of all your teammates.”
“You did cry in front of me.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve seen me cry over a dog food commercial.”
“That dog looked hungry.”
“He had an entire bowl of food.”
“He looked emotionally hungry.”
You gave him a disbelieving look, Fraser smiled, but it faded after a moment “Promise me something.”
“What?”
“If you ever hear me say something that hurts you, don’t leave before I can explain.”
You looked down “I’ll try.”
He gently tipped your face back toward him “And I’ll try not to have life-changing relationship conversations in hallways during parties.”
“That would help.”
“Deal.”
He kissed your forehead “Come sit with me?”
Fraser guided you toward the couch, sitting down before pulling you carefully into his lap. You curled against him, your head resting beneath his chin while his hand rubbed slowly up and down your back.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke, the apartment felt different now, not perfectly repaired, perhaps, but safe again “What exactly were you talking about?” you asked quietly.
Fraser exhaled “Someone asked whether I was nervous about not knowing where I’ll be long-term.”
“And you are?”
“A little.” his fingers traced a line along your spine “I can handle uncertainty when it’s just hockey. It’s harder when I’m trying to plan a life with you at the same time.”
You lifted your head “You’re planning a life with me?”
He looked almost offended “Obviously.”
“You’ve never actually said that.”
“I assumed the drawer full of your clothes and the fact that you know my mother’s coffee order made it clear.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
Fraser studied you before reaching for your left hand, he played with your fingers, his thumb brushing over the empty space below your knuckle, your heart stumbled “I’m not proposing tonight,” he said quickly.
You stared at him “I wasn’t—”
“You looked terrified.”
“I looked surprised.”
“You looked like you were about to fall off the couch.”
“I’m sitting on you.”
“Exactly. Very difficult to fall from this position.” you lightly shoved his shoulder, Fraser smiled before becoming serious again “I’m not proposing tonight,” he repeated. “But when I picture where all of this is going, that’s what I see.”
You looked down at your joined hands “Marriage?”
“Eventually.”
“Kids?”
His cheeks turned faintly pink “If you want them.”
“A house?”
“With a kitchen you’ll complain is too small even if it’s enormous.”
“I need counter space.”
“I know.”
“And a dog.”
“Now you’re getting demanding.”
You narrowed your eyes “Fraser.”
“Yes, a dog.”
You settled back against his chest, warmth replacing the cold ache that had consumed you earlier “Maybe things would be easier alone,” you admitted, his arms tightened instinctively “But easier isn’t better,” you added.
Fraser kissed the top of your head “No.”
You listened to his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady, familiar, home “I don’t want easy if it means I don’t get you,” you whispered.
His breath caught slightly, then he tucked you closer, until there was barely any space left between you “You won’t have to find out what that’s like.”
“You can’t promise that nothing will ever change.”
“No,” Fraser said. “But I can promise that I’ll talk to you when it does.”
You nodded “And I promise I’ll stay long enough to hear the whole conversation.”
“That would be appreciated.”
You tilted your head back “Even when you’re saying stupid things in hallways.”
“Especially then.”
He leaned down and kissed you again, later, after the tears had dried and the two of you had changed into pajamas, Fraser refused to let you sleep on your usual side of the bed. He pulled you directly against him, one arm tucked beneath your head and the other wrapped firmly around your waist “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” he whispered into the darkness.
You traced the seam of his shirt with your fingertip “I know now.” He was quiet for a moment, then he pressed a kiss to your hair “For the record, I don’t regret getting serious young.”
“No?”
“No.” His hand moved slowly along your back. “It just means I get more time with you.”
Your eyes burned again “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Happy tears?”
“Maybe.”
“I can live with those.” You shifted closer, pressing your face against his neck, Fraser held you until your breathing slowed and the last pieces of fear finally loosened their grip.
Life with him might never be simple.
There would be trades, travel, distance, hard decisions, and conversations neither of you knew how to have yet, but as you fell asleep in his arms, you understood what Fraser had been trying to say.
Love had complicated everything and neither of you would have chosen differently.
Will: here’s a picture of my college harem, isn’t this summer fun? 🤩😇
Mack, on his fourth dose increase of Prozac since February, alternating shifts with Minty to make sure Bedsy doesn’t jump off the roof of Paradox Vancouver: sure…fun…
Summary: “Are you wearing a wedding dress?” – or the one where Fraser offers to drive a drunk girl home, and aside from being a total mess, she’s also quite cute.
Pairing: Fraser Minten x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
Word count: 11.7k
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ eventual smut in future parts. read chapter specific warnings. minimal use of Y/N. for this part: mature language, alcohol, reader has had rough night, girls being mean, mentions of a breakup and a shitty ex-boyfriend. otherwise this is very fluffy and Fraser is a sweetheart.
A/N: please tell me what you think and if you have any ideas or theories for future parts!! i'm so excited to start this!! ◡̈
PART ONE┃Ballerina Out of Control
Oliver’s place was too loud for a night that wasn’t supposed to be anything serious. Fraser should’ve known that before he even stepped inside. It didn’t really matter what the plan was; it always ended the same way. Too many voices stacked on top of each other, too much energy in a space that wasn’t quite built to hold it.
It came with the job, he guessed. After all, he was in a team full of players and personnel who did not know how to keep the volume down—even for a simple night gathered around the PlayStation and a couple of cases of beer.
Fraser had been ready to leave an hour ago.
He sat stretched out at the end of the couch, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, a soda can resting loosely in his hand. The condensation had long since dried, the drink inside gone warm and flat, but he hadn’t bothered to replace it. Or even finish it.
Across the room, someone shouted over a missed play from last week’s preseason game against Philadelphia, already halfway into a reenactment no one had asked for. A controller clattered to the floor. Laughter followed, loud and effortless.
Fraser didn’t really look.
He shifted in his seat slightly, letting his gaze drift instead of fixing on anything in particular. It was a habit he never quite turned off—the constant, quiet awareness. Who was moving. Who was too close to knocking something over. Which conversation was about to turn into something louder than it needed to be. Or maybe even an argument.
Hockey brain. That’s what Oliver called it at least—their assistant strength and conditioning coach. How some players always watched and anticipated people’s moves. It probably made Fraser better at what he did, but it also made it awfully difficult to relax in rooms like this. He couldn’t be in the noise without absorbing it.
Tonight, it simply felt like too much.
His thumb traced absently along the rim of the can as he mused, already thinking about the quiet of his apartment. The dark. The feeling of being completely alone in a space where he felt comfortable.
The sound of gentle steps coming down the stairs cut through his thoughts.
Miriam appeared at the top of the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the railing as she made her way down slowly, like testing her patience before fully committing to being in the chaos of the living room.
Fraser hadn’t even known she was home. He found himself wondering how long she’d been upstairs.
She reached the bottom step and paused there briefly, scanning the room.
She had one of Oliver’s hoodies pulled over her, sleeves swallowing her hands, the fabric hanging loose around her frame. There was a flush high on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the lighting, and even from across the room, Fraser could see the faint sheen at her temples.
She looked sick. Like, not in a cool way, but actually ill.
Oliver noticed her at the exact same time. He was on his feet before she’d taken another step, his entire focus shifting like someone had flipped a switch.
“How’s the fever, babe?” His voice dropped without him thinking about it, a soft and gentle tone very unlike his usual high-pitched laughter.
Fraser had seen it before.
Oliver was loud and easygoing, the kind of guy who filled a room without trying—but when it came to Miriam, everything narrowed. The rest of the world dimmed around her, at least for Oliver.
The team had given him hell for it at first. Endless chirping, disbelief that Oliver—who couldn’t keep a girl around for more than a few weeks—had somehow ended up completely, undeniably gone for someone. Once they had gotten to know Miriam, though, it just sort of made sense that it would be her he fell for.
Miriam gave a small shrug, the movement slow, like it took more effort than it should have. “Still a fever, I think.”
Fraser found himself sitting a little straighter without meaning to, his attention locking in. Had Oliver really invited all the boys over while his girlfriend was sick? Maybe he was worse of a boyfriend than he got credit for.
“We weren’t too loud, right?” Oliver added quickly, glancing toward the living room like he was only just now registering the volume.
“No, no. It’s fine.” Miriam shook her head. “I just need some of the guys to move their cars so I can get mine out.”
There was a beat of silence—just enough for Oliver to turn confused. He blinked at her. “I’m not letting you drive when you’re sick.”
“But Y/N called,” she said, pushing a hand through her hair before tugging the sleeve back down over her fingers. “I need to pick her up from Club Satine. She’s, like, drunk and sad and other totally reasonable emotions.”
“Star is drunk? I’d pay to see that,” Oliver said, a grin pulling at his mouth.
“Don’t laugh at her, Oliver,” Miriam sighed. “She’s having a hard time, and you know that.”
Oliver held up his hands in surrender, his grin easing into something gentler. “Still don’t think you should drive with a fever, sweetheart.”
Miriam exhaled, a frustrated sound, already reaching for her phone like she was about to solve the problem herself if no one else would.
Fraser watched her for a second longer than he meant to. The slight shift in her stance made it like her balance wasn’t quite steady. The way she pressed her lips together, holding back either an argument or another sigh.
He didn’t know who this Star was. Just a nickname he’d heard a few times before. But she was someone Miriam cared about enough to leave home, like this, while she was sick, just to make sure she got home safe. That kind of told him enough.
“I can probably drive her home, if you want,” Fraser heard himself say.
“You’d do that?” Miriam lit up.
Fraser shrugged, setting the can down on the table with a quiet click as he pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah. I mean, I was thinking of calling it a night, and Satine is practically on my way.”
It wasn’t really.
But it was close enough for it to sound reasonable. And more importantly, it sounded easy. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t already reaching for his keys and had been desperate for an excuse to leave anyway. Might as well make it useful.
“Oh, Frase. You’re a lifesaver. I owe you one. Big time.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he stepped around the coffee table. “Big time? Am I going to regret this?”
“No, no,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “She’s my little cousin and a total saint. And you can invoice Oliver if she makes a mess of your car.”
“Hey—” Oliver cut in, but there was no real protest behind it.
Fraser’s mouth twitched as he fished out his car keys from his front pocket, turning them once between his fingers.
“I’ll text her you’re coming,” Miriam added, thumbs already moving over her screen. “And that you’re a trusted adult.”
“A trusted adult,” Fraser repeated, glancing back at her, one brow lifting slightly. “That’s a new one.”
Miriam smiled at him—tired and a little crookedly. “You have a kind face. It makes you trustworthy.”
Fraser let out a quiet breath of amusement through his nose. He’d heard that before. Usually right before someone asked him for something.
He nodded toward her phone. “Wait. What does she look like?”
Miriam’s gaze flicked up from the screen, something almost knowing settling into her expression despite the fever, like she was in on a joke he hadn’t heard yet.
“I think you’ll know when you see her.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
The line outside Club Satine was thin by the time Fraser pulled up.
A few groups lingered near the entrance, either smoking or slowly filtering toward waiting Ubers. Despite the October cold, there were bare legs and open jackets everywhere, as though enough alcohol could convince a person they were immune to the temperature. The neon sign above the club washed the sidewalk in pink, turning everything beneath it soft around the edges—artificial, almost dreamlike.
Fraser shifted the car into park and looked up at the building.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to Satine. Probably just a few months after being traded to Boston, back when he’d agreed to just about anything his new teammates suggested because forcing himself to fit in seemed easier than surviving another Toronto.
He definitely hadn’t enjoyed his experience here, though. That much he remembered. Satine was the sort of place people came to get absolutely shitfaced without anyone batting an eye, and that wasn’t exactly what Fraser looked for in life.
His phone lit up on the center console. Miriam’s latest text still sat at the top of the screen.
She’s waiting outside. White dress.
That was all she’d sent. Extremely helpful.
Fraser scanned the sidewalk from the driver seat. It didn’t take him long to find you. Not because Miriam had described you—she stubbornly hadn’t—but because there was no one else it could’ve been.
A girl his own age sat alone on the curb a little ways down from the entrance, separated from the clusters of people spilling in and out of the club. Bare legs and feet tucked awkwardly to one side, elbows resting on your knees. Your head was tilted toward the sky like you were searching for something above the city lights and tall buildings.
From where he sat, he couldn’t make out your face. Just the stark white dress. Lace caught every flicker of neon, almost glowing against the darkness. It hugged your frame before flaring softly at your hips, bright enough to pull the eye from everything else around you.
Was that a freaking wedding dress?
Fraser frowned faintly, leaning forward over the steering wheel as if that would somehow help him make more sense of it. It wasn’t full-length like wedding dresses traditionally were, but it was his first honest thought. Who wore white lace to a night club? Had you been to a bachelorette party? Some kind of bridal event?
He exhaled slowly through his nose, already reaching for the door handle.
Yeah. That had to be you.
The music from inside the club thudded faintly as he stepped out, the cold hitting him immediately, sharp and clean compared to the warmth of the car. He barely had time to notice it because his attention was already locked on you.
As he walked closer, the details of you sharpened.
You looked heartbreakingly out of place—a true juxtaposition to Club Satine—like a fictional character that had somehow wandered into the wrong story.
There was mascara smudged beneath your eyes, dark streaks following faintly down your cheeks, like you’d tried to wipe tears away at some point and only made it worse. Your lipstick had long since faded too, uneven around the edges, the kind of wear that came from talking too much or drinking too much.
It was probably both.
Your fingers idly twisted the edge of your dress, over and over, like they needed something to do.
Fraser slowed as he approached, something unexpectedly tightening in his chest. It wasn’t pity, but everyone knew what it looked like when somebody was trying very hard to keep themselves together. You looked like you’d lost that fight hours ago.
Your head lifted as his shadow stretched across the pavement, swallowing the pink glow around you.
Up close, your eyes still shimmered with the remains of fresh tears. Your breathing hitched every so often, tiny uneven breaths that sounded almost like hiccups. When you saw him, your shoulders sagged another inch, as though simply recognizing the ride Miriam had promised finally gave you permission to relax.
“Are you the trusted adult Miriam sent?”
The question caught him so off guard he almost laughed, even if it was exactly how Miriam had described him earlier.
“Yeah,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “I think so. I’m Fraser.”
Your expression softened a little, but it wasn’t quite a smile. Then, with complete sincerity, you held out a hand.
“Hi,” you said with perfect politeness. “Y/N. Nice to meet you.”
Fraser stared at your hand for half a second before shaking it. Because apparently you were introducing yourself like this was a networking event instead of midnight, barefoot, on a curb outside a nightclub.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
Your hand was surprisingly warm—warmer than he thought it should’ve been in the cold. His grip lingered for a little too long before he let go, his eyes catching on an angry red patch across the back of your hand. The skin looked raw, almost polished from being so irritated.
He frowned almost imperceptibly.
Had you done that to yourself?
Without thinking, his gaze drifted over the rest of you. No jacket, bare legs, and only a thin lace dress on. You were shivering. The movement subtle enough that he might have missed it if he weren’t already looking.
“Here, let me—”
Fraser shrugged out of his hoodie before he could second-guess himself and held it out.
Your eyes followed the movement.
“I had a jacket,” you said, sounding genuinely apologetic about the fact. “But I think I left it at Cara’s place.”
You sounded disappointed in yourself, like misplacing your jacket at a friend’s house was an unsolvable problem.
“That’s okay,” Fraser said easily. “So take my hoodie.”
You accepted it without hesitation, which surprised him. Somehow he’d expected you to insist you were fine.
You tugged it on a little clumsily, the fabric swallowing your hands the same way Miriam’s stolen hoodie from Oliver had earlier. The hood bunched awkwardly at the back of your neck, a little too big on you. You instinctively tucked your hands into the pockets, curling into the warmth, probably without realizing you were doing it.
For reasons Fraser couldn’t quite explain, he looked away.
The club door swung open behind him. Music flooded onto the sidewalk for a heartbeat before the door shut again, leaving only the distant bass vibrating through the walls.
When he looked back, you were already staring at him, brows knitted together.
“I think I recognize you.”
A small sense of dread settled in Fraser’s stomach.
Usually, when people recognized him, one of two things happened. They either wanted tickets—which he couldn't magically produce no matter how many people seemed convinced otherwise—or they wanted to explain exactly what he’d done wrong in last week’s game.
“You’re, uh…” You gestured vaguely toward him, your hand lingering in the air as though the rest of the sentence might simply drift into it. “A player on Oliver’s team, right?”
Fraser huffed out a quiet breath, something like a laugh. “On his team? He doesn’t even play.”
“I know, I know.” You waved a hand, dismissing your own wording. “It’s the Boston Bruins, blah blah blah. I don’t give a shit about hockey, but I do happen to care about Oliver, okay?”
The words tumbled out without a filter, softened around the edges by alcohol. Fraser couldn’t help the smile threatening to form at the corner of his mouth. He saw a little spark in your eyes as you talked about it, or about Oliver, he guessed. Just simple, matter-of-fact loyalty because you cared about him. He found, rather unexpectedly, that he couldn’t even be offended on hockey’s behalf because of it.
“Okay,” he said. “And yes, I play hockey.”
You studied him for a long second, your head tilting thoughtfully to one side. You were evaluating the information rather than admiring it. It was strangely refreshing. Most people either knew exactly who he was or didn’t know him at all. You seemed to be stuck in the middle.
“You any good?” you asked.
That almost got a real laugh out of him. Fraser folded his arms loosely against the cold.
“I guess we’ll see in April.”
You held his gaze for another beat before giving a slow nod, as if that answered the question perfectly. Like professional athletes should only be judged by what happened in the playoffs.
“Shit,” you murmured. “Fair enough.”
Fraser found himself entertained by your frankness.
You were still looking at him, though. Halfway between present and somewhere else entirely. Once you realized you were staring, almost sheepishly, your eyes dropped toward the pavement.
His followed.
Right. You were barefoot for some reason.
He glanced around, scanning the immediate area—the sidewalk, the edge of the street, the cluster of people lingering outside the club. Nothing obvious. No abandoned heels kicked off to the side, no sign of anything that belonged to you, really. He was at least happy to see that you were holding a purse. He was choosing to assume it belonged to you, anyway.
“You got shoes?” he asked, already pretty sure he knew the answer.
You looked at your feet like you were seeing them for the first time, eyebrows raised.
“I used to,” you mumbled.
Fraser huffed another quiet breath through his nose. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Let’s get you in the car first.”
He offered his hand to you, chivalrous without really meaning to, but he also suspected your balance wouldn’t be perfect right now.
Your grip was still warm and a little unsteady as you pushed yourself up. You swayed almost immediately, the motion pulling you off balance before you could correct for it. Fraser reacted without thinking, catching your elbow with his free hand before gravity could finish the job.
“Easy.”
“I’m fine,” you insisted.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”
To his surprise, you didn’t argue again. Fraser kept his pace slow, matching yours step for step while you glanced down at your bare feet to see where you placed them.
By the time you reached his car, you were looking at it with open suspicion.
“Alright,” he said, opening the passenger door. “In you go.”
You suddenly stopped dead.
“This is a really nice truck,” you said, as if that were an issue.
Fraser blinked. “Thank you?”
You pointed at the open door, then at yourself, then vaguely at the sidewalk behind you. “I just sat on a dirty curb. I can’t sit in your—” You squinted at the badge on the side of the truck. “Is it a Chevrolet? I don’t know that many car brands.”
“It is,” Fraser admitted, unable to hide his amusement. “And yes, you can.”
You looked unconvinced in the way only a very drunk person could manage—completely earnest, entirely unreasonable.
“No,” you said with conviction. “I can’t. That would be disrespectful.”
Fraser scoffed. “Disrespectful? How?”
“Yes.” You nodded once. “To the truck.”
He laughed then, short and surprised, because you were standing there barefoot in his hoodie, refusing to get into his car on principle, like the truck had feelings that might be hurt by some dirt on your dress.
Fraser couldn’t care less about that.
“It’ll survive,” he said.
You still looked a little unconvinced, but eventually Fraser’s determination won out. You climbed into the passenger seat slowly, with the kind of intense concentration usually reserved for complicated puzzles.
Fraser leaned in to guide the seatbelt across you, pausing just long enough to make sure you didn’t tip forward or get tangled in the process. For a second he caught the faint scent of your perfume beneath the smell of alcohol.
Vanilla. Or maybe it was some sort of wood. Before he could place it, the moment passed.
“Stay here and I’ll see if I can find your shoes,” he said.
You made a small, noncommittal sound in response as he gently shut the door and turned back toward the club.
Fraser had barely taken three steps toward the entrance before the club door swung open again. A girl stepped out, pausing just beyond the threshold like she needed a second to adjust to the cold. She had a pair of heels dangling from her fingers while already wearing another pair on her feet.
White. The heels in her hands were white.
He could thank his hockey brain for being so annoyingly observant.
The girl noticed him a moment later.
“Do you know Y/N?” she asked, her tone quick and practical. “They’re—um—” She glanced past him, scanning the street. “She went out for a breather. Girl in a lace dress?”
“Yeah,” Fraser said, nodding toward the truck parked a little farther down the curb. “I’m driving her home.”
She looked him up and down in one swift, assessing sweep. Not curious, exactly. More like she was deciding whether he looked like someone she’d trust alone with a drunk girl. Then her eyes narrowed.
Fraser stood up straighter without meaning to.
“You’re not Kevin, are you?” she asked.
He blinked, thrown just enough to show it. “No, I’m—”
“‘Cause I’ll beat your ass if you are,” she cut in, dead serious.
That pulled a short, surprised laugh out of him before he could stop it. “I’m Fraser,” he said, lifting a hand slightly in something like surrender. “Just a friend picking her up.”
Friend wasn’t quite the right word, but it was the easiest one to reach for. It was simpler than trying to name whatever this was—the immediate, unthinking concern that had settled in his chest the second Miriam had mentioned you. The way he’d already started solving problems before he’d even met you. Something about the whole thing had hooked into him.
The girl’s expression softened only a fraction, though she kept hold of the shoes for another beat. Fraser got the distinct impression she wasn’t hesitating because she cared about the shoes.
She was deciding whether she believed him.
“Take care of her, okay?” she said, pointing the heels in his direction. “Or I’ll find a way to beat your ass tomorrow.”
“I will. I promise,” he answered without hesitation, and the steadiness in his own voice almost surprised him. It was an easy promise to make, somehow.
Apparently satisfied, she handed over the shoes, giving him a small nod before turning back toward the door, disappearing inside without another word.
Fraser stood there for a moment with your heels hanging from his fingers.
Who the fuck was Kevin?
That was twice now he’d heard concern where there should’ve been annoyance in regard to you. First Miriam, and now this random girl. Neither of them had rolled their eyes about having to deal with a drunk friend. Instead, they'd spoken about you with the same quiet concern, like they were sending something precious out into the world and hoping it came back in one piece.
It sat a little oddly with him. People didn't usually react like that unless they’d already watched someone get hurt.
He glanced back toward the car. You were visible through the passenger window, head resting against it, your eyes softly shut.
Fraser tightened his grip around the white heels. Despite knowing almost nothing about you, he found himself wondering what kind of idiot Kevin must’ve been.
He hurried around to the driver’s side, pulling the door open, his mind already assembling a list of what needed to happen next. Get out of downtown. Ask where you lived. Put the address into the GPS. Get you home before Miriam had time to worry and start harassing him over the phone about it.
Simple, in theory, but when he looked over at the passenger side, you were asleep.
Knocked out cold, just like that.
Curled into the passenger seat as though you’d been there for hours instead of barely a minute. His hoodie hugged your frame, one sleeve twisted between your fingers like you’d instinctively reached for something to hold onto. Your cheek rested lightly against the window, breath fogging a small patch of glass every few seconds.
Somewhere between him retrieving your shoes and walking back to the car, you’d apparently decided you’d had enough of being awake.
Fraser stood frozen for a beat.
Well. This complicated things.
He climbed into the driver’s seat as quietly as possible, setting your heels carefully on the floorboard behind you. They landed with a dull thud, but you didn’t so much as flinch.
For a moment, he simply sat there, one hand resting on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead while his brain refused to commit to a decision. Then he moved purely on instinct—pulling away from the curb, merging into traffic, putting distance between you and the noise of the club just to get away from there.
But you didn’t stir. Not when the engine started. Not when he turned onto the main road. Not even when he hit a red light a little too hard and the car dipped forward with a soft jolt.
Fraser glanced over at you every so often.
Your head had tilted slightly farther against the glass, and a loose strand of hair had fallen across your face. Other than that, he didn’t know how to describe you. Not in any way that felt fair to whatever drunk and strange half-formed impression you were making on him, anyway.
The tension he’d noticed outside the club had disappeared from your face. Whatever grief had followed you onto that curb seemed, at least temporarily, to have loosened its grip.
You also looked less sad.
That thought arrived before Fraser could stop himself. And then, because his brain apparently refused to leave well enough alone, he found himself noticing other things too.
The way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks. The small, unconscious parting of your lips as you breathed. The fact that your expression, stripped of all the effort it took to keep it composed, was so much softer than he’d expected. Not prettier, but maybe like sleep had finally convinced your mind to stop fighting itself for a little while.
Fraser sighed, looking back at the road.
Okay. What were his options?
He could just wake you up. That was the obvious choice. But beside him, you shifted slightly in your sleep, brow furrowing for just a second before smoothing out again, your grip tightening unconsciously on the sleeve of his hoodie.
You looked so comfortable that interrupting it actually felt cruel.
Option two. He could turn around and head back to Oliver’s place. Drop you off there and let Miriam deal with it.
He exhaled again, longer this time. That option was also a no.
The idea of carrying you back into that crowded house—still half-asleep, still wrapped in his hoodie, mascara smudged and dress wrinkled—and handing you off like a problem he’d offered to take care of but now didn’t feel like solving anymore, especially to Miriam with her fever, sat very wrong with him.
Which left this, apparently. Just driving you around for no reason, like some kind of idiot. Or creep. Was he being creepy right now?
The streets blurred together beneath pools of amber streetlights. Familiar intersections gave way to unfamiliar ones before looping back again. He passed the same convenience store twice, a twenty-four-hour diner with a flickering neon sign, and a gas station that looked as though it hadn’t been renovated since the eighties.
At one point Fraser became fairly certain he’d driven in a circle. You continued sleeping through all of it, which was honestly impressive considering how he was driving.
He wondered, briefly, if this qualified as kidnapping.
No. Definitely not. You had, technically, asked for a ride. Fraser just didn’t know where to drive you. Still, if you woke up now, how exactly was he supposed to explain this?
Sorry, you looked peaceful, and I didn’t want to bother you, so I've been aimlessly touring Greater Boston for the last thirty minutes?
He closed his eyes for half a second at a red light. He was being unbelievably pathetic right now.
Eventually, though, movement in his periphery caught his attention. A small sound escaped you, a gentle groan mixed with a yawn.
Fraser glanced over.
Your eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first. You looked around the car as though trying to remember where you were, then your memory seemed to return all at once.
“Oh my god.” You jerked upright so fast your shoulder hit the car window. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m sorry.”
Fraser kept one hand on the wheel, driving slowly while looking over just long enough to see the full horror of your expression.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it's not. Did I snore?” You pressed a hand to your face, covering up. “Please tell me I didn't snore.”
“You didn’t.”
“This is so embarrassing.”
“You didn’t snore,” Fraser repeated, unable to stop the faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I promise.”
The silence that followed gave Fraser exactly enough room for every unanswered question to come rushing back. He had spent the better part of half an hour collecting them, after all. It wasn’t every day he had to take care of a drunk stranger.
“Can I ask you a couple questions?” he said.
“Yeah,” you answered, shifting in your seat, still sounding mortified.
Fraser glanced at you, then back at the road. You were half-curled into the seat, your embarrassment so immediate and earnest it almost made him feel bad for asking anything at all. But he had to know.
“Are you wearing a wedding dress?”
The question came out more carefully than he intended, because he realized too late that he was asking it for reasons that had very little to do with the dress itself. He just needed to know what kind of night this had been. What kind of person got left on a sidewalk in white lace with tears in their eyes?
“Nope.” You shook your head, popping the “p” as you said it. “Okay. Well. I guess any dress could be a wedding dress, but if you mean ‘have I gotten married in this dress?’ then the answer is no.”
Fraser let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Ridiculously relieved, if he were being honest with himself. Not because the alternative had been likely, exactly, but because for one brief second he’d pictured some absurdly complicated version of your evening that involved vows and a runaway bride and a whole different kind of disaster.
You shifted in your seat again, tucking your legs up, making yourself smaller on the passenger side as though you were trying to take up less space.
“I was at a bachelorette party,” you went on. “We had to wear white. Which is—” you waved a hand vaguely, “—ironic, because I am statistically the least likely person there to get married anytime soon.”
That was a strange little joke with something bruised underneath it. Fraser felt the weight of it, but he let it pass without asking. He didn’t know you well enough to ask.
“Second question,” he said instead, because if he didn’t keep moving, he was going to start thinking too hard about the sadness in your tone, and he had already done enough of that tonight. His eyes flicked briefly to your hand; the mark on it had irked him since he first noticed. Probably because it looked like it hurt. “What’s that red mark on your hand?”
You looked down at it like you’d forgotten it was there.
“Oh.” You turned your hand over. “Some guy put a cigarette out on my hand.”
Fraser’s entire body went rigid. “What?”
He didn't know where it came from, but the word came out sharper than he intended, clipped with a flash of anger. His grip tightened on the steering wheel before he could stop it, knuckles whitening against the leather.
“Not, like, on purpose, of course,” you said quickly, shrugging. “It was just very crowded outside, and it grazed me. Didn’t even hurt.”
Fraser looked at you then, and the burn on your hand suddenly seemed much too small for the reaction it had managed to get out of him.
“But you have a burn mark on your hand.”
It sounded stupidly obvious when he said it out loud, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. The whole thing sat wrong with him. The way you were saying it like it was a minor inconvenience, like it belonged in the same category as spilled drinks or a lost earring.
“A nice girl in the bathroom put ice on it,” you added, as though that was the important part. “She said she was in med school.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the tightness in it. “You’re serious?”
You nodded, completely unbothered. “Mm-hm.”
Fraser looked back at the road, but the city had gone a little blurry around the edges. Not from the lights. From the effort of not turning around and asking who had done it, who had been careless enough to leave a mark on your skin and walk away from it like nothing had happened. He didn’t know why that bothered him so much.
For a second he just drove, jaw set, trying to gather himself and failing a little.
“Okay, uh—” He hesitated, then decided to just say it. “What’s your address? So I can stop driving aimlessly.”
“…Aimlessly?”
Damn it. Fraser immediately regretted his wording.
You sat up a little straighter. “Have you just been driving around? How long was I asleep for?”
“Just like, five minutes,” Fraser lied. “See? We’re still in the same area.”
You looked out the window, then back at him. By pure coincidence, Fraser happened to be driving past Club Satine right at that moment.
“So, your address?” he prompted again, mostly to save himself the embarrassment.
“Actually, uhm—” your voice faltered.
Fraser waited.
“—Would it be, like, a huge, massive inconvenience if we stopped for food?” you asked, your voice turning tentative. “I’m starving.”
You were watching him now, a little tentative and a little hopeful. You didn’t seem entirely sure if you were allowed to ask for that, like hunger itself was something you ought to apologize for.
For a second, Fraser considered all the reasons he should probably take you home.
It was after midnight. You were still noticeably drunk. You barely knew each other. This entire evening had already become significantly more complicated than intended.
Then your stomach growled loud enough for the both of you to hear it. Your eyes widened in horror.
Fraser looked back at the road before you could see the smile threatening to appear.
“Yeah,” he said, turning onto the next street. “Yeah, we can get food.”
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Fraser had never seen someone so enthusiastic about a McDonald’s cheeseburger in his life as you were right now.
You looked almost reverent about it, as if the thing in your hands were a sacred object and not something sloppily assembled by a teenager earning minimum wage. The wrapper crackled as you tore it open with alarming urgency. Before Fraser had even managed to get the door for you, you’d already taken a bite that took nearly half the burger with it. Your nails pressed into the bun, ketchup immediately escaping to smear the corner of your mouth.
You didn’t really seem to care, though. Or maybe you did and simply didn’t care. Either way, you looked absurdly content. It was, Fraser decided, a little adorable. Almost in the same way a toddler was adorable right before it smeared applesauce into the upholstery.
“You always eat like that?” he asked.
You paused mid-chew. “Like what?”
“Like someone’s going to take it from you.”
“Shut up.” You swallowed, then pushed your bottom lip out in a small, offended pout. “I’m hungry.”
Fraser’s mouth twitched into a smile.
There wasn't a trace of embarrassment in your voice. Just a simple statement of fact, as though being starving was a perfectly reasonable explanation for inhaling an entire cheeseburger before you’d even crossed the parking lot.
Honestly, it probably was.
With your heels now back on, you wandered through the parking lot toward his car, still working determinedly on the burger. The alcohol hadn’t made you incapable of walking, exactly. It had simply convinced your balance that straight lines weren’t necessary.
Fraser found himself lingering a step behind. Just close enough that if your ankles gave out, he wouldn’t have to sprint to catch you.
The parking lot was nearly empty, washed in the soft yellow glow of aging streetlights. Beyond it, Boston settled into that strange middle ground between night and morning, where the city had gone quiet but never quite asleep. A few cars hissed past on the road beyond, their headlights sliding over the asphalt and disappearing again.
Fraser was fishing his keys from his pocket when he realized your footsteps had stopped. The uneven click of your heels against the pavement vanished.
He looked up to see you staring at the sky.
There was something almost childlike about the complete absorption on your face, as though the stars had managed to interrupt the concentration you had on your burger a second earlier.
Before Fraser could ask what had caught your attention, you drifted toward one of the concrete foundations anchoring a light pole.
Then, without hesitation, stepped onto it.
His stomach dropped. “Oh, holy shi— please don’t fall down!”
For one horrifying second Fraser saw the whole thing in brutal, cinematic detail: your heel slipping, your ankle folding, your head striking the concrete with a cracking sound he would hear in his nightmares for the rest of his life. Oliver asking how, exactly, he had managed to kill Miriam’s favorite cousin in a McDonald’s parking lot.
An impressively terrible story all around.
He was moving before the thought had even finished, covering the remaining distance to you in quick strides. Some protective instinct taking over before embarrassment had a chance to object. One of his hands found the back of your knee, steadying your leg before it had the chance to wobble. The other wrapped carefully around your calf.
Warm.
Your skin was warm beneath his palm again even though it shouldn’t be and softer than he’d expected, the curve of your leg settling into his hand with disarming ease. Fraser became very aware, very quickly, that he was holding your bare leg after only knowing you for about an hour.
The breeze swept through the lot then, tugging lazily at the hem of your dress and lifting the fabric around your legs enough for Fraser to see a little too much.
His eyes reacted before the rest of him did.
Absolutely not. Don’t you dare look up her dress, Fraser.
His gaze shot somewhere else completely, locking determinedly onto the glowing golden arches across the lot.
“I wanted to be closer to the stars,” you said, with the solemn certainty of a child and the loose, dreamy logic of someone who’d had a little too much to drink.
Fraser let out a slow breath through his nose.
He glanced up at you, then down at the concrete block beneath your feet. Generously speaking, you’d gained another twenty inches of elevation, which didn’t seem like it would help much. Apparently it mattered to you, though.
“Is that the Big or Little Dipper?” you asked.
Fraser squinted at the patch of sky you were pointing toward, still holding half a cheeseburger in your hand like a tiny, greasy trophy.
“I don’t think it’s either.”
You kept looking up, brow furrowed in concentration. “What do you mean?” you asked. “It’s sort of shaped like a shopping cart.”
Fraser glanced between your face and the stars, then tipped his chin upward again. “I think it’s Orion.”
That made you look at him, then back at the sky.
“See those three stars forming a line?” he said, pointing up. Your eyes followed his finger. “That’s Orion’s belt.”
He let his hand fall back to hold your leg again, shrugging.
“I have absolutely no idea if I’m right, by the way.”
“I think you are,” you murmured.
You were still looking up, and Fraser noticed you smiling at the sky. Not a tired smile, or a polite one, or the kind people wear when they’re trying to be agreeable. This one was bigger. Much softer. It reached your eyes and lit your whole face from the inside out.
Fraser found himself staring at you for a long moment, awkwardly sideways, still holding your leg so you wouldn’t topple off your improvised pedestal like a tipsy little saint. He looked long enough to realize, with a quiet jolt, that he liked seeing you smile like this.
He held a hand out toward you.
“Come on.”
You looked down at it for a moment before taking it.
Your fingers slipped easily into his palm. Fraser steadied you as you stepped carefully off the concrete foundation, his other hand hovering instinctively near your elbow until both of your heels found the ground again.
He didn’t know why he expected you to politely start walking back to the car next so he could get you both home. Perhaps because that would have been the sensible thing to do. The sort of thing Fraser preferred. Instead, you immediately sat down on the edge of the concrete block you’d just climbed off, smoothing your dress beneath you before taking another unapologetically enormous bite of your cheeseburger.
You looked up at him, still chewing, before patting the concrete beside you for him to sit down too. With a quiet sigh that suggested resignation more than annoyance, he obeyed.
“We're sitting here now?”
You shrugged one shoulder. “I like it here.”
Fraser followed your gaze back up to the stars as the night settled comfortably around the two of you. Traffic murmured somewhere beyond the lot. The restaurant door opened and shut behind them with a burst of warm noise and the smell of fries. Overhead, the sky stretched clear and dark, interrupted only by the amber halo of the streetlight above you.
You didn’t seem to notice any of it.
Your eyes remained fixed on everything beyond it.
Fraser watched you, trying and failing to decide what exactly it was about the sight that held him so still. Maybe it was the way you looked when you were quiet, and so very focused. Maybe it was the fact that, for all your drunken wobbling and burger enthusiasm, you seemed to have found something in the sky that mattered more than the rest of the world combined.
Eventually, he asked the question that had been sitting in the back of his mind ever since he’d heard your nickname.
“Do you like space?”
You looked over.
“I mean,” he added, nodding toward you, “I heard Miriam and Oliver call you Star, for some reason.”
You swallowed down the final bite of your burger and crinkled the paper wrapper into a little ball in your fist. “It’s just a silly nickname my dad gave me as a kid,” you said.
There was enough fondness in your voice that Fraser suspected it wasn’t silly at all.
You tipped your head back again, eyes returning to the sky.
“I’m actually kind of scared of space.”
Fraser looked at you in confusion, brows drawing together.
“It's beautiful up there but also so very…” You searched for the word, your free hand lifting vaguely toward the endless stretch of stars overhead. “…vast.”
The word seemed insufficient somehow. Fraser understood that immediately, though he would have struggled to explain why. Language wasn’t really built to describe something that refused to end.
“Gives me vertigo almost,” you went on, frowning thoughtfully. “Or maybe that’s the alcohol.”
“It gives you vertigo?” Fraser repeated, because he couldn’t quite tell whether you were joking or not.
“I mean, there’s like hundreds of billions stars in just the Milky Way alone. And then there’s even more billions of galaxies just as big as ours. Ones we can’t even observe.” You shook your head, still staring upward as though the sheer scale of it offended you personally. “That’s crazy, right?”
“A little bit,” he admitted.
He said it lightly, but he meant it. Fraser had spent enough nights under the same sky to know it was beautiful. He’d also spent enough of his life trying to keep things manageable to appreciate the comfort of limits. A broken fence could be fixed. A flat tire could be changed. A problem could be solved. The universe could not.
“And no one knows why it exists. Like sure, evolution makes sense and all that. But that’s just Earth.” You looked over at him then, genuinely perplexed. “Like why the fuck does the universe exist?”
“Great question,” Fraser said dryly.
“Even Google can’t answer it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Fraser turned his head. “You googled why the universe exists?”
“Repeatedly.”
He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.
“Seriously,” you continued, apparently encouraged by his laughter. “Scientists can explain how it formed through, like, the Big Bang and quantum physics. But if you ask why, it’s all philosophical bullshit.”
The sheer irritation in your voice made him laugh again. “You think philosophy is bullshit?”
“Only when I’m after a definite answer.” You shrugged. “So yeah, I get a little dizzy thinking about everything up there. I like sci-fi movies, though. They can make up definite answers.”
Fraser looked up at the sky himself.
He’d never thought of it in this way, even though he lived beneath it and saw it every night. Driving home after late games. Standing outside bars he didn’t really want to be at. Waiting for the team bus that was always either too early or too late. He’d looked at the sky often enough to know its shape, its color, the way it changed with the seasons.
But he’d never once asked why it was there.
That wasn’t how his mind worked. Fraser was a how-person. How do you fix this? How do you get there? How do you make sure no one gets hurt? How do you keep moving when the answer isn’t obvious? He was practical like that. He trusted things that could be measured, repaired, or at least understood well enough to be useful.
Why was a much more dangerous question.
Why could go on forever.
Why could swallow a person whole if they let it.
Fraser didn’t like why. He didn’t know what to do with questions like that.
But he liked that you asked them.
He glanced back at you, still sitting on the concrete block, fidgeting with your burger wrapper in your hands. But your smile had disappeared—that shameless smile you’d stared at the stars with, mesmerized by their existence alone.
Your sadness was back. Subtle and lurking around the edges. Your bottom lip jutting out, almost quivering in your effort to hold back tears. Some thought in your head must’ve suddenly taken a wrong turn.
“You okay?” he asked.
You let out a quiet breath. “Define okay.”
Fraser kept his eyes on your face. “Did you have a fun night?” he tried.
“I think I tried to.” You laughed softly through your nose. “It was just… a really bad bachelorette.”
Fraser didn’t interrupt. He didn’t know enough about how girls hung out in groups to question it, and you sounded like you were at the beginning of a rant anyway.
“I try not to talk badly about other women because I’m a feminist, and I believe it does more harm to us as a group than any good, but—” You stopped yourself, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek. “But it becomes very difficult to uphold those principles when girls can be so fucking cruel to each other.”
The laugh you let out wasn’t really a laugh this time.
“They were all…” You gestured vaguely into the air, searching for a word that never quite came. “Very together. Like, aggressively together. And I was just… there.”
Fraser could picture it immediately, even if you hadn’t described it particularly well. The feeling of standing in a room full of people you were supposed to fit in with and somehow still being on the outside of it, watching everyone else laugh like they’d been handed the same script.
He knew that one too well from locker rooms full of guys who actually had nothing in common with him if you erased hockey from the equation.
“Then why did you go?”
“Because the bride is my cousin,” you said as a matter-of-fact.
Fair enough, Fraser thought to himself.
He found himself wondering which side of the family this cousin belonged to. Maybe Miriam had gotten lucky, fever and all. Or maybe this bride was a cousin on the other side of your family.
He wasn’t about to ask, though.
Your heel nudged absentmindedly against the edge of the concrete.
“Kinda felt like her friends were laughing at me the entire time, and I don’t know if I did something to them to deserve that.”
The words came out almost apologetically, like you were worried you might be accusing people unfairly. Fraser had the absurd thought that you probably would’ve apologized to a mugger if you thought you’d inconvenienced him. That was how you came across.
“I hope I didn’t, because that would suck. I try very hard to be kind.”
Fraser believed you immediately. Not just kind. You were criminally kind. The sort of person who sounded genuinely distressed even when talking badly about women who’d spent the night making you feel like shit.
“But if they were laughing for the reason I suspect, then I really hate those bi—” You stopped yourself with a tiny wince. “No, sorry. Shouldn’t use that word.”
Fraser almost laughed. “You can say it.”
“But it’s not nice,” you argued.
“Just say it.”
You let out a long breath, as if you were preparing to commit a felony. “They’re… bitches.”
Fraser snorted. “Felt good, didn’t it?” he asked, amused.
You seemed to think about it like a moral dilemma. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. You were a little unbelievable. Apparently even your anger came with a warning label.
Even you let out a shy little laugh, hand coming up to cover your mouth, before silence settled between you again. Fraser looked down at the wrapper in your hands, then back at your face, trying to decide where to start. He could ask more about the bride, about the girls, about the night in general—but the answer was already sitting there, half-hidden in everything you’d said.
“Is this all about some guy named Kevin?”
You looked over immediately. “Did Miriam tell you?”
He shook his head. “No, the girl who had your heels kind of did. Said she’d beat my ass if I were Kevin.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Really? Oh my god, she was so nice to me for no apparent reason. I don’t even remember her name! That’s so bad from me.”
Fraser smiled to himself. Somehow, forgetting the name of the woman who’d defended your honor seemed like exactly the kind of thing you’d feel guilty about. To remember kindness and punish yourself for not returning it properly.
“So what happened with Kevin?” he asked after a beat.
You stared down at the wrapper in your hands, turning it over once, then again, as if the answer might be printed on the grease-stained paper.
“Je suis… dumped, I guess. By Kevin.”
He could’ve almost guessed it, but what he didn’t understand was why. A darn why-question bothering him again.
“And he’s friends with the groom,” you continued. “So I think all the girls took his side or something. I don’t want to know the story he’s been telling them.”
Fraser kept quiet. He had the distinct impression that listening worked better than sympathy with you. You would simply unfold if he gave you the time.
“I didn’t even notice anything was off in our relationship until he said I was too boring to be his girlfriend. After four years together, that’s the only explanation I got.”
Your fingers tightened around the wrapper.
Fraser frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at you for a second, and your eyes were totally empty. Carefully holding things together to not fall apart. It was hard to reconcile that with the girl who’d turned his whole night into an adventure. Harder still to imagine Kevin looking at you and deciding boring was the word to best describe you with.
“Do I look boring?” you asked. “Or act it?”
“No, you don’t.” Fraser didn’t even have to think about it. “I think Kevin sounds like an idiot.”
You nodded with complete seriousness. “He was tall, though.”
Fraser barked out a laugh. “That doesn’t help his case.”
“It did for a while,” you admitted, then immediately frowned like you weren’t sure why you’d said that out loud. “Holy fuck, that’s so pathetic.”
Fraser’s smile faded. Some people might have pitied you—you seemed to be doing enough of that yourself—but Fraser couldn’t manage pity. What he felt instead was a slow, rising disbelief, sharp enough to sting. He couldn’t understand how anyone could have looked at you for four years and reduced you to something so small.
“I’m not thinking about him,” you admitted weakly, and when a tear slipped free, you wiped it away with the heel of your hand. “I’m thinking about what it says about me.”
It wasn’t about Kevin himself, Fraser realized, although it seemed impossible to somehow be your fault. It was the question he'd left behind. The one you'd been carrying around ever since, one that had rooted itself somewhere so deep even strangers could hear it if they listened closely enough.
Why weren’t you enough for him?
“It really looks like I had fun, right?” you said, smiling in a way that was almost cruel to yourself, as if you were trying to make a joke out of your own humiliation. You wiped at your face again, harder this time, dragging away more tears. “That’s what I get for trying not to be boring for one night.”
Before Fraser could think better of it, before he could remind himself that he barely knew you, that he had no business touching you like this, his hand lifted.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye, gentle as a breath, and caught the tears there along with the dark smear of mascara that had already begun to dry against your cheek. His touch was so careful it almost felt like an apology. Only after he’d done it did he realize how forward it might have been.
How intimate.
How much he wanted to keep doing it.
“Wow.”
Fraser frowned. “What?”
Your gaze had dropped to his hand, still resting, barely, against your cheek.
“Your hands are fucking huge.”
You looked up at him then, wide-eyed and shining in the pale wash of moonlight, your expression so open in the wait of a reaction from him. For one sudden, traitorous second, half-delirious with the closeness of it, Fraser had the absurd urge to part your lips with his thumb and see what you’d do. Whether you’d let him. Whether you’d take it into your mouth or not.
The thought came without warning. Just as quickly, he wanted to rip it out of his own head.
Jesus Christ. Really? Now? When she’s crying?
“It’s a hockey thing, I-I think,” Fraser stuttered out.
For one suspended second, you only stared at him.
Then you laughed so hard you doubled over.
⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚
Fraser wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed it, but a little while later you were back in the car, buckled safely into the passenger seat with a paper bag full of his leftover fries resting in your lap.
He suspected the fries had played a significant role in your cooperation.
The heater hummed quietly, warm air slowly chasing away the cold that had settled into both of you outside. He reversed out of the parking spot, hand on your seat to twist back and see. The lingering smell of fried food mixed with the faint perfume still clinging to you, and for a few peaceful moments neither of you spoke.
It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence anymore. Somewhere along the way, you’d moved past that. He couldn’t believe how nervous he’d been when you’d fallen asleep earlier. Now he wouldn’t have thought twice about waking you up if it happened again.
“You can connect your phone, if you want to,” Fraser said absently, pulling into traffic.
He also finally had your address now!
You turned so quickly he almost laughed. “I can?”
A smug, ingenious little smile crept across your mouth. Your excitement was entirely disproportionate to the privilege of controlling someone’s car stereo.
“Oh no,” Fraser mumbled under his breath.
You either didn’t hear him or chose not to. After some fiddling with your phone, the opening guitar riff of a song that sounded older than both of you burst through the speakers.
Fraser frowned instinctively, reading the title of the display. Anything, anything by some band called Dramarama. Not that he considered himself to have any sort of musical authority, but that had to be one of the worst band names he’d ever heard.
“What even is this?” he huffed.
“Don’t laugh at my music taste.” You gasped dramatically, one hand flying to your chest. “This was on the soundtrack to Nightmare on Elm Street 4.”
“Four?” Fraser smiled, glancing over at you briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Oh, I’m sure that’s significantly better than the first three.”
“I like stuff from the eighties. Sue me.”
You stuck your tongue out at him.
It was so unexpectedly childish that Fraser laughed—a little more loudly and unguarded than he’d planned to—so his hand immediately came up to cover his mouth as he did. A habit that had settled in years ago, somewhere around the awkward stretch between childhood and adulthood, and he’d never quite managed to shake it.
You noticed immediately, tilting your head at him. “Do you always cover your face when you laugh?”
Fraser lowered his hand. “No, I just—”
“I do the same thing, but I used to have fucked-up teeth,” you cut him off, shrugging like it was nothing. “Had braces to fix most of it, but I still have a gap right—” You leaned closer across the center console, pointing dramatically. “—here.”
Fraser looked briefly where you were pointing, your finger perched on your bottom lip as you showed the most minuscule little gap between two upper incisors.
Fuck. You were stupidly cute.
“I used to be able to fit a straw between them,” you continued thoughtfully. “Maybe I still can, but it’s not as easy with freaking paper straws.”
Fraser smiled, shaking his head. “But think of all the turtles we’re saving.”
“I don’t think straws alone are doing squat, Fraser.”
He laughed at your wording, again just as unguarded and loud as before. His hand practically itched to lift and cover his mouth, but for some reason—a sudden ounce of added willpower—he didn’t. You noticed. He saw the tiny smile beginning to tug at the corner of your mouth. But, thankfully, you didn’t point it out.
Fraser would’ve been embarrassed if you did.
Instead, you simply reached over and turned the music up a little. The obnoxious rock song eventually faded into something slower. Then another. Your playlist seemed perpetually stuck in 1987.
Soon the car filled with soft synthesizers and warm guitar tones, the sort of music that sounded strangely comforting despite Fraser recognizing almost none of it. The roads had emptied considerably by now, streetlights sliding across the windshield in long ribbons of gold as the city drifted quietly around them.
Somewhere between one song and the next, the conversation wandered.
He found out you worked at a library.
Well—
“A library assistant,” you corrected.
Because apparently there was a major difference between librarians and library assistants. You couldn’t quite explain it to him, though, beyond the fact that librarians had master’s degrees and better paychecks. The workload seemed about the same.
Still, you were getting your master’s, and you were insistent on that. You talked shyly about hopefully starting sometime next year. You didn’t know if you’d get in, or if you did, whether you’d be able to handle the pressure. But you seemed determined, like you’d already decided that was where your life was headed and were simply waiting for everything else to catch up.
When Fraser told you he had no doubts about you succeeding, you argued that he knew nothing.
“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But you seem like someone who finishes what she starts.”
For a second, you didn’t say anything. Just looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read before your attention drifted back out the window.
“My dad always says that too.”
The sentence was so soft Fraser almost missed it. He smiled to himself as he turned onto your street.
It was well after one in the morning now. The streets of this suburban neighborhood lay completely empty, settling into that strange middle ground between night and morning, where every porch light seemed brighter than it should’ve and every parked car looked abandoned.
“This one,” you murmured eventually, pointing lazily through the windshield.
Fraser slowed, pulling alongside a modest redbrick house near the end of the block.
It wasn’t hard for him to put the pieces together.
The truck parked in the driveway carried the faded logo of what looked like a plumbing company. Flower boxes sat beneath the front windows, empty now except for dark soil waiting for spring. A wind chime made from seashells hung beside the porch, gently clicking together in the breeze.
This was your parents’ place.
He wondered if this was the house you’d grown up in. Wondered how long ago you’d moved back. Wondered if packing up four years of a shared life with Kevin had happened all at once or little by little. He wondered far too many things about someone he’d met less than three hours ago.
The engine clicked softly as it cooled.
You were quick to undo your belt, and Fraser followed swiftly. By the time he rounded the hood of the car, you were standing on the sidewalk waiting for him, swaying ever so slightly in your heels, as if your body still hadn’t quite decided which way was up.
“You sure you’re okay getting inside?” he asked.
“Fine and dandy,” you smiled.
He believed exactly half of that.
Fraser followed behind you toward the front porch anyway, close enough to catch you if your balance betrayed you again, but far enough back that it wouldn’t feel like he was hovering. The porch light flickered on automatically as you reached it.
For a moment everything felt strangely quiet.
The conversation had finally run out. The night, which had stretched far longer than Fraser expected, seemed to be gently arriving at its natural ending. And he had no words for it.
He wasn’t good at endings. Never really had been.
“Good night—” Fraser tried to say, but he was cut off by you turning around on the porch, saying something at the exact same time, your words tangling together.
“Do you want to have sex with me?”
The question hit him like an eighteen-wheeler going flat out over his body, even if he only heard the last end of it. He stared at you, mouth slightly open, while every coherent thought in his head scattered in different directions like startled birds.
He was aware, dimly, of the porch light buzzing overhead. Of the cool night air against his face. Of the fact that you were standing there in his hoodie, looking at him innocently for some reason. He hoped deeply that whatever he was feeling internally didn’t show externally to you.
“W-what?” was all that he could manage.
You blinked at him, perfectly serious.
“Do you want to come inside and fuck me?”
“What?” he repeated, continuing to stare at you. Of all the things he’d expected you to say, that would’ve never made the list. “Now?”
“No, in three weeks.” You looked at him like he was the ridiculous one. “Of course I meant now.”
For one dangerous heartbeat, his imagination tried to answer the question before his brain could stop it. What would happen if he said yes? If he stepped inside with you, if he let the night tip over into something neither of you could take back? The thought was gone almost as quickly as it’d appeared, buried under something much stronger. You were drunk. Definitely still heartbroken. You’d spent half the night crying over another man, for Christ’s sake.
“I can’t—”
The words barely left his mouth before your expression changed, sobering up.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—”
You physically recoiled from yourself, as if the words had come out of someone else’s mouth and you were only now realizing what they meant. Both hands flew to your face, fingers splaying over your cheeks, and your shoulders curled inward so sharply Fraser could almost see you trying to fold yourself out of existence.
He took an instinctive step forward.
“No, no. I meant because you’re drunk and I’m not,” he explained quickly, keeping his voice gentle even as his own pulse kicked hard against his ribs. “I don’t think you know what you want right now.”
You slowly lowered your hands, letting them dangle awkwardly at your sides. “Oh, you’re being sweet, aren’t you? Fuck, that’s— You’ve been too nice to me all night. You don’t even know me—”
Seeing you spiral in front of him was almost adorable.
He only watched you for a moment—the way your eyes darted quickly around in horror, refusing to settle on him for more than a second. The way your shoulders had gone tight with embarrassment. The way your hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie as apology after apology kept tumbling out, each one somehow creating the need for another.
It would’ve been funny if you hadn’t looked so genuinely mortified.
Fraser swallowed, forcing himself to stay where he was instead of stepping closer, instead of doing the stupid, instinctive thing and trying to fix it for you. He wanted to hug you. But he couldn’t crowd you. He didn’t want to make this worse by making you feel cornered, or worse still, like he was taking advantage of how badly you were floundering.
He didn’t know you.
He knew your laugh, and the way you talked with your hands when you were trying to make a point. He knew you got quiet when you were sad and a little reckless when you were trying not to be. He knew you’d cried over a man who didn’t deserve it, and then somehow still managed to ask him to come inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. He knew enough to understand that you were hurting, and drunk, and probably lonely in a way that had nothing to do with sex at all, but you somehow thought it did.
And he especially knew that you deserved better than what you were drunkenly asking for. He refused to be something you woke up to tomorrow morning and regretted.
So he kept his voice soft when he spoke again.
“Hey,” he said, careful and steady. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
Because you were embarrassed enough for both of you. And because, despite everything, he could still feel the ridiculous pull of wanting to make you feel better.
“I just propositioned a stranger outside my parents’ house.” You gestured weakly toward the front door, squeezing your eyes shut. “Like, they’re literally inside. What the actual fuck was I thinking?”
You looked so sincerely devastated by your own behavior, Fraser had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. Not at you, but at the sheer, impossible what-the-fuck of it all.
“I’m gonna go inside now,” you said, voice still a little strained with embarrassment, but determined. “Thank you for driving me, Fraser.”
“It was nothing, really,” he said softly.
You climbed the porch steps again, this time without turning around.
Fraser waited until you disappeared inside before finally letting out the breath he’d been holding. The front door clicked shut behind you. The porch light stayed on, spilling a pale yellow glow across the steps and the little patch of front yard beyond him.
He should’ve gone then. He knew that. Instead, he stood there for another moment, hands shoved into his pockets, staring up at the dark sky as if it might offer him some kind of explanation.
He thought about the stars. About the way you’d looked at the universe like it was simultaneously the most beautiful and most terrifying thing you’d ever encountered.
And cheeseburgers.
About paper straws and the gap between your front teeth, for some reason.
And impossible questions asked outside your parents' house at one-thirty in the morning: whether or not he wanted to come inside and sleep with you.
And he was slowly realizing, with growing annoyance, that he was probably going to be thinking about you for quite a while.
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. How exactly was he supposed to wake up tomorrow and carry on with life like this had been a normal evening? Because absolutely nothing about tonight had been normal.
He looked once more toward the front door.
This Kevin dude had been so wrong. Whatever else you were, you certainly weren’t boring.
Suddenly, the front door swung open again. Fraser looked just in time to see you hurry back onto the porch, barefoot now with his hoodie clutched in your hands.
“I still have your hoodie—”
“Keep it,” he said immediately.
Your eyebrows lifted.
“Seriously keep it, Star.”
You looked down at the hoodie for a moment, fingers tightening around the fabric, before a quiet smile spread across your face. Then you disappeared back through the front door a few seconds later.
“Good night, Fraser.”
Thank you for reading ◡̈
Please tell me what you think
My ask box is always open!
