girl i was abt to tell u someone was copying u until i realized it was still you😭 i was baffled at the sheer audacity to copy everything but the change from rafe to dean. so glad it’s just you and not a thief LMAO
ohhh no bby that’s me 💛🫶🏽🧸 but there have been some people straight up taking my stuff over the last few days so I appreciate you dropping in. Butttt briarbunny is me 💕💕💕
summary: you're J's best friend but you hate his grandma and uncles. you hate going around to their place. but when pope takes you up on the offer to go surfing you realise that maybe he isn't as scary as you thought
content/warnings: NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY! age gap, smurf, unprotected sex, light stalking (it's pope ofc), oral sex (f & m receiving), hidden relationship, light mention of ass play, no use of y/n
wc: 5k
notes: I'm only on season 2 of Animal Kingdom, so apologies for the ooc of it all. pics used just for aesthetic purpose, not a reflection of what the reader looks like.
You hate going over to J's grandmother's house. When he first moved in after his mother died, your parents had banned you from going over there. He was your best friend, so he was more than welcome to hang out at yours after school. But your parents made you promise that you weren't to go over there. And you didn't argue with them. They didn't know you had already been. His uncles creeped you out. They got too close, got too touchy or got too, well, stare-y.
But when you left school and moved out to your own place by the beach, your parents couldn't tell you what to do. And J wanted you to come over - especially to the pool. You argued you could swim in the sea anytime you wanted. But Nicky was always over there as well and you couldn't leave her with those stupid boys. You didn't trust them. And you didn't trust his grandmother.
"How did you get two?" Craig always teases J when both you and Nicky are around.
You always make the same fuckin' face of disgust. You've known J since you two were in kindergarten. You couldn't imagine him as anything more than a brother. He spent a lot of time at yours when his mother was strung out.
You hate spending time at the Codys', but J is your best friend, and you'll do anything for him. Because you worry about him.
One morning you arrive at the house, hoping to catch J early so you two can go surfing. But the place is unusually quiet, and you are greeted not by your friend or his grandmother (thankfully), but by Andrew Cody. They all call him Pope.
Pope has been watching you since you first arrived at the house. He watches how you flinch at the loud noises, how you recoil from his brother's touches. Unlike his nephew's girlfriend, you don't giggle with Smurf. You get in and get out. But he likes watching you. He likes that you sometimes go and sit in J's (his) room when things get too noisy. That you just want to be away from it all.
You're far too sweet to be around him or his family. But he'd like to corrupt you.
"He's not here," he says simply as way of greeting as he stands in the doorway.
"Well do you want the coffee I got for him?" you ask as you hold up the cups you're holding. "I don't know what typa coffee you like but I don't want it t' go t' waste."
Pope's eyes soften immediately, "Do you need money?"
In the last few years, J has started saying shit like that to you. And you don't like it. You're putting yourself through college. You're working in a shitty bar. You don't wanna be like your mother. She never went to college, married your dad right away outta high school. She relied on him for everything. And while you weren't dating and would never date J, you didn't want to rely on him.
"No. I got money. But I don't wanna waste it," you respond before sighing. "Look. If J comes back tell him there's supposed to be a good swell today and I'll be at the beach."
Pope takes the coffee from your hand, his rough fingers brushing over your soft skin, making you shiver involuntarily.
"I can come," he tells you.
You blink in confusion. Pope is a man of few words. You're aware of this from the times you have spent in his presence. Sometimes he'll sit with you and watch TV when J is busy.
"To the beach," he clarifies.
"You surf?" you respond, taking a sip of your iced latte.
He gives you a half smile. A rare sight.
"I'm also from California," he responds simply.
"Okay, well, get your stuff. I don't wanna miss it," you say with a shy smile.
You can't believe that you're willingly spending one-on-one time with one of J's uncles. But all things considered, Pope isn't the worst. Yeah, he's a bit strange. But there's something...calming about him. Maybe it was the time you fell asleep on the couch and woke up to him carrying you to bed. You slightly panicked, but he just placed you down and walked away.
"We'll take my truck," he tells you as he comes back dressed in his wetsuit. He hasn't put it on fully, so he's naked from the waist up. You inhale sharply at the sight of his bulging muscles under his sun-kissed skin. You're not expecting the sight. And you're not expecting your body to react that way. You're not expecting your cheeks to heat up or the heat growing in your stomach.
"Lemme grab my things," you say when you finally catch yourself.
You grab your board and your suit from your car. You're going to change at the beach like you always do. You've never been alone with Pope before. Not like this. He's quiet, stoic, as you make the short trip to the beach. He doesn't play music in his car. He just drives.
"Lemme get changed, and I'll meet you out there," you say to him with a smile.
He shakes his head, "I'll wait."
You bite your lip as you wiggle out of your jean shorts and the crochet shirt you're wearing over your floral bikini top. You don't notice how Pope's eyes wander over your body. He takes you in, hazel eyes examining every inch of you. The way your skin glows under the hot Californian sun. He lets out a soft breath at the way your breasts bounce as you jump to get your wetsuit up.
"Will you zip me up?" you ask him, turning around to offer him access to you.
You both know that you're capable of zipping up your wetsuit alone. But Pope won't argue and gently brushes your hair away from your back, he moves it over your shoulder and then zips you up. He moves closer than necessary so he can inhale your sweet scent.
"Want me to do you?" you ask him nodding to his wetsuit.
Pope gives you that half smile again before shrugging into his wetsuit and turning around to let you zip him up. You brush your fingers up the soft skin of his back and you watch as the muscles ripple under your touch. You shouldn't be doing this. But you zip him up nonetheless and spend the morning in the surf with him. With a man literally old enough to be your father.
Soon it becomes your routine. You and Pope meet on the beach every Friday morning and spend hours surfing and talking. Sometimes Pope will come into the bar during your shift. He nurses a whiskey and tips you far too well. If he comes into the bar, he'll wait for your shift to end to walk you to your car. He's scary. And you don't mind having your little guard dog.
Then, you find him at the entrance of the bar every night as your shift ends. Just so he can walk you to your car. It's just across the parking lot but you like it. Sometimes he'll sit in your car with you and hear you rant about your shift.
"This is gonna be our last Friday surf," you tell him as he carries both of your boards to his car.
He looks so hurt, like a kicked puppy.
"I go back to college next week," you tell him as you shake the salt water out of your hair. He watches as the water droplets slide down the valley of your breasts. "We can try Saturdays instead? Or Sundays? Unless you're busy?"
"Never too busy for you," he says quickly.
You don't expect to meet Pope Cody on your doorstep on your first day of your senior year of college. This time he's holding a coffee, although it's clearly one he made at home as it's in a mug. You can't help but smile at him.
"I thought you might want a ride to school," he says as he looks at you over his sunglasses.
"And how am I meant t' get home?" you respond as you take a sip of the coffee he made you. Just how you like it.
"You call me and I'll come get'cha," he responds.
So this is how the first semester goes. Pope Cody is your personal chauffeur, your bodyguard and your surf partner. He's become a closer friend to you than J. And J notices. Finally. It just took the better part of the year.
J has started to notice that you don't mind coming over for parties anymore. But when you're there, you're more often than not with Pope. Pope will bring you over a drink. Pope will watch you as you speak to whatever girls have been stupid enough to come over. Pope will sit by you when you're sick of standing. And Pope will go inside with you when you get chilly or bored with his brothers being obnoxious.
And J doesn't like it. When the fuck did you become best friends with the scariest of his uncles?
You and Pope are whispering together in the kitchen. He's got new wax for his board and offers to do yours too. You nod, telling him to come around later that evening.
"What are you two talkin' about?" J asks with a little huff on his face.
"Surfin'," you respond with a shrug before you walk out to the pool.
"You screwin' her or something?" J hisses at his uncle.
Pope just looks at his nephew down his nose and walks away following you out to the pool with a towel for when you come out of the water. He's not going to rise to that. And he doesn't want J to know he has been fantasising about you since that first day on the beach. He doesn't want J or you to know that he's been watching you sleep for months. You should get better locks on your apartment door. You look so pretty when you sleep.
You also talk in your sleep. One night as he sits in the corner of your room, you start to whimper. He presumes you're having a nightmare until he hears you whimper his name. Not Pope, the monkier his family gave him. No, you whimper Andrew.
Oh, Andrew, yes! Please!
He had no choice but to grab a pair of your panties. Used panties. He inhales your scent before shoving them in his pocket. He breathes them in as soon as he gets to his own bedroom and jerks off into his hand. Thinking of the way you moaned his name in your sleep.
And he needs to figure out a way to hear it from you for real.
Since J has been an asshole, you've gotten more touchy with Pope. Not when Smurf is around though. You're not that stupid. At first, he's worried that you're doing it to make J jealous. But you'll hug Pope as greeting when he arrives at your apartment. No audience, just you and him. You brush your hand up his arm when he's in the kitchen making a drink while his brothers make noise by the pool. But his favourite thing is when you sit on the same lounger as him by the pool. You're not bold enough to climb into his lap. But you'll sit by him, offer to put sun cream on him. You always ask him to do your back and shoulders.
Sometimes after you settle yourself between the V of his thighs...only sometimes when his brothers aren't around you'll lie back on him. Relaxing against the hard muscle of his stomach.
These moments get added to Pope's fantasies when he's alone with his thoughts at night. The way you shudder under his touch, how soft your skin is. He knows each of your bikinis and he has his favourites. He loves how you wear your bright floral ones when you surf with him. But you go for softer colours when you're poolside with his family. His favourite is a white one that becomes almost sheer when you're in the water. But he doesn't like when his brothers are around to ogle you in it.
"Seriously," J asks you one night as you sit in Deran's bar. "What is going on with you and Pope?"
You look down at your glass and shrug, "You're always doing bullshit. We started surfing together. That's it."
"I heard he brings you to college too. And work?" J pushes.
"What? You got people spying on me? Should I call you Smurf?" you snap.
You don't need this third-degree bullshit. Not from J, who dragged you into this family.
"I even heard he stays over at your apartment," J continues.
"Yea, a few times. He's my friend, J. I don't need you to monitor everyone. Would you be this wound up if it were Craig or Derran?" you ask him.
"It's weird! He's my fuckin' uncle. He was in prison! He's dangerous!" J continues. "And he's old."
You throw your hands up and slam your drink down in one swallow.
"I don't need this bullshit, Joshua. You didn't give your girlfriend this sorta cross examination. Even after she started fuckin' your uncle," you hiss before you storm out.
You don't expect to walk into the wall of thick muscle that is Andrew Cody outside the bar. How did he know you were here? How did he know that you needed him?
"Hey, sugar, you okay?" he asks, steadying you by gripping your waist with his huge, rough hands. You can feel the heat radiating through the flimsy little skirt you wore out.
Pope wonders if you wore this for his nephew. Or some other shithead.
"I just needa go home," you finally answer him.
"Get in the truck," he tells you, firmly.
You just nod your head, the tone he uses goes straight to your core. You press your thighs together and get into his truck. He watches as your skirt rides up and he sees the sweet little floral panties you're wearing. They remind him of the bikinis you love. But seeing this is so much more intimate. Especially because he knows that you didn't mean for him to see it.
Pope is in two minds about going into the bar and beating the shit out of whoever has upset you and going straight to you. But when he sees your face, so open and needy in the truck waiting for him, he crumbles. He goes straight to you.
He drives you home, in silence once again. You're used to it. And you relish it. You needed the quiet. When he parks up, you turn to look at Andrew Cody. Really look at him. His eyes drop after a second of meeting your big eyes.
"Come in, Andrew," you whisper.
He doesn't need to be told twice. He follows you up to your apartment. He's been in your apartment before. By invitation as well as by his own volition. But tonight things are different. Maybe it's because everyone already presumes you're sleeping together. Maybe it's because you're sad and frustrated. Or maybe it's the tension, the touching, the longing glances over the past few months. But you lunge yourself at him. You kiss him hard and messy and desperate. And he kisses you back, tentatively at first but then he gets more desperate. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, you even taste blood as you both devour each other's mouths.
You pull away, "Fuck, Andrew. We shouldn't do this."
You're already so entangled in the Cody family. If you do this. If you cross this line, you'll become one. You know that if you let Pope have you, you'll be ruined. No one else will stand a chance.
"Baby," he growls, pulling you back into a kiss. And you just give in.
You pull at his shirt, needing to see him, needing to feel him against you. His hands are already under your skirt, palming at the flesh of your ass. The two of you are as desperate as each other. You're stumbling around your apartment. Clothes being thrown everywhere...even though Pope wants to fold everything in the back of his mind. But you're pulling him into your bedroom. You fall back onto your bed with his mouth over your breasts. You have no idea when you lost your bra. When Andrew had undressed you to just your floral panties.
You squirm under him as he bites over the swell of your breasts. He's leaving marks that he'll see the next time you go surfing. And he can't lie; he's getting off on the thought alone. You gasp as you feel him rip the fabric of your panties from your body. He lifts them to his face and inhales your sweet scent. A scent he's become addicted to. He grips your thighs and drags you up so you're balancing on your shoulders. He dives into your pussy like a man starved. And he is. He hasn't been dreaming about this for months. At his first taste of you, he cries out in pure desperation. You taste like fucking heaven. He doesn't want to muddy the experience with his fingers. He wants to drink you up. And you let him as he palms at the flesh of your thighs keeping you locked close to him.
You start to squirm harder against him as your orgasm starts to build. You've been dreaming about this moment for so long. But this is so much better than you could have imagined. You cum with a strangled cry, saying his name like a mantra.
Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.
He almost cums in his pants just at the way you moan his name like that. It's even sweeter than how he imagined it.
Pope has had issues getting hard in the past but ever since he started surfing with you, he's been hard enough to pound nails almost constantly.
"Wanna see you," you whisper as he lays you back on your bed. Your voice is still shaky from your orgasm; your whole body feels like an exposed nerve. But you're not done with him. Not a chance. Not when you've finally got him.
Andrew shucks his boxers off and your eyes go wide. You have no idea how he's going to fit inside you. He's huge.
"You okay, sugar?" he breathes, stroking your cheeks.
"You're really big," you confess. Sure, you've seen the print of him against his wetsuits, but you guessed there was fabric and water in the mix. But no...he's just...huge.
Andrew ducks his head shyly, "What? Those other boys were lacking?"
You blush bright red.
"Um...there were no other boys," you finally confess.
Pope's eyes go wide. He looks like the cat who's got the cream. He's going to be your first. He's gonna be the only person who has ever had you.
He kisses you now desperately. He grips the base of his cock, guiding the blunt head of his weeping cock to your entrance. He teases your clit first with his tip. You let out the sweetest little moans for him. And he's not even inside you yet. You're already panting and squirming for him. You're intoxicating, and he's already addicted to you.
Finally, he pushes into you. He has to squeeze his eyes shut at how tight you are. Pope has never been a gentle man. But he's being gentle for you. He'll always be gentle for you. When he finally bottoms out in you, your nails dig into his shoulders. They leave little half moons between his freckles.
"You're so tight, sugar," he breathes, his lips kissing over the shell of your ear.
You just nod, not sure you can form words. You're just so full of him. And when he starts rocking his hips you swear you see heaven. You've never felt this good in your life. Your body is on fire. His hands grip your hips and then slowly begin to explore the rest of your body. He grips your breasts, rough, pulling and flicking your nipples without rhythm. He then slides his hands down your arms, gripping your wrists and dragging them over your head. You both groan as he stretches your body out for him.
His thrusts get faster, harder, rougher. Andrew tried to be gentle, but fuck he needs to carve a path through you. He needs to make you his. No one else has had you and no one else will after he's finished with you. You're his. And only his.
"'m close, Andrew," you whine out as the headboard slams against the wall.
He's pumping in and out of you like a man possessed. The sound of skin on skin fills the room. It's animalistic. It's raw. It's fucking messy. And you cum without another warning. You scream out like a banshee as your orgasm rips through you.
Your pussy grips his cock like a vice and he has to stutter to a stop. He can't move you're so fucking tight, your cunt convulsing around his cock. And fuck, it's the prettiest fucking sight. Andrew presses his forehead against yours as you pull an orgasm from him. He fills you with thick, hot ropes of cum. The release feels like heaven. You swear it spurs on a third orgasm...or it could just be aftershocks from your last one. But it feels so good.
You lay tangled in each other's arms for what feels like hours. His cum seeps out of you and down your legs, cooling against your skin.
Finally, Pope gets up and grabs a wet cloth to clean you up.
"We can't tell Smurf," you say, at the same time as he says, "Smurf can't know."
At least you're on the same page. You both know that Smurf doesn't like it when her boys are distracted. She'll allow it for a time. But not for long. Especially if she sees their loyalty wavering. You're not stupid, you know she did something to Cath.
"Stay," you breathe, running your fingers through Andrew's auburn curls. You love the grey that's appeared by his temple, the greys that pepper his stubble.
You can't help but kiss over his chin and jaw. You give him a little nip as you do. This elicits a rare chuckle from Andrew 'Pope' Cody.
Your relationship with Andrew doesn't change much...bar the sex. The sex is incredible. Mind-blowing. You spend days in bed with him. You've started to wonder if you're a sex addict. Andrew soothes you, telling you this is very normal. Especially at the start of a relationship.
"Who are you fuckin'?" Craig finally asks you when he sees the hickies scattered over your body when he spots you on the beach one morning.
You've been smart, not flaunting your body over at the Cody house now that Andrew won't stop leaving marks on your skin. You can wear one-pieces, sporty ones that cover most of your chest if J invites you over to swim. Andrew gives you a knowing smirk when he sees your more modest swimwear. Knows that he's the reason.
But now you're in your bikini on the beach, not expecting to see anyone who might ask questions.
"Can't a girl have a lil privacy?" you ask putting your hands on your waist.
"Well no, because ever since I've known you, you've been like a nun or something," he responds as he shakes the seawater out of his hair.
"Just cos I won't sleep with you?" you respond with a roll of your eyes. "Cody boys aren't my type. Sorry, sweetheart!"
You give him a smile over your shoulder as you head back to your apartment.
Cody boys, no. Cody men, on the other hand? Well!
You were smart around the Cody house. You didn't change the way you had gotten closer to Pope. You didn't change how you would share a sun lounger with him. But Pope still acted like your touch freaked him out. He didn't soften into it like he did when you were alone.
You were careful. You were smart.
When you were alone in the kitchen or his bedroom or even just passing each other in the hallway, you couldn't help but press kisses to his jaw, he couldn't help but grip the soft flesh of your ass. Sometimes when you knew the house was empty, you would drop to your knees and take his heavy cock in your mouth. You loved making him feel good, making him feel powerful. You loved tasting him as he unloaded into your mouth. He always came so quickly when you got your mouth on him.
You just couldn't get caught.
Even if Andrew's brothers knew they'd soon tell Smurf. And then she would use that shit against you.
So you think you're being smart. Until you weren't.
J has invited you to a party. But he's distracted, playing stupid games with his uncles in the pool. Smurf is watching like an emperor in the Colosseum watching gladiators fight. She presides over the parties and everyone loves it. You have to contain your eyerolls behind the designer sunglasses Pope got you. No one notices when you go inside. No one except Pope, who, as always, has been watching you like a hawk. He finishes his beer before following you inside. He can't make it obvious.
You're hunting in the fridge for a soda. His eyes zero in on the curve of your ass. He places his hand on your waist and you jump before you realise who it is.
"Andrew," you breathe softly, turning to look at him.
"No one's watching, sugar," he whispers as he leans down to kiss you.
You smirk against his lips, stepping onto the boots he always wears to kiss him deeper. His hands palm at your ass, slipping under your bikini bottoms to grip the full globe of your ass. His thumb brushes lightly over your puckered hole.
"Andrew," you scold, pushing him away gently.
You giggle as you drop down to your knees, hidden by the kitchen island, and pull his cock from his swim shorts, taking him in your hot mouth. Andrew has to stay still as you work over his dick without being caught.
One thing leads to another and you're in his bedroom trying to stay quiet as he ploughs into you. He's got you on your hands and knees, on the floor because the bed is too noisy. You learn this when you try to ride him but the mattress springs are screeching. So you let the carpet burn into your flesh as Andrew fucks you. He's already made you cum twice on his face. He clamps a hand over your mouth when you cum, muffling your desperate cries of pleasure. He has to bite down on your shoulder to stop his grunts when he fills you with his cum.
Pope knows that you should get dressed and go back out to the party. But he gathers you in his arms and brings you to his bed.
"Just for a minute," you tell him, knowing that he loves post-sex cuddles. He's never been held, not really. And you intend to fix that. You cuddle him whenever you can. You'll always have you arms wrapped around him when you're alone.
What you don't expect is to wake up to the sun filtering in. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
"Andrew! Andrew!" you hiss, trying to wake him up. "Andrew fuckin' Cody!"
Smurf is always awake so fucking early. You have no intention of her finding the two of you. You pull your clothes back on. Swearing when you can't find your bikini top. You were only wearing a beach cover-up when Pope accosted you in the kitchen. So you can't just wander around like this. That's why you decide to grab one of Pope's black t-shirts. It doesn't hide the fact that you're not wearing a bra. But if you can get out of the house before you meet...
"Smurf!" you say as you walk outside. You thought you could sneak out the back. But of course, you can't.
"You stayed the night," she notes, her eyes dropping down to the fact you're clearly not wearing a bra and then to the carpet burn on your knees.
Interesting.
"Sorry I got a bit overwhelmed by the party and I musta passed out in J's room," you lie.
"In Pope's room," she points out. "And you're wearing Pope's shirt."
"Nothing gets by you, Smurf," you say with a smile. "I was wearing a cover-up and it just didn't seem appropriate in the light of day. Look, I should go. I have work."
Smurf immediately turns to the go to the bedroom but frowns when she finds the room empty. The bed has already been stripped. Oh what a smart girl.
"Pope?" she calls. She's aware that he didn't leave last night either.
Pope has put the bedsheets and some of his clothes in the wash. Everyone knows he's a clean freak. No one will bat an eye at him washing bedding that some girl slept in. Obviously without him.
"You didn't go home last night," she says when she finds him.
He just grunts, "I took a walk on the beach. Couldn't sleep. Came back this morning."
Smurf's eyes narrow. She doesn't like it when people lie to her. Especially not her eldest boy.
Pope makes sure for the next fortnight that he stays at Smurf's or his place. He still brings you to and from class, still surfs with you. Doesn't change that part of his routine. But he doesn't sleep over. He doesn't alert Smurf to you any more than he has to of how much you mean to him.
"This is my last semester of college," you tell him one afternoon as you lay on the couch. Your head is on his bare chest and he's playing with your hair.
"After that, there's nothing tying us to Oceanside. We could go anywhere," you remind him.
"What about-"
"Don't say her name," you whisper, kissing over his chest. "Your brothers can handle their own shit. They're grown men. You can start fresh."
"Where has good surfing?" he asks, then as he runs his fingers through your hair.
You smile and stretch up to kiss him.
"I think we can figure it out."
a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated
i can’t believe she’s married… like my day one artist getting her happy ending is making me feel very emotional and parasocial……. contact me in 5-7 business days
c/w ❀.ೃ࿔ angst, silent treatment, he logs into reader’s IG, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, #male tears, groveling, one-sided voicemails, make-up sex, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, praise, jersey stays on, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, babydoll, sweetheart, honey, pretty + no y/n) + dean climbs onto reader’s roof ❀⊰ *
By the seventh day, Dean had officially decided something was wrong with your phone.
Not because you never got mad at him—you absolutely did—but because this wasn’t how you fought. You’d tell him exactly what he did wrong. You expected him to listen. You expected the two of you to work through it together. But seven straight days without a single word? That wasn’t you.
He’d texted enough times that your conversation sat permanently pinned to the top of his messages. Half of them had gone unanswered. The other half were just him talking to himself because apparently he couldn’t stop.
Links to TikTok edits that reminded him of the two of you. A screenshot of some guy getting absolutely leveled during practice because he knew you’d laugh. A question about how much sugar he needs for those cookies he loves.
Then the inevitable spiral. You okay? Baby? You still mad? Can you at least tell me if you’re still alive? Nothing.
His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?
He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.
Dean dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.
Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.
Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.
He closed the app and opened it again.
Nothing.
His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.
Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.
You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.
This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”
You opened your settings again. Your blocked list was empty.
You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.
Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.
Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.
Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”
You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.
Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜
You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.
“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”
You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.
“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.
You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Dean let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.
“Babydoll?”
Silence.
“Honey?”
Still nothing.
“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”
You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.
“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone—Garrett and Tucker walking through the kitchen, talking about something he couldn’t even make out, Logan yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.
Dean clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Garrett or Tucker can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.
You always come.
So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.
You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.
Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.
“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? Left you some tickets at will-call like always. Just—wish me luck. Something?” Click.
You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.
The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.
The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.
He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.
His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Garrett finally nudges him. Dean ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.
“You good?” Garrett asks through a weak laugh, searching for Dean’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he hums.
“Everything alright?”
“Great.”
Garrett snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”
The words hit harder than Dean expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.
That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.
“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Dean shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”
“Yeah?” Garrett tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”
No, it doesn’t.
Dean can’t even come up with something in reply.
“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”
Garrett nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.
The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.
Dean skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.
Your seat is empty.
His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Dean catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.
The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.
Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’s taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.
The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.
The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving Briar with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.
Dean drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.
He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Graham said it best. “This isn’t like you.”
His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.
Straight to voicemail.
His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.
Another call. Another voicemail.
The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Dean fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.
“Rough one tonight, Di Laurentis,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.
Dean ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Garrett yells something back in Dean’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.
“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”
“Fuck you,” Dean barks and Garrett grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.
“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”
The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Garrett nods Tucker and Logan toward his Jeep. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.
He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.
He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”
His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.
“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.
The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.
The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.
You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.
And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.
His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.
“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.
“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”
He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.
“That game, baby. That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been at Briar. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those pricks from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”
The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.
And he still doesn’t have an answer.
He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.
He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.
And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.
He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.
Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.
It means admitting he might actually be losing you.
If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.
His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”
His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.
And still, nothing.
What the fuck did I do, baby?
His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.
For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.
“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.
He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.
By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.
Dean waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.
His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.
Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.
He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.
“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.
Nothing.
He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.
His eyes stay fixed on the window.
The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.
What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.
His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.
You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.
The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.
He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.
He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.
Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.
He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.
The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.
By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.
Dean steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.
His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.
You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.
You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Dean’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.
You were supposed to be at the game.
You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.
His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.
Dean doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.
“…Don’t you fucking dare, Dean.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.
“Just leave.”
“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why would I leave?”
Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”
Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Dean lets go of the window frame completely.
Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.
He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.
Dean finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby.”
The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.
“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you. I...” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better, but I will.”
He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.
“You’re killin’ me.”
Dean blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.
“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”
“Fucking finally, Dean.”
“What am I missing, baby? Holy shit,” his voice breaks.
“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”
“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
“I've always cared about you—”
“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.
“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”
“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”
“I—”
“You forgot. So I made them.”
“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “I just… I didn’t. I don’t know. I'm sorry—”
“I'm not done.”
His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.
“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”
Dean’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.
“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”
“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.
“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”
“I remember,” he breathes.
“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”
He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.
“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.
“What did you eat?” he asks softly.
“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”
His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C'mon," he panics. “That’s not what this is—”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”
“You know I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”
He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.
“I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I ask you to come with me. I didn’t know that’s how you were feeling.”
“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”
Dean lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.
“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”
He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”
Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.
“And look,” you sigh, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get your attention. I didn’t know how to handle this, okay? I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”
“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.
“What?” he asks.
“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Dean. $2.99? Really?”
He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.
“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”
Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.
“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”
He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.
“That’s why you’re here, Dean,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”
“Sweetheart…” he starts carefully, his voice softer than it’s been all night. “We’re halfway through the season. It’s been a lot. I know that.” He nods to himself like he’s finally found the answer. “But it’s not forever. Think about this summer.”
A tired smile tries to find its way onto his face. “We practically lived together. We stayed up ’til three in the morning watching shitty movies. We took road trips because we could. Dates all the time. We were good.” His eyes lock onto yours. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Dean knows it’s the wrong answer.
You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”
“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”
“We’re still together.”
He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”
“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”
“I know,” he whispers.
“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”
He nods in agreement, waiting for more.
“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Dean.”
“Of course, honey.”
“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”
“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.
“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”
“Of course.”
“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”
Dean bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.
“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”
“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.
“Obviously.”
“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.
“I know who you are, Dean. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”
His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.
“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. I need that… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”
He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.
His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to Malone’s instead.
His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.
And now, he knows you were all alone.
And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.
His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.
“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”
He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.
“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”
He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”
Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.
“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I loved you less. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted.”
You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.
He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.
“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”
“Dean—”
“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.
“Go ahead,” you whisper.
“I don’t want someone easier. I don’t want somebody who expects less from me. I don’t want any girl. I want you. I can handle you.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.”
His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”
You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.
“You fucking hate this color. I’m sorry,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”
He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently against your knuckles.
“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”
“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”
“I’m tailgating in your front yard. I’m so serious. I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.
He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.
“I want you here.”
“Let me in? Please,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.
“You can ask me sweeter than that, Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be so fuckin’ good for you. I missed you so much.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
Dean’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.
“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.
You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.
“Okay,” you breathe.
“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”
“Promise,” you whisper.
“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.
“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.
“Unblock me.”
“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.
“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”
“I promise,” you whisper.
“Thank you, baby.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know. I hear you,” he says quietly. “I heard every word you said out there.”
He shakes his head once before speaking again.
“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You deserve to know how important you are to me. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”
“I love you,” you murmur.
His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.”
He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.
“Stay?” you ask as he tilts closer, your fingers popping open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”
He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.
“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough. “If that’s what you want.”
“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.
You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.
He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.
You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.
You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back to the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.
He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.
You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.
“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.
Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.
“Been so lonely,” he whispers, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”
“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.
“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.
“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.
“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”
“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.
“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.
Dean’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.
You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.
You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.
Dean kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.
His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.
Dean trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.
He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.
“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.
He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.
Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.
He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.
He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.
“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.
“Dean…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”
Dean’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.
He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.
Dean wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.
Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.
Dean pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.
“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.
You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”
“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, babydoll?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Di Laurentis is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”
“Yes.”
“Made for me, weren’t you?”
“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.
Dean moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.
“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Dean picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.
“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”
“Harder,” you whimper.
“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.
Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.
“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.
Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.
“Dean—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.
“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.
Dean pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.
“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.
“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.
“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”
Your eyes roll back as you climax, Dean moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.
Dean moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.
You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Dean back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.
“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.
You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”
c/w ❀.ೃ࿔ angst, silent treatment, he logs into reader’s IG, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, #male tears, groveling, one-sided voicemails, make-up sex, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, praise, jersey stays on, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, princess, sweetheart, angel, pretty + no y/n) + rafe climbs onto reader’s roof ❀⊰ *
By the seventh day, Rafe had officially decided something was wrong with your phone.
Not because you never got mad at him—you absolutely did—but because this wasn’t how you fought. You’d tell him exactly what he did wrong. You expected him to listen. You expected the two of you to work through it together. But seven straight days without a single word? That wasn’t you.
He’d texted enough times that your conversation sat permanently pinned to the top of his messages. Half of them had gone unanswered. The other half were just him talking to himself because apparently he couldn’t stop.
Links to TikTok edits that reminded him of the two of you. A screenshot of some guy getting absolutely leveled during practice because he knew you’d laugh. A question about how much sugar he needs for those cookies he loves.
Then the inevitable spiral. You okay? Baby? You still mad? Can you at least tell me if you’re still alive? Nothing.
His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?
He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.
Rafe dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.
Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.
Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.
He closed the app and opened it again.
Nothing.
His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.
Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.
You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.
Three minutes later it buzzed again.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.
This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”
You opened Instagram again. Your blocked list was empty. Completely empty.
You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.
Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.
Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.
Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”
You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.
Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗.
You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.
“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”
You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.
“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.
You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Rafe let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.
“Princess?”
Silence.
“Angel?”
Still nothing.
“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”
You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.
“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You hear commotion on the other end of the phone—Kelce and Topper walking through the kitchen, talking about who knows what, JJ yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.
Rafe clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Kelce or Topper can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.
You always come.
So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.
You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.
Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.
“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? I left the tickets like always. Just—give me something. Wish me luck. Tell me to fuck off. Anything.” Click.
You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.
The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.
The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.
He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.
His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Kelce finally nudges him. Rafe ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.
“You good?” Kelce asks through a weak laugh, searching for Rafe’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he hums.
“Everything alright?”
“Great.”
Kelce snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”
The words hit harder than Rafe expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.
That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.
“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Rafe shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”
“Yeah?” Kelce tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”
No, it doesn’t.
Rafe can’t even come up with something in reply.
“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”
Kelce nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.
The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.
Rafe skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.
Your seat is empty.
His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Rafe catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.
The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.
Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’d taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.
The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.
The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving the team with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.
Rafe drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.
He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Kelce said it best. “This isn’t like you.”
His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.
Straight to voicemail.
His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.
Another call. Another voicemail.
The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Rafe fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.
“Rough one tonight, Cameron,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.
Rafe ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Kelce yells something back in Rafe’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.
“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”
“Fuck you,” Rafe barks and Kelce grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.
“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”
The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Kelce nods toward his Jeep to Topper and JJ. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.
He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.
He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”
His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.
“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.
The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.
The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.
You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.
And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.
His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.
“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.
“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”
He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.
“That game, baby… That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been here. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those fuckers from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”
The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.
And he still doesn’t have an answer.
He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.
He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.
And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.
He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.
Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.
It means admitting he might actually be losing you.
If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.
His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”
His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.
And still, nothing.
What the fuck did I do, baby?
His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.
For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.
“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.
He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.
By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.
Rafe waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.
His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.
Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.
He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.
“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.
Nothing.
He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.
His eyes stay fixed on the window.
The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.
What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.
His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.
You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.
The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.
He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.
He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.
Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.
He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.
The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.
By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.
Rafe steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.
His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.
You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.
You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Rafe’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.
You were supposed to be at the game.
You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.
His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.
Rafe doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.
“…Don’t you fucking dare, Rafe.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.
“Just leave.”
“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why the fuck would I leave?”
Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”
Rafe’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Rafe lets go of the window frame completely.
Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.
He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.
Rafe finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby. Please.”
The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.
“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I… I don’t know how to fix this. But I’ll figure it out.”
He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.
“You’re killin’ me.”
Rafe blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.
“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”
“Fucking finally, Rafe.”
“Tell me what the fuck I’m missing, baby,” his voice breaks.
“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”
“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
“I’ve always cared about you.”
“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.
“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”
“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”
“I—”
“You forgot. So I made them.”
“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “Okay… I know. I just… fuck. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“I'm not done.”
His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.
“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”
Rafe’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.
“You texted me let’s go to The View House.”
“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.
“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”
“I remember,” he breathes.
“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”
He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.
“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.
“What did you eat?” he asks softly.
“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”
His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C’mon,” he panics. “That’s not what this is—”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”
“You know I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”
He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.
“I wanted you there. That’s why I kept asking you to come. I didn’t know it felt like that. I don’t even like half these fuckin’ people, and somehow I made you think they mattered more than you.”
“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”
Rafe lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.
“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”
He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”
Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.
“And look,” you whisper, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I just needed you to talk to me. I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”
“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.
“What?” he asks.
“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Rafe. $2.99? Really?”
He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.
“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”
Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.
“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”
He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.
“That’s why you’re here, Rafe,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”
“It’s been fucked lately. I know that.” He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it down his jaw before looking back at you. “But how the hell did we get here?”
His eyebrows pull together as he searches your face, trying to make sense of something that suddenly feels obvious. “This summer…” He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Half the time I’d tell the boys no because I wanted to stay with you, and you’d practically push me out the damn door.”
“Rafe.”
“No, seriously,” he insists quickly. “You were always tellin’ me to go. ‘Go hang out with your friends.’ ‘Go be with the boys.’ You kept tellin’ me not to worry about you for five minutes.”
“That was the summer,” you answer quietly.
“…What?”
“That was the summer,” you repeat. “Before hockey started.”
His mouth falls open just enough to catch a breath before it closes again. He stares at you through the window, replaying the last few months so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
“I…” His jaw flexes. “Fuck.”
You don’t say anything.
“You stopped tellin’ me to go,” he whispers, finally putting it together.
“Because I shouldn’t have had to anymore.” Your eyes stay locked on his. “I never wanted you to stop being my boyfriend, Rafe.”
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.
“It’s just been hockey.” His eyes search yours desperately. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Rafe knows it’s the wrong answer.
You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”
“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”
“We’re still together.”
He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”
“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”
“… Yeah,” he whispers.
“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”
He nods in agreement, waiting for more.
“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Rafe.”
“Done. That’s done, princess.”
“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”
“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.
“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”
“Of course.”
“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”
Rafe bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.
“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”
“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.
“Obviously.”
“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.
“I know who you are, Rafe. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”
His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.
“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. No, you’re right… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”
He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.
His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to the bar instead.
His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.
And now, he knows you were all alone.
And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.
His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.
“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”
He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.
“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”
He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”
Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.
“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I stopped loving you. Don’t ever think that. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted. You’re right—you’re right about everything.”
You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.
He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.
“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”
“Rafe—”
“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.
“Go ahead,” you whisper.
“I don’t want someone easier. I want the woman that tells me when I’m bein’ an asshole… even if I don’t like hearin’ it. I want you. I can handle you. I just need to stop acting like having you means I don’t have to try.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.” His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”
You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.
“You hate this color. Jesus Christ, I’m sorry. I know that,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”
He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently over your knuckles.
“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”
“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”
“I’ll be outside at five. I’m so serious. I heard seven. I did—I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.
He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.
“I want you here.”
“Please, baby, just let me in,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth. “Either I’m sleeping out here or I’m coming through the window. Don’t make me sleep on your roof. You know I’m crazy about you. I’m just… I can’t end tonight without holding you.”
“You can ask me sweeter than that, Rafe Cameron.”
“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be good. I swear to God, I’ll be good. I missed you so much.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
Rafe’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.
“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.
You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.
“Okay,” you breathe.
“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”
“Promise,” you whisper.
“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.
“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.
“Unblock me.”
“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.
“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”
“I promise,” you whisper.
“Thank you, baby.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know… I heard every word you said out there.”
He shakes his head once before speaking again.
“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You shouldn’t have to question where you come in my life. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”
“I love you,” you murmur.
His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.” He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.
“Stay?” you ask and he tilts closer as you pop open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”
He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.
“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough.
“I only shoved you out twice, by the way,” you whisper and he rolls his eyes, the corner of his lips curling into a smirk. Your eyes narrow on his, waiting for a response. “Rafe Cameron.”
“I know.” He scoffs, rubbing his thumb against your cheek. “That was dramatic.”
“A little?”
“You know how I get.”
“I do,” you whisper.
“Just didn’t think I was gonna get this again,” he breathes as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.
You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.
He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.
You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.
You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back toward the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.
He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.
You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.
“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.
Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.
“Been so lonely,” he sighs, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”
“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.
“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.
“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.
“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”
“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.
“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.
Rafe’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.
You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.
You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.
Rafe kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.
His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.
Rafe trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.
He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.
“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.
He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.
Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.
He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.
He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.
“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.
“Rafe…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”
Rafe’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.
He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.
Rafe wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.
Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.
Rafe pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.
“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.
You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”
“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, princess?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Cameron is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”
“Yes.”
“Made for me, weren’t you?”
“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.
Rafe moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.
“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Rafe picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.
“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”
“Harder,” you whimper.
“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.
Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.
“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.
Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.
“Rafe—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.
“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.
Rafe pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.
“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.
“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.
“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”
Your eyes roll back as you climax, Rafe moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.
Rafe moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.
You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Rafe back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.
“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.
You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”
Some people meet the love of their life in a more graceful and poised way. Some people meet theirs at a crowded bar. Some people meet theirs at work, or college.
Well..
You meet yours at a Taco Bell, at 11 pm.
You’re all vintage glamour and old Hollywood charm—crimson lipstick, poised, thrifted clothing, and a smile that could make a grown adult weak at the knees. Rafe’s a professional boxer built like a freight train, he’s covered in scars, tattoos, and enough distrust in the world to keep everyone at arms length.
You two never spoke. Not the night at Taco Bell. Not the day after at Whole Foods. Not even when he started following your boutique’s page on instagram.
The more you two ran into each other, the more you couldn’t stop thinking of the other. That turned into something very impossible to ignore. Two people who were from very different worlds begin rethinking every assumption you’ve both ever made about love, trust, and each other.
A/n: uhh so this is like a series but not a series kinda. Blurbs r kinda hard to think of rn. But I’ll defs come up with smth!!! Enjoy
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – garrett's girlfriend is drunk, freezing, and extremely loyal. so loyal, in fact, that she refuses his water, his jacket, and his flirting because she’s waiting for… garrett graham.
warnings – fluff, drunk antics, alcohol, post-game party, protective boyfriend garrett, reader doesn't recognise him for most of the fic
notes from me – part of my 1k celebrations!! & based on this request!! thank u anon, such a cute idea 🥹
word count – 4.4k
navigation – masterlist | taglist
There was two versions of Garrett Graham. The version people got in the rink, all sharp focus and captain voice and that very specific game-day intensity that made even strangers in the stands start sitting a little straighter when he skated past.
Then there was the version people got after he’d won, showered, changed, and been handed exactly two beers at a party by Logan, who had called it recovery hydration with the confidence of a man who had never once been trusted by medical professionals.
That Garrett was looser. Warmer. Still tired in the shoulders, still carrying the ache of a hard check somewhere along his ribs, but smiling more easily now, head tipped back while Tucker said something dry beside him and Dean yelled over the music from the kitchen like volume could make a story better.
His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.
He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept.
Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.
He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing.
She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.
So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”
Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”
“Die.”
Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield.
She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.
Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”
She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.
“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”
Garrett blinked.
Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.
“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”
“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”
“And he plays hockey.”
“No shit?”
“And he’s, like, really good at it.”
Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.
He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”
Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Baby.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”
“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”
“My boyfriend calls me baby.”
“Does he?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds annoying.”
“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”
Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”
Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”
She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”
“I’m taking hydration’s side.”
Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”
She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not.
Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.
Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”
The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”
“Right. Yep. Forgot.”
“My boyfriend says that.”
“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.
Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.
Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”
Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”
Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”
“She’s drunk.”
“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”
Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”
“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”
Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”
“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”
Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face.
She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.
His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.
For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument.
He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.
She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice.
She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party.
She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.
Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.
The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears.
Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.
“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”
She froze.
Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”
She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.
“Nope,” she said.
“Baby.”
Her head snapped around. “I said no.”
Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”
“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”
“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It literally has my name on it.”
She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”
“Not on this team.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”
Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”
Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”
From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.
She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”
“He’s very hot.”
“Is he?”
“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”
Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”
Logan choked.
Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”
“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”
“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”
“No thank you.”
“You’re gonna freeze.”
“I’ll wait for Garrett.”
“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”
She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”
Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”
He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.
“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.
Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”
“She thinks I’m a stranger.”
“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”
“Great. That makes it better.”
Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”
Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”
“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”
“She refused me.”
“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”
Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”
Dean grinned. “Did I?”
“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”
“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”
Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.
By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal.
Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.
Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”
She frowned up at Dean. “What?”
“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”
She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”
Garrett blinked.
Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.
She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”
Garrett slowly looked at Dean.
“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”
“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.
“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”
Garrett’s eyebrows went up.
Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.
“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.
“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.
“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”
Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”
Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”
He froze. “Hi?”
“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”
She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”
Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.
Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”
She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”
His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”
Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”
She shook her head, very firm. “No.”
“No?”
“No. There was just this guy.”
Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”
She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”
Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”
Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”
“You should talk to him.”
“Oh, I should?”
“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”
Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”
“He kept calling me baby.”
“That’s crazy.”
“And he tried to give me his jacket.”
“What a dick.”
She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”
Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt.
He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.
She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.
“Baby,” he murmured.
“Mhm?”
“You wanna get outta here?”
Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”
“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”
“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”
“Yeah, we can go home.”
“And maybe get McDonald’s?”
Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”
She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”
“Confident.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”
She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his.
He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.
“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”
She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”
“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”
She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.
“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.
Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”
She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”
He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely.
Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.
“You smell good,” she told him.
“Thanks.”
“Like Garrett.”
“Crazy coincidence.”
She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.
The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.
“She found you,” he said.
Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”
She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”
Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”
She nodded. “Way.”
Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”
Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”
She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”
“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.
Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car.
The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.
“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.
“Yeah?”
“That guy was so annoying.”
Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”
“He was talking to me all night.”
“Sounds like a loser.”
“He was kind of hot, though.”
Garrett stopped walking.
She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”
He stared at her. “Hot?”
She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”
“Uh huh.”
“And he had your jacket.”
“My jacket?”
“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”
Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”
“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”
His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”
“And you already won.”
“I did.”
“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”
Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”
Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”
“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”
“Thanks, baby.”
She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”
At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”
“I always watch my head.”
“You don’t.”
“I have one.”
“Having one and watching it are different.”
She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her.
She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so glad I found you.”
His hand paused on the belt for half a second.
She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”
Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”
“There was this guy–”
“I heard.”
“–and he kept trying to give me water.”
“So rude.”
“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”
Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”
“And fries.”
“Obviously.”
“And a Sprite.”
“You need water.”
She made a face. “The guy said that too.”
Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”
She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”
“My bad.”
“You’re my boyfriend.”
“I am.”
“And I love you.”
The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.
He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”
She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”
“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door.
He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big.
When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.
Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.
For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.
“Babe?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”
Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”
“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”
His grin widened.
“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”
I just read your Andrew with reader who is a student doctor and get this. Reader and Andrew are husband and wife and it's her first day at the Pitt so why is there a man who looks exactly like her husband ( and they are not related ) ..
Seeing double
tags: andrew "pope" cody x ms4!reader, implied age-gap relationship (late 20s reader/early 40s andrew), jack abbot is there and confused, even more confused reader, quiet and awkward andrew, stare-y reader, medical inaccuracies, the pitt chaos, robby robinavitch (always), season 1 the pitt, pittfest, reader's nickname is slugger (explained in fic), 18+ MDNI
notes: thank you @nocturnalrosey for requesting! I hope I did this piece just how you wanted it to go! I love getting to add pieces to my doppleganger collection so keep the requests coming! if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy!
word count: 3.5k
To say you were nervous for your first day at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was an understatement. As you waited for your shift to start, you couldn’t stop rocking on your heels with your hands held behind your back, fingers twisting at your wedding ring, as you waited near the nurses’ station promptly at 6:55 am.
The ED bustled around the small, eager and probably equally nervous group that you were a part of. To your left, a brunette woman and a blond man held similar poses while a raven-haired, dark-skinned girl took the place next to your right, looking almost too young to be there. The urge to introduce yourself to the other three was swiftly put on hold when a rather tall, sad-looking man, probably your new attending, Dr. Robby, approached while talking to what you would call already-veteran doctors.
“Alright folks, listen up,” Robby announced before stopping. “As you can see, we have some new faces this morning. Starting with second-year resident Doctor Melissa King, fresh from the V.A.”
The happy-looking blond woman next to him smiled and slightly waved her hands. “Everybody calls me Mel. I’m super happy to be here.”
He nodded sat her before looking at your group. “And one new intern, three med students.”
You pursed your lips, waiting for him to start the introductions, but apparently it seemed like he had other ideas. He crossed his arms and continued to stare expectantly.
“This is where you introduce yourselves.”
Again, none of you spoke until the brunette to your left spoke up. “Trinity Santos. Intern.”
The raven-haired girl went next. “Victoria Javadi, M.S. Three.”
Then the blond. “Dennis Whitaker, M.S. Four.”
And that left you to finish out the group, finger still spinning your ring with nervousness. “Y/n Cody. Also M.S. Four.”
A redheaded woman with a fringe leaned over to a brunet male. “Would you look at that rock,” she whispered, but her voice carried enough that you were able to hear it.
You bashfully put your hands behind your back again. It wasn’t like you weren’t proud to be married, but the unwanted attention had you shrinking into yourself. Thankfully though, their eyes shifted away from you when a bleach blond older woman joined the group. Robby gestured toward her.
“For you new people, this is the most important person you’re going to meet today. Dana is our Charge Nurse; she is the ring linger of this circus. Do what she says, when she says it. Now, as you can see, the house is always packed.”
Your eyes drifted from the attending to look around. However, because of the motion, you weren’t able to get a good look at the person who spoke next.
“The ER is the gift that keeps on giving.”
Robby’s voice filled your ears again. “Most of our department is clogged up with boarders. Those are the admitted patients waiting for a room upstairs, sometimes for days. Beds are a precious commodity, so be quick and efficient with your workups. Half of your cases will be discharged from chairs. And while we treat the sicker patients back here, keep an eye on the waiting room to be sure no one’s about to die out there.” He turned to Dana. “Ready to rock and roll?”
Dana smiled. “To quote Wu-Tang, Bring the mother fuckin’ ruckus.”
Robby turned to the residents, and you finally turned your eyes back to him.
“Senior residents got sign outs?” he asked.
Two of them—the brunet man and a dark-skinned woman—nodded, their hands both holding tablets.
“Alright, let’s do this,” Robby said before turning away, already moving further into the department.
He quickly began to integrate your group into their daily routine. First stop was an exhausted-looking mother holding an even louder and exhausted-sounding baby. You kept quiet while they worked, wanting to more take in everything instead of jumping the gun and calling the wrong diagnoses. After Dana walked away to get some Nair for the baby’s hair tourniquet, Robby continued on, each of you following him like a lost duckling.
After the small moments of calm in the morning, the following hours ascended into madness. The first traumas had been a woman who’d been pushed down onto subway tracks and ended up with a degloved foot. The second adjacent trauma had been the man who’d tried to save her life.
During the procedure to reset the woman’s foot, you were unfortunate enough to be closest to Victoria, who had been looking sick since the wrapping came off. Not wanting her to hit the ground, you stepped into her freefall and stuck your arms under hers, keeping her semi-upright while she became dead weight.
Trinity looked over with a smirk. “Med students are playing dominos.”
“Just didn’t want her to hit her head,” you grunted, easing her down until she was flat on the ground. “That’d be too much paperwork that I absolutely do not want to deal with on the first day.”
An echo of “preach” followed your statement.
“You’re certainly a good catch, slugger,” Trinity quipped. “Ever think about playing for the Pirates? I’ve heard their outfield has been struggling this season.”
You shook your head and flashed her a sarcastic smile. “Sadly, I think my hand eye coordination is better for catching my peers instead of balls flying at 90 miles an hour. And I really don’t think my husband would been too keen on me switching careers this fast after one day.”
You knew she wanted to say something back, maybe ask a question or throw another snarky remark, but you were quickly called away to help another resident.
By noon, your brain was quickly getting overwhelmed with the sheer number of patients in the halls and the number still waiting to be seen. Thankfully, charting gave you a small moment to catch your breath, the tying quickly getting your mind off the panic that’d been building for a small while. While you sat there, you wished your phone would buzz even though you knew you wouldn’t.
Andrew was out for the day, and that normally meant you wouldn’t see him until you got home after shift. But that was fine; you really didn’t need any distractions on your first day, mind too focused on making a good enough impression that they might consider you for residency after you graduated.
The thought had you sighing, which somehow caught the attention of Dana just behind you.
“Why the loud sigh, hun?” she asked, coming into your line of sight. “Shift treating you that bad already?”
You winced, smile slightly slanted as you met her gray eyes. “It is bad I’m already ready for it to be over?”
She smiled sympathetically. “Welcome to emergency medicine. This is how it’ll probably be for the rest of your time here.”
“Should have gone into cosmetology then,” you joked. “Maybe the assholes there would be different than the assholes here.”
“Ha!” Dana barked, hand coming down gently on your shoulder. “I like you, kid.” She turned back towards her board. “So, what’s your story. Why you here?” Her accented twang sounded lovely in your ears, comforting you in a way.
“My husband, actually. We needed a fresh start; Pittsburg seemed like a good enough place to do so. We just moved from California.”
She cocked her head. “Beaches not enticing enough for you to stay?”
“I’m more of a mountains girl,” you responded. “Plus, I didn’t pick here. My first thought would have been Kentucky. But the gloom here was enough to satiate me.”
“Well, we’re glad to have you here. The Pitt can’t be a teaching hospital without people to teach.”
You folded your hands on the desk. “I’m excited to learn.”
Apparently, that had her handing you a tablet. “Then Room 4 is all yours, slugger.”
A groan rumbled your chest as you stood. “Did Santos already blab about that?”
“News travels fast everywhere, but it travels even faster in a hospital.” She tuned back towards her board. “Better get to your patients. Robby’s available for when you need him or find Samira; she’s probably looking for someone to help.”
You looked down at the tablet. “Thank you, Dana.”
“Don’t mention it, hun. It’s my job.”
Your eyes trailed the tablet as you left the hub in search for your new attending or one of the senior residents. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for you to find Samira, the tablet still clutched to your front.
“Dr. Mohan?” you asked as you walked up to her. “Dana handed me the chart for Room 4, and I was wondering if I could tag along with you for it?”
“Samira is just fine.” Her deep brown eyes gleamed, matching her shining smile. “But sure! Mrs. Thompson is one of our regulars,” she began while walking in the direction of the room. “Her husband died a couple of months ago, and she has a history of OCD and hypochondria.”
You hummed. “So for her, do you normally listen and bring her down?”
“We at least try to. Sometimes we’ll give her plain saline but say it’s a medication so she believes she’s getting treatment.”
“Isn’t that lying though?” you asked with pinched brows.
Samira, in return, gave you an understanding look. “That’s just sometimes the best thing for her when she gets stuck inside her head.” She gave one knock on the door before entering with a large gin. “Hi, Mrs. Thompson. I’m Dr. Mohon, and we have one of our med students here if you’re comfortable with that.”
Mrs. Thompson was exactly how you imagined her: graying hair, wide and scared eyes that roamed the room, and nervous hands that rested on her skirted lap. You stayed next to the door just in case she asked for you to step out.
“No, that’s fine,” she answered, looking right at you.
“Thank you, ma’am,” you answered before pulling the privacy curtain shut.
You stayed close to Samira as she sat down on the edge of the bed. While she talked to Mrs. Thompson, you let your eyes roam while staying alert to any questions. However, once your eyes landed on the small side table, you noticed how the instruments weren’t that straight. Another thing you noticed was how Mrs. Thompson kept glancing towards them as well, and the twitch of her finger had you guessing that she too wanted to straighten them. Without saying anything, you shuffled quietly over and rearranged them from shortest to largest, also making sure that they were evenly spaced out while staying as straight as possible. When they were to your liking, you stepped back behind Samira in time to see Mrs. Thomspon take a large inhale, her shoulders relaxing just a bit more as she went over why she was in today.
It wasn’t until you left the room that Samira put a hand on your shoulder.
“What was with the instruments?” she asked. “
You took another glance back at the room. “You said Mrs. Thompson has a history of OCD, and she kept looking over at them. Her fingers would twitch each time she did. I thought I’d just go ahead and put them in order, thinking she might be able to focus more on what you were saying instead of overthinking about them.”
Samira cocked her head. “Oh; I didn’t think about that. Great catch then.”
“What did Slugger catch this time?” Trinity asked as she walked right up to the two of you, hands deep in her pockets, a wide smirk on her face. “Did your patient fall over this time?”
“Our patient was showing non-verbal signs of an OCD tick,” you replied. “I just wanted to make her more comfortable.”
“How’d you even know to look for stuff like that? Did you take a specific course in school?” Trinity asked.
You shook your head. “Not really. Uh, my husband has OCD, and if you live with someone for long enough, you pick up on the little things.”
Samira handed the tablet back to you. “Like I said, good catch. That was actually the smoothest conversation I’ve had with Mrs. Thompson before.”
“Glad I could help,” you said. “Should I give this back to Dana since she’ll be discharged soon?”
“That’d be great. I’ll find you when I get my next patient.”
“Common, Slugger. Let’s see if there’s any other fun patients to grab,” Trinity said while taking your wrist. “Maybe the next one you can show of your catching skills again.”
“Ha, ha.”
_______________________
The one rule you should have paid more attention to was that if everything seemed to go well in the ER, it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. With only one hour left of your shift, Robby announced a Code Triage alter, and your stomach sunk so deep you feared it’d disappear into your feet.
“Okay, everybody listen up,” Robby yelled over the growing panic. “There is an active shooter at Pittfest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims. We don’t know yet how many we are getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. They either go home, they go upstairs, or they go to Family Medicine. Call you loved ones now if you need to. I can guarantee your cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there’s time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes.”
With that, you quickly turned away, hand already digging for your phone. Your heart clenched at the screen that indicated you still hadn’t received any notification from Andrew, but that didn’t stop you from pulling up his contact and pushing the call button. When his voicemail answered instead, you closed your eyes and sighed sadly.
“Hey, Andy. Um, listen, I’ll probably be home late tonight unless you want to come pick me up. There’s a shooter at that festival, and pretty much all hell’s about to break loose. If you try to call back, I probably won’t be able to answer. Just know I love you, and I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
You ended the call there, hoping and wishing the cell service would hold enough for it to go through. Your hands were already slightly shaking as you put your phone back into your pocket, also sliding off your rings so they wouldn’t get lost. However, the moment you looked up, you froze completely.
Because, for some odd reason, Andrew was currently talking to your attending like they’d known each other for years. You wanted to go up to him right then and there, but your feet kept you from doing so. Honestly, after a few moments, you were glad as it gave you enough time to figure out that, no, that man wasn’t Andrew at all. While they shared the same hazel eyes and muscular build, this man’s curls were salt-and-peppered where Andrew’s was still holding onto bits and parts of auburn. You also didn’t realize how long you were staring, brain desperately trying to separate Andrew and whoever this man was.
Across the way, Jack could feel a pair of eyes on him, and one quick look had him finding your wide and confused eyes.
“Brother, you hiring med students with staring problems now?” he asked with furrowed brows.
Robby turned around and also caught your surprised look. “Cody,” he called out, breaking you from staring at his friend. “Everything okay?”
You shook your head. “Sorry, Dr. Robby. I'm just trying to figure out if my husband has a twin he never knew about,” you nervously laughed, eyes finding the man's ID tag. “I didn't mean to stare for so long, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack waved a dismissive hand. "No trouble. You were just looking at me like you'd seen a ghost. And last I checked, I haven't died just yet."
That earned a small snort from your nose. "Thank goodness for that, yeah? However, I think if I see you and my husband in the same room, I might explode."
He smirked widely. "Well, we don't need that happening."
“Okay, party people, our first ambulance in on its way in, so let’s get moving,” Dana announced while walking right between the three of you. “Cody, go help Whitaker with the disaster bins.”
“On it.” You paused. “Again, sorry for staring, Dr. Abbot.” Without waiting for an answer, you turned away and began searching for your fellow M.S. 4, leaving the two attendings by themselves.
“So, do you think her husband really looks like me?” Jack questioned after a short moment while his eyes followed where you were walking away.
“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve seen, brother.”
_______________________
By now, you were sweating more than a sinner in the middle of a Southern Baptist choir special. Blood dripped off your arms, your front, and onto your shoes. Everywhere you stepped squished with the thick liquid, and you knew you’d still smell the iron scent hours after you’d gone home. Thankfully, though, the worst was over, and like Dana announced, the Pitt would be opening back up soon to take in regular patients.
Trinity shoulder nudged you slightly while you leaned on an empty gurney. “That was fucking exhausting.”
“I can’t wait to get in my bed,” you replied with a groan.
“With your husband that looks just like Dr. Abbot, right?” she teased.
“Fucking fast traveling news.” You pushed yourself up, back protesting at the sudden change. “Hey, I need to go change, and I don't know if he's coming to pick me up or not. In the event that he does, if you happen to see him, can you let him know I'll be back soon?”
Trinity smiled and nodded. “Oh, I definitely will!”
"Thank you, Santos," you replied, hand coming up to cover a yawn as you walked away in the direction of the locker rooms.
Trinity turned and ripped the smock off and pushed in down into the nearest bin. Around her, the ED gave a large sigh of relief, and everyone slowed down for the first time in hours. As she waited by the nurses’ station, she watched a few regular patients start to trickle in, but one in particular caught her attention.
The man was tall and rocked a head of auburn curls that were just starting to gray near his ears. His hazel eyes were narrowed as he looked out of place in his civilian clothes in a sea of scrubs and gowns. Trinity noted the amount of freckles that spanned across his face, and for one tiny moment, she saw a vision of Jack Abbot in his face. Not even a breath later, it clicked that the man was probably one who put that rock on your finger.
Her lips stretched into a smile, and she itched to walk up to him and ask if he was your husband. However, Samira, still in the adrenaline rush with a wide eyes, hastily walked up to him. Trinity didn't even think she knew that the man she was approaching was not the night shift attending she'd been stealing glances at between blood transfusions and saving lives.
"Dr. Abbot!" Trinity heard her all but yell right in the guy's face, voice a little too stretched. "I was hoping I'd catch you. I have a patient who's about to go up to the OR, but I need an attending's sign off on it first."
As she rattled off, Trinity watched the man looked at her with the most confused expression she’d ever seen someone have. His eyes had widened just a fraction, but that didn't stop him from looking around every so often like he was desperate to find someone who wasn't in the room. His mouth parted in an attempt to say something, but Samira, bless her heart, wasn't even looking at him. Her eyes stayed glued to the tablet in her hands.
“Oh, this is absolute gold,” Trinity muttered before turning to the charge nurse. “Hey, Dana. Look at this.”
Dana’s attention moved from her board over to where the man was standing awkwardly while Samira continued to talk at him. “Did Abbot dye his hair?”
“Not that I know of,” Jack responded, suddenly appearing at the nurses' station, brows pinched at Dana's question. “When would I have had time to dye my hair?”
The sound of his voice must have caught Samira, because in the next moment, she looked up at the man like a dear caught in headlights. Horrified, she turned her head and met Jack's confused gaze that had moved from her and to the man she had been talking to.
For once in his life, Jack didn’t know whether to start laughing or run away. Because staring right back at him was a man that looked like him in pictures from 10 years ago. His brain struggled to comprehend until he remembered what you had said earlier before the chaos of the casualty.
"Oh."
By now, the commotion had drawn eyes from everywhere, and everyone who looked over wondered if they were truly seeing double.
The man, who did look exactly like a younger Jack Abbot, walked quietly over to the station and stopped right in front of Jack, chest puffing slightly even if both of them were the same height. His hazel eyes scanned behind Jack's shoulder before he met hazel hues that mirrored his own.
“I’m looking for my wife,” Andrew finally gruffed, hands curling into fists by his side, and obviously not liking the number of eyes that were on him. “She works here.”
Trinity stepped into his line of sight. “You must be Mr. Cody; damn, I was not expecting this. Slugger wanted me to let you know that she's changing, but she should be out soon.”
His brows somehow furrowed deeper, and the corners of his mouth tugged downwards in a matching frown. “Slugger?”
“Your wife has an affinity for catching people. Baseball might be her actual calling.”
“Trinity, I told you that I have no want to switch careers, thank you very little," you announced after you walked out of the hallway. Your eyes gleamed when they landed on a very, uncomfortable-looking Andrew and equally confused coworkers. "Hi, baby."
Andrew looked over and down at you. “Hi.”
“You didn't have to come pick me up,” you said. "I didn't mind driving home."
“Wanted to,” he muttered while taking your hand into his. "Knew you'd be tired."
You warmly smiled up at him. "Well, I'm glad you're here then." Your face turned as you looked over at the small crowd that had gathered; their jaws wide open. "I guess I should explain. Everyone, this is my husband, Andrew. Andrew, these are my coworkers." You gestured towards Jack. "And I guess this is your secret twin."
Andrew stayed silent for a second too long. “Hi.” He offered nothing more than a fleeting moment of eye contact with each of them before turning to you with what people could only call puppy-dog eyes. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah. Let's go home.” But before Andrew could tug you away, you quickly waved at everyone. “See y’all in twelve hours!”
They all stayed silent as Andrew led you out of the ER with you babbling the entire way while he seemed to not say anything, just looking happy to be the center of your attention after a long day.
Finally, Jack broke the silence. “I should probably call my mom and see if I had a twin she gave up and never told me.”
Robby patted him on the shoulder. “You do that, brother.”
Dean's long distance girlfriend is at Briar for a game
Another little blurb
Summary: Dean's New York girlfriend is at Briar to see a Hawks game
When you and Dean became official over the summer, his friends didn’t believe he was in a relationship. To their eyes, it was impossible that Dean Di Laurentis, the man who never hooked up with the same girl twice, the man who once had twin sisters coming out of his room at 3am, had settled for a girl. One girl.
They had one hell of a surprise when they walked inside Malone’s one Thursday night and saw their defenseman sitting at a booth with a girl that visibly didn’t go to Briar. You stood out like a sore thumb in your luxury sweater and Dior handbag.
Living hours away in New York, you didn’t get to watch Dean play very often, which made nights like this all the more special. No matter how many games you streamed from your dorm room, nothing compared to seeing him on the ice. He moved with a speed that seemed effortless, weaving through defenders as if they were standing still. And then there was the confidence. Dean loved showing off and shoving people against the boards. Players hated to see him coming their way.
‘’Go Dean!’’ you shouted beside Hannah, following him with your eyes as he stole the puck from the opposing team, his skates carving sharp lines into the ice as he charged straight toward the net.
Dean crossed the blue line, keeping the puck just out of reach of a desperate stick check. The goalie squared up in the crease, knees bent and glove raised, tracking his every movement.
Your heart pounded against your ribs.
‘’Come on, baby. Come on.’’
He pulled the puck to his backhand, forcing the goalie to commit, then snapped it back to his forehand in one fluid motion. For a split second, the top corner of the net was wide open.
He fired.
The puck rocketed off his stick.
The red light flashed — goal.
You jumped from your seat with a proud grin, nearly spilling your drink as Hannah grabbed your arm and shook it excitedly.
On the ice, Dean disappeared beneath a pile of teammates near the boards, their gloves pounding against his helmet and shoulder as they celebrated. Then, as the noise continued to roar around you, he lifted his head and looked toward the crowd — toward you — and winked.
You blew him a kiss in return, the dainty gold bracelet he had gifted you glimmering in the light. It had a small ‘D’ pendant that matched the one around his neck with your initial. A simple, yet meaningful jewelry.
A few seats below you, some of the puck bunnies were squealing and jumping, thinking he had winked at them. You chose to ignore them. After all, you were the one who got to kiss him at the end of the day.
The game ended 5 to 2, adding another win to the Hawks’ streak.
You and Hannah gathered your things, making sure you had your bag and jacket, and went down the stands as the players were stepping out of the rink and leaving down the tunnel. Dean was impossible to miss, taller than everyone…and causing a little chaos. He tapped gloves with teammates, giving a playful shove to Tucker — as always — and laughed at something Birdie said.
When his eyes found you waiting by the boards, he made his way over. His cheeks were flushed from the game, blond hair damp beneath his helmet. He lifted the cage up, a lazy smile spread across his face.
‘’Good game,’’ you congratulated, leaning in for a kiss.
You intended to make it quick, but Dean had other plans.
He slipped his tongue in and cupped your face, standing a little over a foot above you in his skates. He kissed you slow and unhurried, not caring that you were being watched by people. Behind him, some guys from the team wolf-whistled, but Dean didn't care.
‘’You’re blocking the way, Di Laurentis!’’ someone called at him.
Instead of stepping away, he lifted you clean off your feet with one arm, causing a startled laugh to escape you, and headed down the tunnel.
‘’Dean, put me down,’’ you demanded, clinging to his neck despite knowing he would never drop you. As you did, you noticed the matching pendant around his neck peeking out from beneath his gear, making you smile.
Dean nad his girl being loud in bed and being confronted about it
Longer fics are coming, but for now let's go with this little blurb
Summary: You and Dean get called out for being loud in bed
Warnings: mention of sex, mention of moaning and other sounds,
The boys lost count of how many times they’ve heard or walked in on you and Dean having sex. In the shower, in the kitchen, on the couch, the pool table, the backyard, and even in Dean’s room. That one was entirely Tucker’s fault for walking in without knocking, though. They already had to deal with their roommate’s shameless nudity and lack of care for closing doors, this sex thing was getting too much.
All heads turned toward the door when the one they were all waiting for walked in with you over his shoulder while announcing that you would be ready for the gym session in about an hour or so.
‘’Wait up, Don Juan. You didn’t get my texts?’’ Logan called out from the living room where he, Garrett and Tucker were sitting. ‘’I said house meeting at 4pm.’’
With his other hand, Dean checked his phone, seeing Logan’s message. He had read it. He just brushed it off when you called and asked to have late lunch together.
‘’That was a serious thing?’’
‘’Yes,’’ replied Logan.
‘’Since when do we do house meetings?’’
‘’Since now.’’
Dean glanced at you, then back to Logan. ‘’Can we raincheck? Because we were supposed to—’’
‘’No,’’ all three boys said at the same time.
A beat of silence followed and Dean set you down. He didn’t carry you through campus like that. Just up the stairs of the house after you mentioned that you were wearing a brand new lingerie set.
You looked between them, then back to Dean. ‘’It’s okay. I can go wait upstairs.’’
‘’Actually,’’ Garrett cut in. ‘’This is about you too.’’
A frown drew between your eyebrows. You didn’t even live there.
‘’Mostly him,’’ Tucker corrected, pointing at Dean. ‘’But you're involved.’’
Was this about the box of cookies you finished and put back in the cupboards the other night? Or the hair in the shower? Because Logan always complained about the clogged shower drain and having to fix it. As if they didn’t all have hair too…
Without asking questions, you followed Dean to the couch and sat down.
‘’What did we do?" the latter asked, wanting to get this over with quickly.
The three roommates exchanged looks.
Then Tucker threw his hands in the air. ‘’You have got to stop treating this house like it's a honeymoon suite.’’
‘’We're all happy you found each other. Great. Wonderful. Love that for you,’’ Logan continued, explaining what Tucker meant. ‘’But some of us would like to walk into our own kitchen without wondering if we're about to see something that’s gonna make us regret that 11pm cereal craving.’’
Dean laughed. ‘’You guys are being dramatic.’’
‘’Am I?’’ Tucker shot back, raising a dark eyebrow.
‘’You’re worse than rabbits during mating season.’’
‘’Don’t compare my girlfriend to a rodent,’’ Dean warned Logan, pointing a finger at him.
You shrugged. ‘’I take no offense. Rabbits are cute and very intelligent little beings.’’
‘’And stop leaving doors open,’’ Garrett added. ‘’We already have to see it in the locker rooms, we don’t need more exposure to your naked self.’’
‘’Fine. I’ll close the bathroom door when I shower. Are we done?’’
‘’No.’’
Dean slouched deeper into the couch, one arm draped around your shoulders. ‘’Fine. Continue your presentation.’’
‘’Thank you.’’ Logan pointed at him. ‘’Second issue: the noise.’’
Dean opened his mouth to protest again, but Logan raised a hand, silencing him with the kind of authority usually reserved for coaches and angry mothers.
Garrett nodded gravely beside him like this was an official courtroom testimony. ‘’The noise,’’ he repeated.
You knew the walls were thin, but once you were in the moment you kind of forget about it. And it’s not like there’s innocent ears in the house. You were all adults with an active sex life. You’ve heard girls moaning and their gruntings from all of the bedrooms.
‘’Don’t act all innocent,’’ you said, your eyes falling on Logan. ‘’Dean’s room is right next to yours. We can hear you too.’’
At that, Dean squeezed your thigh proudly. Under your sweet appearance, there was a girl who didn’t bite her tongue.
‘’Do you want to hear the playback? Because I can—’’ the blond added, loving how the tables had turned around.
‘’That won’t be necessary,’’ Logan interrupted, making the other boys laugh.
Dean grinned, that cocky, unbothered smirk he wore like a second skin. ‘’See? She's got a point. We're not the only ones being loud in this house.’’
Tucker rubbed his temples like he was suddenly aging ten years per minute. This house meeting was not going anywhere…
I'm rewatching Gilmore Girls for the first time in like ten years. The first time I watched it was the first time I binged the series all the way through, so I basically forgot all of it. Anyway, I'm in the middle of season three and I'm really annoyed with how much the internet seems to hate Jess Mariano. Cause I'm really not seeing how Jess is the bad guy in this relationship with Rory.
It makes perfect sense why he wouldn't trust Rory with Dean: Dean is her EX who Rory CHEATED ON with Jess. Rory is a cheater and Jess knows that, and he's terrified that she's going to cheat on him. Just like he knows he's never going to be good enough for her classist, asshole WASPy grandparents and just like he knows everyone thinks he's not good enough for Rory, including his own uncle. Then Rory accuses him of picking fights with Dean because even she expects the worst from Jess.
Like how is he the bad guy here? Because he's a horny teenage boy? Do people REALLY think Dean would have NEVER pressured Rory to sleep with him, seriously?
He's not a saint like everyone pretends he is. He's purposely sabotaging Rory's relationship with Jess because she has NO boundaries and because Dean is a possessive dick who can't get over the fact that Rory doesn't want him. And Rory is just so stupidly naive that she goes along with it and blames Jess for EVERYTHING.
Maybe I'm biased because I know what it's really like to grow up in a small town like Stars Hollow and to be ostracized by all the classist assholes in that town because my mom was a single teen mom and my dad wasn't around and everyone assumed I was a bad kid because I struggled in high school because of my dyscalculia and my then undiagnosed anxiety disorder and cause I was from the ghettos.
And, yes, there are ghettos in small towns. They're rural ghettos. Not all ghettos are in the city. They're just poor neighborhoods in general. At least everyone SAID I was from the ghettos.
So I relate to Jess. I feel like I've been where he is, but I just don't understand how he's the bad guy when really the only thing he's done wrong is try to get out of dinner with Rory's grandmother.
synopsis: Garrett solves your roommate problem for you, but even though he gets you closer to him, you start to wonder how far he's willing to go to keep you there.
warnings: soft!dark!garrett, possessiveness, overprotectiveness, controlling relationship dynamic, innocent reader, shower spicy scene, choking, dub/con 18+ PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK
word count: 3.4k
off campus masterlist
As soon as the bus got back to Briar, the next morning, Garrett Graham started his mission. Last night, he’d decided you and Paige were done. He was confident he knew what was best for you in this situation. You could’ve gotten hurt last night over Paige’s petty bullshit. It baffled him, especially now that he’d gotten to know you. He wouldn’t be exaggerating to say you’d never even hurt a fly.
He’d barely slept last night; he didn’t even close his eyes until your location showed that you’d made it to the hockey house with Jules.
Garrett knew he couldn’t hurt Paige; that was a line he’d never imagine crossing, but her boyfriend was free game. So when he and Dean knocked on yours and Paige’s apartment door that morning, still clad in their tracksuits, and a shirtless Ethan opened the door, Garrett wasted no time.
Pushing at his chest, Garrett pulls Ethan deeper into the apartment. Ethan’s smile fades quickly before the confusion surfaces on his features. Dean locks the door behind them. “What’s going on? Y/N’s not here.”
Garrett had every intention of maintaining his composure enough to make a clear threat, but he finds his blood is already boiling, and his breathing is erratic. “She’s not. She’s safe. No thanks to your fucking girlfriend.”
The three men crowd in the living room or Y/N’s makeshift bedroom. Garrett pushes him, hard, and Ethan stumbles until he falls into the blinds of the far window. “What the fuck?”
Paige appears from the bedroom, but Dean is already blocking her from intervening.
"Whoa. Stay back."
“Dean?” She asks, flabbergasted, “Garrett? Stop! What are you doing?”
Garrett sees read. Ethan charges back at him in an attempt to defend himself. Garrett stumbles, but gains his bearings quickly before grabbing Ethan by his shirt and forcing him down. The coffee table rattles at the impact. Then Garrett’s fists start to fly, each blow serving as retaliation for all the harm Paige caused you. All he could imagine was you sitting alone on those steps last night. How broken you must’ve felt.
Bruising his own fists, Garrett leaves him with a black eye, a bruised nose, and a busted lip. Only stopping when Dean grabs him and lifts him off of the older guy. “Okay, buddy, that’s enough.” He feels frustrated, initially, but the entire reason he brought Dean was to prevent overkill. And as another voice to convince Paige to back down and stay down.
It doesn’t feel like enough, but Garrett feels satisfaction when Paige kneels to expect her boyfriend’s injuries. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She shouts, and it’s completely rich coming from her.
“What’s wrong with me? You left her stranded last night.”
Paige’s lips part, hands running nervously through her red hair, “I ….I totally forgot. It was an accident —”
“Bullshit,” Garret cursed, “You forgot? You forgot the girl you’ve been using for money, your maid, as your fucking pet you drag around.”
“Y/N is one of my best friends!”
“And how did your best friend end up all alone last night while you ignored every single one of her calls?”
Paige doesn’t answer.
“Not anymore. The two of you are done. She’s not living here anymore. We’re taking her shit, and you’re not gonna call her or text her ever again.”
“Are you serious?” Paige asks, incredulous, “You can’t make that decision for her.”
“Fucking watching me, “ Garrett only continues, his voice rising as he grows more furious, “If you see her on campus, you’re gonna walk the other way, or you’re not gonna like what I do next. Do you understand that?”
“Dean?” As a last-ditch effort, she looks to Dean for some kind of validation: “You know this is crazy, right?”
“I would drop it if I were you. Be smart, Paige. You don’t want this to become a bigger conversation.”
Her relationship with Dean had overlapped with her and Ethan’s on multiple occasions. Ethan’s not able to pick up on the implied threat because of the massive headache Garrett’s given him, but Paige catches his meaning quickly.
"Dean," she says again, quieter this time.
"Drop it."
With a huff, she returned to tending Ethan, shaking his shoulders in an attempt to get him to focus.
Garrett gives Dean an impressed look. “We gonna grab Bunny’s stuff or what?” Dean asks, chin tilting towards the hallway closet.
“Yeah.”
Garrett doesn’t hesitate.
The process should take longer, but naturally, not having a real room means you can’t have many belongings. He almost didn’t believe it when you’d told him she’d turned the coat closet into your personal one. Now he could visualize the handful of hangers, your backpack tucked into the corner, and the storage bins stacked with trinkets that you had no room to display.
You’d smiled when you explained that arrangement.
Garrett’s jaw clenches at the thought.
You jolt up from your spot on Garrett’s bed when he shoves his bedroom door open.
“Shit, I thought you’d be awake.”
You’d been curled up on top of his comforter, still in your clothes from last night. “No, no, I’m awake.” You rush out, looking him over, blue tracksuit and all. His forehead is slightly sweaty, and his breath is heavy. He was an all-star athlete, which ruled out the possibility that he was winded from walking up the stairs. You noticed your quilted, cotton duffle bag that you often used as your overnight bag in his hands.
There’s a question on your lips, but you push it down. Garrett sets down your bag near the edge of the bed before he comes closer, sitting down beside you on his bed.
“Are you okay?” He grabs you by your chin as his face leans closer. He tilts your head to each side to inspect you. You're sure your eyes are puffy from crying yourself to sleep, but there was no reason you’d be bruised. No one bothered you at the restaurant, and Jules came to get you as soon as they could. It was the early hours of the morning by the time you’d made it back, but you were fine, thanks to Garrett.
“I’m fine. Thank you…for last night,” You say quietly, sincerely, because you’re mostly just embarrassed at this point that last night even happened. He tilts your chin up, and his eyes search yours before he presses a soft kiss to your lips. You’re not sure when you’ll get used to that.
“I just want you to be safe,” Garrett says against your lips, his hand moving from your chin to your arm and then down towards your waist. “You know how you agreed that you would let me take care of you?”
Your heartbeat quickens at the thought of that promise and that moment you shared in his car. “Yes.”
“Last night was a prime example of why I want you to rely on me. To trust me.”
With him this close, you see every emotion swirling in his eyes. He’s deadly serious. “I-I do trust you. I promise.”
“Trust would be calling me as soon as you knew something was wrong.”
Your throat hurts. You didn’t think you had any tears left to cry, but you feel them threatening to fall again. “I didn’t I-I…I thought she would come.” Your voice cracks, “I’m sorry.”
Garrett’s lips press into a thin line of frustration. You wait desperately for him to say it’s okay, to relieve you of this feeling of impending doom. You don’t think you can take it if he’s mad at you. It’s already killing you to think about Paige and what a disaster your relationship is turning out to be.
Besides her, Garrett was the only friend you had here. “You promised me you would let me take care of you.”
Your stomach hurts.
“I will,” You assure him, nodding your head. “I want you to.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I want you to take care of me.”
"You need me?"
"I need you."
Garrett seals your promise with another kiss. That sinking feeling fades as you melt into Garrett’s arms. He pulls you into his lap, squeezing your body against his, and there’s a long moment where he’s petting your hair as you rest your head on his shoulder. You feel better like this. Your heart doesn’t hurt as much.
For the first time, you consider a future that doesn’t revolve around work and school. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to care about something–someone else. You’d always done everything yourself. It might not be so bad to rely on someone else.
As if he could sense where your mind was wandering. “You don’t have to worry about any of it anymore.”
“What do you mean?” You ask, your voice small, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.
“We got all your stuff from your apartment. All of it’s in the spare bedroom now. A real bedroom.”
Your body stiffens as you lift your head from his shoulders. “What? Did Paige see you?”
“Paige isn’t going to do anything, Bunny.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t …it wouldn’t be fair–” The panic starts to build again. You meet his eyes, and they’re swirling again. His grip on you tightens, and you understand that there’s a fine line between this side of him and something beneath the surface. “Was she mad?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Garrett shakes his head, jaw flexing. “You’re not giving her any more money. You will sleep in a real bed, and you won’t ask her for anything ever again. Fuck her. Do you understand?”
You don’t let yourself fully comprehend the full weight of his words and decide to take the path of least resistance. “Yes, Garrett.”
“Good. I smell like a bus. Let’s shower together.”
“Together?”
“Uh huh.” Garrett pats your bottom playfully, “This is your house now.”
“I can’t stay here for free.”
“I just said you could.”
“But–” You stop yourself, now realizing the pattern. Nothing with him was a negotiation. You didn’t make your own suggestions. You followed his lead. You could worry if Garrett told you to worry. If not, then maybe it wasn’t something to freak out about. “Okay. The guys don’t mind?”
“‘Course not. They love you, Bunny.”
You wish you could believe him. Sure, everyone was nice to you. You couldn’t wrap your mind around why Garrett was interested in you and had seemingly started to focus all his attention on you. It was even harder to understand why his friends would like you.
The events of last night and this morning, all of the new revelations made, led up to you showering with Garrett.
The two of you stood in the upstairs bathroom, steam slowly rising from the shower as you watched Garrett peel off the clothes he'd slept in. When he turned around, his expression shifted into something resembling disappointment.
You were still fully dressed, your arms wrapped tightly around your torso, looking seconds away from curling up in the corner and crying.
“It’s a lot. All of this is a lot, Garrett.”
Paige.
The fact that all your things were now packed into his guestroom.
Him.
He approaches you, carefully, as if herding a scared animal. He shushes you. “It’s a lot,” He confirms. “Change is hard. Fall a part of you want. I’m here for you.”
You nodded, heart heavy. “Lift your arms, baby.”
He undresses you slowly, lifting your crewneck above your head and then helping you out of your leggings. Your underwear and bra come next. You don’t meet his eyes the entire time. You focus on his chest, tan and sculpted.
You notice his bruised knuckles for the first time.
“Your hands?”
“From the game,” He answers quickly, matter-of-fact.
You can’t help it, an “I’m sorry” escapes from your lips as he unhooks your bra. You cover your chest with your arms as soon as your breasts are exposed to the air.
Garret tsks at the sound of you apologizing for your appearance. “Don’t, Bunny.”
Don’t apologize.
Don’t cover yourself from me.
His meaning is easy to understand. You let your arms fall back to your side, and then Garrett pulls down your underwear. He grabs your hand, wrapping your smaller one gently in his, and he guides your naked body towards the shower. You can see all of him, just like he can see all of you, and you’re not sure if you’ll be able to make it through being so close to him.
Garrett is a lot of man. The magnitude of him hadn’t fully set in until now, when there were absolutely no more secrets between the two of you.
He lets you stand in front of him, and the majority of the shower is spent with Garrett’s hands roaming over your skin. He lathers your skin with body wash, and you do your best to accept the gentleness. If there were something he didn’t like about your body, he wouldn’t be touching you this way. He pays extra special attention to your nipples, his thumbs constantly rubbing over the peaks of your chest, hands squeezing at their fullness.
You feel warmth spreading under your skin, especially in your center. You squeezed your lips tightly together to keep a desperate moan from escaping you. In an attempt to get your bearings, to allow yourself to think clearly, you turn around and look at Garrett for the first time since you entered the bathroom.
He’s focused, and then you feel his hardness poking against your stomach. “I’m sorry,” You say automatically, and you cringe at yourself.
“Don’t, Bunny,” He warns again; this time, he quiets you by placing his hands around your throat.
Smooth and controlled, Garrett presses you against the wall, his grip tightening.
With wide eyes, you stare back at him, but you’re not sure what version of Garret you’re seeing now. He crashes his lips against yours shortly after that. His knees between your legs, his hands keeping you pinned, he explores your mouth with his tongue.
You’re not sure how you’re breathing at all. You feel lightheaded, but that somehow only makes his kiss feel better.
He leaves you no room to wiggle away when he reaches between your legs. “Garrett, please,” You whimper against his lips, “I can’t–”
“I know you can,” He grunts back. “I want to see you.”
Thick fingers explore your center. He squeezes your neck whenever you try to close your eyes.
“Look at me, Bunny.”
“Good girl.”
“You know what I want to see.”
He makes slow, consistent, agonizing circles over your most sensitive area. He increases his pressure when your lips part in a gasp. He reads your body so carefully that it’s as if your body reaches its crescendo as soon as he wills it. You don’t think he can choke you any harder, but you find yourself gasping for air as you let out helpless, shaking sounds.
“Jesus, fuck, get on your knees, baby.”
You’re still shaking and breathing heavy, riding out your own wave of pleasure. Your knees are against the shower floor shortly after Garrett demands it. His fingers tangle in your hair.
“Keep looking. Look at what you do to me, Bunny.”
There’s little work involved. All it seems to take is your face looking up at him. You watch as he touches himself, slow movements, and then rapid ones.
“Fuck.”
Groaning, falling hard over the edge, he paints your lips and your chest. Although you’re overwhelmed by the sight of it and then the feeling, you don’t dare take your eyes away from him.
The spare bedroom has a full-sized bed, and you find your sheets and comforter already decorating it. There’s a bay window on the furthest wall with plenty of room for all the things you might want to display. The closet is three times the size of your old one, and there’s an old wooden dresser Garrett said you could also use. The walls are bare, and there are old moving boxes in the corner, but it’s perfect. And it’s yours, which you’re not fully sure has sunk in yet.
Over the next week, Garrett helps you settle in, and the two of you step into a new routine. You ride to campus together, Garrett drives you to work when he can, and when he can’t, you usually end up with Jules or Beau.
You see Paige outside of the College of Education building before class one day, talking with one of her friends, and as soon as you work up the courage to walk up to her, she spots you. Her face falls instantly. She turns away from you, says goodbye to her friend, and actually crosses the street.
You’re surprised Paige hasn’t sent you an angry text yet.
Part of you wondered what exactly Garrett had said to her. When he told her that you were moving in, was she sad? Did she try to defend your friendship? Maybe she was so pissed that she’d never talk to you again.
Hours later, after your Literacy class, you walk out of the education building with the members of your group project. “We’re gonna study at the main library for the midterm tomorrow, Y/N, if you want to join.” Your classmate, Ben, tells you. His dark hair and sharp facial features contrast with his prescription glasses and boyish personality.
You should ask Garrett first. “Oh, okay, I’ll let you know.”
Another one of your classmates, Sydney, adds on, “No, you should come, Y/N. We can start brainstorming ideas for lesson plans.”
You smile politely. You had no other excuse except for Garrett, and you had a feeling they might give you a strange look if you told them you were asking Garrett Graham for permission to study with them.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Good, it’s a plan,” She chirps.
“If you need a ride or something, I got you,” Ben decides to add. His eyes are kind, and he seems to sense your hesitation about coming.
“No,” You say a little too quickly, “I’ll have a ride. Um, so I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” You turn on your heels quickly, walking down a brick staircase towards the parking lot.
Garrett’s got practice tonight, but he said he’d drop you home before he had to leave. You find his car in the front row, but he’s not inside; he’s leaning against the driver’s door.
“Hey, Bunny.” He smiles, and you’re immediately relieved he’s in a good mood. “You look pretty.”
Your cheeks heat with embarrassment: “You saw me this morning.” He was actually the one who told you to pair your white sneakers with your denim jacket.
“And somehow you look better than before.”
Garrett grabs your chin and leans down to kiss you. The kiss is short-lived because seconds later, a male voice is calling your name. When you turn around, Ben is jogging towards the two of you. You inhale sharply and your nerves spike.
“This is yours, right?” He approaches with his hands stretched towards you; the teddy bear keychain you’d had attached to your bag forever is in his hands. “Must’ve fallen off.”
Speechless, you reach out to accept it. You part your mouth to force out a statement of gratitude, but it never comes.
Garrett breaks through the awkward silence, reaching out to shake Ben’s hand. “Hey, man, I’m Garrett. Y/N’s boyfriend.”
“Of course I know you. That was an insane game against Harvard, man. I’m Ben, we have a few classes together.”
“Good to meet you,” Garrett says, friendly.
For a brief moment, you wonder if you’re going crazy.
“Yeah, you too. You guys have a good night. See you tomorrow, Y/N.”
“Yeah,” Is all you can manage.
The drive back to the hockey house is too quiet. You squeeze the teddy bear charm in your hand. You’re the one who breaks the silence five minutes later. “I told some of my classmates I would come study at the library tomorrow night. We have that midterm Friday, and we also have this group project coming up.”
“Mmhm,” Garrett hums.
“If that’s okay with you.”
“It’s school, Y/N, of course it’s okay with me.”
You let out a small breath, “Okay. I just thought … never mind.”
“What’s his deal, though? That’s the guy who keeps offering you rides?”
“No, it’s been like two times. I think he’s just being nice.”
“Is a teddy bear that fucking precious that he needs to chase you down?”
“I don’t know. It might’ve been weirder if he held onto it … right?”
Garrett only hums in response.
“You’ve never called yourself my boyfriend before.”
“Felt right.”
“So that means…”
“What do you think it means, Bunny?” Garrett reaches across the console, his large hand enveloping your thigh.
“That I’m your girlfriend?”
Garrett smirks at you, “You’re everything to me, Bunny.”
yayyyy gf bunny :) reblogs and comments are much appreciated :):):):)
synopsis: One date leads to another, and Garrett slowly but surely works his way into your life. As tensions escalate with your roommate, it becomes harder for him to let you out of his sight.
A scared yelp escapes you as you open your front door. Garrett texted you I’m here just five seconds ago. You find him in the hallway dressed in a forest-green sweatshirt and dark sweatpants, which stand in contrast to your cozy yellow sweater and favorite yoga pants. “Sorry,” you apologize quickly, hands against your cheeks as you feel them heat with embarrassment, “I thought you’d be waiting in your car.”
His smile is soft and charming as he looks you over. You’ve applied a light layer of makeup similar to your look at the party last weekend. Your hair remains in a ponytail, but you’ve thrown on your lucky, sparkly headband for good luck. Not that you needed any luck. Garrett had assured you there was nothing to worry about.
You suddenly feel like you’re forgetting something. “Oh, my purse!”
You hurry back into your apartment to retrieve it. Your roommate, Paige, and her boyfriend are making pancakes for dinner in the tiny kitchen you share. She isn’t wearing pants, and he’s made himself completely at home in nothing but his boxers. The moment you told her you wouldn’t be back until later, she’d invited him over.
You climb over your neatly made bed to grab your purse from the side table, which leaves you more out of breath than it probably should. Even though it contains only lip gloss, your license, a stick of gum, and a debit card with approximately seventy dollars on it, you feel much more secure carrying it.
When you turn around, Garrett is standing fully in your doorway, his eyes roaming over your shoebox apartment before settling on the couple in the kitchen.
“No way, you're Garrett Graham, right?” Paige’s boyfriend doesn’t go to school at Briar. You remember her saying he was about five years older than her, although you thought he could easily pass for thirty.
Your heart pounds as Ethan makes his way over to your date, hand out for Garrett to politely shake. He’s close to rambling about Garrett’s last game, and then he brings up the score and some more terms you have no clue about. And because Garrett’s so good at commanding a room and taking up space, which you’ve never been good at, he cuts through the conversation.
“Ready now, Bunny?”
Paige’s mouth gapes at his words, and you’re left with no time to process your new nickname. “Yes.” You’re next to Garrett in a flash, and his hand becomes wrapped around your waist. “Uhm, I’ll see you guys later!”
You have to close your front door tightly to relieve the awkward tension. “I’m so sorry.”
He shushes you as he leads you down to the elevator, as if he’s already comfortable navigating the building. Once you were in the privacy of the old elevator, Garrett asked, “That’s her fucking boyfriend?”
You nodded quietly.
“How often is he there?”
“Well, they just got back together–”
“Before she started fucking Dean. How often was he over?”
You shrugged, “A few nights a week, I guess. He works from home.”
You watch as his face twists into something close to disappointment. Or disgust. “And how often does he walk around with no clothes on?”
“Not often,” You say almost to soften the blow, “He’s just comfortable there, I guess. And it’s okay. She makes sure I’m okay with it before he comes over.”
“Ha,” He laughs softly before his lips form a thin line. Bad start to the night, you thought. And it’s all because of Ethan’s Ninja Turtle briefs. The elevator dings, and the two of you walk out to his car. Like a gentleman, he opens your car door for you, and you take the opportunity to get a few deep breaths in as the door shuts and he rounds the hood of the car.
You’re not sure why it’s so much harder to breathe when you’re close to him. You chalk it up to the two of you practically being strangers and your nerves.
During the drive to Garrett’s house, he doesn’t push the subject of your roommate and her boyfriend, which you’re thankful for. He decides to talk to you about his own roommates instead. You knew Dean, of course, and Garrett makes the point that he’s sweeter than he looks. Although he’s just as sexual as he comes off. Logan is his hardworking best friend. Tucker is also kind and is an amazing cook, according to Garrett. You do your best to listen, but as he parks his car on the street in front of the house, you realize that you’re about to actually meet all of them. Not in the setting of a party being hosted, but a casual weeknight where they’re living life normally.
The seriousness of the situation hits you. Garrett assured you that the night would be low-key, but what was casual about meeting all of his best friends?
“You okay?” A smooth voice snaps you out of your spiral.
You nod, nervously smiling back at him, “Sorry, I’m okay …hungry.”
“Good. C’mon, Tuck made stir-fry.”
You find that you don't actually need the courage to go inside and say hello to his friends because Garrett's hand on your lower back does the work for you. You don't have to say much. You don't have to figure out where to walk or stand because Garrett guides you.
Tucker stands near the stove, an apron tied around his waist, while Logan and Dean sit on bar stools at the kitchen island. They've already started digging into their meals, and when Tucker presents the two of you with your dinner plates, you can't help but marvel at both the presentation and the amount of food piled onto each one.
"Oh my goodness, you really didn't have to, Tucker—"
"No worries at all. Our casa is su casa, Y/N," he says, his voice warm and welcoming. "And I won't be offended if you don't eat it all. We eat a lot here."
Garrett squeezes your hip, and it serves as a reminder to stop smiling at him like an idiot.
"Thank you so much."
"Thanks, Tuck." Garrett's hand finally leaves your waist so he can grab both plates. "You ready to go upstairs?"
"Yeah," you say, and Logan and Dean exchange a knowing glance.
Garrett tilts his head toward the stairs, and you take that as your cue to follow.
"I-It was nice meeting you guys," you manage to say, offering a small wave.
Logan and Tucker return it immediately. Dean, meanwhile, is already shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth. Before anyone can say much else, you hurry after your date.
Garrett's room is large and dark-toned. The windows are huge, but nighttime doesn't offer much light. You've only taken a few steps inside, but the air already feels intimate.
"Your friends seem nice," you say as you stand frozen, your eyes wandering over every poster and piece of memorabilia. "And this house is also... super nice."
"They are. And thanks." Garrett sets the plates down on his nightstand before patting a spot on the other side of the bed. "Sit down and get comfortable."
You'd already taken your shoes off at the door, even though Garrett insisted you didn't have to, so now you're walking around in socks covered with tiny strawberries. You take a seat where he gestures, leaning against his pillows and crossing your legs.
He hands you your plate of food before grabbing his laptop.
"So, what kind of movies do you like to watch, little bookworm?" Garrett asks casually as he settles beside you. He makes sure to close the gap between you, his knee brushing yours and his arm resting against your shoulder.
"We can watch whatever. I don't mind."
"Hmm, okay, but that's not what I asked."
You turn toward him and find that he's already watching you.
"What do you like to watch, Bunny?"
"Uhm." You're suddenly embarrassed as you think over your taste in media. "I like... romance. And historical dramas, I guess. But I understand if you don't want to watch—"
"So what's your favorite movie?"
And that's how you end up watching Little Women with Garrett Graham.
You do your best to tackle the mountain of restaurant-quality food Tucker provided. Garrett finishes his plate, and as the movie plays, he becomes more invested than you'd expected.
The movie reaches the Christmas scenes, where Beth is feeling better and their father returns home. Garrett asks a question—something about whether a certain moment happened in the book—when your phone starts to vibrate.
You pick it up to silence it, only to find five unread messages from your roommate. Worried something bad has happened, you open the text chain.
Paige: Are you still coming home tonight?
Paige: Also, is it cool if Ethan stays for the rest of the week?
Paige: Since you're gonna be busy with your new friend :)
Paige: BTW I can't believe you're hooking up with Garrett Graham and today is the first time I'm hearing about it
Paige: Oh and I need rent earlier than the 1st
"What's wrong?"
"What? Nothing."
You realize Garrett has paused the movie.
You know you should ignore her, but then you start thinking about what she'll think if you don't respond. You find yourself staring down at your phone.
"Your hands are shaking."
The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. His mouth is close to your ear, and he's looking down at your phone too.
Instinctively, you tilt the screen away.
"What did she say?"
"I'm sorry I interrupted the movie—"
"Y/N."
Garrett's voice is stern enough to silence the anxious thoughts racing through your mind.
Then he holds out his hand expectantly.
Your heart starts beating faster.
You hesitate—or at least it feels like you do—before handing over your phone.
You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants, uncrossing and recrossing your legs as you let him read the messages.
"So her boyfriend's moving in?"
"Just for the week."
"And she's making you pay half the rent when you sleep on the couch, and she's letting some asshole stay there?"
You can't meet his eyes.
"It pulls out," you mumble.
"Fuck that."
"You don't understand, Garrett. She's been there for me. She really has..."
"Do you even have the money to give her?"
"Yes. Well, I can use my savings until I get paid again—"
"Fuck that for sure. Tell her to fuck off."
A startled yelp escapes you at the shocking suggestion.
Garrett's jaw ticks.
You don't know him well, but even you can tell he's angry.
"Please, can we finish the movie?"
Your face falls as you pull your knees to your chest. Tears sting your eyes, and you know you can stop them from falling if he just... moves on.
Please.
Please.
Please.
You hear him sigh before you hear the click of your phone locking.
"C'mere."
His large arms wrap around your shoulders as the movie starts playing again.
You soften against him, resting your head on his shoulder.
His tone lightens.
"Just because she blows up your phone doesn't mean you need to answer. She can wait."
"Okay," you say, and you believe him. "I'm sorry I made you mad."
"You didn't do anything, baby," he reassures you.
You do end up crying that night, but it isn't because of Paige.
It's Beth March's death that gets you.
The two of you make it almost to the end of the movie. Mr. Dashwood is just about to publish Jo's book when your eyes begin to grow heavy. Getting up early for class that morning has finally caught up with you.
The rolling credits are the last thing you see.
And the last thing you feel is Garrett Graham pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
Garrett had no intentions of stalking you, given he’d already decided you were his now. And he could acknowledge that going through someone’s phone is bad behavior, but he had to understand this situation with your roommate more. How else was he going to solve your problem if you refused to admit it was one?
Your roommate sent you the occasional good luck for a test, and there were a few times she told you to have a fun weekend. At least through text, he didn’t see any indications that she was supportive. Half your conversations were her just asking you to do the most outlandish things for her. Just two weeks ago, she asked you to clean the entire apartment, including her room, because she wanted to have friends over. A week before that, she asked if you could stay out of the apartment from seven o'clock to ten o'clock at night because a guy was coming over and she wanted privacy.
And all of your responses were the same.
So sorry!!
Of course!!
That’s fine!!
I really don’t mind!!!!
His hindbrain was telling him to find a way to escalate the situation, blow up your life, and let him pick up the pieces. The more logical part of his brain knew it was a matter of time before this bad situation got worse and that he could be the one to save you when that inevitably happened. And maybe, just maybe, he could help it hurt a little bit less. He could also make someone else suffer for hurting you.
He watched you sleep for a short while, and when he inevitably settled against you, grabbing your waist and pushing your bottom against his crotch, you didn’t even stir.
Garrett felt grateful that you were here with him tonight and sleeping peacefully in his bed instead of squeezed onto that pathetic pullout couch. His own anxiety felt better knowing you were safe. Whatever feeling you had planted inside of him at that party was only growing.
Garrett pressed his face into your hair and closed his eyes.
He'd make sure this became a regular thing.
You were so embarrassed when you woke up the next morning and realized you'd fallen asleep. As if you were the one taking advantage of him. It took some time for you to regulate and for Garrett to convince you that you hadn't done anything wrong.
"I wanted you here, Bunny. You look good in my bed," he'd said.
Over the next week, the only time you spent apart from Graham was when you had class or work. Even then, he offered to pick you up and drive you everywhere. It just made sense. You had no car. He did.
"I want to send you money. I'm wasting so much of your gas," you said as the two of you drove back to the hockey house.
"I don't want or need your money, Y/N."
"There has to be something I can do." Garrett watched the wheels turning in your mind. "I know. I'll bake you something."
"You can bake?" Garrett's eyebrows rose.
"No, but I could try." You shrugged, and his eyes softened as he held your gaze.
"That would be nice, Bunny, but I know what I want."
"What?" you'd asked with a smile.
"A kiss."
You stared back like a baby deer caught in headlights. "A kiss? From me?"
"Yes, genius."
"I've never kissed anyone—"
Then it was Garrett's turn to blanch. "What? You're serious?"
"No, I mean, I've been kissed. I have. I've just never done the..."
"You've never kissed someone first?"
You nodded hesitantly.
"Then let me be your first."
A long silence passed between the two of you as the radio played softly through Garrett's speakers. After he parked the car and undid his seatbelt, he reached over, like usual, and unclicked yours. Garrett had started noticing more and more of your nervous tics. Right now, your leg was bouncing so hard it practically shook the entire car.
"I mean, you kinda owe me, right?"
You bit down on your lip as you pulled your knees onto the seat and folded them beneath you. Leaning toward the center console, your smaller hands found his shoulders. Slowly, they slid to his neck and then the sides of his face. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, and you watched his eyes darken.
Garrett's eyes closed when your lips pressed softly against his. The kiss was brief and sweet, but it still left his head spinning.
You were still holding his face when you asked, "How was that?"
Garrett answered by leaning in and kissing you again.
Your lips worked to keep up as Garrett set a steady rhythm. Your hands found his shoulders while he reached for your waist. Before you knew it, he was hoisting you over the middle console until you were straddling his lap.
If there was any control you had left, you let it go.
Making out was kind of like all your conversations. Garrett pushed, forcing you to open up, and he peeled back your layers slowly. And he decided when it ended.
His hands traveled up your waist and beneath your shirt, his large palms roaming over the expanse of your skin. You felt warmth gather low in your stomach as your hips shifted against him.
You only tried to pull away because you needed air.
He kissed you so thoroughly that your lips already felt sore and swollen.
"Garrett," you breathed.
Immediately, he loosened his grip.
"Can we... I feel..."
"You feel what, Bunny?"
"Overwhelmed."
"I'm not gonna fuck you if that's what you're scared about. I just wanted to taste you."
"Oh." You weren't entirely sure how to respond to such blunt honesty. "Okay."
Maybe you'd been wrong to assume he wanted some kind of relationship.
Maybe he wanted something in between.
You'd never been in a real relationship before, so it wasn't like you knew exactly what you wanted. But deep down, you knew you didn't want a casual situationship.
And if that was what Garrett wanted... how would you even say no to him?
"What's wrong? Do you want more, Bunny?"
He toyed with the waistband of your jeans before his hand slipped lower and grabbed a handful of your ass.
You couldn't help how flustered you became. Suddenly, the car felt far too small.
"I like you like this."
He pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, and your eyes threatened to roll back at the pleasure of it.
"Like what?"
"Squirming on top of me." His voice dropped lower. "I can't think about anyone else, you know?"
"You can't?"
"I'm crazy about you."
He kissed your cheek.
Then the other.
Teasing you.
And you found yourself melting against him.
"I hate when you leave."
"Why?"
"This feels right, doesn't it?"
A kiss against your nose.
"You with me."
Another brush of his lips.
"I think you need me."
"I do?"
He hummed as his lips hovered over yours.
"I'll take good care of you."
You leaned closer, but he still didn't close the distance.
"You'll let me take care of you, right?"
Your lips parted.
You knew you didn't fully understand what he meant.
But you knew exactly what he wanted to hear.
And somehow, you wanted to give it to him.
"Yes."
A dark satisfaction flashed across Garrett's face.
"Good fucking girl."
Then his lips were on yours again, and every sensible thought you'd ever had disappeared from your mind.
Paige is right. You find that you're barely home over the next month, mostly because Ethan has been there every day since they'd gotten back together. You have no privacy to study, no room for your groceries, and Paige and Ethan have sex loudly most nights. Worst of all, he uses up your favorite brand of overpriced conditioner, the only kind that helps tame your hair.
The hockey house, although it's full of rowdy college boys, ends up feeling more peaceful. Garrett protects your space, makes sure you always have quiet when you study, and even buys you another set of all your toiletries so you don't have to pack a toiletry bag every time you come over. Plus, there's a free dinner almost every night, and Garrett's friends seem to actually like you. They ask questions about your classes, and they don't talk over you even though their voices boom much louder than yours.
You've started to rely on Garrett so much that the situation with Paige becomes something you want to handle on your own.
It takes everything in you not to just give in. You throw up twice before you can bring yourself to face her, but you eventually do. You're logical. You explain that you don't think it's fair to keep paying half the rent for a quarter of the space and no privacy.
She agrees.
She actually hears you out and promises she'll find a split that's more proportional.
Your shoulders feel lighter when you finally tell Garrett. He's frustrated, of course, that you kept it from him, but supportive nonetheless. Feeling any sort of control in your relationship with Paige is strange.
And ultimately, short-lived.
A week later, you have a babysitting gig that Paige helped set up for you. A friend of a family friend of hers. It should be an easy night considering the child you're babysitting is less than a year old.
Garrett has a game that night at Harvard, and Paige promises she'll be able to pick you up from the nearby city when she tells you about the job.
So the clock turns to eleven, the baby's parents come home, and you expect to find Paige waiting for you outside the apartment building's lobby.
Except she's nowhere to be found.
The lobby doors lock behind you, and she isn't picking up her phone.
The bus isn't running anymore.
And Garrett is at least an hour away in Boston.
Maybe she's just busy driving.
11:20.
You sit down on the steps outside the building, glancing between your phone and the city street in front of you.
11:35.
Your body starts to shake, and your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can feel it in your ears.
11:45.
Garrett's smiling face appears on your screen, and it takes you a long moment to muster the courage to answer.
"Hello," you say. Your voice sounds smaller than it ever has before.
"Why are you still in the city?"
You'd forgotten he could see your location on his phone, a feature you'd never particularly used before but that Garrett insisted was for safety reasons.
"I'm, uh..." You hiccup. "Waiting f-for... Paige."
"She was supposed to be there an hour ago."
Not a question.
An observation.
"Why didn't you call me? Shit. Are you just standing outside?"
"I'm sitting outside the building."
"Jesus. Here's what you're going to do. Are you listening, Bunny?"
You nod before realizing he can't see you.
"Y-yes."
"Stand up. Turn to your right and start walking."
Although your knees wobble, you manage to do as he says.
"There's a fast-food place two blocks over. You're going to go inside and sit there. Don't talk to anyone, okay?"
You do your best to avoid eye contact with everyone you pass, from the twenty-somethings enjoying their night out to the shadier characters lingering on the sidewalks.
"Okay, Garrett."
You hold your bag tightly against your side. The night air has turned frigid, and your light blue crewneck does little to keep you warm. The cold motivates you to pick up your pace.
"I'm stuck here. I don't have my car, but I'm gonna call Jules, okay? I want you to wait there for them."
"Okay. I-I'm sorry I can't do anything right."
You're close to sobbing. You want to throw up. You're embarrassed, cold, and miserable.
"You just won your game. You should b-be celebrating."
"You're okay, baby. I'm gonna make sure you get home safely. I'm not mad at you."
His voice is deep and eerily controlled.
"Are you inside yet?"
The neon sign comes into view. It's still chilly inside, but you can finally breathe a little easier when you slide into an empty booth. A few people are scattered around the restaurant, but it's mostly quiet.
"I'm inside."
"Okay. I'm gonna call Jules. Stay put, okay? I'll call you right back."
"Okay. Thank you so much."
"Yeah, of course, baby."
Hope you enjoyed this chapter more from the reader's perspective!! If you were not added to the taglist, it's probably because you did not reblog or leave your thoughts on the last chapter :)
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