hi jade <3 i miss hotch too :( i saw a tiktok earlier of a prank/trend where a couple was cuddling in bed at the guys place and suddenly the girl told his man that she wants to go home, and she sounded like kinda sad and quiet, and her man got SO worried and serious SO quick, and it was so sweet how he was so gentle and reassuring with her :( it really made me think of hotch (and clark ngl)
—Aaron’s soft-handed reaction to a prank makes you emotional. fem, 1k
It is not Aaron’s fault that he doesn’t use the internet, but it makes pulling pranks on him so easy it’s practically impossible to stop yourself.
He’s resting his chin atop your head as you read with your e-reader resting on his bicep, face to collar, his smell in your nose. The romance novel you’re reading is good, but it isn’t half as romantic as the man that’s holding you. Nobody is as gentle as your Aaron. You’re honestly not sure anyone else ever could be, and it’s your dumb luck that landed you in his arms, in his bed, with his nose in your hair and not a care in the world between either of you.
He takes a long, deep breath that is so obviously his way of smelling you, and his sigh after like he took a drag of a cigarette makes you melt. The words on your e-reader go blurry as your eyes flutter, content. And then you get your evil little idea and lay the reader flat on his arm. His arm is bigger than the reader is wide, which almost stops you from opening your mouth at all.
If you ask nicely, he’ll squeeze you.
But you really wanna mess with him, so you make yourself small. Let your spine go rigid, and let your profiler get the message.
He peers down at you in concern. “What’s wrong, baby?” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.
“I want to go home,” you say, matching your tone to the very worst (which is to say, best) video, her voice sad and soft, like she was truly defeated. And it couldn’t break Aaron’s heart more to hear it, even if the scary FBI training means he doesn’t take your acting as entirely truthful.
“What?” he asks, shifting you in his arms, down his chest some so he can your face. He takes your face in his hand, his thumb rubbing up the line of your cheek. “You want to go home?”
“Yeah, I wanna go home.”
“Why, honey?” His voice is like gossamer, thin and silken. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter, hm?”
His eyebrows get that square pinch between them as he caresses your cheek. You falter in the face of his gentleness, which makes it all the more believable that there’s something wrong.
“Have I done something? Please don’t leave, I’d worry myself to death if you left me now.” His voice is familiar and warm, slow, forever mellifluous. You’ll never get sick of the way he talks—it’s one of the reasons you fell in love with him, how he could make anything at all sound like a love note. “What’s making you feel unsure? Tell me what’s going on in there.”
You know that Aaron’s gentle, but he’s gone so sweet so suddenly it has emotion brewing in you that you haven’t earned. You swallow a silly lump and try to smile. “It’s nothing,” you say.
Aaron slowly cards his hand behind your neck and encourages you into the curve of his neck, his second hand at the small of your back in a perfect fit. Warm and big, stretching over one of your most delicate parts.
“I don’t know what to think about it, honey. I don’t ever want you to feel like you’d rather be at home than with me. If you need space, you can have it. Of course you can have it, but I’m getting the feeling that that’s not what this is about. Do you trust that you can talk to me?”
You want to cuss, but your throat burns, and all you can force out is a reprimanding, “Aaron.”
“‘Cos I can fix anything.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah? So let me fix it for you, sweetheart.”
It is perhaps your greatest shame to be near tears in his arms as you plead with him to pretend you never said it. “I was just– I just wondered how you’d react, is all, there’s nothing wrong.” And Aaron doesn’t believe you, still soft as silk, so you tell him about the video you saw and he hums. You’re worried he’ll be rougher with you, then, because it’s not like you’ve earned his sympathy, but he rubs your back slowly and hums pensively, the smell of his skin under your nose.
“Something still doesn’t feel right, does it?” he asks in a murmur, unaware of the molten heat in your throat and stomach simultaneously. You couldn’t explain it to him if he did notice it. “Did you– was it a surprise, that I wanted you to stay and work things out with me? I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear, that I’d fix anything for you.”
It’s just—it borders being too much, too kind. It’s the ache of biting into something sweet with a bad tooth, how he’s gone this tender, how he hasn’t once pushed you off of his chest. It hits you how willing he is to spend endless minutes reassuring you over nothing, a scenario that you created, and how easily he reads your smallest emotions.
You’re downed by a video prank, and it’s all your fault.
Luckily, Aaron doesn’t seem to mind at all. He tips your head back with your ear against his shoulder, looking up at him from his chest all wide-eyed and in love as he leans down for a slow kiss. “Do you want to go home?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head, worried your voice will wobble and betray you if you speak, so Aaron leans down again to press another kiss to your mouth, this time very purposefully misaligned, so as to kiss right under your nose.
“What can I do to make you feel better?” he asks, like you haven’t just deregulated yourself by accident.
“I’m okay. Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry.” He gives your back a good rub, like he’s waving his hand into your spine. “How’s that? Is that helping?”
“Little more,” you tell him. You don’t mention going home again.
He brings the blankets over your and strokes shapes into the small of your back, eventually finding the humour in things when you're spent on his chest, murmuring a loving, “So sweet,” into your crown.
"G, you gotta chill man." Logan said, smacking Garrett in the chest.
It was another house party. Another drunken piss-up at the off-campus hockey house. Another guy chatting to you, another dude leaning too close. The only thing that kept Garrett's reality in check was that you leant away, was that you looked for him, for his eyes, over the shoulders of guys who wanted nothing more than to take you home.
If Garrett didn't know any better, you were playing a game with him. One that he refused to lose.
"Seriously dude, unclench the jaw." Tuck said pointedly.
Garrett tried. He tried to stretch the muscles in his face, crack his neck. Loosen up. For the most part, he succeeded. The way the neck of the beer bottle remained imprinted into his fingers, his palm, told him he wasn't really relaxed.
He hadn't moved all night. He planted himself in his living room, his hip against his couch. Standing. The thought had crossed his mind, to sit, to watch in comfort, and then a guy had approached you before Garrett could even send a smile your way and he knew he needed to stand. He was only 5 strides away from you that way.
"You can't lay claim to her, G, especially when she isn't yours." Logan said, rubbing salt into Garrett's metaphysical wound.
It wasn't the first time Logan had bought it up. That Garrett "doesn't do girlfriends" Graham can't have it both ways. Can't have her and not have her fully. Can't expect her to do the same. But Logan didn't understand, she wasn't some random puck bunny. She wasn't a fling or a friend-with-benefits. They had started talking in a plague history class, they started passing notes back and forth in a lecture about how fucking boring it was. She had bought him a coffee in the next lecture claiming he looked worse than when he had gotten a puck to the face last March. Garrett took her to that bar downtown when they both passed their midterm. He helped her take her washing to the laundromat for fucks sake.
They only fucked for the first time last week. Garrett hadn't even thought of anyone else since that first lecture.
"She's mine," Garrett grumbled into the lip of his beer. "In the ways that count."
You flung your head back, laughing at whatever the preppy asshole had said. Graham took another swig of his pre-approved beer. Fuck, it was torment. Hearing you make the sounds that he thought he lured from you. You laugh at his jokes like that. Nothing this guy could've said was worth such a genuine reaction.
You wore a sweater with a high neck. That was the first thing that Garrett noticed when he saw you tonight. Hiding what he left on your skin the night prior. That had bought a smirk to his lips finally.
For the millionth time this evening, you caught Garrett's eye-line over this douche's shoulder. The sparkle that caught in your eyes was trouble. Like the sun on rippling water, it was too inviting, to easy to drown.
He would drown willingly, if you gave him the time.
"Come on dude get another drink with me and stop sulking." Dean said, wrapping his arm around Garrett's shoulder. It took little convincing to get him to move. Drinks were in the kitchen. As were you. Dean had been drinking since the early afternoon and was hardly conscious of the fact that he was leading Garrett straight to the source of his sulk.
Garrett fought against curving his hand around your hip, fought against placing it in the groove of your lower back that he knew all too well. He fought against touching you at all. He didn't want to be that guy, you weren't dating, you didn't owe him anything. He was more than whatever this caveman, neanderthal need was. He knew he was a jealous guy, he knew that. But this? This burning, cramping, possessive need? It was stifling. That was new. He had never felt this way before. He had also never helped a girl do her fucking washing in a laundromat, either.
"What're you drinking man?" Slurred Dean. The man was practically head first in the fridge and Garrett's crisis of self was hardly on his radar.
Don't listen in. Don't look. Those were the two simple rules Garrett had set himself, walking into the kitchen.
Don't listen in.
Don't look.
Don't listen in-
"So are you seeing anybody?"
Garrett couldn't help himself. He turned around and stared. The arrogant fucking prep, who was most definitely in pre-law, Garrett decided, didn't even notice.
His heart lodged in his throat as you turned to look at him. Full smile, full lips. The sparkle in your eye quickly burnt to a glint, mischievous and Garrett felt it right in the pit of his stomach. He tried to ignore the clenching feeling around his ribs. Around his heart. He had taken her to the fucking Laundromat, of course he was gone! He would do anything she even fucking thought about asking him.
You pulled away your sweater, claiming that you were 'hot all of a sudden'. A tiny little black tank with the smallest straps Garrett had ever seen was all you had on underneath. That, and your neck and shoulders and chest- you were covered. He hadn't quite realised how much of a mark he left on you.
"Graham, baby, can you take that upstairs next time you're going?" You held the sweater out to him across the kitchen island. The quirk of your eyebrow mixed with the way you called him 'baby'. Garrett was done.
He was done. So fucking done.
Truth be told, Garrett knew he was done as soon as he saw that you put little hearts above your i's and that you pass notes in lectures like a kid.
Taking the sweater from your outstretched hand, he threw it over his shoulder, all the while taking your hand to his mouth. He kissed up your arm as he made his way around the kitchen. Garrett Graham was drawn to you, magnetically. He kissed up your neck to your hairline. His hands finally found purchase on your hips as his chin rested on the top of your head.
"Sorry Lou," She said to the prep. "What were you saying?"
The pre-law clenched his jaw, mumbled something and practically fled the scene. It was like witnessing a castration. Up close. In HD.
Garrett could feel his heart beat louder in his chest, his cock growing hard as you melted into him. You giggled sweetly as Garrett nipped the shell of your ear.
"That wasn't very nice baby." Garrett's voice was husky, indicating that he didn't particularly care that you had led on Lou.
"I'm only nice to you, Garrett."
"Keep it that way." He mumbled, bringing his mouth to yours.
fluffy fic with tucker whose clingy and sweet but reader is shy and not used to affection/attention and he’s just trying to get her more comfortable with being loved and seen
sunflower vol. 6
summary: tucker is determined to shower you with what you deserve even when you’re determined to pull away. (2.7k)
pairing: john tucker x reader
content: social anxiety, self consciousness, tooth rotting fluff, established relationship, emotional vulnerability, angst if you squint, tucker being touchy as heck.
unfortunately for you, john tucker didn't just give affection.
he completely enveloped you in it.
you were currently functioning as a human mattress, and you were also starting to think your textbook was just for decoration at this point.
tucker was stretched out on the grass near you, his head resting comfortably and happily in your lap.
one of his hands was resting on your knee, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles through the fabric of your jeans, creating a soothing, radiating warmth.
every couple of minutes, he would shift, tilting his head up just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare wrist, or whatever patch of skin was closest to his lips, humming contentedly against your skin.
"tuck," you murmured.
you glanced around the sunny campus grounds, your shoulders tensing slightly as a group of students walked past. "you're doing it again."
he looked up at you, a lazy, utterly content smile spreading across his handsome face. "doing what?" he asked, his voice smooth, gentle, and thick with affection.
"you know what i mean," you said, as you could feel a familiar embarrassment coming over you once again. "we're outside. literally anyone could walk by."
see, thing was it wasn't that you didn't love him.
you loved him fiercely, but you also inherently preferred the quiet corners of life.
you kept your head down and preferred to keep your personal life strictly personal. it wasn't some dramatic defense mechanism, nor did you think you were superior for being low-key.
you liked your privacy. it was your way of life.
any sudden influx of attention made you instinctively guarded, and tucker's open, unashamed affection was honestly a lot to adjust to.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
truthfully, his intensity was the exact reason you had been so reluctant to have anything to do with him in the first place.
you had met at a mutual friend's birthday dinner at a diner off-campus. you had been trying to quietly eat your burger and chat with the girls next to you when tucker sat across from you, completely throwing you off balance.
you would’ve liked to say it was because he lacked charm but it wasn’t that because he had too much of it. he was effortlessly sweet, attentive, and so insanely attractive that it made you nervous.
when he asked for your number at the end of the night, you had actually hesitated, gently telling him that you didn't think you were his type.
you assumed his interest was a passing whim and you didn't particularly want to get swallowed up by his massive social world.
unfortunately for you, tucker had been relentlessly patient. he didn't push, but he didn't disappear either.
he would prove, look by look, that he was willing to learn your boundaries if it meant getting close to you. he respected your wishes, but he also made it clear with every sweet text and gentle smile that he wasn't necessarily going to be going anywhere.
little by little, those boundaries started to soften. you found yourself looking forward to his goodnight texts, and your heart would do a dangerous little skip whenever you saw his name pop up on your phone.
you were falling for him and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.
as it turned out, tucker was in the exact same boat. for all his easy confidence, he had been entirely helpless against how deeply he was tumbling for you, completely enchanted by the grounding presence you brought into his world.
a few weeks later he had offered to walk you to your car after a long afternoon of studying, and right before you got in, he gently pulled your heavy class textbook out of your arms.
you watched in confusion as he opened it up to the exact page you had bookmarked, sliding a custom, glossy card stock bookmark inside.
right in the center of the it you read: i know i'm not your usual type, but will you let me be your boyfriend anyway?
below it, tucker had checked a tiny box next to the words 'yes', 'definitely yes', and 'ask me again after practice'.
when you looked up, the athlete was flushing a faint pink, holding the textbook out to you like a nervous kid handing over a valentine.
you had taken a pen from your bag and checked 'definitely yes' on the spot.
but the first real test of your tolerance for exposure had happened a couple of weeks into dating, during a weekend beach trip.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the beach was beautiful, but it was vast and incredibly loud.
the shoreline was dotted with young adults, families, and tucker's rowdy teammates playing an aggressive game of beach volleyball a few yards away.
you weren't particularly miserable, but you were definitely feeling the pressure of your surroundings.
you were sitting near the back of the sand, your knees pulled casually to your chest, with a large pink beach towel completely wrapped around your shoulders.
your sunglasses covered your eyes, acting as a kind of protective barrier between you and the crowded shoreline.
"hey, we're heading down to the water, do you want to come?" allie asked, jogging up to you with a bright smile, her sunglasses pushed up into her wavy hair.
you offered her a genuine, easy smile, pulling the pink towel just a little tighter around your shoulders.
you liked allie immensely, but you simply didn't have the energy to engage in socialising just yet. "go ahead without me. i'm actually good right here. just taking it all in."
"are you sure?" allie checked, looking at you closely to make sure you weren't just being polite. "i don't want you feeling left out."
you reassured her that it was okay, your tone warm and entirely steady.
"alright, but i am stealing you for food later." she called out with a laugh as she turned back toward the water.
you watched her go, satisfied with your spot, until a shadow fell over you.
tucker had just jogged over from the volleyball game, glistening with sweat and sea spray, his curls damp and wild. he looked vibrant, perfectly at ease in his own skin, and entirely in his element.
he dropped to his knees on the sand next to you, kicking up a tiny spray, completely unbothered by the chaos around him.
"you're missing a legendary comeback, sweetheart," he breathed, flashing a bright, dimpled grin as he reached for his water bottle.
his eyes scanned your posture—from the pink towel clutched tightly at your throat to the slight tension in your jaw. his smile softened instantly into something incredibly tender. "hey. you doing okay out here?"
"yeah," you said, your voice steady, though you kept your eyes on the horizon. "it's nice. just a lot of people."
without a word, he smoothly shifted his body, positioning his broad frame directly between you and the crowded shoreline, effectively blocking out the rest of the beach.
it was a deliberate, protective move, creating a physical wall of privacy just for you.
he reached out, his cool, damp hands gently nudging your ankles, encouraging your legs to uncurl from your chest.
you gave him a dry look, but the steady, patient humor and warmth in his eyes made you yield.
you guided your legs out straight, and he immediately laid down right beside you, propping his head up on his hand, his shoulder firmly and comfortingly pressed against yours.
"talk to me," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your ankle. "are the guys being too loud?"
"the guys are fine," you whispered, adjusting your sunglasses. "it's just... never mind."
tucker looked at you for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with a slow, deliberate breath.
he reached over, his fingers gently sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose just enough so he could look directly into your eyes.
there was no pity in his gaze, only an immense, grounding warmth that felt entirely safe.
"look at me," he asked softly, to which you did.
"who's on this beach right now?"
"garrett, dean, allie, logan... a million other people." you sighed.
"no," tucker interrupted, a small, heart-melting smile tugging at his lips. he leaned a fraction closer, shutting out the rest of the world. "right here. in this particular square foot of sand. who is here?"
"just you," you whispered.
"just me," he agreed firmly.
he reached out and gently nudged the edges of the large pink towel away from your chest, his movements slow, deliberate, and free of any rush.
he peeled the fabric back from your shoulders, letting the warm sun hit your skin.
your instinct was to pull it back around yourself, but tucker immediately placed his warm palms flat against your collarbones, smoothing down over your bare shoulders, melting your tension away.
he shifted, draping his large, heavy arm over your waist and pulling your back flush against his chest, tucking you perfectly into his side while the pink towel now draped loosely over both of your laps.
all wrapped in his scent and his heat, the crowded beach completely faded away.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
but even after that afternoon on the sand, navigating his complete lack of a filter when it came to affection was still a daily exercise.
just yesterday, you had been waiting for him in the stands after hockey practice. you had chose a seat a few rows up, fully expecting to just wave, wait for him to change, and walk out together like normal.
but tucker had spotted you instantly. he didn't care that he was still half-dressed in his gear, or that the rest of the team was skating by.
he had jogged right up the bleachers, his skates clacking loudly and heavily, drawing everyone's eyes right to your row.
when he reached you, he had wrapped his arms around you, planting a lingering, unapologetic kiss right on your cheek, murmuring how glad he was that you came.
you had frozen up as you felt the weight of his teammates' teasing glances from the ice. you could hear garrett shouting a joke over his shoulder, and while you knew it was all in good fun, you wished he would have just saved the enthusiasm for the privacy of the car.
tucker had noticed your sudden stiffness then, his expression shifting to something more mindful, but the self-consciousness of the moment had lingered.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
tucker noticed that same familiar, reserve taking over your features right now against the tree on the campus lawn.
the playful smirk faded from his lips, replaced by a gaze so soft and fiercely tender it made your breath hitch.
he didn't move away. instead, he rolled over completely, propping his elbows on either side of your thighs so he was hovering over you, creating a little bubble just for the two of you.
he reached up, his knuckles lingering against your flushed cheek, rubbing a gentle circle there. his deep brown eyes held yours with absolute certainty.
"let them look," tucker said softly, addressing the silent hesitation from yesterday. "i just care about you."
"it's just a lot sometimes. not you, tuck. just... yesterday at the rink, i felt like i was part of a show," you sighed, looking down at his collarbone because looking into his eyes felt too intense.
tucker understood completely. he knew you valued your privacy and that it took time for you to let someone into your space, and he wanted nothing more than to make sure you felt secure.
he made it his personal mission to meet you halfway and make sure you always felt safe with him.
he gently caught your chin, tilting your face back up. when you looked at him, his smile was so sweet, so full of pure, unadulterated adoration, that your heart did a clumsy flip.
"i'm sorry about yesterday, i got ahead of myself," he promised, leaning up to press a soft, slow, lingering kiss to your lips. completely private and entirely for you.
"but i'm never gonna stop wanting to show you off. you're the best thing in my life. you're allowed to be held, you know. anywhere." he whispered.
a soft, amused laugh escaped you, the lingering tension in your chest finally unraveling into pure warmth. "you're actually so ridiculous."
"i'm crazy about you, there's a difference," he grinned, his beautiful dimples flashing.
he shifted, laying his head back down in your lap, but this time he took your hand, intertwining his fingers perfectly with yours and resting them directly over his racing heart. "see? look at that smile. i love seeing you happy."
you let out a soft breath, finally relaxing completely against the tree. you didn't look around to see if anyone was watching. you just looked down at tucker, whose eyes were closed as he contentedly soaked up your presence like.
you hesitantly brought your free hand up to slide your fingers through his soft curls, gently twisting the thick strands and massaging his scalp.
tucker let out a low, pleased hum, burying his face closer into your thigh, pressing a sweet, hidden kiss there.
because you weren't one for big declarations or public displays, you poured your love for him into the quiet, invisible details of his life.
tucker loved purely and loudly, but you loved him intentionally.
he didn't know it yet, but you were the one who always made sure his favorite gatorade flavor was stocked in the fridge.
you had also quietly started reading up on hockey regulations just so you could fully understand the plays he talked about with such wild passion.
you showed up for him in the background, anchoring him while he took center stage.
behind closed doors, away from the crowds and the watchful eyes of the campus, your own form of affection came alive.
it had taken you a while to get there, a steady building of trust as tucker proved time and time again that your boundaries were safe with him.
but when it was just the two of you in the quiet, cozy sanctuary of his bedroom, you didn't hold back.
you were the one who would pull him down by his collar, losing yourself in deep, unhurried kisses that left him completely breathless and reeling.
in those private hours, you would map the line of his spine with your fingers, holding his heavy body close against yours, letting him know exactly how deeply he was wanted.
you just preferred saving the best parts of your love for an audience of one.
"stay like this for a bit?" he mumbled, his voice thick with a sudden wave of sleepiness, his chest rising and falling in a steady, comforting rhythm beneath your intertwined hands.
"i have chapters to read, tuck," you teased softly, though your fingers didn't stop moving through his hair, untangling the stubborn knots with gentle, loving precision.
"the book can wait. i can't," he murmured, tightening his grip on your hand just a fraction and pressing closer to you.
you smiled, the last remnants of your apprehension melting away into the warm, quiet afternoon.
"ten minutes," you bargained softly, though your fingers didn't stop their soothing rhythm through his hair. "and then i'm turning the page. if your head is in the way, i'm using your forehead as a bookrest."
tucker let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your thigh, his eyes remaining closed, a soft smile playing on his lips. "deal. you're ruthless, you know that?"
"someone has to keep you in line," you murmured.
you leaned your head back against the rough bark of the tree, finally letting the rest of the campus blur into completely irrelevant background noise.
you didn't need to change who you were to fit into his world, and he didn't need to dim his light to fit into yours.
you were two entirely different speeds, but right here, in the quiet, warm shade of the afternoon, the rhythm was exactly right.
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – after a party, garrett is drunk, clingy, and very committed to proving that sloppy kisses count as romance.
warnings – alcohol, post-party setting, clingy/flirty behaviour, suggestive jokes, sloppy kisses, strong language
notes from me – a little something based on these asks!! i didn't go overboard w the tall girl mentions, bc i agree sometimes it's nicer just baked into the story!! thank u bbys xx
word count – 0.6k
navigation – masterlist |
Garrett gets both of them caught in the doorway, even though there’s more than enough room for the two of them. It’s his room, his stupid off-campus hockey house bedroom with the laundry basket spilling athletic socks onto the floor and three empty Gatorades on his desk like a memorial site.
He just forgets, somewhere between the hallway and the threshold, how to move his feet without also trying to kiss her neck, which means his shoulder bumps the frame, her hip catches the edge, and he makes this wounded little noise into her skin like the door has personally betrayed him.
“Jesus, Graham,” she says, laughing despite herself, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt to keep him upright. “Walk first. Seduce never.”
“M’not seducing,” he mumbles, warm and beer-sweet against the side of her jaw. His hands have found her waist like they were put there at birth and he’s now too drunk to question destiny. “This is romance.”
“This is a concussion waiting to happen.”
He lifts his head at that, offended in the loose, unfocused way of someone whose pupils are doing their best but not their finest work. His curls are a disaster, flattened on one side from wherever Logan had shoved a backwards cap onto him earlier and then stolen it back, and his mouth is shiny from the sloppy kisses he keeps missing by half an inch. “I don’t get concussions. I’m elite.”
“You tried to drink from a bottle of barbecue sauce ten minutes ago.”
“Protein.”
“It was Sweet Baby Ray’s.”
“Baby,” he says, with sudden, devastating sincerity, like he’s just remembered she exists and is furious about how much he likes it. He drops his forehead against hers, close enough that they’re breathing the same dumb, alcohol-warm air, and because they’re practically eye to eye like this, she gets the full force of his ridiculous drunk softness without having to tilt her chin back very far. “You’re so pretty it’s actually pissing me off.”
She bites the inside of her cheek because smiling will only encourage him, and he’s already plenty encouraged, big hands sliding around to her back, dragging her in until her knees knock lightly into his.
“Sit down,” she tells him, guiding him toward the bed. “Before you compliment me into manslaughter.”
He goes, but only because she goes with him, folding down onto the mattress beside him as he immediately lists sideways and tries to crawl halfway into her lap. It would be less absurd if he weren’t built like someone engineered in a lab to win face-offs and ruin lives. Instead, he’s heavy and clingy and muttering nonsense into her collarbone while she pries off one of his shoes with her heel.
“Dean said I’m embarrassing,” Garrett says, scandalised.
“Dean watched you tell Tucker’s ficus it had nice vibes.”
“Mean plant.”
“You’re done talking.”
He hums, unconvinced, then presses a kiss somewhere near her shoulder, misses, and gets the strap of her top instead. “Stay?”
She smooths his hair back from his forehead, feeling the heat of him, the party still humming through the floorboards downstairs, boys yelling, bass thudding, the whole house alive and messy around them. Garrett’s eyes are half shut now, his cheek mashed against her chest like he’s found the only safe place in Massachusetts.
“Yeah,” she says, quieter, letting her thumb drift over his brow. “I’ll stay.”
His mouth curves, smug even half-asleep. “Knew it.”
She looks down at him, at the golden boy of Briar hockey currently drooling very delicately on her shirt, and huffs a laugh through her nose.
“Romance,” she mutters.
Garrett, already gone, squeezes her once like he agrees.
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
☄︎ Warnings: None, fluffy fluff
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
☄︎ Rating: PG
☄︎ Words: 1362
☄︎ AN: written for this request. this was so cute ahhhhhh. disclaimer! i have not played the game so all of my knowledge is from watching others play through tiktok and youtube shorts!! So, i’m so sorry about any inaccuracies in gameplay. i hope you enjoy, comments and feedback are always appreciated xx
☄︎ Summary: Your boyfriend’s experiencing a severe attention drought because, digitally, you’re too busy falling for another...
The hours had stretched lazily across the afternoon and bled into the evening. While Dean had come and gone and come back again, you had barely moved from your position on the sofa. Usually, neither of you would mind that too much, your relationship had gotten to the point where you were able to exist in the same space with no words needed to be spoken.
However, ever since he brought you a new game for your Nintendo Switch, a purchase he now sorely regretted, you’ve barely paid him any attention.
Outside, the world was dark and quiet. Inside, the room was dimly lit by the colourful glow of your Switch, and the harsh white glare from Dean’s phone. The soft click-clack of your thumbs pressing buttons and moving the joysticks was the only sound breaking the silence.
“Alight,” Dean sighs, “explain this game to me again.”
The cushions shifted as Dean tossed his phone aside and got up. He walked over to your side of the sofa, scooting in right behind you. Without a word, you wiggled back into the warm space between his legs, leaning back against his broad chest. You lifted the Switch up, propping your elbows on his knees just high enough so you could both see the screen.
“Tell me about this thing you’ve been running for three days straight,” he whispered, his voice tickling your neck. He wrapped his arms loosely around you, trapping you against him in the best way possible. “I’m starting to get jealous of the attention your villagers, or whatever they’re called, are getting.”
When you didn’t respond immediately, too focused on the drama happening with two of your Miis, he leant in and blew a warm puff of air directly into your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, and you laughed, turning your head to look at him.
Dean was already smiling, but his smile grew when you looked up at him. His blue eyes bright in the dark room. He smelt faintly like the cologne he always wore and the shampoo he’d used from his shower after his afternoon practice.
Before you could lean in to smell him, he leant forward and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips.
“Hey,” you smiled, your heart doing that familiar little flutter it always did when he focused all his attention on you.
“Hey,” he said back.
You turned your attention back to the glowing screen. Dean hooked his chin over your shoulder, the stubble on his jaw scratching lightly against your skin as he leant in to peer at the game you were playing.
On the screen, you were hovering over the apartment complex. Around the town, chaos was happening. Dean let out an amused huff against your neck, his chest vibrating against your back. “What the hell is going on?”
“The game is just random like that,” you laughed, tapping the joystick to pan to the other side of the island. “They have a life of their own when you’re not directly influencing it.”
You showed him a few more things on the island, a fight had now broken out between Tucker and a random Mii and you were separating them.
“I made us all,” you grinned.
Dean’s arms tightened slightly around you, his interest fully piqued. “Oh really? What are we doing? Are we fucking?”
You snorted, nearly dropping the console. “Dean! No, it’s a Nintendo game please.”
“Lameeee,” he mumbled in your ear. “Fine. Am I at least as smooth and handsome as I am in real life?”
“You can judge that for yourself,” you chuckled, scrolling until the camera was over his apartment building. “Let’s check on you first. You live on the top floor, obviously. I gave you boyband hair, do you like it?”
Dean’s Mii, with perfectly styled swoopy hair and wearing a fancy robe, was in the corner of his room, hands slamming on the piano keys. You had customised his apartment with a load of expensive looking items, it was for Dean after all.
Humming proudly, Dean pressed a sloppy kiss to your neck. “I’m GLORIOUS!”
“I knew you’d like it,” you said.
“Now show me your Mii, I want to see what my gorgeous girlfriend is up to.”
Zooming back out, you scrolled until you saw your apartment. You clicked onto yourself, your Mii was sat on the floor with a pink bubble.
“What does that mean?” Dean asked.
You giggled to yourself, knowing that Dean was about to be in for the shock of his life.
“Let’s find out together.”
You clicked on the bubble and turned your head to watch Dean’s face drop as a speech bubble appeared over your Mii:
“I can’t hold back my feelings for Garrett Graham. I need to tell him how I feel.”
Dean went completely rigid against you. You could see his eyes widening as he stared at the screen, trying to process this betrayal.
Slowly, his jaw dropped.
“Urmmm, what the FUCK.” He lifted his head off of your shoulder, leaning back so he could look you dead in the eye. “Who the fuck is Garrett Graham?”
Your body jerked as you tried to suppress your laughter. “Well, it’s this kinda hot guy, he’s the captain of the hockey team and-.”
“No,” Dean interrupted, “I know who he is but, we’ll circle back to that kinda hot comment later, who is he to you there.” He emphasised that with an accusatory point to your Switch screen.
You turned back to the screen and tapped the bottom right corner. “He’s my crush, silly.”
Mii you was in the far right, with a pink arrow pointing to Garrett’s Mii with the words ‘ready to risk it all’ written inside. Above your digital head, was the word ‘crush’ in bold. Garrett’s Mii mirrored yours, his arrow having ‘head over heels’ written inside.
“Oh, so you’re ready to risk it all, are you?”
He pinched your sides and then moved his hands to where he knew you were most ticklish. You shrieked, finally letting out the laugh you’d been swallowing. Your entire body shook against his as he launched into a full tickle assault.
The Switch fell out of your hands, tumbling somewhere between your bodies, but you were too busy twisting and squirming in an attempt to escape him to care.
“Dean! Stop it,” you gasped, face flushing warm as tears of laughter pricked at the corners of your eyes.
You twisted a bit too far and tumbled right off the edge of the sofa. Dean followed you down without breaking his hold, his body instantly hovering over yours on the floor.
“This is the price of infidelity,” he said. He leant in and bit at the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a deliberate and possessive hickey there. “My girl.”
You swatted at his chest. “Yes, you caveman.”
“Who is your favourite?” Dean threatened, his fingers hovering over your ribs again. “Answer quickly and correctly.”
“You! It’s you, obviously!” You laughed, your hands clutching at his shoulders to hold him back.
Dean finally stopped his attack, though, he didn’t move away. He stayed hovering over you, his eyes sparkling with amusement as you took in deep, ragged breaths, your chest heaving against his.
He dropped down to his forearms, trapping you beneath him, his face just inches from yours.
“Good answer,” he murmured, slamming his lips against yours in a rough kiss. You sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer, but he pulled back with a smug grin. “I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”
Right then, a chime echoed. Dean looked down at you, a single eyebrow lifting, while your eyes widened in pure horror. You were going to get in so much trouble for this.
Dean reached blindly up to the sofa, patting around until he found the Switch. He held it so you could both see what was happening.
On the screen, the game was still running, the Mii having made the decision as you took too long to choose an option.
Your Mii was officially heading out to meet Garrett’s Mii to confess her love.
I said "I love you". You say nothing back | John Logan
summary: the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don't catch feelings, don't ask for more than what's on the table. 338 days later, you're starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.
notes: hii, i'm back!! i was genuinely so overwhelmed by the response to my first one shot. you guys are so kind and it inspired me to keep writing. so here we are, back with more yearning, more angst, and more logan being an idiot about his feelings. my requests are open if you have any ideas or characters you want to see i'd love to hear from you. thank you so much for reading and enjoy ❤️❤️
warnings: swearing, alcohol, light angst, situationships, a puck bunny accusation and a confession in the rain.
word count: 8k
The thing with Logan had started exactly 338 days ago. Almost one year. One full lap around the sun. You knew because you had been counting, the days and the hours and even the minutes since this situationship from hell, as your dear friends had taken to calling it, had installed itself in your life like an antivirus app you hadn't downloaded and couldn't figure out how to delete.
It had started on Halloween, and at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. It was just past eleven and the house off campus that your friends had dragged you to smelled like dry ice and weed, and you were tired and ready to leave, which was an anomaly. You were usually the last one standing, your friends had given you the nickname ending antagonist for a reason. In hindsight, that probably should have been a warning sign. The one night you wanted to go home early was the night everything started.
Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.
And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.
A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.
What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"
So. So what? What were you supposed to say?
"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."
Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.
But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.
So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.
At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.
But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.
You and Logan became friends.
Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.
And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.
And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.
And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.
And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.
Every single time.
Which brings you to now.
You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.
You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.
"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.
You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.
The front door opened.
You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.
He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.
"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."
At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.
"Shoot," you said.
Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"
Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.
"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"
"What? No. I'm a man."
"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."
"I know that. It's not for me."
"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."
"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."
"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"
"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."
You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.
Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.
Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.
You knew that shift. You had felt it before.
The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.
It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.
You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.
The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.
You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.
The third time you stopped counting.
Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.
You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—
You glanced at Logan.
He wasn't laughing.
He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.
The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.
You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.
"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."
"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.
"You okay?" Garrett asked.
"Fine. Just air."
You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.
"I'll come with you," he said.
The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.
Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."
"Baby—"
"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"
He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.
Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.
"It's not—" he started.
"Logan."
He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.
"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"
"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."
"It's not a big deal—"
"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."
"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."
"Excuse me?"
"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."
The word landed like a slap.
Girlfriend.
"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."
"That's not what I—"
"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."
He said nothing, which you took as a yes.
"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."
"It's complicated—"
"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."
"You knew what this was when we started—"
"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."
"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"
"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."
"I am being honest—"
"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."
The parking lot went completely silent.
Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.
"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.
"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."
Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.
"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.
"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."
Logan looked at you.
And said nothing.
The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.
"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."
You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.
"Don't follow me," you said.
He didn't.
You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.
Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.
Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.
It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.
Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.
Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.
You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.
Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.
The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.
The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.
I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.
The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.
"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.
You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.
"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.
"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."
"I didn't bring my ID."
Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"
"I forgot." You shrugged.
"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."
You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.
The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.
"You look like you're deciding something," he said.
"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."
He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.
"((Y/N))."
"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."
You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.
By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.
You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.
The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.
You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.
That was the point.
You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.
You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.
Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.
It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.
You were almost believing it.
The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.
Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.
You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.
After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.
Four seconds.
You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.
The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.
You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.
Logan.
He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.
"Hey," you said carefully.
"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.
"That's not really your business."
"You're spending a lot of time with him."
"Logan—"
"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.
"Make it somewhere else."
He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."
You went very still. "The type to?"
"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."
The lobby was very quiet.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.
"Say that again," you said softly.
"I didn't mean—"
"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"
Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.
"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."
"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."
"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"
"Why did you say it?"
He looked at you.
"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."
Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.
"Because I can't—" He stopped.
"Can't what?"
"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.
"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.
He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.
And then he looked away.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"Yeah," you said. "It was."
You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.
But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.
Good, you thought.
And hated that you thought it.
Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.
Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.
Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to only date younger women, to have a thing for accents, to announce their type to anyone who will listen like it’s a personality trait, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.
But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.
You were not offended by the word.
You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.
That was what got to you.
Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.
You didn't tell anyone what he said.
That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.
You knew what it meant. That was the problem.
You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.
You were done trying to travel between them.
The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.
You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.
You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.
You were fine. You were getting finer.
You were also absolutely not fine.
Dean found you on a Wednesday.
Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.
He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.
"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.
You looked at your coffee. "Okay."
"He feels terrible."
"Good."
"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."
"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."
You were quiet for a moment.
"A little late," you repeated.
"Okay, very late."
"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."
"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."
"Then what are you here for?"
Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.
"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."
You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.
"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"
Dean was quiet for a moment.
"A while," he said carefully.
"How long is a while, Dean."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.
You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.
"Okay," you said.
"(Y/N)—"
"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."
Dean looked at you. "That's it?"
"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."
Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.
"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."
You didn't say anything.
"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."
He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.
Since pretty much the beginning.
338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.
You sat with that for a long time.
It had been raining since noon.
Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.
You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.
You had not been thinking about Logan.
You were almost at your building when you heard him.
"(Y/N)."
You stopped walking.
He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.
He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.
"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"It's raining."
"I know."
"You're soaked."
"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."
You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.
"You have two minutes," you said.
He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.
"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."
The rain was very loud suddenly.
"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."
You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.
"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."
The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.
"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.
"Yes."
"A year."
"Yes."
"And you said nothing."
"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."
You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.
"The Hannah thing," you said.
"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have, what you and I were and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."
The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."
The street was very quiet under the rain.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.
Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.
The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.
"You're an idiot," you said.
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.
"I know," he said.
"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."
"I know."
"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."
"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."
The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.
"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."
"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."
You looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly.
"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."
The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.
Then you closed the distance.
You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.
When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.
"I'm still mad at you," you said.
"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."
"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."
"I know. Whatever it takes."
"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."
"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."
You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.
summary: your daughter says one word and it sends garrett spiralling.
—
Playoffs are starting. The team is running him into the ground. He’s surviving on caffeine and four hours of sleep and somehow your four-year-old daughter has chosen this exact week to become physically incapable of listening.
Tonight she refuses to get in the car after preschool.
“No.”
“Bug, c’mon.”
“No.”
Garrett keeps his patience for ten full minutes.
While she wriggles away from him in the parking lot laughing because to her this is a game.
Until she darts too close to moving traffic.
That’s what does it.
Fear.
Pure instant fear.
Garrett grabs her arm quickly and pulls her back toward him harder than he means to.
“Enough!”
Loud enough that she startles immediately.
Her little face crumples. And then she says the sentence that completely destroys him.
“You scared me.”
Tiny voice and watery eyes.
Garrett goes white. Actually white.
Like all the blood drains from his body at once.
His grip on her arm disappears instantly.
“Oh my God.”
Your daughter looks confused now more than anything because she already regrets saying it. “Daddy…”
“I scared you?”
The crack in his voice is horrible.
You step in immediately, crouching beside your daughter. “Hey, baby, Daddy was scared because you ran near the cars.”
But Garrett can barely hear you. Because all he can hear is his own childhood. All he can hear is every moment he was ever afraid of his father.
And now his little girl just said those same words to him.
Your daughter reaches for him instinctively because despite everything, Garrett is still her safe place.
But he hesitates before touching her.
Like he suddenly doesn’t trust himself.
“Garrett,” you say softly.
He blinks hard and immediately picks her up, holding her so carefully it’s almost painful to watch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over into her hair. “I’m sorry, bug. Daddy’s sorry.”
She’s already over it. Literally already over it.
By the time you get home she’s asking for snacks and showing Garrett a rock she found in the playground like the last twenty minutes never happened.
At dinner your daughter climbs into his lap like always.
Garrett barely eats.
At bath time she splashes him until he’s soaked and giggling despite himself.
The second she’s asleep, the smile disappears.
You find him sitting alone in the dark living room staring at nothing.
“Hey.”
Garrett rubs a hand over his face. “I scared her.”
“You startled her.”
“She said she was scared.”
“She’s four.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
You sit beside him carefully. “She ran toward traffic.”
“I grabbed her too hard.”
“You kept her safe.”
His jaw tightens hard enough to hurt. “That’s exactly what my dad used to say.”
Silence.
Your heart breaks instantly.
“Garrett…”
“He always had a reason too.” Garrett laughs bitterly, eyes glassy now. “Always some explanation for why he lost his temper.”
“You did not lose your temper.”
“I saw her face.”
His voice cracks completely on the words.
“She looked scared of me.”
You take his hand immediately. “Baby, she cried because you startled her. Five minutes later she was asking if you’d cut her toast into stars tomorrow.”
But Garrett shakes his head.
“You know what the worst part is?” he whispers. “When she reached for me afterward, I almost didn’t pick her up.”
Your chest tightens. “Why?”
“Because for a second I thought maybe she shouldn’t trust me.”
There it is: The real wound.
That Garrett genuinely believes one mistake could make him unsafe forever.
You move closer instantly, cupping his face.
“She ran to you anyway.”
His eyes close.
“She loves you, Garrett.”
“But what if one day she doesn’t?”
“She will.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” you say softly. “But I can promise that bad fathers don’t sit in dark living rooms crying because their kid got startled.”
Garrett’s breathing turns uneven.
Then quietly, so quietly it nearly breaks you, he says: “I would rather she break my heart a thousand times than ever fear me again.”
For three days Garrett second-guesses everything he does.
Every tone.
Every correction.
Every single interaction with her.
The way he hesitates before telling her no now. The way he looks at you after every tiny moment of discipline like he’s checking whether he handled it wrong. The way he physically flinches when she startles too fast around him even if it has nothing to do with him.
It’s breaking your heart.
Because your daughter forgot the parking lot incident approximately eleven minutes after it happened.
“Bug, careful with your juice,” he says one morning.
She nearly tips the cup anyway and Garrett instinctively reaches to steady it.
Immediately his hand drops back, like he’s afraid to grab too suddenly.
Your chest aches.
Later that afternoon she’s running through the backyard while Garrett watches her with this constant nervousness sitting behind his eyes.
You walk up beside him quietly. “She’s okay.”
But his gaze never leaves her.
“I keep thinking about her face,” he admits after a long silence. “When she said I scared her.”
“She was startled.”
“She was afraid.”
“For one second.”
Garrett swallows hard. “One second is enough.”
You don’t know how to explain to him that loving parents accidentally scare their kids sometimes. That toddlers cry when voices get sharp or emotions get big because they’re tiny humans still learning the world.
But Garrett doesn’t hear normal parenting mistakes.
He hears echoes.
That night he’s quieter than usual during bedtime.
Still loving. Still sweet to his girl but careful.
Your daughter notices it too.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, bug?”
“Why you sad?”
Garrett immediately forces a smile. “I’m not sad.”
“You got sad eyes.”
God.
You have to look away for a second because she is so observant it’s terrifying.
Garrett brushes her hair back gently. “Just tired, baby.”
She accepts that answer easily because she’s four and currently more concerned about whether her teddy also needs pajamas.
Eventually she falls asleep between you both reading stories.
Garrett lingers by her bed longer than usual after you carry her to her room.
You watch him stand there in the soft glow of her nightlight with this awful guilt still weighing down his shoulders.
“She adores you,” you whisper after he finally closes the door.
He nods faintly.
But he still doesn’t fully believe he deserves it.
You wake to tiny sobs echoing down the hallway.
Before you can even sit up, Garrett is already moving.
You hear him open her bedroom door.
“Bug?”
More crying.
Then “Daddy!”
Pure panic.
Garrett’s heart visibly shatters.
You follow more slowly, pausing in the doorway.
Your daughter is sitting upright in bed, cheeks wet with tears, arms already reaching for him.
Garrett crosses the room in two seconds flat.
“I got you,” he says immediately, scooping her into his arms. “Hey, hey, what happened?”
“Bad dream,” she cries into his neck.
Garrett sits in the rocking chair holding her close, one hand rubbing up and down her back automatically.
“You’re okay.”
“There was monster.”
“No monsters here, baby.”
She clings tighter.
Garrett kisses her hair over and over. “Daddy’s got you.”
Your daughter’s breathing slowly starts evening out.
Tiny hiccuping sniffles against Garrett’s chest.
And then, half asleep already, she curls impossibly closer into him and mumbles “I safe now.”
Silence.
You physically see the words hit him.
Garrett goes completely still.
One hand comes up to cover his mouth for a second like he just got punched in the chest.
Your daughter doesn’t notice.
She’s already drifting back to sleep tucked against him.
But Garrett’s eyes immediately fill with tears.
That’s the answer to every fear that’s been eating him alive all week.
Her instinct, even after all his fears, is still to run toward him.
To feel safest in his arms.
“You hear that?” you whisper softly from the doorway.
He nods once.
Can’t speak.
Your daughter sighs sleepily against his chest, completely relaxed now.
Safe.
Garrett presses a kiss to the top of her head and finally, finally lets himself hold her without fear.
summary: in which you arrive home slightly inebriated after a late night out with allie, craving nothing more than garrett’s touch, and end up testing every last limit of his restraint.
pairing: garrett graham x fem!reader
note: hello! this is probably one of my favourite fics i've written so far of garrett. i hope you enjoy! <3
*this story takes place beyond college
ꪆৎ
the apartment was quiet in the way only shared spaces became late at night. the muffled sound of commentary from an old bruins game lingering in the background.
garrett had been waiting up for you for hours.
he’d sprawled himself across the couch sometime around midnight with the intention of staying awake until you got home, one arm hooked lazily behind his head while his phone rested abandoned against his chest.
every so often, he’d check the time, and once glance at your location, just to be sure you and allie had made it back into the city safely, before settling again.
because this was routine now. it was domestic, comfortable.
you went out with allie, and garrett stayed up for you.
the second he heard the familiar clicking of your heels echoing unevenly down the hallway outside the apartment door, his attention immediately lifted.
a smile tugged instinctively at his mouth before he even saw you.
then the door opened, and it was as though garrett genuinely forgot how to breathe for a second.
you stumbled through the doorway in a haze of silk, perfume, flushed cheeks, and quiet, sleepy laughter, one hand catching at the wall for balance while the other fumbled clumsily with your keys.
“okay,” you muttered softly to yourself, kicking the door shut behind you with significantly less grace than intended.
"these shoes are officially evil.”
garrett watched silently from the couch as you took exactly three steps forward before the heel of your shoe clipped against the bottom of the door.
your body pitched sideways immediately.
“shit-”
you caught yourself quickly against the handle behind you with a startled gasp, blinking hard as you steadied yourself.
garrett’s chest shook with restrained laughter.
you sighed dramatically.
“and this,” you muttered to yourself under your breath, “is why i don't wear heels."
garrett bit back a smile from the couch, his eyes dragging over you slowly, helplessly.
god.
you were adorable.
the tiny black silk dress you’d worn tonight should’ve been illegal. the material clung to every inch of your body in a way that made garrett’s brain short-circuit, the neckline dipping low enough to expose warm skin he knew intimately, while the hem sat dangerously high against your thighs every time you moved.
your hair was messy.
your lipstick slightly smudged.
your cheeks a hint of pink from the alcohol and dancing.
and garrett, poor, fucking garrett, had spent the last few hours since you left doing his absolute best not to picture what you looked like beneath that dress.
then you turned around and caught him staring.
not subtly either.
his eyes were fixed directly on your legs, mouth parted slightly before his gaze slowly lifted to meet yours.
you immediately smirked.
“finished gawking yet, graham?” you teased softly.
he didn’t even try to deny it.
“hi, baby.”
your expression softened at his voice, deeper than normal, clearly tired from staying awake.
no matter how much you teased him, no matter how long you’d been together, there was still something about garrett looking at you like that, warm and completely gone for you, that made your chest ache.
you wandered toward the kitchen island slowly, your hips swaying slightly with each step, fully aware of garrett’s eyes following your every move.
you placed your purse down gently on the kitchen countertop, followed by your phone.
then you deliberately bent forward slightly, fiddling with the straps of your heels that wrapped around your ankle.
garrett inhaled sharply.
the dress rode higher against your thighs instantly.
“sweetheart,” he warned quietly from the couch.
you glanced over your shoulder, feigning innocence.
“hm?”
“you’re doin’ that shit on purpose.”
your smile widened.
“i have absolutely no idea what you mean.”
garrett shakes his head laughing, "bullshit."
a laugh bubbled from your chest at his response.
garrett pushed himself off the couch before you could continue torturing him, crossing the apartment in slow steps until he stood directly in front of you.
the size difference between you always became painfully obvious like this. especially when his large hands settled carefully around your forearms, gently guiding you upright before you could continue fumbling with your heels.
“c'mere, let me do it for you” he murmured.
you tilted your head.
“you don’t have to.”
“i know.” his thumbs brushed softly across your skin. “i want to though.”
the warmth in his voice alone nearly melted you.
garrett guided you toward the couch carefully, one hand resting against your lower back the entire time as though he instinctively needed to steady you.
you sat first before watching him kneel in front of you.
your heart squeezed painfully at the sight.
garrett looked unfairly good like this, absurdly good in the sort of effortless way that made your stomach tighten without warning.
grey sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips, his old briar u hockey t-shirt stretched tightly across the broad expanse of his shoulders and chest, sleeves pushed messily up his forearms. his curls were tousled from repeatedly dragging his hands through them while waiting up for you, sleepy eyes heavy beneath the warm apartment lighting.
and now he was kneeling between your legs with complete concentration etched across his features while he carefully lifted your foot onto his thigh.
“you know,” he muttered, fingers beginning to work delicately against the straps wrapped around your ankle, “you have the worst taste in shoes.”
you laughed softly, already watching him with far too much affection.
“allie picked them.”
“yeah,” garrett huffed quietly, glancing briefly up at you before returning to the complicated mess of laces. “that tracks.”
his large hands were almost comical as they worked gently against your skin, warm fingertips brushing softly along your ankle every few seconds while he tried to undo the ridiculous lace-up ties. his brows furrowed slightly in concentration, jaw flexing as he carefully loosened another knot.
it struck you then, the contrast of it all.
these were the same hands that tightened hockey skate laces before games, roughened from sticks, weights, and years on the ice. garrett was strength in every sense of the word.
and yet with you, he handled everything delicately.
even now, with something as small as your heels, he treated the thin ties with absurd care, thumb instinctively brushing over the faint indent the laces had left against your skin once he loosened them.
“you’re concentrating way too hard,” you murmured softly, unable to stop smiling at him.
garrett huffed quietly from where he knelt in front of you.
“baby, these things require a fucking engineering degree.”
you laughed under your breath.
“how do women wear these?” he muttered, fingers carefully working another strap loose.
you smiled down at him fondly.
“looks painful?”
“it looks like torture, y/n.”
you laughed again, quieter this time. “it is.”
“then why wear them?”
“because they look good,” you respond immediately, like the answer is obvious.
garrett’s hands paused for half a second before his gaze slowly dragged upward, over your legs, your waist, the silk dress hugging every curve of your body, before finally landing on your face.
his expression darkened instantly.
“they look insane,” he corrected quietly.
then, after a beat, voice even lower-
“you look insane.”
warmth flooded your entire body immediately.
garrett held your gaze for a second longer than necessary before shaking his head softly to himself, almost like he genuinely couldn’t believe you were real, and returned his attention back to the straps wrapped around your ankle.
a small smirk crosses his features as he clearly thinks to himself, a brief chuckle slipping from his lips.
“although” he continued casually.
“you did almost die in them at the front door.”
you grinned sleepily down at him, entirely unbothered.
“i recovered.”
“barely.”
his large hands spread across your calf as he loosens the final strap, warm fingers steady against your skin.
you smiled down at him lovingly, suddenly far too distracted by the sight of him sitting between your knees like this.
god.
you wanted him so bad.
maybe it was the alcohol loosening your inhibitions slightly, or maybe it was the fact you hadn’t really seen him all evening.
whatever it was, desire settled heavily in your stomach.
especially when he finally slipped the first heel free before instinctively rubbing his thumb gently against the arch of your foot afterward.
the tenderness nearly killed you.
you stared at him openly now, gaze softening more and more the longer you watched him.
garrett eventually felt it.
his eyes lifted slowly and the second he saw the way you were looking at him, his entire expression shifted.
darker.
still warm.
but darker.
“baby,” he said cautiously.
you smiled sweetly. “what?”
“you’re giving me a look.”
“what look?”
“the one that gets me in trouble.”
your grin widened instantly.
garrett groaned quietly under his breath before dropping his head again, reaching for the second heel.
“yeah,” he muttered. “this is gonna be a long night.”
you laughed softly as he finally slipped the second heel free.
“thank you.”
“always”
heat flooded your cheeks immediately at his response.
neither of you moved for a moment, both simply looking at each other, a comfortable silence settling between you both.
years of loving each other sitting quietly between you.
then your hand lifted slowly toward his face, and garrett leaned into your palm immediately. your fingers brushed softly along his jaw while your eyes traced over features you’d memorised years ago.
“you’re pretty,” you whispered drunkenly.
garrett barked out a surprised laugh.
“pretty?”
“mhm.”
“that’s what we’re going with?”
“very pretty,"
“you’re drunk.”
“i'm right.”
his smile softens into something unbearably fond.
“c’mere.”
the kiss started slow, the way it always did with garrett.
never rushed, never careless.
his hand slid behind your neck carefully while his lips moved against yours with familiar ease, warm and soft and entirely addictive. the kiss tasted faintly like tequila and cherry lip gloss, and garrett swore quietly against your mouth almost immediately.
because there was kissing you, and then there was kissing you after he’d spent hours away from you.
the difference ruined him every time.
you shifted closer instinctively, your hands sliding up his chest before tangling into the curls at the back of his neck, tugging gently.
garrett’s grip tightened and your lips parted softly against his.
suddenly the kiss deepened. not messy or frantic. just heavy, lingering.
years of established intimacy condensed into one moment.
garrett pulled back barely enough to breathe.
“jesus, baby.”
you smiled against his mouth before kissing him again.
then again.
then once more just because you could.
garrett laughed quietly into the kiss, completely helpless for you as he guided you onto his lap, his large hands gripping your waist.
you settled against him instantly, thighs spreading around his hips while your dress bunched dangerously high.
garrett physically froze beneath you for a second.
“sweetheart,” he exhaled slowly.
you pretended not to notice the effect you were having on him.
“mhm?”
“you’re making this very hard for me.”
you rocked your hips ever so slightly while adjusting yourself.
garrett’s eyes shut immediately.
“y/n.”
the warning in his voice only made warmth pool lower in your stomach. you kissed along his jaw slowly, feeling the way his breathing deepened the further downward you went.
“missed you tonight,” you whispered against his skin.
his hands slid up your back beneath the silk dress carefully.
“i missed you too.”
you kissed his neck softly.
then again.
then once more right beneath his ear.
garrett’s grip on your waist tightened hard enough to make you smile in satisfaction before you hummed innocently against his throat.
“you’re evil when you’ve been drinking.”
“you like me.”
“i’m obsessed with you.” his voice dropped lower.
“that’s the problem.”
your heart fluttered stupidly.
even now, even after years together, garrett’s honesty still affected you every single time.
you shifted again intentionally this time, hips rolling softly against his.
a strained breath left his mouth immediately.
“okay,” he muttered, grabbing your waist firmly. “absolutely not.”
you tried not to smile.
“what?”
“you know exactly what.”
“i was getting comfortable.”
“bullshit.”
a laugh escaped you before your lips found his neck again, slower this time, softer. garrett’s head tipped back slightly against the couch while your kisses trailed beneath his jaw.
his restraint was visibly fraying now. you could feel it in the way his hands squeezed your hips.
the way his breathing deepened.
the way his mouth kept parting every time you kissed another sensitive spot along his throat.
but even then, even while hard beneath you, even while visibly struggling, garrett’s hands never wandered somewhere they shouldn’t.
never pushed.
never pressured.
because that was garrett. steady. safe. respectful even when it clearly cost him.
finally, he caught your chin gently between his fingers and guided your face upward until your eyes met his.
his expression softened instantly.
“y/n,” he said quietly. “you know i want you.”
your teasing faltered slightly at the sincerity in his voice.
“but you’ve been drinking,” he continued softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “not a crazy amount. i know that. but enough that i'm not gonna take advantage of it.”
your chest tightened painfully.
god.
you loved him so much.
“i just want you,” you admitted quietly. now feeling shy under his gaze.
garrett nearly caved right there, you could see it happen in real time. his jaw tightened, as his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
his hands flexed against your waist.
“sweetheart,” he exhaled.
you kissed him again before he could keep talking.
slow and warm.
your fingers brushing through his curls while his hands instinctively pulled you impossibly closer against him.
the kiss deepened once more.
garrett kissed you like he was trying very hard to keep control and failing a little more every second.
then your hips shifted again and garrett abruptly broke the kiss with a low groan, forehead dropping against yours.
“baby,” he laughed breathlessly, “you are not playin’ fair tonight.”
your lips curved softly.
“maybe i just really love my boyfriend.”
“that is not helping your case.”
you giggled quietly, completely pleased with yourself.
garrett stared at you for another long second before finally shaking his head fondly.
“c’mon,” he murmured, standing carefully while keeping you close against him. “let’s get you into bed before you completely ruin me.”
summary: reader gets a minor head injury when logan is not around and everyone jumps to help. core characters mentioned but mostly dean and allie. short fic, genuinely not as dramatic as the summary makes it sound like lol. requested!
Logan’s phone won’t stop buzzing on his backpocket as he’s elbows deep in Professor Walsh’s car engine. He grabs the rag over his shoulder and does his best in cleaning the oil from his fingers before fishing the phone out of his pocket, only to find a bunch of texts from Dean.
dean: before you say anything
dean: it was an accident okay
dean: and she really really wanted to play with us :(
That, followed by a picture of you laying down on their couch, ice pack over your forehead, is enough to make Logan mumble a stream of apologies to Professor Walsh, something akin to “sosorryigottagoseemygirlfriend” and a promise of checking his engine another day as he literally runs back home.
He finds you in that very same resting place, except your head is on Allie’s lap while she holds the ice pack for you. Dean, who’s bandaging your ankle on the end of the couch, immediately stands up and walks over to Logan’s direction,
“Dude, I swear to god that it was an accident.”
Logan takes a look at you over Dean’s shoulder, “What the fuck happened?”
“Me and Garrett were playing soccer when she got here looking for you.” Dean starts talking, “Then she asked us if she could join and I obliged, of course, ‘cause– Well, I wouldn’t I? Can you imagine how misogynistic that sounds if–”
“Dean, get to the fucking point!”
“Right, sorry– She tripped on my foot while we were playing and hit her head. It wasn’t too bad, I managed to catch her. But–” Dean motions his head to you, awake and murmuring something to Allie neither the boys can hear.
Logan moves in your direction, kneeling by the couch, “Hey, honey. How you feeling?”
You can’t see him, ice pack covering your eyes as well as your forehead. Still, your lips quiver up when you listen to his voice, “I’m good. They’re all being dramatic.”
He looks up at Allie, gesturing for him to take her place on the couch. Allie carefully holds your head as she moves from under you, letting his hands hold you instead before she let go. You lay your head on Logan’s thigh, nuzzling as he presses a gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth. There’s a small cut on your chin, covered by a pink band-aid. His hands move to your cheek, drawing circles as he caresses your face, “You hurt your chin?”
You hum, and Allie speaks up, “Her arms are a bit scratched too. But we already cleaned them, and Garrett is on his way to the rink with Hannah. He said you guys keep a full first aid kit in the locker room.”
Logan hums, “Did you eat anything?” he murmurs to you.
“Tucker made me a smoothie.” You answer, then your hand moves to remove the ice pack. Logan sees a purple-tinted bump on your forehead, but your eyes are shiny and smiling, “Baby, I’m fine. Really. Don’t get too worried, handsome. Hannah and Allie patched me up, and Dean said he’s sorry a thousand times already.”
Your boyfriend looks up, watching Dean’s apologetic face turn into a pout. Logan rolls his eyes at him, a tiny smile on his lips as he feels disarmed. He’s a little ashamed now, being so ready to pick an argument with his friends a second ago for letting you get hurt, yet there you are, laying all pretty on his lap, tended and smiling as Logan’s heartstrings pull a little.
He gives you a grin, “Do you want paracetamol or something?”
Dean raises his hand and gives his most prideful look, “Already had her take one, boss.”
“Alright. You’re good, man.” Logan says before adjusting your ice pack back to its place, pressing a quick peck on your cheek, “And you keep icing your head, there’s a bump right under your hairline. Allie, take my place?”
You stir, “I can lay on the couch just fine by myself.”
“No, no. We’re keeping someone by your side for the next twenty four hours.” Allie says, already taking Logan’s seat, “We gotta make sure you don’t have a concussion and choke on your own vomit.”
“Geez,” you sneer, “So dramatic.”
He stands from the couch, moving in Dean’s direction, “And you are helping me make dinner,” he drops his arms over his friend’s shoulder, muttering, “Thanks for helping take care of her.”
Dean beams at his friend, “That was nothing. The least I could do for almost killing her, really.” He jokes, squeezing Logan’s shoulder, “She’s all yours now, dude. And I’d say a little TLC is much needed.”
He looks back at you, giggling with Allie on the couch, “I think she’s in good hands.”
“I meant for you.” Dean says, “I know you love when you get to fuss over her, you softie.”
“Well, yeah. Like you said,” Logan shrugs, “Who am I to deny some tender loving care over my oh so hurt and in need of care girlfriend?”
“I can hear that,” you shout from the couch.
“And I don’t hear you complaining, babe.”
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
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.”
summary: you're a bartender at the hard deck with a huge crush on rooster, and rooster (very cheesily) uses karaoke friday to confess his own feelings to you
notes: this goes in SO many different directions and i'm so sorry about that, but i still had so much fun writing it! i hope y'all enjoy even though it is super cheesy (but i tried really hard not to make it cringe) and kinda, super long... please let me know what you think! i really love feedback
warnings: swearing, very poor us navy knowledge (as usual), lots of drinking and drinking on the job, SUPER CHEESY, italics, switching povs (kinda), there's a little bit of 'mean-girl-ness', and it's pretty fucking horny in some places so 18+ PLEASE!!!
word count: 11336
“Do I need to add ‘putting your ass on my bar’ to the sign?” Penny emerges from the bar’s back of house door, her arms wrapped around a case of beer and her best disapproving mum glare painted on her face.
You smile sheepishly and push yourself off the bar, landing on tingly feet from how long your legs had been dangling as you chatted with Maverick. “Sorry Pen.”
“It’s my fault,” Maverick pipes up. “She was replacing a light bulb, and I distracted her.”
Penny heaves the case onto the bar with a huff before looking back at you. “What are you doing replacing my lights on your day off?”
“I noticed it was out the other night, and I knew I had a spare at home so I thought I might as well donate it.” You pick up the busted lightbulb by the bayonet and toss it into the bin behind the bar. “Also, it’s not my day off.”
Penny frowns, tipping her chin forward as she takes a moment to think. You wait patiently, because you’ve worked almost every Friday night for the past three years, and you know she’s probably just forgotten what day of the week it is.
“Well, anyway.” Mav slides off the stool on the other side of the bar. “I better get back to work.”
You turn to him with a frown. “Isn't everyone at their advanced first aid training today, or something?”
“Yeah, but I have a meeting.” He rolls his eyes as he says the last word, as if doing anything in his job description except for flying is just unimaginable. “A lieutenant from another squadron wants a chance to join my squad but won’t take no for an answer until I meet with her.”
Your frown slowly morphs into a scowl as you connect the dots. “Are you talking about-”
“Her callsign is Giggles.”
The next noise that leaves your lips is a mix between a groan and a gag.
Maverick raises a brow. “Not a fan?”
“She’s horrendous, Mav, and she only wants to join your squad to get closer to Rooster.”
“Wait a minute,” Penny pipes up. “Are we talking about that bottle blonde that comes in every Friday night and follows Rooster around like a lost puppy?”
You nod. “Yup.”
Mav chuckles as he slides his aviators up his nose. “Well, regardless of her ulterior motives, she’s not joining the squad. My hands are full as it is and I’m not sure she could cut it.”
You can’t help the small, satisfied smirk that lifts the corner of your lips as you turn toward Penny and her half-empty case of beer. You already know Giggles isn't good enough for Bradley, but hearing Mav say that she isn’t good enough for the squad is a small piece of validation that might help get you through tonight’s shift.
“Anyway,” Maverick says as he moves toward the door. “I’ll see you both later tonight.”
You look back over your shoulder at him. “Are you coming back for a drink?”
He nods, his lips tugging into a grin. “I would never miss watching my godson embarrass himself on karaoke night.”
Realisation hits you and you groan, dropping your head into both of your hands as you crouch down beside the case of beers. “Fucking karaoke Friday.”
Penny laughs softly. “That’s right, it’s the last Friday of the month. I completely forgot.”
It’s not that you hate karaoke, you just hate sober karaoke. If you were seven tequila shots deep and on the other side of the bar, you’d no doubt have the microphone and be attempting to sing some overplayed ABBA song with one of your friends. But no, you’re sober and behind the bar. Watching in horror as wasted patrons embarrass themselves in a hot and crowded room full of sweaty bodies.
Now that you think about it, maybe half your hatred for karaoke Fridays stems from the fact that it is almost always the busiest night of the month.
“Guess you’re not getting out early tonight,” you tell Penny as you slide the last of the beers into the fridge.
She sighs and shakes her head. “Not a chance.”
You often encourage Penny not to stay until close on weekends, because she deserves a little time to herself. Whenever possible, she’ll help you with the evening rush before ducking out for a late dinner or adult sleepover with Maverick. You don’t mind being left to close on your own, because you’re never really alone.
On the nights when you’re the last one behind the bar, Bradley is always the last one on the other side of it. Most of the time, the squad will stay until last call, but then Bradley will bid them goodbye and sit himself in the same stool at the end of the bar. Almost like he's guarding the swinging wooden doors that separate you from your patrons. He usually just asks for tea or water, and when you’re not serving, he talks to you about anything and everything. Then at the end of the night, he waits for you to lock the doors and make it safely to your car before he walks to his.
You’re not sure why he does it. You assume it’s because he has literally been trained to keep people safe, but sometimes you let yourself read more into it. You imagine that he might fancy you, not pity you, and he stays because he likes getting a little bit of alone time with you.
You can still remember the night you first met Bradley like it was yesterday, not nearly four years ago. He had just graduated the Top Gun programme and was celebrating with what felt like every naval officer based on North Island. He was very drunk and hardcore flirting, but only with you. There were throngs of women practically begging him to look at them, but his eyes stayed on you.
You stole his keys out of his pocket that night, not trusting him after the number of drinks you’d watched him sling back. He eventually passed out in a booth, and at the end of the night a couple of his friends stuffed him into a cab. You forgot all about his keys until the next morning when you returned to clean the bar. He was waiting by the door, looking very hungover and very sheepish.
He apologised for everything except the flirting, which he wanted to make abundantly clear. You blushed and waved him off before making him a greasy breakfast and telling him to sit at the bar while you started cleaning. After his nausea wore off, he started helping you despite your protests. You talked and flirted all morning until he announced that he had to go to the Top Gun graduation ceremony.
After that, he spent every night at The Hard Deck until he left North Island, and once he was gone, you had a hard time convincing yourself you hadn’t imagined the whole thing. You were so young at the time and Bradley was older, his career was just taking off. Why would he be interested in a bartender who has no idea where her life is going?
So, despite having exchanged numbers to stay in touch, you resisted the urge to text him. You saw a couple of updates on his social media that you followed, but they were very vague and mostly just signs of life every few months. You let yourself file Bradley away in your brain as something too good to be true, because there was no way someone that perfect really existed.
Years, boyfriends, heartbreaks, and a lot of shifts at The Hard Deck later, Bradley Bradshaw walked back into your bar. Your heart floundered as it tried to break free from your chest and deliver itself to the boy who claimed it all those years ago. He looked fucking good.
You picked up exactly where you’d left off, and so routine became ritual. Every Friday night, Bradley and his friends came to The Hard Deck, waited until last call, and then Bradley would guard you like a K9 Unit German Shepherd until you closed the bar. Eventually, you got to know his friends too, and finally found a group of people you could be yourself with.
After their mission, the squad were asked to stay on North Island as a special operations unit, training under Maverick for specialised assignments. You hang out with them when you can, but it isn’t easy with such conflicting schedules, which is why your late-night closes with Bradley are so precious. The only thing nagging at you these days is your future; what it holds and who will be in it. But you do your best not to think about it, to live in the moment and appreciate every second you get to spend staring at Bradley Bradshaw’s gorgeous face.
“Are you alright if I duck out for a bit?” Penny asks, her voice dragging you out of your thoughts.
You nod. “No worries. I’ll getting everything stocked up.”
“You’re the best.” She slings her purse over your shoulder. “I should be back in about two hours.”
Once she’s out the door, you find your own purse under the bar and grab your headphones. You slip them on, crank the volume on your phone, and start bopping along to the music while you haul cases of alcoholic beverages from the back of house to behind the bar.
- Bradley -
Twenty naval officers file out of the conference room, down the hall, and out into the Friday afternoon sun. Their postures relax the moment they’re out of sight from their superiors, and they all slowly separate into their squads, moving in different directions across the base.
“Well,” Jake sighs as he stretches his arms above his head. “That’s a day I’ll never get back.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Yes. Because learning vital skills that could save lives, including our own, is such a waste of time.”
Jake smirks. “My sentiments exactly.”
Bradley slides his sunglasses up his nose as he walks a little faster to get in between the two aviators glaring at each other. “So, are we going to-”
“The Hard Deck,” Reuben interrupts, a smirk stretched across his face.
“For beers,” Mickey adds with a dramatic wink.
“No other reason, of course,” Natasha joins in the teasing. “Right, Rooster?”
Bradley takes a deep breath of warm, ocean-scented air before sighing it out as his friends snicker around him. “When are you lot ever going to leave me alone?”
“When you grow a pair and ask the girl out,” Jake replies, and Bradley doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s smirking. “Before I do.”
There’s a chorus of oohs from the squad, but Bradley simply rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. Jake might be a flirt, but he’s not a full-blown idiot, and he knows better than to hit on you.
“Maybe I will tonight,” Bradley says with a shrug, trying to seem nonchalant.
Natasha scoffs. “That’ll be the day.”
“Willing to bet on it?” Reuben asks, stepping up beside Bradley with a grin stretched from ear to ear. This boy loves a bet.
Bradley’s eyes narrow as he considers his friend’s outstretched hand, his heart thumping faster than usual within his chest. Maybe it is time he makes a real move on you. Afterall, you’re only getting more gorgeous with every passing day and if he doesn’t act soon... well, he doesn’t want to think about what might happen.
He grips Reuben’s hand in his own, shaking it once. “Deal.”
“Oh, shit,” Mickey giggles. “Tonight is going to be good.”
“And it’s karaoke night,” Bob points out.
Mickey shakes his fists excitedly. “I fucking love karaoke night.”
They all launch into an animated discussion about what songs they should perform tonight, and even Bob makes a few suggestions, but Bradley isn’t paying much attention. He can see his Bronco up ahead, and he is itching to get to the bar. To get to you.
“Rooster!”
A voice that he doesn’t recognise makes his head snap to the left, and there’s a collective groan amongst the dagger squad as a grinning blonde bounces toward them.
“Hey Giggles,” Bradley says, trying not to sound as unenthusiastic as he feels about her presence.
“Did you just finish your first aid refresher?”
He nods, offering her a half-assed smile as he realises that he doesn’t actually remember what her given name is. His brows furrow as he tries to picture the letters stamped on the side of her jet, but then he realises that he can’t remember the last time he saw her in a jet. Up close, at least. The dagger squad train almost exclusively on their own. They rarely interact with other squadrons.
“I did mine last week,” she says. “If I knew which day you were scheduled, I would have definitely tried to join today’s group.”
Bradley nods once, unsure what to say to that but still lost in his thoughts trying to figure out what her actual name is.
“Anyway.” She flips her hair off her shoulder. “I just had a meeting with Maverick.”
“Oh,” is all Bradley responds with.
“Yeah, I’ve been wanting to work with him for– like –ever. He’s just legendary, you know?”
Bradley’s lips tip up into a smirk. “I think notorious would be more accurate.”
She giggles, because that’s what she does. “Well, he said I could fly for him and try out for your squad.”
Bradley freezes, and the whole squad comes to a screeching halt.
“Try out?” Jake echoes, before snorting a laugh. “This isn’t a cheerleading squad. We were selected and trained as a specialised unit. This isn’t something you can try out for.”
“Hangman,” Natasha warns. “Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not being rude, she’s being delusional.”
“Excuse me?” Giggles props her hands on her hips.
Bradley turns to Natasha with a quizzical frown, but she just shrugs. He looks back at Giggles. “Look, I’m sure whatever you spoke with Mav about will be great for your career. So, good luck.”
He offers her one last clipped smile before continuing toward the parking lot. Jake winks at the angry blonde before Javy puts a hand on either of his shoulders and steers him away.
Natasha quickens her pace to match Bradley’s. “You don’t think Mav would really consider-”
“No.” Bradley shakes his head. “There’s no way.”
It’s not only that the squad are not particularly fond of Giggles, but it’s also the fact that none of them are keen on the idea of adding to the team. They’re all too close and too comfortable, and they work exceptionally well together. Changing that dynamic could seriously impact their functionality and in turn, damage any one of their careers that they’ve worked so hard to achieve. They’re all exactly where they want to be, and they don’t want their positions to be challenged by anyone.
Bradley pauses before breaking away from the group. “Six o’clock?”
They all nod and mumble their agreeance.
“Does anyone need a lift?”
“You’re driving?” Reuben asks. “I thought you were going to ask your girl out tonight.”
Bradley frowns. “I can’t do both?”
Reuben chuckles. “Well, you’ve had plenty of sober chances to ask her out, so I assumed you’d need a little liquid courage to actually do it.”
Mickey laughs so suddenly that he snorts.
Bradley rolls his eyes playfully and points a finger at Reuben. “You just lost your ride privileges.”
Reuben groans in protest and Mickey laughs even harder as Bradley turns on his heel and walks toward the Bronco. He pops the door and falls into the driver’s seat, jamming the key into the ignition. As he drives home, his left knee bounces nervously. He’s always thought about asking you out, but actually doing it? He has no idea how he’s supposed to muster that kind of courage.
- You -
The clock on the wall opposite the bar taunts you. Its hands move slowly, creeping around its face at a painfully slow pace. You know exactly what time Bradley and your friends usually get here on a Friday night, and it’s still forty-five whole minutes away.
“You know,” Penny says, “staring at it won’t make it go any faster.”
You drop your gaze down to the glass you’ve been drying for at least a couple of minutes now. “I know, but if I don’t try then I’ll never know if I’ve magically developed superpowers.”
She laughs softly and takes the glass from your hands. “Why don’t you see if you have super lime slicing powers, hm?”
You roll your eyes playfully and tuck the tea towel into the back pocket of your jeans – the ones you know make your butt look incredible – before turning toward the small cardboard box of limes on the bench. You take a chopping board out from under the bar and a pairing knife. You set up a little station where the box of limes is on the right of the chopping board, and a bowl for the slices is to your left.
“Why don’t you just ask Rooster out?” Penny asks right as you cut the first lime in half.
Your cutting hand slips but you’re quick enough to flinch away before the knife slices your fingers. “Jesus, Pen. Could you learn a thing or two about timing, please?”
She rushes toward you, her brows crease with worry. “Are you okay?”
You nod. “I’m fine.”
She relaxes once she sees that your fingers are unharmed, taking a step back and casually leaning her hip against the bar, waiting. Her gaze bores into the side of your face, but you stubbornly focus on the limes.
She waits until you drop the slices into the bowl to ask again. “So, why don’t you?”
You sigh. “If it was an easy thing to do, I would have done it a while ago.”
“What’s so difficult about it?”
You put the next lime on the chopping board and hesitate, frowning down at the little green fruit as if willing it to give you an answer that doesn’t sound as whiny as what you’re about to say. “Because he’s him, and I’m me.”
She quirks one brow, silently asking you to elaborate.
“He’s just”– you wave the knife in the air, at which her eyes widen slightly –“you know? He’s gorgeous and successful. He’s got every chance in the world and every damn woman on this island after him. Then there’s me, and I’m just” – you gesture down at the short black apron tied around your waist –“this.”
Penny’s brows pinch together, a mixture of confusion and curiosity painting her face. “What’s wrong with this?”
You sigh again. “I’m a bartender, Pen.”
“So am I.”
“No.” You drop the freshly sliced lime into the bowl. “You own a bar. There’s a difference.”
“Honey.” She pushes her hip off the bar and takes half a step toward you. “That boy doesn’t look at you like a bartender. He doesn’t see the girl who pours his beer. He looks at you like you hung the moon just for him.”
You feel the bridge of your nose pinch and your eyes sting, but you decide to blame it on the citrus instead of your own emotions.
She sighs and bends down to take a shot glass out from under the bar. “Here,” she says, pouring tequila into the small glass. “I know you’d rather be on the other side of the bar, but try to have a little fun tonight. On me.”
Your eyes widen as you look at the shot and then at Penny, who’s lips are pulled into a smirk. Without a second thought, you snatch the shot glass off the bar and tip it to your lips, grimacing as the liquid burns down your throat.
“You know what,” she says as she fills the glass up again, “I think I’d like to have a little fun too.”
You can’t help the laughter that bubbles from your lips as she tips the tequila into her mouth and winces. You don’t necessarily want to be a bartender forever, but you find it hard to think about the day you’ll have to hand your resignation in to Penny. She’s a pretty cool boss.
You continue cutting limes while Penny serves an influx of customers. Once the whole box of limes has been sliced, you cover the bowl in plastic wrap and place it at the bottom of one of the fridges. The bar is filling up slowly but surely, and you start pouring drinks while Penny handles the cash.
After you hand a beer to the last customer of a small rush, the light overhead – the one you replaced earlier – blinks and dies out. “Shit,” you mutter, staring up at it. “Maybe I didn’t screw it in properly? Mav kind of distracted me before, I didn’t double check it.”
Before Penny can protest, you kick the small, folding stool toward where you need it and step onto it. You brace your hands on the bar and bring one foot up, focusing all your balance and coordination on standing up straight and getting your other foot planted on the bar.
“Please be careful,” Penny says, her voice laced with worry.
“I’m fine, don’t stress.”
More voices join the chatter in the bar, and you can hear Penny greet the new patrons as you crane your neck to look up at the dead bulb. You reach up, silently praying to any god who might listen that you don’t get electrocuted. Your fingers gently grab the bulb and twist, it blinks back to life and delivers a small shock of electricity to your hand. It’s nothing more than a zap, but that’s enough to make you startle. You shift your feet without thinking and the heel of your boot comes off the edge of the bar. You quickly lose balance and fall.
You yelp, but you don’t hit the floor. A strong pair of arms catches you – one around your back and the other behind your knees. Your saviour makes a soft ooft noise as he takes all your weight and holds you against his chest. When you look up and see the stupid grin stretched across Bradley Bradshaw’s face, it feels like every inch of your skin has been lit on fire.
The bar erupts into cheers and claps as Bradley chuckles. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you breathe out.
You stare into his eyes for a moment, appreciating every fleck of brown and gold as he stares back. Then he clears his throat and gently lowers your legs, his other arm helping you stand upright.
“Thanks,” you say as you right your skewed apron.
“Anytime.” He chuckles again. “Like, seriously. Anytime you want to fall for me, I’m right-”
You roll your eyes and swat a hand at his broad chest. “Oh, shut up.”
You turn to the rest of your friends and greet each of them, taking every sarcastic comment that they throw at you. Once you’ve given them each a hug or a high five, you walk the rest of the way around the bar to get back through the swinging wooden doors.
Penny looks at you with her mum glare. The unimpressed one.
“Sorry?” you offer sheepishly.
“Next time, leave it.”
You roll your lips to hide your smile as you bring your fingers to your forehead in a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
She shakes her head and turns toward the other side of the bar to serve someone that isn’t your friends, knowing you would prefer to serve them. You take a few short strides toward the beer taps, dust your hands on your denim-clad butt, and pick up a glass in each hand. You know their orders, you don’t have to ask.
“How was first aid?” you ask Natasha, because she’s the one right in front of you now.
Bradley is a step back from the bar, leaning toward Reuben and speaking too low for you to discern.
“It was fine,” Natasha replies. “Although, Hangman had some other thoughts.”
Jake drops a forearm on the bar and leans in. “I’m not saying it was totally useless, but a whole day to teach us what should already be common sense?”
“Something which you have very little of,” Natasha retorts.
You snort a laugh as you slide their drinks across the bar. “I’m not going to lie, Seresin. If you think first aid training is useless, then you’re my last pick to be stranded on a desert island with.”
Instead of acting offended, his smirk curls a little further and the mischievous glint in his eye twinkles. “Oh, come on. You know we’d have some fun.”
Bradley clears his throat and steps into Natasha’s place as she scoops her drink up and vacates with an amused grin on her lips.
“What kind of fun are we talking, Hangman?” Bradley asks, his brows raised in question.
Jake draws a long sip of foamy beer before turning his body toward Rooster. “Come on, Bradshaw. Use your imagination. There are a lot of things for two people to do when they’re alone.”
Your eyes bounce between the two men as they stare each other down. Jake’s lips are still pulled into a smirk, but Bradley’s are set in a firm line beneath his moustache, and the outline of his clenched jaw is more defined than usual.
“Well,” Jake sits his beer back on the bar, “we could-”
“Play Hangman!” you interrupt excitedly, deciding to cut the imaginary tether of tension that had been pulled taught between them.
Jake’s smirk breaks into a soft laugh. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
He winks at you, and you roll your eyes playfully before turning your attention down to the glass you just finished filling with beer. It’s a little too full, the foam on top threatening to overflow as you raise it up to place on the bar in front of Bradley. When the heavy bottom of the glass hits the hardwood bar top, the froth spills and drips down over your fingers.
“Oops, sorry,” you say, eyes flicking up to meet Bradley’s.
His usual soft brown gaze is so much darker than usual, and something about it is making the little hairs rise on the back of your neck.
“That’s alright,” he says, his voice low and a little raspy.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the glass, and when you pull your hand back, you suck your middle finger between your lips to clean the beer off. You’re not sure why you do it, and you don’t even realise what you’ve done until you drag your finger out of your mouth. All the while, keeping your eyes locked with Bradley’s.
“Really?” Jake’s voice slices through the tension. “You two are unbelievable.”
You blink a few times and the noise of the bar returns, as if getting lost in Bradley’s eyes had silenced the rest of the world. You can feel the apples of your cheeks burn, and you quickly dust your knuckles on your apron before picking up another glass.
Bradley clears his throat and opens his mouth to say something, but he stops. You hear Jake chuckle and Bradley sigh, but you don’t let yourself look up again. By the time you finish pouring two more beers, Mickey and Reuben are standing in front of you with ear-to-ear grins.
- Bradley -
Jake slides into the booth beside Natasha while Bradley slides in next to Bob, but his eyes are still trained on the bar. Or more specifically, the bartender.
“Oh, my God.” Jake smacks a hand against the table. “You two should have seen what I just had to witness.”
Bradley sighs and drops his head, staring at the swirls and knots in the wood tabletop.
“I have never experienced such blatant eye-fucking!” Jake exclaims, a little too loudly. “I mean, seriously. That felt more explicit than watching porn on a public bus.”
Natasha, despite the amusement on her face, nudges Jake in his ribs. “Keep your voice down, Bagman.”
Bob chuckles and turns to Bradley. “Did you ask her out?”
“No!” Jake replies before Bradley can.
“Well, you better do it quick.” Natasha says. “It looks like you’re not the only interested party here tonight.”
Bradley’s eyes snap back toward the bar, narrowing on the man standing in front of you at the beer taps. He’s tall and broad, with close cropped blond hair and a smug smile painted on his face. His thick forearms are resting on the top of the bar, and he’s leaning so far forward that if he turns too abruptly, he might smack his nose on one of the taps.
“Is that Romeo?” Bob asks.
Bradley doesn’t respond, but he can see Natasha nod from the corner of his eye. No, this guy’s parents didn’t hate him so much that they gave him some lame Shakespearean name. It’s his callsign, and it's not too hard to guess how he got it.
Bradley doesn’t like the way you’re smiling at the blond man. In fact, he hates it. He doesn’t like the way your cheeks turn pink when he leans in a little further in, or the way you shyly tuck an imaginary piece of hair behind your ear. He does, however, very much like the way your eyes flit toward him every couple of seconds, as if checking that he’s still there.
He realises after a minute that you’re not acting shy, you’re uncomfortable with this guy, and that makes him feel a little less explosive. The pink in your cheeks and the timid movements aren’t because you’re feeling bashful, but because you feel awkward. Bradley is your security, your guard dog, and all you’d have to do is nod for him to leap out of his seat.
“Down boy.” Reuben chuckles as he slides into the booth beside Bradley. “He’s trying to flirt but she’s shutting him down.”
Javy takes a seat in the booth beside Jake while Mickey steals a chair from another table and sits himself at the head of the group.
“You know,” Mickey says thoughtfully, “I’ve always thought that Romeo and Giggles would make a good couple.”
Natasha snorts a laugh. “Yeah, maybe they can produce one braincell between the two of them.”
Jake gasps dramatically. “Phoenix! Don’t be rude.”
She rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t count when they can’t hear.” She then turns her attention to Bradley, who is taking a very generous sip of his beer. “Speaking of Giggles, did you talk to Mav?”
Bradley sculls half his drink before plonking it back down on the table. “No. I was going to call him, but he texted me to say he’d drop by the bar tonight. Thought I’d just ask him then.”
“Good.” She nods. “I have enough shit to stress about. I don’t need to worry about that airhead joining the team and blowing up everything we’ve worked for.”
The group start a half-hushed discussion about what Maverick could have possibly told Giggles to make her think she’d have a chance at joining the squad. Bradley hardly listens though, aside from giving the occasional head nod or chuckle when he catches a word or two. He keeps his eyes trained on you. The way you move around the bar, performing your job effortlessly. Everything is muscle memory; from the way you pour a beer to the way you shake the cocktail shaker.
When the crowd at the bar dies down, you say something to Penny before turning around and walking through the swinging wooden doors. He can’t help but ogle your ass in those jeans; the way it moves as you walk and bend toward tables, collecting empty glasses. The jeans hug you in such a way that makes him jealous – yeah, he’s jealous of denim now. They pinch into the crease between your cheeks and your thighs before stretching down your legs – those legs that would look perfect thrown over his shoulders as he buries himself inside of you.
The cuffs of those mouth-watering jeans are tucked into boots. Big black boots with scuffed toes and frayed laces. Bradley has never seen you wear any other shoes at the bar. They’re your chosen uniform, and he’s thought way too much about fucking you in nothing but those boots.
An idea pops into Bradley’s head as he watches your booted foot shove an unoccupied chair out of your way. He nudges Reuben. “Move, I need to check something.”
Reuben frowns as he slides out of the booth, freeing Bradley.
“Get another round while you’re up, would you, darling?” Jake calls after him.
Bradley waves a hand in acknowledgement as he beelines toward the other side of the bar where the karaoke machine is. There’s a thick, tattered binder sitting atop the machine that lists every song available to be sung. He flips it open and starts searching.
It only takes about ten seconds to find the song he’s looking for, and his heart starts pumping a little faster. He’s going to need a lot more drinks to pull this off.
“Bit early to start that, isn’t it?”
Bradley flips the binder shut and turns to Maverick, who is standing beside him wearing that signature smirk. He drops the binder back atop the machine. “I need to talk to you.”
Maverick sighs. “What have I done now?”
Bradley leans an arm on the top of the karaoke machine as he explains the squad’s earlier interaction with Giggles. Maverick doesn’t look shocked or sheepish, he looks exasperated by the time Bradley finishes.
“This woman is relentless.” Mav presses two fingers against his temple.
“So, she’s not trying out for-”
“Of course not.” Maverick says. “That’s not even something she could do. This is an elite unit of specially selected and trained aviators. Giggles barely graduated TOPGUN. I’m not even sure how she qualified for the programme.”
Bradley tips his head curiously. “Then what did you tell her?”
“She wouldn’t let up unless I gave her something, so I said I’d fly with her. One weekend, we’d do a quick drill and I could give her some pointers. Maybe give her a reference if she impressed me.”
Bradley chuckles. “You really have an excellent way of communicating with women.”
Mav scowls at his godson, though it’s much less intimidating than he’d like given the height difference. “I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear.”
“Obviously not.”
Mav sighs again. “Obviously.”
At that moment, the devil herself walks into the bar. Her blonde locks bounce as she walks, her eyes scanning every face in the room as she searches for something. Or someone.
“Maybe you should talk to her now,” Bradley says quietly to Mav. “Better to set things straight before she tells every naval officer on North Island that the elite dagger squad is holding try outs.”
Maverick chuckles. “Good idea, Rooster. I think you should join me. Maybe you can clear something else up for her too.”
Bradley’s brows pinch into a frown, but before he can protest, Giggles has spotted the two of them and Mav is waving her over.
- You -
It’s almost like your body is connected to Bradley’s in some intrinsic way. You can’t not be aware of him, his presence and where he is. You’re the North to his South, like two magnets being held close enough to make each other move but not yet close enough to snap together. Though you’re not sure how much longer you can resist his pull.
“In the next lull, I’m going to grab some more vodka.” Penny’s hip bumps yours as she fills a glass of beer beside you.
You nod. “Grab an extra bottle for me, yeah?”
She laughs softly as she leans forward and places the beer on the bar. You dance around each other easily, having worked together for so long that you know exactly how the other is going to move. You feel at peace behind the bar, despite how busy the place is getting. Your movements are easy and familiar. You fill beer glasses, you pour shots, you fill short and tall glasses with ice and soda, and you take cash and swipe cards.
You’re so in tune with the bar that you almost feel the main door swing open, revealing a gorgeous blonde bombshell wearing a tiny pink sundress. Your stomach sinks and your feet freeze. You’d have to be an idiot not to think she’s attractive – albeit a little annoying – and you don’t blame anyone in the bar for craning their necks to stare at the Barbie doll that just entered.
“Here.” Penny slides a shot glass across the bench below the bar. “I’m going to get some more bottles. Are you good?”
You lift the shot to your lips, not caring who sees, and swallow the tequila without so much as wincing. You drop the little glass into the sink. “I’m good.”
You try hard not to watch Giggles approach Bradley and Mav, but it’s hard when you don’t have anyone to serve. The rush has died down, and most people are now seated with their friends, chatting and sipping happily. You wipe down the bar top and the bench, you fill the dishwasher and start a cycle, and you restock the napkins and straws, but your eyes still wander back over to Bradley. You need a distraction.
“Hey, beautiful,” Romeo – you have no clue what his real name is – says, leaning forward on the bar.
You take a deep breath. Not that distraction.
“Another one?”
He nods, sliding his empty glass toward you.
“Same?”
He nods again as you take the empty glass, put it in the sink, and grab a fresh one.
“Saw you sink that shot just now,” he says, lips pulled into a smirk. “Do you get off early tonight? Maybe we can have some fun.”
You shake your head, eyes glued to the golden liquid filling the glass. “No. Just trying to get through the night.”
“That’s a shame.” He leans forward even further, and you worry for a moment that he might actually climb over the bar. “What time do you get off?”
“Late.”
He remains undeterred by your clear disinterest. “How late? Maybe I could give you a lift home.”
You plonk the beer on the bar in front of him. “Too late.”
You hear a shrill giggle, and you can’t help it. Your eyes snap toward Bradley, and you see Giggles’ perfectly manicured hand wrapped around his bicep as she leans in way too close to him. Your stomach ties itself in another knot.
“I see.” Romeo pushes himself off the bar and grabs his beer. “You’ve got a thing for birds.”
You turn back to him, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. “What does that even mean?”
He rolls his eyes as if you exasperate him. “Just so you know, she’s joining his squad. They’re going to be together every day while you work your flat ass off for minimum wage every night. So, good luck competing with that.”
“Excuse me?” Penny snaps, appearing beside you with a box full of large liquor bottles. “You better apologise before I kick your ass out of here.”
Romeo scoffs, his mouth popping open to retort when two other patrons step up to the bar.
“Got a problem here, ladies?” Jake asks, a challenging smirk stretched across his lips as he turns to face the blond idiot whose face is getting redder by the second.
Penny raises her brows at Romeo. “Do we?”
He takes a deep breath, eyes bouncing between Penny, Jake, and Javy. “No, we don’t.” He looks at you and mumbles, “Sorry.”
The four of you watch as he turns and stalks toward his table of friends, not daring to look back.
Penny shakes her head. “I can’t believe that asshole said-”
“It’s okay, Pen,” you quickly interrupt. “He was just throwing a tantrum because I turned him down.”
Javy chuckles. “I don’t think Romeo ever has been turned down. Might have to give him a new callsign.”
You grab two clean glasses and start pouring your friends another drink each. “I think ‘assface’ sounds good, and it’s definitely more fitting.”
Jake nods. “His face does resemble an ass. A bad one.”
The corner of your lips tip up as you slide the two beers across the bar. When Jake tries to hand you his card, Penny pushes it away. “This one’s on the house.”
“Penny, my dear,” Jake says. “You are too kind.”
Javy tips his head in thanks as they both turn and head back toward the booth where the rest of your friends are.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Penny asks as you start unloading the box of liquor.
You nod once. “Yeah, fine.”
You know it isn’t convincing, but she doesn't have time to press you as another wave of thirsty patrons approaches. You let her serve and handle the payment while you make the drinks, silently sliding them across the bar until the small rush dies down. When you both have another moment to catch your breath, Penny turns to you, hand on hip and mouth poised to speak, but she stops. Her eyes move to something behind you.
You glance over your shoulder and your stomach flips up into your throat. How is it fair that Bradley can elicit such responses from your body simply by standing there?
You turn to face him. “Another drink?”
He nods. “Yes, please.”
Always so polite. You wonder for a second if he’s that polite in bed, or if he- Nope. Stop that.
You pick up a clean glass and start filling it, watching the golden liquid even though you can feel his eyes boring into you. When you look up, he’s wearing the same dark expression as before.
Your fingers brush his as you take his card, and your tongue darts across your bottom lip. You turn to the machine, ring up the drink, swipe the card, and turn back to him. You almost drop the card from the way you’re handing it to him, trying to avoid his touch.
Another shrill giggle makes you flinch, and you instinctively look over to where Mav is stuck in conversation with Giggles. He looks tired and like he needs saving.
You can’t help yourself when you turn back to Bradley. “I hear you’ve got a shiny new teammate.”
His brows pinch. “Where did you hear that?”
You shrug one shoulder, not really wanting to explain your earlier altercation with Romeo. “The grapevine.”
“Well, the grapevine is very wrong.”
You frown at him. “What?”
He takes a long sip of his beer, draining almost a third of it. “She got a little confused with what Mav said earlier today. To be honest, I’m not sure she’s even heard what he’s said to try and clear things up. She just keeps giggling.”
You laugh softly, rolling your lips to stop yourself from giggling. “Well, she certainly lives up to the name.”
He nods. “That’s for sure.”
You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and press both palms on the bench beneath the bar, leaning forward. “Do you live up to yours, Rooster?”
He tips his head curiously, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “How do you mean?”
You shrug again and relax your weight back onto your feet. “You tell me. How did you get the callsign?”
He hesitates, and you can hear the dishwasher beep to signal it’s finished cycle. You step toward it, not too far from Bradley, and pop the door open.
He still hasn’t replied, so you decide to prompt him. “Are you an early riser? Do you like to sing in the mornings?” You pull out a rack of glasses and carry it to the bench right in front of him. You place it down and lean forward again. “Are you particularly vain? Or do you just have a massive cock?”
“Excuse me.” An older woman standing to the side of the bar calls for your attention. “Where are the toilets?”
Bradley’s cheeks are flaming, his eyes like saucers, and you have to control your laughter as you turn to face the woman. “Just that way.” You point at the very obvious sign.
Two more patrons step up to the bar, and you turn to Bradley with a wink. “Saved by the bell.”
You leave the stunned man to serve the other customers, and when Penny returns with armfuls of empty glasses, another rush kicks in. It’s that time of the night when everyone starts to stock up on liquid courage, slinging back drinks and shots and getting themselves ready for the karaoke.
You’re not sure how much time passes as you pour drinks and make jokes with Penny. You’re feeling a lot lighter about being on this side of the bar with a bit of tequila in your system, and you honestly feel like it’s making you even better at your job. You’re more bubbly, more willing to talk nonsense with chatty patrons, and you’re actually looking forward to seeing your friends perform some embarrassing karaoke.
“Okay, gorgeous.” Jake thrums his hands against the bar. “We’re going to need a round of shots to get Fanboy up there kicking the night off.”
You smile at him and nod. “Go sit down, I’ll bring it over.”
Penny is already arranging a tray with a bunch of shot glasses on it. You count them. “Eight?”
She nods. “I’m turning a blind eye tonight.”
You wedge a bottle of tequila under one arm and take the tray with both hands. “You know what, Pen? I think you would have been an absolute blast in your twenties.”
She rolls her eyes playfully and places a hand on each of your shoulders. “Trust me, I was.”
You can’t help the giggles that bubble from your lips as she turns you around and steers you toward the swinging wooden doors. You carefully make your way weaving through the groups of people toward your friends, who all cheer when you drop the tray of shot glasses on their table.
Bradley is sitting on the end of the booth seat to your right, and your knee brushes against the outside of his thigh as you bend over to start pouring the tequila. You can feel his eyes on your profile, but you don’t dare look his way. You’re too close and he’s had too many drinks. You lost count about half an hour ago and made a mental note to swipe his keys as soon as you get the chance.
“Alright, boys and girls.” You slide the tray into the middle of the table. “No funny faces. I want you all to swallow like Seresin on a Saturday night.” You pick up your own shot, shoot a wink at Jake, and tip it to your lips. The liquor hits the back of your throat and burns all the way down before sizzling in your empty stomach. You should really try and eat something soon.
When you look back at the group, they’ve all got their heads tipped back and the little glasses pressed to their lips. Your eyes fall immediately to the man beside you, watching the column of his tan throat as he swallows. With the tequila swirling through your body, you’re starting to feel a little feral, like you could just sink your teeth into him right here. Right now.
“Okay, one more!” Mickey exclaims, slamming the shot glass back on the table. “Then I’m doing Dancing Queen.”
There’s a mixture of groans and laughter from the squad.
“Dancing Queen?” Jake echoes. “That’s so overdone.”
Mickey throws him a scowl. “I don’t care. I’m feeling young and sweet, only seventeen.”
You laugh through your nose as you concentrate on pouring another round, leaving yourself out this time. You have to lean a little further over the table, and thanks to the most recent nip of tequila rushing to your head, you almost lose balance. But before you can fall forward, a warm hand grabs the back of your thigh, just above your knee. It squeezes tight, almost too tight, and holds you steady.
All the air leaves your lungs in one quick whoosh. You know who’s hand it is, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. He’s too delicious right now. A little drunk, hair mussed, sunglasses perched low on his nose, and that stupid, gorgeous grin tugging at his lips. Yeah. If you turn around, you might not be able to stop yourself from mounting him right here in front of everyone.
“Here you go.” You stand back up straight, but his hand doesn’t move. Not even as he reaches forward, picks up a shot, clinks it with the others, and tips it into his mouth.
The squad, now very well lubricated, launch back into discussion about whether or not Dancing Queen is a good enough debut song for Mickey tonight. You laugh along with them as you gather the glasses onto the tray, but when you go to wedge the tequila bottle under your arm again, Bradley stops you.
He grabs the bottle and stands up, forcing you back a step from the table. “I’ll give you a hand.”
You nod and turn on your heel. You’ll let him give you a hand, however he wants to lend a hand. Literally, any way he wants to give you a hand, you’re willing.
As you walk back toward the bar, you internally scold yourself for letting your thoughts run rampant. Part of you blames the tequila, and another part blames Bradley for how downright sinful he is looking tonight. But you know it’s mostly yourself who’s to blame. Your own stupid brain that too often fantasises about what it’d be like if Bradley felt the same way about you that you feel about him.
You stop at the back end of the bar, away from where Penny is serving, and put the tray of glasses down before turning to Bradley. “Thanks for that.”
He nods. “Anything for you.”
You take the bottle and put it on the bar. “Anything?”
He nods again, his eyes half hooded behind his sunglasses. You roll your lips and let your eyes trail down the front of him, appreciating the deep neckline of the singlet beneath his open Hawaiian shirt, and the smattering of hair that peaks out just below his clavicle.
You take half a step forward, eyes trailing back up. “Anything at all?”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips and his head drops to look at you. “Anything.”
“Well...” you sigh, your voice barely above a whisper. “What to pick.”
There’s less than two inches of space between your bodies, and you have to concentrate to stop your hand from trembling as your fingertips dance along his belt. His chest is starting to rise and fall a little faster, and you can’t help the smirk that stretches across your lips as you dip your hand into his pocket.
He draws a quick, sharp breath, and you pull your hand back out with his keys pinched between your fingers. “Looks like you’re catching a cab tonight, Bradshaw.”
He lets go of that breath and chuckles, his whole body relaxing. “You wanted my keys?"
You nod and take a step back, trying to ignore how hot your cheeks are.
“You could have just asked."
You shrug one shoulder as you turn to walk away. “I like getting you all flustered.”
You can feel his eyes on you as you retreat toward the doors that lead behind the bar, so you let your hips sway a little extra from side to side. You don’t know it yet, but you’re definitely going to pay for that little stunt later.
You step up beside Penny and immediately start serving, keeping your focus on the customers in front of you rather than thinking about the way Bradley had just practically melted under your touch. It’s only because he’s drunk, right?
After a minute or so, you see Mickey stand up and walk across the bar. The squad are all cheering and gathering their drinks to follow him. He doesn’t look apprehensive or worried, he looks excited. You watch him turn on the karaoke machine and don’t bother going to help, because he’s done this over a dozen times before. Jake walks past his friend toward the jukebox and unplugs it. The music cuts out and every head in the room turns to Mickey. He grins, clears his throat into the microphone, and then the iconic opening to ABBA’s Dancing Queen blasts through the speakers.
It barely takes ten words for the rest of the bar to start chanting along, and you realise that this might have been his plan all along. He’s not stupid, he knows the drunks can’t resist ABBA, and what better way to break the ice than to get the whole room singing along.
The song eventually ends with Jake and Reuben up beside him, all shouting into the microphone without an ounce of talent. You make a mental note to tease Jake about this later. Overdone, my ass.
You lose yourself to pouring beer once again as people demand more drinks so they can get up and embarrass themselves too. The squad practically man the karaoke machine, and more often than not end up alongside the singer toward the end of the songs. They’re all so drunk and so happy, you can’t help but laugh.
Mickey and Natasha sing Bonnie Tyler’s Holding Out for a Hero, and then Jake and Javy sing Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten. There’s a lot of ABBA and Queen from patrons you don’t recognise, and then the squad cause a huge scene trying to get Maverick up for a song. He refuses until they drag him up to the bar for another round of shots, and then they all perform Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me.
After that, Mickey, Natasha, and an adorably drunk Bob sing Cherry Bomb by The Runaways. You’re not sure you’ve seen Bob drunk more than once before, but it’s possibly the cutest thing in the world to see him red-faced and stumbling over words while bopping his head to the beat of the song.
You’re cleaning a glass and giggling when Bradley and Reuben step up to the bar. “Beer or tequila?”
Reuben chuckles, his grin looking strangely conspiratorial. “Both.”
You tip your lips into a downward smile and nod your head. “Trying not to lose momentum?”
“Rooster has a big number coming up.” Reuben elbows a very sheepish looking Bradley. “He needs his liquid courage.”
You nod, a soft laugh leaving your lips. “I was wondering when I was going to see you up there. You’re usually one of the first.”
He chuckles, but you can sense that he’s nervous. About what, you have no idea. Bradley is one of the only ones with a modicum of talent. He’s that charming guy with a decent voice who everyone regrets inviting to karaoke night because he actually sounds decent.
“Well,” you say, sliding two shots across the bar, “good luck.”
They both sink the shots and scoop up their beers. Reuben pays, winks at you, and clasps Bradley on the shoulder as they walk back over to the group. You want to wonder more about why Bradley could possibly be so anxious, but you don’t have any time before Penny hands you a slip of paper for an order of cocktails.
Another two songs pass while you make the drinks and deliver them to the table where Giggles and her friends are waiting. She has a twisted smirk on her face as you place the glass in front of her, and a part of you wishes you’d known so you could have spit it one of the cocktails.
You give her your widest, cheesiest smile before turning around and walking back toward the bar. You’re about halfway there when you see Reuben shove the microphone into Bradley’s hand and push him toward the front of the crowd. He doesn’t look so nervous anymore – he still looks like sex on legs – and he’s laughing as the sound of tambourines fill the speakers.
You cheer along with the crowd, holding the empty drinks tray under one arm so you can clap. You’re only a few feet from the front of the bar, so you look at Penny with raised brows as if to ask if she needs you, but she shakes her head and waves a dismissive hand, silently telling you to watch the show. But the smirk on her lips makes you think she might know something you don’t.
When you look back at Bradley, he’s got Natasha up on one side and Mickey on the other. They’re dancing like loons as the drumbeat kicks in, and then they all start playing the air guitar as soon as the familiar riff blares through the speakers.
Bradley’s glasses are perched low on his nose, his grin so wide you can’t help but grin too, and as he brings the microphone up to his lips, you wonder if this man might have been a rockstar in another life. “So one, two, three, take my hand and come with me, because you look so fine, that I really wanna make you mine.”
Something between a giggle and a shriek leaves your lips when Jake and Reuben pop up beside you. Reuben grabs your wrist and drags you forward into the crowd, while Jake yanks the drinks tray from under arm. You go with them willingly, dancing and laughing with your friends who you’ve never seen so carefree. You could definitely get used to being on this side of the bar.
The rest of the squad are up beside Bradley now, playing the air guitar and banging their heads like maniacs. You stop right in front of him, staring up at him like he’s a god, and he turns to look right at you as he sings. “Now you don’t need the money, when you look like that, do ya, honey?”
Another shriek splits from your lips when he grabs your hand and yanks you toward him. You almost crash into him, but he’s too smooth to let that happen. He lets go of your hand and wraps an arm around your waist, catching you and holding you against him.
“Big black boots.” He tips his head and winks at you over his sunglasses. “Long brown hair.” He leans back as Javy leans over his shoulder, and they sing together. “She’s so sweet with her get-back stare.”
The others crowd around as the chorus kicks in, and you all shout the lyrics along with the rest of the bar. But Bradley doesn’t let you go. He keeps his arm around you, still allowing you to dance but not without rubbing a part of your body against his.
The chorus finishes and the room goes quiet except for the backing track. Bradley drops his head forward again, watching you over the frame of his sunglasses as he sings. “I said, are you gonna be my girl?”
Your heart lurches in your chest, and you know your cheeks are redder than a maraschino cherry. The room cheers and Bradley chuckles. Everyone starts dancing and playing the air guitar again, and Mickey and Reuben lean toward the microphone to sing the start of the next verse with Bradley.
There’s another quick guitar break where Bradley turns back to you, a light sheen of sweat covering his exposed skin. “I say you look so fine, that I really wanna make you mine.”
Your head spins. If it weren’t for his arm, you’re almost positive you’d be passed out on the floor.
Mickey and Reuben join back in for the next verse, but their voices are lost in the sea of singing from the whole bar. You don’t dare look out at the crowd though, you’re already nervous enough being held against a very sweaty and very delicious man.
When the verse ends, the whole squad turn to you, point at your feet, and shout-sing. “Big black boots!”
You roll your eyes and laugh before joining in on the chorus. But just like before, when the chorus finishes, everyone stops singing along as if they’ve been told to. Bradley squeezes you even closer, sounding a little out of breath as he sings, “I said, are you gonna be my girl?”
The guitar returns almost immediately, and Bradley finally lets you go to clap along with the song. The squad all clap too, and the whole bar claps and stomps their feet to the beat. You can feel the floor shaking.
Bradley holds the microphone up to Mickey and he shouts, “Oh, yeah!”
Bradley then moves it along the line to Reuben. “C’mon!”
The clapping and stomping doesn’t stop. The energy is so high, you’ve never experienced a karaoke Friday like this, and you know it’s not just the tequila to blame. Something about tonight is a little bit electric.
For the final chorus, everyone shouts as loud as they can. Bradley holds the microphone, but it's useless at this point. The only reason you can hear him is because he’s right next to you, an arm wrapped around your waist again.
“Be my girl,” the room shouts.
Bradley winks at you, and everyone echoes again, “Be my girl!”
He holds the microphone above his head as everyone screams the final line of the song. “Are you gonna be my girl, yeah!”
The backing track fades and everyone cheers, louder than you’ve ever heard. You can’t stop giggling, and you can’t look at anything except the gorgeous man grinning down at you. The noise from the rest of the bar fades away as you stare at him, tracing the lines on his face and licking your lips when you see a small droplet of sweat fall from his hairline.
Then the noise slowly returns. It’s different from before, louder somehow. Organised. It’s a chant. The whole bar is chanting. At you.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Your heart is beating so violently against your ribcage, it’s making your whole skeleton shake. Your eyes are wide and your cheeks are red. You’re paralysed. You want to reach up, but you can’t. You want to kiss him, but you can’t make yourself for the fear of rejection.
Bradley chuckles, his voice raspy from singing. “I like getting you all flustered too.”
Then his lips are on yours, hard and soft all at once. He urges against you and then eases back, letting you fall into him. He tastes like beer and sweat, and it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted in your whole life. His other arm wraps around your body to pull you impossibly close. There’s cheering, but you can barely hear it over the thrum of your pulse in your ears.
Your hands find their way up his body and into his hair, threading your fingers through his locks. He pushes forward again, forcing you to tip your head back so he can deepen the kiss. His tongue slips past your lips and you moan softly. But then he’s gone. He stands up straight and chuckles again, because you’re wearing the most indignant frown. To him, you look adorable.
“As much as I’d love to keep going,” he rasps, “maybe not in front of the whole bar.”
The reality of where you are comes crashing down, and you quickly pull yourself out of his arms. He catches your hand though, linking your fingers together as he follows you out of the spotlight. He stops you before you can slip through the bar’s wooden doors, tugging on your arm so you turn to face him.
“So,” he says, brows raised. “What’s your answer?”
You frown. “Answer to what?”
He nods back toward where you’d just been singing your hearts out, and your eyes go wide.
“Wait, you were-”
Before you can finish, he surges forward and captures your lips again. You stumble but he catches you, one large hand on either side of your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He kisses you like you’ve never been kissed before, stealing your breath and making your stomach do a whole gymnastics routine.
When he pulls back, your head spins. All you can do is blink at up with a confused frown. “You meant all that?”
He shrugs, his smile turning sheepish. “Why do you think I was so nervous?”
You tip your head back and stare at one of the model planes hanging from the ceiling. “So that’s why you drank so much tonight.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, sober Bradley couldn’t ask you out.”
You nod slowly, your lips tipping up into a smirk. “Is that so?"
He nods.
“Well then, which Bradley do I need to ask to fuck my brains out? Drunk Bradley? Or do I have to wait until-”
“Both,” he interrupts, his voice low and his eyes dark.
His expression is dead serious now, aside from the pink in his cheeks. He almost looks feral as he towers over you, pupils blown with lust and lips puffy.
“Good.” You pat a hand on his chest. “Then if you stick around, I’ll drive you home.”
You turn and step through the doors into the bar, feeling his eyes burning into your backside as you sway your hips. You work the rest of the night with a smirk on your lips and an ache between your legs. Your friends come and go with teasing comments, but you let them, because all you can think about is Bradley’s predatory stare. He doesn’t let you out of his sight all night, and he looks even deadlier when Romeo approaches for another round of drinks. But the rest of the night passes without incident, and when it finally comes time to close, you actually have to kick a few patrons out.
Bradley waits leaning against the passenger door of your car as Penny locks up. You promise her you’ll be there in the morning to help clean, but the knowing smirk on her lips when she sees Bradley at your car definitely means that she doesn’t believe you.
You give her a little wave as she heads off toward her car and you walk toward yours. When you walk past Bradley, he reaches out and grabs your wrist, tugging you toward him.
“Hey,” he says quickly, before kissing you again.
You push up onto your toes as you kiss him back.
“You know,” he murmurs against your mouth, “this isn’t just one night.”
Your heart kicks into overdrive again, trying to crack your sternum.
“I want you. All of you. I have for God knows how long, and I’ve been too chickenshit to do anything about it. But I need you to know that this isn’t a onetime thing and it’s not just because I’ve had a few drinks. This is it. You and me.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to convince yourself that you’re not dreaming. When you open your eyes and look up at him, your heart swells so much it feels like it might burst.
“I want you too. All of you.”
He grins and swoops down to kiss you again, only quickly. “Good. Now let’s go, I have to fuck your brains out, remember?”
You roll your eyes despite your burning cheeks. “Yeah, you do.”
As you walk around the front of your car on wobbly legs, he adds, “Oh, and you should probably tell Penny that you won’t be here in the morning. You’ll still be getting your brains fucked out.”
Hangman and #3 please!! Maybe Hangman is the jealous one??
Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader One-Shot
Prompt: 3.“You looked jealous.”
The squad notices something you won’t say out loud.
Word count: 2.3k
A/N: wait i actually love writing for hangman he’s so me, i’m so him. we’re literally twins
Warnings: Mutual pining, jealousy (Jake is trying very hard to play it cool and failing), squad-level meddling and teasing, one emotionally repressed aviator in deep denial, soft slowburn tension, sincere feelings, hand-holding and soft kissing, implied emotional damage (Jake-coded), canon-level affection only, and a chaotic group chat ending. No smut — just one sweet, long-awaited kiss.
From the archives of this
There were few things more sacred to the Dagger Squad than Friday night beach bonfires.
It didn’t matter how long the week had been or how sore you were from drills—when the sun went down and the cooler came out, everyone showed up. Rooster always brought the speaker. Fanboy brought way too many snacks. Phoenix always said she wasn’t drinking and then drank anyway. And Jake “Hangman” Seresin always made himself the center of attention whether he meant to or not.
But tonight… Jake was quiet.
Not silent, exactly. Just off. A little too still. A little too watchful.
You didn’t notice it at first. You were too busy laughing, stretched out on a blanket near the fire with a cup of cheap beer and sand stuck to your ankles. The conversation had flowed from training complaints to celebrity crushes to who would survive longest in a zombie apocalypse (you’d voted for Payback, obviously).
Then Connor sat down.
You weren’t even sure where he’d come from—someone said he was a Navy rescue swimmer on temporary assignment, and Phoenix had waved him over like he was already part of the group.
Connor was tall, tan, sharp-jawed, and effortlessly flirty. The kind of guy who knew he looked good in a backwards cap and used it to his advantage. He made you laugh within thirty seconds. Not in a swoon-y kind of way—just easy and light and friendly.
He offered to roast your marshmallow for you.
You accepted.
Somewhere across the firepit, Jake clenched his jaw.
-
“Didn’t realize you were such a marshmallow pro,” you joked, taking the perfectly golden one from Connor and popping it into your mouth.
“I’m a man of many talents,” he said with a grin.
“Is that right?”
“I’ve got a perfect record,” he said. “No burnouts.”
You laughed again—light, warm, the kind that came easy when you weren’t overthinking anything. The fire crackled behind you, waves lapped gently in the distance, and you felt Jake’s eyes before you saw them.
He was sitting a few feet away on a fold-out chair, nursing a beer, one knee bouncing the way it always did when he was overthinking something. His expression was unreadable. Not blank—just hard to pin down. He wasn’t looking at the fire. He was looking at you.
You smiled at him automatically.
He looked away.
Weird.
-
Later, as the night wound down and the fire burned low, you pulled your hoodie tighter around your waist and wandered off down the beach for a breather. The breeze was softer now, warm enough to keep the chill from sinking in, and the moonlight made the waves shimmer like glass.
You stood there for a while, alone with your thoughts. Footsteps crunched behind you. You didn’t even have to turn. Jake stopped a few feet away.
“Hey,” you said quietly.
He nodded once. “Hey.”
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just… needed a second.”
You let the silence stretch. Comfortable, mostly.
Then he added, “That guy—Connor. He’s… funny.”
You raised an eyebrow. “He is.”
Jake didn’t meet your gaze. Just stared out at the ocean like it had wronged him. “You like him?”
You blinked. “I mean… I just met him.”
“But you laughed. A lot.”
You tilted your head, confused. “What’s wrong with laughing?”
He hesitated. “Nothing.”
Another silence. Longer this time.
“I’m heading out,” he said finally, nodding back toward the fire. “See you later?”
You nodded, still thrown off by the shift in his mood. “Yeah. Night, Jake.”
He walked away without another word.
-
Back at the fire, Phoenix watched him go with narrowed eyes.
“Did Seresin just leave without making five dramatic exits first?”
“Something’s up,” Fanboy said immediately.
“I’m calling it now,” Payback added. “That man is jealous.”
Rooster popped the cap off his beer. “You’re just saying that because he kept death-staring rescue Barbie like he was trying to mind-meld him off the planet.”
“I saw him twitch when she laughed,” Fanboy said.
“I’m telling you,” Phoenix said, already turning it into a mission. “Hangman’s got it bad. And he’s too dumb to do anything about it.”
“Wanna place bets?” Rooster asked, grinning.
“I’m in,” Payback said.
Fanboy nodded. “Let’s see how long it takes him to crack.”
-
Jake didn’t make it five steps onto the tarmac the next morning before Phoenix intercepted him.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said sweetly. “Sleep well, or were you too busy dreaming about homicide?”
He squinted at her. “What?”
“You know. Your whole little death-glare-from-the-folding-chair moment last night. Very subtle. Very chill.” Jake groaned and kept walking. She followed. “I’m not in the mood, Trace.”
“Oh, I know. That’s what makes this so fun.”
Up ahead, Fanboy and Payback were already waiting by the locker room, sipping from disposable coffee cups like they’d shown up for the gossip and not, in fact, for flight drills. “Did he admit it yet?” Fanboy called. Jake stopped short. “Admit what?”
“Sure, babe. That’s why you stormed off the beach like someone revoked your protein privileges.” Payback held up his coffee like a toast. “Never seen someone so personally offended by a toasted marshmallow.”
Jake glared. “I was not jealous.”
Fanboy grinned. “You were sulking like a Victorian housewife whose fiancé ran off with the butler.”
“That’s weirdly specific,” Jake muttered. Phoenix crossed her arms. “You don’t get to gaslight us, Seresin. We saw you. The jaw clench. The twitchy knee. The beer-grip-of-death.”
“It was a marshmallow,” Fanboy added. “He was just talking to her, man. He wasn’t proposing.” Jake tried to push past them. “You’re all insane.”
“Jake,” Phoenix said, and her tone actually softened a bit. “Come on. Just admit it. You like her.”
Silence.
“You really like her.”
More silence.
Jake stared at the concrete.
“She’s just…” He trailed off. Cleared his throat. “She’s great. Okay? She’s kind and funny and smart and she’s—God—she’s always nice to me, even when I don’t deserve it.”
Payback blinked. “Wait. Was that a feeling?”
“Did you just have a feeling?” Fanboy whispered dramatically.
Jake glared. “Don’t make this a thing.”
Phoenix smiled. “Too late.”
Jake groaned again and leaned against the locker room wall, scrubbing a hand over his face. “She’s never even looked at me like that.”
Fanboy made a noise like a game show buzzer. “Wrong!”
“She’s nice to everyone,” Jake argued. “That’s not the same as wanting me.” Phoenix rolled her eyes. “She laughs at all your dumb jokes. She remembers how you take your coffee. She always gives you the last damn curly fry.”
Jake looked up, startled. “She does?”
“Yes!” Payback said. “You’re just too busy self-destructing to notice.”
“She could have anyone,” Jake said quietly. “She deserves someone who’s not… me.”
“You need to tell her,” Phoenix said firmly. “Before you combust.”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t want to screw up what we have.”
“And what do you have?”
Jake hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Phoenix just stared at him. “Exactly.”
-
An hour later, in the sky, Jake was perfect. Focused. Composed. A human missile in aviators and olive drab. But on the ground? He was unraveling.
Because you had sent him a photo—just a simple one—of the beach view from your apartment balcony with the caption:
this would be a good place for beer and sunsets. just saying :)
And Jake stared at that message like it was a live grenade in his hand. He didn’t know what to do with it. What it meant. Whether that was a hint or just you being you. She could have anyone.
He deleted three drafts before sending back:
just say when
Then he turned his phone face-down and went to lift weights like it would bench-press the feelings out of him.
It didn’t work.
-
Meanwhile, in the Dagger group chat:
📱 Phoenix 🔥:
he’s cracking
i can feel it
Fanboy:
she sent him a beach pic and he turned into a victorian ghost
Rooster:
$20 says he pulls her aside next time she talks to another guy
any takers
Payback:
he’s gonna lose it
i give it 48 hours
Phoenix:
i give it ONE night at the Hard Deck
Fanboy:
god i love this team
-
The Hard Deck was buzzing.
It always got louder in the summer—more pilots, more locals, more excuses to drink cheap beer under neon lights and pretend your world wasn’t built on split-second decisions. The Dagger Squad had their usual corner, and you’d barely made it past the door before Payback waved you over, already halfway through a pitcher.
You slid into the booth between Phoenix and Fanboy, greeting them with a grin and a “Who’s losing at darts tonight?”
“I resent that,” Fanboy said, hand on his heart. “I have been training.”
“You’ve been watching YouTube compilations again,” Phoenix muttered.
“I learn best through visuals!”
Rooster appeared behind you with a fresh beer. “Ten bucks says you miss the board entirely.”
“I hate this squad,” Fanboy declared.
Jake still hadn’t shown up. You tried not to think too hard about it.
Not until he walked in twenty minutes later, anyway—golden, sun-touched, and casual in a white t-shirt and jeans that looked unfairly good on him. You glanced up from your drink as he crossed the room. He nodded once, briefly, before heading to the bar. He didn’t join the group.
Weird.
You turned back to the conversation and tried to ignore the slight pull in your chest. It wasn’t like Jake to hang back. But maybe he just needed space. Or maybe he was tired. Or maybe—
“Hey,” came a voice beside you.
You turned. One of the newer logistics officers from base—Jared? Jeremy?—was leaning against the table with a friendly smile.
“I’ve seen you fly,” he said. “You’re good.”
You smiled. “Thanks.”
“I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. Jared.”
Nailed it.
You shook his hand, amused. “Nice to meet you.”
“You’re with the Daggers, right?”
“Mmhmm.”
“I’ve been working out of the supply hangar. Thought I knew everyone, but I guess I missed the prettiest one.”
Oh.
You laughed politely—because it wasn’t awful, just kind of lame—and shifted slightly in your seat. “Smooth.”
“I try,” he said with a wink. A few feet away, Jake Seresin put his drink down a little too hard on the bar. Fanboy saw it first. His eyebrows lifted.
Phoenix followed his gaze. “Uh-oh.”
Jake was watching. Not blinking. Just staring. And when Jared leaned in a little closer, voice dropping to say something about “grabbing a drink sometime,” Jake moved.
No hesitation. No theatrics. Just a clean walk across the room and a soft, steady
“Hey. Can I borrow you?”
You blinked up at him. “Me?”
Jake’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah. Please.”
There was something in his voice—gentle but urgent. Like he needed out of a burning room and you were the only open door. You stood without thinking.
“Sorry,” you said to Jared with an awkward smile. “Rain check?”
He stepped aside with a shrug. Jake took your hand.
He didn’t say anything as he guided you toward the back doors. Just kept his fingers wrapped around yours like he didn’t trust the world not to steal you from him in the time it took to explain.
-
The night air was warm. You stopped at the edge of the lot, the sounds of the bar fading behind you.
Jake let go of your hand, finally, and turned to face you. His jaw was tight. His eyes were unreadable. You waited. He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this anymore.”
You blinked. “Do what?”
He exhaled. “Watch you laugh with other guys. Pretend it doesn’t bother me. Pretend I’m not losing my damn mind every time someone else gets to be the reason you smile.”
You stared.
“I know I don’t have the right,” he added quickly. “I know you’re not mine. But I’ve been trying to ignore it for months and I just—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I like you.”
You froze.
“I like you so much it makes me feel stupid. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to mess up what we have, but tonight… I couldn’t take it.”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “If this makes things weird, I get it. I just—needed you to know.”
He turned like he was about to walk away. You stopped him.
“Jake.”
He looked back. You stepped closer. Close enough that the space between you disappeared.
“You’re an idiot,” you said softly.
He blinked. You reached up and cupped his cheek with one hand, brushing your thumb over the edge of his jaw.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say that since February.”
Jake froze.
And then—like gravity pulling two stars together—he kissed you. Not rough. Not frantic. Just warm and real and soft. You curled your fingers in his t-shirt. He pressed his palm to your lower back. And for a moment, everything else fell away. No squad. No bar. No Jared-from-supply.
Just him. And you. And the feel of home in a kiss that had waited so long to happen. When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. Jake smiled, shy and boyish and a little stunned. “That okay?”
You nodded. “More than okay.” He brushed his nose against yours. And you leaned into him, laughing softly. “You were jealous.” He groaned. “Please don’t tell Phoenix.”
“No promises.”
📱 Phoenix 🔥:
WHERE DID YOU TWO GO
Fanboy:
wait where’s jake???
Rooster:
yo did he pull her out of the bar??
WAS I RIGHT??
You:
📸 [attached image: Jake’s jacket draped over your couch]
Rafe is famous with the women, and tutor!reader* finally gets jealous
*you're not obligated to read Tutor to read this, but it does offer context on their relationship and who Patty is (her bestie) :)
Words: +7.2k
Warnings: Fem!Reader. Reader, as always, cries easily. Jealousy. Rafe is an ass and teases the hell out of you. SMUT {piv, pillow princess treatment (as always), drunk sex, makeup sex, a bit rough if you squint, oral sex (fem receiving)}. Lots of alcohol consumption. Mention of uni life (classes, professors, sororities).
Rafe has always been the one to get jealous in the relationship. It's not like it's all the time. Just at some parties on the island, when a guy wouldn't really know about the two of you. Or maybe now at uni, since no one really knows you two, in a class or wherever. You, on the other hand... Rafe honestly just doesn't believe that you are capable of producing such a reaction.
Women have spoken to him at parties, maybe even flirted before a class. But Rafe would always be the one moving closer to you so that the girls would get it. And they always would. And they would always be respectful to say a little sorry before they go.
Rafe just thought it just wasn't in your nature. Your body was just incapable of producing such a ridiculous thing.
Until this week.
The new semester has started, which means new seminars, new professors, and new classmates. And that also meant you and Rafe finally had a class together. Though it was on one of the biggest auditoriums, but you had looked forward to that class because that meant knowing someone. You were tired of having to recognize new faces and new names all over again. Even if that meant dealing with Rafe's routine of just scrolling through his phone and only taking notes of the date during class.
On the first day back to class, Rafe texted you to let you know he was running a little late but would be there in time for class. So, when the classroom was open, you and a few more students made your way inside before the professor. You looked around the auditorium, thinking of where, exactly, Rafe would like to sit. And in the back and by the sides sounded like him.
Minutes passed, and the auditorium began to fill up. You anxiously sat as the seats around you became occupied, always looking at the clock to make sure you wouldn't have to say 'yes, sorry' to another person who asked you if the seat was taken.
Once Rafe finally made his appearance, so did a few more students, since the professor was walking right behind him. Everyone from this last group scurried away to look for a seat, and right as Rafe was 3 steps down from you, a girl sat beside you.
"Sorry, but this seat's ta-" You begin, but are quickly interrupted.
"Please sit down, everyone. I'm already late, and we have a lot to do!" The professor says as soon as he's sitting by his microphone.
The girl in question looks at you with worried eyes, but Rafe gestures you that he'll sit just a few seats down. You force down your disappointment and accept the apologies from the girl.
You watch as Rafe excuses himself through a few people and finally takes his seat. He's sat between two girls, one of whom eyes him up and down as he takes his seat. You study them silently, and, as expected, the girl smiles at him and holds out her hand as an introduction.
The professor's PowerPoint illuminates the wall behind him, and his voice soon fills the room. You look away from Rafe and the new girl hesitatingly and begin to write down the title of the seminar in your notebook.
An hour goes by, and your note-taking abruptly pauses. The two figures have been moving in the corner of your eye for too long, and you've found yourself too curious to not look at them. Countless notes have been lost in the midst of your curiosity, but the girl's enthusiasm has seemed to only intensify with time.
You can't really see Rafe's face, nor most of his movements, but you can see hers and how he turns his head to face her multiple times. She shines her perfect smile at him every time, letting her long blonde hair slide off her naked shoulder, which so happens to be facing him. She whispers at him low enough that you cannot hear a thing, rows away, but your obliviousness to what Rafe could be doing or saying makes your heart pull at every string.
You're able to snap out of it multiple times. You trust Rafe, and he has never given you any reason to be fearful of something as dumb as cheating. But, still, something burns at the bottom of your stomach. It is similar to anxiety, but it crawls in and clings to your chest.
Hours pass, and the seminar draws to a close. In the midst of your packing, the girl beside you apologizes once more for taking the seat and offers you her notes as an extension of her apology. You wish you were in a better mood so you could truly thank her for her generosity, but you do try your best. At least she was able to walk out with a lighter chest.
You finished packing and moved out of the way so other people could walk their way out of the auditorium to their next class. You check the time, as your other class was supposed to start in just a few minutes. And as you go down the steps, you see Rafe already packed and standing, but still listening to the blonde girl. He doesn't notice you as multiple people walk around them to get out of the row of seats, but the girl does see you. But she never stops talking.
You don't blame her, right away. You don't have anything on your face that would make it clear you were waiting for your boyfriend. Or even that Rafe was that boyfriend.
You check the time again and sigh out a sad breath. You've gotten better at not crying with every single frustrating thing in your life, but you still have to work on how much you let it eat at you.
And that's when you decide to not wait for Rafe and just walk to your class by yourself.
Rafe doesn't notice you leaving, not until the class seems to clear out and he doesn't find you in your seat. He texts you right away, but all he gets as a response is a quick "Sorry, had a class on the other side of the building in 5."
"Everything okay?" The girl asks him as they walk out of the auditorium, accidentally (on his part) side by side.
"Yeah, just didn't see my girlfriend leave the room." He says as he frowns down at his screen.
Rafe doesn't notice it, but the girl beside him doesn't seem to be spooked by the word 'girlfriend', like other girls had done in interactions with him. But he wasn't expecting her to. After all, they had only spoken a bit during the class, as Rafe really couldn't have made it clearer that he was not one to befriend for notes. But the girl didn't seem to mind, as she seemed to like a friend anyways.
(...)
Later, Rafe waited for you to be done with the class to pick you up, and quickly noticed how upset you seemed. You blamed it on being tired, so he let it go. But he kept an eye on you.
By the time you had the second class of that same seminar at the end of the week, Rafe made sure to get there on time. You two were going out for lunch after, so it only made sense. Your mood has risen back to its usual optimism, and Rafe couldn't be more relieved about it.
Inside the auditorium, you let him choose the seats and take a careful look around the room. When you sit, you look over at Rafe, but you already find him looking at you.
"What?" You ask him, with your voice soft.
"Nothing." He assures you.
You give him a look, which makes his lips slit into a smile, and you continue pulling out your things to prepare for class. As you're with your pen in hand, you open your mouth to say something to Rafe, but the air stops before it reaches your vocal cords.
"Can I sit here?" A voice asks, following the movement you had seen in the corner of your eye.
Your eyes lift to find exactly who you had wished to have missed class, the blonde girl from before. Rafe looks to his right when he notices the question was for him, and you watch him say a quiet "Sure."
The girl looks at you two for a second and then smiles as she takes her seat beside Rafe. You look away to spare yourself from your overthinking, as you can very much over-analyze the girl and her every action. The professor announces his entrance loudly into the class, letting the acoustics of the room carry his voice to every seat without exception.
You write down the date, and the class soon begins.
As the hours go by, Rafe watches as your mood sours in real time. It might take him a bit to realize why it does, but it becomes too obvious not to notice. The girl beside him would sometimes scootch another inch closer to him, or excuse herself, in a whisper, for having grazed his arm as she took notes. Every single interaction just made your note-taking pause for a second before aggressively continuing.
The class was too long for Rafe to not feel it pull at his heart to reassure you that everything was okay, either by letting his arm, which eventually leaned on the back of your chair, touch you and bring you comfort, or simply by trying to tease you over something else when he was bored.
Still... a small voice in his brain still made him want to grin at the scene. You were jealous. You, for the first time in your life, were jealous. And of a girl that Rafe is sure he has barely looked at.
Though maybe a bit cruel, Rafe did enjoy the feeling that those thoughts brought him. Yes, you were obviously annoyed and upset, but he knew, just like you had known when he was jealous, that it was just dumb. As if he would choose anyone over you.
And he does notice that, as you've never liked confrontation or any sort of argument, you prefer to suffer in silence, and in the midst of your notes, than put your foot down and make the girl move seats. A characteristic of your temper that is so consistently yours that Rafe can't even let his mind wander on if you ever would.
As class nears its end, and after many more attempts at conversation or more apologies from the girl, Rafe did notice that your note-taking outright stopped, and you simply leaned on the back of your chair and into his arm. His hand slides over your arm, but that doesn't make you look up at him.
You sit there in silence until class ends, and only move when it's time to pack up your things. Rafe, with nothing to pack, just stood from his chair to stretch his legs. But so did the girl.
She grabs Rafe's forearm before she speaks, "Are you going to the party tonight?"
You and Rafe look down at her hand on his arm and back at her. "What party?" he asks.
As the girl excitedly starts laying out the details, you force yourself to zone out and finish packing up. With your bag over your shoulder, Rafe snaps you back into reality by laying his warm hand over your head, sliding from the top to the back of your neck as he says, "We'll go, right, baby?" with his flirtatious smile.
"Sure," you tell them with a short and hesitant smile.
Rafe looks back at the girl, who stares back at you as if in a silent dare, and he digs his fingers in your hair to give you a reassuring touch. "We'll have fun," he says to clear the air, and you give him a short smile again.
Sure.
(...)
Thankfully, Patty's presence blessed your dorm as soon as you texted her about the party, and, with one look at your face, she had forced you to spill every bit of information that had made you hesitate every step to get ready for tonight.
Patty sat down and heard it all. To your surprise, she doesn't get angry as she usually does when Rafe does something wrong. She just listens.
"What are you scared of, exactly?" She asked when you finished, but you didn't know what to say. "That Rafe will cheat on you? Leave you?"
You knew, deep down, that Rafe would never do that.
"No," You told her.
"Than what?" Patty asks as if she's leading you to say the most obvious thing in the world.
But you just don't understand what.
"Rafe would never do that to you," She assures you, "I know it, and you know it. But a girl comes along, who I'm sure already knows that Rafe is dating you, and thinks she can do everything-"
"How would she know? Maybe she doesn't know." You naively and dumbly say, which grants you a glare.
"Do we live in medieval times, or do we have access to public social media where your relationship is openly posted on?" She asks you in an aggressive tone that just makes you chuckle, "And that is if Rafe himself hasn't already made it clear, which, let's be honest, he definitely did."
"So, what do I do? Just let it-"
"What?! No!" Patty almost screams, making you smile, "You get off your ass and make that girl leave your boyfriend alone. She obviously hasn't gotten the message like a normal person, so make it clearer to her that he's taken." She emphasizes the word aggressively, making you look away, "I'm not saying that you should fight her, babe - though you could... But make her see that Rafe is not up for grabs."
(...)
Easier said than done.
Sure, Patty did give you the confidence to put your foot down, and you get ready. In theory. In theory, you already knew what to say and do. But when the party came, everything felt too big for you. And that's why Patty gave you alcohol. Maybe too much alcohol.
You truly didn't see much harm at first, and Patty did know how to make a drink. Overall, it took you too long to notice that the damage had already been done with the previous cup, let alone with the one in your hand. With just a gulp to go.
Patty kept an eye on you even when you decided to be the one to leave her side. Neither of you had yet found Rafe or any of his new friends, so you found yourself in the company of just-as-drunk sorority girls. She watched as you squealed in excitement every time one of the girls would mention an auditorial class that you both have, which would only lead to your natural response to declare friendship for life.
Either way, she let you have your fun while she had hers, too. And that's when she lost you.
Patty didn't panic because the sorority girls also had seemingly disappeared, which probably only meant that you had moved to dance or get another drink. So she decides to just text you to see if you're alive, and you answer quickly with a 'yed'.
Good enough.
Minutes later, Rafe spotted you. He had entered the house party with some of his friends behind him, knowing from Patty's text that you two had come earlier than planned. He did not expect you to have already started drinking, but he couldn't help but smile behind his beer as he saw you dance with a group of girls he had never seen, looking like you're living your best day on earth.
You're wearing a short, light blue satin dress, glued to your torso, but flowing with your movements as it rests just below your ass. You have a white cardigan in your hand, probably from growing hot with all the jumping and singing - or screaming - of the lyrics.
Rafe went unnoticed by you for quite a bit. In fact, you had stopped looking for him ever since a single song you knew the lyrics to started. And, maybe after 7 songs later, the girls did want to grab drinks, so you walked with them out of Rafe's field of view.
The kitchen was full of people, but the girls did open a way and made it easier to walk through everyone as they loudly exclaimed their 'excuse me'. As you take another shot with them, Patty found Rafe with his friends.
"Have you seen her yet?" She asks before a proper hello.
"Yeah, she hasn't seen me, though," Rafe says behind his beer before taking a swig.
Patty chuckles, thinking back on your behavior before walking away, which does make it more apparent why you've forgotten your mission for the night.
As Patty goes to open her mouth to speak, a hand wraps around Rafe's shoulder in an attempt to turn him around. Rafe does, but he does not find you.
"Hi!" The blonde loudly exclaims as he faces her. "You came!"
Patty looks at the girl, and it instantly clicks. She watches as Rafe does small talk with the girl, but his friends steal his attention a few times during their conversation. The girl, with this, looks at Patty and smiles brightly as well, "Hi to you too. Did you come with him?"
Just as Patty opens her mouth to speak again, she is interrupted with a drunk girl stumbling into her. With a giggle, the girl holds onto her as she calls out her name, and Patty can't help but laugh at you. The drunken girl who is just so happy to see her at a party, while totally forgetting that you came in together.
"Hey there, drunk girl, having fun?" She asks you, granting herself a nod. "Where did your friends go?"
"Bathroom." You hiccup.
"Have you seen Rafe yet?" Patty tests you, watching as you are obviously unaware of the man just behind you. "No?" She confirms as you shake your head sadly, "Are you sure?" Rafe smiles behind you as he catches on to the conversation.
Patty grabs onto your waist and turns you around. You almost stumble, but then a loud gasp escapes your lips. Your handsome boyfriend, right in front of you. You squeal in drunken excitement, and Rafe smiles as you reach up your arms to his face. He lets you caress his cheek and then pull him into a hug.
Rafe wraps his vacant arm around you to hold you against his side. He looks down at you as you begin to speak, glistening under the house's dim lights with a sheen of sweat from dancing. He smiles down at your mouth, and you plant a kiss on his lips.
You separate from him in a gasp, "My jacket."
Patty laughs behind you, and you turn to face her. "Do you want me to look for it?"
"You would do that for me?" You ask with glistening eyes.
Rafe's chest vibrates behind you in a chuckle, and Patty smiles at you in response before walking toward the kitchen.
As you go to turn back to Rafe, your hand runs up his arm in familiarity, and then your eyes stop on someone. A girl just beside you. You frown in thought as you think back on who she is, and then the thoughts and heavy heart come back as a reminder.
She looks through the dance floor, avoiding your eye, and Rafe's voice snaps her back, even when he's just talking to his friends. Her eyes fall on you right after, and you stare at one another for a bit. You open your mouth to drunkenly ask for her name at an attempt at a friendly introduction, but her voice stops you.
"'m going to get a drink. Want me to get you another beer?"
But the question wasn't to you. Her eyes are on Rafe, who stopped mid-sentence to look at her, and says, "Sure, thanks."
You, drunk as you are, openly frown at her, and she walks away toward the kitchen. You finish turning over to Rafe, who looks down at you, and you continue to frown. "Why did you want her to get you a beer?" You ask him, making him look down at you.
"Because she offered." He says, but your frown only worsens.
"Are you going to accept anything she offers you?" You ask him, and Rafe can't even hide his shock at your tone with him. Never in a million years had he seen this coming.
His silence only makes you take a step away from him, out of his reach, and Rafe watches you do it. Your anger is so out of character that Rafe almost looks at his friends for help, but they sense the tension too. They excuse themselves to both of you to go outside to smoke.
"Well, are you?" You ask him again.
Rafe chuckles down at you, entertained. He puts down his nearly finished beer beside him and tries to reach for you. But you move away.
"Rafe." You turn your head in emphasis as you call out to him to answer you.
"Are you really asking me that?" He asks you over the loud music.
You don't answer.
"No, baby." He says with a smile, which only seems to sour your mood even more. "I am not going to accept anything else from her."
"Anything else...?" Even the tips of your fingers seem to sting in anger, "So you're accepting the beer that she obviously went out of her way of to get you, and only you?"
Rafe really cannot hold it together, for he fights for his life to not just laugh out of pure shock. He didn't even think you were capable of being mad at him anymore.
Your conversation is cut short with both Patty and the girl coming back at the same time. You look away from Rafe and offer Patty a short, uncharacteristic smile in thanks for the jacket. She looks between the two of you right away, and Rafe grabs the beer from the blonde's hands.
"I'm going to get some air." You tell Patty.
Patty stares at you as you walk away, and she turns to face the man behind her. He looks away from you and then over at Patty with his mouth open. Speechless. Patty's look is as clear as day to mean "What the fuck did you say to her?", but Rafe cannot bring himself to speak.
It takes him a bit to figure out what the hell is going on. But Rafe only really starts moving when he sees you step out of the house.
He puts down his drink, gaining the girl's attention, and as she reaches for him and worryingly asks, "Is everything okay?", Rafe simply squeezes past her to follow you out.
Outside, you slide your arms through the cardigan's sleeves and cover your torso from the chill in the wind. You walk through the groups of people, smoking and talking, on the wrap-around porch, excusing yourself to a more secluded area. Once you find it, you lean back on the wall and sigh to yourself.
You pull your phone out of your pocket and try to entertain yourself while the cold sets in.
"Baby," You hear from in front of you, and you look up to find Rafe looking at you.
You lock your phone and put it back in your pocket, still holding your jacket close to you. "I don't want to talk to you right now, Rafe"
"Why?" He asks as walks closer to you, still leaving a space between the two of you.
"Because you're really getting on my nerves, and I don't want to fight with you." You tell him sincerely.
"I am?" He asks, and you nod. He smiles, and you know he's getting ready to tease you. You know that smile - have known it for so long. It flips your stomach around and makes your heart warm, but you're really not in the mood. "Over a beer?"
"It's obviously more than a beer," You start, but he doesn't seem to get it yet. "Rafe, I'm serious."
"So am I, baby. Always." He takes a step closer, closing the space between the two of you. "Just tell me what's wrong." His warm hands find your waist.
"You're smiling," You tell him, "You'll laugh in my face."
"Never."
You huff out a breath and let your head fall back to the wall. Rafe gets even closer to you, and his warmth shields you from the wind. You look away from him to the people around you.
The closest group is a good distance away from you, and the music is muffled by all the sliding doors around you being closed. You're by yourselves, basically. No one but him will hear you.
"I don't like how..." You start, grabbing Rafe's attention again, smile-less. "I don't like that you let her get close to you all the time. Or talk to you like she knows you... I really don't."
The silence between you two sets, and Rafe's thumbs smooth over the satin of your dress, offering you comfort. You two stand in the silence for a little bit, giving yourself a bit to breathe and to make sure nothing is being left unsaid. You look at his face, which you always seem to love to death, but your heart still feels heavy.
"I didn't think you were capable of jealousy." Rafe comments, getting a look in return, "What do you want me to do with her?"
You know his words are sincere, but you do sense a bit of his enjoyment in this conversation. And your heart squeezes harshly.
"Rafe..." You say to him, feeling the tears coming. "I'm serious."
As soon as Rafe sees the glistening in your eyes, his whole face changes too. "I know you're serious, baby." His hands come up to your waist, under your jacket, to hold you even closer to him. "Why are you crying?"
"Because you're enjoying this, you asshole," You tell him, voice wet with the need to cry. "I can see it in your face."
"I am, but not because I'm making fun of you." He tells you.
You stay silent and keep looking at him with a minuscule pout you're obviously holding back. Rafe brings a hand up to your face and wipes the first tear from under your eye before it falls down your cheek.
"I'm sorry," He tells you sincerely, "I really am. I was being stupid."
"You are being stupid," you correct him, getting a tilt of his lips.
"I am being stupid," He repeats. "But what do you want me to do?"
"Not talk to her," You say with a sniffle, "You don't have to be rude, but don't make it seem like... You are okay with it."
"Done," He tells you. "What else?"
You feel a small pull at your lips for a small smile, but you look away from him to hold it back.
"Just tell her you're taken. That's all." You tell him.
"I have, but I will do it again." His words make your chest lighter, and your eyes go back to his. "What else?"
You don't hold the small grin that comes this time, and sigh in thought.
"I don't think I have any other requests."
"No?" He asks, leaning closer to you, "I was expecting a request for a tattoo of your face on my chest, at least."
You laugh in his face and reach your hands to him. His arms completely wrap around you, with the opportunity of you moving, gluing you to him. "You're right, I should be more possessive over you."
Rafe hums in agreement, looking down at your lips. You kiss him and pull away to look at him again. "I still hate you for wanting to laugh at me."
"I was just happy that you were finally possessive over me. I'm a simple man."
"More like scared to lose you, Rafe. Not possessive."
Rafe moves his head back a bit to look at you completely, his smile faltering a bit. "You're never getting rid of me, baby. I'll get the tattoo before you ever get that thought back into your head."
You chuckle as he smiles with you. "I love you," you tell him, getting a kiss in turn, "and I am freezing."
Rafe looks for the closest door of the house, and pulls you with him. The loud music fills your ears, and Rafe pushes you in before closing the door behind him. He leaves a hand on your hip and then starts leading you through the crowd, who's dancing to the music.
The house gets warmer and warmer as you get deeper into it. Not only from it being full of people, but from most of the crowd still being actively enjoying the party. You consider taking your jacket off, but Rafe's hand on your hips is starting to confuse you.
You expect him to take you back to where everyone was before you left, but you notice that he is taking you elsewhere when you start walking down a hallway.
You look over your shoulder as Rafe opens a door and peeks inside, and he places his hands on your hips to pull you into what seems like an unused guest bedroom.
Of course.
A small chuckle leaves your lips as you turn around to face him. "Don't we always end our discussions with sex?" You tell him as he closes the door.
"You're complaining?" He tests you.
You take off your cardigan and lay it on the naked mattress behind you. "Maybe," you shrug as Rafe walks closer to you, "Maybe our relationship is too heavy on sex."
Rafe pauses in front of you, and you can't help but laugh out loud at the look on his face. "You don't think we should be lighter on sex?" You ask him.
"You're the one that wakes me up in the middle of the night to eat you out, so don't-" You cackle at him and feel your face warm with his words.
"And you do it every single time," You tell him as he steps closer to you, "You never complain."
Rafe pushes you to sit on the bed, then goes down to your height. You watch him as he brings your leg over his shoulder, and lean back on your elbows in the bed. Rafe looks up at you as he lays a kiss on the inside of your thigh, and your breathing heavies.
"And I will continue to do it." He kisses your skin again, "For as many times as you want me to."
You smile down at him, and he slides your dress up your hips as his mouth follows, looking away while kissing your lower tummy. Your breathing hitches as he moves down and kisses your pussy over your underwear, applying pressure with his lips over the thin fabric.
Rafe kisses you over the fabric one more time, and you hold your breath when he moves your panties to the side. And, with it, he looks up at you again, just to check on you, light eyes darkened with lust, before his mouth closes the distance between you two.
Rafe doesn't kiss anymore, not like before. He holds your panties with one hand and licks right between your lips, from your entrance to your clit in just one slow movement. Your eye contact breaks instantly as you let out a deep breath and let your head fall back.
You unfold your arms and fall back completely on the mattress. Rafe watches you and uses that moment to adjust his kneeling and pull your panties off your legs completely. You chuckle as he throws it over at you, and he roughly holds onto your hips to maneuver your body closer to his mouth.
His warm mouth and tongue work on your pussy, and your hands move to his on your hips. The feeling of his tongue over your clit, with his rough hold over your hips underneath your hands, makes you let out a whimper, and that just motivates him to do more.
Rafe sucks on your clit, and you quickly move to grab at his longer hair at the top of his head - a part of Rafe's that you have been deprived of for way too long since the buzz cut, which had led to you one night begging him to grow it back again. He groans into your skin, and you look down at him. You watch him as he lets go of your clit with a wet kiss and moves his tongue down to your entrance.
He pulls you in closer to slide his tongue, and his nose slides across your clit, making you whimper out to him. He smiles as he licks back up and sucks your clit back into his mouth.
You close your eyes, with your heart racing and with pleasure thick in every fiber of your body. And it is with his head between your legs, and you lying across the bed with your dress up to your hips, that the door of the bedroom opens suddenly and scares the absolute shit out of you.
In a millisecond, you rise in your elbows and try to close your legs with Rafe lifting his head right between them.
But you then just meet the eyes of the blonde. That same blonde. She stands by the half-opened door, frozen from head to toe, and her mouth is left ajar. "I..." She begins to say, but she doesn't seem to find the words.
You truly don't know what comes across your drunken brain, but as you look at her. Frozen as she looks between you and Rafe. You can't help but start laughing.
And laughing some more.
You bring your hand to your mouth to hide your giggles, and that just seems to snap her awake, as just after your third loud chuckle, the door is slammed closed, and she is gone.
You fall back on the bed, not controlling your giggles just yet. Rafe lets out his own chuckle as he lets his head fall onto your leg.
The two of you stay like this for a bit, and your racing heart begins to slow with your giggles.
When you finally calm down, he kisses your thigh and gets up to lock the door. You watch him as he turns the key and, on his way back to the bed, you sit up and raise your dress over your head.
Rafe watches your every movement as more of your soft skin is revealed and no bra appears underneath the dress. When you're done, he takes his own shirt off, and you smile up at him.
"What are you smiling about, hm?" He asks you with a smile of his own, "Thought we have too much sex. Weren't you just considering stopping all of that just now?"
"Just wanted your opinion, Rafey," you tease him as you reach out and grab him by the waist of his jeans. "Can't a girl be curious?"
Rafe follows your pulling and watches as you unbuckle his jeans without breaking eye contact with him. He brings his pants down his legs and then kisses you to let himself be pulled over on top of you.
You wrap your legs around him and, as your tongue glides across his, your hand slides over his boxers. Rafe lets out a small moan into your mouth, and you pull away from the kiss. Rafe gets his boxers off, and your eyes follow him the whole time.
You let out a giggle as he pulls you even closer to him by your leg, and lock eyes as he slides right inside of you.
"Oh, fuck," he whispers to himself when he gets totally inside of you. "Every time," he tells you as he feels your warmth and slick around his dick. As perfect and every time he does it.
You smooth your hand over his shoulder to the back of his neck, and you give him a nod to start moving. Rafe, right away, begins to thrust into you and moves down to rest his forearm beside your head to lean over you. You moan right into his face as he thrusts more deeply into you, and he shines a smile before silencing you with a kiss.
Your nails dig into the back of his head, and Rafe groans at the squelch one of his thrusts produces and how your pussy squeezes him in response. His lips separate from yours and move into the curve of your shoulder, letting you moan into his ear as he lays kisses over your skin.
You whimper at a certain thrust, and Rafe bites at the skin on your neck. Your legs hold onto him closer, and he moves over to your ear, "Does it feel good, baby?" You nod, "Want more?" You nod again. He chuckles into your hair and pulls away from you, pausing his movements into you.
Your hand falls by your head as he sits up, and you open your mouth to complain when he slides out of you. "Turn around," he tells you, making you unwrap your legs from around him and turn on the bed. Rafe's hand follows your movements, resting on your hips as you lie on your stomach and raise your ass up at him.
He moves your legs to have you comfortably in front of him, and then slides back in. You moan at the feeling, sensing him impossibly deeper and right where you want him. He chuckles, knowing by now that this will always be your favorite position, and starts thrusting into you.
His hands grab onto you, and occasionally slide to grab at your ass, always getting a sound of yours in return. He curses out loud as you feel even wetter as he touches you and keeps slamming at a reasonable rhythm into you.
Rafe watches as you bring an arm away from near your head over to your pussy, making you breathe out a whimper as you touch your own clit. Rafe leans over you and meets your hand with his own, but before you can move yours away, he holds it under his so he can also slide over your clit with his and your fingers.
The feeling of his rougher over your soft skin is something Rafe has done before, but it works. You raise your upper body from the bed with your other arm and lean your forehead into the mattress as you moan out. Rafe lets your hand escape and does all the work for you all over again.
His touch over your clit with his own groans and heavy breathing over yours, the sound of his hips slamming into your skin, and even your own whimpering. It all becomes a lot to you before you even realize it.
Rafe senses it, you grow tighter and the hands by your sides close into fists with nothing to grab.
"Are you close already?" Rafe questions.
You moan in agreement, and his fingers speed up over your clit. You feel the pleasure in your belly rise in response, and your hips meet his thrusts back. You moan out loud as the orgasm begins to ripple through you, and Rafe lets out a moan as your pussy squeezes the hell out of his dick right back.
He lets you ride your orgasm out to the end, listening to you mumble nonsense noises as you let out heavy breaths and pleasure keeps moving through your body. As you slow down, he brings his thrusts to a stop and lets you have a breath.
"Rafe..." You mumble, and he keeps looking down at you, breathing heavily.
"Hm?"
You move your hand back to him, and he holds it. You pull him to you, and he leans over your body. A moan escapes you as his hips move against yours as he does, and then his warm torso against your back makes it even better.
"Want me close, baby?" Rafe asks as he kisses your shoulder. "Needy," he teases, and you groan at him. He chuckles against the skin of your back and tests, moving his hips into you. The sensation isn't too different from before, but now you two were skin to skin. Just as you wanted to be
You move back into him, dragging your ass into his hips, and he nips at the skin of your shoulder in response. He holds your hips in place and you let out a breath at the familiar pressure of his hands on your skin.
With you completely lying on the bed, with your ass slightly arching up for Rafe, pleasure then almost seems stronger when it reappears from the pressure. Rafe lays a forearm right behind your head and starts really thrusting into you.
You hold onto his arm as you moan out, and Rafe hides his face into your hair as he chases back his past, nearing orgasm, and you rebuild a one for yourself.
His warm breath against your skin and his sweaty chest and abs dragging across your back, in some way, stimulates you further.
You bring your hand behind you and grab his head to pull his lips into yours. It isn't a perfect kiss in any way. With pleasure back strong as ever for both of you, you two need to breathe in the midst of the kiss or pause even to moan into each other's mouths. Spit coats your lips and even down a bit to your chin, but something in your depraved brain loves every second of it. You also don't let Rafe pull away from the kiss, and he doesn't protest.
Rafe begins to feel his own orgasm closer and closer, and he deepens the kiss further. Your hand clings onto his hair, and Rafe groans from the pressure. He brings both of his arms into the bed, making himself impossibly closer to you, and he thrusts harder into you with the support of his hold on the mattress.
Your insides seem to explode with the power of your orgasm, and you finally pull away from the kiss to bring your face into the bed. Rafe finally too cums, bringing his face into your shoulder for support.
You two breathe heavily as pleasure runs for, what seems, from one body to the next, and stay as close to one another as possible.
When the two of you finally return to reality, Rafe pulls out and falls on the bed beside you. The cold of the room hits your back, but you don't mind it too much.
"You okay?" He makes sure, and you nod.
"Are you?" You ask in a teasing tone.
He looks over at you, his hair a mess and still a little bit out of breath, but he smiles as an answer. "Round three?"
You do a tired chuckle, and he keeps looking at you. "Maybe after my nap."
"Deal," He says, making you laugh again.
Watching Off Campus made me miss my babies, so here I am. Writing them having sex, as always.
"So am I, baby. Always." He takes a step closer, closing the space between the two of you. "Just tell me what's wrong." His warm hands find your waist.
9 with hangman (I love your writing btw it’s amazing)
Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader One-Shot
Prompt: 9.“Stop looking at me like that.”
One glance is all it takes to break years of tension.
Word count: 1k
A/N: sorry it’s so short, i think this might be the shortest one yet 😭
Warnings: heavy tension, thigh-riding/grinding, rough kissing, suggestive language, smut-adjacent behavior, mutual pining, implied smut, language
It was a Thursday night, which meant the Hard Deck was packed. The kind of chaos that could only come from a squadron full of pilots trying to pretend their lives weren’t constantly teetering on the edge of burnout and bravado. Music pumped through the old speakers—Fleetwood Mac this time, the bartender on a classics kick—while Phoenix yelled over a round of pool, and Rooster lost yet another bet to Coyote on who could finish their beer fastest.
You leaned against the bar with a drink in hand, the condensation trailing down your wrist. Navy-issued dog tags rested cool against your collarbone, glinting under the haze of golden bar lights. The hem of your tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing the barest strip of skin just above your jeans—not that you noticed.
But someone else did.
Jake Seresin.
He stood across the room, pool cue in hand, cocked at the hip like he owned the place. Like the whole damn bar was his stage and the rest of you were just lucky to be in the audience. He was halfway through a game with Phoenix, but his eyes were firmly on you.
Again.
You’d been clocking him all night—every stolen glance, every smug little upturn of his mouth when he noticed you looking. It was always like this between you two. The constant bickering. The sarcasm. The tension that had somehow never snapped, no matter how sharp it got.
It had been that way since day one, and now it felt like both of you were too stubborn to make the first move.
Which made it all the more infuriating that tonight, you’d shown up looking effortlessly hot without really meaning to. Sun-kissed skin from the week’s beach drills, low-rise jeans, hair just messy enough to pass as casual. You looked good, and Jake clearly noticed.
But you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“Seresin’s been eye-fucking you since you walked in,” Phoenix muttered beside you, not looking up from the beer she was nursing.
You didn’t bother denying it.
“He’s just cocky,” you replied, eyes flicking to him again. “Probably thinks it’ll rattle me.”
“Has it?” she asked, smirking.
You didn’t answer.
Because yes. Maybe it had. Just a little.
You took another sip of your drink. “He’s still losing to you in pool.”
“True,” she said, then tilted her head. “But he’s not thinking about the game anymore.”
You turned in time to see Jake sink the eight ball by pure accident, swearing under his breath when Phoenix let out a victorious cackle. But his eyes didn’t leave you. He was already halfway across the room, that cocky swagger in his walk like he was gearing up to make a move.
You stiffened. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” Phoenix laughed. “God, finally.”
Jake sauntered over, drink in hand, tilting his head like he had all the time in the world.
He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, beer dangling from one hand, watching you like you were his next mission.
“Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” you asked, tone sweet but laced with bite.
He grinned, all teeth. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”
You blinked innocently. “Just standing here.”
Jake leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You’ve been staring all night.”
You tilted your chin. “You’ve been imagining things.”
That was when he said it. Low, just for you.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
The way his voice dropped—rough, edged with restraint—sent a bolt of heat down your spine. You should’ve said something snarky. Should’ve brushed him off like usual. But you didn’t.
Instead, you smiled.
“Like what?”
His eyes flicked down your body, slowly, hungrily. “Like you want me to drag you into the back room and remind you why you always lose your edge around me.”
The words hit like a lightning strike, sharp and blinding.
Your pulse skipped. “And if I do?”
Jake’s grin turned wolfish. “Then we’ve got a problem.”
You sipped your drink, looking at him through your lashes. “Only problem I see is that you haven’t done it yet.”
There was a beat of silence between you—just one—but it was loaded.
Then Jake moved.
His hand curled around your wrist, firm but careful, and without a word he led you through the crowd. Past the jukebox. Down the hallway behind the bathrooms. Not a single soul tried to stop you.
The second you hit the wall, his mouth was on yours.
The moment Jake’s mouth crashed onto yours, everything else in the room disappeared. The cold edge of the briefing room, the muted hum of the projector, even the careful control you’d held for years—all shattered like glass.
His hands were rough and commanding, sliding down to your hips with a possessiveness that set your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the dark stubble at his jaw, pulling him closer like you’d been holding your breath too long.
He pressed you hard against the wall, and the sharp edge of the metal corner dug into your back, but neither of you cared. His thigh pressed between your legs, grinding with a fierce urgency that made your breath hitch. This wasn’t gentle or slow; it was raw, desperate, the kind of touch that screamed you were both starving for something you hadn’t dared to admit.
“Think you can keep up with me?” Jake growled into your mouth as he deepened the kiss.
You smirked against him, breathless. “I was born ready.”
His hands slid beneath your shirt, fingertips brushing over the bare skin of your ribs, and you gasped, arching into him. The grinding became a little more demanding, your bodies moving in sync like a dangerous dance—teetering on the edge of everything.
“God, you’re such a tease,” he snarled against your lips, voice thick with want. “Always talking back, never backing down.”
You tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer. “You love it.”
He growled again, low and guttural, before crashing his mouth back to yours, teeth grazing your lower lip as his hands roamed. Every nerve in your body was electric, every breath a desperate gasp.
Just as it felt like you were about to lose control—like the whole world was collapsing in a storm of heat and hunger—he pulled back, breath ragged, eyes blazing.
“This isn’t over,” he warned, voice rough. “Not by a long shot.”
You smiled, heart pounding. “Good. Because neither am I.”
do you know that I would be so honest to god grateful if you did the comparing hand size prompt w roosty? i just am already jaw dropped thinking about it
this blurb is brought to u by this lovely req + me watching fant4stic way too late at night bc i was in a miles mood. enjoy anon<33 | [wc - 1k]
Bradley’s arm around your shoulders was heavy and comforting, and it was all you could do to keep your eyes open and focused on the television screen. You could hear the others chatting in the kitchen, and you were pretty sure that someone had turned on the grill outside. Was that bacon sizzling you smelled?
All in all, it was a pretty normal kickback at Hangman’s.
The movie you were watching wasn’t even particularly good; it was yet another low-budget Fantastic Four remake. Fanboy had turned it on, promising everyone would be amused if not at least entertained, and fifteen minutes in he and everyone else had promptly gotten up and stopped watching. The only ones left were you and Bradley, curled up together on the couch—and you’d only stayed because to get up would be to abandon extreme comfort.
“Hey, that guy kinda looks like you,” you mumbled, squinting at the screen.
Bradley snorted, and the sound reverberated through you from the place where your back was pressed to his chest. “I don’t see it.”
“Who’s hungry?” called Payback, coming in from the back porch with Fanboy following behind. They both carried big plates that confirmed that, yes, it had been bacon you’d been smelling.
Everyone immediately swarmed the two, oohing and aahing.
“Nothing excites drunk people more than bacon,” you mumbled.
“Why is that guy made of rocks?” Bradley said.
“Get me some bacon,” you said, swatting at his arm.
“Like, why wouldn’t he just get the ability to grow rocks? Or harden his skin? Why does he have to be made of rocks?”
“Bradley!” you said, laughing and jostling him. “Bradley, bacon!”
“Okay, okay. Move.”
You shifted upright long enough for him to disentangle himself from you and stand up. Then you flopped back down onto the cushions, appreciating the leftover warmth his body had left. You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, burrowing your nose into the soft fabric and breathing in deeply. It smelled mostly like Hangman and the aftershave he swore by, but there, buried in the fibers—Bradley’s cologne.
God, you loved that smell. It smelled like home.
“What is the deal with you two?” said Fanboy, sitting down at the end of the couch so suddenly that you yelped in alarm.
“Mickey!” you gasped, pulling your feet out from under him. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Bacon!” he replied, like that was a normal place to go during a party. “How’s the movie? Hilarious, right?”
“It’s definitely something.”
“Are you gonna answer my question?”
Your cheeks burned, and you pulled the blanket up to your nose, hoping Fanboy wouldn’t be able to pick up on your nerves. “What are you talking about?”
“You know,” he said, gesturing with a stray piece of bacon, “the deal. The carpooling, the cuddling, the sleepovers. I’ve never seen Bradley so… happy,” he said finally. He took a bite of bacon, chewing thoughtfully. “None of us have.”
You really didn’t know what to say to that. You’d never considered that there might be more to your relationship with Bradley. He was your best friend, and that was as far as you’d gotten. You’d met him fresh off a new heartbreak, and you hadn’t been eager to throw yourself towards another one. You knew him well enough to know that heartbreak was the most realistic outcome if you did get yourself involved, so you stayed away from any feelings like that, and you stayed friends.
And you were fine with that. You were happy with that.
So why the hell did Fanboy have to go and say something lovely like that and throw you off?
“Okay, budge up,” said Bradley, stepping back around the coffee table and waiting for you to sit up so that he could position himself behind you again. Once you’d settled back into his lap, he handed you a napkin delicately folded over three warm slices of bacon.
You weren’t really hungry anymore, but you didn’t want Bradley to think Fanboy had been saying anything weird, so you picked one up and took a dainty nibble.
“What the hell happened?” Bradley said, staring at the screen. “I was gone five seconds, how are they on a different planet?”
“Isn’t that the greatest part?” said Fanboy. “I was here for the last few minutes, and I don’t even know!”
“You’re not eating your bacon,” Bradley told you.
Embarrassed warmth flooded you. “I am!” you said defensively, taking a bite to prove it. “Thank you very much for getting it for me.”
“This movie completely wastes Michael B. Jordan,” said Fanboy to nobody in particular.
“You’re still not eating it,” said Bradley. “I thought you liked the crispier pieces.”
“I do!” you protested, but it was no use. Bradley was already pulling your napkin out of your hand and giving you his instead, with his juicier, fattier slices of bacon.
Then his hands stilled over yours and he said, “Have your hands always been this small and I just never noticed?”
You smiled in spite of yourself. “They are not small.”
“They’re tiny,” he insisted, setting both napkins of bacon down on the coffee table.
“They’re not!” you argued, holding them up to the light. “They are normal, proportional, human-sized hands!”
Bradley’s arm around your shoulders rose up, and one hand traced the inside of your wrist briefly. Goosebumps erupted down your arms, and you were thankful you’d decided to wear long sleeves. Then he pressed his palm flat to yours, turning it this way and that in the light, seemingly assessing whether your hands were as pitifully minuscule as he seemed to suspect.
“See,” you said, your voice sounding far away even to yourself. “Normal sized hands.”
“Hmm,” said Bradley. Then he shifted his palm by the slightest margin and pushed his fingers forward, lacing your hands together.
Electricity jolted through you, and you were sure he could feel your heart pounding. At the other end of the couch, Fanboy was staring at the tv so hard that he couldn’t have actually been paying attention.
“Yep,” Bradley said decisively. “The perfect size, I’d say.”
“You doofus,” you said, pleased warmth flooding your body. But you tucked his hand against your chest and curled against him, and you felt pretty happy to be watching a terrible movie on the couch of a party with this lovely man.
⁘ bradley bradshaw, the notoriously ill mannered head chef at the small franchise pub down the street, is quite content with his fast paced job. no commitments or obligations outside of his kingdom of sharp knives, pots, pans, prep work and a shot of jäger after a double. that is until a new waitress is hired, and suddenly his strict and rigid rules of no obligations or commitments starts to waver. . .
› pairing; bradley bradshaw x f!reader
× warnings; swearing, slow burn-ish, mentions of alcohol, general misogynistic type of workplace, protective rooster, miscommunication, eventual smut.
