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By the time Hannah Wells decided she was leaving, Garrett Graham had already looked at her three times.
Not that she was counting.
Counting would imply interest, and Hannah was not interested. She was observing. There was a difference. A scientific one, probably. One that involved controlled variables, objective data, and absolutely no personal investment in the fact that Garrett leaned against the kitchen counter like the entire house had been built for the sole purpose of giving him somewhere to look annoyingly good.
He had one ankle crossed over the other, a red plastic cup loose in his hand, and the kind of easy smile that made people lean closer before they realized they’d done it. Girls kept drifting toward him in slow, hopeful circles. Teammates slapped him on the shoulder as they passed. Someone handed him another drink even though the one in his hand was still half full.
Of course they did.
Hockey players, Hannah had learned, operated under the general assumption that the world was an audience and they were all skating out for warm-ups.
She took a sip from her own cup and immediately regretted it. Warm beer. Fantastic. Truly, the social lubricant of champions.
Across the kitchen, Garrett’s gaze flicked to her again. Hannah looked away first, which was irritating, because she hadn’t meant to. She had simply become very interested in the questionable bowl of chips beside her elbow.
“You’re doing the face,” Allie said beside her.
Hannah blinked. “What face?”
“The I’m-not-looking-but-I’m-definitely-aware face.”
“I don’t have that face.”
“You absolutely have that face.” Allie leaned around her, not even pretending to be subtle as she followed Hannah’s not-gaze across the kitchen. Her mouth curved. “Oh. That face.”
Hannah groaned. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a sound.”
“I breathed.”
“You breathed judgmentally.”
Allie’s grin widened. “That’s just my natural breathing.”
Hannah turned back toward the chips. “I am not interested in Garrett Graham.”
“I didn’t say Garrett Graham.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
“Hard not to. He’s been looking over here every thirty seconds.”
Hannah refused to let her eyes move. “Maybe he has a neck problem.”
“Maybe he has a Hannah problem.”
“He does not have a Hannah problem.”
Across the room, Garrett laughed at something one of his teammates said, head tipping back, throat exposed. It should not have been attractive. Unfortunately, Garrett Graham performed normal human functions like they were elective courses in ruining her peace.
Hannah set her cup down harder than necessary.
Allie made another judgmental breathing sound.
“I hate this party,” Hannah said.
“No, you hate that you’re having fun at this party against your will.”
“I am not having fun.”
“You’ve insulted three hockey players, stolen someone’s spot on the couch, and made Garrett Graham look confused twice. That’s basically your version of a rager.”
“I did not make him look confused.”
“You told him his personality had the structural integrity of wet cardboard.”
“He asked what I thought of his charm.”
“And then he stared at you like you’d just handed him a final exam in a language he didn’t speak.”
Hannah tried very hard not to smile. “That was a fair answer.”
“It was a great answer,” Allie said. “But it did make him look at you like he wanted to argue with your mouth.”
Hannah choked on nothing. “Allie.”
“What? I’m observant.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I’m supportive.”
“You’re actively making me worse.”
“Debatable.”
Before Hannah could respond, a loud cheer erupted from the living room. Someone had started chanting something ridiculous over the music, and the crowd near the couches surged with sudden, drunken purpose.
“No,” Hannah said immediately.
Allie’s eyes brightened. “Oh, yes.”
“No games.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s a hockey house party. The options are beer pong, body shots, or public humiliation. I choose death.”
“You choose sitting on the floor and watching other people make questionable choices.”
“That’s called emotional intelligence.”
“That’s called being boring.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes. “I came here. That was my growth for the evening.”
“And I’m proud of you.” Allie grabbed her wrist. “Now grow twelve more feet to the left.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
Allie dragged her into the living room before Hannah could plant her heels. The crowd had gathered around the coffee table, where several bottles, phones, and one suspiciously battered hockey glove had been arranged like props in a ritual no one sober would approve of.
Garrett was there, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor and poor boundaries.
He looked up as Hannah approached, and his smile shifted—sharpening into something quieter, something that felt aimed at her alone even while half the party orbited him. Her stomach gave one traitorous little dip.
Fantastic.
“Wells,” he said.
“Graham.”
“You joining us?”
“I’m being held against my will.”
“Should I call someone?”
“Could you?”
His mouth twitched. “You always this hostile at parties?”
“Only the ones with hockey players.”
“That hurts.”
“You’ll recover. You seem resilient.”
Logan, sprawled on the arm of the couch, made an interested noise. “Oh, this is fun.”
Hannah pointed at him. “Do not narrate.”
“I wasn’t narrating. I was appreciating.”
Garrett’s eyes stayed on her. “You know, most people come to parties to relax.”
“Most people also think yelling over music in a room full of spilled beer counts as culture.”
“It is culture.”
“It is mildew with bass.”
Someone laughed. Garrett looked entirely too pleased with her, but his eyes did that quick, dangerous dip to her mouth again.
Just once.
Barely a second.
The sensation hit her ribs like a match strike.
She crossed her arms. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have a face.”
“I’ve been told it’s a good one.”
“It’s a smug one.”
“That too.”
“Are you two always like this?” Logan asked.
“No,” Hannah said.
“Yes,” Garrett said at the same time.
The room oohed like they were twelve.
Hannah closed her eyes. “I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not,” Allie said cheerfully, appearing behind her with the kind of timing that suggested betrayal had been planned in advance. “We’re doing dares.”
“I don’t do dares.”
“Everyone does dares,” Logan said. “That’s the democratic process.”
“That is not even close to what democracy means.”
“Sounds like something someone scared of democracy would say.”
Hannah turned to Allie. “You brought me into a frat-house constitutional crisis.”
“It’s not a frat house,” Garrett said.
She looked at the sticky floor, the dented wall, and the hockey glove currently being used as a centerpiece.
“Emotionally,” she said, “it is.”
That got a bigger laugh. Garrett shook his head, still smiling like he didn’t mind being insulted if she was the one doing it.
She liked being funny. She liked winning arguments. She especially liked winning arguments against people who thought they were charming enough to make winning unnecessary.
Garrett Graham was starting to look like a challenge.
The first few dares were harmless. Someone had to text their ex a single hockey emoji. Someone else had to switch shirts with a defenseman built like a refrigerator. A freshman sang half a power ballad into a beer bottle with enough sincerity that Hannah almost respected it.
Then Tucker, who had been quiet enough to seem innocent, glanced between Hannah and Garrett and smiled.
Absolutely not, Hannah thought.
“I’ve got one,” Tucker said.
“No,” Hannah said.
“You don’t know what it is.”
“I know your face.”
Garrett leaned back against the couch, amused. “You read faces now?”
“Yours is mostly empty space, but yes.”
Logan clutched his chest. “Brutal.”
Garrett didn’t even look offended. If anything, he looked delighted.
Tucker ignored all of them. “Two minutes in the laundry room.”
Hannah stared. “Excuse me?”
“With Graham,” Tucker finished.
The room exploded.
“No,” Hannah said over the noise.
Garrett’s eyebrows lifted, but he did not say no. Hannah noticed that, which made her want to commit a small crime.
Allie was laughing into her hand.
Hannah turned on her. “You are dead to me.”
“I didn’t say it!”
“You spiritually supported it.”
“I did, a little.”
Garrett stood slowly, unfolding from the couch with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once questioned whether a room wanted him in it. “Relax, Wells. I’m not going to drag you into a laundry room.”
“How gallant.”
“I have layers.”
“You have audacity.”
“Also layers.”
Tucker grinned. “So you’re scared?”
Hannah’s head snapped toward him. “Of what? A laundry room? Detergent?”
Garrett’s smile turned sharper. “Me, apparently.”
The room made another terrible collective sound.
Hannah looked at him.
Garrett looked back.
There it was again: that narrowing of the air. The party was still loud, people were still laughing, music still pounded through the floorboards, but somehow his voice had landed too close.
She should have rolled her eyes. She should have said something cutting and left with her dignity intact.
Instead, because she was apparently determined to ruin her own evening, she said, “Please. You wouldn’t last two minutes.”
Garrett went very still.
Not much. Just enough.
His cup paused halfway to the table. His smile stayed in place, but something behind it changed. Focused.
“Oh?” he said.
Hannah felt her pulse trip.
Allie whispered, “Oh my God.”
Hannah ignored her. “You heard me.”
Garrett set his cup down. “Pretty confident for someone who’s been glaring at me all night.”
“I glare at lots of people.”
“Not like that.”
“There are categories of glare now?”
“With you? Absolutely.”
Logan looked between them, delighted. “I would pay actual money to see this.”
“No one is seeing anything,” Hannah said.
Garrett stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Enough for her to catch the clean, sharp edge of his cologne under the beer-and-crowd smell of the party.
His voice dropped. “Then what are we doing?”
The question hung between them, stripped of its earlier teasing.
Hannah lifted her chin. “Proving a point.”
“And the point is?”
“That you’re not as irresistible as you think you are.”
The corner of his mouth curved. “Dangerous bet, Wells.”
“Only if I’m wrong.”
A beat passed.
Then another.
The living room had gone almost embarrassingly invested. Even the music seemed to fade beneath the weight of everyone waiting.
Garrett glanced toward the narrow hallway that led downstairs, then back at her.
“Two minutes,” he said.
Hannah’s stomach dipped.
Allie made a strangled sound beside her.
She should have laughed. She should have called him ridiculous and walked away.
Instead, she stepped around the coffee table, brushing past Garrett close enough that her shoulder nearly touched his chest.
“Fine,” she said. “Try to keep up.”
She did not look back as she started down the stairs.
She didn’t have to.
She heard him follow.
The basement stairs were narrower than they had any right to be.
That was Hannah’s first problem.
Her second problem was that Garrett Graham was behind her, close enough that she could hear him over the party: the soft scuff of his sneakers on each step, the quiet laugh he tried and failed to hide, the lazy, infuriating confidence of a man who thought walking into a basement laundry room with her was the best idea anyone had ever had.
“Stop smiling,” she said without turning around.
“I’m behind you.”
“I can feel it.”
“Impressive. Didn’t know glaring came with sonar.”
She reached the bottom step and turned so quickly he nearly ran into her.
Nearly.
Garrett stopped one stair above her, one hand braced on the wall, his body angled close enough that she had to tilt her chin to look at him. The music upstairs dulled into a heavy thump through the ceiling. Down here, the air was cooler, threaded with detergent, dryer sheets, and the faint metallic smell of old pipes.
He still looked far too pleased with himself.
Hannah lifted one finger. “First of all, this is not happening because of peer pressure.”
“Obviously.”
“Second, I am not doing this because Logan made that face.”
“What face?”
“The face men make when they think they’ve discovered romance because two people have argued in the same room.”
Garrett looked amused. “Very specific.”
“I’ve seen a lot of stupid faces tonight.”
“Mine included?”
“Yours especially.”
He leaned a fraction closer. “And yet here you are.”
Her pulse kicked before her brain could stop it.
Traitor.
“Here I am,” she said, “because you needed humbling.”
“From you?”
“Desperately.”
His gaze dipped to her mouth, brief but deliberate this time. Not accidental. Not something he could pretend away.
Then it came back to her eyes.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
The word landed differently down here.
Upstairs, everything had been noise. Laughter, music, bodies, dares shouted too loudly by people who wanted entertainment. Down here, with the basement light buzzing faintly overhead and Garrett one step above her, the joke thinned into something sharper.
Hannah swallowed.
Garrett noticed.
His smile faded by a fraction. “You know you can still back out, right?”
The offer landed too carefully for the narrow stairwell. He was supposed to stay arrogant, easy to dismiss. Instead he stood there with one hand braced on the wall, giving her room to change her mind like the answer actually mattered.
Hannah crossed her arms. “Do you say that to every girl you lure into laundry rooms?”
“I didn’t lure you.”
“You followed me.”
“You walked first.”
“You accepted the dare first.”
“You challenged me first.”
“You existed first.”
Garrett laughed, low and warm, and the sound moved through her in a way she did not appreciate.
“God, you’re stubborn,” he said.
“And yet, still right.”
“That hasn’t been established.”
“It’s about to be.”
He stepped down onto the basement floor.
Now they were level. Worse, somehow. Not looming anymore. Just there—close and broad-shouldered and unfairly attractive in the low light, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie like he was pretending to be relaxed.
He was not relaxed.
There was a line of tension in his jaw. A faint flush along his neck. His eyes kept moving over her face like he was trying to solve something and resented not having the answer immediately.
Good.
Let him suffer.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“So are you.”
“I’m assessing the competition.”
“Yeah?” He tilted his head. “How do I look?”
“Overconfident.”
“That all?”
She dragged her eyes from his face to his shoulders, down to the stupid Briar hoodie stretching across his chest, then back up again. Slowly. Punishingly.
His throat moved.
Hannah smiled.
“Mostly,” she said.
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “That was mean.”
“That was generous.”
“That was flirting.”
“That was critique.”
“Wells.”
“Graham.”
For a second, neither of them moved.
The basement hummed around them: old pipes, distant bass, someone’s muffled shout from upstairs. A door slammed somewhere above their heads, followed by laughter and a chant that sounded suspiciously like their names.
Hannah’s face went hot.
Garrett glanced up at the ceiling. “They’re subtle.”
“They’re idiots.”
“True.”
“They’re also going to be insufferable when we go back up.”
“When?”
She looked at him sharply.
Garrett’s expression was too innocent.
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes. When. Because this will take two minutes.”
“Right.”
“Maybe less, depending on how quickly you embarrass yourself.”
“Me?”
“You.”
He breathed out a laugh, but this one had less humor in it. More disbelief. More heat.
“You really think you’re walking out of here unaffected?”
“I know I am.”
“That’s adorable.”
“Do not call me adorable.”
“What should I call you?”
“Winner.”
The amusement came back quick and bright.
There he was again.
Cocky. Obnoxious. Unfairly put together. Safe to hate.
Hannah turned away before she could do something stupid, like stare at his mouth again. The laundry room sat at the end of the short hall, door half open, a wedge of pale yellow light spilling across the concrete floor. Somewhere inside, an old dryer rattled through the final seconds of a cycle.
She started toward it.
Garrett followed.
“Just to clarify,” he said behind her, “what are the official terms here?”
“There are no terms.”
“You challenged me to a two-minute test of irresistibility. Feels like terms are important.”
“Fine.” She pushed the laundry room door open with her shoulder. “No gloating.”
“Impossible.”
“No telling everyone upstairs.”
“Reasonable.”
“No acting weird afterward.”
He paused in the doorway.
Hannah turned.
For the first time all night, Garrett looked like she had actually caught him off guard.
It lasted only a second before he covered it with a shrug, but she saw it. The flicker. The almost-question under the joke.
“What counts as weird?” he asked.
“Smirking.”
“That’s just my face.”
“Making comments.”
“Also my face.”
“Looking at me like that.”
His voice dipped. “Like what?”
Hannah regretted the sentence immediately.
Because now he was looking at her exactly like that.
Like the dare was gone. Like the party was gone. Like the room had gotten smaller and quieter and he had suddenly remembered they were alone.
She stepped inside the laundry room, mostly so she could put space between them.
“Like you’re trying to win before the game starts,” she said.
Garrett followed her in and nudged the door mostly shut behind him.
Mostly.
Not locked.
Hannah noticed.
Then immediately wished she had not noticed.
He leaned back against the washing machine, hands still in his hoodie pocket, expression almost lazy again.
Almost.
“Relax, Wells,” he said. “I’m a gentleman.”
She looked pointedly at the laundry room. Then at him. Then back at the laundry room.
“Nothing about this says gentleman.”
“Fair.”
“And if you say something ridiculous in that smug voice like ‘I’ll only do what you ask,’ I’m walking out.”
His brows lifted. “Would that be ridiculous?”
“It would be smug.”
“It would also be true.”
The air changed again.
Hannah felt it happen in the space between one breath and the next—the humming dryer, the cinderblock wall, the phone-shaped outline in his back pocket, the careful way he was not reaching for her. Her skin noticed. Her brain, unhelpfully, took notes.
She folded her arms tighter. “Good.”
“Good,” he echoed.
“Great.”
“Fantastic.”
They stared at each other.
Above them, the party roared.
Down here, the dryer buzzed once and fell silent.
Garrett shifted against the washer. Whatever expression he wore now was not the bright one he gave teammates or the easy one he used on girls who giggled into their cups.
This one was quieter.
Less polished.
More interested.
“So,” he said, pushing off the washer, “are we doing this?”
Hannah lifted her chin.
“Two minutes,” she said.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Then back up.
“Clock starts when our mouths do,” he said.
Her stomach flipped.
Absolute traitor.
Then Garrett pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbed open the timer, and set it on the dryer between them.
The screen glowed.
2:00.
“Rules,” Hannah said, because if she did not put structure around this immediately, her brain was going to start making even worse decisions.
“Right.” Garrett’s gaze flicked down her body, not lingering anywhere too long, somehow worse for how controlled it was. “Rules.”
“One kiss.”
“One continuous kiss?” he asked.
“What?”
“Clarifying.”
“You’re being annoying.”
“I’m being thorough. Is this one kiss for two minutes, or are we allowed to breathe?”
Hannah opened her mouth, then shut it again.
Garrett looked delighted. “Did I just find a loophole?”
“No loopholes.”
“So breathing is allowed.”
“Obviously breathing is allowed.”
“Good. I’m fond of breathing.”
“Hands stay above the waist.”
His expression did something subtle. Not quite amusement. Not quite disappointment.
Interest.
“Above the waist,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Yours, mine, or both?”
Heat climbed into her face. “Both.”
“Very strict.”
“Someone has to be.”
“And if one of us breaks the rule?”
“Then they lose.”
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Even accidentally?”
“There are no accidents in hockey, right?”
He grinned. “There are definitely accidents in hockey.”
“Then control yourself.”
The grin faded by a degree.
Not gone. Never gone. But less cocky now. More focused.
“I can do that,” he said.
The simplicity of it hit harder than the flirting.
Hannah looked away first, pretending to examine the dryer as if it contained a fascinating moral lesson. “No touching below the waist. No telling anyone upstairs details. No pretending this means anything.”
Garrett was quiet for one second too long.
She glanced back.
His jaw shifted.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Your face said something.”
“My face is very expressive.”
“Your face looked offended.”
“I’m not offended.”
“Good.”
“I just think it’s interesting that you need that rule.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need it.”
“You said it.”
“Because you need it.”
“I do?”
“Yes. You seem like the type who confuses being kissed with being adored.”
Garrett’s laugh was short. “Is that what you think?”
“I think you’re used to people wanting you.”
“And you’re different?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer.
Not a lot. Barely half a step.
It was still enough.
“Then why are you nervous?”
Her breath caught.
Garrett saw it.
“I’m not nervous,” she said.
“You’re holding your left elbow with your right hand.”
“So?”
“You’ve done it every time you’ve been trying not to react to me tonight.”
“That is a deeply arrogant interpretation of body language.”
“Is it wrong?”
“Yes.”
He waited.
Hannah’s fingers tightened around her elbow.
Garrett’s eyes dropped to the movement, then rose again.
His expression softened into something smaller.
Worse.
“Okay,” he said.
She frowned. “Okay?”
“I believe you.”
“You do not.”
“No,” he said. “But I’m trying to be polite.”
She should not have laughed.
She did anyway, one sharp breath through her nose, and Garrett looked so pleased with himself that she immediately regretted rewarding him.
“There,” he said.
“What?”
“You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You almost smiled.”
“Your standards are low.”
“Only with you.”
The room went quiet after that.
Not silent. The house still thudded overhead. Pipes knocked faintly behind the wall. The dryer gave a small metallic tick as it cooled. But the quiet between them was different.
Charged.
Hannah became very aware of the phone sitting on the dryer.
The timer app was open.
2:00 glowed up at them.
Two minutes.
One hundred and twenty seconds.
Not even long enough to microwave leftovers. Not long enough to walk across campus. Not long enough to mean anything.
Except Garrett was looking at her like it already did.
She lifted her chin. “No feelings.”
His gaze held hers. “No feelings.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
Something passed over his face, quick and unreadable.
Then he gave her the smirk again, like a shield sliding into place.
“No feelings,” he repeated. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were a Boy Scout?”
“No.”
“Then your honor means nothing.”
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.”
He picked up his phone, reset the timer even though it was already set, and placed it carefully on the dryer between them.
“Two minutes,” he said.
“One kiss,” she reminded him.
“Hands above the waist.”
“No feelings.”
“No gloating afterward.”
“I didn’t agree to that one.”
“Garrett.”
He smiled. “Fine. Limited gloating.”
“No gloating.”
“Private gloating?”
“No.”
“Internal gloating?”
“I can’t control your inner life, unfortunately.”
“Then yes. Internal gloating.”
Hannah rolled her eyes, but her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Garrett took one more step.
This time she did not move back.
The toes of his sneakers nearly touched her boots. His hoodie brushed the front of her shirt when he breathed. Up close he smelled like clean cotton, cold air, and whatever sharp, expensive cologne had been haunting the entire basement since he followed her down here.
His eyes searched her face.
Still waiting.
Still not touching.
The restraint felt like its own kind of dare.
“You ready to lose?” he asked.
Hannah stepped in until there was barely any room left between them.
“You wouldn’t last one minute, Graham.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Then back to her eyes.
“Clock starts when our mouths do.”
“Then stop talking.”
For once, Garrett Graham listened.
He reached for her slowly, giving her every possible second to change her mind. His hands came up, warm and careful, cupping her face like this was not a joke anymore. Like the room, the timer, the party, the dare, all of it had narrowed to the tiny space between their mouths.
Hannah had one last clean, sensible thought.
This is a terrible idea.
Then Garrett kissed her.
For one suspended second, the kiss was almost polite.
That was the worst part.
Garrett’s mouth touched hers carefully, like he was still giving her an exit even though her back was already against the dryer and his hands were warm on her face. Every sensible thought she owned had gone abruptly, embarrassingly silent.
Hannah kept her hands at her sides.
A point was being made.
Probably.
His lips were warm. Softer than she expected. The kind of soft that felt unfair on someone who spent half his life getting slammed into boards and the other half being loudly, offensively pleased with himself.
He kissed her once—slow, controlled—then pulled back half an inch.
Hannah’s eyes opened.
Garrett’s were already on her.
The timer had started. She could see the glow of it past his shoulder.
1:55.
“That all you’ve got?” she whispered.
His mouth curved against hers. “There she is.”
Then he kissed her again.
Not careful this time.
Deeper. More certain. His thumbs brushed along her cheeks as he tilted her face up, and her breath caught before she could stop it. His mouth moved over hers with the kind of confidence that made her want to shove him away on principle and drag him closer for science.
She did neither.
For maybe five whole seconds, she stayed perfectly still.
Garrett noticed.
He eased back just enough for their lips to separate with a soft, humiliating sound.
“You okay?” he murmured.
The question was quiet. Private. It nearly undid her more than the kiss.
Hannah opened her eyes into his. Mistake. He was too close. The basement light had turned his eyes darker, his mouth already a little flushed from hers, his expression stripped of its usual smug shine.
He looked like he actually cared about the answer.
“I’m fine,” she said.
His thumb stilled against her cheek. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Want to stop?”
“No.”
The word came out too quickly.
Garrett’s gaze dropped to her mouth.
Her pulse kicked hard.
“Good,” he said, and there was the arrogance again, softened at the edges but still very much alive. “Because you’re losing.”
“In your dreams.”
“Frequently, actually.”
“Garrett.”
“What? Too honest?”
“No lines.”
“That wasn’t a line.”
“It was absolutely a line.”
“It was a confession.”
“That’s worse.”
He laughed against her mouth, low and warm, and kissed her before she could decide whether she wanted to bite him or smile.
This time Hannah kissed him back.
Her hands lifted without permission, landing flat against his chest. His hoodie was soft beneath her palms, but underneath it he was all heat and hard muscle and the rapid thud of his heart. That startled her. The speed of it. The proof that he was not as unaffected as his lazy posture wanted her to believe.
Garrett made a small sound when her fingers curled into the fabric.
She pulled him closer.
He came willingly, one hand sliding from her face to her waist. Still above the waistband. Barely. His fingers spread over her side, thumb pressing into the dip beneath her ribs, and her body responded before her brain could veto it.
The kiss turned hungry in increments: a parted mouth, a sharper inhale, the slick brush of his tongue against hers, her nails scraping lightly over his chest, his hand tightening at her waist.
The dryer hummed behind her, warm against the backs of her thighs.
The timer ticked onward.
1:34.
Garrett angled his head and deepened the kiss until the party, the dare, everything upstairs disappeared. There was only him: the heat of his body, the drag of his mouth, the absurd fact that Garrett Graham, for all his ridiculous confidence, kissed like he had something to prove.
He was infuriatingly good at it.
Then his teeth caught gently at her bottom lip.
She gasped.
His hand flexed at her waist.
“There,” he breathed.
Hannah’s eyes opened into his. “There what?”
“You stopped thinking.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I was thinking about how irritating you are.”
“While making that noise?”
“What noise?”
His grin was slow and lethal. “Want me to try for it again?”
“You are so—”
He kissed her before she could finish.
Which was rude.
Effective, but rude.
Hannah’s hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, into the hair at the nape of his neck. Garrett groaned properly then—low and rough—and the satisfaction that shot through her was so sharp it was almost embarrassing.
Oh.
So she could do that to him.
Good to know.
She tugged his hair lightly.
His hips jerked forward.
Not much.
Enough.
The front of his jeans brushed against her skirt, pressure brief and accidental and devastating. Hannah sucked in a breath, and Garrett froze.
His whole body went still.
“Sorry,” he said immediately, voice ragged. “I didn’t—”
“It’s fine.”
“Hannah.”
There it was.
Her name. Not Wells. Not teasing. Not tossed out with a smirk.
Hannah.
Said like he had dropped something important and heard it break.
She should have made a joke. She should have used it against him. She should have said, Penalty, Graham, and shoved him back with a triumphant smile.
Instead she stared at him, breathing too hard, her fingers still tangled in his hair.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
His brow furrowed. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say my name like that.”
His throat moved.
“Like what?”
Like you’re not playing anymore.
Like I’m not just another dare.
Like this is the part where I start wanting things I don’t get to keep.
She said, “Like you mean it.”
The words landed between them and stayed there.
For half a second Garrett didn’t move. The timer glowed beside them, completely irrelevant and painfully loud in the quiet.
1:02.
Then his expression changed.
The smirk disappeared.
So did the teasing.
What was left was focused and raw and a little stunned, like she had reached past the version of him everyone got at parties and put her hand around something softer.
“I do,” he said.
Hannah’s breath caught.
Garrett’s eyes searched hers. “I mean it.”
That was so much worse than a line.
Lines she could mock. Confidence she could puncture. Smirks she could survive.
“Garrett,” she said, and now she had done it too.
His name sounded different in her mouth.
He heard it.
She watched him hear it.
The air between them snapped.
His mouth crashed back onto hers, and Hannah met him halfway.
All pretense vanished.
Her arms locked around his neck. His hands found her waist again, firmer now, pulling her close until there was no polite distance left between them. The kiss went wet and desperate, all tongues and teeth and broken breathing. Garrett backed her against the wall beside the dryer, the cool cinderblock a shock through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Hannah arched away from it and into him.
His hand slid up her side.
Still above the waist.
Still following the stupid, fragile, increasingly irrelevant rules.
His thumb brushed just beneath the curve of her breast, and her entire body went tight with want.
Garrett broke the kiss, breathing hard against her cheek.
“Tell me if I’m crossing a line,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
There was a version of him she knew how to handle. The cocky version. The version with the grin and the easy charm and the smart mouth.
This version—careful while looking like he was two seconds from losing his mind—was going to be a problem.
“You’re not,” she said.
His mouth touched her jaw. Once. Then the corner of it.
“And now?”
“No.”
His lips moved lower, dragging a hot line down the side of her throat.
“Now?”
Hannah’s fingers tightened in his hair. “Garrett.”
“Answer me.”
She swallowed a moan and failed. “No.”
His hand shifted higher, palm cupping her through her shirt, thumb brushing over her nipple with maddening precision.
Hannah’s head tipped back against the wall.
The timer read 0:41.
“This is still above the waist,” he murmured.
“Technically.”
“I’m a big fan of technically.”
“You would be.”
He laughed into her neck, and she felt it everywhere.
Then his mouth was on hers again, swallowing the next sound she made as his thumb circled, slow and deliberate, until the ache in her breasts turned sharp enough to make her press closer. Her thigh slid between his without permission, seeking balance or friction or some other lie she could tell herself later.
Garrett’s breath broke.
“Hannah.”
This time she did not tell him not to say it.
This time she rocked once against his thigh.
His grip on her waist tightened so fast it was almost gratifying.
“Fuck,” he muttered, forehead dropping to hers. “You’re cheating.”
“You’re the one who said technically counts.”
“My thigh was not in the rules.”
“You should’ve been more thorough.”
“I was trying to be a gentleman.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
He looked down between them, then back at her, eyes dark. “Am I?”
The question should not have sounded like that.
Like an offer.
Like a warning.
Like he was still, somehow, asking.
Hannah answered by kissing him again and rolling her hips against him.
Garrett cursed into her mouth.
His hands stayed above her waist for maybe three more seconds.
A heroic effort, honestly.
Then one of them slid down.
Slowly.
Giving her time.
His palm skimmed over the curve of her hip, then lower, fingers spreading over her ass and gripping hard enough to haul her tighter against his thigh.
Definitely below the waist.
A clear violation.
A penalty, even.
Hannah should have pointed that out.
Instead she moaned.
The timer flashed 0:12.
Garrett went still for one fractured second, as if the sound had short-circuited something important in him.
Then he kissed her harder.
Hannah clung to him, heat gathering low in her stomach, every drag against his thigh sending sparks up her spine. She could feel him too, hard against her hip, the evidence of his ruined control pressed between them. For all his smirking, all his talk, all his lazy certainty, Garrett Graham was breathing like he was the one barely surviving the dare.
That did something vicious to her pride.
And something much worse to the rest of her.
She bit his bottom lip, not gently.
Garrett made a sound that was almost a growl.
The timer blared.
Neither of them moved.
The phone buzzed on the dryer, shrill and ridiculous, while Garrett’s mouth stayed on hers and his hand stayed firmly below the waist and Hannah kept rocking against his thigh like the bell had rung for someone else entirely.
Upstairs, the party roared on, oblivious.
Down here, the only sounds were their ragged breathing, the ignored alarm, and the faint creak of the old washing machine behind Garrett’s back.
Finally, Garrett tore his mouth from hers.
Not far.
Just enough to breathe.
His forehead rested against hers. His eyes were closed. His chest heaved beneath her hands.
The alarm kept screaming.
“Timer,” Hannah whispered.
“Yeah.”
“You lost.”
Garrett opened his eyes.
They were dark and wrecked and so completely without smugness that Hannah almost forgot what she had said.
His thumb stroked once over the curve of her ass.
Lazy.
Possessive.
Entirely unfair.
“So did you,” he said.
Hannah’s legs felt unreliable. Her mouth felt swollen. Her pulse was everywhere.
“I lasted longer.”
His laugh was breathless. “Wells.”
“What?”
“You’re still on my thigh.”
She looked down.
She was, in fact, still on his thigh.
Worse, she had no immediate desire to leave it.
Hannah looked back up at him with every scrap of dignity she had left, which was not a lot.
“That’s circumstantial.”
Garrett stared at her.
Then he laughed. Not the party laugh. Not the bright, polished one from upstairs. This one was rough and surprised and fond enough to be dangerous.
Hannah’s chest tightened.
No feelings, she reminded herself.
No feelings.
Garrett reached blindly toward the dryer and slapped at his phone until the alarm stopped.
The sudden quiet was worse.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
His hand was still on her ass.
Her fingers were still twisted in his hoodie.
The line had been crossed so thoroughly it was practically a dot behind them.
Garrett’s gaze dipped to her mouth again.
Slower this time.
Less like instinct.
More like intention.
“Still think this was a good idea?” he asked, voice hoarse.
Hannah swallowed.
She should say no. She should peel herself off him, fix her skirt, and march upstairs with enough sarcasm to convince everyone, including herself, that this had been nothing but a stupid dare and a temporary lapse in judgment.
Instead, she heard herself say, “That was two minutes.”
Garrett’s thumb moved again.
Her breath caught.
His mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smirk. It was too soft for that. Too ruined.
“Best of three?”
Hannah laughed, half groan, half surrender, and dragged him back down by the collar of his hoodie.
“Shut up and reset the timer, Graham.”
For once in his life, Garrett Graham did not have a comeback.
Hannah noticed. His mouth was still hovering over hers, his hand still on her ass, his chest moving hard against her palms, and his eyes had gone dark enough to make every clever thing between them feel suddenly far away.
The phone sat on the dryer beside them, silent now.
Garrett’s thumb moved once, slow and distracting, over the curve of her ass.
“You want me to reset the timer,” he said.
It was not a question.
Hannah’s fingers tightened in the front of his hoodie. “That’s what I said.”
“I know what you said.”
“Then why are you repeating it?”
“Because I’m trying to figure out if you mean it.”
The room shifted—not much, just enough for the heat under her skin to tangle with something softer, something sharper. Garrett was still pressed against her, still hard and warm and entirely too close, but his hand had gone still. His body had gone still. Like every part of him had paused for her answer.
She swallowed. “I mean it.”
Garrett’s gaze moved over her face, searching. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
His jaw worked. “And if I touch you?”
Her stomach dipped.
The question landed low and hot. Not the words alone, but the restraint underneath them. The fact that Garrett Graham, who had spent the entire night acting like confidence was a native language, was asking like the answer could ruin him.
Hannah lifted her chin. “You already did.”
“Not like I want to.”
The air went out of her lungs.
Above them, the party thudded on. Someone shouted. Music shook faintly through the ceiling. Life continued upstairs, loud and stupid and completely unaware that Hannah’s entire nervous system had just made a terrible decision.
Garrett’s eyes stayed on hers.
No smirk. No line. No easy joke to hide behind.
Just want.
And worse—patience.
Hannah’s hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, until her fingers linked at the back of his neck.
“Then ask properly,” she said.
Something flashed across his face—surprise first, then heat, then something dangerously close to awe.
His mouth parted, but no sound came out right away.
There.
There was the version of him she wanted.
Not polished. Not performing. Not charming a room because he knew exactly how to make people look at him.
This Garrett looked like he had been checked into the boards.
Hard.
By her.
Finally, his hands shifted to her waist. Both of them. Safe again. Above the line they had already shattered.
“Hannah,” he said, rough and quiet, “can I touch you?”
She loved and hated the sound of her name in his mouth.
She dragged one hand into his hair. “Yes.”
His eyes dropped to her lips. “Can I kiss you again?”
A laugh slipped out of her, breathless and unsteady. “If you don’t, I’m going to start assuming you’re bad under pressure.”
That brought the smile back—barely. A curve at the edge of his mouth, less smug than starved.
“Can’t have that,” he murmured.
Then he kissed her.
There was nothing polite about it this time.
Garrett kissed her like the timer had never existed, like the rules had only been useful because breaking them had gotten him here: between her thighs, against the wall, with her fingers tight in his hair and her mouth opening under his.
Hannah kissed him back just as hard.
She had a point to make too.
That she was not the only one losing.
That his control was not as impressive as he thought.
That if he was going to make her feel this wrecked, she could return the favor.
She tugged his hair again, sharper this time, and Garrett’s hips jerked forward with a rough sound against her mouth.
Perfect.
Hannah smiled into the kiss.
Garrett pulled back just enough to look at her. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re easy.”
His laugh broke off when she rolled her hips against his thigh again.
The sound he made was not a laugh at all.
It was so much better.
His hand slid from her waist to her hip, then lower again—purposeful now—fingers spreading over her ass, hauling her tighter against him while his mouth found the side of her neck.
Hannah’s head tipped back against the cinderblock wall.
The concrete was cool.
Garrett was not.
He kissed beneath her jaw, then lower, teeth grazing the tendon in her throat until her whole body tightened. His other hand moved under her shirt, palm sweeping up her ribs, stopping just below her breast.
“Still okay?” he asked against her skin.
“Yes.”
His thumb brushed higher.
“And now?”
“Yes.”
The word came out thinner.
Garrett noticed.
His mouth curved against her neck. “You sure?”
“Garrett.”
“I like hearing you say it.”
“That I’m sure?”
“My name.”
Hannah’s eyes opened.
He lifted his head, and there it was again: that unguarded look. The one that made him harder to dismiss. The one that made her feel like this was not just about the party upstairs or the dare or winning.
“You’re unbearable,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he said. “But you like it.”
She should have denied it.
Instead, she kissed him.
Garrett’s hand finally covered her breast fully beneath her shirt, warm and sure, his thumb dragging over her nipple through the lace of her bra. Hannah gasped into his mouth and he swallowed it with a groan, pressing her harder into the wall.
Her skirt had ridden up dangerously high around her thighs.
Garrett’s thigh stayed between hers.
Every tiny shift gave her friction—maddening and not enough.
His hand slid from her breast, down her ribs, over her waist, and stopped at the waistband of her skirt.
He waited.
Hannah’s breath caught so hard it was almost painful.
The party upstairs was still going. Anyone could come down. Anyone could knock. Anyone could notice they’d been gone too long.
But Garrett’s hand stayed still.
Waiting.
Asking without asking.
She looked at him and realized, with a fresh wave of panic and want, that the choice was hers.
He would stop.
That was clear.
It was also clear he did not want to.
“Yes,” she said.
Garrett’s eyes snapped back to hers. “You sure?”
“If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to start thinking you’re stalling.”
“I’m trying not to be an asshole.”
“Congratulations. Keep going.”
A laugh punched out of him, helpless and surprised.
Then his hand slipped under her skirt.
Hannah’s head fell back against the wall.
Garrett paused. “Still okay?”
She closed her eyes. “Garrett.”
“Hannah.”
Her eyes opened.
His face was close to hers, mouth swollen, hair disheveled from her hands, entire body tense with restraint.
He was waiting for a real answer.
So she gave him one.
“Yes,” she said, quieter now. “I’m okay. I want this.”
Garrett’s expression shifted—hotter, softer. “Good.”
He kissed her as his fingers slid higher, pressing over the damp fabric of her underwear. He cursed under his breath when he felt her, the sound broken and reverent.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “Hannah.”
This time she did not tell him not to say her name.
This time she dragged his mouth back to hers and let him feel exactly what saying it did to her.
His fingers moved with maddening patience, finding a rhythm that made her grip his shoulders and bite back a sound. Garrett kissed her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, like he could not decide where he wanted his mouth most.
“You’re quiet now,” he murmured.
She huffed a laugh that turned into a gasp when his fingers circled again. “Do not get cocky.”
“Too late.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I might.”
His mouth brushed her ear. “You’re very wet for might.”
Hannah made a strangled sound and slapped a hand over his mouth.
Garrett’s eyes lit with laughter above her palm.
“Do not,” she hissed, mortified and turned on and furious about both.
He kissed the center of her palm.
The gesture was so unexpectedly soft that her anger faltered.
Then he moved his fingers again, and softness became extremely irrelevant.
Hannah’s hand dropped from his mouth to his shoulder, nails digging in. Her hips rolled forward despite herself, chasing the pressure. Garrett groaned like the movement hurt him.
Good.
She wanted it to.
She wanted him as wrecked as she felt.
Her hand dropped between them, closing over the hard line of him through his jeans.
Garrett’s entire body went rigid.
“Hannah.”
There was her name again.
Destroyed this time.
She smiled against his mouth. “Still trying to win?”
He caught her wrist but did not pull her away.
His forehead dropped to hers.
For a second, neither of them moved.
His fingers were still pressed against her. Her palm was still against him. Both of them breathing like they had run stairs instead of simply made catastrophic decisions in a laundry room.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
Hannah blinked. “What?”
His thumb stroked once, absent and devastating, against her. “You don’t have to do anything back because I’m touching you.”
That should not have made her want him more.
It did.
So much more.
She looked at him—really looked—and found none of the performance there. No smirk. No audience. Just Garrett. Close and careful and visibly losing his mind.
Hannah curled her fingers more deliberately over him.
“I know,” she said. “I want to.”
His eyes closed.
Then they moved together—his fingers working her through the fabric, her hand stroking him through his jeans—learning each other by sound and tension and the rough way his breathing hitched whenever she pressed just right.
“God,” he muttered against her mouth. “You’re going to make me embarrass myself.”
“Good.”
He laughed, wrecked. “Evil.”
His hand moved faster.
Hannah’s answer dissolved into a moan.
Garrett kissed her harder, swallowing the sound, his body pressing her into the wall as her hips chased his hand. The tension coiled low and tight, sharper with every stroke. Her breath caught. Her thighs trembled around his.
“Garrett,” she whispered.
“I’ve got you.”
The words tipped her right over the edge.
Hannah came with her face buried against his shoulder, one hand twisted in his hoodie, the other still trapped between their bodies. Garrett groaned when she clenched, when her whole body went tight against him, when she bit down on the fabric at his shoulder to keep from making a sound loud enough to carry upstairs.
He kept touching her through it—gentler now, slower—until the last shiver worked through her and she sagged back against the wall, boneless.
Garrett pulled his hand from under her skirt carefully.
Hannah opened her eyes.
He was staring at her.
Not in triumph.
He looked wrecked.
Completely.
Hopelessly.
Beautifully.
Her heart did an inconvenient little flip.
No feelings, she reminded herself again.
It was becoming less convincing every time.
Garrett swallowed. “You okay?”
Her laugh came out shaky. “You ask that a lot.”
“Yeah.” His eyes moved over her face. “Because I care about the answer.”
Oh.
Absolutely not.
That was not allowed.
Hannah pushed at his chest, not hard enough to move him, just enough to remind herself she could.
“You cannot say things like that in laundry rooms.”
His mouth twitched. “Where should I say them?”
“Nowhere.”
“Noted.”
“I mean it.”
“So did I.”
That silence returned.
Charged, but different now.
Less like a match.
More like a fuse.
Then the floorboards above them creaked hard, followed by footsteps in the hallway overhead.
Hannah froze.
Garrett’s head lifted.
A voice shouted from upstairs, muffled but unmistakable.
“Yo! Graham? Wells? You alive down there?”
Logan.
Of course.
Hannah’s eyes widened.
Garrett’s mouth curved.
“Do not,” she whispered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say we should answer.”
“No, you were about to make a face.”
“This is just my face.”
“That face is illegal.”
The footsteps moved closer to the basement stairs.
Hannah shoved at Garrett for real this time, and he stepped back, laughing under his breath, hands raised in surrender. She yanked her skirt down, smoothed her shirt, then immediately realized her hair was probably destroyed.
Garrett looked no better.
Actually, Garrett looked worse.
His mouth was red. His hair was a disaster. His hoodie was bunched at the waist, and there was no hiding the obvious problem with his jeans.
Hannah’s gaze dropped.
Garrett followed it.
Then looked back at her.
“Don’t,” he said.
Her brows lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
“Congratulations on your condition.”
He barked out a laugh and clapped a hand over his mouth.
The basement door upstairs opened.
“Hannah?” Allie called, suspiciously delighted. “Garrett?”
Hannah panicked.
Garrett grabbed the detergent bottle from the shelf and shoved it into her hands.
She stared at it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Look busy.”
“Doing laundry?”
“You’re in a laundry room.”
“You are so bad at this.”
“I’m under pressure.”
“You’re supposed to be good under pressure.”
His grin flashed, quick and wicked.
“I was.”
Hannah nearly threw the detergent at his head.
The basement stairs creaked.
Hannah clutched the detergent bottle to her chest like it was evidence in a trial she was already losing.
Garrett stood three feet away, visibly trying not to laugh. His hair was wrecked. His mouth was red. His hoodie was twisted at the hem, one sleeve shoved up to his elbow, and his cheeks were still flushed in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with laundry.
Hannah pointed one warning finger at him. “Do not make this worse.”
His eyes flicked to the detergent bottle, then back to her face. “I would never.”
“You are making it worse silently.”
“That feels unfair. I’m not responsible for what my face does.”
“You absolutely are.”
The stairs creaked again.
“Allie,” Hannah called, too brightly. “Hi.”
There was a pause from the other side of the mostly closed door.
Then Allie said, “Hi?”
Garrett pressed his lips together.
Hannah glared harder.
“Everything okay down there?” Allie asked.
“Great,” Hannah said.
At the exact same time, Garrett said, “Fine.”
Another pause.
Then Logan’s voice, delighted and unmistakable, drifted down. “That did not sound suspicious at all.”
Hannah closed her eyes.
Garrett’s shoulders shook once.
She kicked his sneaker.
He coughed to hide a laugh, which only made him look guiltier.
The laundry room door opened halfway.
Allie appeared first, eyes bright with best-friend blackmail energy. Logan leaned over her shoulder, grinning like Christmas had come early.
Both of them looked at Hannah.
Then Garrett.
Then the detergent bottle.
Then Hannah’s hair.
Then Garrett’s mouth.
Hannah lifted the bottle. “Detergent spill.”
Allie stared.
Logan stared.
Garrett made a sound that might have been a cough if anyone had been stupid enough to believe it.
“A detergent spill,” Allie repeated.
“Yes.”
“In your hair?”
Hannah reached up. Her hair was, in fact, destroyed. She lowered her hand with as much dignity as possible. “It was a complicated spill.”
Logan looked at Garrett. “You help clean it up, big guy?”
Garrett opened his mouth.
Hannah snapped, “No.”
Garrett shut his mouth.
Allie’s eyebrows climbed so high they nearly disappeared. “You know,” she said, voice far too innocent, “when Tucker said two minutes, I don’t think he meant an entire laundry cycle.”
“It has been five minutes,” Hannah said.
“Seven,” Logan said.
Everyone looked at him.
He shrugged. “I was timing.”
Hannah stared in absolute horror. “Why?”
“Sports.”
“That is not a reason.”
“It is absolutely a reason,” Garrett said.
Hannah slowly turned her head toward him.
He seemed to realize his error too late. “I mean… terrible reason.”
“Smart recovery,” Allie said, nodding.
Garrett rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish in a way that was unfairly attractive.
Hannah pushed past Allie into the basement hallway. “I’m going upstairs.”
Allie moved aside, still smiling. “Of course.”
“No one is saying anything.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“That includes breathing judgmentally.”
Allie pressed her lips together.
Logan did not even try. “What about blinking suggestively?”
“Logan,” Garrett warned, low and serious enough that Logan’s grin softened.
“All right,” Logan said, hands up. “I’m done.”
Hannah started up the stairs before her brain could offer any further commentary.
The party hit her like a wall: heat, noise, music, the smell of beer and cinnamon gum. It was almost a relief. Upstairs everything was loud and stupid and public. No cinderblock walls. No glowing timer. No Garrett looking at her like he had meant it.
She made it halfway across the living room before Tucker called, “So? Who won?”
The room quieted with disgusting speed.
Hannah stopped.
Garrett came up the stairs behind her. She felt him before she saw him.
Her spine straightened. “Me.”
The room erupted.
Tucker whooped. Logan laughed. Allie buried her face in her hands.
Garrett stepped beside her, close enough that his sleeve brushed her arm. “Interesting interpretation,” he murmured.
Hannah did not look at him. “Accurate interpretation.”
“You broke the rules first.”
“You lost control first.”
His mouth hovered near her ear, voice dropping so only she could hear. “You came first.”
Hannah’s entire body went hot.
She turned her head slowly. “You are on incredibly thin ice.”
Garrett looked far too pleased with himself. “Hockey player. I’m comfortable there.”
She needed air.
Immediately.
Hannah turned to Allie. “I’m getting my coat.”
Allie’s eyes flicked between them. “Want me to come?”
“No. I’m fine.”
She grabbed her coat from the pile by the door and stepped out onto the porch. The cold hit her cheeks, sharp and clean.
For a second, she just breathed.
The door opened behind her.
Hannah did not turn around. “Go away, Graham.”
The door clicked shut.
A beat passed.
Then Garrett said, “Okay.”
The porch boards creaked as he shifted his weight.
Hannah frowned and looked over her shoulder.
Garrett stood near the door, hands in his hoodie pocket, keeping several feet between them. Not crowding. Not smirking. Just watching her with that careful expression again.
“I said go away,” she said.
“I know.”
“You’re still here.”
“I’m deciding whether going away means back inside or all the way down the street.”
Despite herself, Hannah’s mouth twitched.
Garrett saw it. His shoulders loosened.
“I can go,” he said. “For real.”
There it was again — the exit. The choice.
Hannah looked out at the dark street. “I didn’t say you had to.”
He did not move closer.
Somehow that made her want him to.
Behind them, the party roared on. Inside, this would become a joke by morning. Out here, with cold air in her lungs and Garrett quiet behind her, it felt less funny.
“I wasn’t joking,” Garrett said.
Hannah’s hand stilled in her pocket. “About what?”
A pause.
“Meaning it.”
Her breath caught, small and quiet.
The porch light buzzed overhead.
Hannah stared at the wet shine of the sidewalk and tried very hard not to think about his mouth saying her name, his hands stopping until she answered, his voice careful and rough asking if she was okay.
That was the problem.
Not that Garrett Graham was hot. Lots of people were hot. The world was full of inconvenient bone structure.
The problem was that he had looked at her like she was not a dare.
And she had liked it.
“You barely know me,” she said.
“I know.”
“Then you can’t mean anything.”
“I didn’t say I meant everything.” His voice was steady. “I said I meant your name. When I said it.”
Hannah’s chest tightened.
“Garrett.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Like that.”
The words slipped under her defenses so neatly it was infuriating.
She wrapped her coat tighter around herself. “You’re much easier to deal with when you’re smug.”
His expression softened. “Noted.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Okay.”
He said it simply. No teasing. No push.
Hannah sighed and looked back toward the street. If she kept looking at him, she might do something humiliating — like kiss him again or admit her pulse still had not settled.
Garrett stepped closer. Only one step. Enough that his shoulder nearly brushed hers.
“Can I walk you home?” he asked.
Her instinct was to say no.
Her newer, much more irritating instinct noticed that he had asked.
“Are you going to be weird about it?” she said.
“Probably.”
She glanced at him.
His smile went crooked. “Trying to be honest. It’s new for me. Give it time.”
Hannah huffed a laugh. “That might be worse.”
She started down the porch steps anyway.
Garrett followed, falling into step beside her without crowding.
They made it half a block before Hannah’s phone buzzed.
Allie: Please tell me you are not making out with him against someone’s mailbox.
Hannah typed back with icy dignity.
Hannah: I am walking home like a responsible adult.
Allie: With Garrett?
Hannah: Unfortunately.
Allie: Responsible adult behavior is evolving.
Hannah snorted.
Garrett glanced over. “Everything okay?”
“No.”
“Is it about me?”
“Unfortunately.”
“There’s that word again.”
“It applies often.”
His grin flashed.
Then his own phone buzzed. He pulled it out, read the screen, and laughed under his breath.
“What?” Hannah asked.
He angled the screen away. “Nothing.”
“Graham.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“That means I absolutely want to know.”
He hesitated, then turned the phone.
Logan: seven minutes. respect.
Logan: also tuck says wells won and i need emotional confirmation.
Hannah stared.
Then she looked up at Garrett.
His expression was far too innocent.
“Do not answer that,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was considering my options.”
“Your options are silence or death.”
“Silence seems safer.”
“Smart.”
He slipped his phone back into his pocket.
They walked another few steps.
Then Hannah’s phone buzzed again.
This time it was not Allie.
She looked down.
Garrett Graham: best of five?
Hannah stopped.
Slowly, she turned to him.
Garrett stood beside her on the sidewalk, phone already tucked away, face arranged into the least innocent expression she had ever seen.
“You texted me from three feet away,” she said.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your responsible adult walk.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’ve heard that.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then, because she had apparently learned nothing tonight, Hannah looked down and typed.
Hannah Wells: you’re still losing.
Garrett’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He read it.
His smile spread slowly, bright and private and entirely too pleased.
Hannah started walking again before she could enjoy it too much.
Garrett caught up easily.
“Just for the record,” he said, “I’m really looking forward to the rematch.”
Hannah kept her eyes forward.
“No feelings, Graham.”
He was quiet for half a step.
Then he said, softer, “Right, Wellsy.”
She glanced at him despite herself.
The smile was still there, but smaller now. Less certain.
That should have been a relief.
It wasn’t.
Hannah bumped his shoulder with hers—quick, not gentle.
“Don’t pout,” she said.
“I don’t pout.”
“You absolutely pout.”
“I’m reflecting.”
“On your loss?”
“On my strategy.”
“For losing again?”
Garrett’s smile came back.
“Careful, Wells,” he said. “You’re starting to sound excited.”
Hannah tucked her phone into her pocket and kept walking.
The cold air bit at her cheeks. The house party faded behind them. Garrett’s shoulder brushed hers once, then again, and neither of them moved away.
“I’m starting,” she said, “to think you need humbling on a regular basis.”
Garrett laughed, low and warm beside her.
And Hannah, who was absolutely not interested in arrogant hockey players with soft mouths and worse timing, did not smile.
Not much, anyway.