Chapter Text
Garrett woke at 6:15 a.m. sharp. Not because he had to. There were no practices waiting for him anymore. No conditioning drills. No assistant coach armed with a whistle loud enough to wake the dead.
Retirement had arrived years ago. His body remained deeply unconvinced.
The habit lived somewhere beneath muscle and bone now, stitched into him by decades of repetition.
Beside him, Hannah sighed softly in her sleep.
Garrett turned beneath the sheets and gathered her closer without thinking. She settled against him immediately, a sleepy hum vibrating against his chest.
Just like that, waking up early stopped feeling like a punishment.
Summer drifted through the cracked bedroom windows, warm and fragrant. Hannah's skin remained cool from sleep, her bare legs tangled unapologetically with his beneath the sheets.
His wife had stolen most of the blanket. Again.
The corner of Garrett's mouth twitched. His lower lip disappeared briefly between his teeth before the smile finally won. Some battles simply weren't worth fighting.
Her hair spilled across his chest in dark, tangled waves. Jasmine shampoo and expensive vanilla lotion clung faintly to the strands.
The lotion was ridiculous. He bought it for her anyway.
Garrett buried his face against her neck and breathed her in. God, he loved this woman. Not in the dramatic way movies insisted love should feel. No fireworks. No grand declarations. Just something steady and enduring, built from years of inside jokes, shared grief, grocery lists, and debates over thermostat settings.
Something strong enough to survive ordinary life.
Hannah shifted in her sleep, dragging a thigh across his hip as though determined to keep him trapped there forever. He would've happily accepted his fate.
Then came the footsteps. Tiny. Determined.
Garrett opened one eye. Right on schedule. The bedroom door creaked open. A small halo of curls appeared first.
"Daddy?" came a conspiratorial whisper.
Garrett snorted softly. "C'mere, G."
Gigi brightened instantly and charged forward with all the restraint of a runaway train. Years of experience saved Hannah's ribs as Garrett caught their daughter mid-launch and hauled her into his lap.
"Mommy sleeping?" she whispered loudly.
"Very loudly," Garrett whispered back.
Gigi's eyes widened. "She's snoring?"
"I heard that," Hannah mumbled into her pillow.
Garrett's smile returned. "Terrifying," he informed their daughter gravely.
Gigi dissolved into giggles. The mattress bounced dangerously.
Mornings used to begin with bruises, protein shakes, and game footage. Now they began like this. Garrett preferred this. By a considerable margin.
"C'mon, bug," he murmured, lifting her into his arms. "Let's let your brother keep Mommy company."
As though summoned by prophecy, Wyatt rolled toward the empty space Garrett left behind. Half-asleep, he tucked himself against Hannah's chest with impressive precision.
Traitor.
Garrett watched Hannah curl instinctively around their son without ever waking. Something deep inside him softened. His whole heart existed outside his body these days. A deeply inconvenient arrangement, if he was being honest.
Downstairs, Gigi narrated her morning while Garrett made pancakes. She did not speak. She narrated.
Apparently Coach Riley had smiled at Emma three times yesterday and only smiled at her once. This was, according to Gigi, deeply suspicious.
One boy at practice smelled weird.
Another had stolen her favorite puck.
And her skate laces were "being mean again."
Garrett listened with the concentration of a man receiving classified intelligence. "The laces are being mean?" he asked.
"Very mean."
"Did they do something hurtful?"
Gigi nodded gravely. "They got untied twice."
Garrett hummed. "That does sound personal."
She sat cross-legged on the counter in one of her oldest sweatshirts, fabric softened with time, her curls escaping in every direction while she explained the many injustices of youth hockey.
Beside her, Garrett packed her gear bag as the pancake cooked.
Tiny skates. Tiny gloves. Extra tape. A water bottle covered in crooked stickers.
The sight still caught him off guard sometimes. Not because she played hockey. Because she loved it. Nobody had pushed her toward the rink. Nobody had handed her a stick and expected greatness.
She simply loved the speed of it. The ice. The noise. The feeling of moving faster than her own thoughts.
Years ago, Garrett had promised himself that if his children ever played hockey, it would be their choice. Not his. Not because of his name. Not because somebody expected them to follow.
Their choice. Always.
"Daddy?"
"Hm?"
Gigi swung her legs. "You think I can get a goal today?"
Garrett glanced over.
Bedhead curls. Missing front tooth. Complete faith. The kind only children carried.
He crossed the kitchen and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I think you're gonna make the other team work very hard today."
Gigi brightened instantly. Apparently that was even better.
The kitchen doorway creaked. Garrett looked up as his heart did its usual embarrassing thing.
Hannah stood there balancing Wyatt against her shoulder, both of them equally asleep.
Her hair was piled into a chaotic knot that looked seconds from collapse. One of Garrett's old Briar jerseys hung off her shoulder, exposing a narrow strip of skin along her collarbone.
Wyatt blinked at him.
Hannah blinked at him.
Neither appeared fully operational.
"Morning," Hannah rasped.
Garrett was already reaching for the coffee.
Milk.
Two sugars.
The ridiculous pink mug with ALLIE'S BFF painted across the front in cheerful purple script, which she had carried with her through the years from her time at Briar.
He handed it over.
Hannah accepted it with visible gratitude. "I love you," she sighed.
Garrett leaned against the counter. "I always knew it was my personality."
"No," Hannah said after a sip. "It was definitely the coffee."
Gigi cackled. Garrett pressed a hand against his chest. "The disrespect in this house is unbelievable."
"You'll recover."
Then Hannah paused. Her eyes narrowed slightly over the rim of the mug.
"You used almond milk."
Garrett shrugged and turned back toward the stove. "You usually use oat milk," Garrett said simply. "But you seemed to love the almond milk at that café last week. You asked three questions about it and looked genuinely shocked when they told you what it was."
Hannah stared at him for a moment.
Garrett shrugged. "Figured it was worth trying."
Then, after a beat: "So? Is it any good?"
Behind him, he heard her smile. "Mhm."
Most people remembered Garrett Graham the hockey player. The captain. The defenseman. The guy opponents hated playing against. Hannah remembered the man who had memorized her coffee order fifteen years ago and never once forgotten it.
By the time Garrett loaded both kids into the truck, the morning had descended into its usual level of chaos.
"Daddy, Wyatt touched my tape."
"It was falling off your bag."
"I was saving it."
"It was on the floor." Wyatt looked exhausted.
"Daddy."
"Yeah, buddy?"
"I think Gigi makes up rules."
"I do not."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You made one yesterday."
Gigi pointed dramatically. "That was strategy."
Garrett closed the truck door before the debate could evolve into legislation. The argument continued anyway. It lasted the entire drive to the rink. Garrett drove with one hand resting on the wheel while the twins prosecuted each other from the backseat.
Sometimes his life still felt vaguely surreal. Years ago, mornings meant reporters, game footage, and arena parking garages. Now there were cracker crumbs buried in the upholstery and a pink hockey stick permanently rolling around his trunk.
He wouldn't have traded either kid for all the arenas in the world.
By the time they reached the rink, Gigi was vibrating with excitement. "Daddy, watch me skate fast."
"That won't be difficult."
She pointed proudly at her skates. Neon-green laces.
Garrett raised an eyebrow. "Interesting choice."
"They make me faster."
"Scientifically?"
"Obviously."
Wyatt took Garrett's hand as they walked toward the doors. Still sleepy. Still serious.
"You okay, buddy?"
Wyatt nodded. "She woke me up."
"I said sorry."
"You yelled sorry."
"I was being nice."
Wyatt considered this. "I don't think that's how nice works."
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Forty minutes later, after locating missing gloves, fixing skate guards, solving three emergencies, and mediating four sibling disputes, Garrett finally escaped the rink with his dignity hanging by a thread.
The downtown Italian diner sat between a flower shop and an old bookstore, its warm brick walls and checkered flooring untouched by time.
The waitress behind the counter smiled the moment Garrett stepped through the door. "The usual?"
Garrett rested an elbow against the counter and returned the smile. "You know me too well, Maria."
"Honey, this diner knows your sandwich order by heart." She wasn't wrong.
Five minutes later, Garrett walked back outside carrying his favorite beef sandwich loaded with spicy giardiniera, Hannah's toasted everything-bagel breakfast sandwich, and two cannolis he fully intended to deny purchasing.
The drive home passed in comfortable silence. Warm summer air drifted through the open windows while Springsteen hummed softly through the speakers, the familiar music settling easily into the quiet morning.
For perhaps the hundredth time that day, Garrett found himself thinking how good this life felt. Not extraordinary. Not perfect. Just good in all the ways that mattered.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, the house felt noticeably calmer without the twins ricocheting through every available room.
Their abandoned breakfast plates remained near the sink, one tiny skate sock had somehow migrated into the hallway, and Hannah's music drifted faintly from upstairs.
Garrett followed it without thinking. Their bedroom door stood partially open. Garrett stopped in the doorway. Hannah hadn't noticed him.
A strand of hair sat wrapped around the curling iron while she sang softly along to whatever song was playing through her phone. She swayed absentmindedly as she waited, one bare foot tapping against the hardwood floor in time with the music. A few seconds later, she released the curl, gave it an approving nod, then raised the curling iron like a concert microphone and sang the next line directly into it, shoulders and hips moving with easy confidence.
Garrett felt the familiar wobble tug briefly at his mouth.
God, he loved her.
Not because she looked elegant when she got dressed.
Because beneath the awards, the talent, and the success, Hannah Wells remained completely willing to turn a curling iron into a microphone at eight-thirty in the morning.
After all these years, she could still knock the breath from his lungs without trying.
"Recording today?" he asked as he moved into the room making his presence known.
Hannah met his eyes through the mirror and smiled. "The string section finally stopped threatening mutiny." as she wrapped another strand around the curling iron.
"Proud of them." Garrett crossed the room and settled his hands at her waist, pulling her gently against him.
The movement felt automatic now, woven so thoroughly into daily life that neither of them ever seemed to think about it. He lowered his head to kiss her cheek.
"You smell like giardiniera," Hannah informed him as she set the curling rod away.
"That's masculinity."
"That's peppers."
Garrett's smile broke through slowly, the familiar wobble appearing before the real thing finally settled across his face.
He turned her gently toward him and puckered his lips in exaggerated expectation.
Hannah immediately mirrored him, pointing toward her freshly applied lipstick before he could get any ideas.
"Do you know how hard red lipstick is to maintain?"
Garrett considered that information with all the seriousness it deserved.
Then he slid one hand into her hair.
Hannah narrowed her eyes immediately.
"Garrett Graham—" Too late.
He kissed her anyway.
Warm and laughing and entirely unapologetic, because forty years old had apparently done nothing to improve his self-control. Hannah made an indignant sound before immediately melting against him, her fingers bunching lightly in his shirt.
When he finally pulled away, her lipstick was slightly smudged. "You menace."
"You're wearing that blouse in public," Garrett countered. "You started this."
Her laugh slipped out softly. Garrett's gaze traveled over her with deliberate appreciation. "Seriously, baby. You look way too good for me to let you leave."
Hannah snorted and shoved him lightly in the chest. "Oh my God, you're forty."
"And suffering."
The shove became slightly firmer. Garrett reacted with maximum dramatics, stumbling backward before collapsing across the bed with one hand pressed over his heart.
"Tell our children their father died bravely."
"You are impossible."
"And yet you're still obsessed with me."
Hannah rolled her eyes, though the smile never left her face as she turned back toward the mirror. While brushing out the section of hair Garrett had immediately ruined, she asked casually, "Plans today? Charity fair?"
The silence that followed lasted barely a second.
Hannah noticed it anyway. When she glanced up through the mirror, she immediately recognized the expression settling across Garrett's face.
His shoulders had tightened almost imperceptibly. His jaw looked a little firmer. His expression remained neutral, but she knew him too well to miss what sat beneath it.
Braced. Garrett never hated interviews themselves. He hated the invasion that came with them.
The assumptions people made. The entitlement disguised as curiosity. The strange expectation that pieces of him belonged to strangers simply because they wanted them.
After enough years, even breathing beneath a camera lens could begin to feel performative.
Still, there were causes important enough to outweigh the exhaustion. Children's hospitals. Cancer research. Organizations that provided legal aid, counseling, rehabilitation, and survivor resources for victims of sexual assault.
Years ago, Hannah had read about the foundation at their kitchen table and cried.
Garrett had agreed to support it without hesitation. The memory still caught her off guard sometimes.
Crossing the room quietly, she stepped between his knees. Garrett looked up. There were no jokes now. No teasing. No performance. Just the two of them.
Hannah leaned forward until their noses brushed lightly together, her fingers finding the lapels of his shirt.
"If you promise to wear a black suit," she whispered, brushing her lips softly against his, "I'll be there."
Garrett blinked. The tension eased almost immediately. His shoulders relaxed. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Baby," he murmured, drawing her closer again, "by now you should know I'd wear medieval armor if you asked nicely."
Then Hannah entered into the room while fastening one of her earrings, and Garrett genuinely forgot what he had been thinking about.
Jesus Christ.
The butter-yellow dress fit her like sunlight woven into silk, skimming her body in elegant lines that somehow looked effortless despite clearly being anything but. The color made her glow against the darker tones of the room, warm and luminous enough to pull every eye in her direction.
And those shoes. Those ridiculous black patent heels with delicate ankle straps somehow short-circuited Garrett's brain faster than seeing her naked ever had.
Because this wasn't accidental. This was Hannah Wellsy Graham fully aware she looked devastating and entirely unbothered by the consequences.
Her sleek hair brushed her shoulders perfectly, dark sunglasses rested atop her head, and she checked her lipstick using her phone camera with practiced concentration.
Garrett remained openly staring from the doorway while adjusting his cufflinks.
Hannah slowly lowered her phone. "Oh no," she sighed. "That face means you're about to become embarrassing in public."
"Baby," Garrett said as he crossed the room immediately, "I haven't even started."
A laugh slipped from her before his hands found her waist, fingers spreading possessively across the fitted fabric as though the movement lived somewhere deeper than conscious thought.
The black suit should have made him look severe. Instead, it made him look like every morally questionable billionaire in romance novels Hannah claimed not
to read.
Broad shoulders filled the tailored jacket perfectly, his black shirt and loosened tie adding just enough disorder to feel dangerous. His dark hair had already escaped whatever effort he'd made to tame it, leaving several unruly waves falling across his forehead.
Unfortunately, Garrett seemed fully aware of the effect.
"Stop looking at me like that," Hannah informed him.
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to get me pregnant again."
Garrett nearly choked laughing. "Hannah."
"You started it."
The grin that spread across his face arrived slowly, beginning with that familiar wobble at the corner of his mouth before settling into something dangerously pleased.
Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice beside her ear. "You wore yellow knowing I'd completely lose my mind."
Hannah rolled her eyes. She leaned into him anyway.
The moment they stepped from the car, camera flashes exploded across the evening like summer lightning. Garrett's posture changed almost immediately. Not colder. Sharper.
One hand settled at Hannah's lower back while the other hovered near her arm, guiding her through the crowd with the quiet confidence of pure instinct.
Questions flew at them from every direction while photographers shouted for attention. Garrett ignored most of them with practiced ease, steering Hannah toward the entrance while keeping his hand anchored firmly against her waist.
His thumb brushed occasionally across the bare skin of her forearm, absentminded and reassuring all at once.
The charity gala occupied one of those absurd downtown hotels where everything smelled faintly of white lilies and inherited wealth.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, golden light spilled across polished marble floors, and men in tailored suits pretended not to know exactly how expensive their watches looked.
Garrett had never cared much for places like this. The luxury wasn't the problem. The crowd was. Too many cameras, too many strangers, and too many people convinced they were entitled to pieces of him.
Inside, the ballroom softened into jazz music, crystal chandeliers, and champagne that probably cost more than Garrett's first hockey paycheck. The atmosphere loosened something inside him. Not much. Just enough.
For the rest of the evening, Hannah drifted between donors, musicians, organizers, and old acquaintances while Garrett remained orbitally attached to her in ways subtle enough to escape notice.
The funny thing was that Garrett wasn't actually clingy. He simply moved through every room as though Hannah occupied his internal compass.
If some charming finance executive laughed a little too hard at one of her jokes, Garrett appeared almost immediately. A hand would settle at her waist. A kiss would find her temple. Then he'd murmur, "Stealing my wife for a second."
Every time. Without fail. Like breathing. Like muscle memory.
At one point Hannah spotted him across the ballroom speaking with one of the event organizers. The sight nearly ruined her. Garrett stood with one hand tucked into his pocket while the other cradled a glass of whiskey sour- on the rocks (Hannah knows full well he would have flashed a charming smile to coax the bartender to make a drink that doesn't exist), listening with the focused attentiveness that had made people trust him his entire life.
Leadership sat in his bones. Even standing still, he looked like the person everyone would instinctively follow during an emergency.
Then he glanced across the room. Found her immediately. And the expression on his face softened so visibly that Hannah felt something ache beneath her ribs.
There you are. That was what the look always said. Always you.
Later, after speeches, auctions, and enough networking to qualify as psychological warfare, they finally escaped the ballroom. The moment the hotel doors opened, the carefully controlled evening dissolved into chaos.
Photographers surged forward from every direction, camera flashes exploding beneath the hotel awning while overlapping questions collided into an incomprehensible wall of noise.
The crowd moved too quickly, too closely, and with far too little regard for personal space.
Hannah instinctively slowed when several photographers crowded toward her simultaneously, bright flashes detonating directly across her field of vision.
Garrett reacted before she could even process what was happening around them. One moment he stood beside her, and the next he occupied the space between Hannah and the crowd. His arm wrapped securely around her while his shoulders absorbed the movement pressing toward them from every direction.
"Easy," he said sharply.
He never raised his voice. He never needed to. Something in his tone carried the effortless authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Several photographers stepped backward immediately.
Another camera appeared inches from Hannah's face, the lens practically brushing her shoulder. Garrett shifted without hesitation, guiding Hannah fully behind him while creating distance with surprising precision.
"Guys," he said again, controlled steel threading calmly through every syllable. "Back up."
Hannah saw it then. Not anger. Not irritation. Instinct. The same instinct that once sent him across the ice without thinking whenever teammates needed protection.
One hand remained anchored securely against her arm throughout the entire walk toward the vehicle. The contact never felt possessive. It felt grounding. Steady. Reassuring.
As though some part of Garrett needed confirmation that she remained safely beside him.
The valet hurried forward and opened the limousine door while Garrett guided Hannah toward it.
As she ducked inside, his hand automatically hovered above her head, shielding her from the doorframe despite decades of evidence suggesting she could enter a vehicle unassisted.
Only after she had settled safely inside did Garrett turn back toward the photographers. He remained composed, polite, and frustratingly handsome beneath the relentless flashes surrounding him. The black suit broadened his frame even further, making him look impossibly imposing against the crowd.
"Have a good night," he said evenly before climbing inside and shutting the door behind him.
Silence descended instantly. Blessed, glorious silence. City lights blurred beyond the windows while the driver pulled smoothly away from the curb.
Garrett leaned back against the seat and exhaled slowly through his nose. Adrenaline still clung stubbornly to him. His jaw remained slightly tight. His loosened tie sat crooked against his collar. One large hand flexed unconsciously against his knee as though releasing leftover tension.
Hannah watched him carefully for exactly three seconds before abandoning her own seat entirely.
Garrett blinked when she climbed directly into his lap. "Baby—"
"Do you know how attractive you were back there?" she interrupted while settling comfortably against him.
One eyebrow lifted slowly. "I was preventing a future assault charge."
"You were moving photographers around like somebody's morally complicated bodyguard."
Garrett barked out a surprised laugh. His hands settled automatically against her thighs before he seemed to realize they had moved.
"Hannah."
"I'm serious."
She adjusted his tie while speaking, smoothing the fabric flat before brushing invisible lint from his lapel. "The suit wasn't helping," she continued. "Neither was the voice."
"The voice?"
"The one that makes grown adults remember appointments they forgot three months ago."
His mouth twitched. The familiar wobble appeared briefly before the smile finally settled across his face. "You are completely insane."
"You married me willingly."
"Allegedly." Hannah grinned before sliding her fingers through the slightly disheveled waves near his temple.
The gesture softened something inside him almost immediately. His shoulders lowered. His jaw unclenched. The tension bled away beneath her touch with quiet inevitability. That was the thing about Hannah. She could pull Garrett back toward himself without even realizing she was doing it.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
Garrett studied her for a moment before nodding once. "Yeah," he admitted honestly, his thumb brushing slowly along her bare thigh. "I am now."
The limousine rolled smoothly into the garage beneath the house while automatic lights flickered awake overhead. Garrett exhaled quietly, one hand still spread across Hannah's thigh where she remained curled comfortably against him.
Neither of them had moved very much during the drive home. Mostly because every attempt at conversation had somehow dissolved into distracted kisses instead. The first few had been slow. The later ones had been considerably less interested in patience.
At some point Hannah's lipstick had vanished entirely, leaving only a faint stain along Garrett's mouth.
His tie hung loose around his collar now, and several buttons seemed suspiciously determined to misbehave. A prominent wrinkle ran directly across the front of his dress shirt.
John maintained the professional composure of a man who deserved hazard pay.
The limousine settled into place with a gentle hum before the engine finally quieted. Silence lingered between them for a moment. Not awkward. Not uncertain. The sort of silence that arrived after twenty years of knowing exactly where you belonged.
Then Hannah smoothed one hand slowly across Garrett's chest and murmured, "Stay."
Garrett immediately lifted an eyebrow. That tone had never once led anywhere innocent throughout their entire marriage. Still, he remained exactly where he was while Hannah slipped gracefully from his lap.
Warm night air drifted briefly into the vehicle when she opened the door. Garrett watched her walk around the limousine, unable to stop himself from staring. The yellow dress caught softly beneath the garage lighting while those ridiculous little heels clicked steadily against the concrete.
Jesus Christ.
Those shoes had been personally attacking him all evening. Hannah leaned toward the driver's window and smiled sweetly.
"Thanks, John. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Graham." John sounded entirely too composed for somebody who had spent forty minutes pretending deafness.
Then Hannah waved him away casually as though she wasn't actively testing her husband's remaining self-control.
Garrett watched the interaction with growing suspicion. That smile looked familiar. Dangerously familiar. The garage door rumbled shut behind the departing driver, sealing the space in comfortable quiet.
Suddenly the entire world felt smaller. Quieter. More intimate.
Garrett glanced toward the open door just in time to see Hannah climb back inside. She closed the door carefully behind her. The soft click sounded disproportionately loud.
His eyes narrowed immediately. "Baby."
She didn't answer. Instead, she reached forward and raised the privacy divider separating the passenger compartment from the driver. The tinted partition slid smoothly into place.
Garrett stared. Then he stared harder. The wobble appeared briefly at the corner of his mouth before amusement won completely.
"Hannah." Still no answer.
Air conditioning drifted coolly through the cabin while the lingering summer heat remained trapped beneath their skin.
Then familiar music flooded softly through the speakers. Garrett froze. His eyes widened. "No fucking way."
Across from him, Hannah bit the inside of her cheek in a losing battle against laughter. "Oh, absolutely yes."
Garrett dropped his head briefly before looking back up in disbelief.
The opening notes of Bed on Fire filled the limousine.
"Baby," he said slowly, already laughing, "that happened one time."
Hannah slid comfortably across the leather seat, closing the distance between them with deliberate patience. "One deeply formative time."
"You bullied me for that playlist."
"I remember things that matter."
Garrett shook his head. His smile widened despite himself. "You spent six months making fun of me."
"And yet," Hannah said smugly, reaching forward to straighten a section of his already ruined tie, "it worked."
Her fingertips lingered briefly against his collar. The gesture lasted less than a second. Garrett felt every moment of it. Of course she knew exactly what she was doing. Hannah had spent two decades learning every weakness he possessed. The truly unfair part was how much she enjoyed using that knowledge against him. She turned toward him at the same moment he leaned in. Their mouths crashed together, wet and sloppy, tongues sliding deep. Spit slicked her lower lip as he sucked on it, then bit down just hard enough to make her whimper into his mouth. Her hands roamed without direction—one sliding up under his shirt to rake nails across his chest, the other palming the hard bulge in his slacks.
Garrett groaned against her lips and let his hands wander between her thighs, cupping her pussy through soaked panties. He rubbed the heel of his palm in tight circles until the fabric clung to her folds. Hannah bucked against his touch, breath coming in short, shaky gasps.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he muttered, voice rough. He yanked the panties aside and feather-light barely-there touches that had her whimpering for a second before a demanding growl slipped out of her parted lips coaxing him to push two fingers straight into her cunt, pumping them fast. Wet sounds filled the car as he finger-fucked her, thumb grinding against her clit with every thrust. Hannah’s head fell back against the seat, a broken moan spilling out while her hips rolled to meet him.
She fumbled with his zipper, finally freeing his cock. It sprang out hot and heavy, the head already leaking. Hannah wrapped her fingers around the thick shaft and stroked him in time with the fingers buried inside her. Precum smeared across her palm as she worked him faster.
Garrett pulled his fingers free, shiny with her arousal, and sucked them clean before grabbing her by the hips. “Over the console. Now.”
Hannah climbed across without hesitation, dress bunched around her waist, ass presented. Garrett shoved her panties down to her knees and lined up behind her. He didn’t ease in—he drove his cock into her pussy in one hard thrust with the urgency of a man who had watched his wife strut around the whole evening, bottoming out so his hips slapped against her ass. Hannah cried out, the sound echoing inside the car.
He set a brutal pace, pounding into her so the whole vehicle rocked. One hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise while the other reached up, fisted her hair, and yanked her head back. “Look,” he growled, forcing her gaze toward the rear-view mirror.
"Hi, baby." he whispered against her skin hers glassy, as their eyes met in the reflection-hers glassy, mouth open, his dark and hungry.
“Watch yourself getting fucked,” he ordered, pulling her hair tighter. Hannah’s pussy clenched around him at the command. She moaned louder, watching her own flushed face bounce with every thrust. Garrett leaned over her back, teeth sinking into the side of her neck, sucking hard until a dark hickey bloomed. He didn’t stop there—another mark lower, then one just above her collarbone, each one drawn out with a wet suck and a low groan.
His cock dragged along her walls with every stroke, thick and relentless. Hannah’s hands scrabbled for purchase on the dashboard as he railed her, whimpers turning into desperate, broken sounds. Garrett’s free hand wandered again, sliding under her dress to grope her tits, pinching her nipples through the thin bra until she jerked and gasped.
"You have no idea what you do to me." he said while sprinkling kisses over the exposed skin of her shoulder as he kept her hair pulled tight, making her watch every filthy detail in the mirror—the way her tits shook, the way her mouth hung open, the way his cock disappeared into her again and again. Sweat slicked their skin. The car smelled like sex and the faint trace of the party still clinging to their clothes.
Garrett’s thrusts grew shorter, harder. He buried himself to the hilt and ground deep, hips rolling so his cock rubbed right against that spot inside her that made her legs shake. Hannah’s whimpers pitched higher. Her pussy fluttered and then clamped down hard as she came, a long, shaky moan tearing from her throat while she stared at her own reflection.
He didn’t pull out. Instead he kept fucking her through it, using her spasming cunt until his own orgasm hit. Garrett slammed in one last time, cock pulsing as he flooded her with thick ropes of cum. It leaked out around his shaft, dripping down her thighs onto the console. He stayed buried inside her, breathing hard, still holding her hair so she had no choice but to watch their reflection—married twenty years and still fucking like reckless twenty-year-olds in the garage.
"God, I love you." Not dramatic. Not a declaration. Just an exhausted, genuine admission that slips out because he can't help it.
Much later, the limousine door finally opened, and reality returned with remarkable cruelty.
Hannah climbed out carefully, pressing one hand dramatically against her lower back as she straightened. "Oh my God," she wheezed. "I think my spine just filed a formal complaint."
Garrett emerged behind her considerably slower than he had earlier that evening, looking equally betrayed by his own body. Every joint in his frame cracked audibly as he attempted to stand upright with dignity.
He froze halfway through the movement. "...Jesus Christ."
Hannah immediately dissolved into helpless laughter. "Did your knees just make a gunshot sound?"
Garrett straightened another inch and adjusted his loosened tie with wounded pride. "I'm athletic."
"You're forty."
"I'm an athletic forty."
"You sounded like bubble wrap."
The corner of Garrett's mouth twitched before the smile finally broke through. The two of them stood there for a moment looking thoroughly ruined by the evening.
Hannah stared at him for a moment before narrowing her eyes."...Garrett."
"Hm?"
"Why do you have my underwear in your pocket?"
Garrett blinked once before reaching slowly into his suit jacket. Sure enough. Bright yellow lace. He studied the evidence thoughtfully, turning it over once between his fingers.
Then he shrugged. "Souvenir."
Hannah nearly doubled over laughing.
"You are unbelievable."
"You seemed attached to them."
"I was physically attached to them, actually."
Garrett barked out a laugh so sudden and loud that it echoed throughout the garage. The sound bounced off concrete walls while Hannah leaned against the limousine for support.
Garrett looked at her then, properly looked at her, and felt something familiar settle warmly inside his chest. She stood before him disheveled and glowing, tears gathering in her eyes from laughing too hard. Worth it.
Every exhausting, chaotic, complicated second had been worth it. Even if tomorrow required ibuprofen and several strategic stretches before standing upright.
They eventually made their way upstairs, moving slower now and stopping constantly along the way. Every conversation became teasing. Every teasing remark became another excuse to linger.
At one point Hannah disappeared into the bathroom carrying earrings and emerged somehow missing one shoe. Garrett found it beneath a chair ten minutes later and received absolutely no gratitude.
The injustice haunted him deeply.
By the time they finished showering, brushing their teeth, and collecting discarded clothing from improbable locations, the house had settled completely into silence. The kind of silence that only existed after children were asleep and responsibilities had finally surrendered for the night.
When they eventually climbed into bed, Hannah immediately crossed the distance between them without hesitation. She curled against Garrett beneath the sheets with a contented sigh, one hand settling automatically against his chest. Even half-asleep, her fingertips traced absentminded patterns against his skin, the shape resembling a treble clef before drifting into something softer.
Garrett smiled and pulled her closer. She made a pleased humming sound before nestling further against him. The familiar weight of her settled comfortably along his side. Outside, the house remained quiet.
Inside, Hannah's breathing gradually slowed against his chest. Garrett reached toward the nightstand for his phone, careful not to disturb her. Some habits, after all, were impossible to break.
Notifications flooded Garrett's screen almost immediately, most of them originating from the Briar group chat. Garrett opened it with the caution of a man approaching an active crime scene.
Logan:
Whoever designed formal shoes deserves consequences.
I've been smiling through foot pain for six straight hours.
Dean:
I took the tie off twenty minutes ago.
My neck still thinks it's wearing it.
Logan:
That's because you insist on dressing like a billionaire attending his third divorce.
Dean:
The look has served me well.
Tucker responded with a sticker of Ross Geller in suit.
Logan:
Nobody who's voluntarily attended a charity auction should ever say that sentence.
Tucker reacted with a thumbs-up.
Dean:
Anyway.
Has anybody seen this?
A link appeared beneath the message.
No explanation. No joke. No unnecessary commentary. Just a link. Garrett frowned slightly. That alone was unusual enough to catch his attention. The thumbnail loaded slowly against the dark screen.
Toxic NHL Culture: The Untold Story
Garrett's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Not enough for concern. Just enough for pause.
Against his chest, Hannah stirred sleepily before tilting her head upward. "What is it?"
Garrett looked at the title for another moment before locking his phone. "Probably another sports documentary," he said, keeping his tone deliberately casual.
Hannah hummed softly. Garrett glanced down at the screen one final time before bookmarking the link. Just in case.
Then he placed the phone aside and reached automatically for Hannah again. She shifted closer without waking, one hand finding his shirt before curling loosely against his chest. Garrett smiled faintly and pressed a kiss against the top of her hair.
Hannah's breathing gradually slowed against him while the bookmarked documentary waited quietly in the dark. Patient. Unopened. And somehow already feeling important.
This is how i imagined them btw <3