2:47 AM and Garrett stood in the middle of his room, barefoot on the cool hardwood, wearing nothing but black sweatpants and a black thermal shirt. His bicep flexed as he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to stifle a tired grin.

You were a beautiful mess.

Piña coladas had hit you hard tonight—several of them. The victory party after the game had been chaotic, but now it was just the two of you, the rest of the world shut out behind his door. Garrett had been trying for the last ten minutes to get you into your pajamas so you could finally crash. Key word: trying.

“Babe, c’mon,” he murmured, with that mix of amusement and affection he only ever let you hear. “Arms up. Let’s get this shirt off before you face-plant.”

You giggled instead, letting your hands roam freely over him as he tried to help you, fingertips tracing the hard ridges of his abs, sliding up to his chest, then down his arms like you couldn’t decide where you wanted to touch most. Each brush of your skin against his sent heat licking down his spine, straight to his groin. His body reacted instantly, the way it always did with you, but he kept his jaw locked and his hands gentle.

A year together—stealing kisses that turned into heated make-out sessions on this very bed, hands wandering under clothes, breaths mingling—but you hadn’t gone all the way. He’d never pushed. Not when every second with you felt worth savoring, like the best kind of slow burn on the ice before a perfect shot.

Tonight, though? With the alcohol loosening your laughter and making your touches bolder, the temptation was a living thing under his skin.

You tugged at the hem of his thermal, trying to pull it up, pressing a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss to the center of his chest. He tasted the sweetness on your tongue when your lips found his a second later—rum, pineapple, and that familiar flavor that was purely you. Your body melted against his, hips pressing forward in a way that made his sweatpants feel way too tight.

“G…” you whispered between kisses, voice breathy and needy. Your fingers dipped lower, tracing the waistband of his pants.

Fuck. The sound of his name like that in your mouth nearly broke him.

He caught your wandering hands gently, lacing his fingers with yours. His gray eyes searched your face in the low light—flushed cheeks, heavy-lidded gaze, that sweet, drunk smile. He wanted you. Badly. Had wanted you for months. The fantasy of sinking into you, of hearing you moan his name for real while he took his time, played on repeat in the back of his mind every night he left your room hard and frustrated.

But not like this.

Garrett exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead to yours. “Easy, baby,” he said softly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips even as he fought the ache. “You’re drunk off your ass right now. Those piña coladas did a number on you.” He brushed a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering on your cheek. “I’m not gonna be that guy. Not ever. When we do this—when I finally get to have all of you—I want you stone-cold sober. I want you to remember every second. Want you to look at me and know exactly what you’re choosing.”

You pouted and tried to kiss him again. He let you for a moment, savoring the taste, the way your tongue teased his, before pulling back with a low groan.

He managed to wrestle your shirt off eventually, replacing it with one of his old Briar Hockey tees. The fabric fell soft over your curves, and he let his hands linger just a second longer than necessary as he smoothed it down your sides. His palms skimmed your waist before he forced them to behave and helped you into the matching shorts.

You laughed again, arms wrapping around his neck. “But I want you,” you mumbled against his skin, honest in that drunk, unguarded way. “Been wanting you forever, G…”

He hugged you close, one big hand cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “I know. Me too. Trust me, baby, me too.” His voice dropped, sincere and a little thick. “But we’ve got time. All the time you need. I’m not going anywhere."