It had started in the summer.

That was the excuse, anyway.

Summer at Briar had felt temporary enough to make bad ideas seem harmless. The campus was quieter, the hockey house was less crowded, and everything had that loose, sun-warmed feeling of something that did not have to mean anything if you didn’t want it to.

Garrett Graham had been supposed to be easy.

A hook-up. A bad habit. A very attractive mistake with gray eyes, a cocky mouth, and a black Jeep that always seemed to be parked somewhere near where you were.

At first, it had been exactly that.

You and Garrett after parties. You and Garrett in his room, trying not to moan too loudly because one of the guys was definitely still awake down the hall. You and Garrett in your room, where he always complained about your pillows and then somehow ended up staying until morning anyway. You and Garrett in the backseat of his Jeep once (okay, twice), windows fogged and music low.

It should have stayed simple.

Except Garrett lingered.

That was the part you noticed, eventually.

He talked after.

Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes for two hours.

He remembered stupid things you said when you were half-asleep. He bought you coffee once without asking how you took it. He started driving you places even when it was out of his way. He texted you during the day, not just at night. He came over once after practice just because you said you were having a bad afternoon, and he’d acted like it was nothing, like showing up with takeout and that stupid grin of his was normal casual-hook-up behaviour.

It wasn’t.

And then there were the accidents.

Your mother meeting him in your kitchen one morning because Garrett had stayed over and wandered out shirtless, half-asleep, asking where you kept the coffee.

Your father opening the front door another time to find Garrett standing there with your bag over one shoulder and your keys in his hand because you had forgotten them in his Jeep.

Garrett, somehow, charming them both within five minutes.

You had told yourself not to think about that too much.

You told yourself a lot of things.

Now it was nearly eleven at night, and the hockey house was full of people again.

Downstairs, the party was in full swing, music thudding through the floor, someone shouting over a game of beer pong, Logan’s laugh carrying through the walls, girls moving in and out of the kitchen, Dean probably flirting with someone.

But upstairs, Garrett’s room was dimmer.

His hockey hoodie was thrown over the desk chair. A pair of skates sat near the closet. Textbooks were stacked badly on his desk, most of them unopened. His bed was unmade beneath you.

You were wearing his shirt.

That was another thing that probably should have meant nothing.

It was soft, dark, too big on you, slipping slightly off one shoulder as you sat straddling his lap, your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. Your hair was a little messy, your lips warm from kissing him, your cheeks flushed in a way that had less to do with alcohol and more to do with the fact that Garrett Graham kept looking at you like that.

Like he was amused.

Like he was hungry.

Like he was trying to figure out whether he was allowed to want more than he had already taken.

You were bubbly tonight. Happy in a way that made everything feel lighter. You kept laughing into his mouth, teasing him between kisses, stealing the warmth from his hands when they settled at your waist. Garrett kept smiling against your lips like he couldn’t help himself, like every small sound you made was doing something dangerous to him.

His hands slid over the fabric of his shirt at your hips. Yours curved around the back of his neck. Downstairs, the party roared on without you.

Then Garrett pulled back.

Not far. Just enough to look at you.

His gray eyes moved over your face, the teasing edge of his smile was still there, but something underneath it had shifted.

You noticed immediately.

“What?” you asked, still smiling a little.

“What are we doing?” he asked.