Capital Hearts | B. Duhaime
Part of City Lights, Hockey Nights
"The real rulers in Washington are invisible, and exercise power from behind the scenes."
-> Felix Frankfurter
Request: "Hey!! I saw that u wanted to write for dewey(1) and I was wondering if you could do something like forced proximity for him and city lights hockey nights? Ty!!"
Summary: Guys in suits are boring until you get stuck with a man you just met, who somehow already infuriates you.
Word Count: 6.3k
Pairing: Brandon Duhaime x fem!reader
Warnings: alcohol, Brandon being an idiot
Notes:
- using the Minnesota tag to get more engagement sorry for ur loss of the deweys:(
- I re wrote this 3 times each with a new plot
- Third and final attempt came out pretty good
- I need more brandon love on this app pls he's so big and stupid
- I tried so hard to research stuff to do in Washington but it was all like museums so I didn't rlly know where to set this... sorry to my dc folk.
***
You don’t want to be here.
If the tight set of your jaw and the tension radiating down your spine didn’t already spell it out, then the way you keep tugging at the white corset your sister insisted you wear probably does. It’s way too tight, way too revealing for a night like this—or for a party you didn’t even agree to, for that matter. But that’s your sister for you: filthy rich (through marriage, of course), with a hyperactive streak that could put a Chihuahua to shame.
You, on the other hand, are her undeniable opposite. Quiet, reserved, and barely holding it together as you juggle your shaky job and a Dupont Circle studio apartment that’s one leaky faucet away from complete collapse. Your kitten heels click softly on the glossy marble floor of her mansion as you make your way to the bar, the only thing that could make this night slightly more tolerable. You pass clusters of people who look like they belong in an episode of Suits: men in expensive suits, women with expertly manicured nails and engagement rings the size of ping pong balls. Their wives hang on their arms like prized trophies, each one eyeing you suspiciously as you pass. Not that you blame them; they’re draped in silk and diamonds, and you’re just… well, here, silently begging for the night to end.
First, you note that your sister is nowhere to be found, probably lost in the crowd or holding court in some overly decorated lounge in a far wing of the mansion. And second, you’re the only single woman here. Fantastic.
Resigned, you steer yourself towards the bar. Maybe you can knock back one or two drinks, loosen up a bit, then duck out early. A bartender is stationed behind it, crafting some glittering cocktail for a guy in loafers who probably has “CEO” in his Instagram bio. Ignoring him, you give the bartender a tight smile. “Whiskey sour, please.”
You take the drink the second it’s handed over and cling to it like a lifeline. You take one sip, then another, wishing it would magically speed up time. The whiskey burns just enough to distract you from the corset, the music, the fact that your sister is mysteriously absent, and especially from the nagging feeling that everyone here knows you don’t belong.
And then, out of nowhere, a hand slides to the small of your back, lingering just a second too long. A smooth voice follows, practically dripping with charm: “Didn’t mean to startle you, sweetheart.”
Your grip on the glass tightens. “No problem.” You force a polite smile and shift your weight, inching away from the warmth of his hand still pressed against your lower back. He’s tall, wearing that slick, half-buttoned-down shirt that guys who think they’re God’s gift to women love so much. A self-satisfied grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, and you can already tell he thinks he’s smooth.
The guy flashes an infuriatingly perfect smile at the bartender, raising two fingers. “Vodka cranberry, extra lime.”
You swallow down a groan and take another sip, praying he’ll get his drink and go. But before you even have the chance to move, someone shoves him from behind. And, as if the universe had it out for you tonight, his drink goes flying—all over your white corset top.
You stare down at the cold, sticky mess on your chest, disbelief simmering into something dangerously close to rage.
“Oh, come on—” he starts, but you cut him off.
“You absolute creep,” you snap, finally unleashing everything you’ve been bottling up all night. “First of all, maybe consider asking before you just shove your hand on someone’s back, alright? And—sweetheart? Really? Am I supposed to be charmed by that?” Your voice is rising now, each word coming out sharper than the last. “And now, thanks to you, I look like I’ve been doused in whatever you just had to order. If you knew what it took to even get into this corset—”
He opens his mouth, probably to offer some half-baked apology, but you’re nowhere near done. “Do you know what this is made of? I don’t even want to think about the dry cleaning cost, and I sure as hell won’t be the one paying it, that’s for damn sure.”
The people around you have stopped to watch, wide-eyed and thoroughly entertained, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything, really—except getting out of here and leaving this whole mess behind.
“Forget it,” you huff, turning on your heel. “Stay out of my way, or you’re next in line to buy me a new corset.”
With every determined step, you push your way past gawking onlookers and eventually slip into a hallway that’s thankfully free of the high-society crowd. You finally locate a guest bathroom, quickly sliding in and closing the door behind you. When you catch your reflection, you feel like a walking horror story. A sticky, cranberry-stained horror story.
“Oh, perfect,” you mutter to yourself, turning on the sink and patting at the red blotches that now mar the crisp white of your corset with a towel. You grimace, rubbing at the mess, but the juice only seems to bleed deeper into the fabric. “Could this night get any worse?”
Just as the words leave your mouth, the door swings open, and he steps in. Again.
You freeze mid-rub, turning to face him. “Are you kidding me? Are you following me now?”
“Following you?” He raises an eyebrow, holding up his hands. “The door was unlocked. I just need to wash my hands.”
“Really?” you snap. “You decided to barge in here while I’m busy scrubbing your drink off my shirt because you need to wash your hands?”
“Look,” he says, his calmness somehow grating on your nerves even more, “I’m not here to apologize, okay? Every other bathroom is locked, and I thought I’d—”
“Thought you’d what?” You’re half-yelling again, voice bouncing off the tiled walls. “Thought you’d saunter into the bathroom I’m clearly using?”
His jaw tenses, but he manages a calm reply. “Can we take it down a notch, sweetheart?”
You feel a new wave of indignation. “Don’t call me that.”
He tilts his head, looking almost amused again. “Fine. I don’t even know your name, so I’ll call you whatever I want. Now, I’ll wash my hands and get out of your hair.” He steps toward the sink beside you, reaching for the tap—and when he’s done, just as he makes a move to leave, he tugs at the door handle, and it comes clean off in his hand.
For a beat, you both just stare at the detached handle, suspended in his grip as the realization dawns on you both. You meet his gaze, hoping he has some genius idea to fix this, but he just raises his brows, an “oops” written all over his face.
You let out an incredulous laugh, more like a wheeze, because of course this would happen tonight—of all nights, in your sister’s over-the-top mansion, complete with designer doorknobs that apparently cost a fortune but couldn’t be bothered to work. “Wow,” you mutter, crossing your arms as you try to swallow down the panic, “My sister marries into obscene wealth, but can she afford a door that doesn’t trap people in bathrooms? Apparently not.”
His eyebrows lift as he tries to follow your rant. “Look, it’s just a handle. Let’s not blow this out of proportion.”
Your eyes snap to his, heat flashing behind them. “Excuse me? You break the doorknob, I’m the one covered in vodka, and I’m supposed to ‘not blow it out of proportion’?”
He leans back slightly, hands raised as if he’s handling an untamed animal, and says, “Okay, I’m sorry. Really. Let’s just…think about this.” He pauses, probably gauging how likely you are to throw a punch. “Look, just breathe, alright?”
You take a sharp inhale, determined to hold on to your indignation. But when he reaches out, settling his hands on your shoulders to steady you, it jolts you from your thoughts. For a second, you consider chewing him out again for the contact, but the weight of his hands and his calm gaze are surprisingly grounding.
You stare up at him, chest heaving, but instead of firing off another biting comment, your mind goes curiously blank. Up close, his face is a mosaic of little details you hadn’t noticed before: a light dusting of freckles along his nose bridge, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, and hooded brown eyes that are… softer than they have any right to be. His mouth quirks just slightly, the hint of a dimple on one cheek. Damn it. He’s attractive. Very attractive.
He’s watching you with that same calm expression, waiting for you to snap out of whatever spiral he must think you’re in. “You good now?”
With an annoyed huff, you jerk out of his grip, crossing your arms tighter around yourself. “You broke the handle. Fix it.”
He sighs, rolling his eyes but still looking a bit amused, and gestures to your sister’s obviously high-end bathroom. “Right. So, call your sister and get us out of here?”
You scoff, letting out a dry laugh. “Sure, I’ll just reach right into my magically invisible pockets and—oh wait.” You point at the wall, to what you hope is the purse you left at the bar, then your outfit. “I don’t have my phone.”
He winces, looking slightly sheepish now. “Ah. That…is inconvenient.”
For a beat, he glances around, like maybe there’s a secret door out of here. Finally, he pulls his own phone from his pocket. “Fine. I’ll call someone.”
Before he even has the chance to dial, you decide he deserves at least a little payback. Without giving it a second thought, you shove him. Not hard—more of a frustrated, I’ll-show-you push. He doesn’t budge much, but it’s just enough that his phone slips out of his hand, sailing right into the toilet with a splash.
His mouth falls open, his gaze swinging from the toilet back to you, stunned silence hanging between you both. You feel a twisted sense of satisfaction—and then horror, because, okay, maybe that was a bit much.
You both stand there for a second in absolute silence. Then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as he looks at you, genuinely impressed. “Alright. That, you can’t blame me for, sweetheart.”
Your chest tightens, anger mixing with a fresh wave of embarrassment as you process what just happened. You stare at his drenched phone in the toilet, a silent moment of mutual disbelief hanging in the air. He’s looking at you with a blend of shock and something that might almost be… amusement? But there’s no way you’re going to let him see how mortified you are.
“Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed tonight,” you snap, your voice trembling more with frustration than anything else. You take a step back, clutching your soaked corset, which is becoming colder and stickier by the second. “Now we’re trapped in a bathroom with no working phone, no handle, and… no sense of personal boundaries, apparently.”
He chuckles, a low, maddening sound that only fuels the fire simmering in your veins. “Alright, alright,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I get it. But yelling isn’t going to change anything. With the music blasting and us being this far from the main crowd, no one’s going to hear you.”
You whip your head toward him, a surge of determination rising. “Oh, believe me, they’re going to hear me.”
You turn to the door and start pounding, your fist making a satisfying thud against the wood. “Help!” you yell, leaning into each desperate, furious knock. “Hey! Anyone out there? I need to get out of here!”
For a moment, you pause, hoping you’ll hear footsteps, voices—anything. But nothing. Just the muffled thump of bass that drowns out any sound of your pleas for help. You cast a scathing look over your shoulder at him, your jaw set, and nod toward his broad shoulders and impressively muscular frame. “Well, if we’re so far away, why don’t you try breaking it down?”
He blinks, taken aback, and glances down at his own physique as if he’s only just realized he could, in theory, be of some use. “Oh, so now you’re okay with me helping?” he drawls, but there’s a hint of a smirk beneath his words.
You glare at him, crossing your arms as your anger and frustration continue to simmer. “I didn’t ask for your company, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for your ‘help,’ but if you’re going to be here, you may as well make yourself useful.”
A little laugh escapes him, and he runs a hand through his hair, glancing from you to the door. “Alright, but I’m telling you, these doors are practically steel. This house is built like a fortress.”
“Then use those muscles for something other than looking pretty,” you snap, giving him an unamused, expectant look. You motion toward the door. “Go on. You’re not scared of a little bruise, are you?”
For a second, he only stares at you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t realize you’d be so feisty,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
The comment makes you bristle, and you don’t miss a beat. “Just break the damn door already.”
With a sigh, he steps back, rolls his shoulders, and sizes up the door, as though weighing his options. Then he plants his feet, braces himself, and slams a shoulder into the wood. The door doesn’t budge. He frowns, readjusts, and tries again, harder this time. There’s a faint creak, but it’s clear this isn’t going to be an easy fix.
He pulls back, panting just slightly. “Alright, your sister might’ve cheaped out on the doorknob, but she sure didn’t on the door.”
You’re so close to snapping. “Seriously? You’re not even trying! Are you really telling me you can’t break a single door?”
“Hey, it’s not like they’re easy to break,” he snaps back, irritation finally flashing in his eyes. “Why don’t you give it a shot?”
You stare at him, caught between exasperation and sheer, unfiltered fury. “If I had a sledgehammer, I would.”
For a moment, the two of you just stand there, glaring each other down, your breathing shallow as you try to keep the rage under control. He lets out a long, low sigh, shaking his head, and for a moment, you think he’s about to try again, but instead, he outreaches his hand. “I’m Brandon, by the way.”
You stare at his outstretched hand as if it’s some kind of personal insult, narrowing your eyes. “Good for you, Brandon,” you snap, crossing your arms again and turning away, leaving him hanging. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—annoyance, maybe? Or maybe amusement, like he’s found this little spat between you far too entertaining. Either way, he lets his hand drop and shrugs, sinking down to sit against the vanity across from you.
Silence settles over the room, thick and heavy, and you feel the urge to fidget as you sit down, leaning back against the marble back wall. The cranberry juice is starting to feel tacky on your skin, and the corset is becoming more constricting by the second. You glance over at him—Brandon—just to see what he’s doing, but he’s absorbed in his own world.
He’s got his head tilted back while sitting, legs stretched out as he drums his fingers on his knee. Every now and then, he reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, which is already sticking up in a dozen different directions from all the tugging. You find yourself studying him intently, and it’s infuriatingly distracting. The way he rolls his shoulders, almost like he’s trying to get comfortable but can’t, or the way his eyes dart around the room as if he’s looking for something to amuse himself. Anything, it seems, except looking at you.
Minutes crawl by. The silence digs under your skin, irritating you in a way you can’t ignore. Your mind whirls with a thousand things you want to say but don’t dare to. You try your best to hold on to that simmering anger, but the longer you sit in silence, the more it starts to fade, replaced with an almost embarrassing sense of curiosity.
Finally, it gets to be too much.
“Alright, fine,” you burst out, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You nearly cringe at your own voice, already regretting breaking the quiet. But now, he’s looking at you, brow raised, a hint of a smirk pulling at his lips.
“Thought you’d never say something,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. He shifts slightly, turning to face you. “I was starting to wonder if you’d rather sit here all night sulking in silence.”
You scoff, crossing your arms tighter. “If the alternative is talking to you, maybe I would,” you mutter, half to yourself.
He chuckles, low and warm. “Ouch.” He tilts his head, eyeing you with that same teasing glint in his eyes. “What, you wanna play 20 questions? Like we’re in high school?” He asks it with a smirk, clearly expecting you to shut him down.
But, surprising even yourself, you shrug, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Sure. Why not?”
He raises an eyebrow, and you catch the brief flicker of surprise on his face before he turns it back into that easy confidence. “Wow, okay. Didn’t think you’d actually go for it,” he says, settling in a little more as he runs a hand through his hair again, which by now looks thoroughly disheveled. “Alright, I’ll go first. What’s your favorite color?”
You glance at him, mildly horrified. “Are you serious? Is that really your first question?”
He grins, looking far too pleased with himself. “Hey, I thought we were playing the high school version. That’s a classic.”
With a reluctant sigh, you roll your eyes. “Fine. Blue.” You pause, but curiosity gets the best of you, and you add, “Like, actual blue, not some fancy ‘cerulean’ or whatever my sister would call it.” He snorts at that, and you almost smile—almost.
“Alright, your turn,” he prompts, leaning forward with genuine interest.
“Alright… let’s see.” You tap your finger against your arm, thinking, before deciding to go for it. “Why did you even come to this party? Don’t tell me it’s because you actually enjoy mingling with these people.”
He laughs, leaning back again, looking vaguely sheepish. “Truth? I was told it was like a ‘team event’, but when I got here, it was just all rich guys in suits, investors or something, and most of my teammates are here with their girlfriends so I don’t really have anyone to talk to,” He probes your expression of confusion for a moment before continuing, “I play hockey for the Capitals. Here, in D.C.”
Your brain nearly short-circuits at his words. He’s a professional athlete? Of course, he is. It would explain the confidence, the sharp cheekbones, the way he fills out that half-unbuttoned shirt. You blink a few times, trying to process this new information, but all you can manage is a half-disbelieving laugh.
“Hockey? Really?” you ask, doing your best to sound unimpressed, even though the revelation has definitely thrown you off guard.
He chuckles, seemingly amused by your reaction. “Yep. Right wing for the Capitals. Not your type, huh?”
You try to keep your face neutral, but your curiosity gets the better of you. “So what, you’re one of those guys who gets in fights on the ice and spends a third of the game in the penalty box?”
He grins, the kind that lights up his whole face, and you hate how it makes something flutter in your chest. “Well, I prefer ‘enforcer,’ but yeah, something like that. It’s not all fights, though. Sometimes we actually play hockey.”
You scoff, feeling a little more at ease now. “Right. Sure. I bet you’re a real gentleman on the ice.”
“Always,” he says with mock sincerity, holding a hand to his chest. “I even help people up after I knock them down. Very polite.”
“Uh-huh.” You cross your arms again, trying to hide the smile threatening to break free. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
There’s a beat of silence, and you realize it’s your turn to ask a question. You quickly scramble for something lighthearted, but somehow, the first thing that comes out is more personal than you intended. “Do you even like it?”
His brow furrows, and he tilts his head slightly. “Like what?”
“Hockey,” you clarify. “Do you like playing, or is it just… you know, something you do because you’re good at it?”
The question seems to catch him off guard. For a moment, he just stares at you, his playful demeanor fading a little. “I do like it,” he says finally, his voice quieter than before. “It’s… complicated, though. There’s a lot of pressure. A lot of people counting on you, and sometimes it’s hard to separate what you want from what’s expected of you.”
You nod, feeling a strange sense of understanding. It’s not like you’re an NHL player or anything, but you know a thing or two about pressure—trying to make it in this city, keeping up appearances, pretending like you have it all together when in reality, you’re barely scraping by. “Yeah, I get that,” you say softly.
His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—something that feels almost like recognition. “What about you?” he asks, his tone gentler now. “What do you do?”
You let out a humorless laugh. “I work in marketing. It’s not exactly my dream job, but it pays the bills—well, most of the time.”
He studies you for a moment, and you can feel his gaze lingering on your face. “Is that what you wanted to do? Marketing?”
You shake your head, feeling a little embarrassed by how small your voice sounds when you answer. “Not really. I wanted to do something more creative—writing, maybe—but, you know… life happens.” You shrug, trying to brush it off, but the admission makes you feel more vulnerable than you’re comfortable with.
Brandon leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches you. “So why don’t you?”
You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Why don’t I what?”
“Write,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You said that’s what you wanted to do, right?”
You stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’s serious. “It’s not that easy,” you mutter, suddenly feeling defensive. “I can’t just drop everything and—”
“Why not?” he cuts in, his tone casual but curious. “I mean, you’re obviously smart. You’ve got opinions. Seems like you’d have a lot to say.”
Your cheeks flush, both from the unexpected compliment and the realization that he’s actually paying attention. “It’s complicated,” you mumble, looking away. “I have bills, rent, responsibilities…”
“Yeah, but…” He pauses, leaning back against the vanity again. “It’s your life. Shouldn’t you at least try?”
You open your mouth to argue, but no words come out. The truth is, no one’s really asked you that before. Everyone’s always focused on what you should do, what’s practical, what’s safe. But here’s this guy, who barely knows you, asking why you’re not doing what you actually want.
A tense silence settles between you, and for a moment, you just sit there, grappling with the weight of his question.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “Alright, your turn,” he says, his tone lighter again, clearly sensing the need for a change in mood.
You’re grateful for the shift and decide to steer the conversation back to something safer, something playful. “Okay. What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done in public?”
He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, man, where do I even start?”
“You better have a good one,” you warn, narrowing your eyes at him. “I need something juicy after the night I’ve had.”
He grins, clearly enjoying the challenge. “Alright, alright. So, a few years ago, we’re playing a game in Minnesota, where I was playing before I signed here, and I get into a fight. Dude pummels me, as always, but I don’t really care because it was for a good cause. Turns out one of my teammates was behind me, already ready to pick up my gear because he knew I’d drop the gloves eventually.”
You burst out laughing, picturing the scene in your head. “Oh my god, that’s incredible. Please tell me there’s video of this.”
“Oh, there is,” he says, his voice dripping with mock bitterness. “And my mom makes sure to remind me of it every chance she gets.”
You’re still laughing when you realize how much lighter the room feels now. The tension from earlier has all but disappeared, replaced by an easy banter that surprises you. It’s strange, how quickly the mood shifted—from anger and frustration to… this. Whatever this is.
“Okay, your turn,” Brandon says, grinning at you. “What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”
You groan, already regretting giving him the chance to ask. “Ugh, fine. So, when I first moved to D.C., I got super lost on the Metro. Like, I ended up on the complete opposite side of the city. And instead of just admitting I was lost, I pretended I knew what I was doing and rode the train for two hours before I finally asked for directions.”
Brandon laughs, a deep, genuine sound that makes your stomach flip. “Two hours? That’s impressive. You must’ve been determined.”
“More like stubborn,” you admit with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t want to look like a clueless tourist.”
He’s still chuckling when he leans in a little closer, his eyes catching yours. “I like that about you,” he says softly, and for a second, his gaze feels… different. Warmer. “You’re tough. Stubborn, maybe, but tough.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. His words disarm you, cutting through the defenses you’ve been holding onto all night. You feel the blush creeping up your neck again, and you quickly look away, trying to play it off with a shrug.
“Well, someone’s got to be,” you mumble, but your voice lacks the usual bite.
Brandon just watches you, his smile softening as the playful air between you shifts again. There’s something unspoken hanging in the space between you—something you’re not entirely sure you’re ready to acknowledge. You clear your throat, hoping to break the spell.
"Alright," you say, trying to keep the mood light, "what's your go-to karaoke song?"
He chuckles, leaning back against the wall again. "Karaoke, huh? Well, if you must know, I’ve been known to absolutely crush 'Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey. But only after a couple of beers."
You laugh, picturing it in your head. "Of course you would pick something like that. Classic crowd-pleaser. But can you actually sing, or do you just shout the lyrics like everyone else?"
He gives you a mock-offended look. "Are you doubting my singing abilities? I’m offended."
"Oh, I’m doubting everything," you tease, leaning into the banter. "I can’t imagine you hitting those high notes."
He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a playful spark behind them. "Challenge accepted. I’ll prove it next time we’re at a shitty suits party with a karaoke machine. Prepare to be amazed."
You raise an eyebrow, smirking. "I’ll believe it when I hear it."
The conversation flows easily after that, like you’ve known each other longer than just a few hours. You bounce between serious questions and silly ones, finding a rhythm that feels natural, even as the flirting starts to pick up. Each answer he gives you—whether it’s about his favorite movie ("Die Hard"—because of course, it is) or what he would do if he weren’t playing hockey (he’s always wanted to own a coffee shop, of all things)—makes you feel like you’re peeling back layers of him, piece by piece. And you get the sense that he's enjoying learning about you too, asking about your family, your favorite books, even what food you could eat for the rest of your life. It’s disarming how comfortable it all feels.
At some point, the air in the room chills noticeably, and you instinctively rub your arms, trying to fight off the goosebumps spreading across your skin. You glance toward the window, wondering if it’s cracked open, letting in the draft from outside. But before you can even get up to check, Brandon catches the movement. "Are you cold?"
You shake your head quickly, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. "I’m fine," you lie, tucking your arms around yourself a little tighter.
But Brandon isn’t buying it. He gives you a slow, skeptical look before standing up from his spot across the room and walking toward you. His footsteps are slow, deliberate, like he’s giving you a chance to tell him to back off if you want.
He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly, a lopsided grin creeping onto his face. "Are you going to yell at me if I touch you again?" His tone is light, almost sarcastic, but there’s something underneath it, something more.
You roll your eyes, trying not to look as flustered as you feel. “Depends. Are you going to give me a reason to?”
He chuckles softly, his eyes not leaving yours as he sits down beside you against the wall, slowly draping an arm around your shoulders. The warmth of his body is immediate and strangely reassuring, and you try to ignore the way your heart seems to speed up at the simple contact. This time, his touch doesn’t feel predatory, but comforting. Something about this feels… different. Less out of frustration and more out of something else—something you don’t entirely want to name just yet.
“You’re warm,” you mutter, feeling awkwardly aware of how lame that sounds, but you need to say something to break the silence.
“That’s usually the goal,” he replies, voice low and amused. His fingers brush against your shoulder as he adjusts, and you have to fight the urge to shiver again—not from the cold, but from the unexpected intimacy of it.
You sit there for a moment, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the fact that you’re letting him this close. You’re not sure why, but it feels like admitting defeat to acknowledge the comfort in this simple gesture. As if letting him know would give him power you’re not ready to hand over.
You tell yourself this is just a game. A stupid game with high stakes and confusing rules, but still… just a game. And yet, despite your best efforts, you can’t deny the unexpected way he’s gotten under your skin. His casual confidence, his jokes, the way he listens—not just hears, but really listens. It’s disarming. Frustrating.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, his voice softer now, more serious. The teasing edge is still there, but it’s muted, replaced by a curiosity that makes your chest tighten.
You blink, trying to snap out of the internal spiral. “Nothing,” you lie, because you can’t quite put your thoughts into words. “Just… thinking.”
He hums, his fingers lightly tracing a line along your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine. “Thinking about how… cool and handsome I am?” he teases.
“Maybe,” you shoot back, but the playful tone comes out quieter than you intend, more breathless than you’d like.
Brandon’s eyes darken, and you can feel the air shift between you, the flirtation from earlier giving way to something heavier, something more intense. He’s still watching you, his gaze dipping down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “You’re blushing,” he says softly, and there’s a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Your cheeks flush even more, and you mentally curse him for pointing it out. “Am not,” you mumble, but your voice betrays you, and you know he’s caught on.
“You totally are,” he whispers, leaning just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your skin. “It’s cute.”
The word cute hangs in the air between you, and you’re not sure why, but it sends your heart racing in a way that feels both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. Before you can think of a witty comeback—or any comeback, really—his hand moves from your shoulder, his fingers brushing your neck, tilting your chin up ever so slightly.
You freeze for a moment, caught between the instinct to pull back and the urge to lean in. The room feels smaller now, like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you, and all you can hear is the rapid thudding of your heartbeat in your ears.
He doesn’t rush. Instead, he gives you a moment—a moment to decide, a moment to stop him if you want to.
Instead, you let out a shaky breath, and that’s all it takes. He closes the gap, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s surprisingly soft, almost tentative at first. It’s as if he’s testing the waters, seeing if you’ll pull away, but when you don’t, he deepens the kiss, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer.
Your mind goes blank, and for a few blissful seconds, all you can focus on is the feel of his lips against yours, the heat of his body, the way his fingers seem to know exactly where to touch to make your skin tingle. It’s overwhelming and intoxicating all at once.
Then, just as quickly as the kiss started, it escalates. His other hand finds its way to your thigh, sliding up your skirt with an ease that sends a thrill through you. His fingers brush the bare skin of your leg, and you feel his palm settle against your ass, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens.
A quiet moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and that seems to spur him on. His hand grips you tighter, his touch more possessive now, and your body responds instantly, your own hands moving to his head, tugging at his hair as every single inch of his body presses against yours, letting you feel the hard muscle beneath his shirt as you lose yourself in the moment.
You’re so caught up in the kiss, in the way his touch is igniting something inside you, that you almost don’t hear the sound at first.
The door swings open with a loud thud, slamming against the wall with a force that startles both of you. Brandon’s hand freezes on your ass, and you pull back just in time to see your sister standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and amusement.
“Oh, my god,” she exclaims, throwing her hands up dramatically. “Are you serious right now?”
You feel the blood drain from your face as the reality of the situation sets in. Your sister is standing there, slightly flushed(because let’s be real, she’s probably wine-drunk,) witnessing you—her responsible, always-in-control sibling—basically about to get handsy with a guy you just met at her house party who you got trapped in a bathroom with.
Brandon blinks, his hand still awkwardly frozen on your ass for a split second before he quickly pulls it away, sitting up straight. “Uh, hey,” he says, clearly trying to recover some semblance of composure, but failing miserably.
You, on the other hand, are mortified. “Oh my god, get out!” you shriek, your voice a mix of embarrassment and disbelief as you shove Brandon’s shoulder, trying to put some distance between the two of you.
Your sister cackles, clearly relishing the moment. “I can’t believe I walked in on this,” she says, shaking her head as she backs out of the room, a grin plastered across her face. “This is amazing. I’m never letting you live this down.”
She doesn’t bother closing the door as she scurries off, and the room is suddenly silent again.
For a moment, neither you nor Brandon says anything. You’re both too stunned to speak, the reality of what just happened sinking in. Then, slowly, you turn to look at him, your face burning with embarrassment.
He’s staring at you, wide-eyed, his lips twitching as if he’s trying not to laugh.
And then he does laugh—a loud, full-of-heart laugh that breaks the tension. “Well,” he says, his voice still laced with amusement, “That was… something.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I cannot believe that just happened.”
“Hey, on the bright side,” he says, grinning as he leans back against the wall, “At least we gave her a good story.”
You peek through your fingers, glaring at him, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”
“Probably not,” he admits with a smirk. “But hey, if it’s any consolation, I think we were winning that game.”
You roll your eyes, “You can’t win twenty questions,” you snap back, but there’s no denying the warmth spreading through your chest. Despite the utter mortification of being caught mid-makeout by your sister, there’s something undeniably thrilling about the way Brandon is looking at you now—with your lipstick smeared across his face and his hair disheveled like he’s not even a little bit sorry for what just happened.
And maybe, just maybe, neither are you.
