Chapter Text
Forty looks dangerously good on Garrett Graham.
Hannah realizes this sometime around sunset, while standing barefoot on the back patio with a sweating glass of champagne in her hand, watching her husband laugh so hard at something Dean says that he has to bend slightly at the waist beneath the soft golden wash of string lights stretched across the yard. It is profoundly irritating.
Not because Garrett has aged poorly. That would have been merciful. No, the problem is that Garrett at forty has somehow become more attractive than he was at twenty-two, which frankly feels deeply unfair to everyone involved.
College Garrett had been beautiful in the reckless, sharp-edged way young men often are. All swagger and broad shoulders and devastating grins worn with the careless confidence of somebody who had not yet learned the weight of time.
But forty-year-old Garrett? Forty-year-old Garrett is catastrophic. Age has settled over him like something expensive and deliberate. His shoulders remain broad beneath the sleeves of a fitted charcoal Henley rolled lazily to his elbows, but there is more substance to him now, more grounded masculinity carved into the lines of his body by decades of training, fatherhood, exhaustion, responsibility, and a life fully lived. Fine silver threads faintly through the dark curls at his temples, visible only when the patio lights catch him just right, while laugh lines bracket the corners of his eyes from years spent smiling too hard and too often.
NHL legend Garrett Graham. Retired two years now.
Still built like sin wrapped carefully in expensive fabric. Still moving through crowded rooms with that instinctive athletic grace that turns heads before people even realize they are staring. And still — somehow, impossibly — looking at Hannah Wells as though she remains the most extraordinary thing he has ever found.
“You’re staring again,” Allie murmurs beside her, nudging lightly against Hannah’s shoulder.
Hannah does not look away from Garrett. “I’m observing.”
“You’re mentally undressing your husband beside the grill.”
“I’m his wife. That’s literally my constitutional right.”
Allie snorts into her wine as she sweeps her eyes across the yard till it settles on a Dean who is aggressively manning the barbecue with the self-importance of a man convinced grilling is a sacred masculine art form while Logan stands beside him drinking beer and criticizing his technique with the smug authority only lifelong friendships can sustain.
“You’re burning the steaks,” Logan informs him.
“I’m caramelizing flavor.”
“I'm sure you mean meat crimes.”
“Eat shit.”
Nearby, Tucker is crouched beside three children attempting to explain the rules of cornhole while simultaneously preventing one of them from using beanbags as weapons.
Chaos. Warm, familiar chaos. The sort born only from years and history and friendships old enough to have survived youth. Garrett laughs again at something Dean says, head tipping backward slightly, whiskey glass loose in one hand. And God. The sight of him still affects Hannah with humiliating ease. Because beneath the noise of the party and the easy laughter and the smoke curling upward from the grill into warm summer air, there remains something achingly intimate about watching the people you love grow older beside you.
Not older in the tragic sense. Older in the lucky sense. Older in the lived-in, deeply cherished way.
These men had once stumbled half-drunk through Briar’s hockey house destroying furniture and eating cold pizza at three in the morning. Now they stand around suburban grills discussing mortgage rates, lower back pain, youth hockey leagues, and whether Dean is legally permitted to own a smoker after nearly setting his deck on fire last Thanksgiving.
Time is absurd. And beautiful.
“Remember when Graham tried to cook in sophomore year?” Logan asks out of nowhere.
Garrett groans from the other side of the patio. “Nope. Denied.”
Dean brandishes the barbecue tongs like a sword. “You literally put a frozen chicken straight into a frying pan.”
“I was twenty!” Garrett protests.
“You poisoned three people,” Dean says flatly.
“Tucker lived,” Garrett says, defensive.
Tucker, now sprawled on the lawn in defeat, raises a hand. “I hallucinated for twelve hours.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Garrett says.
“The walls were choking, Garrett,” Tucker says, solemn. “They had opinions.”
Garrett slumps dramatically. “Fine. I admit it. But have you seen my seasoning cabinet since then? It’s a crime not to.”
Logan laughs. “Crime scene or not, one of us is still alive to tell the tale.”
Dean smirks. “And we’re never letting you near the tongs again.” The entire yard erupts into laughter.
Hannah presses her lips together around a smile as Garrett catches her eye from across the patio. And immediately softens. It happens so naturally now she doubts he even notices it himself anymore. One second he is laughing with the boys, broad and loud and effortlessly charming beneath the glow of backyard lights, and the next his attention lands on her and something gentler settles over his face instantly.
Home. That expression has always felt like home. He lifts his whiskey slightly toward her in silent question.
You okay over there?
Hannah smiles faintly and raises her own glass in answer.
Always.
Garrett’s gaze lingers for one extra second before Dean physically shoves his shoulder. “Stop eye-fucking your wife and flip the burgers.”
Garrett does not even blink. “Can’t. Busy.”
“You’re forty.”
“And?”
“Act like it.”
Garrett takes a slow sip of whiskey. “Dean,” he says calmly, “—newsflash—your daughter called you old and you cried.”
“She said I looked ‘retro.’”
“You cried in my kitchen.”
“It was emotional.”
Logan nearly chokes on his beer laughing. And Hannah watches all of it with warmth blooming low and steady beneath her ribs, because this — this right here — is perhaps the strangest and loveliest part of growing older.
Not the milestones. Not the careers. Not even the years themselves. But the way love changes shape without ever lessening. These men still tease each other exactly like college boys. Still shove shoulders and steal beers and threaten violence over fantasy football rankings.
Only now there are wedding rings glinting beneath patio lights. Children asleep upstairs while some ran around untamed. Reading glasses abandoned near half-finished drinks. Lives built carefully around each other over decades.
Garrett catches her watching again sometime later while carrying a tray of grilled vegetables toward the outdoor table.
“What?” he asks, smiling slowly.
Hannah tilts her head slightly. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“You’re just…” She exhales softly through a smile. “Very forty tonight.” Garrett looks horrified.
Dean howls instantly from behind him. “Oh my God. She called you old.”
“I’m not old,” Garrett says automatically.
“You made a spreadsheet for vacation packing last month,” Logan replies.
“That was organization.” Garrett protests.
“You own orthopedic pillows,” Tucker adds.
“My neck matters.” Garrett says on reflex.
“You stretched before golf.” Dean says.
“Because he pulled a muscle sneezing last winter!” Hannah chimes in.
The yard dissolves into chaos again.
Garrett points accusingly around the table. “You’re all traitors.”
“Age comes for us all, brother,” Dean says solemnly while flipping a burger.
“Your knees audibly crack every time you sit down.”
“THAT’S UNRELATED.”
Hannah laughs hard enough she nearly spills champagne. Garrett turns toward her immediately at the sound, helpless affection spreading across his face like sunlight. And there it is again. That look. The one that still catches somewhere beneath her ribs after all these years.
Because forty looks unfairly good on Garrett Graham.
But happiness? Happiness looks even better.
Garrett spends the rest of the evening in constant motion around her. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just the quiet, instinctive sort of nearness that had settled between them over two decades together until it became less of a conscious habit and more of a law of nature.
Every time he passes through the kitchen, his fingers drift along the small of her back. Every conversation somehow ends with him standing beside her again, shoulder brushing hers, whiskey warm on his breath when he leans down to murmur some smartass comment into her ear. Once, while reaching around her for another beer from the cooler, he pauses only long enough to press an absentminded kiss against her temple before continuing his conversation with Logan as though he has not just disrupted the rhythm of her entire heartbeat for the evening.
Forty years old.
Still orbiting each other helplessly. Still finding one another in crowded rooms without effort. Still touching as though separation, even accidental and momentary, feels vaguely unnatural.
And perhaps that is what love eventually becomes after enough years have passed.
Not fireworks. Not grand declarations. Just the certainty of returning. Again and again and again.
By midnight, the party begins dissolving slowly into the comfortable exhaustion of adulthood. Children are carried out asleep against shoulders, tiny sneakers dangling limply while parents juggle leftovers and half-finished drinks. The music has softened to a low hum somewhere inside the house, the grill long gone cold beneath drifting summer air scented faintly with charcoal and citronella.
Logan and Grace are the last to leave.
Grace stands beside the SUV attempting to buckle a sleeping child into a car seat while Logan argues drunkenly with Dean in the driveway about whether the 2026 Bruins roster could beat their old Briar team.
“You’re blinded by nostalgia,” Logan says.
“You’re blinded by cowardice,” Dean fires back immediately.
“You pulled your groin getting out of a recliner last month.”
“That injury was unrelated and medically complex.”
Garrett laughs hard enough he has to brace himself briefly against the front door. “Go home,” he calls.
Dean points at him with profound emotional sincerity. “LOVE YOU, BRO.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it!”
“You say that every time you drink bourbon.”
“Because bourbon reveals truth!”
Tucker physically drags Dean backward toward the car while muttering apologies to the neighborhood. Eventually headlights disappear down the street. The laughter fades. And silence settles gently over the house at last.
Not empty silence. Full silence. The kind left behind after good evenings and beloved people.
Hannah exhales softly before beginning to collect abandoned glasses from the kitchen island out of sheer instinct, but she barely manages three steps before Garrett catches her wrist.
“Baby.”
“It’ll take five minutes.”
“It can take five minutes tomorrow.”
She glances toward the mess automatically. “It’s going to bother me.”
Garrett tugs her closer until her hip bumps lightly against his.
“You know what’s gonna bother me?” he murmurs.
“What?”
“My wife cleaning on her own because apparently my birthday means I’m not allowed to contribute so I'm left to stand here looking tragically handsome.”
Hannah smiles despite herself. “Oh, is that what this is? Tragic?”
“Devastating, actually.” He stretches one arm above his head then immediately winces. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “My shoulder.”
“There he is,” Hannah says warmly. “The elderly man emerges.”
Garrett narrows his eyes. “Careful, Wellsy.”
“What are you gonna do? Chase me and throw out a hip?”
The look he gives her is deeply offended. Then, without warning, Garrett hooks both hands around her waist and lifts her clean off the ground with insulting ease.
Hannah lets out a startled laugh as her legs instinctively wrap around his torso, champagne-bright amusement bubbling out of her while Garrett steadies her effortlessly against his chest like proving a point was worth the immediate destruction of his lower back.
“There,” he says smugly, adjusting his grip beneath her thighs. “Still got it.”
“You are literally one lumbar spasm away from a heating pad.”
“Anything for you sweetheart” Garrett murmurs, grinning as he carries her farther into the kitchen beneath the silver spill of moonlight across marble countertops.
Hannah slides one hand into the damp hair at the nape of his neck while Garrett looks up at her with the lazy satisfaction of a man deeply pleased with himself.
“You’re evil,” he accuses.
“You married me voluntarily.”
“The greatest decision of my life.”
And there it is. That devastating sincerity Garrett still delivers without warning. No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just truth offered plainly in his roughened evening voice as though loving her openly has never once frightened him.
After all these years, it still catches her off guard. Still slips beneath her ribs with humiliating ease.
Garrett kisses her slowly, one hand warm against the curve of her waist while the other kept her steady at the back of her thighs with practiced familiarity, and Hannah melts into him automatically because this, too, has become instinct over the years.
Garrett. Always Garrett. When he finally pulls away, he sighs dramatically against her mouth.
“Bed,” he declares.
“Ancient behavior.”
“I’m forty now. I need recovery time after socializing.”
“Poor thing.”
“Mock me all you want. I’m still taking you upstairs.” And he does.
Upstairs, the house feels hushed and dim after the warmth and noise of the party below. Garrett disappears into the bathroom with a muttered complaint about his knees while Hannah moves slowly around their bedroom, peeling off jewelry piece by piece beneath soft lamplight.
But tonight, beneath the familiar rhythm of routine, nervousness pulses steadily beneath her skin. Because hidden beneath the oversized sleep shirt she finally pulls over her head waits the final gift.
The secret she has somehow managed to keep from Garrett for weeks. The very painful secret, honestly.
The bathroom door opens in a drift of steam and warmth. Garrett steps out toweling damp hair roughly, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, skin still flushed from hot water.
And God help her. Forty has no business looking like that.
He notices her expression immediately. “Wellsy?” he asks softly.
Hannah swallows. “Yeah.”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “You look nervous.”
“I have one more present.”
Immediate alarm crosses his face. “Hannah,” he says carefully, “you already spoiled me tonight.”
“I know.” She twists her fingers together once before forcing herself to stop. “This one’s just…different.”
And instantly his entire expression gentles. Every hard edge softening at once. “Okay,” he says quietly.
Hannah draws one slow breath before lifting the hem of her shirt carefully beneath her left breast.
Garrett’s eyes follow automatically. Then stop completely.
Silence. Absolute silence.
There, delicate against warm skin, rests a tiny black tattoo.
44.
Simple. Elegant. Small enough to remain intimate rather than loud, curved perfectly beneath the soft underside of her breast like a secret tucked carefully against her body. Against her heart.
Garrett does not move.
For one terrible second Hannah’s stomach twists with panic.
Then his eyes lift slowly back to hers. And the emotion inside them nearly undoes her where she stands.
“Baby,” he says softly. Her throat tightens instantly.
“It’s tiny,” she rushes out quickly. “I didn’t want it to look tacky or huge or anything, and I know tattoos aren’t really my thing usually, but—”
“Hannah.” His voice cracks slightly over her name.
That stops her immediately.
Garrett crosses the room toward her with astonishing slowness, like approaching something sacred enough to deserve reverence. His fingertips hover near the tattoo without touching.
“Forty-four,” he murmurs.
“You’ve worn it forever,” Hannah says softly now. “Since Briar. Through the NHL. Through everything.”
His gaze drops again. Then lower. Understanding dawns visibly across his face.
“…left side.”
Heat rises warmly into her cheeks. “Closest to my heart.”
Garrett actually closes his eyes briefly at that. Like the feeling physically struck him. And when he looks back at her again, his eyes shine suspiciously bright beneath the bedroom lights.
“Oh, sweetheart.” The tenderness in his voice nearly destroys her on impact. Because Garrett Graham — arrogant, impossible, devastating Garrett Graham — still sounds overwhelmed every single time she loves him openly.
“I know it’s probably silly—”
“It’s not.” The response comes instantly. Certain. Almost fierce.
Garrett’s hand finally settles carefully against her ribs, his thumb brushing lightly beneath the tiny inked numbers with such aching gentleness Hannah can physically feel her heartbeat stumble.
And she watches every emotion move across his face one after another.
Disbelief. Affection. Wonder.
That deep, soul-deep tenderness he saves only for her.
Loved. He looks loved beyond language.
“You did this for me?” he asks quietly.
“Well,” Hannah says weakly, “not for Dean.”
A startled laugh escapes him, roughened at the edges with emotion.
Then Garrett bends slowly and presses the gentlest kiss directly over the tattoo.
Hannah inhales sharply.
He stays there for a lingering second, forehead resting lightly against her skin while his hand tightens almost imperceptibly against her waist. And when he finally looks back up, something in his expression has shifted. Still emotional. Still unbearably soft. But now there is heat threading slowly beneath it too. Warmth deepening into hunger. Recognition flashes instantly through Hannah.
“Oh no,” she murmurs.
Garrett’s mouth curves slowly. “Oh yes.”
She starts laughing before he even touches her.
“Garrett—”
“You tattooed my number under your boob.”
“It’s elegant!”
“It’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever done to me.”
His hands slide firmly around her waist as he walks her backward slowly toward the bed, gaze dropping helplessly toward the tattoo every few seconds like he genuinely cannot stop looking at it.
“You know,” he says roughly, “thirty seconds ago I was having an incredibly emotional husband experience.”
“And now?”
“Now,” Garrett says honestly, “I’m emotional and horny.”
Hannah laughs so hard she nearly folds into him.
“There he is.”
“There I am,” he agrees shamelessly.
Then he kisses her again. Slowly this time. Warm and smiling and impossibly tender.
Like forty years of life somehow led him precisely here — to Hannah Wells beneath soft bedroom light, to tiny black ink over her heartbeat, to a love that still leaves him feeling young and ruined and entirely hers.