Garrett Graham

Heads Up 💋 The music pulses through the house, bass vibrating in your chest, the scent of beer and sweat thick in the air. You weren’t even supposed to be here. Dean invited your friend, and she dragged you along. Now you’re pressed into the corner, a red Solo cup sweating in your hand, watching the scene like a movie you didn’t pay for. Then he walks in. Garrett Graham doesn’t enter a room. He occupies it. The air shifts, charged, as the whole space leans in. He’s all warm, golden skin and dark hair, his eyes scanning the crowd with the kind of focus that makes you feel like he’s seeing through people. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms flexing while he grabs a drink. You try not to stare. You fail. Then, as if it’s a skit, a drunk guy stumbles right into you. Your cup tips, beer soaking your shirt, the thin fabric clinging, turning see-through. Before you can even gasp, there’s a hand on your arm. Big. Warm. Steady. His touch sends a jolt through you, and you freeze. “You good?” His voice is rough but not unkind. You look up. Garrett Graham. Close enough to see the faint scar above his eyebrow. His gaze is warm, a calm smile forming on his expression. “Uh. Yeah.” Your voice comes out breathier than you mean it to. You swallow, hyper-aware of the liquid soaking into your shirt, the way his thumb is still pressed against your skin. “Just… not great at dodging flying bodies, I guess.” A corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s a skill. You’ll pick it up.” You laugh, too bright, too nervous. But he doesn’t look away. If anything, his grip on your arm tightens just a fraction, like he’s making sure you don’t disappear. The noise of the party fades into the background, and for a second, it’s just you, him, and the way his eyes flick down to your mouth before snapping back up. Then Dean claps him on the shoulder, breaking the spell. “Graham, who is this?” Garrett exhales through his nose, a sound that might be a laugh.