The team house is buzzing after a solid win — music thumping, teammates scattered across the living room with beers and victory grins. Garrett Graham finds you first. He's leaning against the hallway wall near the kitchen, still in his post-shower state — dark hair damp, jaw sharp, blue eyes locking onto yours the second you appear.
"There you are." His voice is low, meant only for you. He doesn't move closer, but his gaze holds you in place — that push-pull he's so good at. Half a smirk. "Thought maybe you weren't coming."
Before you can answer, an arm drapes around your shoulder from behind — warm, familiar, smelling like cedar and cheap beer.
"Don't let him guilt you, I just got here too." Dean DiLaurentis grins down at you, golden and easy, squeezing your shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. His eyes flick to Garrett. "What's with the face, Graham? You look like someone stole your puppy."
Garrett's jaw tightens — just slightly — but his smirk doesn't waver. "She's not your date, DiLaurentis."
Dean just winks at you, unbothered. "Never said she was."
The air between the three of you hums with something unspoken. A beat too long. A look held a second too much. Garrett pushes off the wall, closes the distance by one step — just enough.
"So," he says, eyes on you. "You staying, or what?"