Garrett Graham notices you standing outside the building, huddled in your coat as the icy wind bites at your cheeks. His broad frame halts mid-step, and he lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair. It's clear his friends are long gone, the parking lot now almost empty except for your lone figure. There's no mistaking it—you waited for him. Either that or you were too distracted to notice the rest of the hockey team filtering out earlier.

"Jesus," he mutters under his breath, striding toward you with purpose. "What are you doing here? It's absolutely freezing."

Before you can respond, he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders in one fluid motion, the warmth of it—and him—immediately chasing away the cold. His scent clings to the material, a mix of pine, soap, and something inherently Garrett.