Work Text:
Lukes POV
Gigi had been asking me about my birthday for two weeks.
I told her I didn’t care. It was a factual statement. Historically, the date didn't carry any weight. It was just a Tuesday in October. I had a morning seminar, an afternoon skate, and laundry to finish.
That was the extent of the schedule. Apparently, "I don't care" wasn't considered a satisfactory answer in the Graham household ecosystem.
"You're doing nothing?" she asked, leaning across my kitchen table. She was five-foot-four, but when she got competitive about something, she managed to take up the entire room. Her gray eyes were wide, crackling with that weird, high-voltage energy she got whenever she thought she was right. Which was always.
"Nothing," I said, not looking up from my history chapter. I took a sip of my coffee. It was lukewarm. "Luke. What about cake? Dinner? Presents? Are Beckett and Shane doing something? What's the actual plan?"
I shrugged.
It saved me from having to use syllables. "No cake. No plan. It’s just another day, Gigi."
"You can't just have no birthday," she said, staring at me like I’d just suggested we ban hockey from the winter Olympics.
I looked at her then. The afternoon light was hitting the side of her face, catching the messy strands of dark hair falling out of her ponytail. She looked entirely scandalized on my behalf. It was ridiculous. It was also kind of distracting.
"Apparently I can," I muttered, leaning back in my chair.
She didn't argue. She just crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, and gave me a look that usually meant someone on the women's team was about to get checked into the boards during a scrimmage. I went back to the French Revolution. I should have known right then that I wasn't actually getting a vote.
My alarm went off at five-thirty. I lay there in the dark for exactly two minutes, waiting for my brain to catch up with my body, before I remembered what day it was.
Tuesday. My birthday.I pulled on a pair of sweatpants, walked down the hall, and realized within three seconds that my apartment had been compromised.
The kitchen didn't smell like my usual bland oatmeal. It smelled like bacon, maple syrup, and the specific dark roast coffee Gigi always dragged me across town to buy. And then there was the visual. Gigi was leaning against my counter, wearing one of my oversized hoodies that practically came down to her knees, holding a spatula like a weapon.
Taped to the front of my refrigerator was a single, violently shiny silver balloon in the shape of an eight-foot-tall hockey puck. It was vibrating slightly from the hum of the freezer.
I stopped in the doorway. "What’s this?"
"Your birthday," she said, popping the 'day' with an obnoxiously bright grin.
"I know it’s my birthday."
"Then why are you asking?"I looked at the giant puck balloon, then back at her.
"There is a massive piece of foil obstructing my access to the milk."
"It's festive," she countered, stepping forward and pushing a hot mug into my hand. "Drink your coffee, Birthday Boy. Breakfast is almost ready."I took a sip. She’d made it exactly how I liked it—black, strong, no sugar.
I looked around my kitchen, which was usually spotless and completely empty of unnecessary clutter. Now there was a stack of blueberry pancakes on a plate, a small frosted dessert sitting on the counter, and a neatly wrapped box with a silver bow sitting right next to my toaster.It was a lot of noise for six o'clock in the morning.
It was entirely too much attention centered squarely on me, and my automatic instinct was to grunt and push it away.But the coffee was hot, and Gigi was watching me with this intense, hopeful expression, biting her lower lip while she waited for my reaction. I let out a low breath and pulled out a chair.
"The pancakes are burning," I muttered, nodding toward the stove.She gasped, spinning back around to the pan, and I finally let my mouth twitch into a smile where she couldn't see it.
Once the pancakes were salvaged, she sat across from me, resting her chin in her hands while I ate. I kept my eyes on my plate, but I could feel her staring at me. It was like sitting across from a golden retriever vibrating at a high frequency.
Before I could finish my second pancake, she slid the neatly wrapped box across the table, knocking over my salt shaker in the process.
"Open it," she said."I don't need anything, Gigi."
"I don't care what you need. Open it."
I set my fork down, picked up the box, and carefully pulled the silver ribbon apart. I didn't rip the paper like she usually did; I untaped it systematically. Inside the box was a heavy, worn leather-bound book. I picked it up, feeling the textured cover under my thumb, and read the title. It was a first-edition translation of a text on the tactical formations of the Roman army.
I stared at it. I didn't say anything.
I’d casually mentioned wanting to read this exact translation back in October. We’d been walking past a dusty secondhand bookstore downtown, and I’d pointed at a modern paperback copy in the window, making a passing comment about how the original print was impossible to find. I hadn't thought about it since.
Apparently, she had."Do you hate it?" she blurted out, her voice suddenly tight with anxiety.
She leaned so far over the table her hair almost dipped into my syrup.
"You hate it. I knew it. It’s too nerdy. I should have bought the watch—"
"No," I said, my voice sounding a little rougher than usual. "I don't hate it."
"You look like you hate it."
"I'm thinking."
"That's concerning, Luke. Say something else."I traced the gold lettering on the spine, feeling a strange, heavy warmth settle behind my ribs. Nobody had ever bought me something like this. Nobody had ever dug through my throwaway comments from months ago just to find something that would make me happy.
I could count on one hand the number of times I’d felt like more than a temporary inconvenience on this day. Between all the foster homes I’d cycled through, birthdays were usually just a matter of paperwork—a quick check of my file by a social worker to make sure the state requirements were met, or a generic card from a well-meaning family who was just tolerating my presence until the next placement came through.
As a kid, you learn to read the room early. I knew I wasn't chosen. I knew I was unwanted by my mother’s side of the family, and I knew I was barely a footnote to Owen’s dad. You spend enough years being tolerated, enough years being the extra body in someone else’s house, and you eventually convince yourself that you’re simply incapable of being picked out of a crowd. You figure a quiet, seamless life where you don't ask for anything is the best you're going to get. You don't expect someone to deliberately look at you and decide you matter.
Yet here she was. Sitting at my cheap kitchen table, vibrating with anxiety because she wanted a first-edition history book to be perfect for me.
I looked up at her. "You remembered."Gigi rolled her eyes, but the nervous tension completely left her shoulders, replaced by a soft, satisfied smile.
"Of course I remembered, you idiot."
Gigi watched me run my hand over the leather cover of the book one last time before I set it down beside my plate. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her locked knuckles, her gray eyes narrowing in that hyper-focused way she got when she was trying to solve a puzzle.
"Okay, I need to understand something," she said, her voice dropping into a serious interrogation tone.
"What did you usually do on your birthday? Like, before us. What was the standard routine?"
"Nothing," I said, picking up my fork to finish the last pancake.
"Every year?"
"Pretty much."She stared at me, her brow furrowing like I was speaking a completely foreign language. "Luke, come on. Not even a dinner? Did Shane or Beckett never buy you a beer or force you to go get food?"
"If they remembered, they’d say happy birthday in the locker room and we’d move on," I said evenly. "Maybe we’d grab a burger after practice if we were already hungry. It wasn't a production, Gigi. I didn't plan anything. I didn't buy myself things. It’s literally just a calendar date."
She looked completely baffled, her full lips parting slightly as she tried to process the information. I could practically see the gears turning in her head, realizing that she had been imagining a childhood landscape of birthday cakes, morning pancakes, and sentimental family traditions that simply didn't exist for me.
But I wasn't sitting here devastated about it. I wasn't pitching a pity party. To me, it was just an objective fact of my life. What made the moment interesting was watching her face. She was genuinely losing her mind over how casual I could be about my own existence.
"How can someone be this relaxed about their own birthday?" she muttered, shaking her head. "It’s insane. It's borderline criminal."
"It’s practical," I corrected, taking a sip of my coffee. "Saves on the wrapping paper."
She frowned, looking like she wanted to argue, but I just looked back down at my coffee. My mind drifted back to when I was twelve.
I was staying with a family that had three biological kids. Two teenagers who ignored everyone, and a six-year-old who was the center of their universe. It was a chaotic house, but all the gravity in the room always pulled toward their own kids. I was just an extra body in the background, a ghost taking up space at the end of the hallway.
On my twelfth birthday, nobody said a word. The entire morning and afternoon went by, and I just watched them fuss over the six-year-old. I didn't say anything. When you're that age, you don't have the vocabulary to explain the heavy, hollow ache in your chest.
You don't know how to articulate what it feels like to be completely isolated in a room full of people. You just feel invisible.
It wasn't until later that evening that the foster dad came out of the living room, looking up from his phone where he'd been watching a football game. The state system had sent an automated notification email to their account.
“Oh, wow,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, it’s Luke’s birthday. Happy birthday, buddy. We had no idea. You didn't even say anything.”
Then the foster mom started panicking, overcompensating with the lamest excuses. “Oh my god, Luke, I am so, so sorry. We completely forgot, we've just been so busy with the kids' schedules. We have to celebrate. We have to do something.”
She practically forced her teenage son to drive down to the nearest corner store to grab a cheap, generic grocery store cake and some candles. They threw this rushed, half-assed little celebration together at the kitchen table just to check the box so they wouldn't get flagged by my caseworker.
I sat there pretending to smile, but I wasn't even feeling it. I just wanted to go back to my room.And the cake was absolute ass.
I wasn’t ungrateful for what they did. They didn’t technically have to throw anything together at all, and I knew that. But at the same time, it never felt sincere.
It’s hard to put into words even now, I don't really have the exact vocabulary to explain it. But you just feel entirely out of place. You feel like an alien dropped into the middle of someone else’s life, never fully integrated, always just a visitor watching a family through a glass window.
For a long time, I used to think that feeling came from me. I thought it was just my own insecurity, a defense mechanism to keep people at a distance so I wouldn't get hurt.
But I corrected myself early on. No. You can definitely tell when people are forced to care. I've spent enough time reading rooms to recognize different energies, and the energy in that kitchen was just off. It was heavy with obligation, not affection. They were just going through the motions so they could feel like good people, and you can always taste the difference.
Gigi was quiet for a long beat after I finished speaking. The manic, party-planning energy she’d been radiating all morning finally settled, her gray eyes softening as she reached across the table and lightly touched the edge of my sleeve. She didn't offer any pitying words or a big, dramatic sigh, which I appreciated. Instead, she just cleared her throat and pushed her empty plate aside.
"Okay," she said softly, her tone turning firm again.
"So since we are officially writing a new blueprint for this day, what do you actually want to do today? No obligations. No forced energy."I shrugged, leaning back in my chair.
"Whatever you want to do is fine."
"No," she shot back, pointing her fork at me.
"It’s your birthday. You don't get to pass the decision-making off to me."
"Gigi, I don’t care. Truly."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s an answer," I muttered, taking another sip of my coffee.
"You just don't like it."
She crossed her arms and gave me a stubborn stare, digging her heels in. She wasn't going to let me out of this kitchen until I gave her a timeline. I looked out the window at the gray morning sky, thinking about what a good Tuesday actually looked like when I wasn't being shoved into the background or forced to blow out generic grocery store candles.
"Fine," I said, setting my mug down.
"We finish breakfast. We get in the Jeep and drive somewhere out past the city lines where there aren't any crowds or traffic. We find a trail, walk for an hour, and grab lunch at some random diner where nobody knows our stats. Then I go to my afternoon skate, we come back here, and we do nothing. That's it."
Gigi blinked at me, waiting for the rest of it. When she realized I was completely finished, her brow furrowed.
"That’s it? That’s your entire dream birthday itinerary? Luke, that is literally just a regular Tuesday with a minor road trip."
"Exactly," I said.She stared at me for a few more seconds, searching my face to see if I was hiding some secret desire for a club or a massive dinner party. But as she looked at me, I saw the exact moment the realization hit her. The frantic overthinking in her eyes died down, replaced by a quiet, understanding warmth.
She realized that by Gigi Graham standards, my plan was incredibly boring, but to me, a day with zero pressure, zero strangers, and absolute quiet with her was the closest thing to perfect I could imagine.
A soft smile finally broke across her face. "Okay," she murmured, sliding out of her chair. "A regular Tuesday it is. Go get your boots, Birthday Boy. We're hitting the highway."
When we walked down to the parking lot ten minutes later, I unlocked the Jeep and pulled open the passenger door for her. I was fully prepared for a quiet, low-key drive.
I was not prepared for a wall of neon rubber to instantly hit me in the face.Gigi had somehow managed to smuggle a dozen brightly coloured birthday balloons into my car while I was finishing my coffee. They were crammed into the front seat, bobbing around like a claustrophobic rainbow.
I stopped dead in my tracks, holding the door open. I looked at the balloons. Then I looked over the roof of the Jeep at Gigi, who was standing on the driver's side, trying and failing to look innocent.
"Why are there balloons in the Jeep?" I asked, my voice flat.
"Because it’s your birthday," she said, leaning her elbows on the roof of the car and giving me a brilliant, unbothered grin.
"Take them out."
"No way. They’re festive."
"They’re a safety hazard," I corrected, reaching into the car and wrestling three of them out of the way just so I could see the dashboard.
"They are literally obstructing my view of the passenger side mirror. I am not getting into a highway accident because a giant yellow balloon blinded me."
"You're such a buzzkill, Ryder," she sighed, though she was already jogging around the bumper to help me trap them.
"Fine. But we're keeping them in the trunk. A compromise."
I didn't argue while we shoved the bright pile into the back of the Jeep. I closed the trunk, walked back around to the driver's side, and climbed in behind the wheel. I adjusted the rearview mirror, buckled my seatbelt, and turned the key in the ignition.I glanced to my right.
Gigi was sitting comfortably in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Bobbing lazily right next to her shoulder—tied securely to the passenger grab handle—was a single, obnoxious red balloon.
I stared at it. Then I looked at her profile. She didn't move a muscle, but the absolute corner of her mouth was twitching.
I let out a low grunt, shifted the Jeep into reverse, and backed out of the space. I didn't say a word about it, and neither did she. But as we hit the open road and the balloon started floating into my peripheral vision, I realized I was secretly glad she’d won that round.
We’d been on the highway for about twenty minutes when the front axle started doing it again. It was a faint, metallic ping-ping-ping that occurred every time the speedometer crossed sixty-five miles per hour. It wasn't a catastrophic sound yet but the universal joint on the left side had been giving me attitude since September, and the cold morning air wasn't helping the fluid pressure.
I turned down the radio, leaning slightly to the right to orient my ear toward the floorboards.
"What are you doing?" Gigi asked, her feet crossed on the dashboard. She was currently eating a handful of leftover blueberries from a plastic container she’d brought from my kitchen.
"Listening," I said, keeping both hands steady on the wheel. Ping. Ping. "There’s a loose vibration in the steering column. It’s either the tie rod or the bushing is shot."
"Luke, it’s fine. It always sounds like a tractor. It’s part of its rustic charm."
"It’s not rustic charm, Gigi. It’s mechanical failure." I frowned, tapping the dashboard gauge to make sure the oil temperature wasn't spiking. I lived a highly disciplined, minimal life because I hated chaos. I liked things that functioned exactly the way they were designed to function. A bad bearing was an unresolved problem, and unresolved problems made the back of my neck tight."Well, don't worry about it today," she said, completely dismissing a potential three-hundred-dollar repair bill as she popped another blueberry into her mouth.
"The Jeep knows it's your birthday. It wouldn't dare break down on a national holiday."
"My birthday is not a national holiday."
"It is in this car," she countered, shifting her weight so she was facing me fully, her gray eyes bright and completely ignoring the ominous rattle coming from the engine bay.
"Anyway, did I tell you about the absolute disaster that happened at the women's team meeting yesterday? Coach Jensen literally threatened to make us do baseline skates in full goalie gear because someone left a half-eaten tuna sandwich in the bottom of the equipment locker."
I kept my eyes on the road, watching a semi-truck pull into the right lane ahead of us. The axle was still pinging. The front left tire was probably tracking a fraction of a degree out of alignment.But as Gigi launched into a highly detailed, animated explanation of the great locker room tuna mystery complete with hand gestures and a terrible impression of her coach.
The tension in my neck slowly started to disappear.I still didn't know why she made such a massive production out of a random Tuesday. But listening to the steady, frantic hum of her voice against the broken background of my old engine made the drive feel a lot shorter than it actually was.
The highway eventually gave way to a series of winding, two-lane county roads where the trees grew thick enough to block out the morning sun. Gigi had finally run out of locker room drama to recap and was currently focused on trying to peel a stubborn price tag off the bottom of my new history book.
"We've been driving for an hour, Birthday Boy," she said, leaning her head back against the headrest. "Are you going to tell me where we're going, or am I being kidnapped on your birthday?"
"I don't know the name of it," I said honestly, slowing down as the asphalt turned into rough, unpaved gravel. "I found it a few months ago. I couldn't sleep, so I just started driving north until the houses stopped. It’s right up here."
But as I steered the Jeep through the gravel, my mind drifted back to why I’d found this place to begin with. Growing up the way that I did, shuffling through countless foster homes with total strangers, it made me a hyper-vigilant, incredibly light sleeper.
When you’re living in a constant rotation of strange places, you never feel truly safe or comfortable closing your eyes. Anything could happen. And in my experience, anything did. There were too many instances to count where a guy's items were stolen right out of his hands while he slept, or moments where someone was woken up abruptly with a fist to the face because of some unprovoked house beef. You learn very early as a kid that being caught off guard can cost you.
That alertness starts at a young age, and once it imbeds itself in your nervous system, you don't just switch it off.When I’m stressed, it gets significantly worse. My brain completely refuses to shut down. If it gets bad enough, I have to pop some heavy-duty melatonin just to force my eyes to stay closed, but some nights even the pills don't work.
Lately, it had been a different kind of nightmare. Our walls are thin, and some nights are so bad that I can literally hear Shane and Beckett rotating through their various hooks-ups. It’s loud, it goes on for hours, and it’s the absolute last thing I want to listen to when I’m already running on empty. On those nights, instead of lying in bed staring at the ceiling and losing my mind, my immediate instinct is just to get the fuck out of the house.So I'd start driving. And that's how I ended up finding this ledge.
I pulled the Jeep down a narrow, overgrown dirt path that looked like it hadn't been cleared since the nineties. Branches scraped lightly against the passenger door, making Gigi sit up straight. We crawled up a steep incline until the trees suddenly broke open, revealing an old, abandoned fire lookout tower perched on a massive rocky ledge.
Below us, the land fell away into a sweeping, endless valley of dense pine forest. In the distance, you could just see the faint, jagged outline of the mountains cutting into the gray sky.
There wasn't another car, another building, or another person for miles. It was completely silent except for the low, steady rush of the wind through the valley.
I killed the engine. The sudden quiet was heavy, filling the car instantly.
"Wow," Gigi murmured, her face pressed against the glass before she pushed her door open.
"Luke, this is incredible."I grabbed the heavy wool blanket from the backseat and climbed out, the cold, crisp mountain air hitting my face. We walked out to the very edge of the rocky ledge, the wind whipping through her dark hair as she took a deep breath.
I spread the blanket out over a flat, smooth boulder, and we sat down side by side, our knees brushing.
I pulled out the plastic container of blueberries and the bacon sandwiches she’d packed, setting them between us. For the next hour, we just sat there in the quiet. There was no pressure to fill the silence. Gigi didn't ramble, and I didn't brood. We just ate cold breakfast, shared a thermos of black coffee, and watched the fog slowly roll over the tops of the pine trees below us.
I’d been to this ledge three times by myself in the dead of night, staring into the dark just trying to get my head straight. It had always felt like a cold, isolated place, a reminder of how separate I was from everyone else. But sitting here now in the daylight, with Gigi huddled under the blanket next to me and complaining about how the wind was messing up her ponytail, the ledge didn't feel lonely at all. It just felt quiet.
Gigi dragged the edge of the blanket over her shoulders, shivering slightly before she leaned directly into my side. She rested her head right against my shoulder, her dark hair catching the wind and brushing against my neck. She was holding her thermos of coffee with both hands, using it like a personal heater.
"So," she said, her voice dropping into that familiar, rhythmic ramble. "We are officially in the middle of nowhere. There are no crowds, no traffic, and no one is screaming about stats. Are you actually enjoying yourself, Birthday Boy?"I kept my eyes on the valley below, watching a hawk cut through the gray mist over the pines. My shoulder felt heavy where her head was resting, but it was a solid, grounding weight.
"Yeah," I said, taking a slow sip from my mug. "I am."
"Really? Because your face still looks like you're calculating a physics equation."
"This is just my face, Gigi."
"I know," she soft-laughed, her breath blooming into a tiny white cloud against my jacket. "But I just wanted to make sure. I know you didn't want a production. I just wanted you to have a day that actually belonged to you. And have you enjoy your day."
I didn't answer right away. I wasn't good at handing back the kind of reassurance she usually looked for, and my automatic default was to keep the thoughts locked inside my own head.
But sitting out here in the daylight, listening to her voice break up the absolute silence of the mountain, I realized I didn't feel that familiar urge to start the engine and get the fuck out. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was perfectly fine staying exactly where I was.
"Thank you, Gigi," I said randomly.The words came out before I could think to filter them.
It wasn't my usual grunted, half-hearted acknowledgment. It was quiet. Sincere.
Gigi paused, her coffee thermos hovering halfway to her lips. She turned her head, her gray eyes searching my face with a soft, surprised look before a small smile touched her lips.
"You're welcome, Luke."
I looked back out over the valley, listening to the wind. Internally, I was trying to map out why I’d even said it. I’d spent enough time around girls to know the drill, but with Gigi, things were shifting fast. I actually just enjoyed spending time with her outside of the bedroom.
More than I ever thought I would. It wasn’t just about the physical heat between us anymore; it was the fact that I didn't feel the need to keep my guard up when she was sitting next to me."I really like this place," I confessed, my voice low against the mountain air.
"It's so quiet. And peaceful."
"It really is," she murmured, leaning her head deeper into my shoulder."I found it when I couldn't sleep one night," I continued, decided to just give her the truth.
"Shane was having this obnoxiously loud hook-up back at the house. It was going on for actual hours. I was just tossing and turning in bed, getting so frustrated that I couldn't shut my brain down, so I finally just got in my car and started driving. Somehow, I ended up right here.
"Gigi shifted against me, looking up at me intently. She didn't interrupt or make a joke about Shane's lifestyle. She just nodded slowly, absorbing the details, validating the fact that I’d needed an escape."This is a really beautiful place," she said, looking back out at the endless pine trees.
"Honestly, the views remind me a lot of Lake Tahoe. My parents have a cabin out there, and we go every holiday season. As often as we can, really." She paused, her fingers tracing the edge of the wool blanket before she looked back up at me with a spark of hope.
"I’d actually love for you to come with us this year. Spend Thanksgiving with us. Maybe even Christmas."I stiffened slightly, my automatic defenses flaring.
"Spending Thanksgiving and Christmas with Garrett Graham? Your dad doesn't exactly like me, Gigi.""He can warm up to you," she insisted quickly.
"He will. It’s not like you're completely unlikable. I mean..." She trailed off, suddenly stopping herself. Her jaw went slightly slack, and she made this specific facial expression—her brow furrowing as she completely second-guessed her own phrasing, calculating how bad it sounded out loud.
She grimaced slightly, then threw me a highly teasing look. "Well, you know... once someone actually gets to know you, then you're not completely unlikable.
"I rolled my eyes, letting out a flat grunt. "Wow. Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"I mean, your demeanor doesn't exactly help your case, Luke," she laughed, nudging my ribs with her elbow.
"You're this massive, tall, broad dude, and you have this total aloof vibe to you. It can kind of rub people the wrong way initially."
"What am I supposed to do? I'm just me," I muttered, genuinely baffled.
"What am I doing that rubs people the wrong way? I don't say anything to anybody. I don't bother anyone."
"Exactly that!" she blurted out, her hand gesturing wildly. "You're a big, quiet, tall, handsome guy, and people get intimidated by that. Plus, generally speaking, nobody can tell what you're thinking ninety percent of the time, so it just adds to the whole mystery. Though..." She paused, screwing up her face again. "Maybe intimidation isn't the right word. But you definitely don't give off super likable, golden-retriever vibes when you first walk into a room."
"I don't think I can really help how I am, Gigi," I said, my voice dropping back into its usual factual, steady deadpan. "I don't want to perform just to be liked by people. What you see is pretty much what you get with me."
"It's okay," she said softly, her tone instantly melting into something reassuring. "It's not a bad thing. It just... is. I think I'm just having a really difficult time trying to explain what I mean. But yeah, whatever, Luke. My dad can definitely warm up to you. He might act tough, but he will. I know my mom will love you, and Wyatt will kind of like you. With my dad, he just needs to get to know you a little bit. Size you up a fraction."I let out a dry, breathy chuckle, leaning my head back against the stone.
"Great. A six-time All-Star sizing me up over a turkey dinner. That sounds incredibly comforting, Gigi."
She grinned, her gray eyes vibrant in the morning light. "I do my best."