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wannabehockeygf · 7 days

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Melting - Clayton Keller

"So you'll smile at everything I say, You got some soft lips and some pearly whites, I wanna touch them in the dead of night, Your smile ignites just like a candlelight, Then somehow, I know everything's alright."

*** request: i smushed the two requests I got today together, so it's #2 "Five more minutes?" plus #11 "You fell asleep on me, I didn't want to wake you up." another prompt requested was smutty, which I am happy to do, but you should probably re-request. summary: a mediocre first date turns into something more intimate word count: 4.1k pairing: clayton keller x fem!reader warnings: none just teeth rotting fluff! notes: - I love my man clayton more than anyone else. i will always be happy to do any requests for him. - saw one of my grades grade drop from 92 to 76 today so I needed a full reset and I guess that reset was writing fluff! - based in Arizona because I'm still in denial

italics represent flashback

gif creds: keller-clayton i gave up putting gifs in my fics a while ago but LOOK AT HIM I JUST WANNA KISS HIS FACE ALL OVER. *** The last thing you remember was standing on that tenth hole of the mini-golf course, wondering if it was socially acceptable to call an Uber in the middle of a first date. Mini-golfing had felt more like a middle-school field trip than an actual adult date. And if your performance had been any indication, you weren’t exactly “fun at parties” material. By hole six, you were already praying for the windmill to sweep you off your feet and put you out of your misery.

You weren’t trying to be dramatic, but let’s be honest—you sucked. Badly. You didn’t just miss the hole; you missed the general direction. The ball took off like it had a personal vendetta against you, disappearing into the bushes half the time. By the tenth hole, you were seriously considering feigning a headache, or better yet, an existential crisis, to bail early. Maybe there was a black hole you could throw yourself into.

That’s when Clayton saved you.

Well, saved might’ve been a strong word. He asked, “Do you wanna ditch this whole thing and go back to my place?”

Cue all your alarms going off at once. Yeah, you knew exactly what that meant. First date, cozy house, late-night drinks—he wasn’t subtle. You were supposed to say no, laugh it off, maybe suggest a different venue.

Instead, you heard yourself agree.

You thought you’d stay for a bit, make a polite exit before things got weird. But then, you ended up at his house—a stupidly nice one, complete with a pool, basketball court, and palm trees that looked straight out of a vacation ad. Like, was this guy a finance bro? Or did he have one of those mysterious jobs where he’s always "working on something big?" Either way, it felt excessive.

Then came the wine. Hesitation turned into a sip, which turned into three glasses, and somewhere between one of his stories about traveling to Europe and your sarcastic commentary, you ended up on his lap, his hands–

“Am I the asshole for-”

Immediately, the noise cuts out, and you hear a soft curse coming from… under you? “Shit!” Clayton hisses, taking a deep breath which you feel completely.

You stir, blinking against the sunlight spilling in through unfamiliar curtains. For a second, you can’t quite place where you are. Your brain is doing that sluggish, half-awake thing where it refuses to connect dots. All you know is that you’re warm, too warm, and there’s something solid beneath you.

Wait, why is your pillow breathing?

Your eyes snap open fully, and sure enough, there’s Clayton—underneath you. You’re sprawled across his chest like some kind of human blanket, legs tangled with his, your face smushed into the crook of his neck. Casual. Totally normal. Just your typical Saturday morning human pretzel situation.

Oh god.

Panic prickles up your spine, and you stay perfectly still, trying to figure out how you got here. You remember the mini-golf—barely—and the way you’d been one sad swing away from asking if he had a time machine to rewind you out of the entire evening. Then there was his house, the wine, his stupidly perfect jawline. And… oh right, that situation.

Your mind goes from zero to a hundred in seconds, racing to catch up with reality. You’re on top of him. Like, full-body contact, face-in-his-neck, can-feel-his-breath-on-your-skin kind of on top of him. Oh god, what the hell happened last night? Did you…? No. No, you remember now. Mostly. You didn’t sleep with him. Right?

You chance a glance at his phone screen out of the corner of your eye, and yup—he’s casually scrolling through TikTok like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like you're not literally draped across him like some kind of half-conscious sloth. The soft, muffled sound of a Reddit story video plays from his phone, but it's drowned out by the thunderous beat of your pulse in your ears. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath you, steady, calm, like you didn’t just wake up using him as a human mattress.

How long have you been like this? How long has he been awake? He’s obviously been up long enough to decide that reaching for his phone was preferable to trying to extricate himself from your limpet-like hold. You mentally groan. So, what now? Do you play it off? Pretend to still be asleep until he leaves? Just roll off him dramatically and flee the house?

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to vanish into thin air, but no such luck. You're still here, still on top of him, still melting into the soft heat of his skin.

How the hell did this happen?

And then, like a bad movie montage, it all comes flooding back. He’d pulled you onto his lap, his hands steady on your hips as if they’d always been there. The warmth of his touch had sent shivers down your spine, and you weren’t sure if it was the wine or something else entirely making your head spin. You could still feel the smooth drag of his palm as it slipped under your shirt, fingers teasing along the curve of your back. Your heart had been racing so fast you were pretty sure he could hear it.

“You’re—uh—comfortable?” you’d asked, your voice coming out breathier than you’d intended.

Clayton had chuckled, that low, rumbling sound that made your stomach flip in ways you weren’t proud of. “Very.” And then, without another word, his lips were on yours, soft but insistent, like he was waiting for you to tell him no.

But you hadn’t. At least, not at first.

Instead, you'd leaned into him, your hands slipping into his hair, tangling in the soft strands as the kiss deepened. He tasted like wine and something sweeter, something that made your brain go a little fuzzy around the edges. You could feel the heat building between you, the way his fingers dug into your hips just a little harder, pulling you against him until you were practically straddling him.

For a moment, it had felt like this was exactly where you were supposed to be—right here, in his lap, his mouth on yours, and your body pressing into his like it was the only thing keeping you anchored to the earth. But then—then something in your brain had clicked back on, the fog lifting just enough for you to realize what was happening.

Your heart had stuttered. You’re definitely not in the right headspace for this

You’d pulled back, breathing hard, your forehead resting against his. “I—um—maybe we should…” You hadn’t known how to finish the sentence, and your words had tumbled out in a mess of half-started thoughts and awkward pauses. Clayton had stilled, his hands dropping from your waist instantly, his eyes searching yours with something like understanding.

“Yeah, of course,” he’d said, his voice soft, and you could tell he wasn’t mad, wasn’t pushing. He just…stopped.

And that’s where the details get a little blurry. You must have fallen asleep after that, the wine and the tension finally catching up to you.

And now, here you are, waking up on top of him like some kind of oversized cat, his phone buzzing softly beneath your ear as he doom scrolls some more.

You shift, just slightly, testing the waters. His hand, the one not holding his phone, brushes absently against your back in response. A lazy, absent-minded gesture, like he’s forgotten you’re there but also somehow hasn’t.

Is this... normal for him? Just scrolling through TikTok with a girl sprawled across him like he’s some sort of makeshift mattress? Maybe this is his thing. Maybe you’ve entered some weird new level of dating etiquette where waking up on top of your date is a normal, acceptable thing that people do.

You finally muster up the courage to move, rolling onto your side—slowly, carefully, like you’re disarming a bomb. Clayton’s arm, previously draped across your back, falls away, and you find yourself sitting next to him instead of on top of him. Progress.

He glances over, his eyes meeting yours for the first time since you’ve woken up. There’s no awkwardness, no tension, just a soft smile that somehow makes you want to crawl back into the crook of his neck and stay there forever.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice still rough from sleep, and you can feel it in your bones.

Oh god, you think. You are so screwed.

“Hey,” you mumble back, trying to sound casual but knowing full well your voice betrays you. Your throat is dry, and you really, really wish you could just dissolve into the couch.

Clayton lifts his phone. “You fell asleep pretty quick after the wine,” he says, like he’s giving you a status report. “Didn’t want to move.”

Oh no, that's fine, I love waking up like a koala in a tree, clung to a guy I barely know. It’s totally my thing, you think, but what comes out is a garbled, “Thanks. Uh, yeah. Long day.”

You can feel the heat creeping up your neck and spreading to your cheeks. The mini-golf disaster, the wine, the whole making-out-on-his-lap thing—it all feels like some weird fever dream. But here you are, awake, on his couch, and somehow still alive.

“Well,” he says, stretching slightly and glancing at the time on his phone, “if you want coffee or breakfast or anything… no rush.” There’s something about the way he says it, all nonchalant, that makes you think he’s done this before. You wish you could bottle up that confidence and chug it like an espresso shot. But then he continues, “Or… you could come back here?”

You stare at him for a beat, trying to process what just came out of his mouth. Come back here? Like, back to the human pretzel situation you’d just barely escaped from? There’s no way he’s serious. But when you look at him, his face is soft, his eyes sleepy in a way that makes your heart do an embarrassing little flip.

You blink, your brain scrambling for a response. You could say no. You could grab your things and make a polite-but-hasty exit, chalking this whole thing up to “well, that happened.” But then he shifts slightly, his hand still resting casually on the couch, so close to yours that the warmth of his skin is almost tangible. His voice is soft when he speaks again, barely above a murmur.

“Five more minutes?”

Oh. Oh, that’s unfair. He’s not playing fair. You can practically feel your resolve slipping through your fingers like sand. Five minutes? What kind of heartless person says no to that?

You glance down at his hand, at the way his fingers twitch just slightly like he's waiting for you to move. It’s such a simple invitation, but for some reason, it feels like the world’s biggest decision. Your internal monologue is in full gear, screaming at you to think this through, but your body betrays you almost immediately. Before you even realize what you’re doing, you’re leaning back into him, your head finding its way to the curve of his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You can feel his breath catch just a little as you settle against him, and for a second, the room feels heavier, like the air itself is thicker. His arm instinctively comes around you, gentle but steady, pulling you just a fraction closer. His warmth seeps into your skin, and you’re not sure if it’s the leftover wine fuzzing your thoughts or the fact that you’ve somehow wound up here, in this moment, but for once, your brain doesn’t race to catch up. It just… stops.

His heartbeat is slow, steady, beneath your ear, and you feel like you’re floating in this weird bubble of peace, suspended between the moment you just left and the one you’re trying to make sense of now. His hand rests lightly on your back, his thumb absentmindedly tracing a soft pattern that sends tiny sparks up your spine. The room is quiet, save for the occasional hum of the air conditioner and the soft rustle of the sheets as he shifts to get more comfortable.

You can feel the weight of his chin resting against the top of your head, and it’s such a small thing, such a casual, barely-there gesture, but it feels like everything. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him, the softness of the moment. This isn’t what you expected—hell, none of this is what you expected—but here you are, breathing him in, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, his voice rough with the remnants of sleep. You can feel the vibrations of it in your bones, deep and gentle, as if he’s scared of breaking the stillness.

You nod, but it’s not enough, not when your face is pressed into his shirt. “Yeah,” you manage to mumble, your voice muffled by the fabric. “I’m okay.”

More than okay, actually.

He hums softly in response, the sound a low rumble that makes you feel like you could stay like this forever. And maybe that’s what scares you. How easy this is. How comfortable it feels to be wrapped up in him like this, even after the absolute chaos of the night before. You can’t remember the last time you felt this… safe.

There’s a part of you that wants to analyze every little detail—wants to pick apart why you’re so comfortable in his arms, why you’re not sprinting for the door, why your heart is doing this stupid fluttery thing every time he shifts even the slightest bit. But instead, you let yourself just be.

For once, your brain doesn’t go into overdrive. For once, it doesn’t matter what happens next, or what the mini-golf fiasco meant, or whether you’ll see him again after this. All that matters is the quiet, the warmth of his chest under your cheek, and the way his fingers trail lazy circles on your back.

You’ve only known him for, what, a handful of hours? Yet somehow, this moment feels like the calmest you’ve been in a long time.

His phone buzzes again, and you feel him shift slightly beneath you, but he doesn’t check it. Instead, he tightens his hold on you just a bit, his arm pulling you closer until you’re tucked into him so securely that it’s almost hard to tell where you end and he begins. But suddenly, it starts to feel slightly suffocating, and you can’t help but try to ease the tension, even if it’s in a weird way. “I’m guessing you don’t go on dates often?” you try to joke, but it sounds largely breathy.

Clayton stiffens for a moment, like he’s been caught off guard by your question. You can feel it in the way his chest stops its steady rhythm under your cheek. The hand that had been tracing lazy circles on your back pauses mid-motion. For a split second, the comfortable cocoon of warmth and quiet you’d both been wrapped in feels like it’s stretched a little too thin, like the moment might crack under the weight of the question.

Then, he lets out this weird, choked laugh. It’s not exactly a hearty chuckle, more like the sound someone makes when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar and aren’t sure how to explain themselves. You shift, lifting your head slightly to look at him, and when you do, you’re met with a sight that almost makes you snort. Clayton—mister “I-have-a-stupidly-nice-house-and-know-exactly-what-to-do-with-my-hands-like-it’s-no-big-deal”—is blushing.

Blushing.

His cheeks are a shade of pink that would’ve been adorable under any other circumstance. But seeing him like this? The guy who confidently pulled you onto his lap last night and didn’t even blink? Yeah, it’s throwing you off, and the tiny, embarrassed laugh that bubbles out of you isn’t helping.

“I—uh—what?” He stammers, shifting awkwardly beneath you. His arm, the one that had been holding you so comfortably, suddenly feels unsure of itself, hovering like he’s debating whether to pull you closer or shove a pillow between you to create some much-needed distance.

You blink up at him, trying to hide your amusement. “The date. I mean… you don’t seem like the ‘mini-golf-and-wine’ type.”

His blush deepens, and he clears his throat, his gaze darting away from yours like he’s desperately searching for an escape route. “Yeah, well, uh… I don’t really do this often.”

You peek up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Not often, or not at all?"

He chuckles nervously, and it's not that smooth, rumbly laugh from last night. It's more like an awkward, I’m-really-not-used-to-this kind of sound. “Not at all?” he says, but it comes out like a question. His face flushes just a little, and you can’t help but smile at the fact that, despite owning a house straight out of a Malibu dream, he's clearly not as suave as he seemed.

“Wait, seriously?” You shift slightly, trying to get a better look at him, but this only makes him more flustered. His hand, which had been resting casually on your back, retreats to his side like it’s suddenly self-conscious. “But you have this”—you gesture vaguely at his ridiculous house, the pool you vaguely remember seeing through his sliding glass doors—"and you don’t date?"

Clayton looks like he wants to sink into the couch and disappear. He rubs his face with his free hand, groaning softly. “Yeah, I know it doesn’t make sense.” He hesitates, glancing at you before continuing, “I’m just… busy, I guess. Work and stuff.”

“Oh, work and stuff, how mysterious,” you tease, unable to resist poking fun at the vague excuse. “You make it sound like you’re Batman or something. Got a secret crime-fighting career on the side?”

His laugh this time is real, shaking off some of the tension. “If only. I mean, I could rock a cape…”

You grin, glad to see him relax, even just a little. “So, what’s the deal then? You have this nice house, you’ve clearly got some kind of job that lets you travel to Europe, and yet… no time to date?” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you some kind of super-busy finance bro who’s married to the grind?”

Clayton cringes, but there’s a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. “No, no finance bro stuff. Just… um… sports?”

You stare at him, blinking slowly as the realization hits. "Wait… sports?" Your voice comes out more confused than you intended, and it lingers in the air between the two of you. Clayton shifts, his expression growing a little more sheepish, like he’s just admitted to something far more embarrassing. You raise an eyebrow, silently urging him to continue.

"Yeah," he finally mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to work out the tension. “I mean, it’s not a big deal, but, uh… hockey. NHL, actually.”

You blink again, processing the words as they hang there. Hockey. NHL. Him.

“Wait, like… you’re a professional hockey player?" you ask, almost breathless. Your heart stumbles for a moment, and you try not to make a big deal out of it, but the surprise is clear in your voice. He nods, awkwardly.

"Yeah, but it’s not like I go around telling people that." He glances at you, gauging your reaction. His cheeks turn back to a faint pink, and suddenly, his earlier confidence from last night seems to vanish.

You squint at him, tilting your head. "Wait, so... you just let me ramble about mini-golf without dropping that bomb? Was this like a test or something?"

His eyes widen, and he waves his hands defensively, nearly knocking over the throw pillow. “No, no! It wasn’t a test!” His voice is frantic, trying to backpedal from your accusation. “I swear! I didn’t think it was relevant… I just—” He stops, rubbing his temples like he’s regretting this entire conversation. “It’s been a while, okay? I’m just… I’m just glad to have someone warm here for once that isn’t my dog.”

That soft confession hits you harder than you expected. The vulnerability in his words sinks into the quiet between you, and you find yourself melting into the moment. You smile softly, shifting in his arms to look up at him fully. There’s a warmth blooming in your chest, and it has nothing to do with the cozy blanket wrapped around you.

A professional hockey player? You’d barely noticed his muscles last night, all lean and casual under his t-shirt, too distracted by the chaos of mini-golf and his awkwardly charming attempts at flirting–better than your other Hinge dates. Now, though, the pieces are falling into place—his house, the sleek car, the fact that he was clearly trying so hard to make a good impression despite his obvious nerves. He wasn’t trying to hide his life from you… he was just so genuinely out of practice that he didn’t know how to navigate it.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him, your forehead still resting lightly against his shoulder as you tilt your head up. His face is flushed, and he’s staring down at you like he’s expecting you to bolt at any second.

You let out a breath, your fingers absently tracing the hem of his shirt where it’s bunched around your waist. “You really should’ve led with that, you know,” you tease, your voice light as you try to keep things from getting too serious. “Might’ve saved us both a lot of confusion.”

Clayton groans, burying his face in his hands for a second before dropping them back to his sides in defeat. “Yeah, well… I didn’t want to, like, make it weird,” he mutters, his blush creeping back up his neck. “I just—god, I’m really bad at this, huh?”

You can’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Nah, you’re not that bad,” you reply, your voice gentle. “Just… out of practice.”

The silence that follows is easy, the weight of his chin resting on top of your head once more as you both settle into the moment. His arm eventually returns to its place around you, his fingers grazing your back in slow, lazy circles, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of him again. It’s so soft, so quiet. It’s almost too perfect, really, like you’ve stumbled into some kind of dream you didn’t even know you wanted.

He clears his throat after a beat, his voice hesitant. “So… if I’m this bad at dating,” he says slowly, “Does that mean I’m not getting a second one?”

You blink, surprised, and tilt your head up to look at him again. His eyes are soft, full of that quiet vulnerability from before, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest. You weren’t expecting that, weren’t expecting him to be so earnest about wanting to see you again.

You open your mouth to respond, but your brain falters for a second. A second date? After everything last night? After finding out he’s an NHL player, of all things? But then his gaze catches yours, and there’s something in his eyes that makes it hard to say anything but yes.

“Well,” you say slowly, your lips curving into a teasing smile, “I guess that depends.”

“On what?” He tilts his head, genuinely curious.

“On whether or not our next date involves fewer golf clubs and more dogs.”

His face lights up, a real, boyish grin spreading across his features, and he lets out a soft laugh, the tension in his shoulders melting away. “Yeah, I can definitely do that,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up your back to rest just between your shoulder blades. He pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “You’ll have to meet him first, though. He’s got final approval.”

You chuckle softly, the sound muffled against his chest. “Well, let’s hope I make a good impression, then.”

There’s another pause, and you feel his breath catch just a little as he presses his chin against the crown of your head again. “You’ve already made one,” he says quietly, almost like he doesn’t want you to hear it.

Your heart skips, your chest tightening in a way that feels both exhilarating and terrifying. There’s a softness here, a tenderness that you didn’t expect, and it’s seeping into the space between you like warm sunlight through a window. You’re not sure what this is yet, not sure where it’s going or what it means, but for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you have to know. You’re just… here, in the moment, wrapped up in him and the warmth of his arms, and that’s enough.

Maybe it’s more than enough.

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