[aggiespam]

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My main (side) blog ˋ°•*⁀➷ @jurslafx

21yo | czech girl ྀིྀི | I go by Aggie𑣲⋆

Tumblr hates me, and I cannot make my side blog the main, so here I am

I use this as my spam blog (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Feel free to dm me or drop an ask! I'm always down to chat about random stuff<3

dividers by ˋ°•*⁀➷ @diviniyae *.❤︎₊ ⊹

[whorelaud]

DISTRACTION – dean di laurentis ¡

pairing dean di laurentis x tutor!reader 

summary logan and hannah accidentally walk in on dean making out with his tutor. 

contains suggestive content, making out, dean really likes reader's boobs, they get caught (shocker...), down bad dean, mutual pining wc 4k

a/n ive been too busy to sit down and write but this was so fun and silly to write!! likes and reblogs are appreciated :)!!

"I'm just tutoring him." 

"That's what Hannah said," Allie states, tone laced with sarcasm. "Now look where she is." 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the assumption, more so annoyed by the fact that she may be right, even if you don't want to admit it. 

You've been tutoring Dean for the past two months, and what starts off as a horrible agreement that you regretted with your entire being turned into an anticipated two hours study that you now look forward to. 

Ironic. 

At first, you did it for the extra cash. It's easy money, you couldn't refuse the tempting offer when you were already struggling to get by with a part time job. Not only did it pay better, but it consumed less of your time. 

It's a good deal, you couldn't pass it down when Dean was practically begging on his knees for you to accept it. He once sent over his hockey teammates just to cozy you up into accepting his offer, causing a whole humiliation ritual in the cafeteria while he watched from the side with puppy eyes and a pout formed across his lips. 

It was a ridiculous sight, made you fume for days before finally calming down and eventually agreeing to help him. You regretted it in an instant, watching as a cocky, taunting smile smears all over his face, screaming at you to get away and avoid trouble. 

But you didn't. Instead, you showed up, even if you dreaded it, and considered it the worst part of your day. In your defense, Dean is very annoying, and wouldn't take you seriously unless you flashed him a life-threatening glare that would end him in the spot. 

He'd pretend not to understand things just to rile you up and make you scold him, almost as if he enjoyed it, amused by the way your face twists into a sour expression. Then comes apologizing, where his voice lowers into a whisper, and you'd fight the urge not to fold over the hushed apologies he mutters to you while tracing soothing patterns to your hand. 

You don't know when, or how it starts, but the dreaded sessions suddenly turn into something you look forward to. Two hours oscillate into three then eventually four, until you both lose track of time, and forget the entire reason to you being there. 

You hate it, how easy going he is, and how his dimples form when he flashes you a smile, or chuckles at a stupid joke you make just to earn a reaction out of him. Or how your stomach flutters with butterflies when he sits too close, or teases you with that taunting tone that makes you melt. 

You hate how easy it is for him to be near you, when you're short of breath half of the time he's around. It's absurd how the compliments he gives you roll off the tongue, like it's natural for him, like he doesn't flirt with half of the girls on campus. 

He probably thinks it's some joke, something that started and now you can't seem to get away from  it. You know you shouldn't, this is Dean Di Laurentis, everyone knows he's trouble, and you shouldn't have let him cross your boundaries, or get to you with a few flirtatious comments, but somehow he did, and now you're in too deep to end things. 

So the least you can do right now is deny it. Deny anything even happened, even though your friends can see right through your lies. 

"Like I said," you start, "Nothing's going on between us, I'm simply tutoring him."

"Oh, for fuck' sake." Allie shoots back, "The whole campus thinks you're dating. You know how serious that is for Dean Di Laurentis?" 

"It's just rumors, nothing more. People thinking we're together doesn't mean that we are." You mumble, rolling your eyes with offense. "You wouldn't catch me with Dean Di Laurentis even if my life depends on it." 

"I call bullshit." Hannah chants from the side, shifting the attention to her. 

"Hannah!" You shout, as Allie perks from her seat in agreement. "You're supposed to take my side, why are you feeding into her delusion?!" 

"It's not delusion if everyone sees it," Hannah shrugs her shoulders, approaching your bed. "C'mon, I'm dating his best friend, that man never stops talking about you." 

"You're lying," Allie gasps, scooting close to Hannah as she throws herself next to her. Her gaze shifts back to you, eyebrows pinching with frustration. "She never tells me stuff!"

"That's because nothing happens." You reason, exhaling with fake annoyance. "We're barely even friends, I doubt he thinks of me like that." 

"Calling bullshit again," Hannah's head tilts towards you, not believing a word you muttered. "Have you seen the way that man speaks about you?" 

"Stop it!" Allie slaps Hannah's side, excitment visible on her face. "Tell me about it! he mentioned her often?"

"She's all he talks about," Hannah turns back to Allie, ignoring your presence and pretending you're not even there. "Once he stayed by my side for an entire party just to ask about her interests."

"He did that?" You mutter, feigning oblivion to the teasing smile Hannah flashes you. "Okay, why are you talking as if I'm not even here?" 

"Oh, come on you have to admit, he likes you." Allie chimes in, "I've never not seen Dean Di Laurentis not have sex at a party. What do you mean he gave that up just to talk about you?"

"Okay," you mumble, slightly convinced. You settle for shaking off that feeling, "That doesn't mean anything, he can, not have sex if he wants, how does that involve me?" 

"I need to knock some sense into her," Allie huffs, falling back into the bed. "Do something, Hannah." 

"I tried," Hannah pouts, joining Allie's side with disappointment. "She's such an idiot." 

"Hey!" Your brows pinch with annoyance, as you sling your backpack over your shoulder. "Anyways, I'm leaving. Do you guys need anything?" 

"Where are you going?" Hannah questions, sitting up along with Allie. 

"I have a tutoring session with Dean." You reply. 

"Oh my God." Allie says under her breath. 

"Wait, I'm coming with." Hannah gets up, heading towards her room to grab her stuff. 

"Are you going in that?" Allie questions, gaze flickering to the baggy shirt covering all your curves. 

"What's wrong with it?" You ask, glancing down as you grab into the hems of it. 

"Dress up a little, will you?" Allie groans, grabbing into you as she walks towards her closet. 

"You're acting as if I'm going to a party." You mumble, face scrunching with confusion when she throws a pink, spaghetti strapped top over to you. 

"Wear this." She orders, observing you with anticipation.

You don't argue, because doing so will only lead to more arguing, and Allie won't give up unless you admit defeat. Instead, you sigh, taking off your shirt and throw the soft material over your head. 

It... complements you. Definitely not appropriate for a tutoring session, but you know exactly what Allie intents when she handed it over to you. It scrunches around your chest, showing a bit of cleavage, and it displays all your curves, curling at your waist, and showing the sliver of skin around your stomach. 

Then, before you can argue, she throws a denim skirt in your direction, lips pressing into a a thin line as she waits for you to take off your pants. 

You do. It's not like you really have a choice. 

Your pants slide off your legs easily, soon replaced by the skirt she handed you, which complements the top well. It rests comfortably around your hips, the length of it reaching just below your inner thighs, covering enough for you to not pick a fight. 

"I still don't think this is appropriate for a tutoring session." You start, admiring yourself in the mirror. 

"Oh, shut it." She huffs, grabbing a necklace and a few bracelets for you to wear. "Here, put these on, I'll find you a pair of sneakers that match with your outfit." 

"That's not needed!" You shout, but she ignores it as she digs deep into her closet, only coming back up when she pulls out a white pair of shoes, decorated with a bit of pink. 

"Here." She offers them to you, waiting for you to put them on. 

"What's taking you so–" Hannah's sentence cuts short as she stills in her spot, taking a moment to admire your outfit. "Oh." 

"It's too much, isn't it?" You complain, ready to slide off your top. 

But before you can proceed with your action, Hannah perks up again. "No wait!" she says, approaching you. "You look amazing." 

"Hannah." Your lips form into a pout, shoulders relaxing with defeat. 

"I'm not sure Dean can handle all that." Allie murmurs, checking you out with an amused expression spread all over her face. "You look so sexy, holy shit." 

"You did your big one, Al." Hannah shoots back, fist bumping Allie with her attention still glued to you. 

"So dramatic," you roll your eyes, failing to hide the smile smothered across your lips. "Should we leave?" 

"Oh, yeah." Hannah nods, "We definitely should."

"Is it too late to go back home?" You anxiously look back at Hannah, who's a moment away from knocking on the door. 

"Probably," Hannah shrugs her shoulders, glimpsing between you and the door. "Dean's expecting you any second now, Garrett said he's camping by the door for you."

"But–" You start, cutting your sentence short when Hannah sends you a death glare. 

With no hesitation, Hannah knocks on the door, barely giving you time to process the gesture before the door's wide open. 

Your eyes widen with shock at how quickly the door unlatches, gaze instantly shifting to Dean, whos eyes land on Hannah with a tight-lipped smile that displays his dimples. 

"Wellsy!" He leans against the door, feighning surprise, as if he hasn't been waiting for your arrival for the past hour. His attention lands on you, breath cutting short when his eyes lock with yours. He mutters your name, deliberate, quiet, if you weren't paying such close attention, you would've missed it. "Hi." 

"Hey." 

Tension seeps into the air, and you're sure it's obvious in the way your body tenses, stilling in your spot as Dean's eyes travel from your head, all the way down your legs, then back up again. You fight the urge to come up with an excuse as to why you're dressed up today, but settled on silence when Dean huffs out a ragged breath, one he didn't know he was holding. 

"I was waiting for you." He doesn't think when he speaks, mouth moving faster than his brain could process. He clears his throat, cheeks flushing a deep shade of red as he realizes what he said, quickly correcting himself. "Since you're tutoring me. I wasn't sure if you wanted it to take place here, or maybe in the library, since–" 

"You don't have to explain yourself," You nervously scratch the back of your neck, an awkward chuckle tumbling past your lips. "I'll make up for it, since I'm a bit late today, sorry."

"Oh, it's totally fine." He emphasizes the 'totally', nodding his head with comprehension. "Should we..." he trails off, stepping to the side. "Come on in." 

"About time," Hannah rolls her eyes, walking past Dean into the house. He almost chuckles, face growing serious when you follow behind your friend, nervously fidgeting with yours fingers. 

Logan perks up from the couch at the sight of you, tilting his head back as a sigh of relief escapes his throat. "Ugh, finally." 

"Hi," you wave, chuckling even though you're confused. Dean closes the door, following behind you as you step up the stairs. 

"I'm glad you're here." Logan states before you can disappear, continuing when your eyebrows pinch with confusion. "I've never seen someone this excited to study, he's mentioned you like a million times in the past hour alone." 

"John Logan." Dean's tone laces with embarrassment, the threat barely heard through his gritted teeth. 

"Oh, be nice to him," you joke, glancing towards Dean from over your shoulder, who's far too busy observing the way your hips sway back and forth to pay your gaze the attention. 

The walk up the stairs feels like an eternity, but you eventually get to Dean's room, door instantly clicking shut once you're both inside. 

Dean leans against the door, taking a moment to admire as you throw yourself on the bed, making yourself comfortable as you grab out your school stuff. Your head shoots up with confusion once you take notice, lips jutting into a slight pout as you utter your next words. 

"Are you not sitting down?" 

You ignore the tension cutting through when he flashes you a lazy smile, taunting, yet teasing, tugging at the strings of your heart and making your stomach flutter with butterflies. Your gaze flickers back to your supplies, taking a deep breath to get a hold of yourself. 

Why's it so difficult to control yourself?

Dean doesn't say a word, simply walking over to you before he positions himself next to you. He sits close, too close you can smell his musky cologne that impales all your senses, and feel his breath as it lightly fans over your exposed arms. 

You cut to the chase, starting your tutoring session like you normally do. Everything's going smoothly, and you're nearing the end of it, but something else is weighing down your chest. 

You can clearly feel Dean's gaze on you, burning holes through your skin and flustering you into a mess. Your words stammer past your lips, and a deep breath drags out before you're fed up, finally looking up from the textbook. Your eyes shift to Dean, who's propped against his elbows, too comfortable to move, or take his eyes off of you. 

"Someone's paying close attention." You tilt your head, tone filling with sarcasm. Dean laughs at the abrupt change of atmosphere, head leaning back for a moment before his eyes are on you again. 

"For sure." He goes along with the 'joke', entertained by the sassiness laced in your voice. 

"What did I just say?" You question, your words more of a challenge. 

"Don't put me in the spot." He cooes, and if not for how annoyed you are, you would've folded in the spot. 

"You're not paying attention!" You state, causing the boy to scrunch his nose with defeat. 

"Alright, I'm sorry." He admits, barely earning a smile out of you. "I'll try to pay attention." 

"And what's got your attention, Di Laurentis?" 

"Something." He says, as he fidgets with the sheets covering the bed. 

"And what would that something be?" 

His gaze flickers to your cleavage, and it's swift, you would've missed it if you aren't paying such close attention. It's not on purpose. his face turns pale as soon as it happens, and he fight the urge to come up with an excuse as to why he looked, and why he did it right as you asked. 

But you know. Deep down you know what's distracting him, and keeping him from paying attention. 

"Oh." You mumble. It's barely coherent, but Dean still hears it, cursing under his breath in reaction. 

"I'm..." His eyes force shut, head dipping with shame. "I'm trying really hard not to look."

"Wow," you chuckle, entertained by how guilty he seems. "Aren't you the gentleman?" 

At that, Dean laughs, tension off his shoulder as his eyes travel back to you. "Trying to be," he reasons, voice lowering into a whisper. "But it's really hard when you look this pretty." 

Your breath gets caught in your throat, and it's difficult to control the corners of your lips, tugging into a smile, barely visible, but it's there, enough for Dean to take it as a sign. 

He inches close to you, leaning his head down as he traces small circles to your hand, ticklish, and making goosebumps breakout across your arms. You take his action as a challenge, leaning forward so there's barely any distance separating you. 

He whispers your name, exhaling through his nose. Like your mere presence is tempting him, pulling at his strings. His gaze flickers down to your lips, keeping contact for a brief second before his eyes lock with yours again. 

"You should probably tell me to stop." He states, forehead brushing against yours. His fingers trail up your arms, deliberate, yet casual, halting around the spaghetti strings of your top. He toys with the material, breath shuddering when his knuckles make contact with your bare skin. 

"Probably," you repeat, fingers finding the curve of Dean's jaw. Your tone drops to match his, breath shaking as you mutter your next words. "But what if I don't want you to?" 

That's the only sign Dean needs. 

Dean ceases the distance separating you, capturing your lips in a chaste kiss, needy, and so desperate, it knocks a breath out of you. Your hands move to the back of his neck, grasping onto his hair as he kisses you numb, tugging and nibbling at your lips. 

He bites down hard enough, the pressure of the action making you whimper, giving him the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. His tongue meets yours halfway, the warmness of his mouth engulfing the inside of yours in an instant. 

Dean's hands trail wherever he can get them, traveling from your waist to your stomach, to your back, and back on your hips when you moan into the kiss. His fingernails dig into the skin, applying enough pressure for it to leave a mark, and the mere thought of that turns you on. 

Your body leans into the touch, back arching as he rolls your hips against his knee. The fraction makes you feel funny, tingly all over, he doesn't give you a chance to process it before he does it again, entertained by the mess he creates out of you. 

You mewl into the kiss, crying out in pleasure when he disconnects the kiss, not giving you a chance to complain before his lips are back on your skin again. Only this time, he kisses down your throat, licking and nipping at the curve of your jaw, then slowly kissing his way down your neck, where his teeth graze the delicate skin with so much want, you can feel the desperation in his action. 

Dean groans against your skin, pressing slick, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbones, while one of his hands messages the exposed flesh of your cleavage. He kisses his way down, taking a mouthful of your chest the moment he has the chance to. 

The kisses he litters to your chest are soft, the sensation like feathers on your skin. He presses another kiss, grazing his teeth over the flesh, licking the same spot to soothe any pain away. 

"Dean," You whimper, head falling back as you press his face into your chest, chasing after the pleasure he's making you feel. "Please." 

"Please what?" He mumbles, kissing your chest once more before he straightens again, sitting up as one of his knees separate your legs, giving him enough space to stand in between. 

His hand caresses soft circles to your cheek, now hovering over you, with his legs dipping into the mattress. Then, with a thumb to your chin, he forces your mouth open, pressing a kiss to your lips, licking a stripe of your mouth before he repeats it again. 

"God, you know how much I wanted this?" He says in between kisses, gaze growing hazy. "Wanted," another kiss, "you."

You don't say anything, simply letting him tilt your head as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your lips, licking into your mouth and savoring every bit you're offering him. He kisses you like a starved man, like he's never done this before, like he's been dying to feel your lips on his. 

"So fucking pretty for me." He says, slowly kissing down your jaw, this time lingering when he sucks on the skin, to mark you for everyone else to see. "You dress up for me, darling? Dolled up all for me." 

You whine out in embarrassment, but that doesn't stop the pleasure surging through your body, traveling to in between your legs when Dean's hands reach under your top, massaging the plush skin and pressing you closer than you already are. 

He kisses you again, this time deepening it to savor the taste on his tongue. He tilts his head to the side, taking your upper lip between his, fingers occupied with the clip of your bra. 

And just as he's about to unclip it the door clicks open. 

"Tucker told me to bring over some–" in front of the door stands Logan, with a bunch of snacks scattered on a tray. He almost drops the stuff in his hold, mouth gaping to speak, but falling into utter silence instead. 

Your attention shifts to Logan in an instant, and you have to process the situation for a second before realization takes over.  

Fuck. 

You don't think as you push Dean off of you, causing the boy to lose his balance and fall off the bed. You try to grab onto his shirt, but it happens too fast, he lands on the ground with a thud. 

A gasp escapes your throat, attention shifting  from Logan to the now stretched out shirt in your grasp, with Dean, a mess on the ground. 

Dean's eyes follow yours, flashing his friend a guilty look that tells Logan all he needs to know. 

As for Logan, he's awkwardly standing by the door, gaze flickering from Dean to you. His head tilts, and he's contemplating whether right now is a good time to speak, maybe confront you both?

And just as you thought things couldn't get any worse, they do. 

Hannah's giggles bounce off the walls as she approaches Dean's room with a plate Logan seemingly forgot. 

"You forgot the–" Hannah starts, words dying in her throat when she's met with the awkward position you and Dean are in. "Cashews." 

"Fuck." You mumble under your breath, falling into the bed with defeat. 

"Are we..." Logan trails off, pointing between you two. "Are we interrupting something?"

"Huh?" Dean starts, too hazed by what just happened to answer. "I–"

"No," you beat him to replying, violently shaking your head. "We were just studying." 

"Mhm, just studying." Dean agrees, reaching for the hand you offered him earlier, for the mere purpose of balancing. It doesn't help your situation, causing you to instantly pull back your arm when both Hannah and Logan glance down. "I'll just, stay on the floor." 

"Yeah, right." Hannah says, not convinced whatsoever. 

"We should probably leave," Logan turns to Hannah, nudging her side as he continue. "We'll leave you to it."

"You are explaining yourself as soon as we're home." Hannah whisper-yells to you, as if the two boys aren't still listening. 

"Explain what?" You whisper back. 

"This." Hannah points to you, eyes traveling down to your chest, and Dean on the floor, a total mess, he can't even pick himself back up. 

You fix your shirt, covering Dean's face with your palm. "Don't look at him." 

Hannah's lips tug into a smile, amused by how much you're trying to prove a point. 

"He's all yours." Hannah's eyebrows raise with intrigue, giving Logan the signal to leave. 

"It's not what it looks like!" You shout, but they don't give you a chance to justify yourself, shutting the door before you can continue. 

And through the walls, you can hear Hannah yelling "Guess what we just fucking saw?" 

Right, so now everyone will know that happened, no matter how hard you try to deny it. 

Isn't this great?

"They left without giving us the snacks." Dean's lips jut into a pout, growing serious when you flash him a death glare. 

"Dean Di Laurentis." 

"That would be me." He scratches his chin, avoiding your gaze. 

"What are we going to do?" 

[pucksandpower]

guardian angel

Beau Maxwell x medical student!Reader

Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives

Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries

The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.

Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.

Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.

Then you’re moving.

You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”

A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”

He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”

“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”

Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.

The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.

There’s so much blood.

“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”

Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”

“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”

“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”

“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”

“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.

You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.

“Sir, I need you to sit down-”

“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”

“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”

He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.

You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”

But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.

You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.

Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.

“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”

“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”

“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”

“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”

You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”

Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.

The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.

You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.

You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.

Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.

“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.

Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.

You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”

His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.

“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.

Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-

No. You push the thoughts away.

“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”

“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”

“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”

You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.

“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”

You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.

Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.

Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.

“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”

“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.

Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.

You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.

“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”

Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.

The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.

“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”

But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.

“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”

You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.

“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”

The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”

“Med student. Second year.”

“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.

You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.

“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”

“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.

“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”

“But-”

“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”

You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.

Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.

Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.

“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”

But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.

The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.

“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”

You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?

The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not.

As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.

You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.

Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.

Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.

You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.

Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.

The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.

You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.

You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.

“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”

Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.

All you can do is wait.

And hope.

And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.

***

The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”

“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.

“Fuck off, I was screened-”

“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”

Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.

He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.

“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.

Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.

At seven in the morning.

On a Saturday.

“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”

There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.

“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”

“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”

Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.

“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”

“I need you to sit down, son.”

The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.

“What happened?”

Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”

Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”

“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”

The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”

“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.

Beau.

Critical condition.

The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.

“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.

“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.

Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.

“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”

“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”

“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”

The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-

No. No, he’s not going there.

“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.

“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”

“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”

Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.

Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”

The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.

They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more. 

Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.

Beau is his brother.

And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-

No. Stop. Don’t think it.

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.

They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.

“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”

They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?

They round a corner, and Dean sees them.

The waiting room is full of Maxwells.

Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.

They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.

His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.

“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.

She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”

That’s what breaks him.

Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.

“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”

Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”

Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.

“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”

He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.

“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”

Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.

“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”

“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”

“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.

Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”

Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.

“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”

“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”

The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.

“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.

“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”

He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.

“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”

Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.

Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.

“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.

“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”

“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.

“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”

“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.

“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”

“Dean-” Garrett starts.

“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”

The doors to the surgical wing swing open.

The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.

Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.

“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”

The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.

“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”

“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.

“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”

“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”

The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”

“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”

The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”

“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”

“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”

The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”

“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”

After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.

Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.

Gratitude.

“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”

“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”

“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”

Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.

“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”

“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”

“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”

Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.

“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”

Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”

“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”

Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.

“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”

“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.

They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.

Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.

Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”

He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.

His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.

Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.

Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.

But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.

Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.

“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.

Garrett looks over. “Who?”

“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”

“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”

Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.

And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.

***

The world comes back in pieces.

First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.

Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”

That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.

“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.

“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”

Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.

***

The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.

The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.

“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.

“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.

“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”

“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”

Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.

“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”

He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.

“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”

Footsteps. Fast.

Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.

“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”

“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”

That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.

“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”

“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Duh.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”

His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.

The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”

After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.

“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.

Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”

Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”

His parents exchange a look.

“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”

“A branch?”

“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”

Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”

“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”

A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.

“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.

“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”

“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.

“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”

A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.

“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”

“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”

“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”

Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”

Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.

“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”

“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.

It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.

“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.

“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”

The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.

Instead, a young woman steps in.

She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”

“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”

She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”

She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”

You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”

“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”

Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”

“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”

Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.

“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”

You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”

“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”

“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.

Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.

Because holy shit.

You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-

Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.

“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”

You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”

“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”

“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”

“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”

“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”

“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”

“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”

You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.

“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”

“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.

“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”

“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”

You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.

“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.

“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”

“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.

You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.

“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”

“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”

“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.

You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”

Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”

Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.

You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.

You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”

Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”

“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”

“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”

“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.

“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.

You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.

The room is silent for exactly three seconds.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Not now,” Beau replies.

“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”

“Dean-”

“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”

“I was perfectly respectful-”

“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”

“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”

“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”

“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.

“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”

Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”

“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”

“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”

“Dean, I swear-”

“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.

“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.

After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.

“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”

“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”

“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”

“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”

Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.

“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.

“Probably,” Dean agrees.

“And I think I’m in love.”

Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”

“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.

“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”

“I know what I feel.”

Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”

“I really mean it.”

“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”

“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”

“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”

“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’ll convert her.”

“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”

“She’s competitive. I like that.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”

“Her name is Y/N.”

“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.

His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.

But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.

Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.

And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.

“Dean?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Help me figure out what to text her.”

Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”

They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.

After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.

Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.

Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.

***

The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.

“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”

Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.

Now, he’s doing pull-ups.

“One,” he grunts.

“Good. Keep that form.”

“Two.”

“Breathe through it.”

“Three.”

“Two more. You’ve got it.”

“Four.” His arms are shaking.

“Last one. Make it count.”

Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.

“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”

“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.

“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”

It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.

After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.

And one from you.

Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?

Beau smiles, typing back quickly.

Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.

Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.

Beau: I did five pull-ups.

Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!

Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.

Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.

Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Beau: You love it.

There’s a pause.

Y/N: Maybe a little.

Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.

You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.

The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.

He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.

Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”

But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.

His phone buzzes again.

Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.

Beau: What’s wrong?

Dean: Just get here. It’s important.

Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.

He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?

Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.

“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”

Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”

“I wasn’t dead.”

“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”

“Everyone?”

“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”

“Dean-”

“And Y/N.”

Beau freezes. “What?”

Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”

“You invited—without asking me-”

“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”

“By ambushing me?”

“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”

***

The party is, objectively, insane.

By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.

Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.

“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“That’s just my face.”

“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”

Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”

“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.

“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.

“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”

“I don’t—we’re friends.”

“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”

“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.

“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”

“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”

Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.

“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.

“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”

Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.

And there you are.

You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.

“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.

You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.

“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.

“I am talking to her.”

“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”

Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.

“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”

“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”

“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”

Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Just open it.”

He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.

Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”

“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”

“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”

You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.

Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”

The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.

“Oh no,” Beau mutters.

“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.

“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”

The crowd is silent, watching.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”

You look mortified. “Dean-”

“Stand up!”

Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.

“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”

Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.

“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”

He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”

“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.

You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.

“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”

Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.

“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”

“That’s not-”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.

You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”

“Rome didn’t have vodka.”

“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”

You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”

Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.

“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.

One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.

Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.

“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.

You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”

“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”

“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.

“You love me too!”

“Debatable!”

You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.

“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”

“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”

“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”

“I was just doing what anyone would do.”

“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”

You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”

“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”

“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.

“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”

“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”

“Really?” Your voice is soft.

“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“I always believed in you,” you whisper.

“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”

You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”

“You were on a lot of pain meds.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”

“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.

The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.

You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”

Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.

“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.

“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.

“They’re cat-calling.”

“Still don’t care.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.

“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”

“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”

“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”

Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.

“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”

From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.

“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.

“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.

You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.

“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”

You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.

Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”

“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.

“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.

Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”

Beau looks at you. You look back.

“It’s a thing,” you say.

“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.

“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”

“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.

The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.

Better than right.

Perfect.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.

“To second chances,” he says.

“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.

“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.

“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.

“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.

“To fate,” Beau agrees.

And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.

Life is short. Second chances are rare.

And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.

***

The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.

Well, mostly empty.

“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”

Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”

“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”

“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”

“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”

“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”

“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.

Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”

“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.

Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.

Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.

It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.

Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.

You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”

“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.

“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”

“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”

“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.

You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”

“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.

Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”

“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”

“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”

The effect is immediate and bizarre.

Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.

“Did you just say-” you start.

“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.

“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

But it’s too late.

You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.

“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.

“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”

“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.

You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.

“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.

“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.

Dean stares. Just stares.

“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.

“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.

“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”

You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.

“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”

“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”

“And when you said whipped into shape-”

“We just had to,” you finish together.

Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”

“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.

“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”

“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”

“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.

“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”

Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.

And Dean …

Dean has a moment.

He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.

It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.

It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.

And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.

Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.

It was fate.

It had to be.

Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?

The odds were astronomical.

And yet here you both are.

“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?

“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air.

You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.

“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”

“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”

“I absolutely would,” you confirm.

“-but someday. Definitely someday.”

Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”

“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.

“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“That’s not-”

Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.

“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”

“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”

“I can live with that,” you say softly.

You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.

Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”

“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns.

“We’ve got to-”

“No-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.

“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.

“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”

“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.

“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”

“That sounds like innuendo.”

“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”

“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.

“You’re having them three feet away from me!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.

The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.

Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.

And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.

He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.

He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.

And he’s going to tell them that he knew.

He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.

And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.

Grateful for second chances.

For all of it.

[rinkmuse]

olympic goal

pairing: macklin celebrini x reader summary: making a deal with mack if he makes a goal in the opening tournament warnings: smut, oral m!receiving

wc: 945

18+ content below the cut. minors dni

ever since mack got the call that he'd be going to the olympics to represent team canada, he's been terrified of underperforming or making a waste of this big opportunity whilst wearing the maple leaf across his torso.

of course he was proud to represent his country, but the anxious thoughts and 'what ifs' plagued his mind for weeks. you noticed how much this was affecting mack, seeing how he didn't seem as present whenever the two of you were together compared to before he got the call.

"hey mack are you ok?"

"yeah i am!" clearly lying through his teeth, and you were able to pick up on it.

"mack really...what's going through your mind? you're usually fast asleep by this time. tell me what's wrong."

mack heaves a sigh before confessing his fears for the olympics.

"what if i don't play as well as i do? what if i make a complete fool out of myself on the olympic ice?"

noting how no witty remark about how he was the number one overall pick in his draft would lift his mood right now, you resort to one of your last options to get him to forget about his worries.

"what if we make some kind of deal?"

his eyes perk up "like what?"

"completely up to you. whatever will get you motivated to be confident at the games."

a light in his eyes starts to reappear, and the ends of his lips start to twitch, forming a small smile, at the thought of you giving him complete freedom in this deal. his mind races at all the possibilities.

his voice drops to a whisper at the slight chance you might say no to his proposal "head for a goal during our opening tournament against czechia? if that's ok with you?" starting to shy away, thinking you'll refuse his idea.

noticing how he started to rethink his deal, you agree to his proposal. "of course it's ok with me. whatever will give you your spark back."

luckily for you, you were able to fly out to milan with mack and stay at a hotel near the olympic village. ever since you agreed to the deal with mack, you've noticed a change in his spirits. he's been training even harder to get his confidence back, reminding himself that he was chosen for team canada for a reason.

it was not long until puck drop, wishing mack good luck for the game and letting him know that you'll be in the stands.

throughout the first period, you've been on the edge of your seat. the fast pacing, the loud crowd, both canada and czechia trying to score the opening goal. cheering as soon as mackinnon scored the opening goal until the referee waved off the goal due to interference. with how the opening of the game was going, you were starting to lose some hope that canada would even score a goal.

just as you thought the first period would end with no goals for either team, it happened. with less than 6 seconds to go, he did it. mack scored the opening goal for canada. a big smile was plastered over his face for two reasons -- he achieved what he wanted to do during the olympics, and now you had to keep up with your end of the deal.

ever since the match ended, mack has been waiting to visit you in your hotel room, longing to reward himself with you. the whole elevator ride up to your room had him buzzing with anticipation.

you hear a knock on your door, knowing that the only person it could be is mack. as soon as you open the door, mack shuffles in, taking off his shoes and discarding his hoodie. without waiting any longer, his lips capture yours, desperate and breathless as he's been waiting for this moment ever since you made the deal.

guiding you to the bed, mack lays you down, only breaking the kiss to take off yours and his clothes. keeping up with your end of the deal, you make your way down him.

pumping his dick a few times, and his tip starting to leak, you take him in your mouth. making it down to his base, you hear him utter a sigh of relief, all restlessness leaving his body. continuing to go down on him, his breaths start getting heavier and shorter. desperately needing to grip something; his fingers digging into his palms no longer being sufficient enough, mack grips onto your hair tight enough so he wouldn't hurt you. you look up to see his face and you see how tightly shut his eyes are, knowing that he was getting close. hollowing your cheeks, you pick up your pace and see how that quickly affected him. now open-mouthed with moans leaving his lips, you feel mack letting himself go and filling up your throat. you lift off of his dick, and look to see how flushed his face got.

regaining his breath, he takes you into his arms and buries his face into the crook of your neck.

"i'm gonna score more goals if i could get that every time."

chuckling at his compliments, you lay into him and whisper sweet nothings, making sure that he knew how proud of him you were, and how he shouldn't have lost faith in himself in the first place.

"the deal aside, i wouldn't have done it without you. you know just what it takes to bring me back to my normal self."

the two of you order cookies and milk to your room as a perfect treat to end the night.

a/n: lowkey feel like the ending was a bit ahh but 18+ readers lmk how the actual smut part was and send in any feedback !!

[aggiespam]

CZECHIA MENTIONED🗣️🗣️🗣️

[sc3ptre]

I absolutely loved your last Dean story!! I was wondering if you would be able to write about a reader who has never been able to finish, with herself or anyone else, and dean helps her learn.

Beautiful writing!

I would've done that sober

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66

a/n: Well that was long, but such a delight to write and soooo so sexy

Classification: Smut +18 | Talks of ex's and sexual dysfunction/insecurity, emotional vulnerability, recreational drug use (NOT DURING SEX), dry humping/grinding, getting caught, fingering, tension and arousal descriptions, orgasm, praise and partial undressing/lingerie.

Word count: 12k

Divider by me ;)

You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.

Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.

“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”

You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.

Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.

Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.

“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.

He stopped talking immediately.

You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”

His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.

“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.

“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”

Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”

You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.

“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”

His brows furrowed.

You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”

“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”

He passed the blunt over again.

You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.

“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”

Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”

He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.

You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”

Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”

You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”

Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.

“But you told me–”

“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”

Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.

“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”

Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”

“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”

Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.

“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.

If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.

You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”

You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”

You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.

The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.

Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.

You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.

Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”

The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.

“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.

“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”

His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.

You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.

“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”

You grinned. “He’s six-one.”

Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”

Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.

“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”

A laugh escaped you softly.

“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”

“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.

Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.

Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.

“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”

“How solidary of you.”

He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”

You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.

Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.

Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.

The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.

“Use me,” he blurted out.

Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time. 

“What do you mean?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”

You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”

“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.

That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.

“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”

A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”

Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”

“You’ll close the park?”

“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”

“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”

Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”

“I was fifteen.”

“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”

“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”

Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.

You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.

It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.

Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.

“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.

Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”

That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.

The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.

You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.

Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.

You swallowed.

His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”

A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.

You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.

When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.

You slept absurdly well afterward.

A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.

You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.

The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.

Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.

The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.

You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.

You recognized the cologne immediately.

“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.

Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.

You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”

“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.

The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.

You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.

Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.

The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.

You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.

“We need to talk.”

You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.

Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.

You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.

“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”

Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.

You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”

He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”

“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.

Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”

His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.

“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.

“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”

Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.

You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.

Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”

“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.

Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.

You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.

Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.

You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”

“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.

You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.

“No kissing.”

Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”

“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”

His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”

Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”

Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.

Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.

“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”

Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically. 

“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.

“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”

Dean’s brows lifted.

“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”

Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”

Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”

Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.

You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.

The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”

Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”

You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”

He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.

“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.

“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.

You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.

Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.

Your gaze dropped away first.

Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.

Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.

“Can I add rules too?” he asked.

You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”

The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.

“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”

You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”

Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.

“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”

Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”

You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”

Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.

You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.

Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.

“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”

Your mouth parted slightly.

“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.

You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.

That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.

You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.

Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”

Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”

You snorted softly.

He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”

The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.

There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.

Nothing changed.

Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.

Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.

You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.

Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.

You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.

“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.

You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.

“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”

You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”

Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”

You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment. 

“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”

A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”

Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”

“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.

You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.

“Let’s see,” you murmured.

You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.

Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.

Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.

Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.

He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.

You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.

You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”

Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.

“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”

“You still read it.”

“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.

You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.

“Not in math,” he said quietly.

Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.

“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”

You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.

“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.

You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.

Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.

Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.

You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.

Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.

The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.

Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.

"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."

He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs. 

You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.

"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.

You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.

You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.

You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.

The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.

Tucker.

The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.

You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.

Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.

Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.

The front door opened and you froze.

Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.

Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.

“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.

Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”

The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.

Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.

The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.

“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”

Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.

“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.

“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.

Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.

The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.

You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.

You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.

“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”

From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.

“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.

You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.

Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.

Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.

You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.

Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.

Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.

For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.

The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.

You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.

He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.

“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.

Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.

“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”

You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.

“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”

Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.

“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.

“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.

“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”

You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”

“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”

You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.

You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.

“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“You say that now...”

You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.

Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.

You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.

You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.

Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.

You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”

Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.

“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.

Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway. 

“Why aren’t you at the party?”

Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.

You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.

“Because I’m here with you.”

“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”

“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.

Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.

Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.

“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.

Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.

“I have my sources.”

You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”

You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”

Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”

You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”

Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”

You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.

Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.

“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”

One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.

Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”

You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”

“Besides the obvious?”

Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.

“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.

“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”

Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.

“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”

You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.

“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”

The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.

Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.

Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?

Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”

You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.

Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”

Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.

Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.

‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’

“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.

Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”

Even he sounded unsure of the answer.

Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.

“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”

Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.

He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.

It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.

Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.

He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.

Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.

You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.

The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.

You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.

With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.

Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.

He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.

The silence stretched thickly.

You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.

You swallowed. “What do you think?”

Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”

Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.

Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.

You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.

“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.

“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.

You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.

In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.

For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.

A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.

Your eyes met his again through the reflection.

“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”

One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten. 

His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”

The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.

His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.

You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.

The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.

"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.

You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.

As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.

"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.

"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.

"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.

You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.

"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.

"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.

"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.

"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.

The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.

You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.

The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?

"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.

The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. 

Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.

Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.

"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.

As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.

You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.

As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.

You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.

You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.

"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."

You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.

In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.

You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.

“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.

"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."

His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.

The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.

Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.

As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.

The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.

You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"

Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.

Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.

You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.

Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.

You swallowed once. “Did you…?”

The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.

Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.

“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.

You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”

Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”

You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.

The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.

Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.

You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.

Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.

His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.

The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.

So much for rules.

Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍

[buunbaanbeen]

aftercare w/ luke hughes

words - 🧍🏻‍♀️

genre - fluff/kind of nsfw??

warnings - talk of sex, aftercare, unprotected sex, cumming inside

you make another incoherent noise from your place on the bed. somewhere between a whine and a groan; nothing sexual, yet still quite needy. luke can only laugh, the sound echoing from the bathroom where he stands, wetting a soft cloth with warm water. he promised you he’d be quick, but it feels like forever since he pulled out, leaving you cold and alone on top of the mattress he’d fucked you into merely moments prior.

“shut up,” you hear him say over the running water, nothing but glee in his tone, “i’ll be with you soon, baby. the water is taking forever to warm up because someone took an hour long shower earlier.”

in your defence, it was an everything shower. between scrubbing and exfoliating every inch of skin on your body, washing and deep conditioning your hair, and the impromptu concert you performed for the bottles lining the side of the tub, a lot of time mounted up! a lot of hot water too, you suppose, but it’s not like luke was complaining when he was laughing and begging for ‘one more song, baby!’ from the bed.

“but i’m sticky,” you whine as you writhe around atop your sheets, kicking out your legs, only to regret it when you remember just how sore your thighs are. having a boyfriend the size of luke makes fucking him a workout; maybe you should’ve stretched before giving yourself leg cramp.

“you’ll be less sticky in a minute!” you can practically hear his smile in his words; thank god he finds you endearing even when you’re at your most annoying. “it’s not my fault you begged for it raw.”

at that, you gasp, although you can hardly deny that there’s some truth to his words. sure, ‘begged’ may be a little extreme, but you had certainly whined a little when he’d pulled a rubber from his bedside drawer. putting on a condom takes time and you were desperate. an extra step between taking your towel off and getting your boyfriend inside of you seemed unfathomable at the time. now, with his cum seeping out of your tired hole, you have to admit that you can see the logic.

“you should’ve put your foot down,” you argue, although it hardly holds any weight to it. you know luke too well to think he’d pass up an opportunity to feel you so closely.

“or maybe—” the faucet turns off and a moment later luke appears in the doorway, still naked as the day he was born. you take a moment to appreciate him before he pushed away from the doorframe and takes a few steps closer. the room is just small enough for the trip to take no more than a few seconds, and before you know it, he’s sitting by your side, looking over you with a shit eating grin on his pretty face. “—you should have more self control, baby. you know i can’t say no to you.”

a shiver runs down your spine when the wet wash cloth comes into contact with your sore clit. luke had made you cum too many times to keep count, and the poor, sensitive bud had suffered for it. rubbed and pinched and smacked, it had gone through a lot, and no matter how gentle your boyfriend is, you can still feel everything. you suck in a breath through your teeth, eyebrows pinching together in a wince.

luke just shushes you softly, pressing his lips to the wrinkle in your forehead. you know he knows how sore you feel, and that’s enough to soothe you, even just a little bit.

your taught muscles melt as he shifts the cloth down to your weeping hole. his touch is soft as he wipes the remnants of his love away; almost as soft as the way his eyes are gazing into yours. you can’t help yourself when you lean up to kiss his jaw. he tenses, giggling a little as if this is enough to make him shy.

as if you wasn’t just spitting the filthiest words you’ve ever heard into your ear mere moments ago.

“you’re so cute, lukey,” you purr against his skin.

“shut up,” he says again, although it’s whinier this time. you can hardly believe how easy it is to reduce him down to a giant puppy-dog.

he pulls the cloth away from you and throws it into the corner of the room to be forgotten about until later. now isn’t the time for responsibilities. not when the two of you are so determined to do nothing but bask in one another’s presence, sharing soft touches filled with adoration, passing warmth back and forth between your bare skin.

luke lays his weight down on top of you, gentle with his movement so as not to crush you. the pressure of his body atop yours is nice. relaxing, even. it grounds you, and beneath him, you melt. his face finds its home in the hollow of your neck, nose rubbing up and down your skin before settling to a stop just below your jaw. you can’t help but squirm when his warm breath runs down your neck, tickling you, but luke’s body keeps you firmly in place. lay beneath him, pressed so close together you might as well be one.

“comfy?” he mumbles against your neck. you hum a ‘mhm!’ in response. he smiles against your skin, wide and beaming, just how you like to see him. “that’s good,” he says, “me too.”

[wineauntie]

CASUAL DOMINANCE — luke hughes x fem!reader

summary: four times Luke Hughes embodied casual dominance.

note: oh lord, buckle up…also part two potentially on the horizon 😶

warnings: NSFW CONTENT, MDNI, fem!reader, use of nicknames— good/pretty/sweet girl + baby, dom/sub dynamics, lotsssss of praise fr!

(Partially unedited!!)

1. A shiver of goosebumps shaded your bare body as you stepped into the running shower. It was an early morning start for you and the birds were only beginning to sing as the sun rose over frosty New Jersey.

You'd silently dragged yourself from the comfort of your bed, leaving behind your sleeping boyfriend, who'd insisted that you should wake him up once you had to get up and ready.

You'd ignored his request.

But it truly wasn't your fault!

Luke had just looked so incredibly soft when he slept, with his eyelashes gently fanning across the peaks of his cheeks and his curls askew and tangled. His lips slightly parted and his arms thrown around your body to hold you as close to him as possible.

How could you ever disturb such an image of peace?

You stepped under the warmth of the running water, letting the hot water cascade down your back, soothing the chill that had settled in your bones from the early morning air. Your muscles relaxed further as steam filled the shower, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to get lost in the quiet.

Until you heard the shower door creak open.

You stretched a slow smirk across your lips, but you didn't turn around. Instead, you opted to listen as heavy footfalls, the sound of clothes being shed, and the sound of the shower door being pulled open resounded around the bathroom.

You felt another warm sensation radiating just behind you, the distinct scent of sleep-warmed skin and something so inherently Luke, completely unmistakable.

You ignored me," his voice was rough with sleep, thick with that raspy morning edge that sent a shiver, one definitely not caused by the temperature this time, down your spine.

You felt him press against you, bare and warm and unmistakably solid. His presence filled the small space immediately, surrounding you, overwhelming you, just the way you adored.

"I was trying to be nice," you murmured, reaching for the soap with steady hands, even as your heart betrayed you with a traitorous little stutter. "You looked too peaceful to wake up."

"That's not your call to make, sweet girl," Luke hummed, low and unimpressed.

Before you could protest, he was taking the soap from your hands, turning you effortlessly to face him.

Water ran in rivulets down the sharp angles of his jaw, dripping from the ends of his dark curls. His eyes were sharp despite their drowsy haze as they searched yours, lathering his hands before trailing them over your shoulders, down your arms, slow and deliberate.

"I like waking up with you," he continued, almost idly, as if his being with you wasn't currently rendering you incapable of forming coherent thoughts. "Not reaching for you and finding the bed cold."

"Luke..."

He cut you off with a lazy, knowing chuckle, his grip tightening just slightly. Not enough to restrain, but enough to remind you that he could.

"No, no, you lost your chance to say my name all soft like that when you decided to leave me behind." His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, the teasing edge in his tone making your stomach flip. "Now I get to make the rules."

His lips brushed over the shell of your ear causing your breath to hitch, but you didn't protest. You wouldn't protest. Luke wasn't the type to demand or take—no, that wasn't his style at all. He was the type to command, to nudge you into submission with a mix of playfulness and subtle dominance that left you utterly dizzy and cloudy-minded.

And he knew exactly what he was doing.

"You're lucky I'm not dragging you over my knee," Luke mused, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your ribs, down your stomach, making you squirm under his touch. "But we both know that wouldn't be much of a punishment for you, would it?"

You gulped but instinctively leaned into him, craving more and more of his familiar touch. Luke let out a deep laugh, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

"Hm," he murmured against your skin.

Luke's hands were slow, too slow, as they slid up your sides, spreading warm, and slick suds over your skin. His fingers traced teasing circles, just barely skimming the places you wanted him to linger.

Your mouth remained agape as your breathing deepened, relishing the control Luke had.

"You're quiet," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement. "Not gonna complain?"

"Luke, please," You whined, trying to twist away from his maddeningly gentle touch, but he only tightened his grip, holding you firmly in place.

"Hmm, what?" He played dumb, dragging his soapy hands down the length of your arms before moving back up to your shoulders, massaging the tension from them like he had all the time in the world.

"You know what."

Luke smirked against the back of your neck, placing a lingering kiss there before pulling back just enough to continue his torturously slow work. His fingers slid down your spine, tracing the curve of your back with feigned innocence.

"I'm just helping," he simpered, voice dripping with false sincerity. "You were the one who decided to shower alone, so now I have to make sure you do it right."

You let out a frustrated breath, but the heat pooling in your stomach betrayed you. Luke knew what he was doing, he was making you wait, making you want without giving you exactly what you needed.

His hands finally smoothed down over your stomach, slipping across your hips, his fingertips grazing just shy of where you wanted them. He chuckled when you instinctively arched into him.

"So needy," he mused, his lips ghosting over your ear.

A stuttered breath rattled through your lungs as his lithe fingers slipped down towards your heated core. Your head fell back onto Luke's chest as he barely avoided brushing over your sensitive bud, causing your back to arch and soft moans to escape your parted lips.

All words dissolved on your tongue as he ran his fingers through the wetness that pooled, teasing your fluttering hole before pressing deep inside of you while his lips dropped to press chaste kisses along the arch of your neck.

Luke hummed against your skin, clearly pleased with himself as your resolve crumbled with a plethora of squeaks and moans.

"See, this is what happens when you don't listen," Luke's voice was low, edged with something dark and teasing, his words drawn out like he was savouring the moment. "Could be getting my cock, but you just had to ignore what I told you."

He had you exactly where he wanted you, melting under his touch, trembling from the slow, torturous buildup.

"You gonna ignore me again, baby?" he asked, his lips brushing just beneath your ear, making you shiver. His fingers kept moving, grazing, teasing, keeping you right on the edge but never quite giving you enough.

You let out a small, desperate whimper, hips bucking against his hand, but Luke only tightened his grip on your hip, holding you still.

"N-No," you breathed out, barely able to get the words out.

"No, what?" His voice was a lazy drawl, but the steel in his grip made it clear he was waiting for the right answer.

"No, I won't ignore you again."

"Good," Luke smirked against your skin, his fingers finally pressing just a little firmer before withdrawing completely.

Luke chuckled darkly at the whimper that escaped your lips, his grip still firm on your hip as you writhed against him, seeking any kind of relief.

But none came...not yet.

He lifted his fingers, placing them inside your parted mouth, the taste of your own desire flooding your mouth.

"Aw, poor baby," he murmured, his hand on your waist sliding up your body, fingers tracing the damp skin of your throat before tilting your chin just enough for you to meet his gaze. His hazel eyes were sharp, filled with amusement and that certain look that made your stomach tighten. "Bet you regret sneaking off now, huh?"

You swallowed hard, nodding slightly, knowing exactly what he wanted to hear but unable to force the words out beyond the fingers in your mouth.

Luke smirked, thumb swiping slowly across your bottom lip as he pulled his fingers away, his touch deceptively soft.

"C'mon now, use your words," he coaxed, voice steady, calm as if he wasn't the reason you were already falling apart.

"I—I regret it," you admitted breathlessly, eyes wide and pleading.

"Good girl."

And then, just as effortlessly as he'd pulled away, he gave you exactly what you needed—his fingers returning to your core, stroking, teasing, pressing, until the tension inside you snapped entirely and you were left shaking against him, gasping his name like some twisted prayer.

Luke held you through it, pressing slow kisses to your shoulder, murmuring quiet praises against your damp skin.

"Next time," he spoke, his voice low as you came to. "You wake me up."

And this time, you had no plans to argue.

2.

You felt miserable.

Your head was pounding, your body ached, and your throat felt like sandpaper. You had curled up on the couch in one of Luke's hoodies, surrounded by a pile of blankets, tissues, and the remote you were far too exhausted to use.

Luke had been on a two-day roadie when you first started feeling sick, and you had stubbornly told him over text that you were "fine"—which clearly hadn't fooled him as he door-dashed you endless comfort foods so that you didn't have to cook a single thing.

The second he got home, he took one look at you and let out a dramatic sigh.

"You are the worst patient," Luke muttered, setting his bag down as he made his way towards the living room, pressing a quick kiss to your clammy forehead.

You groaned and yanked the blanket over your face, letting the darkness overwhelm you.

You could hear cabinets opening and closing, the hum of the microwave, and the sound of him filling a glass of water as his footsteps pattered around. A few minutes later, you felt him return to your side, gently peeling away your makeshift cover.

He was kneeling beside the couch, a bowl of soup in one hand as the other ran over your tangled hair.

"Come on," he started, his voice softer now. "Sit up f'me."

"Don't wanna," You protested, your head shaking as you burrowed deeper into the blankets.

You expected Luke to let out a short laugh but instead, his eyebrows furrowed as he set the bowl down and shifted closer, brushing a hand over your forehead. His fingers were cold against your feverish skin, earning you a deep frown.

"You're burning up, pretty girl," he murmured, fingers lingering as you leaned into his touch

"Yeah," you mumble tiredly. "Figured."

"You take anything for it yet?" His hand slides down to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking gently.

You hesitated, which is enough of an answer.

He sighed again, but it wasn't an annoyed sigh, more so the kind of sigh that screamed he was already making a plan to fix things.

"Alright," he began, sitting back on his haunches. "Here's what's gonna happen, you're gonna sit up, drink some water, eat at least a little of this soup, and then I'm making you take some medicine. No arguing."

His voice was firm, but his other hand was already slipping under your shoulders, helping you to shift so that he could sit on the couch and move you across his lap.

You didn't fight him, welcoming his warm grip. You were too tired, and honestly, being taken care of like this felt kind of nice. You let your head rest against his shoulder as he pressed the glass of water to your lips.

"See?" he murmured, pressing a chaste kiss on the shell of your ear. "Not so bad, what did I say, hm?"

You grumbled something unintelligible, but he just chuckled, shifting to grab the bowl again.

"I'm not helpless," You blurted out suddenly, eyes rolling as a pout formed across your face.

"I know, pretty girl, but letting me help isn't always a bad thing," he smirked and it was that damned Luke Hughes smirk that melted you every time. "And I'm here now, so please let me."

Luke doesn't give you a chance to argue. He tilted the glass against your lips once more, his hand cradling the back of your head as he watched you with those knowing eyes, letting them trace over every detail of your face.

"Good girl," he murmured as you swallowed the cool water, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your jaw before setting the glass aside. "Now, let's get some food in you."

You huff, but when he brought the spoon to your lips, you couldn't resist. The warmth of the soup soothed your throat instantaneously, causing you to let out the smallest of sighs, your body's tension lessening.

"There we go," Luke murmured approvingly, feeding you another bite. "That's my girl."

The praise caused your stomach to flutter and your core to clench despite the fever. Luke smirked and you couldn't help but wonder if he could sense your every thought as he shifted slightly, to adjust his grip on you, his large hands easily supporting your weight to keep you snug in his lap.

"You like when I take care of you, don't know why you fight it," he mused as his voice dropped just a little. You let out a small noise in protest, but he tilted your chin up, sharp eyes meeting your cloudy gaze. "Don't even try denying it."

"I just don't wanna be a burden," You glare halfheartedly, but as soon as the words escaped your lips you knew they were the wrong ones to slip.

Luke's jaw tightened, and before you could blink, his fingers pressed against your throat—lightly, yet just enough to remind you who was in control. His touch lingered over the column of your neck, protective but firm, delicately letting his warm digits spread across your jugular like a predator marking his prey.

"That's the dumbest thing you've said all year," he finally muttered, bending his neck to let his nose brush against yours. You let out a small whine, the breath hitching in your throat. "You could be sick for a month, and I wouldn't get tired of taking care of you...got it?"

"Got it," You swallowed, heat rushing to your cheeks as his eyes bore into yours.

"Good," His grip softened, fingertips tracing gently down your jawline before his hand settled on your waist once again. "Now, one more spoonful."

You rolled your eyes but obediently opened your mouth, while Luke chuckled and fed you another spoon.

Luke set the soup aside and pulled you closer, wrapping you up entirely in his warmth. His lips ghosted over your forehead again before resting there, his arms holding you securely against him.

He was your own personal weighted blanket, he always had been. You liked the feeling of his weight pressed flush into you, eradicating any negative feelings or nasty thoughts. It was comforting and something Luke loved to indulge in.

"See? Now, you can just relax," he murmured against your skin. "You don't have to do anything, pretty girl, just let me take care of you."

You sighed, finally letting yourself fully sink into him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear lulling you into something peaceful.

"That's better," Luke hummed, fingers caressing over your hair. "Took you long enough."

You barely had the energy to swat at his chest before exhaustion won out, your body recognising his familiar hold and weight, the comfort too much to resist.

3.

"Luke, c'mon, I have to get dressed!"

You lounged back onto the plush blankets of the bed as you watched Luke rifle through your drawer filled to the brim with underwear.

Luke, so you learned, had a thing for choosing your underwear for the day. It had started a few months into dating and you quite liked it, you liked the idea of him having that kind of control.

Luke hummed as he sifted through the neatly folded lace and cotton, taking his sweet time while you sat there, legs crossed, wrapped in nothing but a towel. You were supposed to be getting dressed, but Luke had decided otherwise.

"You're so impatient," he mused, pulling out a white, delicate lace set—garter and all, holding it up to the light like he was considering it.

"I wouldn't have to be if you actually picked something," You huffed, shifting on the bed as your eyebrows furrowed.

"Oh?" Luke turned, one brow raised, amusement flickering across his sharp features. "You think you get a say in this?"

Your stomach flipped at his low and lazy tone edged with just enough authority to make your breath hitch deep in your throat.

"You know the rules, pretty girl," Luke smirked, clearly noticing your reaction. "If you're gonna let me choose, you wait until I'm done."

You swallowed, biting your lip as you nodded, watching as he sifted through the piles before finally landing on a black, lacy soft set that he knew you liked.

Your thighs instinctively pressed together when he turned around, the underwear and bra in hand, his curls falling over his forehead.

"Stand up for me, pretty girl," Luke smoothly spoke, placing the bra on the end but the underwear firm in his grip.

You obeyed without thinking, heat curling in your stomach as he stepped into your space, his fingers grazing over your hips. His grip was teasing yet firm as he trailed his hands down your sides.

"Arms up," Luke instructed, his voice soft as you obliged.

You lifted your arms, letting him slide your oversized sleep shirt (that had once been his!) over your head, leaving you completely bare in front of him.

His eyes darkened slightly as he drank you in, his lips quirking upwards in approval.

Then, without a word, he knelt in front of your standing body, fingers hooking around your ankles as he guided the underwear up your legs, his movements careful and gentle.

Once Luke reached your hips, he tugged the fabric into place, his fingers lingering over your skin as his thumbs brushed over your hipbones before he looked up at you, a lazy smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"There," he murmured, giving the waistband one last snap against your skin. "Now you can get dressed."

You swallowed hard, your breath uneven as he stood back up to his full height, his towering presence making your knees weak.

Luke leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss just below your ear.

"I'll go make breakfast, pretty girl, what are you feeling?"

Your cheeks were heated as his eyes softened, the switch from casual controlling to caring making your head fuzzy. Luke liked to make you breakfast in the morning before you went to work, it always made him feel better knowing you had eaten and who was he to say no to 20-30 minutes of one-on-one time with you?

"Pancakes?" You asked, lips curling into a smile as Luke rolled his eyes knowingly.

You let a shattered gasp escape your throat as he moved past you, his hand briefly swatting your ass, causing your eyes to shoot up to meet his mischievous ones.

"As you wish, sweet girl"

4.

You didn't hear Luke enter the apartment.

Your mind was too loud, thoughts crashing into each other in a never-ending spiral, each one pulling you further under the tumultuous tide. You sat stiffly on the couch, hands clenched in your lap, jaw tight, eyes focused on the nothingness ahead of you.

It felt like you were drowning, but there was no water, just a crippling weight pressing down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe. Like some unknown force was condemning you with the punishment of Atlas– cursed to hold the world and its weight.

The sound of Luke's keys dropping onto the counter barely registered but when his voice filled the space, so warm and familiar, starting to yap about practice, something inside of you cracked.

"Hey, pretty girl," Luke called, his voice carrying through the apartment. You could hear him kicking off his shoes, moving around like normal, but the second he got close enough to see you, he stopped.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, slower, softer, more focused, you heard him speak again.

"Baby?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to snap out of it but you just couldn't. You were stuck in your own head, hands shaking in your lap, body tense like a wound-up spring waiting to pop.

Luke didn't hesitate for a second.

You felt him approach before you saw him, his heavy presence entering your bubble and causing your stomach to tighten. A moment later, he was standing right in front of you, his tall frame casting a shadow over where you sat.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice quiet yet firm.

You faltered, but when you didn't move fast enough, his fingers hooked under your chin, tilting your face up toward his. Luke's brows were drawn together, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of your expression, taking in the glassy sheen in your eyes and the tightness in your jaw.

"Oh, my sweet girl," he muttered, more to himself than to you as his thumb brushed over your chin. "Talk to me."

"I—" Your voice cracked, and suddenly, your throat felt too tight to speak. Your hands clenched into fists, frustration bubbling up in your chest, you didn't want to feel like this.

Luke exhaled through his nose, his jaw flexing like he was already making a decision.

Then, before you could react, he stepped back and sat down heavily on the couch beside you. His legs spread slightly, his hands resting on his thighs as he looked at you with quiet expectation.

"Come here," he instructed, patting the empty space between his knees.

You blinked up at him, chest rising and falling unevenly as you didn't move a muscle.

"Now, baby," he added, his voice dropping just enough to send a quick shiver down your spine.

Something in his tone cut through the chatter and noise in your head and you could begin to think twice, you moved and slipped off the couch.

You sank onto your knees between his legs, your hands resting hesitantly on his thighs.

Luke made a low, approving noise in the back of his throat, his large hands immediately coming up to cup your face. His thumbs stroked over your cheeks, grounding you, forcing your focus onto him.

"Good girl," he murmured. The praise sent a different kind of warmth through your body, one that tangled and combatted with the anxiety still buzzing furiously in your chest.

You sucked in a sharp breath, staring up at him, your lips parting slightly.

"I—I don't know what's wrong," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper but the lost look in your eyes caused Luke's heart to splinter.

Luke pulled himself together and nodded slowly, his fingers tracing along your jaw.

"That's okay," he murmured, eyes locked on yours. "You don't have to figure it out right now."

You swallowed hard, head leaning slightly to the left to rest on his thigh. Your hands curled into the fabric of his sweatpants, trying to engulf yourself in his solid presence.

"You don't have to do this alone," he continued, his fingers trailing down your neck, over your pulse point. "You're mine, yeah?...and that means it's my responsibility to take care of you, always."

"It's silly—"

"Not to me."

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second at Luke's statement, his words embedding themselves into your bones.

"Take a deep breath f'me," he softly spoke, hand gently lifting to rest atop your head.

You listened, inhaling as slowly and as deeply as possible. Luke mirrored it, his own breathing slow and steady, letting you match him. He found that letting you mimic his breathing helped the best — you always tended to naturally fall into the rhythm.

"There we go," he murmured, as his thumbs brushed along your skin again, coaxing you back down from the dangerous edge your mind was driving you towards. "You're okay."

The tightness in your chest eased, just slightly.

Enough for you to exhale without it feeling like you were collapsing in on yourself. Your body softened under his touch, tension melting out of your shoulders as you let yourself just exist, kneeling between his legs and held in place by his steady hands.

Luke leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. He didn't rush, didn't pull away too quickly, he just held you there, his lips warm against your skin, and his hands still cradling your face.

"I've got you," he whispered, breath fanning against your hair as you relished his touch.

A shaky exhale left your lips as you closed your eyes, finally letting yourself lean completely into him. He didn't say anything else and he didn't need to.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the steady rhythm of your breathing, syncing with his.

Luke gave you another soft squeeze before shifting back slightly. He brushed a few stray strands of hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear with a certain tenderness that made your throat tighten again, just this time for a different reason.

"Better?" he asked quietly, his voice gentle as if talking to a frightened animal. You nodded, your fingers flexing slightly against his legs.

"Yeah," you croaked, nuzzling into the soft material of his pants. "'m better."

Luke hummed in approval, tilting your chin up so your tired eyes met his. There was no teasing smirk, no smugness, just a certain understanding that Luke always seemed to possess.

"C'mere," he murmured, guiding you up gently until you could settle into his lap. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in close, his chin resting atop your head as you leaned into him.

You curled up into his hold, letting his warmth surround you, the rhythmic moving of his chest beneath you calming you more than anything else could. His hands moved to trace gentle circles on your back, the other resting securely against your waist, keeping you tucked against him as if he never wanted to let go.

He pressed another soft kiss into your hair, his lips lingering there for a moment before he exhaled, his breath warm against your scalp.

"You don't have to be okay all the time," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as if he didn't want to break the quiet. "You can lean on me, sweet girl, that's what I'm here for."

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, gripping the fabric of his hoodie just a little tighter.

It felt safe, impossibly so.

"I know," you eventually whispered back, letting his familiar scent surround you as he tightened his grip.

And for the first time in hours, you actually meant it.

[g0ldendesiree]

Mom and Dad | John Logan

summary: what happens when the mom and dad of the group become, well, mom and dad?

request: yes/no

warnings: swearing, hints to smut if you squint, pregnancy.

word count: 2.63k

authors note: this was actually a lot of fun to write because the idea was like all mapped out in my head before I wrote it tbh after our last piece John Logan I figured we needed to give him something more cutesy so here it is.

The joke started the same way they always did with the group. 

Casually, then completely unavoidable.

It was Dean who said this one first. 

You were reorganising the boys fridge one night after he turned the takeout containers into a game of tetris “relax mom.” It made Logan laugh as he didn’t look up from his phone while he sat at the kitchen counter. 

He claimed he was there as moral support, but it was really because he just wanted to be near you “don’t encourage her.” He warned “she gets worse when shes stressed.” 

His words were met with a gasp “excuse me?” You scowled letting your mouth fall open when you turned to glare at him. 

Tucker grinned as he stole the chicken wings from your hands “careful dad, mom might get ya.” And somehow it just stuck. 

Mom and Dad. You and Logan. 

It wasn’t even meant to be the case at first but somewhere along the way, the two of you became the glue that kept everyone together. 

Logan kept track of the practice schedule and ensured that everyone ate the food that Tucker cooked.  

You kept a list of everyone’s birthdays, deadlines, arguments, and who wasn’t talking to whom.

Logan calmed the chaos, and you seemed to organise it. And somehow the two of you worked perfectly together. 

So of course, the jokes kept on coming. 

“Ask mom if I can go out.” Dean would say as he peered into the living room where you read a book, “Logan said no.” You knew all about the house arrest Logan had Dean on because he needed to study for a major midterm. 

Your brother huffed as he sprawled out on the couch, resting his feet on your lap “hey!” You scoffed, watching him grab a carrot stick from your plate, “your boyfriend is being dramatic again.” His words came as he stuck his tongue out at you. 

The sound of Logan complaining about the blocked shower drain travelled down the stairs. And Garrett was surprisingly calm about it, which was saying something as he’d once sworn that Logan wouldn’t live long enough to graduate if he dated you. 

Now he just complained like Logan was already a part of the family. 

Which in a way, now that your dad didn’t totally hate the idea, he was. 

Except lately, you couldn’t laugh at it the same way. 

Because something had shifted and only you knew why. 

It all happened three weeks ago. 

You were standing in your bathroom, staring at the sink as if it had personally betrayed you.

Two pink lines and those words you hated so much to see. 

You were pregnant. 

And the world did not stop. That was the most terrifying part. It just kept on going. 

Outside of that room, Hannah was laughing at something on her laptop while Allie was humming as she got ready for class. Someone could even be heard yelling in the hallway about how they needed coffee. 

Normal life kept on going on, while yours had just split into two. 

You pressed your hand to your stomach instinctively; it was still flat and still normal. 

Nothing looked different about you, yet everything was.

You were meant to see the boys later that day for lunch and you had no clue how to tell them. 

Garrett took so long to accept that Logan was your boyfriend, but this was a different ballpark. 

And Logan loved you like you were something delicate that he had to protect. 

You were terrified that this would break that. 

Logan on the other hand, was feeling like an idiot. 

He was ready to marry you, as if you asked him to go to Vegas tomorrow to do it he would. 

But it felt like you were ready to break up with him.

So rather than talking about it, he picked up whatever he could. Odd jobs to fill the time that he wasn’t spending with you. 

And for the most part, that really did work. He was able to make himself so busy that there wasn’t time during the day to think about what you might have been doing that didn’t involve him. 

But at night?”

That was a whole different story. 

He’d park his truck outside your building and send you a text begging to let him come up. He knew he could ask Allie or Hannah to let him in, but he wasn’t going to go against your boundaries like that. If you didn’t want to talk to him, well, he was convincing himself that he was okay with that.

So instead, he would hide away in his room, scrolling through the album on his phone of the two of you that you organised one day while he studied. 

It had everything from the time the two of you used to sneak around before anyone knew you were seeing each other. All the way to when Dean and Tucker would crash your couple pictures, swearing that ‘your kids’ have to be in them too. 

It made him laugh, honestly remembering how you’d shoo the boys away so that Allie could get a decent picture. Then Logan got to the one that Hannah took. 

It was from a party after a big win when the couples were playing each other in beer pong, despite the fact that Garrett swore he should be the one to play with his sister. 

Logan’s arm was wrapped around your waist as you had your tongue out, trying to focus on the throw. All the boy was focused on, both now and then, was you. 

Hannah couldn’t help it when her eyes stayed glued to the sight “I know Wellsy, he loves her more than he loves hockey.” Garrett’s voice was louder than he intended it to be as he spoke. 

The words made your cheeks redden as Logan tightened his grip on you “no I don’t.” He shook his head, convincing nobody, as his eyes were still on you. 

Garrett let out a dry laugh “I’m pretty sure she could ask you to drop hockey and move to Vermont to become tree farmers, and you’d do it.” Logan couldn’t argue with that because it was actually true. 

That boy was ready to move to the end of the world for you if you asked him to. 

You furrowed your eyebrows “that's not true.” You mumbled, finally turning your attention back to your boyfriend. Your eyes settle onto his lips “we’d totally farm goats.” Your words made everyone laugh as you kissed Logan. 

It earned a groan from Garrett with a complaint for you to just throw the ball. And all you did was flip him off in response.

The day when you knew you could no longer hide it from Logan came; it was gameday and also your one-year anniversary. 

After the game, the two of you had plans to go out, but with the way you had been acting. Logan honestly wondered if you were even going to be at the game. 

That was how Garrett ended up at your door. 

Well more like in your room.

Because that’s where you found your brother sat, comfortably on your bed when you came back from getting a smoothie with Allie “oh please make yourself at home.” You grumbled letting your bag drop to the floor. 

Your brother couldn’t help it when he let out a soft laugh “look are you okay?” The question made your eyes widen. 

Because you were so clearly not okay “I’m perfect Gar.” You forced the lie out as you sat on your chair. 

“No you’re not.” 

You rolled your eyes “why’d you ask me if you already knew the answer?” You sucked at your teeth crossing your arms in the process “you’ve been avoiding your boyfriend.” The point made you feel nauseous all over again. 

Garrett saw your reaction. It was like his little twinstinct to know exactly when your slight movement meant something so much worse “if he did something-” he was already getting up ready to march back to the house.

You were quick to press your hand into his chest, stopping him from leaving your room “he didn’t do anything I swear.” As much as you loved your brother, you knew that if he could. You’d be wrapped in bubble wrap and hidden away from the world. And even then he’d still worry himself sick over protecting you.

Garrett leaned against your table “then what is going on with you?” He knew that your dad had been blowing up both of your phones to meet his fiance but Garrett knew you ignored him in the best of times, so why would this affect you now. 

Staring at the ground, you frowned, “I need to tell Logan first.” If you could have it your way you’d never tell your brother, and just say you fund your child on the street.

You couldn’t help it when you sighed, pulling your brother into a hug that usually made you feel better “I just need to find the right time.” You knew your answer didn’t make sense but when you were going with it. 

Garrett nodded, not because he wanted to believe you but because he knew he had no choice in the matter “but please tell him before he eats himself up over something that isn’t his fault.” You wanted to point out that your boyfriend was in fact the exact reason why you were in this position. 

But you couldn’t so instead you nodded “I promise I’ll tell him after the game tonight.” You nodded, forcing a smile onto your lips when your brother kissed your head.

The game should have been an easy win. A game where they could have put up a B team and still won by 3 goals. But instead, it was an utter shitshow.

Logan spotted you in the crowd immediately; he always did the moment he stepped onto the ice. But tonight it seemed that once he knew you were there, he actually didn’t want to see you. He got into a fight, was thrown against the boards and spent more time in the penalty box than actual time on the ice as the coach pulled him off, seeing that his head wasn’t in the right place. 

Garrett actually pitied his teammate; he never thought there’d be a day when he thought you were in the wrong and that whatever issues you two were having would be your doing. 

So when you saw the look your brother gave you at the end of the game, you knew you were to stand by Logan’s truck waiting for him as the game ended. Or else Garrett would get involved, and quite frankly, nothing ever went well when he did. 

And that was exactly where Logan found you after the game “I’ll see you guys later.” He announced, no longer looking at Dean or Tucker; instead, his eyes had settled on you. 

You sent him a soft smile as the boys waved at you “hey.” Your voice was quiet as your boyfriend threw his bag into the back of his truck. 

He remained silent, “look we need to talk.” Your announcement almost made him laugh. 

Because how was it that you got to decide that tonight was when you’d finally talk “nice to know that my girlfriend still knows how to do that.” The comment came off harsher than it was intended to. 

The boy sucked at his teeth when you reached for him “look I know I have been an ass-“ Logan had to admit he was glad you had more emotional awareness than your brother “it’s our one-year anniversary and I didn’t even know if I still had a girlfriend!”

You wanted to respond, you really did. But you felt your stomach churn, and suddenly you were bent over in the direction of the nearest bushes.

Instinctively, he reached for your hair, pulling it out of your face as he rubbed your back “you eat something bad today?” Logan cocked his head, knowing that it wasn’t like you to throw up. 

You spat out a glob of spit as you shook your head “it’s what I wanted to tell you about.” You groaned, feeling your stomach churn again. 

To his credit, Logan didn’t push until you were standing upright again “I wanted to have some speech, but that clearly isn’t gonna happen.” you brought your sleeve up to wipe your mouth, not caring that you’d regret it later.

“I’m pregnant.” 

Your words made him freeze as his eyes went wide “we’ve been careful.” He spoke as if his word was gospel. 

Your cheeks reddened at the memory, “not always.” Your eyes trailed back to the truck. It was a night where both your place and his were busy and the two of you just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. So you figured that his car was the best place for the two of you to be.

Logan frowned as he furrowed his eyebrows “this is what you’ve been avoiding me for?” He realised as he shoved his hands into his pockets, “did you think I’d leave you?” 

He wasn’t angry. 

He was hurt. 

Hurt that you would think that he’d leave you, and especially hurt that you thought he’d make you deal with this alone.

But you shook your head as tears welled in your eyes, “i thought you’d hate me.” Your voice broke as it broke something in him. 

He hated seeing you sad “hate you?” His voice broke as his hands cupped your cheeks “are you actually insane?” He would have laughed if you weren’t upset.

That was the thing that broke you. Finally, tears streamed down your cheeks and Logan didn’t think twice about pulling you into his embrace “I’m scared.” Your confession made his heart break as he could only think about how long you had been dealing with that emotion alone. 

His fingers ran through your hair, immediately soothing you “we will figure this out together, okay.” His words made you nod as you looked up at him. 

His eyes didn’t hesitate to meet yours. 

He was still him. 

He was still yours. 

And just like that Logan let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding “I thought you were leaving me.” It made your heart hurt that he could have thought that it was the issue. 

You shook your head “I thought I was ruining your life.” You whispered back. 

Just like that, his expression changed. It changed into something solid, yet protective in a way that made your knees weak “you are not ruining my life.” He said firmly, “you’re my life.” His words were easy to roll off his tongue as if he hadn’t said the one thing that finally made the last few weeks feel like they were nothing. 

So the two of you stood there in silence as his hand rubbed slow circles on your back before his tired laugh finally broke it “I’m gonna be a dad.” You nodded, matching his tone “we’re gonna be parents.” He grabbed your hand, giving it a solid squeeze. 

Before his face dropped, “your brother is actually going to kill me.” His words made you really laugh now, that was something you realised a while ago. 

Logan guided you into the passenger seat of his car before he made his way to his own “you know,” you trailed off when he put the key into the ignition. 

You leaned over to kiss his lips “we could always just become goat farmers in Vermont.” 

He looked as if he was genuinely considering it “yeah but then our kid is gonna relate to Noah Kahan, and do we really want that?” 

[pucksandpower]

breaking point (part one)

Garrett Graham x Reader

Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call

Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery

Read part two here

The locker room smells like victory — sweat, ice, and that particular brand of arrogance that comes from stomping your rivals into the boards. Garrett sits on the bench, unlacing his skates with practiced efficiency, while his teammates celebrate around him like they’ve won the Stanley Cup instead of just another regular season game.

“Did you see Beck’s face when you scored that hat trick?” Dean practically shouts, still riding the high. “Dude looked like he wanted to murder you.”

“Beck always looks like that,” Logan says, toweling off his hair. “Guy’s got permanent asshole face.”

Garrett doesn’t join in the trash talk. He pulls off his skates and flexes his feet, working out the stiffness. Five to one. They demolished BU tonight, and while he should feel satisfied — while he does feel satisfied — something about the win feels hollow. Maybe it’s because Cameron Beck spent most of the third period playing dirty, throwing elbows when the refs weren’t looking, talking shit that had nothing to do with hockey.

“You good, G?” Tucker asks, dropping onto the bench beside him.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You don’t look good. You look like you’re planning someone’s funeral.”

Garrett manages a half-smile. “Just tired, man. It’s been a long week.”

It has been. Two midterms, practice every day, a game against Northeastern that went into overtime, and now this. He loves hockey — lives for it, really — but sometimes the weight of being captain, of being the guy everyone looks to, of keeping his grades up and his scholarship secure, feels like carrying a truck on his shoulders.

“Alright!” Coach Jensen’s voice cuts through the celebration. “Bus leaves in ten. If you’re not on it, you’re walking back to Briar.”

The team starts moving with renewed urgency, shoving gear into bags, pulling on sweatpants and hoodies. Garrett’s methodical about it, the way he is with everything. Skates in the bag, pads folded properly, stick secured. His mom taught him that — take care of your equipment and it’ll take care of you.

He pushes the thought away before it can dig in too deep.

“You riding shotgun?” Logan asks as they head toward the bus.

“Nah, you take it. I’m gonna crash in the back.”

The cold Boston air hits him like a slap when they step outside. February in New England is brutal, the kind of cold that gets into your bones and doesn’t let go. The team bus idles in the parking lot, exhaust forming clouds in the darkness. Most of the guys are already boarding, still loud, still buzzing.

That’s when Garrett sees them.

At first, it’s just movement in his peripheral vision — two figures near the back entrance of the arena, half-hidden in shadows. He almost doesn’t look. Almost keeps walking toward the bus because it’s cold and he’s tired and it’s none of his business.

But then he hears it. A voice, male, low and vicious.

“I told you not to embarrass me.”

Garrett stops walking. Tucker nearly crashes into him.

“Dude, what-”

“Hold on.”

He moves closer, his body reacting before his brain catches up. The angle shifts and he sees her clearly now — a girl, small, pressed back against the brick wall with her hands up in a gesture that Garrett recognizes instantly. It’s the same way his mom used to stand when his dad came home in one of his moods. Defensive. Placating. Terrified.

The guy is Cameron Beck. Even from fifteen feet away, even in the shitty parking lot lighting, Garrett knows it’s him. And Beck has his hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing hard enough that Garrett can see you wince.

“Cameron, please-” Your voice is barely audible, thin and desperate. “I didn’t do anything-”

“You were talking to that guy. I saw you.”

“He asked me for directions to the bathroom-”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Beck yanks you forward and you stumble, catching yourself against his chest. He grabs your other wrist and Garrett sees them clearly now — the bruises. Dark purple and yellow, finger-shaped marks that circle both your wrists like ugly bracelets.

Something white-hot ignites in Garrett’s chest.

“Hey!” His voice comes out harder than he intends, sharp enough to make Beck’s head snap up. “Get your hands off her.”

Beck doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens. “Mind your own business, Graham.”

“I said, get your fucking hands off her.”

Garrett’s already moving, closing the distance. He’s vaguely aware of his teammates behind him — Tucker’s saying something, maybe Logan too — but all he can focus on is your face. You’re looking at him now, and your eyes are the most heartbreaking thing he’s ever seen. Wide and dark and absolutely terrified, but not of Beck. Of him. Of the situation. Of what’s going to happen next.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Beck says, but there’s an edge to his voice now. He drops your wrists and steps slightly in front of you, like he’s shielding you from view. Like he’s protecting you instead of hurting you.

You don’t move. Don’t run. Just stand there with your arms wrapped around yourself, and Garrett can see you shaking even from here.

“You always put your hands on people smaller than you?” Garrett asks, his voice deadly calm now. “Or just women who can’t fight back?”

“Watch your mouth-”

“Graham!” Coach Jensen’s voice cuts across the parking lot. “What the hell are you doing? Get on the bus!”

Garrett doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes locked on Beck, watching for any sign that he’s going to grab you again. Behind Beck, you’re barely breathing. You’re wearing a BU sweatshirt that’s too big for you and jeans that look painted on, and even though it’s freezing, you’re not wearing a coat. Your hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and there’s a bruise on your cheekbone that makeup can’t quite hide.

“Is he hurting you?” Garrett directs the question to you, but you don’t answer. Just stare at him with those haunted eyes.

“She’s fine,” Beck snaps. “She’s my girlfriend and this is between us, so why don’t you take your hero complex and shove it-”

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“Graham! Now!” Coach Jensen sounds pissed.

Tucker’s hand lands on Garrett’s shoulder. “Come on, man. We gotta go.”

“Not until-”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Tucker says quietly, meant only for Garrett’s ears. “Not here. Not now.”

Garrett knows he’s right. Knows that if he throws a punch at Beck right now, he’s the one who’ll get suspended. Knows that confronting Beck isn’t going to help you, might even make things worse once you’re alone again. But walking away feels impossible. It feels like the biggest betrayal in the world.

He looks at you one more time. Tries to communicate something with his eyes. I see you. I know what’s happening. This isn’t okay.

“I’m watching you, Beck,” he says finally. “You fuck up, and I’ll know about it.”

“Yeah, I’m real scared,” Beck sneers, but he doesn’t sound as confident as before.

Tucker practically drags Garrett back to the bus. The guys have all gone quiet now, watching. Logan looks grim. Dean looks confused. Some of the younger guys look uncomfortable, like they’re not sure what just happened.

“What the hell was that?” Coach demands as Garrett climbs the steps.

“Beck was hurting his girlfriend.”

“And you thought starting a fight in their parking lot was the solution?”

“I didn’t start anything. I told him to back off.”

“Sit down. We’re talking about this later.”

Garrett moves to the back of the bus and drops into a seat, his heart still jackhammering against his ribs. Through the window, he can see you — Beck has his arm around your shoulders now, steering you toward the parking garage. To anyone else, it probably looks almost normal. Protective, even. But Garrett sees the way you’re holding herself. Sees the careful distance you’re trying to maintain even while being pulled close.

The bus engine rumbles to life. They start moving, pulling out of the parking lot, and Garrett watches until he can’t see you anymore.

He punches the seat in front of him. Hard enough that his knuckles split, hard enough that pain shoots up his arm.

“Whoa!” Dean twists around. “Dude, what the hell?”

“Leave him alone,” Logan says quietly.

Garrett stares out the window at the Boston lights sliding past. His hand throbs. His chest feels tight. And all he can see is your face — the terror in your eyes, the bruises on your wrists, the way you didn’t say a word in your own defense.

He doesn’t even know your name.

***

You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter.

“Get in the car,” Cameron says. His voice is controlled now, almost gentle. It’s worse than the yelling. So much worse.

“Cameron-”

“Get. In. The car.”

You slide into the passenger seat of his BMW and buckle your seatbelt with trembling fingers. The bruises on your wrists ache where he grabbed them. They’ve barely healed from last time, and now they’re going to be even worse tomorrow. You’ll have to wear long sleeves again. Find excuses not to go to the gym, where someone might see you change.

Cameron gets in the driver’s side and sits there for a moment, both hands on the steering wheel. You don’t look at him. You learned months ago that making eye contact during these moments is dangerous.

“That guy asked you for directions,” Cameron says finally.

“Yes.”

“To the bathroom.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think it was weird that some random dude was asking you instead of literally anyone else?”

Your throat feels like it’s closing. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Helpful.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to be helpful? Stop making me look like an idiot. We were in public, Y/N. People could see you flirting-”

“I wasn’t flirting-”

The slap comes so fast you don’t see it. One second you’re trying to defend yourself, the next your cheek is on fire and your eyes are watering. It wasn’t hard — Cameron knows better than to leave marks where people can see them easily — but it’s enough to shut you up.

“Don’t interrupt me.” His voice is still calm. Still controlled. “I’ve had a shit night. We lost five to one. Five to fucking one. And then I have to watch my girlfriend chatting up random guys like she’s single.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” Louder this time.

“That’s better.” He starts the car. “We’re going back to my place. You’re staying the night.”

It’s not a question. It’s never a question anymore.

You stare out the window as he drives, watching Boston blur past. You used to love this city. Used to walk around campus with your camera, taking pictures for the journalism assignments that actually excited you. Used to have friends, plans, dreams. You were going to work for ESPN. You were going to be the next Erin Andrews, traveling with teams, doing sideline reporting, making a name for yourself.

That was before Cameron. Before he slowly, methodically, isolated you from everyone who cared about you. Before he convinced you that you were lucky to have him, that no one else would ever want you, that you were too sensitive, too dramatic, too much work.

Before you started believing him.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t reach for it. Cameron has rules about phones when you’re with him. You learned that lesson too.

“Who is it?” He asks.

“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

“Check.”

You pull out your phone with shaking hands. It’s your roommate, Julie. Where are you? You ok?

“Julie,” you say. “Asking where I am.”

“Tell her you’re with me. Tell her you’ll be back tomorrow.”

You type out the message exactly as instructed. Julie responds immediately. Call me when you can. Please.

She knows. Of course she knows. She’s seen the bruises, heard the excuses, watched you disappear into yourself over the past year. She’s tried to talk to you about it, tried to convince you to leave, but you’ve gotten good at deflecting. Good at lying. Good at pretending everything’s fine.

“Done?” Cameron asks.

“Done.”

“Good girl.”

The words make your stomach turn. He used to say them differently — warm, affectionate, after you’d aced an exam or nailed an interview. Now they’re just another way to control you. Another reminder that your worth is tied to your obedience.

You think about the guy from the parking lot. The hockey player who intervened. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that looked almost black in the shitty lighting. But it was the way he looked at you that’s stuck in your head. Like he actually saw you. Like he recognized something in your terror that other people miss or choose to ignore.

I’m watching you, Beck.

Cameron’s hands tighten on the steering wheel like he’s remembering it too.

“That Graham kid is going to be a problem,” he mutters.

You don’t respond. You’ve learned that sometimes the safest thing to do is stay silent, make yourself small, wait for the storm to pass. You’ve gotten so good at it that sometimes you forget how to be anything else.

Sometimes you can’t remember what your real voice even sounds like anymore.

Cameron’s apartment is in one of the nicer buildings near campus — his parents pay for it, along with his car and his credit cards and pretty much everything else. He’s never had to work for anything in his life, which maybe explains why he thinks people are possessions. Things to own and control.

You follow him inside, toeing off your shoes by the door. The apartment is immaculate because Cameron has a cleaning service. There are hockey trophies on the shelves and a massive TV mounted on the wall. It looks like something out of a magazine. It looks nothing like the prison it’s become.

“I’m going to shower,” Cameron says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “You should be in bed when I get out.”

It’s not a suggestion.

You nod and he disappears into the bathroom. The second the door closes, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your hands are still shaking. Your cheek still stings. Your wrists throb with every heartbeat.

You sit on the edge of his bed and stare at the wall.

This is your life now. This is what you’ve become. A girl who flinches at loud noises, who measures every word before speaking, who has nightmares about making her boyfriend angry. A girl who used to be bright and funny and ambitious but now can barely recognize herself in the mirror.

Your phone buzzes again. Julie. I’m worried about you. Please talk to me.

You want to. God, you want to. But what would you even say? That you’re too scared to leave? That you’ve tried twice and both times Cameron found you, convinced you to come back, promised he’d change? That you’re terrified of what he’ll do if you try again?

That part of you has started to believe you deserve this?

You delete the message without responding and put your phone on silent.

In the bathroom, the shower turns off. You have maybe three minutes before Cameron comes out, before you have to paste on a smile and pretend everything’s okay, before you have to be the version of yourself that keeps him happy.

You change into the clothes you keep here — sleep shorts and one of Cameron’s old t-shirts — and climb into bed. Pull the covers up. Make yourself small.

And you think about the hockey player one more time. About the way he looked at Beck like he wanted to break him in half. About the way he looked at you like you mattered.

Then you close your eyes and wait for Cameron to decide what happens next.

Because that’s all you do anymore.

Wait.

***

The dream always starts the same way.

Garrett is seven years old, small for his age, standing in the hallway of their old apartment in Manhattan. The wallpaper is peeling near the ceiling and there’s a water stain that looks like a dragon if you squint. He used to stare at that dragon for hours, imagining it coming to life and burning everything down.

His father is in the living room. Garrett can hear him before he sees him — that particular tone of voice that means his mom did something wrong. Or didn’t do something right. Or just existed in a way that pissed him off.

“I told you I needed my dress shirt ironed,” his dad says. Phil Graham, star defenseman for the New York Rangers, six-foot-three and two hundred pounds of controlled violence. “I have a fucking press conference in an hour, Lauren.”

“I know, I’m sorry-” His mom’s voice is small, apologetic. “I forgot, I was picking up Garrett from school and then I had to-”

“I don’t care what you had to do. When I tell you something needs to get done, it needs to get done.”

Seven-year-old Garrett peers around the corner. His mom is standing by the ironing board, one hand pressed to her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. His dad is looming over her, still in his Rangers sweatpants, hair wet from the shower.

“Don’t fucking cry,” his dad snaps when his mom’s eyes start to water. “Jesus Christ, you’re so dramatic. All I asked was for you to iron a goddamn shirt-”

“I’ll do it now, it’ll only take a minute-”

His dad grabs the iron. For a second, Garrett thinks he’s just going to do it himself, but then his mom flinches and Garrett knows — knows with the certainty that children who grow up in war zones develop — that something bad is about to happen.

“You think this is hot?” His dad asks, holding the iron close to his mom’s face. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that Garrett can see her leaning back, trying to create distance. “You think this is as hot as I’m going to be standing in front of those cameras looking like an idiot because my wife can’t do the one fucking thing I asked her to do?”

“Phil, please-”

The iron moves closer. His mom’s breath comes in short, panicked gasps.

“Stop!” Garrett shouts, but his voice is tiny, insignificant. He runs into the room, grabs his dad’s arm with both hands, tries to pull him away. “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!”

His dad shoves him backwards. Not hard — never hard enough to leave marks where people can see — but enough to send seven-year-old Garrett stumbling into the coffee table. Pain explodes in his hip.

“Go to your room, Garrett.”

“No! Stop hurting Mom!”

“I said go to your fucking room!”

But Garrett can’t move. Can’t do anything but watch as his dad turns back to his mom, as she raises her hands in that defensive gesture Garrett will see repeated a thousand times over the next ten years, as his dad-

The dream shifts.

Now Garrett isn’t seven anymore. He’s twenty-one, standing in a parking lot in Boston, and it’s not his mom against the wall. It’s you. The girl from the parking lot. You’re looking at him with those terrified eyes and Cameron Beck has his hands around your wrists and Garrett can see the bruises blooming under Beck’s fingers like ugly flowers.

“Help me,” you whisper.

Garrett tries to move but his feet are cement. He’s frozen, useless, watching it happen all over again.

“I’m watching you, Beck,” he hears himself say, but it sounds hollow. Meaningless.

Beck laughs. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?”

You’re crying now. “Please. Please help me.”

“I can’t,” Garrett says, and the words feel like they’re being ripped from his chest. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t-”

Beck’s hands tighten. You scream. And Garrett just stands there, seven years old again, helpless, watching someone he should protect get hurt and doing nothing, nothing, nothing-

He wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping like he’s been drowning.

His dorm room is dark except for the numbers on his alarm clock: 4:19 AM. Garrett’s sheets are tangled around his legs and his heart is trying to punch through his ribcage.

He sits up, runs both hands through his hair, tries to breathe.

It’s been years since he had the dreams this bad. Years since he woke up feeling like this — angry and helpless and so fucking furious at the world that he wants to break something. After his mom died, after he finally got away from his dad and came to Briar on a full ride, he thought he’d left this behind. Thought he could bury it under hockey and classes and being the kind of captain his team needs.

But one look at that girl’s face and it all came roaring back.

He grabs his phone from the nightstand, squints at the brightness. No new messages. Nothing from anyone who would be awake at this hour.

He opens Instagram.

He’s not even sure what he’s looking for. Closure, maybe. Confirmation that what he saw was real and not some manifestation of his own trauma. Proof that you exist, that you’re okay, that he didn’t just imagine the terror in your eyes.

But he doesn’t know your name. Doesn’t know anything about you except that you’re dating Cameron Beck and you’re in trouble.

Garrett’s never been one for social media stalking — he barely posts on his own accounts — but he navigates to Beck’s profile with the grim determination of someone going to war. The guy’s profile is exactly what Garrett expected: carefully curated photos of hockey wins, parties, expensive shit his parents bought him. Every caption is some variation of “living my best life” or “grind never stops” or other meaningless bullshit.

Garrett scrolls back through months of posts, his jaw getting tighter with each one, until finally … there.

A photo from last summer. Beck at some beach, tanned and shirtless, arm slung around a girl in a yellow bikini. You’re  smiling at the camera but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The caption reads Summer vibes with my girl.

You’re tagged. @yourusername

Garrett clicks through so fast he almost drops his phone.

Your profile loads and he feels something in his chest twist. Your bio is simple: BU | Journalism | Boston Born & Raised. Your profile picture is you in a Bruins jersey, grinning at whoever’s taking the photo, eyes bright with genuine happiness.

He starts scrolling.

The most recent post is from four months ago. You at some coffee shop, mug raised in a half-hearted toast, smile that looks more like a grimace. The caption is just a coffee emoji. Before that, five months ago: you and another girl at what looks like a BU football game. You’re wearing sunglasses but Garrett can see the tension in your shoulders, the way you’re leaning slightly away from the camera.

He keeps scrolling back and the transformation is devastating.

Eight months ago: you holding up an acceptance letter, caption reading INTERNSHIP AT WEEI SPORTS RADIO! Dreams coming true! Your smile is radiant. Real.

Ten months ago: a whole series of posts from what looks like spring break. You and a group of friends at various beaches, bars, tourist traps. You’re laughing in most of them, mid-sentence, caught in moments of unselfconscious joy.

A year ago: you with a camera around your neck, press pass visible, standing on the sidelines of what looks like a hockey game. First day covering BU hockey for the Daily Free Press! Living the dream!

Garrett stops on that one. Studies your face. You look so young, so excited, so full of potential. This was before Beck, he realizes. Or maybe early in the relationship, before it turned bad. Before you learned to make yourself small.

He keeps scrolling, going further back. You playing intramural soccer. You at journalism club meetings. You with your family at what looks like a Thanksgiving dinner, squeezed between an older couple who must be your parents. You’re wearing a sweater and you’re laughing at something off-camera.

The last post from freshman year shows you standing in front of a BU dorm building, suitcases at your feet, arms spread wide. The caption reads Let’s do this, Boston! 📚🎓

You looked so hopeful.

Garrett closes Instagram and stares at his ceiling. Outside, he can hear the first birds starting their morning songs. The world is waking up and he hasn’t slept at all, and all he can think about is the difference between the girl in those old photos and the girl he saw in the parking lot.

You used to be so alive.

What the fuck did Beck do to you?

***

You’re running through a hallway that never ends.

Behind you, Cameron is gaining ground. You can hear his footsteps, heavy and relentless, can hear him calling your name in that tone that makes your blood freeze.

“Y/N! Get back here!”

You’re trying to scream but nothing comes out. Your legs feel like they’re moving through water. There are doors on either side of the hallway but when you try the handles, they’re all locked. Every single one.

“You can’t run from me,” Cameron says, and suddenly he’s right behind you, his hand closing around your arm, spinning you to face him. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”

He’s not angry. That’s the worst part. He’s smiling, calm, like this is all perfectly reasonable.

“Please,” you manage to whisper. “Please let me go.”

“I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that.” His grip tightens until you can feel your bones grinding together. “Who else is going to love you? Who else is going to put up with you?”

“Someone,” you sob. “Anyone.”

“No one wants damaged goods, baby.”

The scene shifts. Now you’re in his apartment, in his bed, and he’s on top of you and you’re trying to say no, trying to push him away, but your arms won’t work. Your voice won’t work. Nothing works except the part of your brain that’s screaming this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong-

And then you’re in the parking lot again, pressed against the cold brick wall, and Cameron’s hands are around your throat and you can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t-

The hockey player appears. The one from last night. He’s reaching for you, mouth moving, saying something you can’t hear over the roaring in your ears.

Help me, you try to say, but Cameron’s grip gets tighter.

The hockey player turns away.

Everyone always turns away.

You wake up to pain.

At first, you can’t process what’s happening. Your body registers it before your brain does — the invasion, the wrongness, the way your body is being used without your consent. Again.

Cameron is inside you.

You’re lying on your side, facing away from him, and he’s behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, moving with steady, selfish rhythm. You’re not ready. He didn’t prepare you, didn’t wake you, didn’t ask. Just took what he wanted because in his mind, you’re his to take.

You stare at the wall and let it happen.

Fighting makes it worse. You learned that months ago. Crying makes it worse. Asking him to stop makes it worse. So you just lie there and wait for it to be over, counting the seconds in your head, disassociating so hard you might as well be floating on the ceiling.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

Cameron’s breath is hot on your neck. His grip tightens.

“So good for me,” he murmurs, like this is romantic. Like this is consensual. “My perfect girl.”

A single tear slides down your cheek and disappears into the pillow.

Forty-eight Mississippi. Forty-nine Mississippi.

He finishes with a grunt, pulling out and rolling away from you like you’re a tissue he’s done with. You feel the wetness between your legs, feel the ache that’s going to linger all day.

“Morning, babe,” Cameron says, already reaching for his phone. “I’m thinking pancakes for breakfast. You want pancakes?”

You don’t answer. Can’t answer. Your voice is buried somewhere so deep you’re not sure you’ll ever find it again.

“Y/N? Pancakes?”

“Sure,” you whisper.

“Cool. There’s that place on Comm Ave we like. Get dressed.” He’s already out of bed, completely unbothered, heading for the bathroom. “Wear that blue dress I got you. The one that shows off your legs.”

The bathroom door closes. The shower turns on.

You lie there for another minute, staring at nothing, feeling nothing. Then you get up because that’s what you do. You get up and you put yourself back together and you pretend everything is fine.

In the bathroom mirror, you look like a ghost. There are dark circles under your eyes that makeup won’t fully hide. Your hair is a mess. The bruises on your wrists have darkened overnight, deep purple now, unmistakable.

You brush your teeth. Wash your face. Try to find some version of yourself in the reflection that you recognize.

She’s not there.

You get dressed like Cameron asked — the blue dress that you used to like before it became a costume, before it became something you wear to keep him happy. It’s February and freezing but you add tights and a cardigan and hope that’s enough to satisfy him.

When Cameron comes out of the bathroom, he’s in a good mood. That’s almost worse than when he’s angry. When he’s angry, at least you know where you stand. When he’s happy, you’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You look beautiful,” he says, kissing your forehead like he didn’t just violate you twenty minutes ago. “Ready?”

You nod.

Breakfast is performative. Cameron orders the biggest thing on the menu — some ridiculous stack of pancakes with whipped cream and berries — and expects you to do the same. You order oatmeal because your stomach is churning and you know you won’t be able to eat much anyway.

“That’s all you’re getting?” Cameron frowns. “Come on, babe. Live a little.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“You’re never hungry anymore.” He reaches across the table, takes your hand. To anyone watching, it looks sweet. Loving. They can’t see the way his thumb digs into your bruised wrist. “You’re getting too thin. It’s not attractive.”

“Sorry,” you say automatically.

“It’s fine. We’ll work on it.” He releases your hand and pulls out his phone. “Shit, I have a meeting with my advisor at ten. Can you be ready to leave in twenty?”

“Yeah.”

You pick at your oatmeal while Cameron scrolls through his phone, occasionally showing you memes that aren’t funny, highlights from last night’s game that you don’t care about. He’s talking about the playoffs, about how BU is definitely going to make it even though they lost to Briar, about how that Graham kid got lucky.

“Cocky bastard,” Cameron mutters. “Someone needs to put him in his place.”

You think about the way Garrett Graham looked at Cameron last night. The absolute fury in his eyes. The way he stepped between you like he actually gave a shit about a stranger.

“Did you hear me?” Cameron asks.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said you can’t come to the next game. After the way you embarrassed me last night, I think you need a break from being around the team.”

Relief floods through you so fast you feel dizzy. “Okay.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

“I’m not—I didn’t mean-”

“Relax. I’m kidding.” He’s smiling but his eyes are cold. “Jesus, you’re so tense all the time. Maybe you should see someone about that.”

By someone, he means a therapist. He’s suggested it before, usually right after he’s the reason you need one. The implication is always clear: you’re the problem. You’re too sensitive, too anxious, too broken. Never mind that he’s the one who broke you.

You make it through breakfast. Through the ride back to campus. Through Cameron walking you to your dorm like he’s some kind of gentleman.

“I’ll text you later,” he says, kissing you goodbye on the steps. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you say, because that’s the script.

***

Garrett can’t focus on anything Professor Harris is saying about Kant’s categorical imperative. He’s sitting in the back row of his Philosophy 301 lecture, laptop open to a notes document that’s completely blank except for the date, phone hidden behind his screen.

He’s still on your Instagram.

He’s gone through every post now, read every caption, studied every photo. He’s built a timeline in his head: You started dating Beck around March of last year. The first photo of you two together was from spring break. You looked happy then. Cautious, maybe, but happy.

By summer, something had changed. You started posting less. Your smiles looked forced. The photos with Beck became more frequent but you looked less comfortable in each one.

By fall, you barely posted at all. And the few photos that are there — you look hollow. Like someone reached inside and scooped out everything that made you you.

The last post, from four months ago. You haven’t shared anything since.

Garrett wonders if Beck made you stop. If he isolated you so completely that you don’t even have the autonomy to post on social media anymore.

His hand tightens around his phone.

“Mr. Graham.”

Garrett’s head snaps up. Professor Harris is looking at him expectantly, along with the rest of the class.

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you could explain the practical imperative.”

Garrett has no idea. He was a good student once — still is, technically, maintaining the 3.5 GPA his scholarship requires — but right now his brain is full of you and Beck and the sound of his mom’s voice saying please in his nightmares.

“I … uh …”

“Act in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of another, always at the same time as an end and never simply as a means,” Logan says from two rows ahead, saving his ass.

Professor Harris nods, apparently satisfied, and turns back to his lecture.

Garrett shoots Logan a grateful look. Logan just raises his eyebrows in a what the hell is wrong with you expression.

Garrett goes back to his phone. He knows he should stop. Knows this is bordering on obsessive. But he can’t shake the feeling that if he can just find you, if he can just talk to you, he can help. He can do what he couldn’t do for his mom.

He opens Beck’s Instagram again, goes back through the tagged photos, looks for clues. Where do you go? What do you do? How the fuck is he supposed to find one girl in a city of seven hundred thousand people?

Class ends at 11:30. Garrett packs up his stuff mechanically, mind still churning.

“Dude.” Logan falls into step beside him as they file out of the lecture hall. “You good? You’ve been weird since last night.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

They walk across campus in silence. It’s brutally cold, the kind of February day that makes you question why anyone lives in New England. Students hurry past with their heads down, buried in their coats.

“That girl last night,” Garrett says finally. “Beck’s girlfriend. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Yeah, that was fucked up.”

“I should’ve done more.”

“G, you did what you could. What were you supposed to do, kidnap her?”

“Maybe.”

Logan stops walking. “Are you serious right now?”

“No. I don’t know.” Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “I just … I’ve seen this before. I know how it ends.”

Logan’s expression softens. He knows about Garrett’s mom. They’ve been friends since freshman year, and you can’t live with someone for that long without learning their ghosts.

“You can’t save everyone,” Logan says gently.

“I couldn’t save her either.”

“You were a kid.”

“I’m not a kid anymore.”

They resume walking. Practice is at 2:00, which gives Garrett a couple hours to grab lunch and pretend to study. But he knows he won’t be able to concentrate. Won’t be able to think about anything except you and those bruises and the terrified look in your eyes.

“What are you going to do?” Logan asks.

“I don’t know yet.”

But he’s lying. He knows exactly what he’s going to do.

***

Practice is brutal. Coach Jensen runs them into the ground — suicides, bag skating, drills until Garrett’s legs are shaking and his lungs are burning. It’s punishment for last night, for the altercation in the parking lot, for drawing attention to the team in a way that doesn’t involve winning games.

Garrett welcomes the pain. Uses it to clear his head.

By the time they’re done, it’s almost 5:00 PM and the sun is setting. The team staggers to the locker room, everyone too exhausted to do more than grunt at each other.

Garrett sits on the bench, peeling off his gear, when he remembers.

Colin Monroe.

Monroe transferred from BU to Briar at the start of the season — some issue with playing time, Garrett never got the full story. He’s a sophomore defenseman, solid player, keeps mostly to himself. But he spent a year and a half at BU before transferring.

He would know where BU students hang out.

Garrett waits until most of the team has cleared out, until it’s just him and Monroe and a couple other guys. He approaches casually, like the thought just occurred to him.

“Hey, Monroe.”

Colin looks up from tying his shoes. “Yeah?”

“You were at BU before you transferred, right?”

“For a year and a half, yeah. Why?”

Garrett tries to sound casual. “Just curious where you guys hung out. Like, where do BU students go? Coffee shops, bars, whatever.”

Monroe gives him a weird look. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just thinking about checking out some new spots. You know, off-campus stuff.”

“You’re asking me for Boston recommendations? Dude, you’ve been here longer than I have.”

Fair point. Garrett pivots.

“Okay, fine. I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“A girl from BU. I need to talk to her.”

Monroe’s expression shifts from confused to amused. “Oh shit, did you hook up with someone from the rival team? That’s bold.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

Garrett debates how much to say. Monroe is a good guy, not a gossip, but this feels too personal to share. Too raw.

“I just need to find her,” Garrett says finally. “It’s important.”

Monroe studies him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Alright, man. BU kids are all over Comm Ave and Kenmore. There’s this coffee shop called Pavement that’s always packed with journalism and comm students — it’s right on Commonwealth, you can’t miss it. There’s also The Castle, this pub on Brighton Ave that does trivia on Wednesday nights. And if she’s into the athletic crowd, they’re usually at The Dugout on game days.”

“Pavement,” Garrett repeats. “Journalism students?”

“Yeah, it’s like, the spot. Everyone’s always in there working on articles or whatever.”

Something clicks in Garrett’s brain. Your Instagram bio. Journalism.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“Sure. Good luck with your mysterious BU girl.” Monroe grins. “Let me know if you need a wingman.”

“I will.”

Garrett grabs his bag and heads out before anyone else can ask questions. His car is parked in the lot behind the arena, and he sits in the driver’s seat for a minute, engine running, heat blasting.

He pulls up Pavement Coffee on Google Maps. It’s a twenty-minute drive from Briar. He could go now. Could drive over there and camp out and wait to see if you show up.

But then what? Walk up to you? Say what, exactly? Hey, I saw your boyfriend abusing you last night and I’ve been stalking your Instagram all day, want to grab a coffee and talk about your trauma?

Garrett drops his head against the steering wheel.

This is insane. He knows it’s insane. You’re a stranger. You probably don’t want his help. You probably think he’s some white knight psycho who needs to mind his own business.

But he can’t stop seeing your face. Can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at him like he was your last hope and then watched him walk away.

His phone buzzes. Text from Tucker: Be back for dinner? I promised to make wings.

Garrett texts back: Can’t tonight. Have something to do.

Tucker: Everything ok?

Garrett: Yeah. Just need to take care of something.

He puts the car in drive and heads toward Boston, toward Pavement Coffee, toward you.

He doesn’t let himself think about what he’s going to do when he finds you.

He just knows he has to try.

***

Pavement Coffee is exactly what Monroe described — packed with students hunched over laptops, the air thick with the smell of espresso and stress. Garrett stands in the doorway for a moment, scanning the crowd, heart hammering against his ribs.

He almost doesn’t see you.

You’re tucked into a corner table near the window, laptop open, surrounded by papers and highlighters and what looks like a half-empty cup of something that’s probably gone cold. Your hair is down today, falling like a curtain around your face, and you’re wearing an oversized BU sweatshirt that swallows your frame. From this distance, you look like any other college student cramming for an exam or working on an assignment.

But Garrett knows better now.

He weaves through the crowded café, dodging backpacks and chairs, his palms suddenly sweating. He hasn’t thought this through. Hasn’t planned what to say. All the speeches he rehearsed in his car on the drive over evaporate the moment he’s standing in front of your table.

You don’t notice him at first. You’re too focused on whatever you’re reading, highlighter poised mid-air, bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration.

Garrett clears his throat.

Nothing.

He pulls out the chair across from you and sits down.

That gets your attention.

You look up, and for a split second, there’s confusion in your eyes — like you’re trying to place where you know him from. Then recognition hits, and Garrett watches your entire body go rigid. The highlighter slips from your fingers. Your eyes go wide, that same terror from the parking lot flooding back into them.

“Please don’t-” Your voice comes out in a whisper, barely audible over the ambient noise of the café. “Please, you can’t—he’ll-”

“Hey, hey.” Garrett raises both hands, palms out, like he’s approaching a spooked horse. “It’s okay. I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to talk.”

“You need to leave.” Your eyes dart toward the door, then back to him, then to the other customers like you’re checking to see if anyone’s watching. “If Cameron finds out-”

“He’s not here.”

“That doesn’t matter.” You’re gathering your stuff now, shoving papers into your bag with shaking hands. “He has friends everywhere. Someone could see us. Someone could tell him-”

“Then let them.” Garrett leans forward, keeping his voice low and calm. “What’s the worst he can do?”

The look you give him is so devastated it makes his chest ache.

“You don’t understand,” you say quietly.

“Then help me understand.”

You freeze, hands still on your laptop. For a moment, Garrett thinks you might actually open up. Might tell him everything. But then you shake your head and go back to packing.

“I need to go.”

“Wait. Please.” Garrett reaches across the table like he’s going to touch your hand, then thinks better of it. “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Why?” You look up at him, and there are tears gathering in your eyes now. “Why do you even care? You don’t know me.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” Garrett runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “But I know what I saw in that parking lot. And I know that if I just let you walk away right now, if I don’t at least try to help, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”

You’re staring at him like he’s speaking a foreign language.

“I’ve seen this before,” Garrett continues, his voice rough. “I’ve watched someone I love get hurt over and over by someone who was supposed to protect them. And I couldn’t stop it. I was too young, too small, too powerless. But I’m not powerless anymore, and neither are you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But you’ve stopped packing. Your hands are still on the table, fingers twisted together.

“Don’t I?” Garrett nods toward your neck, where he can see the edge of something dark peeking out from under your sweatshirt collar. “What’s that?”

Instinctively, your hand flies to your neck, pulling the collar up. But it’s too late. Garrett’s already seen it — hand-shaped bruises, finger marks pressed into your skin, covered with what looks like concealer that’s been rubbed away throughout the day.

The rage that floods through him is white-hot and immediate. His hands curl into fists under the table. He wants to find Beck right now, wants to make him feel every ounce of pain he’s inflicted on you, wants to-

“Breathe,” you whisper, and Garrett realizes he’s stopped breathing entirely.

He forces air into his lungs. Forces his hands to unclench. Forces himself to stay seated when every instinct is screaming at him to go find Beck and end this.

“I’m okay,” you say, which is such an obvious lie it would be funny if it weren’t heartbreaking.

“You’re not okay.” Garrett’s voice comes out harder than he intends. “And we both know it.”

You flinch, and immediately he wants to take it back. Wants to rewind and try again with more gentleness, more care.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—fuck. I’m really bad at this.”

“At what?”

“At …” He gestures vaguely between you. “This. Helping. I don’t know how to do this without being an asshole about it.”

You almost smile. It’s barely there, just a tiny quirk of your lips, but it’s something.

“You’re not an asshole,” you say quietly.

“Beck would probably disagree.”

“Cameron thinks anyone who doesn’t worship him is an asshole.”

It’s the first time you’ve said anything even remotely critical of Beck, and Garrett latches onto it like a lifeline.

“He hurt you.” It’s not a question.

You don’t answer. Just look down at your hands, at the bruises on your wrists that match the ones on your neck.

“How long?” Garrett asks.

“That’s not—I can’t-”

“How long has he been hurting you?”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s really not.”

“You don’t understand-”

“Then explain it to me.” Garrett leans forward, desperate now. “Because from where I’m sitting, this looks pretty simple. He’s hurting you. You’re letting him. And if you don’t stop this, if you don’t get out, it’s going to kill you.”

“I can’t just leave.” Your voice breaks on the last word.

“Why not?”

“Because-” You stop, swallow hard. “Because he loves me.”

Garrett feels like he’s been punched. “That’s not love.”

“You don’t know him like I do.”

“I know that love doesn’t leave bruises.” Garrett points to your neck, your wrists. “I know that love doesn’t make you look over your shoulder every five seconds. I know that love doesn’t turn someone as bright and alive as you clearly used to be into-” He stops himself, but it’s too late.

“Into what?” Your voice is cold now. “Into what, Garrett?”

He’s surprised you know his name. Surprised and oddly touched.

“Into someone who’s afraid to exist,” he finishes quietly.

You look away, but not before he sees the tears spill over. You wipe them away quickly, angrily, like you’re mad at yourself for showing weakness.

“You looked at my Instagram,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“That’s creepy.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you wanted to work in sports media. I know you had an internship at WEEI. I know you used to smile like you meant it.” Garrett’s voice softens. “I know that girl in those photos wouldn’t recognize the person sitting in front of me right now.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. The café noise fills the silence — the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of conversations, the click of laptop keys.

“She’s gone,” you finally whisper.

“She’s not. She’s just hiding.”

“You don’t understand what it’s like.” You look up at him, and the devastation in your eyes is unbearable. “He didn’t start out this way. He was sweet. He was charming. He made me feel special, like I was the only person in the world who mattered. And then gradually, so slowly I didn’t even notice at first, things changed. He started criticizing little things. The way I dressed. The way I talked to other guys. My friends. My ambitions. He said it was because he cared. Because he wanted me to be the best version of myself.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“And I believed him,” you continue, your voice getting smaller. “I thought if I just tried harder, if I just did what he wanted, things would go back to how they were. But they never did. They just got worse. And by the time I realized what was happening, I was so isolated, so cut off from everyone who might have helped me, that I didn’t know how to get out.”

“You get out by leaving.”

“I tried.” The words come out in a rush. “Twice. Both times he found me. Both times he convinced me to come back. He cried, Garrett. He got down on his knees and cried and promised he’d change and I believed him because I wanted to believe him.”

“And did he change?”

You laugh, but it’s a broken sound. “What do you think?”

Garrett wants to flip the table. Wants to scream. Wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you understand that you deserve better than this, deserve better than him.

But he knows that won’t help. Knows from watching his mom that you can’t force someone to leave. They have to choose it themselves.

“If you go back to him,” Garrett says carefully, “you’re going to die. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. Either he’ll kill you, or he’ll kill everything that makes you you until you’re just this empty shell going through the motions. Is that what you want?”

“Of course that’s not what I want.” Your voice cracks.

“Then leave.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“You don’t understand-”

“My mom said the same thing.” The words are out before Garrett can stop them.

You go still.

“She said she couldn’t leave my dad,” Garrett continues, staring at a spot on the table between them. “Said it was complicated. Said he didn’t mean it. Said things would get better. She said that right up until the day she died.”

“Garrett-”

“Cancer,” he says. “Lung cancer. And you want to know the fucked up thing? When she was in the hospital, when she was dying, he still found ways to hurt her. Still found ways to make her feel small and worthless. And she let him. Right up until the end, she let him.”

He looks up, meets your eyes.

“I was eleven when she died,” he says. “And I spent the next ten years hating myself for not being able to save her. For not being strong enough or brave enough or smart enough to make her leave. But the truth is, I couldn’t have saved her. She had to save herself. And she never did.”

You’re crying openly now, tears streaming down your face.

“Don’t be her,” Garrett says, his voice urgent. “Don’t be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesn’t deserve it. Don’t let him win.”

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“He’ll come after me.”

“Let him.” Garrett’s voice hardens. “And when he does, you call the cops. You get a restraining order. You press charges for assault. You do whatever it takes.”

“It’s not that simple-”

“It is that simple. You just don’t want it to be.”

The words hang between you like an accusation. Garrett knows he’s pushed too hard, knows he’s being too aggressive, knows he should back off and try a gentler approach.

But he’s so fucking tired of watching people destroy themselves for love that isn’t love at all.

You shake your head. It’s the tiniest movement, barely perceptible, but Garrett sees it. Sees the resignation in your eyes, the defeat.

You’re not going to leave.

Not today. Maybe not ever.

The realization settles over him like a weight.

“Okay,” he says finally, sitting back in his chair. He wipes a hand down his face, exhausted suddenly. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one you’re hurting.”

You flinch like he’s slapped you.

Garrett reaches across the table, grabs one of your pens before you can stop him. He pulls a napkin from the dispenser and scribbles something on it, then slides it across to you.

“That’s my number,” he says. “When — not if, when — things get bad enough that you’re ready to leave, you call me. Day or night, I don’t care. You call me and I will help you. I will come get you, I will find you a safe place to stay, I will stand between you and him if I have to. But you have to make the choice. You have to be the one to decide you’ve had enough.”

You stare at the napkin like it’s a bomb.

“Take it,” Garrett says.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach out and pull the napkin toward you. Your fingers brush his for just a second and Garrett feels something electric pass between you. Recognition, maybe. Or possibility.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Garrett stands, shouldering his backpack. “Thank me when you use it.”

He starts to walk away, then stops. Turns back.

“You said he didn’t start out this way,” Garrett says. “That he was sweet and charming and made you feel special.”

You nod.

“That’s what they all do,” Garrett says. “That’s how they get you to stay. They show you the person they could be, and you spend the rest of the relationship trying to get back to that version. But that person was never real. It was just bait.”

He can see from your expression that the words land. That some part of you knows he’s right.

“I hope you figure that out before it’s too late,” Garrett says.

Then he walks to the counter, cutting through the line with an apologetic nod to the students waiting. The barista looks annoyed until Garrett starts talking.

“See that girl in the corner?” Garrett nods toward you. “Blue sweatshirt, by the window?”

The barista glances over. “Yeah?”

“I want to buy her a drink. Whatever your best latte is. And …” Garrett scans the pastry case. “That cranberry scone.”

“You want me to bring it to her?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell her who it’s from.”

The barista looks skeptical. “Dude, if this is some creepy stalker thing-”

“It’s not. I promise. She’s …” Garrett struggles for the right words. “She’s having a hard time. I just want to do something nice for her.”

Something in his expression must convince the barista because he shrugs and rings up the order. Garrett pays, leaves a generous tip, and steps away from the counter.

He looks back one more time.

You’re still sitting at the table, the napkin with his number clutched in your hand. You’re staring at it like it’s the answer to a question you haven’t figured out how to ask yet.

Your coffee has gone cold. Your laptop is closed. Your papers are still scattered across the table, but you’re not working anymore. You’re just … sitting there. Existing in whatever complicated hell Beck has created for you.

Garrett wants to go back. Wants to sit down and try again, find better words, make you understand.

But he knows that won’t help. Knows he’s already said everything he can say. The rest is up to you.

So he turns and walks out into the February cold.

***

You sit at the table long after Garrett leaves, his words echoing in your head.

Don’t be her. Don’t be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Your hands are shaking. The napkin with his number is crumpled from how hard you’re gripping it. Your chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the room, and you can’t stop crying even though you’re in public, even though people are starting to stare.

You know he’s right. God, you know he’s right.

But knowing something and being able to do something about it are two different things.

“Excuse me?”

You look up. The barista is standing there with a latte and a scone on a small plate.

“I didn’t order this,” you say, your voice hoarse.

“Someone bought it for you.” He sets it down on your table.

“Who?”

The barista just shrugs and walks away.

But you know. Of course you know.

You look toward the door, but Garrett’s already gone. Just the ghost of him, the weight of his words, the impossible choice he’s asked you to make.

The latte is still hot. The scone looks fresh. It’s such a small gesture, such a simple kindness, and somehow it breaks something open inside you.

You pull out your phone with trembling fingers.

You should delete his number. Should throw the napkin away. Should pretend this conversation never happened and go back to Cameron and the safe, familiar horror of your life.

But instead, you carefully input the numbers into your contacts.

You save it under a name Cameron won’t recognize if he looks. Boston Pizza.

Then you put your phone away, pick up the latte, and take a sip.

It’s perfect.

And that almost makes it worse.

Because now you know there’s someone out there who sees you. Really sees you. Who looked past the makeup and the excuses and the carefully constructed lies and saw the truth.

Someone who cares enough to try to save you.

Even if you’re not ready to save yourself.

You sit there until the latte goes cold again, turning Garrett’s words over and over in your mind.

When things get bad enough that you’re ready to leave, you call me.

Not if. When.

Like he has faith in you that you don’t have in yourself.

You pick up the scone and take a bite.

It tastes like possibility.

And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.

***

You make it back to your dorm around 8:00 PM, the latte from Pavement long gone but the napkin still in your tote bag. You tucked it into the side pocket, hidden beneath a pack of gum and your lip balm, somewhere Cameron would never think to look.

Except Cameron always thinks to look.

He’s waiting for you when you open the door to your room, sitting on your bed like he owns the place. Your roommate Julie is nowhere to be seen, which means she either left or he made her leave. Your money’s on the latter.

“Hey, babe.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Where’ve you been?”

Your heart starts hammering. “Library. Studying.”

“Really? Because I texted you like three hours ago and you didn’t respond.”

You pull out your phone, check your messages. Sure enough, there’s a text from Cameron from 5:32 PM. Where are you? You were at Pavement then, talking to Garrett, too distracted to check your phone.

“I had my phone on silent,” you say, which is true. “I didn’t see it. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Cameron stands up, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. “You’re sorry that you ignored me for three hours?”

“I wasn’t ignoring you, I was studying-”

“Bullshit.” He’s across the room in three strides, grabbing your tote bag before you can stop him. “Let me see your phone.”

“Cameron, come on-”

“Let. Me. See. Your. Phone.”

You hand it over with shaking hands because refusing will only make this worse. He scrolls through your messages, your calls, your social media.

“Library, huh?” Cameron looks up from your phone. “Then why do you have a text from Julie asking if you’re still at that coffee shop?”

Fuck. You forgot about that text.

“I stopped for coffee on my way to the library,” you say quickly. “I was only there for like twenty minutes-”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.”

He throws your phone onto the bed and starts rifling through your tote bag. Books, pens, highlighters, notebooks — everything gets dumped onto the floor. You watch in horror as his hand closes around the side pocket.

“Cameron, please-”

He pulls out the napkin.

For a moment, he just stares at it. At the ten digits written in Garrett’s messy handwriting. Then he looks at you, and the rage in his eyes makes your blood run cold.

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s nothing-”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

You flinch, stumbling backward until you hit the wall. “I can explain-”

“You’re cheating on me.” His voice is eerily calm now, which is somehow worse than the yelling. “You’re fucking cheating on me.”

“I’m not, I swear-”

“Then whose number is this?”

“Nobody’s-”

“WHOSE FUCKING NUMBER IS IT?”

“A guy from the coffee shop!” The lie spills out in a rush. “He was hitting on me and I took his number to be nice but I was going to throw it away, I swear-”

“You expect me to believe that?” Cameron crumples the napkin in his fist. “You expect me to believe that you just happened to run into some random guy at a coffee shop and he gave you his number and you kept it?”

“I didn’t keep it, I forgot about it-”

“Stop lying!”

He’s on you before you can react, hand closing around your throat, slamming you back against the wall. Your vision goes spotty immediately, your lungs screaming for air.

“Cameron—can’t—breathe-”

“You made me do this,” he hisses, his face inches from yours. “You made me into the bad guy. All I’ve ever done is love you, and this is how you repay me? By whoring around behind my back?”

“Not—cheating-” you manage to gasp out.

His grip loosens slightly, just enough for you to suck in a desperate breath. Then his other hand comes up and slaps you across the face so hard your ears ring.

“Don’t lie to me!” Another slap. “Don’t you fucking lie to me!”

You’re crying now, trying to twist away, but he’s got you pinned. His hand goes back to your throat, squeezing harder this time, and the edges of your vision start to go dark.

This is it, some distant part of your brain thinks. This is how you die.

Cameron’s face swims in and out of focus above you. He’s saying something but you can’t hear it over the roaring in your ears. Your lungs are burning. Your fingers claw uselessly at his hands.

And then, like a gift from whatever god might still be listening, his grip shifts. Loosens just enough that you can move.

You bring your knee up as hard as you can.

It connects perfectly.

Cameron makes a sound like all the air has been punched out of his lungs and stumbles backward, hands going to his crotch. You don’t wait. Don’t think. Just grab your phone from the bed and run.

“You bitch-” Cameron’s voice follows you into the hallway. “Get back here!”

But you’re already running, flying down the stairs because the elevator is too slow, too risky. You can hear him behind you, cursing, his footsteps heavy and angry.

You burst out of the dorm building into the February night. It’s freezing — you’re not wearing a coat, just your sweatshirt and jeans — but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. If he catches you, he’ll kill you. You know that now with absolute certainty.

You run down Commonwealth Avenue, dodging other students, nearly getting hit by a car. Behind you, you can still hear Cameron shouting your name.

Your phone is clutched in your hand. You fumble with it as you run, trying to unlock it with shaking fingers. The cold is making everything harder. Your hands won’t work right.

Finally, the screen unlocks.

You pull up your contacts, scroll frantically until you find it. Boston Pizza.

You hit call.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

Pick up, you think desperately. Please pick up please pick up please-

“Hello?”

Garrett’s voice, rough with sleep, is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

You try to speak but all that comes out is a sob.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Garrett-” Your voice cracks. “It’s—it’s me-”

There’s a pause. “Y/N?”

“Please-” You’re running down a side street now, looking for somewhere to hide. “Please, I need-”

“What’s wrong?” His voice changes completely, all traces of sleep gone. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know—I’m running—he found the napkin and he-” Another sob cuts you off.

“Slow down. Take a breath. Are you hurt?”

“I think—I think he was going to kill me-”

“Fuck. Okay. Okay, listen to me.” Garrett’s voice is steady, authoritative. “I need you to find somewhere safe. A store, a dorm building, anywhere with people. Can you do that?”

“I’m trying-” You’re on Brighton Ave now, you think. Everything looks unfamiliar in the dark. “All the buildings are locked-”

“Keep trying. Share your location with me. Do you know how to do that?”

“Yes—hold on-”

You pull the phone away from your ear, fumbling through the menus with numb fingers. Finally, you find the option and send him your location.

“Got it,” Garrett says. “I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, maybe less. Stay on the phone with me, okay? Don’t hang up.”

“Okay.” You’re in front of an apartment building now. You try the door. Locked. “Fuck!”

“What?”

“The building’s locked. They all need codes-”

“Try another one. Just keep moving.”

You run to the next building. Also locked. The next one. Locked.

Behind you, somewhere in the darkness, you hear Cameron calling your name.

Panic surges through you. “He’s coming—I can hear him-”

“Stay calm. Keep trying the doors.”

The fourth building — a newer apartment complex with a fancy glass entrance — you try the handle and nearly cry with relief when it opens.

“I’m in—I found one-”

“Good. Where are you exactly?”

“The lobby. There’s nobody here-”

“Hide. Find a corner or a hallway or something. Stay out of sight.”

You look around frantically. The lobby is all glass and exposed, but there’s a hallway to the left that leads to what looks like a mail room. You duck around the corner, pressing yourself against the wall.

“I’m hidden,” you whisper.

“Good. Good girl. I’m in my car. I’m coming as fast as I can.”

You can hear the engine revving through the phone. The sound is oddly comforting.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice small. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I should have listened to you. I should have left-”

“We’ll talk about that later. Right now I just need you to stay safe, okay? Stay on the phone with me. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”

You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest. Your whole body is shaking — from cold, from fear, from adrenaline crash. Your throat hurts where Cameron choked you. Your face throbs where he hit you.

“Talk to me,” Garrett says. “I need to know you’re okay.”

“I’m here. I’m-” Your voice breaks. “I’m so scared.”

“I know. I know you are. But you’re safe right now. He doesn’t know where you are.”

“What if he finds me?”

“He won’t. And even if he does, you’re in a building with other people. You can scream. You can call 911.”

“He’ll talk his way out of it. He always does-”

“Not this time.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “Not fucking this time.”

You can hear traffic sounds through the phone, the occasional horn. You try to focus on that instead of the fear clawing at your chest.

“Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For answering. For coming.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m glad you called me.” There’s something in his voice — relief, maybe. Or vindication. “I meant what I said. Day or night. You call me.”

You close your eyes, let his voice wash over you. Somewhere above you, you can hear footsteps. Someone’s TV playing too loud. Normal apartment sounds. It helps ground you.

“I’m about twenty minutes away,” Garrett says. “Maybe less. Traffic’s not bad.”

“Are you speeding?”

“Definitely.”

Despite everything, you almost smile. “You’re going to get a ticket.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

The minutes stretch out. You keep listening to Garrett’s breathing on the other end of the line, the sound of his car. It’s the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart.

“Okay, I’m about two minutes out,” Garrett says. “What’s the address of the building you’re in?”

You peek out from behind the corner, looking for a sign or a number. “Um … 6209 Brighton Avenue, I think?”

“Got it. I see it. Stay where you are, I’m pulling up now.”

Thirty seconds later, you hear a car screech to a stop outside. A door slams.

“I’m coming in,” Garrett says.

The front door opens and then he’s there — Garrett Graham in sweatpants and a Briar Hockey hoodie, no coat, hair disheveled like he literally just rolled out of bed. Which he probably did.

You step out from behind the corner.

When Garrett sees you, his entire face changes.

You must look worse than you thought. You can see the horror in his eyes as he takes in your appearance — the handprints on your throat, the swelling on your face, the way you’re shaking so hard you can barely stand.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

He starts toward you, hand outstretched, then stops himself. Lets his hand fall.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly. “I promise. I just want to help.”

You nod, but you can’t seem to make yourself move.

“Can I come closer?” Garrett asks.

Another nod.

He approaches slowly, carefully, like you’re a wild animal that might bolt. When he’s close enough to touch, he holds out his hand.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

You take his hand. His skin is warm, his grip gentle but steady. He leads you toward the door, but you balk when you see the street outside.

“What if he’s out there?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Then I’ll handle it.” Garrett’s jaw is set, his eyes hard. “He’s not going to touch you again. I promise you that.”

You let him guide you outside, into his car. It’s still running, heat blasting. He opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re made of glass.

But before he closes the door, you grab his arm.

“What?” Garrett asks.

You can’t put it into words — the gratitude, the relief, the overwhelming sense that this stranger has just saved your life. So you just hold onto his arm for a moment, looking up at him.

“Thank you,” you manage.

His expression softens. “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s just get you somewhere safe.”

He closes your door and runs around to the driver’s side. As soon as he’s in, he locks the doors and checks his mirrors. You can’t help doing the same thing — looking back down the street, expecting to see Cameron appear at any moment.

“He’s not coming,” Garrett says, but his hands are tight on the steering wheel. “And even if he does, I’ll kill him.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you believe him.

Garrett pulls away from the curb and starts driving. You don’t ask where you’re going. Don’t care. Anywhere is better than where you were.

“I’m taking you to my place,” Garrett says after a few minutes. “I live with my teammates. Three other guys. They’re good people, I promise. You’ll be safe there.”

“Okay.”

“In the morning, we can figure out next steps. Police report, restraining order, whatever you want to do. But tonight, you just need to rest.”

You nod, but the word makes your stomach churn. Cameron’s parents are lawyers. Rich, connected lawyers. The last time you tried to leave, he threatened to have them destroy you. Said they’d make you look crazy, make sure no one believed you.

And you believed him. Just like you believed everything else.

“Hey.” Garrett glances over at you. “You with me?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

The drive to Garrett’s place takes about fifteen minutes. He lives in a house off-campus, the kind of place that definitely houses multiple hockey players based on the Briar Hockey flags in the windows and the hockey sticks on the porch.

He parks in the driveway and turns to you.

“Okay, so fair warning: the place is kind of a mess. We’re college guys. But it’s safe, I promise.”

“I don’t care about the mess.”

“Good.” He gets out, comes around to your door, and opens it for you.

You follow him up the walkway, up the porch steps. Your legs feel like jelly. The adrenaline is wearing off and everything hurts.

Garrett unlocks the door and leads you inside. The house is dark except for the kitchen light. It’s quiet — everyone’s probably asleep.

“Let me give you the quick tour,” Garrett says softly. “Living room, kitchen, bathroom’s down that hall. Upstairs are the bedrooms. Mine’s the second door on the left.”

“I can sleep on the couch-”

“No.” His voice is firm. “You’re taking my room.”

“Garrett, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can. It’s got a lock on the inside if you want to feel safer. Clean sheets, bathroom right next door. I’ll bunk with Logan.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too broken to do anything but nod.

He leads you upstairs. The hallway is covered in hockey photos and what looks like a championship banner. Garrett’s room is at the end, exactly as he described.

It’s neater than you expected. A queen-sized bed with navy sheets. A desk covered in textbooks and hockey equipment. A Briar Hockey poster on the wall.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Garrett says, pointing to a door. “There should be towels and stuff. I can get you some clothes to sleep in-”

“This is fine.” You’re still in your sweatshirt and jeans, but the thought of changing feels impossible right now.

“Okay. Well, if you need anything, I’ll be with Logan. His room is the first door on the right. Just knock.”

You nod.

Garrett lingers in the doorway, looking like he wants to say something else. “You did the right thing. Calling me. Running. You saved your own life tonight.”

The words hit you harder than they should. You feel tears pricking at your eyes again.

“Get some sleep,” Garrett says gently. “We’ll figure everything else out in the morning.”

He closes the door behind him, and you’re alone.

You stand in the middle of his room for a long moment, just breathing. Then you go to the door and turn the lock. The click is oddly reassuring.

You should probably shower. Should probably wash the day off. But you can’t seem to make yourself move. Instead, you sink onto Garrett’s bed, still fully clothed, and pull the blanket around yourself.

It smells like him — clean, masculine, safe.

You close your eyes and let yourself cry.

***

Garrett makes it to Logan’s room and closes the door before he loses it.

“Dude, what the fuck-” Logan sits up in bed, squinting at him. “It’s like 1 AM-”

“I need to bunk with you tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s someone in my room.”

That wakes Logan up. “What?”

Garrett runs both hands through his hair, pacing. “That girl. From the parking lot. Beck’s girlfriend. She called me. He hurt her, Logan. Really fucking hurt her.”

“Shit. Is she okay?”

“I don’t know. She’s-” Garrett’s voice cracks. “You should see her throat. He strangled her. She’s got bruises all over her face, her neck. If she hadn’t gotten away-”

“Fuck.”

“I want to kill him.” Garrett’s hands are shaking now, adrenaline and rage coursing through him. “I want to find him and beat him so badly he never gets up again.”

“Garrett-”

“I should have done more. At the parking lot. I should have made her leave then-”

“You did what you could.”

“It wasn’t enough!” Garrett slams his fist into the wall, then immediately regrets it when pain shoots up his arm.

Logan gets out of bed, walks over to him. “Look at me. Look at me, G.”

Garrett forces himself to meet Logan’s eyes.

“She called you,” Logan says. “When she was in trouble, when she needed help, she called you. That means you did everything right. You gave her an option and she took it. That’s huge.”

Garrett wants to believe that. Wants to believe he did enough. But all he can see is your face — the terror, the pain, the way you flinched when he reached for you.

“She looks like she’s halfway to dead,” Garrett says quietly.

“But she’s not dead. She’s here. She’s safe.”

“For now.”

“For now is all we’ve got.” Logan claps him on the shoulder. “Come on. You can take the beanbag.”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“Fine. Then you can not-sleep on the beanbag.”

Garrett collapses into the oversized beanbag chair in the corner of Logan’s room. It’s not comfortable, but he barely notices. His mind is racing, playing the phone call over and over. The sound of your voice — terrified, desperate. The way you were gasping for breath.

The fact that you thought Beck was going to kill you.

Because he was. Garrett knows that now with certainty. If you hadn’t fought back, if you hadn’t gotten away, Beck would have killed you.

“What are you going to do?” Logan asks from his bed.

“I don’t know. Call the cops. Get her a restraining order. Press charges.”

“You think she’ll do it?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s the truth. You’re terrified of Beck, terrified of his family’s power, terrified of what he’ll do if you fight back. Garrett’s seen it before — the way abuse victims get trapped in this cycle of fear and dependency.

His mom never pressed charges against his dad. Not once. Even when she had evidence, even when people offered to help, she always backed down.

And look where that got her.

“He’s going to come looking for her,” Garrett says.

“Then we’ll deal with it.”

“We?”

“You think I’m going to let some abusive piece of shit show up at our house?” Logan’s voice is hard. “Fuck that. He tries anything, he’s going through me, Dean, and Tucker. And you know Tucker will lose his shit.”

Despite everything, Garrett almost smiles. 

“We should tell them,” Garrett says. “In the morning. They need to know.”

“Agreed.”

Garrett leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. But every time he does, he sees you — trembling in that apartment lobby, handprints on your throat, looking at him like he’s the only thing standing between you and death.

“I should have done more,” he says again.

“You did enough.”

But it doesn’t feel like enough. It feels like he’s still that seven-year-old kid watching his mom get hurt and being powerless to stop it.

Except this time, he’s not powerless.

This time, he can fight back.

And if Cameron Beck shows his face anywhere near you again, Garrett’s going to make sure he regrets it.

Read part two here

[maluvv]

make it to the morning - lh43 x f!reader

★ A/N - i have not a lot to say ab this... anon 🐛 wanted lake house luke smut, so i ran with it❤️. i'm very grateful for all you divas who have been supporting me and read my stuff. i'll kiss each one of y'all if you'd let me.

☾ warnings - dryhumping (YALL DONT GET THE HYPE OF TS, HOP ON BOARD), dirty talk????????, sleepy smut, established relationship, unrealistic luke waking up... ik that guy would most definitely sleep through a tornado, not proofread properly (i am so tired and gave up)

APPARENTLY I DONT KNOW HOW TO LABEL THINGS AGAIN

✽ word count - 1786 words

The first time you wake up, it’s because of thunder.

Low and distant over the lake, vibrating softly through the walls of the lake house while the fan hums somewhere in the corner. The room is dark except for silver moonlight spilling through the curtains, enough to make out the shape of Luke beside you.

Bare chest. Curls sticking up all over the place. One arm heavy around your waist, even asleep, keeping you tucked close against him.

And god, that’s the problem.

Because you’ve been trying to behave all week.

Trying not to think about the way his swim trunks hang low on his hips when he’s carrying coolers down to the dock. About the lazy touches he gives you in passing, completely unaware of what they do to you. His hand settling on your thigh during movie nights. His mouth brushing your temple when everyone’s around. The teasing little “you okay, baby?” when he catches you staring too long.

You’ve been trying.

But now it’s the middle of the night, warm rain tapping softly outside, and you wake up aching.

Actually physically aching.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the blankets, and you let out the smallest frustrated breath into the dark.

Beside you, Luke shifts.

“Baby?” His voice is rough with sleep.

You close your eyes for a second. Of course he decided now would be the perfect time to be a light sleeper. “Go back to sleep.”

Immediately, he’s more awake, one hand sliding slowly over the surface of your waist. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.” He pulls himself up onto one elbow, peering down at you with sleepy suspicion. “You’re squirming around.”

Heat floods your face.

“Lu,” you whisper miserably.

That alone tells him everything.

He softly exhales through his nose, his hand squeezing your hip gently, the mattress shifting when he tries not to laugh too hard.

“My poor girl,” he murmurs.

You groan quietly and bury your face in his chest. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.” His lips brush your hair. “C’mere.”

He shifts onto his back and pulls you over him until you’re half sprawled across his chest, one of his hands smoothing slowly down your spine beneath your oversized sleep shirt that you had stolen from his closet earlier.

“You need me that bad?”

Your silence answers his question.

Luke lets out the quietest laugh, warm and sleepy and unfairly sweet. “Baby…”

“It’s your fault,” you mutter against his skin. “Walking around looking like that all day.”

“Looking like what?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him.

His grin appears faintly in the dark.

“There she is.”

You try to hide your face again, but he catches your chin gently between his fingers before you can.

Moonlight catches the softness in his expression when he looks at you.

No longer teasing, just completely gone for you.

“My love,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your bottom lip, “you could’ve woken me up.”

“I just did.”

“Mm. True.”

His mouth finds yours slowly, lazily at first.

Sleepy kisses that melt deeper after only a few seconds because you can’t help it—you kiss him like you’ve been starving all week. Your fingers slide into his hair immediately, tugging softly, and Luke exhales against your mouth, chest rising sharply beneath yours.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though his hands tighten on your waist. “You’re basically shaking.”

“I know.”

“You wanna tell me what you need?”

Another whine leaves your throat before you can stop it, and Luke actually groans this time, forehead dropping briefly against yours.

“Jesus christ.”

Your hips shift instinctively against him, feeling out how hard he already is beneath his boxers, the sensation makes your head spin.

“Baby,” he breathes warningly, but he doesn’t stop you.

One large hand settles firmly on your hip while you move against him again, slow and desperate through the thin fabric between you both. The friction pulls a quiet gasp from your mouth, and Luke’s eyes close for a second, his jaw tightening while he fights for control.

“There you go,” he whispers. “That feel good?”

You nod quickly.

“So needy tonight.”

You kiss him again before he can tease you more, and he lets you climb further over him, lets your thighs spread around his hips while his hands drag slowly up and down your sides.

The rain outside gets heavier, but inside, everything feels warm and hazy and messy.

Luke’s mouth leaves yours only long enough to kiss along your jaw, your throat, lingering beneath your ear when you grind down harder against him.

“Fuck,” he mutters softly.

Your hands clutch at his shoulders.

“Lu, please—”

“I know, sweet girl. I know.”

His voice drops lower, soothing enough to make your stomach tighten.

One hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back gently so he can look at you.

“You’re so pretty when you need me.”

The praise goes straight through you.

Your movements get sloppier after that, desperate little drags of your hips making the bed creak softly beneath you both. Luke watches the whole thing with heavy eyes and parted lips, caught somewhere between calming you down and making it worse. He kisses you again, deep enough to steal the air from your lungs. When you whimper into his mouth, pulling back slightly to brush his thumb along your lower lip.

“So sensitive,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

Your thighs squeeze around him hard enough to make him groan.

“Baby,” he says against your mouth, voice strained now, "you keep moving like that and I’m not gonna last long.”

But his hands are still guiding your hips, still helping you grind against him slow and deep until your breathing turns shaky and uneven.

Every soft sound you make seems to hit him right in the chest.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Use me.”

Your forehead drops against his shoulder as you move faster without meaning to, chasing the pressure desperately while Luke holds you steady beneath him.

“There you go, my love,” he says softly, kissing the side of your head.

A shaky sound leaves your throat when he rolls his hips up into yours once, slow enough to make your stomach tighten painfully.

“Oh my God.”

Luke huffs out a laugh at that, though it sounds strained now.

“Yeah?” His hands spread wider over your hips, fingers digging in just enough to keep you moving against him. “Feel good?”

You nod helplessly against him.

The chain around his neck catches against the collar of your shirt every time your bodies shift together, riding higher on your thighs while his hands keep roaming over your waist and hips. Everything feels too warm, too tight, too sensitive.

Especially when Luke starts whispering to you.

“That’s my girl.”

“Pretty thing.”

“So desperate for me.”

Each one goes straight through you.

Your breathing breaks apart completely when he kisses under your jaw again, open-mouthed and lingering this time. He’s still half sleepy and still soft around the edges from being dragged out of bed, but there’s something wrecked in the way he touches you now.

He likes this far too much.

Your hips stutter when the friction finally starts building properly, enough to make your eyes squeeze shut. Luke notices immediately.

He whispers again, softer this time. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let go for me.”

You bury your face in his neck with a muffled whine.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His hand slides up your back slowly, calming and grounding all at once. “I got you.”

The words hit something deep in your chest.

Suddenly it’s too much. His voice, the rain outside, the way he keeps kissing your forehead between every sentence as if he can’t stop touching you.

Your movements turn frantic for a second before Luke steadies you again.

“Easy,” he murmurs, repeating, “I got you.”

“Lu—”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Luke kisses you slow again, grounding and deep, but the second you grind down harder against him, he breaks with a low groan into your mouth. His forehead falls against yours, eyes squeezed shut for a second while he exhales shakily.

“You’re killing me.”

“Sorry,” you whisper automatically.

That makes him laugh softly despite everything.

“Don’t apologize.” His nose nudges against yours affectionately. “I like when you need me.”

Your hips move again before you can help it, a moan cracking from within you as your clit drags perfectly against his throbbing length through your clothes.

Luke curses quietly under his breath. “That’s the one, huh?”

You nod quickly, breathing unevenly now.

He keeps helping you through it, guiding your rhythm with both hands firm on your waist while his own hips start moving more openly beneath you.

Every rock forward pulls another broken sound from your throat.

You finally lift your head enough to see him properly.

His hair is messy, lips swollen from kissing you, chest rising hard beneath your hands.

Completely undone for you, and the sight nearly makes you cum alone.

“Luke…” Your voice breaks around his name.

“I know.” His hand slides into your hair again immediately, gentle despite the tension running through him. “I know, my love. I got you.”

The praise and softness and pressure all blur together at once.

Your movements lose rhythm completely, desperate now. The second your forehead drops into his neck with a choked little sound, core snapping, twitching from your orgasm with unsteady breaths, Luke’s composure finally snaps too.

“Oh, fuck.”

His hands grip your hips hard enough to still you for a second while a sharp breath punches out of him. His head tips back against the pillow, spilling into his boxers while he rides it out beneath you, every muscle tense under your hands.

“That’s it,” he whispers hoarsely, pulling you back down against his chest almost immediately after. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You can feel the uneven rise and fall of his breathing against your cheek while his hands rub slowly up and down your back again, gentler now.

Rain fills the silence for a few seconds.

Thunder rumbles somewhere out over the water.

Then quietly, still catching his breath, Luke presses a kiss to your temple.

“Feel better?”

A sleepy little laugh leaves you against his skin.

“So much better.”

“Yeah?” His arms tighten around you beneath the blankets. “Good.”

You stay tangled together in the dark for a long time after that, Luke lazily tracing shapes onto your spine while the storm rolls softly over the lake outside.

Every few minutes he kisses your forehead absentmindedly, warm and lingering.

“My sweet girl,” he murmurs eventually, his voice drifting and sleepy again. “Next time just wake me up sooner.”

thank u for reading!! feel free to chat in my inbox!! i am always down to be a freak or talk whenever! ✭

2026 © MALUVV all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, repost, or translate on any other platform pls & thank you!

[aggiespam]

i live for dryhumping

[sleepysidcros]

𝙏𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨

Quinn Hughes x Female reader

mbf series masterlist

A/N: Second upload for my mbf series, how we feeling logang!!! I loved writing this one because I love quinn hughes goodnight

1.1k wc

Treating me like you're supposed to do, tears run down my thighs.

You don’t realize how much you crave quiet until you start dating Quinn Hughes.

Not silence. Quiet.

There’s a difference. Silence is empty, awkward, something you fill with noise so you don’t have to sit in it. Quiet is intentional. Quiet is the space he leaves for you when he turns the TV down without being asked. Quiet is the way he listens like it’s an action, not a pause.

You notice it first in his apartment.

Not because it’s spotless. It isn’t. There are sticks leaning in corners like abandoned umbrellas. A hoodie draped over the back of a chair that he definitely wore yesterday. But the counters are clean. The sink is empty. The trash has been taken out.

You stand there with your coat still on, keys dangling from your fingers, and blink.

“You cleaned,” you say.

Quinn looks up from the couch, controller in hand. “Yeah.”

You wait for more. An explanation. A joke. Something.

“That’s it?” you ask.

He shrugs, easy. “I knew you were coming over.”

Something warm and strange curls low in your stomach.

“Oh,” you say, because you don’t know what else to do with that feeling yet.

You toe off your shoes and set your bag down, watching him out of the corner of your eye like he might suddenly reveal this was an elaborate prank. He doesn’t. He just pauses his game and stands when you walk closer, kissing you gently, one hand resting on your waist like it belongs there.

He smells like clean laundry and whatever soap he uses that isn’t aggressively masculine or trying too hard. Just… clean.

“How was your day?” he asks.

You open your mouth, already prepared to say “fine,” already ready to swallow the truth like you always do.

But the way he’s looking at you, calm and open and present, makes you hesitate.

You exhale, “Long.”

He nods. “You wanna talk about it, or do you want a distraction?"

You feel it then. That ache behind your ribs. The one that comes when someone treats you the way you’re supposed to be treated, and you realize how rare it actually is.

“Can I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the couch even though it’s obviously fine.

“You don't have to ask.” he says, immediately moving the hoodie out of the way.

You sit. He sits next to you, close but not crowding, thigh warm against yours.

You tell him about your day. About your boss forgetting the meeting you reminded him about twice. About the email that was somehow your fault even though you weren’t copied on it. About the way you smiled through it all because it’s easier than explaining that you’re tired.

Quinn listens. Really listens. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t offer solutions unless you ask.

When you’re done, he frowns, “I’m sorry,” he says. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Your throat tightens.

It’s such a small thing. Such a basic thing. But no one says it like that. Not without qualifiers. Not without advice attached.

You blink, suddenly overwhelmed.

Quinn notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s wrong.”

You shake your head, a little embarrassed. “Nothing. It’s just…”

He waits.

“You’re being,” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, “very… normal.”

He blinks, “Is that bad?”

“No,” you laugh, “It’s just.. unexpected.”

He smiles, small and crooked. “I try to be decent.”

Your stomach flips.

After, you’re in the kitchen together. You’re leaning against the counter scrolling on your phone while he loads the dishwasher. You watch him without meaning to. The way he rinses the plates properly. The way he checks the rack before closing it, making sure nothing’s blocking the spray arm.

He hums quietly to himself, something tuneless and soft.

You swallow.

This should not be doing this to you.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say.

He glances over. “Do what?”

“The dishes.”

He shrugs, “They’re my dishes too.”

Your pulse kicks.

He closes the dishwasher and starts it, then turns back to you, drying his hands on a towel.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

You nod, then hesitate, "Actually.”

He waits.

You step closer, hands sliding up the front of his hoodie, resting lightly on his chest. You can feel his heart under your palms, steady and calm.

“You’re very attractive right now,” you say.

His eyebrows lift, grinning, “Because of the dishes?”

“Because you noticed they needed to be done.”

He smiles, amused, “That’s a low bar.”

“And yet,” you murmur.

His hands settle at your hips, thumbs brushing absently along the waistband of your jeans. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes. That might be the most dangerous part.

“You like when I take initiative,” he says, not teasing. Just stating a fact.

“Yes,” you admit.

“And when I communicate.”

“Yes.”

“And when I don’t act like a child.”

You hum,“Especially that.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Good to know.”

Later, you’re on the floor of the living room, surrounded by pieces of an IKEA chair that arrived earlier that day. The instructions are spread out between you like a map.

Quinn studies them intently.

“Okay,” he says. “This part goes here.”

You watch his hands as he works, steady and patient. He doesn’t get frustrated. He doesn’t swear. He just figures it out.

“This is incredibly attractive,” you smile, nodding to him.

He smiles, cocking an eyebrow, “Me assembling furniture?”

“You have no idea.”

He glances at you, eyes warm and curious. “You okay?” He hums.

You nod, then laugh softly. “I think I just really like feeling considered.”

He shrugs, screwdriver mid-air. “I always consider you.”

Something in his voice makes your chest ache. You reach out, brushing your fingers along his forearm.

“God,” you whisper. “Why are my clothes still on?”

He laughs, surprised and soft. “Is that a complaint?”

“Just an observation. An annoying one."

He leans in, kissing you slow and warm, like he has nowhere else to be. Like he’s not trying to take anything from you. Just meet you where you are.

When you pull back, your cheeks are warm, eyes bright.

“You’re very responsible,” you say.

He smiles. “So I’ve been told.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, listening to his breathing, feeling grounded in the quiet he creates so effortlessly.

This is what it’s like, you think. This is what they mean.

Not fireworks. Not chaos. Not begging for attention.

Just someone who remembers. Who shows up. Who does the dishes. Who listens. Who treats you like you matter without making a big deal about it.

You stay like that for a long time. Quiet. Together.

[pretty-g1rl-avenue]

Daylight

Will Smith x Hughes!Reader

wc: 16.6k

Summary: You swore off hockey players, comparisons, and living in anyone’s shadow, but then a spilled cup of coffee and a very persistent boy make you look back and realize it was never about the sport.

This is part 1! Part 2 here!

Your house was never quiet growing up. Chaotic and full and most of all loud. Full of sticks clattering against the garage floor, arguments about who’s turn it was in the bathroom and who was taking too long. ESPN playing in the background like the soundtrack of your childhood. Rancid gear drying on the vents even though your mother protested it being left there.

You were the youngest. The six years between you and Quinn meant that he always felt like some kind of guardian towards you, even as a kid. He would retape your stick without being asked, give Jack stern talking-tos when he got a little too rough.

Jack, four years older, was full of drama and clear talent. He grew up chirping you, roughhousing, picking on you, but he’d also step in and shove boys twice his size when they bumped into you at open skates. He was the one yelling at you to skate faster from the bench.

Luke was your built in best friend since birth. The two years between the two of you was nothing when you were kids. You were inseparable, constant mini sticks in the basement. Tournaments that ended with someone crying (usually you), and someone else getting grounded (more often than not, Jack). Luke would let you win usually, not all the time, but just often enough that when you were little you didn’t suspect anything of it.

And when you started playing hockey seriously, they treated you like you were one of them.

That was the problem.

You were good, actually good. You could skate before you learned basic math, taping sticks and lacing up skates with ease. You were fast and had quick hands.

But none of it mattered when you were constantly being compared to one of the three. Constantly hearing things like, “she skates like Quinn”, “she’s almost as fast as Jack”, or “not quite as sharp as Luke”.

You were never just you.

At first the three of them tried to help. Jack would stay after practice with you to work on your shot. Luke would stay up late passing with you in the driveway until you were both 90% mosquito bites. Quinn would quietly pull you aside and tell you that you had “nothing to prove, just play.”

But even their help felt heavy sometimes. By the time you were twelve, almost thirteen, the fun had been drained out of it. You’d sit in the car after practice staring blankly out the window while your brothers argued about lines and ice time and who had the better coach. And you realized something that made your chest tight, you didn’t love hockey the way they did. You loved the ice and the skating, but not the sport. So you quit.

It caused exactly the kind of stir you’d expect. Jack thought you were being overdramatic, he gave it two weeks before you’d come around. Luke though maybe you just needed a break for a bit, a little rest from the stress of it all.

But after dinner, Quinn had pulled you aside quietly.

“Are you sure?” He had asked, gently searching your face.

You nodded. You were absolutely positive about your decision.

You traded bulky gear for delicate figure skating costumes. The first time you stepped onto the ice without pads felt so freeing, you almost cried in relief. There was no one yelling from the boards, no comparing stats, just you and the music and the empty space. It was something that was finally yours in the world of chaos you lived in.

The three of them were busier now, with development camps and being NHL prospects, but they still came to your competitions when they could. They were still protective, still loving, but they just struggled to understand sometimes. They were confused about why you didn’t want the same thing they all did.

Then came the summers at the lake house. By fifteen, your brother’s friends had become permanent fixtures, all of them basically having their own spots at the dinner table by now. A rotating cast of sunburnt hockey boys who were already convinced they were NHL superstars.

The house was always full, you were never bored for long. Boat days, late night swims, bonfires. And girls, so many girls. Girls who laughed too hard at jokes that weren’t funny, girls who’s names you knew the boys didn’t remember.

You were old enough to notice everything by then. The way they talked about girls like they were stats, how the attention would shift when someone more attractive walked into the room. They had the cocky, invincible energy of boys who knew they were good at something and knew that other people were starting to notice.

You saw the way they craved attention like oxygen and treated women like accessories.

And your brothers weren’t innocent in it all. Quinn and Jack were playing professionally by now, and you saw how easy it was for them. How quickly girls attached themselves to the name, to the idea of that world.

And you made a decision then. You were fifteen, sitting on the end of the dock with Luke while laughter echoed from inside the house. You turned to him.

“I’m never dating a hockey player.” You’d said flat out.

He laughed like you had said something ridiculous.

“I’m serious.” You insisted.

Later, when you told Jack, he had rolled his eyes.

“Good. They’re all idiots.” He had added.

And you wanted to point out the irony of that statement, but he had already turned away. Quinn just nodded once and seemed to understand what you had meant.

It wasn’t you being dramatic, it’s was protective. You weren’t going to be someone’s story, someone’s “yeah I hooked up with the Hughes sister”.

You loved your brothers but you didn’t want to date someone that saw you as nothing but an extension of them.

By the time college applications rolled around, you were becoming more confident in your sense of identity, of existing outside the bubble of “Hughes”. But then all that pressure returned.

Luke and Quinn had gone to Michigan. The block letter M was hung in various places around your house, the school colors on blankets and mugs and sweatshirts.

“You’d love it.” Luke told you. “You’d already know everyone.”

And you wanted to point out that no, you wouldn’t know everyone, they knew him, and in some weird way that meant they knew you. But you had no idea who anyone was.

Jack had already cemented himself into New Jersey and Luke was working his way through that too, so they had their own pitch.

“Come to school in Jersey, you could be close to me and Lukey.” He had said, grabbing his younger brother at the annoying nickname.

“Yeah, that’d be easier.” Quinn had chimed in. “Mom wouldn’t worry as much.”

Easier. You were so tired of that word. It didn’t really mean easier in the way you wanted. It meant walking into a room and already being known, professors recognizing your last name because it’s broadcast on the local sports network every night. You didn’t want easier. You wanted something that was yours.

So when the acceptance letter came in the mail from Boston College, you confirmed it immediately. Boston wasn’t Michigan, it wasn’t New Jersey. It was new, neutral ground. And it had hockey, of course, you couldn’t escape it completely, but it wasn’t your hockey. It’s wasn’t your brothers’ school or rink or friends. It was new.

When you told them, they had stood there in silence.

“I don’t want to follow you guys,” you said carefully. “I love you. I just… I want something that’s mine. Not an extension of something you’ve already had.”

That was the first time they really saw it. That this wasn’t teenage rebellion or moodiness, it was survival. You didn’t resent them for it all, you just didn’t want your life to orbit theirs forever.

Eventually, they came around. Luke helped you move in, Jack complained the whole time about the dorm mattress like he’d be the one sleeping on it. Quinn lingered the longest when when the other two had gone back down to the car.

“Call if you need anything,” he had said.

“I won’t,” you teased.

He gave you a look, that same one he’d given your whole life that said he knew more than you did. “You will.”

And then they were gone. And for the first time in your life, you weren’t someone’s little sister, you were just you.

And that’s how you find yourself here.

It’s early September and the air in Boston is still warm. You’re carrying way too much as you make your way out of the campus cafe. There’s the backpack over your shoulder, textbooks you’d just checked out under one arm, coffee in your other hand, and your phone pressed between your shoulder and ear while you argue with Luke about some family thing happening in early November that you definitely don’t actually need to be at.

“I have midterms.” You insist as you walk out the door, the bell dinging softly behind you.

“You don’t even know when midterms are yet.” Luke argues.

“Yes I do.”

“You definitely don’t.”

You roll your eyes and step off the curb–

And slam directly into someone. Hard.

Your coffee goes first, hitting his chest and splashing over the front of your sweater and his gray BC Hockey hoodie.

There’s a split second of stunned silence.

“Oh my god, I am so, so sorry.” The guy says.

You look up at his face and immediately recognize him. Will Smith. He plays for the Eagles, freshly drafted by the San Jose Sharks this summer. You’ve seen enough hockey in your life to recognize talent. And standing in front of you is talent.

But right now? He looks horrified.

“I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He rushes to get the words out. “I swear I’m not usually that clumsy.”

You slowly pull your phone away from your ear.

“–hello? You still there?” Luke is still talking.

You hang up.

“It’s fine.” You say automatically, even though coffee is actively seeping through your sweater.

“It’s not fine.” He insists, already taking off his own, equally drenched, sweatshirt. “I ruined your coffee and your shirt. And probably your day.”

He looks genuinely upset by this, and it throws you off a little. Most hockey guys you grew up around would’ve laughed or even blamed you for walking into them.

“I’ll buy you another one.” He says, then at your lack of response he adds immediately, “I’ll buy you five more. Whatever you want.”

You just stare at him, slowly realizing that he hasn’t recognized you. There's no pause, no double take. You’re just some girl he bumped into. And you could tell him.

You could say, Hey, funny story, but I grew up watching guys like you treat girls like me like side characters.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, smiling at him.

“Five more?” You ask.

He nods. “Minimum.”

You almost laugh. “One replacement is fine.”

He visibly relaxes at that.

“Thank God.” He laughs slightly.

So you turn around and follow him back into the coffee shop. There’s thankfully no line so you follow Will up to the counter. He looks to you when the barista asks for the order.

“Iced caramel latte.” You say and Will nods like he’s committing that to memory.

He pays and then the two of you move to the side to wait.

“So.” You start casually, nodding at his hoodie. “You play hockey?”

His face shifts and he almost looks sheepish.

“Yeah. For BC.”

“Mm. I thought you looked familiar.”

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. I got drafted over the summer. Sharks. I’m gonna play here a year though.”

And he still seems anxious talking about it, not quite embarrassed, but like he doesn’t want you to think that’s all he is. And that’s what cements it for you, he really doesn’t know who you are. He has no idea you grew up on the rink, or knew how to tape a stick before you learned to drive. He has no idea that it’s your last name that’s being woven into the league he just got drafted to. And you’re not going to tell him.

Instead you say, “Cool. That’s impressive.”

He smiles at the praise. “Thanks.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else when the barista slides your drink onto the counter. Will grabs it and hands it over to you. You thank him and then you sit in silence for a second. You break first.

“I really should go. I’m gonna be late for class and I should really stop by my dorm to change.” You say, gesturing at your coffee-stained sweater.

“Oh. Uh, yeah, for sure. Sorry again.” Will says, the words tumbling out.

“No worries, seriously. We’re all good.” You say lightly, smiling.

Will nods, and then you turn, offering a quick wave before you head out the door. Will just watches you walk away, still staring at the door even after you’ve disappeared.

“Fuck.” He mutters to himself.

He didn’t get your name or your number. He doesn’t even know which building your dorm is. All he knows is your coffee order and that you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

“Idiot.” Will mutters again, running his hands through his hair.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Will can’t focus at practice that afternoon. He misses an easy pass, whiffs a shot wide, almost skates straight into Voter because he wasn’t looking.

“Dude.” Ryan Leonard says skating up next to him. “Are you good?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You’re not playing fine.”

“Well I’m fine.”

Gabe Perreault skates over too. “Your head is totally somewhere else right now.”

Will sighs, finally giving in. “I met a girl.”

Both of them make the same surprised face and it would almost be funny to Will if he could think about anything but you.

“You met a girl?” Leno asks.

“Yeah. A girl. I spilled coffee on her.”

Gabe tries and fails to hide a chuckle. “Romantic.”

“No, it wasn’t romantic.” Will snaps. “It was an accident. But I bought her another one. And we talked after that and she was really cool.”

Ryan quirks an eyebrow up. “And?”

“And I didn’t get her name.”

“You didn’t get her name?” Ryan repeats.

“No.”

“So you didn’t get her number either?” Gabe guesses.

Will shakes his head, looking back to the ice.

“Aw, you’re down bad and you don’t even know her.” Leno laughs, poking Will in the shoulder.

“I’m not down bad.”

“You’re moping around at practice.” Gabe points out.

Will skates off before they can keep teasing him, but Ryan and Gabe are both grinning like mad. They’ve never seen him like this, usually he’s confident and smooth without even trying. But he’s spiraling now.

After practice, Will finds himself going out of his way to walk past the cafe again, instead of taking the quickest route back to the dorms with Gabe and Leno. You’re not there, of course. But he lingers outside the window for a second longer, wishing you were.

He shakes his head and continues on his way. He has to see you again. Campus may be big, and he’s never seen you before today, but he’s determined. There’s no way the universe is cruel enough to dangle you out in front of him and then steal you away forever.

Back in your dorm room, you’re drying your hair after a shower when your phone buzzes.

A call from Luke.

You decline it. You don’t need him asking why you hung up earlier, and even more you don’t want to explain it. You flop onto your bed and stare at the tiled ceiling of your room.

You think about Will, about how he didn’t recognize you and about how freeing that felt. You smile to yourself.

And across campus, in a dorm full of hockey players, Will is lying on his own bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the exact same thing.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

You don’t see Will again for three days when you run into him outside of Fulton. You’re cutting across the yard with your headphones on, listening to the audio version of the book you were supposed to read for class today. You notice the small group of guys in your way too late. You run right into one of them.

You look up and Will is already grinning.

“Okay, this is either fate.” He says, smiling. “Or we need to work on spatial awareness.”

You pull your headphones off. “You again?”

“Me again.” He confirms, looking much too pleased with himself.

Behind him, his two teammates are glancing rapidly between the two of you, trying to figure out the story here. You recognize them from the hockey team, they both have their own NHL teams waiting for them, Gabe and Ryan you’re pretty sure.

“Practice?” You ask, nodding to the bag Will’s carrying.

“Yeah. Where are you headed?” He asks.

“Class.” You respond.

He shifts his weight, clearly having an internal debate about something. Then,

“Walk with me?”

You raise your eyebrows. “To the rink?”

“Just until our paths split.” He reasons.

You hesitate, because you have a very clear set of rules, established at fifteen after one too many summers spent at the lake house watching a revolving door of girls walk through with all of your brothers and their friends.

But Will’s not looking at you like that. He’s looking at you softly with his stupidly pretty blue eyes. So you give in.

“Fine.” You say. “But if you spill anything this time, you’re paying for my new sweater too.”

His grin gets bigger. “Deal.”

Gabe and Ryan walk in front of you and Will, giving you a little bit of space. You make conversation, Will asks what you’re studying and return the questions. Then the rink comes into view.

“Big game this weekend?” You ask.

Will looks surprised. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

You shrug. “Posters all over campus. Instagram posts. Hard to miss.”

That’s only partially true. You know because you checked the hockey webpage, scrolled down the game dates, and maybe the roster. Only out of curiosity, of course. Will’s giving you a weird look now.

“You follow hockey?”

“A little.” You say carefully.

“How little?”

You shrug again. “I know enough.”

Will smirks at that. “That’s pretty vague.”

You smile. “I know your power play has been struggling with getting through opposing teams' zones. You’re forcing passes and getting predictable.”

Okay, so maybe you watched a couple YouTube clips from their recent games too.

Will has suddenly stopped walking in the middle of the sidewalk now, people are walking around and giving dirty looks. Ryan and Gabe have turned around.

“What?” Will says after regaining the ability to speak.

You shrug. “You’re broadcasting your moves before you make them. Opposing teams are learning to stack the blue line. You gotta stay confident instead of resetting every time.”

There’s a long pause.

“Who are you?” Ryan asks, sounding shocked.

Will's eyes narrow slightly. “You said you followed hockey ‘a little.’”

“I do.”

He studies you like the version of you he pictured before this has suddenly vanished. “You ever play?”

You hesitate. There’s a flicker of old memories as something tightens in your chest. The cold air, Quinn lacing your skates for you even after you learned how to tie, the early mornings.

“Yeah.” You admit. “When I was younger.”

“How young?”

“Until I was like twelve.”

“What position?”

“Forward. Center, usually.” You answer without thinking.

Gabe makes a surprised, impressed noise. Will is looking at you differently now, curious.

“Why’d you stop?”

You think about it, about how you were always getting compared to your brothers, how it became more stress than it was worth. But you don’t know how to say that without revealing more than you want to.

“I switched to figure skating.” You tell them. “I wanted a change.”

Will nods slowly, like he’s trying to understand. You don’t really expect him to, not with how little he knows about you, but it’s nice of him to try. You reach the rink doors and Ryan and Gabe head inside. Will hangs back.

“Are you coming to the game? We could hang out after.” Will suggests.

You fold your arms, eyeing him. “I don’t date hockey players.”

The words tumble out, automatic and rehearsed. Will blinks, surprised.

“Okay…”

“It’s a rule.”

Will laughs slightly. “That feels targeted.”

“It’s not.”

“It totally is.”

You smile. “Not at you. Just… past experiences.”

Will steps a little closer, still giving you space but like he wants you to know he’s serious.

“So what if I just… asked you to the game as friends?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you going to try to impress me?”

He grins. “Well, now that I know you know your shit, yeah, probably.”

You should say no. You really should. But he doesn’t know who you are, and he doesn’t seem like all the other guys you used to know. He seems genuinely interested in you.

“I’ll think about it.” You say finally.

His smile grows slowly. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.”

“Yet.” He says shrugging.

You roll your eyes and take a step backwards. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“Too late.” He says lightly.

You laugh and turn away, smiling as you feel his eyes on you. As you walk to class, you start thinking about how your rule doesn’t feel nearly as important as it used to.

When Will gets to the locker room, Gabe and Ryan are already waiting.

“Did you get her number?” Leno asks.

Will frowns at the realization that, no, he didn’t. He glares at Ryan.

“No.”

Ryan leans back against the bench. “Tough.”

“Tragic.” Gabe corrects.

And then, of course, to make it all worse…

“Did you at least get her name?” Gabe questions.

Will doesn’t answer which is answer enough.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Will doesn't get to rectify his mistake for another week. He had seen you at the game that weekend, but you left before he had gotten out of the dressing room. He doesn’t blame you, how would you have known he wanted you to wait for him, he had no way to contact you. But thankfully, a week later, he spots you again.

You’re walking across campus with your headphones half on, coffee in hand, iced caramel latte, Will thinks, and weaving through the busy sidewalk. You feel a hand tap your shoulder and you turn. There he is.

“Hey.” He says, smiling wide again.

You take your headphones off. “Hi?”

He shifts his backpack strap higher onto his shoulder, the nervous energy blending with something determined.

“I never got your name.” He says.

You tilt your head, smiling softly. “You never asked.”

His mouth drops open slightly, like he knows he walked right into that one. “Okay. Yeah. That’s– yeah. That one’s on me.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m asking now, though.”

“Oh?” You cross your arms, pretending to consider it.

“Yeah.” He nods seriously. “What’s your name?”

You tell him and he repeats it softly, and hearing it from his lips has an unfair effect on your heart.

“Pretty.” He mumbles, maybe for you, maybe to himself.

“Thanks. My parents worked really hard on it.” You joke.

He laughs.

“And you are?” You ask innocently.

“You know my name.” He says, narrowing his eyes.

“Do I? That’s awfully presumptuous of you.”

“Yes. You do know it. You said I looked familiar.”

“Lots of people look familiar. Maybe we’ve had a class together.” You reason.

He stares at you a second and then shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet…” you shrug.

He nods like he knows what you mean. He’s still here.

“So.” He says, shifting again. “I also never got your number.”

“You didn’t ask for that either.”

“I’m aware.” He replies dryly. “I’ve thought about that several times actually.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” He hesitates, then admits, “I got a lot of shit from my friends about it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You told your friends about me?”

He freezes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like what?”

“I just told them that I met a girl and I didn’t get her name. Or number.” He grimaces and you bite back a laugh. “But apparently that makes me an idiot.”

You shrug, smiling sweetly. “Sounds accurate.”

“Can I fix it?” He asks.

You study him. He’s genuine, no cocky big hockey player energy that you’re used to.

“Maybe.”

He practically deflates and you almost feel bad.

“What does maybe mean?”

“It means,” you start, stepping around him and continuing your walk, “you should try asking properly.”

He falls into step besides you immediately.

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Hi. I’m Will, I spilled coffee on the pretty girl I met. Would you maybe give me your number so I can make it up to you?”

You laugh before you can help it. “That was terrible.”

He’s grinning. “I panicked.”

You take his phone from his outstretched hand and type your number in. You hand it back to him. He looks down at the screen, smiling like an idiot. He looks back at you and his gaze noticeably softens. You try not to think about it.

“I guess I’ll see you around.” He says.

“You probably will.”

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

After that, the relationship you have with Will shifts. Not that you even had much of a relationship before, but it becomes easier. You grow closer, but you’re still just friends, that’s what you tell Will. And it’s what you tell yourself.

It starts with studying together. He texts you after he gets out of his English class

Will

This reading is kicking my ass

Wanna meet in the library?

You don’t even take a second to think about it before you head out the door.

He’s already there when you get there, sitting at one of the tables, highlighter cap in his mouth while he furiously circles lines in his notebook.

“You look stressed.” You say, sliding into the seat across from him.

“I am stressed.” He replies. “Why does everything in this book have to have a double meaning?”

“It’s Orwell, of course it’s that way.” You laugh.

He narrows his eyes and turns back to the book. It’s easy like that, with library tables and shared notes and knees bumping under the table and neither of you pull away.

Then there’s the parties. You’ve tried to stay away from the athlete-adjacent parties, it kind of ties into your rule, but Will somehow talked you into it, promising something “lowkey.”

It is not lowkey. The music is shaking the whole off-campus house, everybody is holding either a can or a red solo cup. You hover near the kitchen at first, arms crossed, already severely regretting the decision to come tonight. Will finds you within seconds.

“Hey.” He says surprised, like he didn’t actually expect you to stick to your word.

“Hi.”

He stays by you all night, not hovering or possessively, just choosing you as his buddy for the night. And it’s nice, he’s a warm presence in the sea of drunk unfamiliar faces.

Weeks pass. You get coffee with him between classes, he walks you back to your dorm after study sessions at the library. He keeps asking if you’ll go out with him, not aggressively, and it’s not constant enough to be annoying either. Just every once in a while like he’s seeing if you’ve changed your mind yet.

“Let me take you out.”

“We are out.”

“No, like an actual date. Please.”

“We’re literally at dinner, Will.”

“This is Chipotle.”

You shrug. “Still counts.”

He sighs dramatically and you think that if he wasn’t a hockey player, maybe he should do theater.

“You’re impossible.” He groans.

“You’ve known that.” You giggle.

“You’re worth it though.” He grins.

And you don’t know what to do when he gets all soft like that. When he looks at you with gentle blue eyes and his face peppered with light freckles. He never makes you feel bad for saying no or not being ready, he just patiently waits like he knows something will change eventually.

But you still mean it. You don’t date hockey players. You’ve seen how it ends, the egos, the stories, the speed of which gossip travels between locker rooms. You promised yourself you wouldn’t be a part of that.

But Will doesn’t remind you of any of them. He waits for you after class so that you can walk to the library together. He listens when you talk, nodding along and remembering little details. He doesn’t talk about you like that to his friends, he doesn’t parade you around.

One night, you’re both sitting on the steps outside your dorm building. It’s cold, you’re wearing his hoodie because you forgot your jacket inside.

He’s telling you a story from practice, gesturing animatedly, acting out every part, and then he pauses mid-sentence and just stares at you.

“What?” You ask.

“You know, we’re basically dating.”

Your stomach flips. “We are not.”

“We hang out like minimum four days a week.”

“Friends hang out.”

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“It’s comfortable.”

“At the party last weekend, you basically were glaring at that girl who was talking to me.”

You scoff. “I was not.”

“You were.” He smiles.

You open your mouth to argue but you can’t think of anything, because you definitely were glaring. He leans back on his hands smiling satisfied.

“I’m not saying we get hitched tomorrow or anything.” He says gently, not teasing anymore. “I just want to take you out. One real date. If you hate it, we never have to do it again. We can be just friends.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest. Your rule is echoing in your head. Don’t date a hockey player. You think about your brothers, their friends, the stories you’ve overheard, the way you swore you’d never be like that.

But then you think about Will. How he bought you a new coffee, how he stands next to you at parties and walks with you to classes. How he doesn’t push, he just waits patiently.

“I’m not like them.” He says quietly, like he knows what you’re thinking.

“I know.” You admit, looking up at him. You take a deep breath. “Okay.”

Will freezes. “Okay…?”

“I’ll go out with you.”

His entire face lights up. “Like, on a date date?”

“Yes, Will. A date.”

He’s smiling bigger than you’ve seen him before.

“Okay. I’m picking you up at six on Friday.”

“Oh, yeah?” You ask, smiling.

“Yeah. I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve got it planned.” He admits.

You roll your eyes but you can’t hide your smile. Will stands and offers you his hand dramatically.

“Miss Hughes.” He says, exaggerating a little bow.

You scrunch up your face at that. “Don’t make it weird.”

You let him pull you to your feet anyway. And maybe letting the rule bend for the first time in years won’t be such a bad thing.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

At 5:55pm on Friday there’s a knock on your dorm room door. You don’t even expect it to be Will because usually he texts first and usually he waits in the lobby, but when you open it he’s standing there. And oh. He cleans up good. Dark jeans, a fitted sweater instead of the usual hoodie, and he’s definitely put effort into his hair.

“You’re early.” You joke.

“I’ve been downstairs for ten minutes.” He admits, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t want to seem too eager.”

“You are eager.”

“Painfully.”

You smile. He’s holding a bag, and when you give it a weird look he wiggles his eyebrows and mysteriously tells you, “for later”.

He doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you, so you have no idea what to expect. You walk through campus, following him along the sidewalks as the street lamps start slowly turning on.

“You could’ve just taken me to dinner.” You joke as he leads you down the sidewalk.

“I know.”

“But that’s not what we’re doing?” You guess.

“No.”

He stops outside Conte Forum. You stare at the building.

“Will.”

“Just trust me.”

He pulls out his phone and scans something at the side entrance. The door clicks unlocked. Your eyes narrow.

“How’d you do that?”

“I asked nicely.”

He holds the door open for you as you step inside. It’s quiet and empty, the rink lights are off except for a few over the ice.

“Did you book out the rink?”

“Technically I asked for an open hour of practice today. Don’t tell my coach.” He laughs.

“You’re crazy.” You say smiling.

He grins. “You love it.”

He disappears into a side room and comes out holding a pair of skates. Figure skates. A pair that’s definitely too small for him.

“You said that you missed it.” He shrugs.

You look at him carefully. “You remembered?”

“Yeah. I’ve been planning this since the first time I asked you out.”

Your breath catches. He kneels down casually and sets the skates in front of you.

“I figured you could teach me something.” He says.

You laugh. “You want me to teach you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re aware you’ve already been drafted by the NHL, correct?”

“Yeah, but that’s hockey. Teach me tricks or something.” He says grinning.

You shake your head but sit down on the bench anyway. You lace up your skates as he pulls on his own, hockey skates of course. You meet him over by the boards.

The second you step out onto the ice, something shifts. It’s muscle memory, clean edges, the smooth glide. He watches you go in genuine awe.

You circle back to him and take his hands, pulling him out with you.

“Bend your knees more.” You correct as you glide out to the center.

“I am bending.”

“More.” You laugh.

He bends deeper and you reach out to adjust his shoulders. His hands find your waist automatically to steady himself.

You show him jumps and turns that he attempts, usually ending with him flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling after eating shit.

After one particularly hilarious fall, you burst out laughing.

“You’re enjoying this too much.” He grumbles.

“I am.”

He reaches up suddenly and grabs your hand, and you almost fall on top of him. You catch yourself just in time, hovering over him.

“You’re smiling.” He points out.

“So are you.”

He could kiss you right now, and you almost want him to. But he doesn’t.

Instead he rolls up to his feet, pulling you up with him.

“There’s a part two.” He tells you, smiling.

You make your way off the ice and change back into your shoes. Will leads you back outside and around the rink, towards the reservoir. Then you see it, a small blanket on the ground, string lights between the trees, a small portable speaker. You freeze in your tracks.

“You’re kidding.”

“I said I’ve been planning.”

He pulls takeout containers out of his bag from earlier. Your favorite place near campus that you mentioned once a while ago without really thinking about it.

“And,” he adds, reaching into the bag again, “ice cream. Still cold, I packed ice.”

You stare at him, in awe of all the thought he put into this. He blushes slightly and pulls you to sit with him on the blanket.You stare out at the water while Will dramatically pours sparkling water into plastic cups like it’s a fine wine.

“To breaking your rule.” He says, raising his cup.

You raise an eyebrow. “Bold.”

“To giving me a chance.” He amends, smiling sheepishly.

You knock your cup against his. The conversation moves steadily as he tells you about getting drafted. How scary it was, how he’s scared he still won’t be ready after this year. In return you tell him about quitting hockey, how weird it felt to walk away from something that had taken up your whole childhood.

He listens to you, nodding along, asking questions like he really cares. And you think maybe he does really care. He’s not like any of your brother’s friends, nothing like any hockey players you’ve met in the past. He’s sweet, down to earth, soft.

The fairy lights glow warmer as the sky gets darker. You’re wrapped up in his sweater now because the air got colder, he’s in a long sleeve like he knew this is what would end up happening.

“You planned this before I even agreed.” You say quietly.

“Yeah.”

“What if I said no?”

“I would’ve waited.”

Your heart skips a beat. “You’re very sure about me changing my mind.”

He looks at you like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I am.”

The wind picks up slightly and you shift closer to him without thinking. He notices but doesn’t say anything right away.

“Would it be breaking your rule if I kissed you?” He asks quietly.

You tilt your head slightly, “No, I’d like that actually.”

That’s all the permission he needs. Will leans in, slow and gentle, his hand coming up to rest against your jaw. He pulls back smiling.

“So, was this a good first date?” He murmurs.

You pretend to think about it.

“You did fall a lot when we were skating.” You say frowning.

He laughs softly. “I was trying to show off.”

You laugh and shake your head. When you look back at him he’s still staring at you, smiling softly.

“You still don’t date hockey players?” He asks gently.

You look at him, then out at the water for a second, think about how he planned something that wasn’t about him at all.

“I guess,” you start slowly, “I date this one.”

His smile is brighter than the lights around you. And Will thinks that this was absolutely worth the wait.

He walks you back to your dorm that night. You take the long way, neither of you ready for the date to be over yet. He stops at the stairs of your building.

“Did you have fun?” He asks, even though he definitely knows the answer already.

“I did.” You smile.

He grins and there’s a soft pause as he reaches for your hand, grabbing it gently. You step closer to him, leaning in. The kiss is just as soft as the first one, careful, still testing the waters. But then it deepens slightly, warm, his hands settling on your waist as respectfully as he can manage.

He pulls back first, reluctantly and you almost whimper at the loss of contact.

“I should go.” He whispers, but he makes no move to leave.

“You don’t have to.” You offer.

He smiles a little. “I know. I just… I don’t want to mess this up.”

That surprises you but you try not to let it show. He kisses you one last time and walks down the stairs, back towards his dorm, walking backwards like he’s physically forcing himself to leave. You watch him go.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

That Friday night you show up to his game wearing his hoodie. The one he just happened to “forget” in your room after studying. It smells like him, faint laundry detergent and his cologne.

You told yourself you wouldn’t wear his number, but yet here you are with it strung onto a beaded bracelet one of your friends had made and given to you with a smirk.

When he skates out for warmups, your eyes find him immediately. He’s loose and laughing with a teammate, Gabe, you think, and then his eyes find you. His head turns once, then he fully does a double take. He turns away from Gabe and beelines toward the glass about ten rows in front of you.

You pretend you don’t notice at first, still talking to your friend next to you. When you finally look up hrs there by the glass, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the arena. You feel your face heating up just from the attention he’s giving you. Gabe has to come over and almost drag him back to their side for warmups, he’s just standing there smiling and mouthing words that you can’t make out.

After the game, a win from the Eagles, he finds you outside the locker room. His hair is wet from the shower, team hoodie thrown on, a different one than usual because that’s the one you’re “borrowing”. He’s buzzing with energy, talking with his teammates animatedly, and then he sees you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, he just makes his way over and wraps you in a hug, lifting you off the ground slightly.

“We won.” He says into your neck, like you weren’t watching the whole game.

“I noticed.” You laugh.

“I had two points.” He mumbles, setting you down but not letting go yet.

“I saw that too.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your face now. “I’m happy you were there.”

He sounds so genuinely grateful it makes your heart flutter.

“I told you I would be.” You say softly.

Later, when you’re walking across campus together, his hand finds yours naturally and there’s not an ounce of hesitation.

“Do you regret breaking your rule yet?” Will asks, squeezing your hand.

“Never.” You say smiling.

And it’s the truth, you don’t regret it. But it’s not the whole truth because something is shifting. You can feel it. It starts small. He starts saving you a ticket for games without asking first, he’ll ask you if you’re coming when he already knows the answer will be yes.

You start learning his routine, which days he has practice or a lift or recovery. You know which days he’ll be exhausted and which ones will be full of energy. You stop feeling like an outsider in his world, you’re integrating into it.

You keep going to the games, wearing his hoodie and not pretending like it’s an accident anymore. He knows where you’ll be when he skates out onto the ice, and he’s not surprised to see you smiling there anymore.

After the games are over, he doesn’t wait by the locker room doors anymore. He walks out, eyes already searching for yours. And when he finds you, he goes straight over and picks you up in a tight hug.

“Okay,” he says after one particularly good game. “I play better when you’re here. You’re my lucky charm.”

“That’s delusional.” You laugh.

“No, I think it’s science.” He says, grinning widely.

You laugh again.

Later, when you’re walking back across campus, one of his teammates, you're pretty sure this one is also named Will, jogs up to the pair of you.

“Hey, Coach changed it. Team bus is gonna leave at nine tomorrow instead.” He tells him, slightly out of breath.

Will nods. “Thanks.”

His teammate glances at you then. “You’ll be at the game?”

You blink, surprised.

Will answers before you have a chance to. “She will be.”

His confidence in that answer makes your stomach flip. He just knows now, and you don’t correct him.

It’s become normal, you sitting in the stands, waiting outside the locker room. You’ll do homework in his dorm while he’s at practice with his roommates. He’s started leaving your favorite snacks there without saying a word.

You reorganize his mess of a bookshelf one afternoon while he’s at the rink.

“You alphabetized my textbooks.” He laughs, but there’s no malice to it.

“You’re welcome.”

“I knew where everything was.”

“You definitely did not.” You laugh.

He laughs too and pulls you into his chest.

You notice he starts introducing you differently now. At first to Gabe and Ryan it was, “this is my friend”. Then it shifted to introducing you at parties just by your name. Then one night after a game he’s bringing you over to the other freshmen players, saying “this is my girlfriend.”

He says it like it’s obvious, like there was never another word for you. Something warm settles in you, and you want to keep hearing him say that, girlfriend.

Later, of course, you tease him about it.

“You didn’t even ask.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”

“Still could’ve asked.” You laugh.

He turns dramatically to face you, taking both your hands in his.

“Y/n Hughes…will you make me the happiest man alive and be my girlfriend?” He asks in an overdramatic voice.

And he looks like an idiot, but you smile anyway and say yes.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

The first night you sleep over at his dorm is completely by accident. It’s late, you’re both stretched out as much as you can be on his twin bed. There’s a random movie playing on the TV that you’re not paying attention to. Your legs are tangled in his, his fingers running up and down your spine relaxingly.

“You look like you're gonna fall asleep.” He murmurs at one point.

“I’m awake.” You protest weakly.

He hums unconvinced. The room is dim and cozy and undoubtedly making you sleepy. At some point you succumb to it.

It’s dark when you wake up. Quiet too. Your cheek is pressed against something warm and solid, a steady rise and fall of Will’s breathing under you. You’re halfway on top of him somehow, your leg slung over his and his arm wrapped around your waist securing you there.

Under you, Will shifts slightly and inhales, like he’s surfacing from sleep too.

“You okay?” He mumbles, voice low and thick with sleep.

“Yeah.” You whisper.

He blinks slowly, eyes unfocused and working on processing the room. Then his gaze settles on you. His hand tightens on your waist automatically.

“You can stay here tonight.” He says quietly.

There’s nothing implied or expected behind those words. Just an offer, letting you know you’re welcome here. You nod before you can overthink it.

“Okay.”

He sighs, almost relieved, and buries his face in your hair.

You lay there in silence, listening to his breathing, relishing in how gentle the moment feels. At some point Will tugs the blanket up higher around your shoulders.

“You feel cold.” He mutters.

You don’t argue, you just sink back into the comfort of it all.

When you wake up again, morning light is slipping through the blinds. Will is on his back still, one arm still loosely around you. His hair is a mess and there’s lines on his face from the pillow. You admire him for a bit before he wakes up. Then he starts stirring slowly.

“You’re staring at me.” He mumbles.

“You drool.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Will groans and rolls away as far as he can in the tiny bed. He pulls the blanket with him, away from you. You laugh and sit up. There’s a second where you both just look at each other in the soft morning light. You’ve never seen him like this before. You’ve seen him sweaty after practice, or broken down and unguarded after a bad game, but this version of him with the bed head and puffy eyes might be the best you’ve ever seen. It’s so domestic, so soft and real.

“Stay for breakfast?” Will asks, pushing himself up to sit.

“You can cook?” You question skeptically.

He scoffs. “Obviously.”

You should have questioned that harder, because now you’re sitting in the little kitchenette and it smells faintly of burnt food. Will is at the stove fighting with a pan of scrambled eggs and it appears to be a losing battle. He scoops the eggs onto two plates and pushes one towards you, watching in anticipation when you take a bite.

“Well?” He asks.

You chew slowly. “They’re…eggs.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “That is not an answer.”

“They’re edible.”

“Good. That was the goal.” He laughs.

You smile and take another bite.

“You don’t have to pretend.” He says after a moment.

“I’m not pretending.”

“You hate them.”

“They’re bad.” You admit. “But I don’t mind. You made me breakfast.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing but something in his expression betrays that.

“It’s not a big deal.”

But it feels like it. It’s not just about the eggs, it’s about him asking you to stay without making it heavy, without expecting anything in return, just taking care of you

You finish your plate anyway and when he steals a bite off yours and makes a face because they’re definitely worse than he thought, you laugh so hard you almost fall off the stool.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Another night after a game, you’re lying side by side on your bed in your dorm, just talking. His arm is around you, lazily tracing circles on your clothed stomach.

“You ever think about after?” He asks suddenly.

“After what?”

“After BC.”

You hesitate slightly. “You mean when you leave?”

He nods slowly. You know he’s leaving for San Jose eventually, you’ve known from the beginning. But hearing him say it now makes it feel more real.

“You’re gonna be incredible.” You say.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You know that and he knows you know that. There’s no way around this.

“I don’t know.” You admit. “I’ve been trying not to think that far ahead.”

He nods like he understands that.

“I do.” He says quietly.

That does something to your chest. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He looks at the ceiling now instead of you. “I think about where you’ll be. If you’d visit me there. What it’d be like when I come home for breaks.”

“Really? You’ve thought about all that?”

Will rotates onto his side so he can fully look at you.

“You’re worth it.”

And he’s looking at you honestly, you know he means it. That’s what confirms it for you, that you’re falling in love with Will. Not slowly anymore, just fully headfirst into whatever this will be. And you can see it in him too, how he’s looking at you like he’s already afraid of losing something he just got.

He reaches out and brushes a piece of hair out of your face.

“I’m glad you gave me a chance.” He whispers.

You smile. “Me too.”

And it’s comfortable with him, you’re not connected to anything bigger than yourself, you’re just you. And that’s the version Will is falling for.

He likes that you curse more when you’re tired, he likes the way you annotate books, even the textbooks you’ll probably have to return, he likes the way you roll your eyes when he’s being dramatic. There’s something so unbelievably peaceful about the way he loves you, not that either of you are quite ready to say that out loud yet.

He makes you feel like you’re enough just the way you are, without your last name following you around carrying weight. And maybe that’s why you’re still not in a rush to tell him. Because once he knows, it might not just be you anymore. There are all these invisible strings threaded into your life, tying him to things he doesn’t even know about yet. But right now it feels steady and safe with the boy who’s looking at you in the quiet little space you’ve built just the two of you.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Your dorm room is mostly quiet, just the soft hum of the mini fridge and Will reading dramatically from the text on your laptop.

He’s sprawled out across your bed on his stomach, feet hanging off the edge, his notebook open beside him. He’s using your laptop because his died and you refused to let him bail on studying when you both have a test tomorrow.

“The author’s use of imagery here symbolizes–” he squints at the screen, pushing his hair back, “the emotional decay of the familial relationships.”

You’re sitting cross legged at your desk next to the bed, scribbling notes down as he reads.

“Sure.” You murmur.

He nudges your shoulder lightly with his foot and you bat it away.

“Are you even listening?”

“Yeah. It’s just so stupid. Maybe the curtains are just tattered because the house is old as fuck.” You suggest.

He snorts, going back to reading. “This passage in particular highlights the–”

Your phone lights up next to you and you don’t look at it. But then the FaceTime ring fills the small room. Your stomach drops because it’s not just on your phone, it’s on your laptop too.

And Will has frozen mid-sentence. You look up slowly. On the laptop, completely filling the screen, is a FaceTime notification.

Incoming FaceTime: Lukey Pookie👹

And the contact photo behind it, a horrendous, terrible photo of Luke, maybe looking the worst he’s ever looked. But it’s unmistakably Luke. Luke Hughes.

Will is staring at it like he’s just seen a ghost. You move fast, lunging out of your desk chair with enough force to knock it over. You yank the laptop out of his hands to your chest.

It’s too late though, he’s already seen it. The ringing is still going. Will sits up slowly.

“…Is that–” his voice cracks and he clears his throat. “Is that Luke Hughes?”

You decline the call. There’s silence. Then it immediately starts ringing again. You decline again, much more aggressively this time. Will is staring at you with his jaw dropped.

“Why,” he says carefully, “is Luke Hughes in your phone as Lukey Pookie, with a Devil emoji?”

You set the laptop on your desk and refuse to look at it.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like Luke Hughes is FaceTiming you.”

And with perfect timing, it starts ringing again. You hit decline without breaking eye contact with Will.

He runs both his hands through his hair, standing up and beginning to pace in your tiny dorm room.

“Okay. Okay. Wait, holy– Your last name is Hughes.”

You don’t say anything.

“You told me you have older brothers.”

You stay silent.

“You said you played hockey.”

You just stare at the floor, hoping it might swallow you up. Will’s eyes widen slowly.

“No.”

You wince.

“No.” He repeats, pointing at you like he’s accusing you of a crime. “No. No. That’s not–”

Your phone starts ringing again and you groan. “Why the fuck is he so persistent.”

“Because that’s Luke Hughes.” Will whispers.

“I know.” You snap, running a hand through your own hair. “You know.”

You close your eyes and when you open them he’s staring at you like his entire worldview has collapsed, which you feel is a bit dramatic.

“Your brothers are…” he trails off slowly.

You nod once and you see his breath hitch. He sits back on your bed like his legs are about to give out.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Since when?” He demands.

“Since birth.” You reply dryly.

He drags his hands down his face. “You’re a Hughes.”

“I’ve been pretty transparent about that.”

He looks up at you. “I didn’t think– I mean…” he waves his hands around. “There are other Hugheses. Normal ones.”

Your phone starts ringing again and you both look at it, terrified.

“You have to answer it.” Will mutters.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do! He’s going to think you’re dead!”

“I decline his calls all the time.” You wave off.

The FaceTime ends on its own and you both let out a sigh of relief. Then it starts up again.

“Do they know about me?” Will asks quietly, looking like he’s about to pass out.

Your silence is his answer. His eyes widen.

“They don’t know about me.”

“Correct.”

“Oh my god. We watched that Canucks game on TV last weekend and you let me chirp!” Will realizes, horrified.

“Quinn deserves it.” You shrug.

“But you never thought to mention that your brothers are three NHL players?”

“You never asked their names.”

Will freezes. “…I never asked their names.”

“Nope.”

Your phone finally stops ringing and it seems like it’s all over. Silence settles into the room.

Will looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time again. “This is why you didn’t want to date hockey players.”

You shrug slightly. “Partly. Mostly it’s their little hockey friends hoing about who left a bad taste in my mouth. Not with me, but just witnessing it all. But also, hockey guys get weird when I bring my brothers up.”

Will has the audacity to look mildly offended. “I haven’t been weird.”

You stare at him. Will sighs.

“Okay. I might have overreacted and been a little weird.”

“A little?” You grin.

He laughs, shaking his head. “I cannot believe this.”

The calm is broken by your phone buzzing with a text. You and Will both glance at your phone.

Lukey Pookie👹

Answer your phone or I will drive the three hours to Boston

I already have my keys

Will reads it and makes a strangled noise. “You have to answer it.”

You sigh. “Just relax.”

He grabs your wrist before you reach for your phone.

“Do not tell him I’m here.”

“No shit, Sherlock. That’s not how I want my brother to find out about you.”

Your phone starts ringing again and Will drops to the floor, like he’s trying to find somewhere to hide.

“This is your fault.” He whisper screams.

“You’re the one freaking out.” You point out.

“You’re the one who’s related to three NHL players.”

You hit accept and Will goes silent. Luke’s face fills the screen, he’s far too close to the camera, all nose and forehead.

“Finally.” He groans dramatically. “I thought you fuckin’ died.”

“Sorry, I was studying with Bella.” You lie, supplying one of your friends who would definitely cover for you if Luke managed to track her down.

From somewhere off screen you hear Jack.

“Who died?”

Then he appears in frame for a second, his hair messy, looking like he just woke up even though it’s four in the afternoon.

“No one.” You groan. “Luke’s being dramatic.”

“You’ve been declining my calls!” Luke accuses.

“You called me six times!”

“Because I was worried you died!”

“I wouldn’t be dead if I’m able to decline your calls.”

Luke pauses suddenly and squints at the screen. “You look flushed.”

“It’s hot in my room, I should turn the fan on.” You lie, ignoring the terrified look on Will’s face.

Luckily, Luke really doesn’t care that much, as he changes the subject quickly. He flops back on the couch.

“I’m bored.” He tells you.

“No way.” You deadpan.

Jack leans into frame now, getting up close and personal. “Where are you?”

You instinctively move the camera closer to you. “My room.”

“Can I see?”

Absolutely not. “No.” You say immediately, making a face.

Jack and Luke pause, you can literally see the thoughts forming in their heads.

“…why?” Jack asks.

“My room’s so messy right now.”

“Since when do you care? We grew up with you.” Luke counters.

“I always care.” You say, glaring at him.

In front of you, Will is backing slowly into a corner, as though that will help him disappear.

Jack narrows his eyes. “You’re hiding something.”

“I am not. My room is just messy!”

“You kept declining my calls.” Luke points out again.

“I told you I was studying.”

Jack groans loudly. “You’re such a nerd. Rather study than talk to your brothers.”

“Some of us value our GPA, thank you very much.”

Luke smiles at that. “You always did.”

You roll your eyes, hoping they’ve finally given up. Years of growing up with them have trained you for whatever interrogations they throw your way. You’ve survived worse. Will, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from throwing up. You try not to look at him.

“So when are you coming home?” Jack asks.

“Thanksgiving break.” You say.

“Good.” Luke says. “Mom keeps asking us how you’re doing.”

“I literally call her multiple times a week.” You laugh.

“Yeah, but I think she thinks you’ll tell us more about that party lifestyle you’re living currently.”

You laugh again, because that is absolutely not true. You really haven’t been out much, and with it getting colder, that’s gonna cut down even more.

Luke and Jack start talking over each other then, something about some story from practice or something Nico said. You start to relax as the conversation shifts back into that chaotic older brother territory. Luke complaining about something stupid Jack did, Jack defending himself and yelling.

From the floor, Will is watching you, stunned at how comfortable this all is for you. How quickly you snap back at them, how you already know all the people from the stories. It’s a different side of you he’s never seen.

Eventually Luke checks the time and sighs.

“Okay. Well, we’re gonna go get food now. I just wanted to say hi to my favorite sister.”

“I’m your only sister.” You point out.

“Love you loser!” Jack says, leaning into the screen.

“Love you more!” You reply automatically.

Luke smiles. “Bye!”

Then the call ends. You lower your phone slowly and glance at Will. He stands up, once again running a hand through his very messy hair.

“That was terrifying.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You laugh.

“You just lied to Jack Hughes’ face.”

“I’ve been doing that since I learned how to talk.” You joke.

That finally gets Will to smile.

“I can believe this.” He laughs, shaking his head.

“Yeah.” Your smile fades slightly as you pause. “I’m sorry, Will. I should’ve told you sooner. I was just worried about it changing… all of this.”

He doesn’t answer right away and you feel a pit slowly sinking into your stomach.

“Changing how?” He finally asks.

You look down at your hands. “I don’t know. I didn’t want you to think I was… using it to get you or keep you around. Or that I’m like some hockey nepo baby.”

He looks confused. “You thought I’d think that?”

“I’ve had it happen before.” You admit. “The second guys find out about it, that's all they want to talk about. Like maybe I’ll introduce them and that’s all I’m good for. I didn't want that to happen with you, I didn’t want you to look at me and just see them.”

Will steps closer. “You really think I’d do that?”

“I hoped not.” You stare at the floor.

“Hey, look at me.” He sits on the edge of your bed and pulls you between his knees, his hands resting lightly on your hips. “When I met you I didn’t know your name, or your brothers. I just knew that you were so beautiful and unfortunately drenched in coffee and it was all my fault.”

“It was.” You mumble, smiling.

He smiles, but his eyes stay steady on yours.

“I kept asking you out because you’re funny and smart and you don’t treat me like some NHL prospect. I’m some idiot who spilled your drink.”

You shake your head. “You’re not an idiot, Will.”

He waves you off. “My point is, you think having your brothers makes you more interesting? It doesn’t. It gives you more depth as a person, it makes your life more complicated.”

“I didn’t tell you because I liked that you didn’t know.” You admit to him. “You didn’t ask about them or bring up stats to compare yourself. You just actually liked me.”

“I still like you.” He says, tilting his head.

“Even though I lied to you?”

“You didn’t lie.” He says. “You omitted some extremely terrifying information. But you never lied.”

You laugh despite how you’re feeling. Will has always been good at making you laugh. He brushes his thumb over your waist absentmindedly.

“Besides… if anything, this makes you tougher.” He adds.

“What do you mean?” You laugh.

“You grew up around all that and didn’t turn into an asshole.”

You laugh dryly at that. “Debatable.”

Will shakes his head and grabs one of your hands, his other still rubbing circles on your hip.

“No. You protected yourself from all that. You found a way to get through it without turning mean or becoming someone you weren’t. You made your rules.”

Your expression softens. “I didn’t want to be somebody’s story. You know how locker rooms can be.”

His jaw tightens. “I would never.”

“I know.”

And you do know, you trust him about all this. You finally let someone in and for once it doesn’t feel like it’ll backfire.

“Look.” Will starts after a second. “If you want to keep it all quiet for now, we’ll keep it quiet. If you want to tell them, we’ll tell them. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightens a little. “You’re sure?”

He lifts his head to yours and kisses you, slow and soft.

“I didn’t start liking you because of your last name. And I’m not gonna stop because of it either.” He tells you softly.

The words are grounding and you sigh.

“Okay.”

He smiles softly, then it turns mischievous.

“But when they do find out… I’m gonna need at least a ten minute head start.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “Smart.”

“I value my life.” He reasons.

Part Two

[pretty-g1rl-avenue]

Daylight

Will Smith x Hughes!Reader

wc: 16.6k

Summary: You swore off hockey players, comparisons, and living in anyone’s shadow, but then a spilled cup of coffee and a very persistent boy make you look back and realize it was never about the sport.

Warning: suggestive moment, nothing described in detail tho

This is part 2!! Part 1 here

It’s strange at first, the fact that Will knows now. Not in a bad way, it’s just present now. He knows your history, the weight of your childhood, he knows why you quit hockey now. But instead of pulling back scared, it makes him pull you in closer.

He’s still terrified of them finding out about him. He lowers his voice when you’re on call with them, even if he’s in a different room. He jokes about needing a security team if he’s gonna hold your hand in public.

But despite joking about the situation, you’re grateful he doesn’t treat you any differently. He doesn’t bring your brothers up randomly in conversation or talk about their games. Honestly, he really avoids it unless you bring it up first. The only thing that really changes is the way he looks at you, now with a bit more understanding about you, like he’s proud of how you navigated it all.

And weirdly, him knowing has lifted a huge weight off of you. Because now it’s not a secret, you don’t feel pressured to keep everything about your life under wraps.

You tell Will that you’ll figure out how to tell the three of them eventually, and he’s not worried about it. He trusts you.

And time passes like that, just the two of you in your own little bubble, at peace with this little half-secret you have.

You’re constantly at each other's dorms, Gabe and Ryan have grown accustomed to your presence at all odd hours. You’re a regular at the hockey games, sometimes bringing friends, sometimes by yourself.

One night the arena feels louder than usual. You’re sitting with a few people from your Econ class and watching Will be an absolute monster on the ice.

His first goal comes halfway into the first, it’s off a rebound and he’s quick with it. The line wraps him in a hug but he still manages to find you in the stands. He’s smiling, like he knows you’re watching.

His second goal he picks up from a dropped pass at the blue line. He cuts around a defender and whips the puck top corner like it’s nothing. The crowd erupts, you and your classmates with them.

The building is buzzing now, the atmosphere electric. Will is on hatty watch now, and you know he wants it. He’s restless, flying down the ice, taking every chance he gets to shoot the puck. He gets a breakaway and you’re on your feet instantly. He dekes the goalie out, drawing him left then he shoots right. It’s a goal.

You don’t even realize you’re screaming until the girl next to you is laughing. Your hands are over your mouth in shock. You can’t even catch a glimpse of him before he’s swamped by his teammates.

Later, you’re waiting in the same spot as always. The doors of the locker room open and players begin flooding out. You smile at the ones you recognize while looking for Will. Then there he is, his hair damp, shirt half tucked, practically radiating energy. He spots you instantly and makes his way straight over. He wraps you up in a hug, like always.

“Three?” You say in disbelief, shaking your head. “You’re crazy.”

He shrugs like it was nothing but he’s beaming. “I was feeling generous.”

“You’re insufferable.” You laugh.

He just bends down, catching you in a kiss, full of the energy he hasn’t burned off from the game. Probably much too much for a locker room hallway, so you pull back.

“You wanna celebrate?” You whisper, leaning close enough so he’s the only one who catches the words.

He leans back, eyes wide. “Oh?”

“You had a hat trick, Will.”

“That I did.”

“Come back to my dorm.”

The walk back to your room is hurried. His hand is low on your back the whole way, fingers brushing your skin under your shirt. He keeps pausing the walk to kiss you.

By the time your door closes, the air has shifted, it’s charged. You push him lightly against the door, hands dragging up his chest.

“You played so good.” You tell him softly.

His hands find your hips immediately. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m proud of you.”

He kisses you again, slower now. Not rushed anymore, deeper. His hands trace the curve of your waist, slipping under your shirt.

“I swear I heard you cheering.” He murmurs, pulling back slightly.

“I was not that loud.”

“I think you were.”

You laugh and he takes that as his opportunity to kiss down your neck, lingering just long enough to make you gasp.

“That’s gonna bruise.” You warn.

He hums, considering the very real possibility of that.

“You started this.” He decides, basically okaying it.

He slides his hands under your thighs and lifts you easily. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist.

“But I had three goals.” He says, kissing you again. “I deserve something.”

You roll your eyes but your fingers are already threading through his hair.

“You’re cocky.”

“Only a little.”

He carries you to the bed like he’s done the times before. No hesitation when he lays you down. Just the familiarity of how close he is. His mouth trails down slowly, taking his time, hands dragging up and down your sides like he’s going to memorize you. You pull him back up, taking his hands.

“Wanna celebrate you.” You murmur into his mouth as you pull him in for a kiss.

“Later. You first.” He grins.

You shake your head immediately, catching his jaw with your hand and guiding his face back to yours.

“Absolutely not. You had three goals. It’s about you right now.”

His smile softens a little.

“You being there was all I needed.” He murmurs.

You’re not letting him hide behind that. You roll over so he’s on his back now, you straddling overtop of him. He laughs in surprise, his hands finding your waist again.

“You’re bossy.”

“I’m celebrating your win.” You correct, leaning down to kiss him again, your hands tracing down his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, how he exhales sharply when your mouth trails down his neck.

“You’re gonna bruise me.” He warns lightly.

“You started it.” You echo, smiling against his skin.

He laughs quietly. His hands slide up your back, pulling you down against him.

“You’re unreal,” he breathes out, voice filled with awe.

When he flips you back over this time, it’s gentler, wanting to be closer. His forehead rests against yours for a second, both of you breathing the same air. The rest blurs softly, sheets tangling around your legs and his voice low in your ear and the feeling of him holding you like he doesn’t want the night to end.

Later, the room is dim except for the small lamp by your desk. You’re the first to move, sliding carefully out of his arms. He makes a quiet groaning noise in protest, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Where are you going?” He mumbles.

“Just a second.” You say quietly, moving around your room.

You pull your underwear back on and then reach for his hoodie. It hangs big on you, draping down to your mid thigh. It still smells like him.

When you turn back, Will is propped up on an elbow, watching you through half-closed eyes.

“You’re stealing my stuff.”

“You left this here.”

He just shakes his head fondly and reaches down to pull his own underwear back on before flopping onto his back. You crawl back into bed beside him, sliding into his side automatically. Your leg wraps around his, his hand finding your waist and rubbing gently.

“You okay?” He asks quietly.

“Yeah.” You nod against his chest.

He presses a kiss into your hair.

“That was a good game.” You murmur.

“That was a good celebration.” He replies, making you laugh softly.

The adrenaline from earlier is gone now and Will feels heavy in that relaxed, boneless way he only gets when he’s completely worn. His breathing slows first but yours follows shortly after.

“Thanks for being there tonight,” he says, barely awake.

“Always,” you whisper.

He hums like that’s the best possible answer. Within minutes, his breathing evens out completely. You trace little circles against his ribs, listening to the steady thud of his heart under your ear. And you both fall asleep tangled together, completely unaware that your peace will never stay undisturbed for long.

The first thing you register in the morning is the sound of your dorm room door opening. No knocking or anything, just opening.

Your brain is still foggy with sleep, and with everything that happened last night, so for a second you think maybe it’s your RA. Maybe one of your friends is coming over and you just forgot. Maybe you’re still dreaming.

Then the door swings all the way open.

“Surprise!”

You know that voice. You were raised in the same house as that voice.

You shoot upright in bed so fast that you get lightheaded. Standing in your doorway like they pay rent are Jack, holding a box of donuts from Dunkin’, Luke, holding a drink carrier also from Dunkin’, and Quinn, who’s currently flipping on the overhead lights.

You freeze because you are not alone in your single dorm. You are also wearing a maroon Boston College sweatshirt that is not yours and too big on you, hem just barely covering your underwear.

Your bare legs are tangled in the sheets, sheets which are very obviously not arranged in a way that suggests sleep was the only thing happening last night. The comforter is half on the floor, one pillow at the foot of your bed. The air smells faintly of sweat, men’s cologne and the oil diffuser that is working overtime.

Behind you is a very shirtless man. One of his arms is still loosely around your waist, his hand low on your hip. There’s a faint red bruise forming on his collarbone, and a few scratches trailing down his shoulder blade that definitely weren’t there yesterday. His shorts are on the floor mixed in a pile of your clothes that tells a very clear story to anyone with eyes.

There’s also a mark blooming just above your collarbone where your his sweatshirt has slipped down slightly.

You move fast, shoving his arm off of you and scooting forward like you’re the only one in bed. It’s too late though. Jack just stares, Luke’s grin falters, Quinn’s eyes narrow. There’s a long, unbearable silence. Then, from behind you and slightly muffled into your pillow,

“Why are the lights on?” He groans.

You close your eyes, dropping your head. Of course he wakes up now.

Will rolls over and stretches, muscles flexing and his hair an absolute mess, and very much just in his underwear. He’s blissfully unaware of the three pairs of eyes on him. Then Will sits up. There’s a slow blink as he processes light and sound and then—

And then he sees them. You watch reality slam into him like a train. You have never seen someone wake up so fast.

Jack drops the donut box and it hits the floor with a dull thud. Luke’s jaw drops. Quinn goes frighteningly still. You feel Will turn and stare at you like he doesn’t know what to do. You can’t look at him, you can’t look away from the horror in front of you.

Jack is the first to speak.

“Why…” he starts slowly, stepping inside your room. “…is there a half naked man in my sister’s bed?”

Will opens his mouth but no sound comes out.

Luke finally blurts out, “That’s Will. From the Sharks.”

Yeah, it is. But you’re not gonna say that, you can’t say anything. Because it is Will, the same Will that plays for Boston College Eagles, the same Will that was 4th pick in the draft, the same Will that is your extremely secret boyfriend. And he’s in your bed in nothing but his underwear.

Quinn’s gaze drops to your sweatshirt and more importantly, the number embroidered on it. His jaw tightens.

“Is that his?” He asks, tone unreadable.

You tug the sleeves over your hands. “Maybe.”

Jack makes a strangled noise. “You’re wearing his clothes.”

Will finally looks down at himself, realizing he’s wearing almost nothing. He glances at the floor, at the discarded pile of clothes next to the bed, and he grabs the nearest article of clothing and pulls it on.

It’s your slightly oversized U-Mich t-shirt that you got from Luke. It’s unfortunately not oversized on Will.

Luke turns around and faces the wall, and you don’t know if he’s laughing or fuming.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Jack mutters.

“Can everyone just relax?” You plead.

“No.” All three brothers say at once.

Quinn steps forward. “Hallway.” He says, staring at Will, not you.

And there’s no arguing with that tone. Will stands carefully, like sudden movements might get him jumped. Your brothers step back out into the hall as Will moves toward the door. He turns back to you before he exits.

“I’m so fucked.” He whispers, barely audible.

“Probably.” You whisper back.

And he slips out of the room. The door doesn’t fully close though, you can still hear the conversation.

“How long has this… this been a thing?” Jack asks.

“I mean, it depends on, like, what this is.” Will starts.

Jack makes a buzzer noise. “Wrong answer.”

“No, I mean we were just friends-” Will continues, scrambling to fix it.

You sigh and drag your hands down your face, trying to ignore your reflection in the mirror. You pull on shorts, run a quick brush through your hair and then you’re joining the boys out in the hallway.

Will is backed up into the cinderblock wall like a cornered animal. Jack is pacing, Luke looks upset but also mildly amused, Quinn is the only steady one, but you still can’t get a read on him.

Jack turns and points at you. “You. I can’t believe this. You’ve been having a man over in your single dorm? That’s not why we paid extra for your own room, just so you know.”

You wince. “It’s not like that.”

“You’re wearing his number.” Quinn points out again.

“It was clean.”

Will finally finds his voice. “In my defense, I didn’t know she was related to you all at first.”

Jack turns back to him. “At first?”

Will nods quickly. “She didn’t tell me. I found out when she got a FaceTime from Luke and his contact picture popped up.”

Luke gasps. “You were THERE?”

You cough slightly. “We were studying for English together.”

All three brothers look from Will back to you. Quinn’s eyes flick over your neck and the marks still lingering there. His eyes narrow.

“Were you studying last night too?” Quinn asks, his voice low.

Your face turns bright red. Will makes a choked noise and you’re worried he might actually stop breathing.

Jacks expression shifts. “Oh my god.”

“Stop.” You warn.

“No, no, no.” He points between you and Will.

Will raises his hands in surrender. “For the record, we used pr–”

“Stop!” Luke cuts off immediately, covering his ears. “We don’t need the fucking details, man!”

Quinn pinches the bridge of his nose while Jack looks like he’s three seconds away from either committing felony assault or throwing up.

You step forward quickly. “Okay. We don’t need to finish that sentence. Everyone just take a breath, please.”

Will runs a hand through his hair anxiously, the shirt, your shirt, riding up and exposing his stomach.

“Put some fucking pants on.” Jack mutters, but loud enough for you all to hear.

“They’re in there.” Will says carefully, pointing at the jumbled heap of clothes in your room. “I regret that.”

Luke snorts but quickly covers it with a cough.

Quinn speaks again, tone even. “How long?” He’s addressing you this time, not Will.

“A few months.” You admit quietly.

Jacks head whips towards you. “Months?!”

“Yeah. We met on campus at the beginning of the year.” You explain. “He ran into me and spilled my coffee.”

“Hey. I bought you a new one to make up for it.” Will says, smiling at the memory.

“Yeah. And then we just kept running into each other.” You finish.

Jack throws his hands up. “You had a rule! How can you just forget about that?”

“She didn’t say yes right away.” Will defends for you. “I kept asking her out but she kept telling me she didn’t date hockey players.”

“Yeah, and I never have before. Because the second hockey players hear ‘Hughes’, they turn into weird little fanboys.” You add.

“But the rule.” Jack groans again, and by now you’re getting pretty sick of all his whining.

“I made that rule when I was fifteen.” You argue. “Because you guys were insufferable.”

Luke looks offended. “We were not.”

“You absolutely were.” You cut off. “All of you. The lake house every summer? Your friends? The girls?” You try to jog their memory.

Jack is finally at a loss for words, and Quinn just looks guilty. Will, on the other hand, is looking like he just got handed a piece of sacred lore.

“I didn’t want that.” You continue. “I didn’t want to be some story in a locker room or a bet.”

“You’re not.” Will says to you, voice soft. Then he turns back to the boys. “She’s not. Not a story. Definitely not a bet.”

That shuts them all up. Quinn studies Will, looking with a little more respect now.

Jack, ever the instigator, just has to ruin it again. “I still can’t believe you let us walk in on that!”

“Oh my god.” You press your hands over your face. “You literally broke into my room at nine in the morning!”

“It was a surprise!” Jack argues. “We have a key.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to use it whenever!” You bite back.

Quinn folds his arms. “How often is he over here?”

“That doesn’t matter.” You say, stepping forward. “You guys live in different states. You can’t just show up here with no warning. And I’m an adult, I can make my own choices about who sleeps over.”

“Well you don’t need to advertise it.” Luke gestures at your neck.

You tug the sweatshirt collar up higher. “You’re acting like I tattooed his name on my forehead.”

“On your neck.” Jack corrects.

You flip him off.

Quinn exhales slowly. “We’re not mad you’re dating him… it’s that we walked in on… whatever that was.”

“We weren’t even doing anything!” You exclaim. Then you take a deep breath, voice softening slightly. “Look, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want it to become this whole thing. The interrogation and the overprotective big brother routine. I wanted something that didn’t revolve around you all, something that was mine.”

You watch as those words land for each of them.

“And you barging in without warning kinda proves my point.” You add quietly.

There’s a long pause.

“We should’ve texted.” Luke mutters.

“Yes.”

“We didn’t think.” Jack says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Clearly.”

Quinn looks at Will again. “Are you coming with us? We should find some place for breakfast since Jack ruined the donuts.”

Will hesitates like he’s trying to figure out if this is a trap.

“I’ll come.” He says carefully.

“Fine. But I’m driving.” Jack sighs.

“Shotgun.” Luke calls.

“That’s not how it works, you have to be able to see—” Quinn starts arguing.

You take the blossoming argument as an opportunity to quickly pull Will back into your room to change, ignoring the “no funny business” yelled by Jack. The second the door shuts behind you, you both exhale heavily.

“Oh my god.” Will whispers, running his hands through his hair. “That was terrifying.”

You lean against the door, nodding. Then you move quickly, tugging off his sweatshirt that you’re still wearing and hanging it over your desk chair. Will’s gaze softens at the care you take, then he quickly looks away, picking his own shorts off the floor. He laughs under his breath.

“What?” You ask, pulling on your jeans.

“I just…” he shakes his head. “I expected meeting your brothers would be, like, intense. But that was way scarier than I thought.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t actually tackle you.”

“Was that a possibility?”

“With the three of them? Always.”

He pulls on a clean shirt, his own this time thankfully, and steps towards you. “Are we okay?”

You look at him properly for the first time all morning. Messy hair, slight flush on his cheeks still.

“Yeah.” You say quietly, reaching for his hand. “We’re good.”

A knock rattles the door.

“Times up!” Luke’s voice calls. “And if you’re making out in there, I swear I’m gonna—”

You yank the door open before he can finish.

“We’re not!” You snap.

Jack squints at you. “Then why do you look suspicious?”

You make a face at that. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Let’s go.” Quinn says calmly, trying to stave off another argument.

The walk to the parking lot is awkward with Jack muttering to himself, and Luke who just keeps eyeing Will like he’s an animal in a zoo exhibit. Quinn is just walking in front, hands in his pockets.

You all pile into the car, Jack in the drivers seat, Luke claiming shotgun again correctly this time, Quinn behind Jack. Will climbs into the middle seat, you follow.

As you pull out, Jack glances at Will in the rearview mirror. “So.”

Will straightens, meeting his reflection.

“You planning on staying in hockey professionally?” He asks Will.

You shoot Jack a look. “What the hell kinda question is that?”

“A normal one.” Jack replies defensively.

You shake your head but Will answers anyway.

“Yeah, that’s the plan. Hopefully I’ll head to San Jose after this year.”

Luke turns around as far as his seatbelt will allow. “You nervous for it?”

“Extremely.” Will answers honestly.

That makes Luke grin, nodding. You can even see the corner of Quinn’s mouth twitching, he’s trying not to smile.

Jack’s not getting enough attention, so he sighs dramatically. “I just can’t believe this is how we find out you have a boyfriend.”

You cross your arms and frown. “I was gonna tell you.”

“When?” Luke asks.

“Soon.”

“Before or after he moved in?” Jack fires.

Will chokes on nothing and you groan. But despite all the theatrics and drama, despite the fact that Jack will never stop bringing this up, no one tells Will to leave or scares him off.

And when the car finally pulls up outside the little diner, Quinn pulls Will back slightly. You slow just enough to be able to hear what they’re saying.

“You hurt her,” Quinn starts quietly, not looking at Will but straight ahead, “and this conversation will go very differently next time.”

Will nods. “Understood.”

“But if you’re good, then we’re good.” Quinn adds.

Will exhales like he’s remembering how to breathe again. You catch his eye from a few feet away and he smiles, relieved.

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

Breakfast goes suspiciously well. Jack makes one joke about “setting some ground rules” and Luke kicks him under the table. Quinn asks Will about his classes like that’s what makes a good boyfriend. Will answers all their questions anyway, he’s respectful.

You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop but it never does.

By noon they’ve decided you’re spending the day with them. You drop Will off at his dorm since he has a game tonight, and then you’re walking around campus with your brothers. You give them recommendations for lunch spots and they decide on your favorite. Jack takes too many pictures of “Boston architecture” acting like they don’t have brick buildings in New Jersey.

It’s around five when Quinn casually says, “So, when’s puck drop?”

You freeze mid-step. “You’re not—”

“We are.” Jack confirms.

“You can’t sit with me.”

“We are.” Luke repeats, grinning.

You can’t manage to talk them out of it. So that's how you end up in your usual seat but instead of being surrounded by friends or even classmates, it’s Luke on your left, and Quinn and Jack to your right.

You can feel the eyes on you, the whispers starting up, phones angled slightly towards you in a way that’s not natural enough to be sneaky. You pretend not to notice it all.

You watch as Will skates out for warmups with Ryan and Gabe like always, laughing about something. His eyes do his usual scan, searching for you and then he pauses, because you’re not alone and you’ve brought the people who tried to kill him this morning.

Well, that’s an exaggeration, but Will’s heart could not tell the difference between that interrogation earlier and being hunted for sport.

Gabe notices the change in behavior immediately.

“You good?” He asks, gently shoving Will’s shoulder.

Leno follows where Will’s been staring.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Gabe asks, spinning around and searching the stands.

Leno squints through the glass. “Is that…?”

Will doesn’t answer, because Luke has chosen this exact moment to start waving casually.

Gabe’s jaw drops. “Why are the Hughes brothers at our game?”

Leno turns to Will. “Why are the Hughes brothers staring at you specifically?”

Will swallows, closing his eyes. “They’re here with her.”

Both of them snap their heads back to the stands, now realizing it’s not just the Hughes brothers there, but you’re sitting right in the middle of them.

“You’re kidding.” Gabe breathes out.

“You never told us.” Leno says.

“Wasn’t my place.” Will mutters.

His friends are staring at him like he’s been living a double life.

“You’re dating a Hughes?” Gabe hisses in awe.

Will’s ears go red under his helmet. “Lower your voice.”

Leno looks back at the glass again. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Will says quietly.

Then their coach blows the whistle and warmups resume. Gabe nudges Will before they split.

“You better score tonight.” He laughs.

Will does not laugh, he just stares at Gabe as he skates away, thinking that that’s the worst thing anyone could’ve said to him in this moment.

In the first period, Will is already locked into the game. Now in a show off way, he’s just focused, eyes on the puck at all times. Halfway through the first he buries a pass from Leno in the net. The arena erupts.

He celebrates with the team and then searches for you on instinct. You’re smiling, clapping calmer than you normally do. Your brothers are there, smiling too. That surprises Will.

Second period, Will gets the assist on a power play goal. He celebrates again with his team, not over the top, just genuine happiness.

Luke leans closer to you. “He’s playing smart.”

Jack makes a noise of agreement and Quinn just nods along.

The third period ends with a win for BC. No hat trick this time for Will, but a good, strong game nonetheless. You stand from your seat, stretching after being seated for so long. Immediately all three of them stand too. You groan.

“You don’t have to com—” you say quietly.

“We’re coming with.” Jack says.

“Absolutely.” Luke agrees.

Quinn nods towards the tunnel, motioning you forward. You lead them down the same path you’ve walked what feels like a hundred times at this point.

The hallway outside the locker room smells like sweat and ice and adrenaline. Players start filtering out slowly, some doing double takes at the men standing behind you. Gabe is the first player you really recognize to exit first. He smiles at you and then freezes slightly. Ryan comes out next and runs straight into Gabe.

“Dude. What is wrong with– oh. Hey. How’s it going?” He says to you, eyeing your brothers behind you.

Jack smiles politely. “Good game.”

Will finally appears, hair damp and curly like it always gets after a shower. He sees you first and immediately his face settles into something warm. Then he sees your posse and instinctively straightens. No one moves at first. Then Quinn steps forward first.

“Good game, man.” He says, pulling Will in for a weird bro handshake.

Will nods. “Thank you.”

Jack tilts his head. “You’re a smart player. You’ve got good read.”

Luke crosses his arms, nodding. “Patient too, didn’t force anything.”

Will relaxes at that. “I tried not to.”

There’s another pause and Quinn glances at you.

“Alright, well, we’ll be by tomorrow morning to say goodbye before we head back.” He says, nodding to you.

“Yeah, try to be fully clothed this time.” Jack sasses.

You groan and Will’s face immediately turns tomato red. You see him glance at Gabe and Ryan, who are looking at him horrified.

“Will you shut the fuck up.” You hiss at Jack, hitting him on the shoulder.

Quinn pushes Jack backwards, out of arms reach for you.

“Man, will you not?” He sighs, rolling his eyes at Jack.

Jack just shrugs, smirking. Quinn turns back to you.

“He’s not wrong though. But we will call ahead this time.”

You nod. Luke steps in to give you a hug, then Quinn, then Jack and you take extra care to step on his feet but he doesn’t even flinch unfortunately. Then they all head off, leaving you and Will, and a bewildered looking Gabe and Ryan. You know they’ve probably got a billion questions but Will just shakes his head at them for now.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble to Will, turning to hug him.

He doesn’t hesitate, completely pulling you against his chest.

“For what?” He asks quietly into your hair.

“For…that.” You gesture loosely towards the hallway your brothers disappeared down. “They’re insane.”

Will laughs softly against your head. “I’m aware.”

You pull back enough to look at him. He’s still a little pink, from the game or the comments made by Jack.

“They like you.” You add quickly. “That was them liking you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That was them liking me?”

“Yes. If they didn’t like you they wouldn’t have complimented you. They would’ve thought all those things because they’re true, but they would’ve kept them to themselves.” You reason.

Will nods like that makes sense to him. Behind him, you see Gabe and Ryan still hovering like confused puppies.

“So…” Gabe starts, eyes on you.

Will waves it off. “I can explain later.”

You think they’re about to argue but then Will gives them both a look and they start off down the hallway, aggressively whispering to each other. Will pulls you back into his chest for another hug.

“Can I walk you home?” He asks softly.

“You always do.” You smile.

He shrugs, grin lopsided. “Yeah, I do.”

⊱ —————- °.•　⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅　•.° —————— ⊰

The lake feels exactly the same. Same boat your parents have had since you were a kid, same wooden dock bleached pale from decades of summers under the sun, same notch on one of the dock posts from where Jack had run into it with the jet ski when he first got his license.

Same place as it was when you made your rule. Fifteen years old with sunburnt shoulders, you’d sat right here, legs dangling over the edge, and told yourself you’d never date and hockey player and you’d never be just somebody’s sister. It had felt safe when you decided that.

Now it’s July and Will is sitting beside you on the same dock.

He’d helped your dad with the grill earlier, burned his thumb and laughed about it. He let your mom absolutely destroy him at cards. When Jack tried to chirp him about it he just grinned and said, “she’s got the veteran experience.”

He nudges your knee gently with his, bringing you out of your thoughts.

“You’re quiet.”

You smile softly. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You glance out at the water. “I was sitting here when I decided I’d never date a hockey player.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You let out a small breath. “I was so worried I’d lose myself. Like, I’d just become attached to somebody’s career, orbit them forever.”

He’s quiet for a second. “You don’t feel like that with me?”

You shake your head. He smiles slightly. A boat passes by, rippling the water, sending waves over your shins.

“You didn’t pull me into your world. You met me halfway.” You try to explain, hoping it makes sense to Will.

“That’s kinda the point of relationships.” He smiles.

You nod, smiling. The wind picks up then, a breeze waving through your hair. You reach over and smooth a curl on Will’s head.

Back at fifteen, it felt like the only way to forge your own path was walk one alone. But now, sitting here, shoulders bumping his, you realize something else.

You did forge your own path. You chose your own school, your own sport, your own friends, your own life. And then, you chose him. Not because he was a hockey player, but because he never made you feel like an accessory or a trophy.

Will leans back on his hands, kicking his feet in the water gently.

“So…am I allowed back next summer?”

You pretend to consider it. “Maybe. If you let my mom win at cards again.”

He smiles warmly. “Deal.”

The dock creaks slowly beneath you, waves keep moving. And somehow the past feels lighter now.

[ruinix]

Can I please have Luke begging to eat you out?

Hello, lovely. I truly hope you're still there. I fear people that beg is my downfall. I am so WEAK for them. Anyway...hope you'll enjoy this. 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

Burning Craving

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Thoughts, Oral sex (f receiving), Slight overstimulation.

Thoughts List | Taglist

Luke would be shifting in the bed, his ears straining to hear you over the running shower, his boxers feeling so restraining over his extremely hard cock that had been leaking and dripping with pre-cum. He was so fucking horny right now. He didn't know why but he was. Most especially, he needed something. Specifically, he needed the taste of your pussy on his tongue.

The sudden craving was making him lose his mind. His skin felt hot and tight around his body. His head spun. His mouth felt dry with even after drank his whole water bottle, because he wasn't thirsty for water. No. He was thirsty for you, your arousal, and your cum. It didn't matter if he already ate you out this morning. He just needed to taste you—

"Ohh, that was a great shower," you announced as you exited the bathroom that had a slight steam coming out of it.

That meant you had one of those scalding showers, making the hairs on his nape stand. Those actually threatened to burn his skin. Thank goodness he didn't join you even when he was so horny.

Luke stared at you, at how your nightgown fell loosely around your thighs, at how you softly patted your hair which made your tits move with the motions, at how your nipples peaked, hypnotizing him, making him even more painfully turned on. He was basically fucking panting as you sat on your vanity, putting lotion on your arms, your shoulders, your thighs, your shin, your feet. Luke sat up, his chest squeezing when you started dusting powder on your skin. He could smell vanilla. So creamy, so incredibly tantalizing right now.

"Sweetheart," he voiced out, almost jumping when you turned towards him, your attention searing heat down his cock. Subtly, he pushes up one knee, trying to hide his hard-on. "Umm..."

"Yes, Lukey?" You came closer, putting your towel on the vanity, taking a smaller one so you could still pat your hair dry.

"Do you really need to wake up early?" He asked, gasping when you crawled towards him. His eyes fell to your neckline. He cursed as you settled next to him, kissing his cheek, making him fucking explode inwardly. His mouth felt so dry.

"No." You shook your head, frowning. "Something wrong? You're so red right now." Your hand came up to his forehead. "You don't—"

"I need you," he helplessly said. He softly guided your hand under the sheets, to his crotch, letting you feel the mess he had made. "Please. I know you said you wanted to sleep after your shower, but I need you."

He knew you understood him. This wasn't the first time he had come onto you because he was so driven by his desires. There was only one time you had rejected his pleas—you had work the next day—so he hoped this was not another of that. He would step back if you did, but he hoped you didn't.

But then, you grinned at him, your hand wrapping around his aching length. "Oh? What exactly do you need?"

Luke's tongue failed him. His brain stuttered as your hand jerked up and down. The friction of his boxers mixed by your movements had put a damper in his thoughts. Just a few more strokes he would come. Just a few—

He groaned, almost whining, because you stopped. You fucking stopped. How could you be so cruel? The spark in your eyes made him realize that you knew he didn't want you to jerk him off. You knew he needed more.

As he made his way between your legs, as he gripped your thighs apart, as he pushes the hem of your nightgown up using his thumbs, he repeated, "I need you."

You bit your lip, pulling up your dress, exposing your lace panties that has a growing wet patch. "Beg."

A harsh shiver ran down his spine. He leaned forward, pressing kisses on your inner thighs, his lips trembling as his desperation heightened for every contact. You were so soft, so sweet, so pretty.

"Please, sweetheart. I need you on my tongue. Need to taste you. Just one taste. Please, please, please. I'm so thirsty. I need to make you come on my tongue. I need your cum. My sweet, please," Luke begged. His words twisted again, slurring together as he was already getting drunk at the mere scent of your lotion on your skin, at the slightest whiff of your pussy. He dared to hover closer on your cunt, softly blowing right over your clit, making you whine, but he still continued. "Please," he said over and over and over again.

"Okay, just one taste," you finally said.

So, he feasted, licking over the wet lace, from your entrance to your clit, moaning at the taste of your pussy. The exact flavor he was craving for what felt like eternity. It was you. All you. He licked again, swallowing, inhaling your scent, grinning at your cries.

Then he finally casted your panties to the side, he licked again, whimpering at your concentrated taste as you dripped on his tongue, giving him so much when he barely started. Your wet cunt pulsed for every pass of his tongue, begging him to fill you up. So, he did. He dipped his tongue into your pussy, groaning at your squeeze, moaning at your arousal flooding him. This. This was what he needed. What he waited for. So, he let himself lose.

He surrendered his control, letting his lust drive him, as he swallowed and licked and kissed your pussy. His hips grinded down against the bed, making a mess of his own while he licked up yours.

He could do this for hours. Fucking you with his tongue. Pulling out when he felt the familiar pulses of your pussy. Grinding his nose on your clit. Panting his moans and groans against your pussy. He couldn't have enough of you. He needed more and more.

He didn't care about how hard you tugged at his hair or how your thighs wrapped around his head like you wanted to suffocate him. He could die between your thighs, and he would be ecstatic. He would die feasting on your pussy. It would be a great death, because he would be taking your flavor to the afterlife. Such grotesque thoughts didn't bother him as he continued teasing your pussy then he finally let you come with his fingers fucking you as he sucked and licked your clit.

Luke went after your cum, sliding his tongue deeply with his fingers riding out your orgasm. He swallowed like man starved because he was. Only when your foot pushed against his shoulder did he parted from your pussy. Yet his fingers kept fucking you, doing a come-hither motion that had you screaming. You came again and again, your back arching off the bed, so damn lost in your ecstasy.

"I need more," he said as soon as you came down, writhing as he continued with his fingers. "Please, let me."

"Oh, fuck!" You cursed as he dove in, eating you out with more fervor. "Luke!"

Your thighs shook, your hips thrusting up so harshly and sharply, your body shaking as he pushed down on your lower abdomen as he pressed on the spongy spot that had your cunt squeezing his fingers, that had you whimpering, that had your toes curling. When you came again, he was also coming inside his boxers, coating himself with his own hot cum.

"Luke, give me a break, please," you started to beg, so he pulled back. "One second."

"One second," he echoed, licking his lips, groaning at your arousal on his face.

He watched you nod and pant as you tried to calm down with your legs quivering, your pussy hole clenching on nothing. That pained Luke. He could fill you up. He needed to, so he softly plunged two fingers into your heat, making you whimper, looking down at him.

"Wait," you gasped.

"I am," he assured.

You nodded, closing your eyes, shuddering. Luke waited until you gave him your go signal again, until his cock hardened with every sound coming out of your lips and your pussy as he took his time with you, until he had you coming all over his face again.

Good night!! 🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️

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[aggiespam]

hell yeaaaaaaah

[avocad0ess]

I wonder who I would be today if I didn’t develop an obsession with fanficion when I was 11

[star-girltaylor]

How I be looking after reading 30+ hours of angst & no comfort knowing damn well I search for it

[maluvv]

next to you - lh43 x reader

★ A/N - OKAY the way this is gonna work. if you hate it... you're not gonna tell me. you're just gonna smile and forget this all happened. shoutout to those in uni during this exam period!! lock in twin i believe in you.♥︎

☾ warnings - good ole angst, luke being neglectful NOT ON PURPOSE, you get a little bit of comfort i was feeling nice, reader lowk jumping the gun & making a mountain outta a molehill but IF YOU'VE BEEN IN THIS SITUATION YK IT MAKES YOU INSANE

✻ word count - 2281

The first time you notice it, it feels small.

Not a fight, never a fight with Luke. Just space.

Luke is sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing up his shoes, already halfway out the door before he’s even stood up. Practice, meetings, travel…there was always something waiting for him on the other side of you. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him move through it all like you’re not part of the routine anymore.

“Are you coming over after?” you ask.

It’s simple, but your heart aches asking. It shouldn’t feel like it matters this much.

He shrugs, not looking up. “I’ll see how late it runs.”

You nod, the answer landing somewhere in your chest deep. “Okay.”

The conversation drops off and just hangs there unfinished as he grabs his bag and keys, leaving a hollow kiss on your cheek as he walks out the door.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

By the time the argument happens, your resentment had already been growing.

The missed calls, the half-answers. Conversations that circle around things instead of saying them outright, small jabbing comments you never really meant. You keep telling yourself it’s temporary—just with how the season is going, the pressure, just bad timing overall.

You tell yourself that if you’re patient, it’ll go back to how it was.

The anger in your chest bubbles, you know that you deserve so much more than an empty life. Staying would be easier, but easier doesn’t mean right.

When he eventually gets back home, he’s late again.

You’re sitting on his couch, tucked under one of the throw blankets you’d bought him.  He finally comes through the door while you’re sat scrolling through old messages you know you shouldn’t be rereading. Back when things were easy and you didn’t feel like you needed to beg for his reassurance.

Back when you didn’t have to guess what he meant.

Luke walks in like he always does with his eyes glazed over with exhaustion, quickly pulling his coat off. He smiles when he sees you, soft and automatic.

“Hi, baby.”

And usually, that would be enough.

“You said you’d be home an hour ago,” you say before you can stop yourself, anxious guilt flooding your lungs, that familiar burn that you always push deep down.

He pauses, as though he’s trying to choose the right version of this conversation. “Practice ran late. Then we had to- ”

“I’m not asking why,” you cut in, eyes beginning to sting with the effort of holding in tears. Your words land heavier than you meant them to.

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck as blood runs to his cheeks, causing them to flush. “It’s not like I planned it.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “I’m just—you don’t tell me anything anymore.”

There’s confusion laced in his expression. “That’s not fair," he says softly.

You shake your head slightly, like you can undo the words before they settle too deeply between you.

“Then what is?” you ask, your voice quieter now but somehow heavier. “Because I feel like I’m constantly trying to piece things together on my own.”

He lets out a slow breath, glancing away from you like the answer might be somewhere else in the room. “You’re overthinking it.”

The words hit like a punch to the stomach.

“Am I?” you ask, a small, disbelieving laugh slipping out. “Or are you just not saying anything?”

“I am saying things,” he replies, a bit sharper now.

“No, you’re not,” you say, sitting up straighter, the blanket falling from your lap. “You give me just enough to get by and expect me to fill in the rest.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then talk to me,” you push, your voice cracking despite how hard you’re trying to keep it steady. “Tell me what’s going on with you. Tell me why it feels like you’re never really here anymore.”

Luke runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room like he needs the movement just to stay grounded. “I’m tired, okay? I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

“I know you do,” you say quickly. “I’m not asking you to not be tired. I’m asking you to let me in instead of shutting me out. I want to help you, but I can’t when I don't know what’s going on in your mind.”

“I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are,” you insist, standing now, the distance between you suddenly feeling too big. “Maybe not on purpose, but you are. You don’t tell me things anymore. You don’t explain. You just expect me to understand.”

He turns to you, frustration finally breaking through. “Because I thought you did understand.”

“I can’t understand something you won’t even say out loud!” you snap.

The room falls quiet instantly after that, his face dropping.

Your hands are vibrating at your sides, realizing how you sounded. You didn’t mean to raise your voice, especially not at Luke.

He stares at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling this way?”

“Because I knew you would react this way,” you say, quieter now. “Telling you I’ve been feeling like I don’t matter the same way anymore while you’re having a rough season...”

Your feet shifted from underneath you.

“… it felt selfish,” you finish quietly, your voice barely holding together. “Like I was just adding more to everything you already have going on.”

Luke’s expression shifts immediately.

The frustration drains out of him, replaced with immediate guilt.

“You’re not selfish,” he says, softer now. “You’re allowed to feel like that.”

You shake your head, a tear slipping before you can stop it. “But I shouldn’t have to earn a moment to talk to you, Luke. I shouldn’t have to wait for the perfect time just to feel like I matter.”

“I never wanted you to feel like that,” he says quickly.

“But I do,” you whisper. “All the time lately.”

You look up at him and can see the way it hits him in the chest, the way his shoulders drop, and the way he looks at you now like he’s finally seeing something he’s been missing this whole time.

“I thought you were okay,” he admits, his voice quieter. “You’ve never said anything like this before.”

“I tried,” you say, your chest tightening. “Just… not like this. Not all at once.”

He nods slowly, almost as if he’s replaying things in his head now. The small comments. The moments he brushed off. The things he didn’t catch.

And for the first time, he doesn’t argue with you.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You swallow, looking down for a second to pick at your fingers. It would be too easy to fall into that and accept it, moving on like nothing happened.

“I don’t want an apology if nothing changes,” you say.

“I know,” he replies immediately. “And I don’t want that either.”

There’s a pause, his breathing now audible and labored.

“I just… didn’t realize how bad it got.”

You let out a quiet breath. “That’s the problem, Luke.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I know.”

Silence settles between you again. You glance over toward the door and think for a second about leaving anyway, choosing yourself before you get pulled back in again.

Your body is moving faster than your mind, feet carrying you as you move to grab your hoodie to leave.

“Wait.”

You freeze, his voice echoing closer, his desperation kicking in.

When you turn back, he’s already stepped toward you, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can feel the shift in him.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says.

Not defensive, not a hint of anger or frustration.

Just honest in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Luke—”

“No, please just listen,” he says, running a hand through his curls, the words coming out less polished now, more raw. “I know I’ve been bad at this. At talking… letting you in. I know that.”

You don’t interrupt, your lip catching between your teeth.

“I get in my head, or I’m exhausted, or I think you already know how I feel so I don’t say it,” he continues. “And that’s not fair to you. I get that now.”

Your fingers grip harder around your hoodie.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this,” he says. “Or like you have to guess where you stand with me.”

“Then don’t make me,” you say softly.

“I won’t,” he says, a little more firmly this time. “Or I’ll try my best not to. I’m not gonna be perfect at it right away, but I can be better. I want to be better. I don’t want to lose you over something I can fix,” he adds, quieter now.

The room feels smaller suddenly.

You search his face, trying to find any hint that this will disappear the second things settle again and the pressure dies down.

“I’ve heard you say all of this before,” you admit. “Not exactly, but… similar.”

“I know,” he says. “And I didn’t follow through the way I should’ve.”

That honesty makes your chest ache more than any excuse could.

“But I didn’t realize how close I was to losing you,” he continues. “And that’s on me.”

You look at him for a long moment, your mind pulling you in opposite directions.

“I don’t know if just trying is enough,” you say, heart pulling as you admit it.

“That’s fair,” he nods. “But it’s not just gonna be words this time.”

“How do I know that?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

He doesn’t rush to answer, his weight shifting back and forth on his feet. His fingers picking at the lint clinging to the grey hoodie wrapped around his broad shoulders.

“You don’t, not yet at least… but you will,” he says softly. “If you give me the chance to show you.”

Silence settles again as you glance at the door again, then back at him.

This version of him, the one standing in front of you right now, looking small and honest, is all you’ve been asking for, but it came late and you don’t know if late is the same as too late.

“I’m scared this is just a moment,” you admit. “That things will pass and go back to how they were in a week.”

“I’m scared of that too,” he says quietly. “But I don’t want it to.”

He doesn’t reach for you or push. He just stands there waiting for you to decide. Your grip on your hoodie loosens slightly.

“I need to see it,” you say again, softer this time.

He nods. “You will.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer, still unsure, mental walls still standing high.

“Okay,” you say finally, quiet and careful. Luke doesn’t move, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next, knowing better than to reach for you first.

The silence stretches, softer now, fragile in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s about to snap as your chest tightens before moving.

It’s not graceful or thought out, your feet carry you to close the space you swore you needed, your hands finding his hoodie as you press into him, burying your face against his chest.

Luke exhales the second you touch him, like he’s been holding it this entire time. His arms come around you immediately but carefully, like he’s still not sure if this is something he’s allowed to have.

When you don’t pull away, he holds you tighter, one hand slides up to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, pressing you closer.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and unsteady.

And that’s when it breaks you, your fingers curling harder into his hoodie as your shoulders shake against him. The first sob catches in your throat like it doesn’t know how to come out properly, and then it does. Heavy breaths break from your chest as you press your face further into his chest, hiding against him like he won’t feel it, but he does. His arms tighten around you instantly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing firm against your back, grounding and steady, rocking you both back and fourth.

“Hey… you’re okay, baby," he whispers, not in a way that brushes it off, in an effort to soothe you. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

You shake your head against him, breath uneven, words breaking apart before they can fully form off your tongue.

“I just…” you start, your voice catching on another sob. “I didn’t know how to fix it anymore.”

“You don’t have to fix it by yourself,” he says quickly, pressing a kiss to your hairline, then resting his cheek against the top of your head. Still rocking slowly, you feel his hand on your back start to rub softly. “You’re not by yourself in this. Not anymore. I'm sorry for ever making you feel that way.”

Your grip on him tightens at that, like you’re holding him there, making sure he can’t slip back into distance the second this passes. Memories of this softer, more present version of Luke that you remember falling in love with flood your head, and for a while, neither of you moves.

You just cry into him, all the frustration and hurt you’ve been swallowing finally spilling over, and he stays exactly where he is. Steady, present, not pulling away. Slowly, between uneven breaths and the warmth of his arms around you, the space that had been growing between you starts to feel a little smaller.

“I’m not going to let myself mess this up.” He says more to himself than you.

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