Synopsis: Lando takes his new girlfriend to the Belgian GP to meet his mum, Cisca - who instantly adores her. They spend the whole weekend glued together, cheering Lando on and bonding like family, while Lando keeps checking on them, completely soft and smitten.
You’d been to races before - a handful, scattered across the calendar, tucked into hospitality while pretending you weren’t melting every time Lando looked up and winked at you - but this one felt different. This one felt like a turning point.
Because this wasn’t just any race.
This was Belgium.
His mum’s home race.
And you were meeting her properly for the first time.
Lando had been buzzing for days, bouncing around the house like a golden retriever who’d had too much sugar. He kept saying things like “She’s gonna love you, babe” and “Honestly, she’s more excited to meet you than she was for my first podium” - which you were pretty sure wasn’t true, but he said it with such conviction you almost believed him.
When the McLaren jet touched down, he reached across the aisle, lacing his fingers through yours.
“You ready?” he asked, eyes bright.
“Are you?” you teased.
He grinned. “Nope. But my mum is. She’s been texting me every hour asking what time we land.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder as the plane taxied. “She’s excited.”
“She’s obsessed with you already,” he said, kissing your temple. “And she hasn’t even met you yet.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Cisca Norris stood waiting - elegant, composed, sunglasses on, arms crossed like she was inspecting the runway. Lando practically skipped down to her.
“Mum!” he called.
She hugged him tight, rocking him side to side like he was still ten years old. Then she turned to you.
And her whole face softened.
“You,” she said warmly, stepping forward and taking both your hands. “I finally get to meet the girl who makes my son insufferably happy.”
“Mum,” Lando groaned.
But she ignored him, pulling you into a hug that smelled like perfume and home.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she murmured. “We’re spending the whole weekend together. I’ve already decided.”
You blinked. “Oh-okay.”
Lando mouthed help me.
You mouthed back never.
—
Cisca looped her arm through yours and marched you toward the paddock like you’d known each other for years. Lando trailed behind, watching the two of you with a soft, proud smile.
“Everyone is staring,” you whispered.
“Of course they are,” Cisca said. “You’re beautiful.”
Inside the McLaren motorhome, staff greeted her like royalty - and then immediately turned their attention to you.
“So this is the girlfriend,” one of the engineers said.
Cisca squeezed your arm. “Yes. Isn’t she lovely?”
Lando groaned again. “Can everyone stop acting like I brought home a celebrity?”
“You basically did,” Cisca said.
He leaned down, whispering in your ear, “I’m happy they like you. I just… I want this to go well.”
“It already is.”
He kissed your cheek before being dragged away for briefing.
“Go,” you told him. “I’ll be with your mum.”
He hesitated - because lately he always did, like he didn’t want to leave you for even a second - then finally jogged off.
Cisca watched him go, then turned to you with a knowing smile. “He’s different with you.”
“How?”
“Calmer. Softer. Happier.” She paused. “He’s been through a lot. You’re good for him.”
You swallowed, touched. “I care about him a lot.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I like you.”
You and Cisca spent qualifying together in hospitality, and she was hilarious. Every time Lando went purple in a sector, she clapped. Every time he got blocked, she cursed in Dutch. Every time the commentators mentioned him, she elbowed you like “That’s my son.”
You were laughing so hard you barely noticed the cameras turning toward you.
“Oh no,” you whispered. “They’re filming us.”
“Good,” Cisca said. “Let them see how beautiful my future daughter‑in‑law is.”
You choked. “Cisca!”
She smirked. “What? I can’t say what he’s already thinking?”
Your face burned.
When Lando finished P3, Cisca jumped up, cheering, pulling you into a hug.
“He’ll be so happy,” she said. “Come, let’s go meet him.”
Lando spotted you before he spotted his mum. He jogged over, helmet under his arm, curls damp, face flushed - and he went straight to you.
“Hi,” he breathed, kissing you without caring about the cameras.
You smiled. “Hi.”
“How’d I do?”
“Ask your mother.”
Cisca cupped his face. “I’m proud of you, schat.”
He grinned. “Thanks, mum.”
“But your girlfriend cheered louder than I did.”
Lando turned to you, eyes softening. “Did you?”
“Maybe.”
He kissed you again, longer this time.
—
The next morning, you woke up in the hotel to Lando’s arm draped over your waist, his face buried in your neck.
“Morning,” he mumbled.
“Morning.”
“You nervous?”
“A little.”
He kissed your shoulder. “Don’t be. She loves you.”
“She kidnapped me yesterday.”
“She does that when she likes someone.”
You laughed, rolling over to face him. “You ready for today?”
He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “More ready now that you’re here.”
—
On the grid, Cisca held your hand the entire time, guiding you through the chaos like you were her own daughter. Lando kept glancing over at you both, smiling every time.
Before getting into the car, he kissed you once, then kissed his mum’s cheek.
“Be safe,” Cisca said.
“Drive smart,” you added.
He winked. “Always.”
You and Cisca stood shoulder to shoulder as the lights went out.
The race was stressful - a very Lando race. Every overtake had Cisca clutching your arm. Every radio message had you biting your lip. Every lap had both of you leaning forward like you could will the car faster.
When he crossed the line P2, Cisca screamed.
You screamed.
You hugged each other like you’d known each other forever.
“He did it!” she cried. “He really did it!”
“He’s going to be so happy,” you said.
“He’s going to be happy because you’re here,” she corrected.
When Lando stepped onto the podium, champagne bottle in hand, he scanned the crowd. Not for his team. Not for the cameras. Not for the fans.
For you.
And when he found you - standing beside his mum, both of you waving - his whole face lit up. He tapped his heart twice, pointing at you.
Cisca squeezed your hand. “He’s gone,” she said. “Completely gone for you.”
You swallowed hard. “I think I’m gone for him too.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I can see it.”
Lando ran to you the second he was released from media. He didn’t slow down - just wrapped you up in his arms, lifting you off the ground.
“You were amazing,” you said into his neck.
“You were here,” he murmured. “That’s what matters.”
He set you down only to pull his mum into a hug too.
“Proud of you,” she said.
“Love you, mum.”
Then he turned back to you, brushing his thumb over your cheek.
“Did you have fun with her?”
“She’s my new best friend.”
Cisca beamed. “Good. Because I’m stealing her for dinner.”
Lando pouted. “What about me?”
“You can come if you behave.”
—
Dinner was warm, loud, full of laughter. Cisca told embarrassing stories about Lando’s childhood. Lando kept grabbing your hand under the table. You kept catching him staring at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
When Cisca stepped away to take a call, Lando shifted closer, knee brushing yours.
“She really likes you,” he said.
“I really like her.”
He exhaled, relieved. “Good. Because I want you in my life for a long time. And she’s… she’s a big part of it.”
Your heart flipped.
“Lando…”
“I’m not saying anything crazy,” he said softly. “I just… I feel really good with you. And seeing you with her today? It felt right.”
“It did.”
He kissed you - slow, sweet, certain.
—
Later, curled up in bed, his head on your chest, he whispered, “Thank you for today.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do,” he said. “Because this was one of the best weekends of my life. And it wasn’t because of the podium.”
“No?”
“No.” He looked up at you, eyes warm. “It was because you were here. With me. With my mum. It felt like… like a family.”
Your breath caught.
He smiled softly. “I’m really happy, you know.”
“I am too.”
He kissed your collarbone, then settled back against you.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
You held him tighter.
“Neither am I.”
And in the quiet of the Belgian night, with Lando wrapped around you and the echoes of the Grand Prix still humming in your chest, you realised something simple and certain:
Summary: grief doesn’t ask permission before it moves … and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that should’ve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person who’s still standing when everything else has fallen down
Warnings: you’re going to need tissues
Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.
He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.
“Dean, honey,” his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. “Are you holding up?”
He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.
“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”
Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.
Dead.
The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.
“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.
Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.
“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.
Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”
“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.
His chest tightens at the thought of you.
You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.
Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.
***
“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s
“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”
“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”
“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.
“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”
“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”
“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.
“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.
“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.
***
The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.
Dean turns.
You are walking down the center aisle.
His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.
Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.
He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.
You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.
The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.
“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”
Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.
You stand up.
A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.
You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.
You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.
You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.
“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”
You stop, swallowing hard.
“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”
A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.
“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”
You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.
Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.
“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”
You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.
“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house.
“My dad was driving,” you say softly.
Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.
“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”
You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.
“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”
You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.
“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”
“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.
“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”
Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.
“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”
Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.
“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.
“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”
“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.
“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”
You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.
You collapse.
You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.
But Dean is faster.
He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.
“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”
Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.
“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”
You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”
“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”
“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”
Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.
“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”
“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”
“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”
“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”
Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.
“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”
Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”
“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.
“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.
You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.
“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”
***
Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.
He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.
Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.
He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.
Empty.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.
“Hey, Dean?”
Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.
“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.
“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”
“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”
“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.
“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”
“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.
The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.
His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.
He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.
“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”
Silence.
He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”
Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.
Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.
The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.
“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.
He flips the light switch.
You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.
Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?
“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”
He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.
Your eyes are open.
A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”
But you don’t respond.
Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.
Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.
“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”
You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.
Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.
But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.
Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.
“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”
You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.
“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”
He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”
You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.
Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.
“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”
He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.
Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”
He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.
“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”
He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.
“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”
He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.
He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.
Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.
Dean freezes.
It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.
Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.
He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.
“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”
You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.
A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.
Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.
“Let’s go,” he says softly.
He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.
***
Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.
The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.
Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.
“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.
Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.
“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”
You don’t respond.
A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.
Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.
The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.
Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”
The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.
Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.
The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.
“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says.
You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.
“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.
Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”
You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.
Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”
You take a small sip.
They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.
“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.
Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.
“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”
“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”
And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.
***
The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.
It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.
The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.
“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.
“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.
The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.
“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.
You blink at it. “What is that?”
“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”
Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.
“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.
“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”
“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”
“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”
“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.
“No, you’re not.”
Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.
“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.
You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.
“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”
“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.
“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”
You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.
“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”
***
The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.
Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.
You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.
“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”
Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.
“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”
Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.
Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.
“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”
The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.
Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.
Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.
Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.
Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.
“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”
The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.
“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”
Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.
“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”
The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.
You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.
Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.
***
When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.
Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.
“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.
“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.
“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.
“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”
“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.
“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”
You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.
Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.
“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.
Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.
They all stop when you walk in.
There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.
But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”
“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.
“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”
“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”
“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”
“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”
“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.
Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”
The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.
Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.
After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.
“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.
“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.
“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”
“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”
“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.
He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.
The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.
“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”
“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”
“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”
“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.
You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.
You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.
Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.
As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.
The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.
Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.
***
Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.
The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.
He looks down.
You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.
Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.
He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.
You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.
“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.
He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.
He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.
Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.
But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.
Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.
He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.
He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.
About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.
Dean turns his head.
You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.
Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.
But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.
A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.
He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.
For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.
Then, the fourth second hits.
The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.
You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.
And now, you are in Dean’s bed.
You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.
The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.
You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.
But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.
He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.
You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.
“Dean,” you whisper.
The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.
You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.
“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.
His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”
“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.
“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”
You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.
“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”
Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.
“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.
“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”
“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You open your wet eyes.
Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.
“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”
You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.
“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”
“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.
“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”
“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.
“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”
“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”
The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.
You break.
You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.
And Dean breaks right along with you.
The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.
You hold him, and he holds you.
You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.
You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.
You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.
The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.
“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”
You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”
“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”
“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”
“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”
You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.
Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”
You look into his eyes, inches from your own.
“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”
The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.
Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.
You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.
“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.
The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.
But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.
“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.
“Never,” Dean replies instantly.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.
For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.
***
Grief is not a straight line.
It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.
But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.
Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.
The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.
You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.
He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.
A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.
“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.
“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.
“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”
You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”
“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”
You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.
Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.
You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.
The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.
So, you quit.
It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.
***
“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.
“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”
“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”
You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”
“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.
***
He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.
The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.
You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.
Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.
“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”
“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”
Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”
“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.
“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”
You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.
The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.
“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.
“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.
“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”
You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.
“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.
“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”
“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”
“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.
“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”
“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”
You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.
You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.
You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.
Hours later, the house finally quiets down.
Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.
You and Dean are left alone in the living room.
The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.
“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.
“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”
Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.
Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.
“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”
Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”
“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”
His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”
“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”
“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.
The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.
You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.
“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.
Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”
“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”
Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.
The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.
“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”
“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.
“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.
Your breath catches in your throat.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.
“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.
He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”
“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”
You stare at him, completely paralyzed.
For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.
But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.
“Then kiss me,” you whisper.
Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.
He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.
The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.
Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.
It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.
When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.
“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.
Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.
But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.
“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”
You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”
Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”
You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.
“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”
Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.
“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”
The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.
You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.
“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”
A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.
“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”
Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”
You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”
“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.
He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.
“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”
“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.
“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.
For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.
You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.
***
“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”
Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.
“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”
Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”
“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”
“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”
You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.
“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.
Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.
“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”
“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.
He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.
“Hey,” you whisper back.
“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.
Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.
“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”
Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”
***
The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.
You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.
The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.
You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.
Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.
“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”
Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”
A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.
“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”
The crowd erupts into applause.
It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.
You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.
“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.
You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.
You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.
He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.
You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.
Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.
Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.
A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.
You walk down the opposite set of stairs.
You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.
He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”
***
The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.
You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.
Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.
“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.
Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.
Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.
You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.
“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”
You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.
***
Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.
Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.
“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”
Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”
“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.
“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.
“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.
You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.
Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.
“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.
Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”
“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”
Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”
“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.
“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.
“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”
Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.
The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.
“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”
“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.
You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.
***
By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.
You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.
Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.
“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.
“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”
“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”
You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.
“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”
“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.
The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.
You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.
The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.
“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.
“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”
Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”
“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”
As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.
“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.
“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”
“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”
“You were very bossy.”
“And you loved it.”
You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”
The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.
The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.
Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.
He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.
You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”
“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”
“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.
Your breath hitches.
Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.
He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.
“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.
You freeze.
Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.
“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”
The air completely leaves your lungs.
You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.
“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”
Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.
You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.
You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.
And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.
The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.
***
The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.
“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”
You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.
It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.
You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.
You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.
Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.
“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.
Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.
“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”
“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”
“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”
You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”
“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”
Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.
The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.
He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.
“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”
Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”
“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”
***
The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.
You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.
“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.
She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.
“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.
You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.
A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.
Your breath completely catches in your throat.
“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”
“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.
“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.
The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.
Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.
He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”
“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”
A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.
“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”
You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.
“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”
“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.
She hands the envelope to Dean.
Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.
“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.
“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”
***
The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.
The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.
Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.
“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.
“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”
“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.
“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”
“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.
Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.
“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”
You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”
“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.
He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.
He hands it to you.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.
You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.
Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You look down at the envelope in your lap.
“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.
“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.
“On three,” you say.
“One,” Dean counts.
“Two,” you whisper.
“Three.”
Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.
There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.
It’s a boy!
The world completely stops spinning.
You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.
Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.
“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.
“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.
Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.
“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.
When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.
He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.
“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.
You look at him.
For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.
But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.
There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.
“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.
Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.
“Beau,” Dean whispers.
Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”
“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.
“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”
“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.
“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”
You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.
When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.
He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.
“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.
“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”
Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.
“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”
A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.
“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”
Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.
“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”
He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.
You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.
The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.
But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.
It continued.
It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.
You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.
“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.
Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.
Briar had crushed BU 5-0. All morning, the team had been hyping each other up, but Garrett was hardly a member today. His mind was elsewhere. Maybe with his prom-posal, as he wrote "you're a certified beauty, going to prom with me would be goal-den" and the bouquet of tiger lilies he spent over 200 dollars on from a nice florist. At lunch, he was thinking of your teary face as you slapped down the positive tests and then told him to stand outside the bathroom as you took the third one. During the game, he was focused on showing off for Isaac. He was practically walking on water. Your seats were right behind the players' section. So, while he was getting water, the toddler could bat him on his helmet. The win was only a temporary thrill. In the locker room showers all he could think about was how you cried as you zipped a knee-length white dress over your growing baby bump. And as he drove you and Isaac to dinner he remembered every tear that rolled down your cheeks at parenting classes, at sonograms, and finally in the delivery ward.
So many tears. So much wasted time. He wanted to give you your time back. He knows he can't take the tears back, but god damnit he would do something about the pain. It started with taking more initiative in Isaac's life. No more parties, period. Exceptional grades, exceptional performance. He was going to lock down that Bruins spot, and he was going to give you a good life. Obviously, he had a key to your apartment. It was a luxury two-bedroom in Brighton, and his dad pays the rent. He sends the house cleaners to your apartment while he takes you and Isaac to celebratory ice cream.
"So we're having another sleepover tonight, bud," He tells his son excitedly over his own kiddie-sized cup of chocolate chip ice cream. Isaac cheers from your lap.
"Garett, he's got school in the morning, and I'm running out of clean underwear."
"Just take a pair of mine, I know you prefer them," he winks at you, and you roll your eyes at his antics. Isaac’s face is covered at this point in moose tracks. Before you can even shuffle your son off your lap, Garrett is standing up to grab a hefty handful of napkins (how you forgot this crucial step is beyond you) and dampen a few with water. He sits down and places the remaining dry ones under his cup of ice cream before saying
“Alright, look at me real fast, bud,” and wiping down his face. The toddler squirms in defiance, but Graham doesn’t give up. “So did Phil find you?”
“Yeah, we talked with Grandpa, he was.” You trail off a moment, “Maybe he could make like every other fallen athlete and take up acting. Cindy seems nice, the poor thing.” Graham rolls his eyes, not at you but in anger. It’s all very normal between the two of you, and it makes you both ache. When you became pregnant, you knew this would put Graham's career in jeopardy, so you decided to keep your life private.
A select few knew the whole story, and hockey fans could recognize the last name on any day care form you filled out. So it was decided that while Garrett was in school, Phil would set you up with an apartment and hand you a credit card with your name on it “for any expenses the baby might have,” and when Garrett graduated and joined the NHL, you could choose to go back to school or get a job. But at a certain point, you and Graham decided not to stay together. Something about wanting to allow him a more normal college experience. He tried desperately to talk you out of it. At 18, he didn’t want to admit he was ecstatic that you would be a permanent part of his life.
Eventually, he agreed to seeing other people, and he slept around, although this time he was much more cautious about birth control. He knew you had a boyfriend for a few months when you were 19, but that he dumped you when he realized how difficult raising Isaac was, and that you weren’t as uninhibited as any other girl he could be dating. It took everything in him not to pummel that man.
The drive home from the parlor was quiet except for the sounds of wind against the windows and the engine rumbling. Periodically, Isaac would babble in his sleep after suffering a minor sugar coma. But all Garrett could do was watch you stressfully comb your fingers through your hair in his peripheral vision. Your life must be so difficult. The house was a wreck with a post-win party, so he drove you to your apartment, which was now dish-free and spotless.
“Gare,”
“I don’t wanna hear it. It’s all for Isaac.”
“Thank you.” You smiled as he walked his son to his bedroom and helped him into his pajamas. Teeth were brushed, stories read, and prayers said. The toddler was out for the night. Garret rejoined to see you absolutely melted into your couch and suddenly felt stiff in his cargo pants.
“Hey, Garrett.” You asked as he crossed the threshold. He hummed in response, “Can you get me a glass of wine? There should be some in the fridge.”
“Course,” he responded. When he returned, he had left his jacket by your door and set down the bottle and two of your glasses. Something fancy your aunt gifted you from Pottery Barn. He sat down and fought the smile when you dug your ever-freezing feet under his hamstring despite the giant knitted blanket cocooning you.
“Drinking tonight, Graham?”
“I won, and one won’t kill me.”
“Morning lift tomorrow?”
“Seven a.m.” He confirms
“Jesus, have mercy,” you laugh as he hands you your glass. He sips it, and you watch his face contort. “Yeah, sorry, I’ve been into these really crispy, almost tart whites lately. Hope I’m not pregnant and this is some craving.”
“Oh, have you been hooking up with someone?”
“No, no,” you trail off, sipping the glass, “just ever since I gave birth, I get so scared it’s going to happen again. Isaac is my whole world, but I’m not looking to make a solar system any time soon.”
“ I get that,” he tries another sip before putting the glass down in disgust. “he seems like a lot and like you have a lot to deal with.”
“Oh, I make do.”
“What if you didn’t have to?”
“Why is Phil going to hire me a nanny? I swear the debt keeps growing.”
“No, nothing like that. I was thinking that you know, once I graduate. Maybe we can move in together. Give Isaac a better shot at a real family.”
“Garrett,”
“You don’t have to answer me tonight. Just think about it.” A silence falls over the living room. Even the murmur of the TV, which seemed to be permanently set to level 7, turned into a dull hum. You twiddled your toes under his leg and then curled them so they crack. You finish your glass, and Garrett hands you his rejected one.
"Thank you," you laugh, "Gare?" There's such an innocence to the way your voice pitches up. Once again, he hums in response. "When was the last time you had sex?" Oh, that's not innocent. He pretends to think about it. Pretends to count the days. After a beat he clears his throat.
"Last week, it was Friday."
"Really? What's his name?" he snorts at your quip
"Yeah, right, asshole. Her name was Jenna."
"Ugh, Jenna, I would kill to have had sex last Friday "
"When was the last time for you?" You take a glug of your glass
"Just you know, 8 months ago."
"Eight months!"
"Shhhhh!" you reprimand
"Sorry,” he curls his lips, "eight months?"
"Hey, I don't want to talk about it
"You're the one who brought it up
"I know, I know. But I don't wanna know what to do, Gare. I can't handle the apps, I don't have time for bars, and I swear to god my vibrator will burst into flames if I pick it up again." Finally, he turned around and faced you. His face was hard and concentrated, the way you imagine it was under his helmet. He begins to say something and then stops himself, licks his lips, and starts again.
"You're probably tired. Why don't I run you a shower and get you in bed?"
"No," you trail off again, a lilt in your voice, "I want a bath."
“Ok, I’ll set you up a bath.” He says so in an informational tone. Almonds like he’s trying to convince you that he can draw you a bath even if he doesn’t believe a tub actually exists. Down the hall, Isaac’s bathroom only has a shower, sink, and toilet. But when he snoops in your bedroom, he sees two doors. One for your closet, the second for an en suite. First step, he fills the tubs with the hottest water he can, remembering the time the two of you tried showering together and he felt himself get cooked alive. Then he located a few tea lights you had and a Bic lighter before setting out the small lit candles. He finds a bag of bath mix, hangs it around the faucet, and the water starts forming aromatic bubbles. It’s around this point that he turns around and finds you watching him from the doorway with this serene expression.
“Baths are almost ready.”
“I can see that,” you set your glass and the bottle of wine on the edge of your bath. Then you peel off the top layers of your outfit. Socks, jeans, sweater, and toss them on top of your hamper. You turn on the shower and resume stripping, having found a claw clip to put your hair in. It’s at this point that Garrett turns fully around and covers his eyes. “Come on, I’m just running off.”
“And I’m just being polite.” He hears the shower stream cut off, and you step out towards your tub
“Gare, I gave birth to your baby.”
“Doesn’t matter, you haven’t told me you want me to see you naked.” You step into the bath with a plop and release a big sigh as the hot water envelopes you
“Ahh, you got it just right.” You pick up your refreshed glass
“What scalding hot,”
“Just preparing for hell.” You laugh, “You don’t want in on this?” Garrett cocks an eyebrow at you before stalking over and dunking half his fingers into the water. As expected, it feels like a double boil. He responds no, no, but stays leaning on the ledge of the bath so he can watch you sip your wine. “In that case, can you rub my feet?” One of yours sprouts from the water.
“Sure, kid,” he says as he stands across from you and works his hands into the knots in the fascia of one foot. You are able in the same way as Isaac does. When one is down, you hide that foot under the bubble and lift the opposite. He can’t stop smiling to himself. You look so relaxed, you might actually begin to melt. When both feet have been properly relaxed, you make a bit of a guilty face.
“Gare, can you rub my shoulders?”
“Of course, (Y/n).”
The air is exceptionally misty in your bathroom, and Garrett has to navigate the mess of hair and the space between your porcelain tub and your bare shoulders to reach you. The first contact with them sets goose bumps on both his arms. He tries to ignore them. Concentrate on your pleasure. But he is further distracted by you sighing once again. A couple of directions are exchanged, lowers before you sigh again. “That’s the spot.”
He couldn’t locate reasons to change a thing. The water makes trickling noises as you shift in tandem with his ministrations. “You don’t need me to do this, you know.” Your eyes have been shut for the last few minutes, but you still raise an eyebrow. “I mean, you could always drop him off at daycare and get a massage. At a real spa. From a professional.”
“You know how I feel about daycares.”
“Or hire someone to come here. Phil’s money is a sea one massage won’t drain his savings.”
“I don’t like having a stranger's hands all over me. You-you’re familiar. It’s comfortable.” He doesn’t respond with real words, just kind of grunts somewhere in the back of his throat. “Alright, this water is getting cold, and I’m gonna get pruny.” Garrett removes his hands and immediately misses the feeling of your shoulders between his fingers and thumbs.
“Let me go get you some pajamas.” He dries his hands on one of your towels on the way out, and you roll your eyes at his utter aversion to your nudity. Or the immense respect he’s shown for constantly protecting your naked form. He knocks on the door, and when you quietly ’yell’ I’m decent, he just places some folded up PJs on the bathroom counter. After you’ve dressed, you find him, disgruntledly separating and putting laundry into your washing machine.
“When was the last time you did your laundry, young lady?”
“I was getting to it,” you defend, “it’s really hard to keep up with everything that Isaac dirties.”
“Well, the best care you can take of him is to take good care of yourself.” He shuts the washing machine, pours some soap into the little drawer, and sets it to cold and delicates. “This preserves the color.” He winks at you as if a giant, burly hockey player lecturing you about your laundry wouldn’t turn you on. He had already drawn your curtains and flicked on your nightlight.
“This is all too much, Gare.”
“I’m a dad taking care of my kid. Now go to bed.” He peels back your comforter.
“Only if you can give me more cuddles.”
“I’m not getting in your bed in day clothes.”
“Then put your jeans on the laundry chair.” You point to the seat in the corner of your room where you rarely had the chance to read. He rolls his eyes and juts his chin in the direction of your bed. As you tuck in, you watch him peel out of his pants and lay them over your chair. Shamelessly, you admire the view.
“Coping a peak?” He teases
"You know it." Before he can even attempt to settle you are sprawling across his chest and digging your body into the mattress. The contact sets his body alight. He tries to relax but he feels every muscle tense up the way they did when he drove you to the hospital. "Gare," you say after a beat "your hearts pounding."
"Yeah I can feel that."
"Are you okay?"
"Just peachy keen. Try to get some sleep."
"Please," you sigh and roll over. Immediately garrett rolls with you to spoon you. You immediately pull his hand up by the wrist. "Are you comfortable, Gare?'
"Never been better." He plays it cool. You're halfway between tipsy and drunk and fall asleep for the first time since the lines turned pink in a blissful mist. The story is not the same for Garrett. He's having a complete moral dilemma. The boner he's sporting could cut diamonds, but he is way too comfortable to get up and jerk off. Your hair smells like your expensive bergamot-and-mint shampoo. Every inch of your body feels softer than the blankets that you rub your hands on in the store. He decides that no sexual relief is worth waking you up or disturbing you. It's a few minutes later when he feels a contact high from bergamot and mint, and finally feels himself pulled under by slumber.
His sleep lasts only a brief wink because he wakes to the sensation of a warm writhing something. You're murmuring something in your sleep and grinding against him. It takes him a few groggy moments to put all of this together. By the time he has rubbed the sleep from his eyes, your babbles have become coherent.
"Gare," you sigh. Oh, oh, he snaps into game mode. But as soon as he is conscious, he is thrown back into his moral dilemma. Wake you up, potentially embarrass you, and piss you off. Or stay still and fight himself while you wet dream against him. he opts for the potentially more dangerous option and gently shakes you awake. You awake slowly, similar to him, still reeling from the change of scenery.
"Why did you wake me?"
"Uh, I think you were-you were squirming. I did n't-I felt like a cat post." It appears that the content of your dreams comes back to you.
"Oh my god, Garrett, I'm so sorry." You immediately try to jump out of your bed, but are stopped by a gentle hand on your wrist
"Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa. I'm not mad, I'm just. I'd like to be a part of whatever fantasy you were having." You're tucked into his chest, and your hands fly up to cover your eyes. "What?" he laughs
"It wasn't a fantasy." You remove your hands from your eyes. "I was dreaming of prom night, in the hotel, when we accidentally conceived Isaac."
"The sex was," he trails off, finding the right words
"It wasn't good-I know we figured it out later. But from what I hear, Mr. Last Friday, you've learned some tricks."
"I have," He licks his lips, feeling his heart just pound in his chest. "Do you want me to show you them?" You nod like an embarrassed little kid. "Okay," His smile is infectious, but is once again replaced by a studying look. "I can kiss you, right?" You don't give him a chance to feel doubt. You leap across his chest and take his head in both your hands, and kiss as much of your love for him. He makes quick work to pull both of your knees around his waist.
He traces up and down the back of your thigh as you move your mouth against his, only surfacing for a moment to demand, "Take your clothes off, now." You sit up in his lap so he can sit up and peel his shirt off. He barely has the time to throw it to the side before your mouth latches onto the side of his neck. You feel his hand on the drawstring of your sweatpants
"Your turn," He smiles and helps you pull them down your hips. The flimsy fabric joins his shirt in the somewhere else that all clothes end up in during sex. He leans back to admire the view. Despite grabbing the first clean pair of underwear he could find, he finds the hip-hugging apricot panties you’re wearing far sexier than any overpriced strappy lingerie.
“Stop, it’s really nothing special.”
“It’s you, everything is special.” He squeezes your hips before kissing you again. This time, he begins trailing his lips down your neck. As your posture melts, he feels you lean into his touch. Slowly, his right hand slides down your body as his left stays supporting your neck. He pauses for a moment before rubbing your clit over your cotton underwear. And the sounds you make, he might as well quit school and hockey and spend the rest of his life pleasing you. Finding the straddle awkward, he positions you on his left thigh and slowly slides your legs down before you kick them away.
“Is this okay?” He slowly slides his index finger inside you
“Yes, gare fuck-another.” Whoa, he rarely heard you swear, but from the feel of it, you were fucking soaked. He obeys, adding his middle finger, and you look like a woman possessed. The sounds pouring out of your mouth are incessant and unabashed. He works you out on his fingers until you're brought to the brink, and right as you're about to finish, he pulls his hand out. "What's not fair?"
"You really thought I was going to fuck you without eating you out?" Your face flushes at his tone. So assertive. so confident. "You're out of your mind." You flip over and place a pillow under your lower back. The moment his lips attach to your clit, you're brought right back to the edge. "Gare-Garrett that f-feels really good."
"Yeah?" He comes up a moment only for you to shove his head right back in
"Yeah," you're nearly groaning with relief as he takes his time, "Was starting to th-think that I was becoming numb to orgasms." He slides his fingers back into you, and once again, your back forms an arch like those in Missouri. The orgasm arrives like an assassin. A silent killer. One moment you're stuttering, the next a 'fuck!' flies out of your mouth with a Garrett's name not that far behind. He comes up, wiping his mouth with an infectious smile on his face.
"Oh my god,"
"I thought you weren't supposed to take the Lord's name in vain."
"You shut up and fuck me." You pull him down and kiss him again. Even the taste of your own cum on his lips doesn't deter you. Even as you kiss him, you strip from the big old band tee he'd given you. He stands up, and you watch unashamedly, savoring the view. Even in his boxers, you're taking perverted eyefulls of his sculpted body. He pulls his boxers down and slowly climbs at you. One more kiss before he lines himself up.
You want to pretend like this is super easy. Like you were made to fit together. But at 8 months out of practice, there is some serious discomfort. He pulls back and slows down, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, it's just been a while.'
"We can stop-"
"No!" you cut him off. "Please keep going," you pull him back so you're chest to chest. I just need you to go slower, that's all."
"Okay," He licks his lips in concentration. He lines himself up again and takes it even slower. You feel every inch and contour as he slides himself in. That delicious burn. Finally, after what feels like years, he bottoms out. "I'm in, but I'll wait until you say."
"Thank you, Garrett, just give me a minute."
"You know," He tucks some hair behind your ear, "I don't mind it here. I could get comfortable." You slide your hands down his bare waist and feel the soft skin wrapped over contoured muscle. The pain subsides, and you give him verbal confirmation that he's in the clear. He moves slowly, painstakingly slow.
"Alright, Gare, I'm not made of sugar."
"You can just tell me to speed up."
"Fine, pick up the pace, Garrett." He obeys, once again pulling his hips back with a testing swing. As you moan, he gradually raises the speed. It's like this positive feedback loop where the more you moan, the faster he goes. "Yes," you whimper. "Yes!" Finally, Garrett allows himself to be vocal, letting pleasured grunt after groan tumble through his nose.
"Oh fuck, you feel so good."
"I do?"
"Yeah, you do so so fucking good, ah, please tell me you're close."
"Yeah, I'm." He puts his lips back on your throat. Anyone else would be embarrassed. Anyone else would be embarrassed, but the sex lasts very short before you're both tumbling over the edge. And you're not embarrassed. You feel the best you ever have. Garrett looks like he could probably sympathize. Your ears are ringing with joy. You don't remember the in between of the obligatory clean up and post sex cuddles. Maybe it's because with Garrett, you don't have to think; he just understands you. You fall asleep wrapped in his arms.
………..
The morning greets you with a kind of warmth you were unaccustomed to. Not because you were wrapped in the hundred-pound arms of the love of your life. In fact, you wake up to an empty bed and his clothes gone. You would sit and sulk, but there's a text waiting for you on your phone. I had to run out and get a toothbrush and some proper clothes for church.'
No more stress and confusion. When he gets to your apartment, you tell him to leave his toothbrush in the cup and bring a few outfits next time he's around. Pajamas won't be needed, but you couldn't wait to give Isaac the good news.
Summary: every night, Prince Jeon Jungkook finds himself swept up in a village girl's bakery where they share sugar and laughter, but one day, he stumbles across her injuries taken from defending helpless children and he spends the day tending to her, before unleashing his rage on the aggressors.
Genre/Tags: royalty au, romance, fluff, angst, comfort, feral Jungkook, down bad Jungkook
Word Count: 11.7k (I got carried away)
Warnings: blood, injury, lashings, violence, physical fight, (lmk if i missed anything)
Notes: I've had this in my head since we saw Jungkook in Mexico and I finally wrote smth with it. Genuinely had me kicking my feet, giggling when I wrote this btw. I was kind of between keeping this and making it a series but rn I have no idea what else to write with this so I thought screw it and just post this. Who knows... I might post more in this kind of setting but for now it's just this... hope you like it!
The scent of yeast, burnt sugar, and baked flour always hangs heavy in the midnight air of the kitchen. It's comforting, warm, familiar, and completely separate from the cold, stoned streets of the village beyond these walls, which encompass your life. You wipe a stray smudge of flour from your forehead with the back of your hand, leaning over the heavy wooden workstation to knead the first batch of dough for tomorrow's, well, today's morning rush.
Deep in concentration, you almost don't hear the bell above the back door, which lets out a tiny, muffled chime. But you don't even have to look up to know who it is.
"You're late," you say, keeping your voice flat, still pounding the dough, though a familiar beat of warmth thumps against your ribs. "Shouldn't you be tucked into your silk sheets at the palace by now, Your Royal Highness?"
"A gentleman is never late, sweetheart. He arrives precisely when he means to," Jungkook says, his voice a smooth, playful purr as he slips into the kitchen nestled behind the main bakery area. "And I told you to stop calling me that." He is dressed in his usual disguise, a faded, oversized linen tunic and dark trousers. The entire kingdom knows the face of Prince Jungkook, though few would expect him to be sneaking out of the citadel walls just to loiter in a dusty village bakery. He pushes his hood back, revealing strands of unruly dark hair and those ridiculously large, glittering doe eyes which you can't stare into for too long without feeling heat crawl up your neck.
You sigh, ignoring him as you turn around to face the pantry. You reach for a jar of imported cinnamon, but, of course, it is sitting on the absolute highest shelf, tucked away near the ceiling. You huff, stepping up onto your tiptoes, stretching your arms as high as they can go. Your fingers brush the base of the jar, but you cannot for the life of you get a proper grip. Suddenly, a broad, solid chest flushes directly against your back. All you feel is lean muscle as the heat of him radiates through your apron. Then an arm clad in faded linen reaches up over your head, his large hand wrapping around the jar. You will yourself not to let your eyes linger too long on the prominent veins running across his forearms to his hands.
"Need a hand, love?" Jungkook murmurs right beside your ear, his raspy late-night voice sending a shiver straight down your spine.
You drop back onto your heels, turning around within the small space he has trapped you in. His free hand comes down to rest casually on the edge of the shelf beside your head, effectively boxing you in. He looks down at you, a smug, devastating smirk playing on his lips as he hands you the cinnamon. Your fingers lightly twitch as they brush his.
"I had it under control, Crown Prince," you shoot back, tapping the jar against his chest to force him to take a step back.
"Right, maybe from over there you did, but from here, all I saw was you hopping up and down like a grasshopper," he teases before turning back.
And before you can swat at him, his hand shoots out toward the cooling racks. You attempt to block him with an elbow, but he uses his height advantage, leaning over to snatch a freshly dusted, warm beignet from the tray. Ones you had just made as a test batch, so the recipe was perfect for the morning rush. He pops the entire thing into his mouth in one go.
"Hey!" You glare, swatting at his arm with your flour-covered hand, leaving a stark white handprint on his dark sleeve. "Do you have any idea how early I had to wake up to prep those? The yeast has to rise for hours, Jungkook! Hours!"
Jungkook chews happily, closing his eyes in mock ecstasy. "Mmm. So worth it. You outdid yourself, truly." He leans his hip against your table, entirely too close, invading your space with the scent of the crisp night air and something rich, clean, and faintly expensive. He points a finger at a bowl of glossy chocolate batter. "What do we have here?" His eyes are lit with nothing short of mischief.
"Don't you dare-"
Too late.
He dips his index finger straight into the bowl, swirling it around before sucking the batter off with shameless, slow deliberateness. He locks eyes with you, a wicked, teasing tilt to his lips. "Sweet. " He pauses. "Just like the baker."
You feel the heat rush straight to your cheeks. "You are an absolute menace. I don't know why I keep letting you break into my shop. I really need to invest in a heavier deadbolt. Or tell the royal guards that their beloved prince is a little sugar thief."
"Because you love me," he says instantly, shifting his weight around the table to follow your movements like a shadow, or more like a separation-anxiety ridden puppy. "And because I am excellent company. Who else is going to help you with labour at one in the morning for the low price of sugar? Besides, the guards would never believe you."
"A public nuisance is what you are," you correct, though your lips twitch. You turn to a tray of unadorned cupcakes and sigh, handing him a backup piping bag filled with sweet vanilla buttercream. "If you're going to loiter, at least make yourself useful. Pipe the tops of those. Like this." You demonstrate a perfect, elegant swirl on one, pulling the tip up to create a flawless peak.
Jungkook takes the bag, his chest puffing out with entirely unwarranted confidence. "Easy. Watch a master at work. I've got great hand-eye coordination."
He grips the bag with way too much force, causing an explosion of frosting that lands on the cupcake, tilting precariously to one side like a melting snowman before sliding off the edge completely.
You burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. "A master? Jungkook, it looks like a squashed toad!"
"It's abstract! It has personality!" he protests, bumping his shoulder heavily against yours to disrupt your balance. He looks down at your laughing face, his own expression softening into something incredibly tender. His eyes track the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, capturing the exact shade of warmth in your smile. "See? I made you laugh. That’s worth at least three more free pastries tonight."
"In your dreams, thief," you scoff.
After a few minutes and many fails later, he gets the hang of it, leaving you to grab a heavy wooden spoon and begin vigorously beating a massive bowl of thick, stubborn cookie dough. You hate this part the most. After a long day, hours of selling and continuously running through the main shop and the kitchen, creating new batches and noting down special orders, the physical effort of the mixture, especially after the non-stop whipping of the meringues and the kneading of the dough, makes your wrists ache. Your movements slow slightly as you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow.
As Jungkook continues piping, he glances at your figure a few times, as if it's second nature, and tracks the sudden lag in your rhythm. His eyes soften, the playful posture shifting into something much more attentive, which goes unnoticed by you. He steps up right beside you, his hand sliding over yours on the handle of the wooden spoon. His palm is warm, broad, and calloused from sword training.
"Hey," he says softly, his shoulder bumping into yours. "Go check on the hearth. I think I smell burning."
"What? No, it's not, I just put it-"
"Just go check, stubborn," he cuts you off, smoothly applying just enough pressure to slide the bowl away from you.
Before you can protest further, he completely takes over, his muscular forearm flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves as he beats the heavy dough with absolute, effortless ease. It's only when you reach the hearth, and you find your cake, in fact, not burning, that you realise he invented such a thing so you could rest your tired wrist.
You cross your arms with a small smile, and you lean against the counter, watching him work. "Look at you. Future monarch doing manual labour in a village kitchen. Oh, if the King could see you now, he'd strip you of your title."
"Let him," Jungkook grunts with a grin, not missing a beat as he whips the dough into a perfect, uniform consistency. "I'd make a fantastic baker's assistant. I'm strong, I learn fast, and I look great in an apron."
"You don't even have an apron on," you point out, laughing.
"An oversight you can easily fix," he shoots back, flashing a brilliant bunny-toothed smile that makes your heart do a ridiculous little flip. He stops mixing, sliding the perfect dough toward you. "There. Perfect. What's next, pretty lady?"
You roll your eyes at the name. "We need to pour this batter into the tins," you say, dragging a heavy ceramic bowl of vanilla batter and two circular metal tins toward the centre of the table.
"I've got it," Jungkook volunteers eagerly. He lifts the heavy ceramic bowl, and you try not to pay attention to the way his biceps strain slightly against the linen shirt. He tips it over the first tin, carefully pouring the thick, pale-yellow ribbon of batter into the centre until it fills it perfectly. He moves to the second tin, pouring the remainder.
Once the bowl is mostly empty, he sets it down and picks up a long spatula. He meticulously scrapes the remaining thick batter from the inside walls of the bowl, gathering a massive, delicious glob of it onto the edge of the spatula. He brings it up toward his face, his eyes lighting up as he prepares to lick it clean.
"Ah-ah-ah," you say quickly, swatting his wrist away. "No way. I did all the measuring for that batter. That's mine."
You grab the end of the spatula handle. Jungkook blinks, then a surprised, but competitive spark instantly ignites his doe eyes. He tightens his grip, tugging it back towards himself. "I did the pouring! And the scraping! Royal decree dictates that the scraper gets the reward."
"There is no such royal decree," you laugh, pulling the spatula towards your side. "You're abusing your power, Your Highness!"
"I am a prince, I can make up whatever laws I want to," he gasps dramatically, pulling back.
You step closer, using your leverage to yank on the handle. For a second, you are pulled completely into his space, your hands tangled together on the thin piece of wood, faces inches apart. You can see the faint amber flecks in his eyes and the absolute amusement radiating from him.
Jungkook looks down at your determined face, his gaze dropping to your lips before a wicked, triumphant grin splits across his face.
Suddenly, he completely lets go of the spatula.
Because you were pulling so hard, you stumbled backwards a step, clutching the spatula victoriously to your chest. "Ha! I win!"
"Do you?" Jungkook asks, his voice dripping with amusement.
Before you can answer, he reaches down and grabs the massive, heavy ceramic mixing bowl that still has a generous coating of thick batter stuck to the bottom and sides. He lifts it, completely sticking his face inside the wide rim, using his finger to swipe a massive glob of batter and popping it into his mouth.
"Fine, keep the tiny spatula," he mutters happily from inside the bowl, his voice echoing. "I have the motherlode."
"Jungkook!" You burst out laughing, completely scandalised. "You are a literal child! Get your face out of my bowl!"
He pulls his head out, a tiny dollop of yellow batter sitting right on the tip of his nose. He looks incredibly ridiculous and remarkably cute all at once. He steps closer to you, his eyes locking onto yours with an unbearable amount of playful intensity.
"You have something right..." you start, pointing at your own nose.
"Where? Here?" he asks, deliberately wiping his cheek instead, smearing it further.
"No, you idiot, let me-"
You step in, reaching up with your thumb to gently wipe the batter off the tip of his nose. The moment your skin touches his, Jungkook freezes. The childish playfulness drops away in an instant, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness. His gaze drops, heavy and unblinking, tracking the movement of your fingers, then the curve of your jaw, and finally resting on your eyes.
The kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire. His breath is warm against your skin. You feel your own breath hitch, your thumb lingering against his nose for a second too long.
A slow, devastatingly tender smile stretches across his lips. He reaches up, his large hand gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your pulse point.
"You know, you're very bossy for a regular citizen," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a raspy, late-night register that makes your heart beat erratically against your ribs.
"And you're very compliant for a future king," you whisper back, trying to maintain your defences, though the proximity is making it impossible to think straight.
"Only for you," he says softly, his thumb continuing to trace your wrist. "I don't let anyone else order me around like this. I think I like it."
You clear your throat, gently pulling your wrist from his grip to hide the bright blush creeping up your neck. You turn away to hide your burning cheeks, reaching for a small plate hidden under a glass dome on the back shelf. "Shut up and try this. I've been working on it all afternoon. Consider it payment for your... impeccable assistant work."
On the plate sits a pastry you’ve been experimenting with: dozens of microscopically thin, crispy layers of golden dough, stacked high with rich, velvety custard and fresh cream sandwiched between them, dusted lightly with powdered sugar.
"What is it?" he asks, leaning over your shoulder, his chest practically pressed against your back again, completely erasing the distance you just tried to create.
"Just shut up and try it," you say, handing him a small fork.
He takes a bite. The audible, delicate crunch of the layers echoes in the quiet room, followed by the smoothness of the cream. Jungkook freezes completely. His eyes widen to twice their size. Without saying a word, he devours the rest of the pastry in two massive bites, nearly groaning out loud.
"Marry me," he says flatly. "I'm serious. Name the day. We can live right here in this kitchen. I will waive the royal dowry, I will fight the council, I don't care. I will do nothing but eat this and look at you for the rest of my days."
You laugh loudly, shoving his shoulder hard to create some space. "So dramatic." You reply back.
"So in love."
"So in need of therapy." You mutter back, turning to grab a handful of loose flour to dust the wooden surface, the fine white powder settling like mist.
The frantic energy of the kitchen slows down, settling into a comfortable, quiet rhythm that has secretly become your favourite part of the day. Jungkook works right beside you, his initial royal clumsiness giving way to a quiet focus as he tries to correct his piping technique, finishing the cupcakes, his tongue poking out slightly between his teeth in pure concentration.
Then, the kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound left is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire and the heavy, rhythmic thud of your palms against the dough.
You feel a sudden weight on you, a gaze so intense it feels tangible against your skin. You glance up, a stray lock of hair falling into your eyes, and catch him.
Jungkook isn't looking at the cupcakes anymore. He is leaning his chin in his hand, his elbow propped on the wooden counter, his eyes fixed entirely on you. His gaze is heavy, unblinking, tracking the curve of your jaw, the sweat dampening the nape of your neck, the fierce determination on your brow. There is no trace of the boyish prankster in his expression right now; his eyes are dark, deep, and filled with an intense, quiet gravity that makes your breath hitch completely.
"What?" you ask, your voice dropping to a breathless whisper. You try to sound annoyed, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays you. "Is there flour on my face again?"
Jungkook doesn't blink. A smile stretches across his lips, his voice drops again, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Nope. Just looking at something beautiful."
You feel the heat rush from your chest all the way to your hairline. You look down at your rough, flour-dusted hands, and a sudden, heavy wave of insecurity twists in your stomach. It’s a reminder that always haunts the back of your mind. He is the Crown Prince. You know his face, you know his title, and you know the vast, impossible chasm that lies between your worlds.
"You are a terrifyingly smooth talker, Your Highness," you say, your voice turning a little hollow as you force yourself to look back up at him. "I suppose this is the exact same poetry you feed to the high-born noble ladies at the palace court."
Jungkook’s smile falters slightly, his doe eyes tracking the subtle drop in your shoulders, his sharp instincts picking up on the sudden shift in your mood. "Noble ladies? Trust me, they don't care about poetry. Just titles and crown jewels."
"I'm serious, Jungkook," you say, huffing a breath but still kneading the dough on the counter. "Why do you even come here? You have an entire court of perfect, beautiful women at your feet. You should be spending your time there with them, not in a drab bakery."
You pause. The next words come out in a whisper you hope he doesn't hear. "You could be with women who actually know how to dance, with titles, who wear silk and velvet instead of aprons caked in dried dough. They don't smell like yeast and sweat."
But he does, and the playful demeanour completely evaporates from Jungkook's face. The silence returns, heavier this time, but thick with an undeniable warmth.
He stands up straight, stepping around the workstation table to face you. He moves with a quiet, deliberate grace. You keep your eyes down, focusing on the dough. Press. Then push. Then fold. Then turn. And repeat. Don't look up.
But he doesn't let you hide. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently taking your wrists, halting your movements. His palms are warm and incredibly grounding.
"Look at me," he commands softly. You don't.
"Hey…" He trails off, voice unbelievably gentle, "Please?"
How can you say no to him?
When you finally look up into his eyes, you find them swimming with a fierce, profound sincerity.
"None of them." He pauses, "Are you." His voice is a low, intense whisper that rings clearly in the quiet kitchen. He squeezes your hands, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. "The court ladies are hollow, Y/N. They smile because they were trained to; they speak from rehearsed scripts; and they look at me like I'm a crown to be won, a stepping stone for their families. But you? This?"
He leans closer, head tilting down so your eyes are entirely locked. He wants you to feel how much he means every word.
"I'd rather be no place else. You're real. You're fierce, you're brilliant, and you look at me like I'm just a man. I don't want silk, and I don't care about their perfect poise. I want this. I want the smell of yeast and sugar, and I want to spend my evenings with the pretty little baker who threatens to throw rolling pins at my royal head."
Your heart hammers violently against your ribs, your lungs locking up under the sheer weight of his words. His eyes drop to your lips for a long, agonising second, and you think you might actually combust from the heat spreading through your veins.
Sensing the overwhelming tension and desperate to save your blushing face from melting, a familiar, wicked spark suddenly reignites in Jungkook’s eyes. He lets go of one of your hands and steps to the side.
Before you can even process the emotional whiplash, he blows a sharp puff of air across the workstation. A massive cloud of white flour erupts directly onto your face. You gasp, coughing, your eyelashes completely coated in white powder. Through the white haze, you see him throwing his head back, laughing loudly, looking immensely proud of his childish distraction.
"Oh, it is so on," you hiss.
You scoop up a massive, double handful of flour and throw it straight at his chest. It hits him with a satisfying, heavy thwack, turning his dark tunic completely white from collar to waist. Jungkook’s jaw drops in utter shock, his laughter cutting off. He retaliates by pinching more flour before sprinkling it over your head, coating your hair in white. You squirm, laughing as you grab another handful and go to move around the bench, but your shoes slip on the pile of flour that has accumulated on the floor, and you are sent plummeting to the ground. Jungkook is faster, though, of course, and he manages to hold onto you, one hand on your arm and the other firm against your waist as he manages to pull you back up.
"Falling for me already?" His lips upturn in a playful smirk.
You scoff, already pushing away from him, "You wish, rich boy."
You both laugh. And the next few hours continue like that. You love the back-and-forth; it calms you after a long day and prepares you for the next. You truly relish these moments, that is, until you gaze up and notice the sky outside, the dark midnight lighting slightly.
"You should get going, Jungkook, dawn's coming, and I should rest before prepping for the morning." You explain.
He whines, pouting his bottom lip in a way that makes him look like an oversized puppy, but he relents. He walks to the back door, pausing to look back at you, the playful smirk returning to his face as he pulls his hood back up over his dark hair. "See you tomorrow, my beautiful baker. Try not to miss your prince too much."
"Oh, that won't be difficult at all, Jungkook," you say, and he holds his chest, mocking a dagger struck through his heart, but you’re smiling wide as the door clicks shut, the quiet warmth of his presence lingering long after he’s gone.
The next morning brings a particularly bitter cold. The sun has barely crested the horizon when you set up the outdoor display rack, lining it with fresh, golden loaves of bread and warm rolls.
You return inside to tend to the ovens, glancing out the large front glass window. The village market is starting to wake up. The other store owners are sweeping outside their doors and beating the rugs. The stall owners are setting up their carts with small chatter amongst them, no doubt some high-class gossip they read in the papers this morning.
Through the glass, you also notice three small, shivering figures creeping toward your outdoor display. It’s the children who sleep under the alleyway awnings near the secondary square. They look emaciated, their ribs practically visible through their tattered rags, and your heart cracks slightly at the sight.
One of them, a little boy no older than six, reaches up and snatches a small loaf of bread. But before you can even open the door to tell them they can have it, even come inside for more, a harsh, booming voice echoes through the square.
"Thieves! Drop it!"
Two royal guards, clad in gleaming, heavy iron armour, march out from the shadows. They look bored, angry, and eager for a distraction. The children shriek, dropping the bread into the dirt as they try to scatter, but one guard lunges, grabbing the little boy by his scruff, lifting him completely off the ground. The child wails in terror.
The second guard unclips a heavy, thick leather lash from his belt, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. "A lesson needs to be taught. Stealing from the village market carries a heavy price, brat."
Your blood runs cold. You don't think. You throw the bakery door open, sprinting out into the freezing air.
"Stop! Stop, please!" you shout, throwing yourself into the scene.
The guard with the whip pauses, lowering his weapon slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Move aside, girl. These street rats are breaking the law. They require consequence."
"It's my bread!" you say breathlessly, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It’s my shop! I don't mind. I was giving it to them. They didn't steal anything, I swear."
The guard holding the boy sneers, dropping the child to the dirt, where he scurries behind your skirts, clinging on to them for dear life. "Do not lie to the Crown's authority, baker. We saw them take it. If you harbour thieves, you share their guilt. Now step away before we make an example out of you, too."
These guards are notorious. They are brutes, drunk on the microscopic amount of power the crown grants them over the poor villagers. You look down at the crying child holding onto you, burying his face in your skirts, and a stubborn wave of protectiveness washes over you.
"They are starving children," you say, your voice trembling but resolute. "If you must strike someone to satisfy your pathetic need for power... strike me. Leave them alone."
The guard with the whip cuts a dark, ugly glare toward you. "You want to take the punishment for a bunch of gutter rats? Fine by me. The law demands blood for theft. Now kneel."
You look around the square. A few villagers have stopped to watch, but they immediately look away, hurrying along, terrified of getting involved.
No one is going to help you. You don't expect them to.
You swallow hard, your knees hitting the cold, unforgiving cobblestones. You pull your hair to the side, exposing the back of your thin cotton chemise. You brace yourself, gripping your knees tightly.
Crack.
The first strike tears through the air and slices directly across your upper back.
A choked, agonising shriek tears from your throat. It feels like a line of liquid fire has been seared into your flesh. The sheer force of the blow knocks you forward, your palms slamming into the dirt. Tears sting your eyes instantly, blurring your vision.
"That's for the first brat," the guard grunts.
Crack.
The second strike hits, the leather biting into the exact same raw skin. You gasp, your lungs seizing.
"That's for the second."
Crack.
The third blow tears your chemise open at the side, the fabric ripping away as the leather draws blood. You press your forehead against the freezing ground, sobbing silently as you pray for it to end.
"And that's for the third," the guard sneers. He pauses, looking down at your trembling, broken form, but his eyes only gleam with a deeper cruelty. "But you opened your mouth to the Crown's authority, didn't you, girl? You think you can talk back to us?"
Crack.
The fourth strike is harder, delivered with the full weight of his arm. A ragged scream escapes your lips, your vision flashing white. The pain is blinding, radiating across your entire torso.
"And this one..." The guard chuckles, raising the whip one last time just to satisfy his own twisted amusement. "...just because I feel like it." He says low, only for your ears to hear.
Crack.
The fifth strike shatters whatever strength you have left. You collapse entirely onto the cold cobblestones, your chest heaving as deep, agonising tremors wrack your body.
They leave you there, laughing as they walk away. Slowly, agonisingly, you push yourself up. Your vision swims. You stagger back into the bakery, your hands shaking so violently you can barely turn the lock. You flip the sign on the door to CLOSED, then wince as you draw the thick curtains shut.
You stumble up the narrow wooden stairs to your small apartment on the second floor. In the tiny bathroom, you try to peer into the cracked mirror, but you can’t see the damage properly. Reaching behind yourself with a wet cloth, you touch the wounds, and a fresh wave of sobbing breaks out. It hurts too much. You can't reach it properly to clean it. Blindly, you wrap a clean strip of linen around your torso, pinning it clumsily, though you know it's too loose.
Exhausted, broken, and throbbing with a relentless, burning agony, you crawl onto your bed, burying your face in the pillow, letting the tears ruin the sheets.
Hours pass. Eventually, the sheer restlessness of the pain forces you out of bed. You can’t lie down comfortably, and you can’t sit up straight. You're exhausted. But you drag yourself back downstairs into the darkened kitchen. You decide not to open the shop today, you can't bear the thought of standing at the counter, but you need a distraction. You begin mindlessly wiping down the clean surfaces, moving like a ghost in your own home.
Jungkook is practically skipping through the crowded, muddy alleyways of the lower village, keeping the heavy fabric of his dark wool cloak pulled tightly around his face. Thankfully, his royal duties ended earlier today, allowing him more time with you. He did have to dodge three separate royal attendants, lie straight to his personal guard, and scale a crumbling section of the northern citadel wall just to sneak out today, but he didn't care. He would gladly scale the highest mountain in the land if it meant reaching your doorstep a second earlier than usual.
The only thing occupying his mind for the last twelve long, agonising hours has been you.
He is down bad. Mortifyingly, hopelessly, helplessly down bad.
Every time he closes his eyes during council meetings or listens to his father drone on about trade routes, he doesn't see crowns or maps. He sees the way your eyes crinkle into perfect, breathtaking crescents when you laugh at his ridiculous antics. He sees the faint, light dust of white flour that always seems to settle on the bridge of your nose. He wants to taste that layered cream pastry again, sure, but more than that, he just wants to hear the melodic cadence of your voice.
He wants to tease you until your stubborn pride flares up, just so he can witness that fierce, fiery spark in your eyes that makes him feel more alive than any royal decree ever could. He is a prince of the realm, surrounded by high-born court ladies who fawn over his status and offer plastic, practised smiles, but none of them holds a candle to the sharp-tongued, beautiful baker who looks right past his title and treats him like a normal man.
As he navigates the bustling market crowds, his inner monologue takes a heavier, more ache-filled turn. He is growing so tired of the midnight boundaries. He is tired of being the mysterious visitor who has to vanish before the sun crests the horizon. He wants more. He wants to be the one who wakes up next to you, watching the morning light catch your face. He wants to hold your hand in broad daylight, right in the middle of the crowded square, and dare anyone to say a word about it. He wants you to be his, entirely and completely, but he knows how fiercely independent you are, how hard you work for your little shop, and how you probably don't feel the same. So for now, he hoards these secret hours like a dragon guarding gold. And even if he has to keep this boundary with you for the rest of his life, be nothing more, he'll take that sacrifice if it means he gets to be in your presence, in your life, in whatever way you'll have him.
He turns the final corner into the main square, a boyish grin already splitting across his face, his heart does an eager little flip against his ribs. But the moment his eyes land on the bakery, his steps instantly slow to a halt.
The outdoor display racks are completely empty. The heavy linen curtains are drawn tightly across the front windows, blocking out the daylight. The wooden sign dangling from the brass chain reads CLOSED.
Jungkook frowns, a sharp, cold knot of unease tightening in the pit of his stomach. It’s mid-afternoon. The sun is at its peak. You never close the shop at this hour. Even when you were burning up with a fever last winter, you stubbornly dragged yourself down to the counter to sell bread, refusing to lose a single coin.
He hurries up to the heavy front door, his hand trembling slightly as he knocks loudly against the wood. "Y/N? Love? Are you in there? It's me."
Silence. The square carries on around him, completely indifferent to the sudden spike of adrenaline flooding his veins.
Panicking now, his breath catching in his throat, he rushes down the narrow, shadowed side alley toward the back entrance. He grabs the brass handle and turns it, fully expecting it to be locked, but to his surprise, it clicks open. He's going to have a few words with you about that. He slips inside instantly, shutting the heavy door quietly behind him to keep his presence hidden.
The kitchen is cast in deep shadows, completely devoid of the usual roaring hearth fire and bustling energy. The only light comes from a single, lonely candle burning on the centre island.
Then, he spots you.
You are standing by the deep stone sink, your back completely turned to him. Your shoulders are hunched forward, your movements incredibly slow as you mindlessly wipe a copper pot with a rag.
"Hey," he says softly, exhaling a long, ragged breath of relief as he drops his hood. "You scared the absolute hell out of me. Why are the front doors locked? Did you actually sleep in for once?"
You flinch violently at the sound of his voice, your entire body spasming as you drop the rag into the water with a dull splash. You don't turn around to face him. You remain entirely still, staring down into the basin. "Jungkook. What are you doing here? You shouldn't have come. The shop is closed today."
Your voice sounds completely wrong. It is hollow, strained, and entirely stripped of the vibrant, feisty warmth that usually greets him.
Jungkook's playful smile vanishes in an instant, his large doe eyes narrowing with deep, immediate concern. He takes a slow step closer, his boots clicking quietly against the floorboards. "Yeah, I noticed. Are you okay? You sound tired." He tries to inject a tiny bit of his usual playfulness into his tone, trying to coax a smile out of you as he steps up directly behind your frame. "Did you miss me so much this morning that you couldn't even focus on baking today?"
"Not now, Jungkook," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. Your shoulders hunch even further forward, your head bowing.
You slowly reach up with both hands, attempting to place a copper pot on the drying shelf slightly above your head. The exact moment your arms extend upward, your breath catches violently in your throat. A sharp, ragged, agonising wince escapes your lips, and your entire body shudders as you quickly drop your arms back down, your hands flying to clutch tightly at your own side to brace yourself.
Jungkook's protective instincts flare to a blinding degree. The sight of you in discomfort hits him like a physical blow to the chest. He reaches his hand out, his palm hovering just a millimetre above your trembling shoulder, desperate to touch you but terrified of hurting you. "What's wrong? Y/N, what happened?"
"Nothing," you say quickly, your tone sharp, laced with a desperate, stubborn defensiveness.
You finally force yourself to turn around and face him, but you immediately take two deliberate steps backwards, keeping a wide distance between your bodies. You force a terrible, completely strained smile onto your pale lips, though your lower lip is trembling. "I just... I was moving the heavy wooden grain table earlier, and I bumped into the corner. Hit my side pretty hard. It's just a nasty bruise, Jungkook. I'm fine. Really."
Jungkook doesn't buy it for a single second.
He steps right back into your space, his gaze sweeping over you like a hawk, analysing every single detail of your appearance. His heart aches at the sight of you. You look terribly pale, the healthy flush entirely gone from your skin. Your eyes are heavily red-rimmed and puffy, surrounded by dark circles, making it glaringly obvious that you’ve been crying for hours. And your posture is completely wrong: you are leaning slightly forward, your spine stiff as a board, breathing in tiny, shallow, calculated gasps as if expanding your lungs fully is a luxury you can't afford right now.
Seeing you in this state genuinely, physically hurts him. It feels like a cold blade is turning in his own chest; his stomach drops, and a suffocating wave of anxiety threatens to choke him. He hates seeing you vulnerable, hates the fact that something has stolen your bright energy.
He tries to keep his composure, forcing his voice to remain calm so he doesn't spook you, until you turn slightly to the side, attempting to step away from his intense scrutiny to grab a towel.
That's when he sees it.
Through the torn fabric of your shirt, along the side of your figure, he sees the clumsy linen bandage you had tried to wrap around your own torso, which has slipped completely out of place. A small, dark red stain of fresh, wet blood is seeping heavily through the white cloth, stark and horrifying against your skin.
Jungkook’s breath hitches violently in his throat. His blood runs cold.
"Y/N," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, gravelly register, entirely stripped of all playfulness. "Why is there blood on your back?"
You freeze in your tracks, your hands tightening against the fabric of your apron until your knuckles turn white. You try to let out a casual laugh, but it comes out as a pathetic, broken sob that tears right through his chest. "Blood? Oh, don't be ridiculous. It's probably just cherry jam from the tarts. I am a baker, after all, I'm always covered in-"
"Don't lie to me," he commands. The tone is quiet, but it carries the heavy, unyielding authority of a prince who will not be denied.
Before you can utter another word of deflection, he steps directly into your personal space, erasing the distance between you. His large, warm hand moves around to your back, his fingers hovering just a fraction of a millimetre above the blood-soaked bandage. He barely, infinitesimally brushes the very edge of the cloth to see what lies beneath.
The slight, feather-light pressure is a catalyst for pure agony.
A choked, absolutely agonising groan tears from your throat. Your eyes roll back for a fraction of a second as a white-hot wave of pain flares anew across your nerve endings. Your knees completely buckle beneath you, your strength vanishing instantly as your legs give out entirely.
"Whoa- hey, look at me, I've got you, I've got you!" Jungkook panics, his heart leaping straight into his throat.
His arms shoot out in a blind reflex, catching you securely before your body can slam into the hard floorboards. He pulls you tightly against his chest, cradling you against his solid frame, his large doe eyes widening to twice their size with pure, unadulterated terror. He is hyper-aware of how fragile, how small you feel in his arms right now, your entire body trembling violently against him.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I've got you," he frantically whispers, his voice shaking as he holds you up. "Talk to me, please. You have to tell me what happened. You're bleeding."
You clutch desperately at the fabric of his faded tunic, your fingernails burying into the cloth as if it's the only anchor keeping you tethered to reality. The blinding pain, the hours of lonely exhaustion, and the sudden, overwhelming comfort of his warm, safe presence break the stubborn dam holding your emotions back.
You snap completely. You bury your face into the solid crook of his neck and break down, sobbing hysterically. Deep, painful, racking wails tear from your chest, echoing loudly in the empty kitchen.
"It hurts," you cry out, your voice breaking entirely into a raw shriek. "Kook, it hurts so bad, please... I can't bear it..."
Hearing you cry like this, hearing the absolute agony in your voice, completely breaks something fundamental inside Jungkook. A wave of sheer fury crashes over his soul. He sees bright, blinding red. He is the Prince of this kingdom, and someone in his village, under his family's rule, had dared to lay their hands on you. Someone had inflicted this kind of barbaric, sickening pain on the sweetest, most selfless person he knew.
He locks that rage away into a dark corner of his mind, storing it for later, because right now, your tears are the only thing that matters.
"Let me see it," he murmurs, his voice shifting into a soothing, incredibly soft contrast to the storm raging in his chest. "Let me help you, sweetheart."
"No, it's fine, just leave it, please go away," you sob, your stubbornness flaring up one last time through the tears. You weakly try to push his chest away, hiding your face from him. "You shouldn't be here. You're a prince, Jungkook. You shouldn't be seeing me like this... it's messy, it's fine..."
"Y/N," he says, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument, though it is dripping with an unbearable amount of love and panic. He gently but firmly cups your face with both hands, forcing you to look up at him. His own eyes are shiny with unshed tears, wide and desperate as he uses his thumb to wipe a stray tear from your wet cheek. "Look at me. Look into my eyes. I am not going to hurt you. I don't care about being a prince right now. I care about you. Let me see it. Please, don't do this to me. Don't push me away when I know you're hurt."
You look into his frantic, pleading eyes, seeing the genuine agony in his own expression caused purely by your pain, and your stubborn defences finally melt away. You nod weakly, letting your head fall against his chest.
"Let's go upstairs," he whispers against your hair.
He slides one arm securely under your knees and the other firmly behind your shoulders, lifting your body effortlessly into his arms. He carries you up the narrow, creaking wooden stairs as if you weigh absolutely nothing, his movements smooth and careful, ensuring your back never brushes against a single wall or doorframe.
He carries you into your small bedroom, gently setting you down on the very edge of your bed.
The bedroom upstairs is quiet, shadowed by the late afternoon light filtering through the linen curtains. You sit on the very edge of the mattress, your knees pulled slightly toward your chest, your fingers twisting and burying into the worn bedsheets. Every shallow breath you take feels like glass slicing through your skin. Behind you, the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft clink of a ceramic basin tell you that Jungkook is preparing to face whatever horror is hidden beneath your clothes.
"I'm going to pull the fabric down. Is that okay?" Jungkook’s voice is a low, trembling whisper. The playful, cocky boy from last night is completely gone, replaced by a man carrying a heavy gravity.
You nod miserably, dropping your head down.
You feel his large hands settle on the collar of your dress. His touch is so light it’s almost non-existent, his fingers shake slightly as he carefully guides the torn, ruined cotton down your arms. He doesn't pull; he coaxes the fabric away, millimetre by millimetre, ensuring the rough material doesn't catch on the open wounds. As the cloth falls away, exposing your bare back to the cool air of the room, you hear him let out a sharp, ragged intake of breath.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Five jagged, angry lines of destroyed flesh cross your skin. They are swollen, with a deep, bruising purple at the edges, and fresh blood has oozed out where your movement has reopened them. The clumsy linen wrap you had tried to apply is tangled and soaked through with red.
"Who did this to you?" he asks.
The question is delivered in a voice so quiet, so entirely devoid of warmth, that it makes you freeze. If you were to turn around, you would see the menacing glare of a monarch in his eyes. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscles flare against his skin, his knuckles white as he grips a clean cloth.
"The patrol guards," you whisper into the empty room, a fresh tear tracking through the flour dust on your cheek. "In the square this morning. Some of the alley kids... they took a loaf of bread from the display. The guards… they caught them. They pulled out the lash for them. They're just babies, Jungkook. They were hungry. They wouldn't have survived it. I couldn't just watch."
You take a trembling breath, crying out slightly as the movement pulls at your skin. "I told the guards I'd take it instead. Three for each child... one for talking back... and a fifth... because he felt like it."
A suffocating silence fills the room. For a long, agonising moment, he doesn't say a single word. You brace yourself, expecting him to call you foolish, to tell you that a simple villager should never interfere with the Crown's enforcers. Instead, you feel the soft, slow dip of the mattress as he sits down directly behind you, closing the distance between your bodies.
"You are far too good for this world," he murmurs, his voice thick and strained with an emotion so intense it sounds like it’s tearing his throat apart.
Then, you feel the cool, wet cloth touch the very edge of the highest welt.
You flinch violently, a sharp, broken gasp escaping your lips as your hands lock onto the bedsheets. But before you can pull away, Jungkook’s free hand comes around to rest gently on your uninjured hip, holding you steady with an iron-firm but incredibly soft pressure. He rubs gently at the bare skin on your hip.
"Shh, I know, love, I'm sorry. I've got you. I'm being as gentle as I can. Just breathe through it. Focus on my hand," he murmurs, his lips so close to your bare shoulder that his warm breath fans across your skin, offering a fleeting contrast to the stinging cold of the water.
His movements are agonisingly slow but deliberate, focused. He cleans away the dried blood, his fingertips occasionally brushing against your uninjured skin. The sheer intimacy of the act makes your heart hammer in a completely different way. He treats your body like it is made of the rarest, most fragile porcelain, his touch lingering over the curves of your shoulders as if he wishes he could absorb the pain into his own skin.
He reaches into the wooden cabinet on your wall and pulls out a jar of thick, green herbal salve. He rubs a generous amount between his palms, warming it up before he speaks. "This is going to sting at first, Y/N. But it will help the fire go out. Let me know if it's too much."
When his fingers make contact with the raw wounds, a whimper tears from your throat, and without thinking, you lean to the side, your head resting against his solid shoulder. Jungkook doesn't move. He accepts your weight fully, his chest pressing lightly against your side as he leans to the side to get a better angle. His fingertips are unbelievably soft as they smooth the thick ointment over the angry welts, working with a reverent, quiet rhythm.
Every time your body shudders with a sob, he pauses completely. He leans forward, pressing his lips in a soft, comforting breath against the uninjured skin of your neck, whispering broken apologies into your skin until the tremors slow down. It feels intensely, overwhelmingly private, a sanctuary built out of raw pain and an undercurrent of heavy, undeniable devotion.
Finally, he takes a fresh roll of clean white linen bandage. To wrap it around your torso, he has to slide both of his arms completely around your waist. He leans in close, his chest flushing against your uninjured skin, effectively enveloping you in a tight embrace. You can feel the heavy beat of his heart against your shoulder blade as he pulls the cloth snug, securing it with small pins.
"There," he whispers against your ear, his hands lingering on your waist, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your sides before he reluctantly pulls away. "All clean. The fire should start to fade now."
You slowly turn your head, looking at him over your shoulder. His doe eyes are dark, swimming with a profound, aching yearning that terrifies you in their intensity. He looks at you not like a friend, and not like a vagabond, but like a man who has just watched his entire world bleed.
"Lie down," he commands softly, his voice thick, pulling the heavy wool blankets back. "Don't sleep on your back, lie on your stomach. I'm going to go brew some tea for you, okay? Don't move an inch."
You are too exhausted, too thoroughly drained of strength to argue. You crawl into the centre of the bed, resting your cheek against the pillow, and he pulls the blanket over you before leaving.
Within minutes, Jungkook returns, holding a steaming ceramic mug. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his large hand gently lifting your chin to help you take a few sips of the warm, sweet liquid.
The warmth of the tea and the cooling effect of the salve make your eyelids incredibly heavy. Jungkook sets the mug on the nightstand and reaches out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, his touch agonisingly tender.
"Thank you, Jungkook," you slurry, your eyes fluttering shut as darkness tugs at the edges of your mind. "For staying."
He leans down, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. He lingers there before pulling away and resting a hand over yours on the pillow beside you. "I will always stay," he whispers against your skin, his voice sounding far away. "Sleep now, my beautiful baker."
He stays with you, one hand stroking the back of your head, fingers toying with the strands of your hair, and occasionally massaging your scalp, his other hand firm on top of your own until you drift off. The moment your breathing evens out into a deep, heavy slumber, the lingering softness completely evaporates from Jungkook’s face.
He stands up from the edge of the mattress, his frame expanding to its full, imposing height as his expression hardens into pure, unadulterated ice. The boyish warmth that usually fills his dark eyes is gone, replaced by a vacant stillness. He looks down at you one last time, your pale face resting against the pillow, and leans over to press another gentle, feather-light kiss to your temple.
He quietly moves around the room, his boots making absolutely no sound against the wooden floorboards. He sets a fresh glass of water on your nightstand, along with a small plate of dried fruits and crackers he salvaged from your pantry. Beside it, he leaves a small piece of parchment, scrawling a quick note in his elegant, fluent script.
He writes in his usual playful tone, desperate to lighten your mood when you wake up, even if his own chest feels like it is caving in from pure malice:
Eat all of this. If I come back tonight and find out you haven't eaten, I'm going to steal every single pastry in the kitchen as punishment. Rest up, my pretty girl. I'll be back to cause more trouble soon~
He slips out of the bedroom, guides himself down the narrow stairs, and exits the bakery, locking the back door securely behind him.
The walk back to the palace is a blur of blinding, volcanic rage. He doesn't care about staying hidden anymore; he doesn't slip through the shadows or wait for patrols to pass. He cuts through the upper village like a wraith, his eyes fixed on the towering stone citadel ahead. People stare as he passes them, a path being made before him as people flock to the side, no doubt whispering about the stern look on his face.
He storms through the heavy iron servant entrances, slamming doors on their hinges, tearing off the faded linen tunic and throwing it to the stone floor like trash. Attendants and low-ranking guards rush to him, bowing in absolute terror at the sheer aura of lethal fury radiating from the young prince. They have never seen him like this.
"Get me my royal uniform," Jungkook barks, his voice ringing through the high stone corridors like a crack of thunder. "Now."
Minutes later, he is clad in the official armour of the high crest: a dark, structured jacket lined with heavy gold trim, epaulettes resting on his broad shoulders, heavy leather combat boots, and the royal insignia pinned sharply over his chest. He looks every bit the future ruler he was born to be.
He strides down the western corridor toward the main guard barracks. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron bands, don't just open; they slam against the stone walls with a violent, echoing crash as he kicks them through.
Dozens of off-duty guards and captains instantly freeze, dropping their dice and flagons of ale, snapping to absolute attention. The room goes dead silent.
"Who patrolled the main market square in the lower village this morning?" Jungkook demands. His voice isn't loud, but it is dangerously low, vibrating with a lethal, quiet edge that makes the hair on the back of everyone's necks stand up.
Near the back of the room, two guards exchange a nervous, sweating glance. Slowly, their armour clanking in the heavy silence, they step forward and bow deeply.
So these are the brutes who had stood over you on the cobblestones.
"We did, Your Highness," the lead guard stammers, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. "Is there an issue with the sector?"
Jungkook doesn't answer immediately. He walks up to them with a slow, agonisingly measured pace. The air in the barracks becomes completely suffocating, the temperature practically dropping as the prince circles them. He stops directly in front of the guard, who has a heavy leather whip strapped to his belt.
"An issue?" Jungkook echoes, a terrifying, dark smile tilting the left corner of his lips, though his eyes remain dead and vacant. He peers down at the guard, who is half a head shorter than him. He folds his hands behind his back, leaning in slightly. "Tell me about your morning patrol. I want to hear about how efficiently you enforce the King's law."
The lead guard swallows hard, his throat bobbing nervously. "It was... a routine patrol, sir. We apprehended a group of street rats attempting to steal from the market stalls. We administered the standard physical deterrent to ensure compliance with crown regulations."
"A physical deterrent," Jungkook repeats, his tone almost conversational, entirely too calm. "And tell me... did these so-called street rats take the lashes?"
The guard shifts his weight, his iron greaves clanking with the movement. "No, Your Highness. A local villager stepped in. A peasant girl from the bakery. She obstructed our duty and offered to take the penalty in their stead. We accommodated her request to maintain the crown's authority in the square."
"You accommodated her," Jungkook whispers. His jaw clenches so hard the muscles flare violently against his skin. His fingers curl into tight, white-knuckled fists behind his back. "Five lashes. Is that correct?"
The second guard, thinking the prince is merely verifying protocol, chimes in, "Yes, sir. Three for the stolen goods, one for her insolence and talking back to the guard, and... one extra, just to ensure she remembers her place beneath the law."
The mention of the fifth lash, the one delivered purely out of sadistic amusement, shatters the final thread of Jungkook's restraint, leaving behind a monster driven by pure, protective devastation.
Without a single syllable of warning, Jungkook’s right fist shoots forward.
Crack.
His knuckles connect squarely with the lead guard's jaw with an inhuman amount of force. The sheer momentum of the blow rips the heavily armoured man off his feet, sending him flying backwards. His body crashes into a heavy oak table, splintering the thick wood into raw kindling before his armour skids across the stone floor, a spray of dark blood erupting from his shattered mouth.
The second guard gasps in pure shock, his eyes widening in horror as his hand flies to the hilt of his sword in a blind, conditioned reflex.
"Touch that steel," Jungkook roars, stepping into his space instantly, "and I will take your hand off your wrist."
Before the guard can even process the threat, Jungkook's royal combat training takes over. He intercepts the man's arm, his grip clamping down on the wrist like an iron vice. With a brutal, fluid twist of his upper body, he snaps the guard's wrist backwards. The bone pops with a sickening, wet crunch, forcing a loud, piercing shriek of agony from the man's throat.
Jungkook doesn't stop. He drives his knee directly into the guard's stomach, crushing the wind out of his lungs, followed by a heavy kick straight to his chest plate. The metal dents inward with a loud clang, and the guard goes sailing through the air, crashing hard onto the stone floor, coughing up strings of bright blood as he rolls onto his side, clutching his broken arm.
The rest of the barracks stands paralysed. No one moves. No one breathes. To strike a royal guard is treason, but when the attacker is the future King, and a man who can kill with his bare hands, the law belongs entirely to him.
Jungkook turns his gaze back to the first guard, who is desperately scrambling backwards on his hands and knees like a terrified, wounded animal, leaving a trail of blood on the floor.
Jungkook walks over to him, his heavy leather boots thudding rhythmically. He stands over the grovelling man, then reaches down, grabbing the guard by the throat and the collar of his iron breastplate. With a guttural growl of pure, unadulterated rage, Jungkook rips the man completely off the ground, slamming his back against a massive stone pillar.
"Who do you think you are?" Jungkook hoarsely whispers, his face inches from the guard's bleeding, trembling features. He tightens his grip on the man's throat, cutting off his air until the guard's face begins to turn purple. "You wear my family's crest. You carry weapons funded by my treasury. You eat food provided by my citizens. And you use that power to strike an innocent, defenceless woman in the streets?"
"Your Highness- p-please-mercy…" the guard chokes out, tears of genuine, paralysing fright mixing with the dark blood pouring down his chin. "We didn't... we didn't know she was... we didn't know..."
"You didn't know what?" Jungkook roars, slamming him against the stone pillar a second time, cracking the mortar behind his head. "That she has a name? That she feels pain? That her life is worth infinitely more than your pathetic, miserable existences?"
He weakens his grip just enough to let the man gasp for air, only to drive a brutal left hook directly into the guard's ribs. The sound of fracturing bone echoes clearly in the silent room. The guard lets out a strangled sob, his head slumping forward.
Jungkook grabs him by his hair, forcing his head back up so he has to look into his eyes, eyes that are currently completely devoid of mercy, cold and dark as a winter grave.
"Listen to me very carefully," Jungkook whispers, his voice dropping into that lethal, quiet promise that chills everyone in the room to the bone. "If I ever see either of you set foot in the lower village market again... if I ever hear that you so much as look in the direction of that bakery... I will ensure you are stripped of your titles, thrown into the deepest dungeon beneath this palace, and I will personally pick up the leather lash and show you what five strikes feel like when delivered by someone who actually knows how to use it. Do you understand me?"
"Yes... Yes, Your Highness... Forgive us... Forgive us..." the guard weeps, his spirit completely broken, pressed flat against the cold stone.
Jungkook shoves the guard away in utter disgust, letting his limp, groaning body slide down the base of the pillar into a pathetic heap.
The prince stands up straight, slowly adjusting the cuffs of his dark royal jacket, his chest heaving with heavy, deliberate breaths as he reins in his wild adrenaline. The fury still burns hot in his veins, but his composure returns like a heavy curtain falling over a stage. He looks around the barracks at the rest of the silent soldiers who are still locked at attention, none of them daring to even blink.
"Clean this pathetic mess up," Jungkook barks coldly, casting one final, disgusted look at the two broken men on the floor. "And remember exactly whose crest you wear. If any of you forget your duty to protect our people, I will personally remind you."
He turns on his polished leather heel, his golden cape snapping behind him, and storms out of the barracks, his mind already racing out of the palace gates and straight back to your quiet, shadowed bedroom.
The bright, warm rays of the morning sun pierce through your thin linen curtains, casting long, golden bars across your bedroom.
You slowly blink your eyes open, your body instantly tensing as you brace yourself for the white-hot, agonising fire that had consumed your back yesterday. You hold your breath, carefully shifting your weight to test the movement, but to your absolute surprise, the blinding agony has receded into a dull, thoroughly manageable ache. The throbbing is heavy, a reminder of the guards' cruelty, but it no longer cuts your breath short. The cooling herbal salve Jungkook applied worked absolute wonders overnight.
You slowly press your palms into the mattress, pushing yourself up into a sitting position, your eyes immediately darting around the quiet room.
Jungkook.
He is gone. The space beside your bed feels entirely empty, the cool morning air still carrying the faintest, lingering hint of his crisp, rich scent.
A heavy wave of emotion hits you as you sit there in the morning silence, the blankets pooled around your waist. Your mind drifts back to the blurry memories of yesterday. You remember the sheer terror in Jungkook's eyes when your knees had buckled in the kitchen, the way his strong arms had snapped around you before you could even hit the floor. He had held you so tightly against his chest, as if you were something incredibly precious he couldn't bear to see broken.
The memory of his touch makes your skin tingle beneath your bandages. He is the Crown Prince of the realm, a man born to be served, and yet he spent his hours kneeling on your floor, on your bed, cleaning your wounds with trembling hands, and whispering soft, broken apologies against your skin every time you whimpered in pain. The sheer, intoxicating intimacy of him wrapping the linen around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid chest, plays on a loop in your head. It sends a strange, dizzying heat curling deep into your stomach, a mixture of profound gratitude and a budding, terrifyingly deep affection.
You turn your head towards the nightstand. There sits a fresh glass of clear water, a small plate neatly stacked with dried fruits and crackers, and a folded piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers tracing the crisp edges of the paper before unfolding it. Reading his messy, hurried handwriting, a genuine, breathless laugh bubbles up in your chest.
The ridiculous boyishness of his threat instantly cuts through the lingering shadows of yesterday's trauma. Even when he is trying to be authoritative, he can’t help but be the same teasing menace who steals your cake batter. You smile, dutifully eating every single cracker and dried fruit on the plate, feeling the energy slowly returning to your limbs, before drinking the water down to the very last drop.
Exhaling a long, steady breath, you carefully slide off the bed. You find a loose, lightweight, clean dress in your wardrobe and slip it over your head with meticulous care so the fabric doesn't rub harshly against the fresh dressings. You feel remarkably better; the deep, uninterrupted rest has done wonders for your body and mind.
Marching down the staircase, you are determined to open the bakery today. You refuse to let those guards steal your livelihood or intimidate you out of your own shop, and you certainly can't let your regular village customers down two days in a row.
The kitchen downstairs is dead quiet, smelling faintly of the chamomile tea Jungkook had brewed for you. You walk straight to the front door, unlocking the heavy brass deadbolt, and pull the thick curtains back to let the brilliant morning light flood the room. Bracing yourself, you push the front door open and step onto the threshold to set up the outdoor display.
The moment your boots clear the frame, you freeze completely in your tracks.
Sitting proudly on the wooden bench right beside your shop entrance is an overflowing bouquet. It is massive, easily the size of your entire torso, completely taking over the small wooden bench. But as you take a slow, hesitant step closer, your brow furrows in sheer confusion.
The flowers aren't real.
You lean down, your breath catching completely in your throat as your eyes scan the arrangement. They are meticulously, beautifully handcrafted entirely out of soft, colourful yarn. Dozens upon dozens of intricately crocheted roses, delicate lilies, and bright daisies, amongst others, which are woven together with an unbelievable amount of patience, care, and precision. The bouquet bursts with vibrant, warm shades of pastel pink, sunny yellow, and rich cream, completely immune to the biting morning frost.
Tears instantly spring to your eyes, a sudden, heavy wave of emotion tightening in your chest until it's actually hard to breathe.
You are, unfortunately, severely allergic to real flowers; the pollen makes your eyes swell shut, and your lungs feel heavier within minutes. It is a small, trivial detail you had mentioned to Jungkook months ago, a passing, light-hearted remark made at two in the morning while you both sat on the kitchen floor giggling over a tray of accidentally burnt sugar cookies. You hadn't thought twice about it. You had assumed he forgot it the second the words left your mouth.
Yet here they are. Flowers that will never wither, flowers that can never trigger your allergies, flowers made with a level of dedication that a person can only give when they are entirely, irrevocably devoted to someone. Only a handful of people in the world know that secret about you, and your royal visitor remembered every single syllable.
Tucked precisely into the centre of the soft yarn roses is a small, heavy piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers trembling violently as you pull the note free from the stitches and unfold it.
I heard real flowers make you sneeze.
These will never wither, and they will never hurt you.
I'll be there tonight. Don't lock the back door.
- J.
p.s. leave out some extra cookies, please <3
You press the heavy paper firmly against your chest, right over your thundering heart, staring out into the bustling village square. A silent tear slips down your cheek, cutting through the light dust of flour on your skin, but a bright, genuine smile graces your lips.
Yesterday, you felt completely alone, broken and humiliated on the cold cobblestones while the world looked away in fear. But today, clutching this note, you feel safer, more cherished, and more protected than you have ever felt in your entire life.
You find yourself glancing up at the morning sun, already tracking its slow path across the sky, a deep, restless yearning settling into your very bones. For the first time in your life, you find yourself utterly despising the daylight, wishing the hours would fly by in a breathless blur. You can't bring yourself to care about the flour, the dough, or the baking today. All your heart can focus on is the ticking of the clock, desperately waiting for midnight to fall so you can hear that muffled chime, the click of the door, and fall back into the familiar step with your prince.
₊ ֹ ˖ GARRETT WITH A BLUNT GIRLFRIEND THAT LIKES MAKING HIM BLUSH ᱺㅤㅤ ୨౿
one thing about you was that you were loud, a bit too carefree, and with absolutely no filter. while your boyfriend, garret was no introvert or virgin bride, he was still not used to being with someone just so—so blunt and brash.
and that came with some consequences, because there would be times where you would tease the shit out of him or make explicit comments so causally at all times, it made him flush like a schoolgirl.
that has never happened to him before you. like ever.
before, he was the one making girls blush, making their panties melt, and then came your hurricane self, with an obnoxious smirk making him shy as fuck.
sometimes he’d be left speechless because he always thought he’d be the one doing all that in a relationship.
sometimes he’d be too embarrassed at the fact that he was blushing, so he wouldn’t even know how to respond.
he was a hockey player who shoved people out of the way for a living, for fuck’s sake—why was he so weak for you?
see, and that’s why he tried to resist it, but the more he did, the worse it got
for example, if he just came out of the shower with his naked chest on display and you were there to witness, the first thing you’d do would be let out a whistle
“the things i’d do to lick those water drops off of you clean”
you never missed the deep patch of red flashing across his body as he quickly grabbed a towel, drying himself off before throwing on a shirt and shorts like that would somehow make it better.
then he’d walk over to you, pressing a deep kiss to your lips, trying to regain some sort of composure.
or again, if he was suited up for an event in which he looked so sinfully hot in, and you’d walk up to him as he fumbled with his tie, pulling him by his opened tie and fixing it as you tighten it, making him all red. pressing a gentle kiss to his lips
“what are you thinking about” he’d clear his throat before asking as you gazed at him with dilated pupils.
“how long it’d take for me to take this thing off you, pretty boy” and boom, here goes his willpower.
“you can’t say shit like that to me when i’m about to leave in like five,” he’d groan loudly, putting his forehead on you, adjusting his slacks while you giggled, feeling proud of yourself for getting him so weak.
or the last straw—when he walked into his room after another tiring practice, not knowing you’re in his bed, quickly taking his shirt off, leaving him in only loose sweats that show his boxers band, with a dark happy trail leading to a happy place.
you eyes drag up and down his body from your position in his bed as he moves around in his room before his eyes snap towards you and his whole composure softens realizing your there.
but you’re still staring. still tracking every movement which makes him a bit confused. does he have something on him?
“what?”
“you walk like it’s big” you blurt out, licking your very much dry lips.
“what’s that supposed to—“ he’s midway into his question when dean passes by garret’s room, still in his jersey, and yells out “it means you’re walking around like you’re being weighted down by something and that something is your dick! you’re welcome!” before moving into his room, shutting his door.
your boyfriend, per usual, flushes at the crude words
it was true, he just had a natural sway in his hips and that confident, lazy walk—it exceeded big dick energy.
or when he sat, he took space, thick hockey thighs spreading to make room for himself and his heaviness, it was so obvious that he had to make room for something big to sit like that.
“you get what i mean now?” you mutter, eyes glued onto his crotch as the familiar bulge forms
“baby i’m feeling very objectified at the moment” he murmurs as he closes his door before walking over to you, as he lowers himself on top of you, nuzzling his face into your neck
he was a mess, and it was better if you didn’t look into his face right now.
you just grab his curls as you push his head off of you, before pushing him onto his bed as you straddle him.
“awh poor baby you want me to stop?” you coo as your fingers find his chain resting on his chest, gently tugging onto it
he’s so mesmerized right now, so he shakes his head side to side as you lean back, keeping eye contact as you lean back before slipping a finger into his sweats, slowly pushing them off his legs
“that’s what i thought, big boy” he raises his hips, helping you take his sweats off
you know what, garret decided he liked the fact that he turned putty at the hands of his girlfriend. it was a humbling reality check that he wasn’t the one with all the charm, and his usual tricks didn’t always come to play.
he needed that once in a while.
masterlist guys this is kinda off topic but i’m so obsessed with belmont’s curls
RED RIGHT HAND! | An Off Campus x Criminal Minds AU
Summary: After his daughter and her boyfriend, university hockey player Dean Di Laurentis, go missing on their way back from a concert in Boston, David Rossi pulls out all the stops and drags the BAU to Hastings to find them.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Rossi!Reader
Warnings: Typical Criminal Minds violence, assault etc. Rossi grapples with the fact that he might not be the dad that he thought he was. Every chapter will have individual warnings.
Author's Note: Surprise! My thriller loving heart can't wait to start writing this AU, and I hope I am dedicated enough to the idea to stick it out to the end. I know it seems wild and random, but I've seen all kinds of AU's and crossovers going on in the Off Campus fandom and it gave me and idea for one of my own.
CHAPTER ONE: RED RIGHT HAND!
A dirt road, a silver 4-Runner found with both front doors open, radio still playing, and a voicemail from his daughter that sends shivers down David Rossi's spine brings the BAU to the hallowed campus of Briar University. A place where Rossi thought his daughter would finally be safe.
CHAPTER TWO: BLACK HOLE SUN
Rossi follows a potential lead to the home of the Briar Fighting Hawks, and the team investigate the last known location of the missing. Elsewhere, Dean and YN start to plan their escape.
CHAPTER THREE: TWISTING THE KNIFE
With Dean in the hospital and YN still missing, the search grows desperate as pieces of YN’s past are slowly revealed.
CHAPTER FOUR: NO MORE TEARS
The team run down an alibi at Malone’s, and YN comes face-to-face with her abductor.
CHAPTER FIVE: THE MASTERPLAN
The team close in on Nathan Kapranos, and YN makes her final stand.
CHAPTER SIX: MY LUCK IS WASTED
YN and Dean have their tearful reunion, and Rossi fills YN in on the final Lexie’s of Kapranos’ plan.
SUMMARY — dean needs a fake girlfriend for one weekend, and you’re supposed to be the last person who’d ever say yes. but pretending with dean starts feeling easier than it should, and walking away becomes a lot harder than either of you expected.
WARNINGS — 18+ mdni, smut in some parts, protected sex, fingering, oral sex, praise, dirty talk, soft aftercare, fake dating, only one bed trope, jealousy, miscommunication, hurt feelings, morning-after tension, emotional confusion, emotional confrontation.
Synopsis: When Dean experiences a loss that he will never understand he finds solace in the one person who can understand what he is going through, you.
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE SCORE. DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENS. grief. so much pain. death of a relative. found family.
Author's note: this will be a few parts long probably. This one hurt a lot to write, if you are struggling with grief my dms are always open.
PROLOGUE
The first thing you learned about moving across the country was that it involved far more stuff than any human being should reasonably own. Your bedroom looked like a tornado had touched down in it.
Clothes covered every available surface. Half-packed cardboard boxes sat against the walls. The navy Briar University hoodie you'd convinced yourself was worth forty dollars hung from the back of your desk chair. Somewhere beneath the chaos, your floor still existed, probably. You sat cross-legged in the middle of the mess, staring at an open suitcase and then promptly threw another shirt into the pile beside it.
"I swear to God," a familiar voice said from your bed, "if you don't actually start packing, you're gonna show up in Massachusetts with three pairs of underwear and a dream." You looked up. Sienna was sprawled across your comforter, completely ignoring the fact that she'd supposedly come over to help. One arm dangled over the side of the mattress while she scrolled through her phone. Her sunglasses were pushed into her sun-bleached hair and there was still sand on her legs from wherever she'd been before this.
“You are literally the reason I'm not packing.
Her grin widened. “False.”
“It is not false.”
“It is.”
“You have been here for an hour.”
“Mhm.”
“And all you've done is distract me.”
“Mhm.”
“And eat my snacks.”
That finally earned a laugh a bright, effortless sound that filled the room. “There were crackers available” she said.
“You ate an entire box.”
“They were really good crackers.” You threw a rolled-up sock at her, Sienna caught it without looking. Show-off.
She tossed it back. “You know” she said casually, “most people would be excited about moving to college.”
“I am excited.”
“You've reorganized the same suitcase four times.”
“I like being organized.”
“You are spiralling.”
You groaned and dropped backward onto the carpet, the ceiling fan spun lazily overhead. Florida sunlight poured through your bedroom window, turning everything warm and gold. In less than two weeks, you'd be leaving, the thought still felt unreal. You'd spent years dreaming about Briar. Filling out applications. Writing essays. Checking acceptance rates. Imagining what it would be like to leave Florida and start somewhere completely new. Now it was actually happening. Which, unfortunately, was terrifying. “What if I hate it?” you asked quietly.
Sienna snorted. You didn't even have to look at her to know she'd rolled her eyes. “You're not gonna hate it.”
“What if everyone hates me?”
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The ridiculous thing you've been worried about all summer.”
You sat up enough to glare at her. She grinned. “Nobody is gonna hate you.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“You literally can't.”
Sienna sat upright, for a second, her expression softened. It always did when she looked at you like that like she could somehow see every thought bouncing around inside your head. “You know what your problem is?” she asked.
“I have several.”
“You think everybody sees you the way you see yourself.”
You frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means you're too busy noticing every little thing that's wrong with you to realize everyone else is too busy worrying about themselves.”
You considered that, then immediately shook your head. “Nope.”
She laughed. “Fine. Ignore my wisdom.”
“I will.”
“Rude.”
“You're twenty-two. Stop acting like some ancient philosopher.”
“First of all, twenty-two is mature.”
“It's old.” Sienna gasped dramatically.
“Oh my God.”
“It's basically retirement age.”
“Oh, you're dead to me.”
You couldn't help laughing, she launched a pillow at your face. You barely managed to catch it before it hit you. The two of you dissolved into another round of bickering, neither making any actual effort to win the argument. It had always been like this, ever since you were little Sienna was only three years older, but somehow she'd spent your entire life looking after you. Teaching you how to ride a bike, helping you study, picking you up after bad days, standing up for you when nobody else would. She was your sister. Your best friend. Your favourite person. The idea of living over a thousand miles away from her felt impossible.
Even if you knew it was time.
Sienna stretched before hopping off the bed. “Okay.”
You eyed her suspiciously. “Okay what?”
“Okay, I'm leaving.”
You blinked. “You're voluntarily leaving?”
“I know. Crazy.” She grabbed her sunglasses from the comforter. “Me and the girls are taking the boat out.”
“The boat.”
“The boat.”
“You said you were helping me.”
“I did help.”
You looked around the disaster zone, nothing appeared noticeably different. “Sienna.”
“You've made emotional progress.”
“I hate you.”
She laughed again, then crossed the room and wrapped her arms around your shoulders before you could protest. You immediately hugged her back because of course you did. “You're gonna do amazing up there, you know” she said. The words were muffled against your hair.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“Sienna”
“I mean it.”
You pulled back enough to look at her, she smiled. Not teasing this time, not joking. Just completely certain. The way she'd always been when it came to you. “You're gonna make friends” she said. “You're gonna love it. You're gonna get some fancy degree and become wildly successful and forget all about me.”
You rolled your eyes. “That last part definitely isn't happening.”
“We'll see.”
“We won't.”
Her smile widened. For a moment, everything felt normal, safe, certain. Like there would always be more afternoons like this. More summers. More conversations. More time.
“Text me later?” you asked.
“Obviously.”
“And don't drop your phone in the ocean this time.”
“That happened once.”
“It happened three times.”
“Allegedly.”
You laughed despite yourself. Sienna headed for the door. Halfway through, she turned back. “Love you.” The words were automatic, familiar. The kind of thing she'd said a thousand times before. The kind of thing you'd hear a thousand more, at least, that's what you thought.
“Love you too.”
She flashed you one final grin, then she was gone. The front door slammed downstairs a few seconds later and you turned back toward the half-packed suitcase waiting in the middle of your room.
Completely unaware that your entire life had just changed.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
For a while after Sienna left, you just stood in the middle of your room listening to the quiet, it wasn't actually quiet. The ceiling fan hummed overhead, music drifted from somewhere downstairs, a lawn mower buzzed in the distance. But compared to five minutes ago, it felt strange, empty. You shook the feeling off immediately.
Your sister had a talent for filling every room she entered. Of course things felt quieter when she wasn't in them. You glanced toward the open doorway. Half expecting her to reappear because she'd forgotten something, again. Instead, nothing happened.
The house settled around you, life continued, normal. You dropped back onto the floor beside your suitcase. “Okay” you muttered. “Actual packing.” The suitcase remained unimpressed.
Twenty minutes later, you'd somehow accomplished less than before. You folded three shirts, unfolded two, checked your phone, looked up restaurants near Briar, checked your phone again. Then groaned and flopped dramatically onto your stomach. This was impossible. Maybe you simply weren't meant for adulthood. The thought made you laugh.
You reached for your phone and opened your messages. The conversation with Sienna sat pinned at the top, as always. You sent her a photo of the disaster zone currently masquerading as your bedroom.
You: Help.
Three dots appeared almost immediately. You smiled.
Sienna: absolutely not
Sienna: this is your own fault
You: you were supposed to help me
Sienna: i DID help
You: by eating my food?
Sienna: morale support is important
A second message followed.
Sienna: also look how pretty
A picture appeared, blue water stretched endlessly beneath a cloudless sky. The ocean glittered beneath the afternoon sun several familiar faces crowded into the frame behind her. Sunglasses, swimsuits, bright smiles. Sienna herself was front and center, sticking her tongue out at the camera. You rolled your eyes affectionately.
You: show off
Sienna: jealous?
You: maybe
Sienna: should've skipped packing and come with us
You: mom would've killed me
Sienna: worth it
You laughed softly. Then liked the photo, a few seconds later another message appeared.
Sienna: don't stress so much
You stared at the screen because somehow she'd always known. Even through text. Even from miles away. She always knew when you were spiralling.
You: trying not to
Sienna: you'll be okay
The reply came so easily, so casually. Like a hundred conversations before it.
You: i know
You didn't realize then that it would be the last real conversation you'd ever have with her, the thought didn't even cross your mind.
Why would it?
Sienna was twenty-two years old, healthy, happy. Annoyingly invincible.
The worst thing that could happen on a boat trip was sunburn. You tossed your phone onto the bed and returned to packing.
The afternoon slipped by slowly, your mother called you downstairs for dinner. Your father complained about college tuition. You argued over who got the last dinner roll, normal. Everything was normal. Afterward, you carried another box upstairs. Folded more clothes. Labeled things you'd probably have to relabel later, the sun began to sink lower outside your window. Painting the sky shades of orange and pink.
You checked your phone again.
No new messages. Not surprising. Sienna was probably still out on the water or at dinner or losing her phone somewhere. Again.
You smiled to yourself, then plugged your charger into the wall. Completely certain there would be another text waiting when you woke up tomorrow. Completely certain there would be more conversations. More summers. More time. Outside, the Florida sky darkened and somewhere beyond the coastline, unseen by anyone in this house, a storm was beginning to form.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
By nine o'clock, you'd given up on being productive. The suitcase was still open. Your room was still a disaster and despite spending the entire afternoon supposedly packing, you were fairly certain you'd somehow managed to make things worse. You sat cross-legged on your bed, laptop balanced on your knees. Some random reality show played quietly in the background while you scrolled through housing information for what felt like the hundredth time.Your phone sat beside you.
Silent. You glanced at it, nothing. Not unusual. Sienna had never been particularly attached to her phone. If anything, she was notorious for forgetting it existed.
You picked it up and checked your messages. No new texts, you considered sending another one. Then decided against it. If she was still out with her friends, she'd probably make fun of you for being clingy. The thought made you smile, a moment later your phone rang. You immediately reached for it, expecting Sienna, expecting some blurry video of her screaming over music, expecting a drunk FaceTime request.
Instead, an unfamiliar number filled the screen.
You frowned, for a second you considered ignoring it. Then answered anyway.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was crying, not quietly, not trying to hide it. Full-blown sobbing. Your stomach dropped instantly.
“Hello?”
For a moment all you could hear was breathing, panic. Noise in the background. People talking. Someone shouting. “Is this” The girl choked on the words. “Is this Y/N?”
You sat up straighter. “Yeah.” Another sob
Your grip tightened on the phone, something cold slid through your chest. “Who is this?”
“It's, it's Olivia.”
The name was vaguely familiar, one of Sienna's friends. You'd met her a few times. Beach parties, birthdays, things like that. “What happened?” The question left your mouth before you could stop it because something had happened.
The silence that followed was enough confirmation, your heartbeat doubled. “Olivia?”
“There was an accident.” Everything inside you went still.
“What?”
“There was an accident.” The words came out rushed, broken. “We were out on the boat and” She started crying again.
You couldn't breathe properly, your entire body felt suddenly wrong like somebody had reached into your chest and squeezed.
“What accident?” you asked. “What happened?”
The questions came too fast, one after another. Olivia tried to answer. “The storm”
“What storm?”
“It came out of nowhere.”
“What happened?”
“The boat flipped.”
Your heart stopped. “What?”
“The boat-“ A sharp inhale, another sob. “The boat capsized.”
You were already standing, you didn't remember getting off the bed. One second you were sitting, the next you were pacing. “No.” The word slipped out automatically.
No.
No.
No.
People survived boat accidents, people survived storms, people survived things all the time. “Sienna”" you asked. “Where's Sienna?” A horrible pause followed, not long. Barely a second but long enough. Way too long. Your stomach twisted violently. “Olivia.”
The girl was crying so hard you could barely understand her. “They took everyone to the hospital.”
Hospital was good.
Hospital meant alive.
Hospital meant doctors.
Hospital meant help.
You grabbed onto those words immediately, clung to them. “Okay.”
Your voice sounded strange. Distant. “Okay. Sienna's there?” Another silence. “Olivia, is Sienna there?”
“I don't know.”
The room tilted. “What do you mean you don't know?”
“They were still looking.”
The words didn't make sense, you stared at the wall. Still looking. Looking for what? For who? Your brain refused to connect the dots, refused. “They found her, right?” Nothing. “Olivia.” Nothing. “Olivia.”
“I don't know.” The words shattered. Broken, terrified, real. Something crashed downstairs, a chair maybe, a door. You weren't sure. All you could hear was blood rushing through your ears.
“Which hospital?” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “Which hospital?” She gave you the name but you barely registered it. Already moving, already grabbing your keys from the desk, already heading for the door. “I'm coming.”
“Y/N”
“I'm coming.” You ended the call.
The silence afterward was deafening, for one impossible second you simply stood there. Phone still clutched in your hand, heart hammering, trying to understand what had just happened, trying to make it make sense. It didn't because this was Sienna, your sister. The strongest person you knew, the girl who never got hurt, the girl who never lost, the girl who always came home.
A sharp laugh escaped you, almost hysterical because everyone was acting like this was some huge emergency but it wasn't.
It couldn't be. Sienna was fine, she had to be. Maybe she'd broken her arm, maybe she had a concussion, maybe she was unconscious, maybe she was sitting in a hospital bed right now wondering why everyone was making such a big deal out of this.
Your bedroom door flew open. Your mother appeared. One look at your face and hers immediately changed. “What's wrong?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out so you tried again. “There was an accident.” The words felt foreign, wrong.
Your mother's expression drained of colour. “What?”
You swallowed hard. “The boat.”
Your voice cracked. “The boat flipped.”
For a moment neither of you moved, neither of you breathed.
Then your mother whispered, “Sienna?”
And suddenly everything started moving at once, fast, too fast. Your father shouting downstairs, car keys, shoes, questions, panic. The entire house erupting around you but through it all, one thought repeated itself over and over.
Like a prayer, like a promise, like something that would become true if you believed it hard enough.
She's okay.
She's okay.
She's okay.
She's okay. She has to be.
The drive to the hospital should have taken twenty-five minutes. You made it in seventeen, not because the roads were empty, not because traffic was light because your father drove like a man trying to outrun reality. Streetlights blurred past the windows, red lights became suggestions.
Your mother sat in the passenger seat gripping the handle above the door so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Nobody told him to slow down, nobody even mentioned it. You sat in the back seat staring at your phone. Waiting. For a text. A call, anything. Every few seconds, you unlocked the screen, checked for notifications, locked it again. Then repeated the process, nothing.
Your messages to Sienna remained unanswered. The photo she'd sent earlier was still sitting in your conversation, the ocean, the sunlight. Her stupid grin, you stared at it, zoomed in. As if somehow there'd be a clue hidden in the image, something that would explain all of this, something that would tell you she was okay. She looked fine, happy, alive. The idea that anything could have happened between then and now felt impossible.
Your father's phone rang, the sound made everyone jump. He answered immediately. “Hello?” Silence. Then, “No.”, a pause “No, we're on our way.” Another pause. His jaw tightened. “Nobody knows anything?” Your stomach dropped. Nobody knows anything, the words echoed in your head. You hated them because if nobody knew anything, then nobody knew she was okay. Your father hung up.
Your mother twisted in her seat. “Who was that?”
“Coast Guard.” The answer came clipped, sharp like speaking hurt.
“What did they say?”
“They don't know anything yet.”
Your mother let out a shaky breath. You looked back down at your phone, didn't say a word because you were already building explanations. Good explanations, reasonable explanations. Maybe Sienna had been separated from the others, maybe her phone was dead, maybe she'd already been rescued but hadn't been identified yet, maybe she was in another ambulance, maybe she was unconscious.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
You clung to every possibility, even the ridiculous ones, especially the ridiculous ones.
Outside the window, rain had started to fall. Not heavy. Just enough to blur the streetlights. You watched droplets race down the glass. Your chest felt tight, too tight.
You suddenly remembered something, a memory from years ago. You and Sienna at the beach, you couldn't have been older than ten. A wave had knocked you over, you'd swallowed water, panicked immediately, started crying. Sienna had pulled you back to shore and laughed so hard she nearly fell over herself. Then she'd spent the next hour teaching you how to float. “You're impossible to drown” she'd told you. You'd believed her because if Sienna said something, it was true.
The memory disappeared as quickly as it had come. Your throat burned and you swallowed hard, she's okay, the thought came automatically, she's okay.
The hospital appeared ahead, bright lights cutting through the darkness. Your father pulled into the parking lot far too fast. The car barely stopped before your mother was opening the door, you followed immediately. Cold air hit your face, rain dampened your hair, everything suddenly felt too loud. Sirens, voices, footsteps.
You hurried after your parents toward the emergency entrance, people crowded the waiting area. Doctors, nurses, families, police officers.
The fluorescent lights overhead seemed impossibly bright.
A woman behind the reception desk looked up. “Can I help you?”
“My daughter.” Your mother's voice broke instantly. “Sienna Carter.”
The woman typed something into a computer, your heart hammered, you watched her face. Searching for a reaction. Any reaction, a smile, a nod, something reassuring. Instead, her expression shifted into something carefully neutral. Professional.
The kind of expression people wore when they were trying not to say too much. “We have family gathering in the waiting room down the hall.”
Your father frowned. “Can we see her?”
The receptionist glanced toward someone standing behind her, a nurse. The nurse approached immediately, too quickly, your stomach twisted. “We'll have someone speak with you shortly.”
You stared at her. “What room is she in?”
The nurse hesitated, just for a second but you noticed, you noticed everything. “What room?” you repeated.
“We'll update you as soon as we can.”
Your mother was already crying again, your father looked like he might punch a wall and you just felt annoyed, frustrated. Because nobody would answer a simple question. What room was she in? Why wouldn't anyone tell you? If she was alive, then she was somewhere in this building, maybe injured, maybe unconscious. But here, safe, being treated. So why was everyone acting so strange?
The nurse guided your family toward a private waiting room. The door opened. You stepped inside and immediately saw half a dozen familiar faces, Sienna's friends. Some still wrapped in hospital blankets. One girl had a bandage around her forehead, another was crying into someone's shoulder. The moment they saw your family, the room fell silent, nobody spoke, nobody moved. They just looked at you and for the first time all night, genuine fear crawled up your spine because they looked heartbroken.
Not worried. Not scared. Heartbroken. Like they already knew something you didn't, something they weren't saying. Something you refused to believe.
Not Sienna.
Never Sienna. She was coming home. She had to be.
Your mother sat beside you, clutching a crumpled tissue in both hands. Your father stood near the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Pacing every few minutes before forcing himself still again. Nobody spoke. Not at first, the room seemed suspended in time. Everyone waiting. For what, you weren't entirely sure.
You looked around. Recognized most of the people there. Olivia. Mason. Jake. Friends who'd spent summers on boats and beaches and around bonfires with your sister, they all looked terrible, exhausted, shaken.
One girl had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders despite the Florida heat outside, her eyes were red from crying. You hated looking at her because every time you did, your stomach twisted harder.
Finally, after nearly ten minutes of silence, you couldn't take it anymore. You stood. Immediately several heads turned toward you. “Where is she?”
Nobody answered, your heart started pounding. You looked at Olivia. “Where's Sienna?”
Olivia's face crumpled instantly. “No.”
You shook your head. “No.” Because that wasn't an answer and you didn't want whatever answer she was about to give. “She's here, right?” Silence. “She's in surgery?” Still silence, your chest tightened. “What happened?” The question came out sharper than intended, more desperate. “What happened?”
Olivia wiped furiously at her eyes. “The storm came in really fast.” You stared at her. “The forecast said it wasn't supposed to hit until later.” Nobody spoke. “The water got rough.” Her voice shook. “We turned back.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. “We were almost there.”
Almost, the word lodged somewhere deep inside your chest, almost.
“The boat flipped.” You already knew that part, you wanted the rest, the part nobody would tell you. “The Coast Guard got there.” Olivia swallowed hard. “They pulled everyone out.”
Everyone, good, everyone.
Your heart latched onto the word immediately, everyone. See? Everything was fine everyone.
Then why was she crying? Why did everyone keep looking at you like that? “Then where's Sienna?”
The room fell silent again, the same horrible silence, the one you'd started to fear. Olivia looked away and suddenly your stomach dropped. Not because of what she said but because of what she didn't.
“No.” The word escaped before you could stop it. “No.”
Your mother began crying again, quietly this time. Like she'd been crying for hours, maybe she had. You weren't sure anymore. You looked toward your father, waiting for him to say something, anything. To tell everyone they were being ridiculous, that nobody knew anything, that Sienna was fine. Instead he stared at the floor and somehow that terrified you more than anything else.
Because your father always had answers, always.
When you were little and scared of thunderstorms.
When your car broke down.
When life fell apart, your father fixed things. Except now he looked completely helpless.
The door opened and every person in the room turned, a doctor stepped inside. Middle-aged, tired, still wearing scrubs. The room immediately stood, your mother, your father, everyone.
You followed a second later your heart pounded so hard it hurt, this was it. Finally someone who knew something someone who could explain. The doctor looked around the room, his eyes landed on your parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Carter?”
Your mother's hand flew to her mouth. “Yes.”
The doctor nodded once, then glanced at you. “Are you immediate family as well?”
You frowned, the question felt strange, formal, official. Like something from a movie. “I'm her sister.”
His expression changed almost imperceptibly. But enough, enough that your pulse stumbled, enough that dread suddenly curled inside your stomach. The doctor took a breath, a single breath. And the entire room seemed to hold its own. You watched his face, waiting, waiting for the words, stable, recovering, concussion, hypothermia anything. Any of those. Please.
The doctor looked directly at your parents. Then said “We did everything we could.”
The world stopped, not dramatically, not loudly, quietly. Like somebody had reached inside your chest and pulled the plug.
The words didn't make sense, they couldn't because people only said things like that when—
No.
No.
No.
The doctor kept talking, something about rescue efforts, something about resuscitation, something about the amount of time she'd spent underwater but the room had suddenly become underwater too. Every word distorted, distant, muffled.
You couldn't hear properly, couldn't think properly, couldn't breathe properly.
Your mother's knees gave out someone caught her. People moved voices rose around you. The doctor was still talking, still explaining, still apologizing.
“I'm sorry.” The sentence cut through everything, clean, sharp, impossible. “I'm so sorry.”
Your sister was dead, the thought appeared suddenly. Fully formed, your sister was dead, you stared at the doctor. Waiting for him to correct himself, waiting for somebody to laugh and explain the misunderstanding, waiting for reality to reassemble itself into something recognizable.
It didn't, nobody corrected him, nobody laughed, nobody said anything. Because there wasn't a mistake there wasn't another patient there wasn't another family there wasn't another Sienna.
It was yours.
Your sister.
Your best friend.
Gone.
“No.” The word barely came out, your throat burned. “No.”
The doctor looked at you with heartbreaking sympathy and somehow that made everything worse. Because people only looked at you like that when something terrible had happened. “No.” You shook your head, hard, faster. Like if you did it enough, reality would change. “No.” Your voice cracked. “You're wrong.” The room blurred, tears finally gathering, not falling just gathering. Everything inside you desperately rejecting what you'd heard. “You're wrong.”
Because she couldn't be dead. She'd texted you three hours ago. She'd sent you a picture. She'd told you not to stress. She'd said she loved you. People who said they loved you didn't just disappear. Not three hours later, not forever, not Sienna, never Sienna.
But nobody argued nobody corrected you nobody told you she was okay and somewhere deep down, beneath all the denial and shock and panic, you understood why. Because she wasn't.
You didn't remember how long you'd been sitting there, minutes, hours. It all felt the same. The waiting room had become a blur of crying and voices and hands on your shoulders. People kept speaking to you. You weren't listening you couldn't. Because every time you closed your eyes, you heard the doctor's voice.
We did everything we could.
You hated that sentence, hated the sympathy, hated the way everyone looked at you. Most of all, you hated that nobody had corrected him nobody had said there'd been a mistake.
A nurse appeared beside your chair, you barely noticed her at first. “Miss Carter?”
You stared at the floor, she crouched slightly. Gentle, careful like you might shatter if she spoke too loudly. “Your parents are with another doctor right now.”
You nodded without really understanding, the nurse hesitated. Then quietly asked, “Would you like to see your sister?”
The room disappeared, you looked up. “What?” The word came out hoarse.
“Would you like to see her?”
No. The answer should have been no because seeing her meant this was real. Seeing her meant there wasn't a mistake, seeing her meant accepting the impossible. Instead, you found yourself standing. The nurse nodded softly and led you out of the room.
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The walk felt endless. Hallways stretched forever beneath fluorescent lights, your shoes squeaked against polished floors. Everything smelled like antiseptic, everything looked too bright, too clean, too normal.
How could the world still be normal?
How could nurses be laughing at the station?
How could people be drinking coffee?
How could everything continue when Sienna, your throat closed. The nurse stopped outside a door. “You can take as much time as you need.”
You stared at it, the wooden door, the silver handle, the small rectangular window. A completely ordinary door, except your entire life existed on one side of it and whatever came after existed on the other.
The nurse quietly stepped away, leaving you alone. For several seconds you couldn't move.
Your hand hovered over the handle, shaking. You told yourself she wouldn't look like herself, people always said that.
You'd heard it in movies, at funerals, people never looked like themselves. So maybe this wouldn't hurt as much.
Your fingers closed around the handle and you pushed the door open and immediately knew every one of those thoughts had been a lie. Because it was Sienna, it was unmistakably her. The same blonde hair, the same freckles scattered across her nose, the same face you'd seen thousands of times. The face that had smiled at you that afternoon, the face that had laughed at your terrible packing skills, the face that had said love you. Only now it was still. Completely still. You stopped breathing and for a second you genuinely thought your heart had stopped, this wasn't possible.
She was supposed to move, she was supposed to grin and tell you everyone was being dramatic. She was supposed to sit up, say something, anything.
Instead the room remained silent, the reality of it hit harder than anything the doctor had said because doctors could be wrong. Words could be wrong but this wasn't.
You took a step forward, then another. Your vision blurred. Tears finally spilling over. “Sienna.” The whisper barely left your lips, no response. Of course there wasn't but part of you had expected one anyway. You reached the bedside, your hand shook as you reached for hers. The second your fingers touched her skin, something inside you cracked.
Cold, she was cold. Not freezing, not icy just wrong. Wrong in a way you couldn't explain.
Your sister had always been warm. Sun-warmed skin, beach days, summer nights, hugs that felt like home. She wasn't supposed to be cold. A sob tore from your chest.
The first real one, the kind that hurt, the kind that made breathing impossible. You bent forward, gripping her hand tighter.
“No.”
The word dissolved into tears.
“No, no, no.”
Because if you kept saying it enough times maybe reality would change. Maybe she'd wake up, maybe she'd laugh, maybe she'd tell you to stop crying. But she didn't.
She just lay there, silent, gone.
You don't know how long you stood there. Minutes. Maybe longer. At some point your eyes fell to her neck and that's when you saw it. The necklace, a simple white shell hanging from a worn silver chain.
Your stomach dropped, the necklace. The one she'd worn almost every day since she was sixteen, the one she'd bought from a tiny beach shop and declared her lucky charm. You couldn't count how many times you'd seen it. How many photos it appeared in. How many times she'd absentmindedly played with it while talking. The sight of it nearly broke you all over again because it was so normal so ordinary.
Like she'd put it on that morning expecting to wear it tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.
Your hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing the shell. Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks a nurse quietly entered behind you. You hadn't heard her come in, she stopped near the door. Giving you space you looked back at the necklace. Then at the nurse, your voice barely worked. “Can I...” The words caught and you swallowed. “Can I keep it?”
The nurse's expression softened immediately. “Of course.”
Your chest tightened.
She stepped closer, carefully unclasping the chain. For a second the necklace rested in her palm, then she placed it into yours. The shell felt impossibly small warm from your hand within seconds. You closed your fingers around it immediately like you were afraid someone might take it away like it was all you had left, maybe it was. You stared at the necklace then at your sister. And for the first time that night, a horrible realization settled inside you, this was the last thing she would ever give you.
No more phone calls. No more beach trips. No more teasing. No more advice. No more love you, just this.
A shell necklace. And a lifetime of memories. Your knees nearly gave out. You clutched the necklace against your chest, tears falling freely now and finally allowed yourself to understand the truth.
Sienna wasn't coming home, she wasn't waiting somewhere, she wasn't lost, she wasn't hurt, she was gone.
and nothing in the world would ever be the same again.
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THREE YEARS LATER
The first thing you noticed about Massachusetts was that autumn looked nothing like Florida. Three years later, it still surprised you.
The leaves had started changing weeks ago, painting the Briar campus in shades of gold and amber and deep crimson. Students hurried across pathways lined with trees that looked like they'd been stolen from postcards. The air carried a crisp bite that would have seemed impossible back home, where October still meant eighty-degree weather and beach days.
You pulled your jacket tighter as you crossed the quad, a group of freshmen hurried past. Someone nearly walked into a lamppost while staring at their phone. Two girls sat beneath a tree drinking coffee and laughing loudly enough for half the campus to hear, normal. Everything felt normal, that was the strange thing about grief. The world never stopped not for funerals, not for anniversaries, not for broken hearts.
The sun just kept rising, people kept laughing, life kept moving. Even when yours felt permanently split into before and after.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket, instinct immediately had your hand reaching for it.
The motion happened before you even thought about it.
You glanced at the screen. A message from Grace. Not Sienna, never Sienna. Your stomach tightened for half a second before the familiar disappointment faded. You hated that it still happened, the tiny flicker of hope.
The stupid impossible expectation that somehow there'd be a text waiting for you. A voicemail. A missed call, something.
Your therapist back in freshman year had called it muscle memory, you'd called it bullshit because muscle memory wasn't supposed to last four years.
You opened the message.
Grace: Lunch tomorrow? Please save me from writing this paper before I throw my laptop into the ocean.
A laugh escaped before you could stop it, you typed back immediately.
You: That's a dramatic response to one paper.
The reply appeared almost instantly.
Grace: You clearly haven't read it.
You smiled, then slipped your phone back into your pocket. As you did, your fingers brushed the necklace around your neck the shell rested against your skin beneath your sweater, small. Worn smooth by years of use, the chain had broken twice since you'd gotten it, you'd repaired it both times. The clasp wasn't even original anymore nothing about it should have survived this long. But it had. Just not the girl who'd worn it first.
The thought arrived quietly, the same way it always did. Not enough to ruin your day. Just enough to linger. You adjusted the necklace beneath your sweater and kept walking, students flowed around you. A professor rushed past carrying far too many books, someone called out a greeting. You waved automatically.
The education building appeared ahead, your first class didn't start for another ten minutes. Plenty of time. The realization should have relaxed you. Instead, your eyes drifted toward the clock tower. October, already. The month settled heavily in your chest.
Not because of classes, not because graduation was getting closer because October meant November was next and November meant- You cut the thought off immediately. No, not today. You'd spent years learning how to do that. Push it away. Put it somewhere else. Deal with it later, maybe.
Your therapist had probably hated that strategy. But it worked. Most of the time.
You climbed the steps toward the building entrance, the shell necklace shifted against your skin as you moved. A familiar weight. One you'd carried every single day since you were eighteen. Some mornings you forgot it was there, some mornings it felt impossibly heavy. Today sat somewhere in the middle. Inside, students crowded the hallway you slipped through them easily. You had settled into a routine by now, classes, placement hours, assignments, coffee, repeat. Normal. Comfortable. Safe.
The life you'd built for yourself. A life you'd built almost entirely on your own. Your parents hadn't visited Briar in nearly two years, the thought surfaced unexpectedly. You shoved it away just as quickly. There was no point dwelling on it not before eight-thirty in the morning.
Not ever, if you could help it.
A classroom door opened nearby, students poured out. You stepped aside to let them pass and one girl accidentally knocked into your shoulder. “Oh my God, sorry.”
“No worries.”
She smiled gratefully before hurrying away, the interaction lasted less than three seconds. By tomorrow neither of you would remember it. But as you watched her disappear into the crowd, a strange thought crossed your mind. Sienna would have remembered, not the girl. The moment. She remembered everything, every embarrassing story, every random conversation, every tiny detail people forgot about themselves.
You could still hear her voice sometimes. Not literally. Just memory. Sharp enough to feel real. Your chest tightened, then loosened again because that happened too. The ache came, the ache left. Like a tide, the years hadn't made it disappear, they'd just taught you how to live beside it.
“Y/N?”, You turned. One of your professors stood a few feet away, smiling. “Ready for placement this afternoon?”
The question immediately pulled you back into the present. Back into your life. The one that existed here, now. You smiled, a real one this time. “Absolutely.” And for the next few hours, you let yourself believe it, that everything was fine, that grief was something manageable, that the worst day of your life belonged firmly in the past.
You had no way of knowing that by the end of the week, another tragedy would shake Briar or that it would bring a certain hockey player crashing into your life or that for the first time in four years, you'd meet someone who understood exactly what it meant to lose a person you couldn't imagine living without.
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The best part of your week wasn't any of your classes. It wasn't hanging out with friends It wasn't even the fact that your mountain of assignments was finally starting to look manageable, it was Thursdays because Thursdays meant placement.
The elementary school sat twenty minutes from campus, tucked into a quiet neighbourhood lined with trees and small family homes. By the time you arrived that afternoon, the parking lot was already packed with parents and teachers. You climbed out of your car and immediately heard your name.
“Miss Y/N!” A blur of pink sneakers launched itself across the playground and you barely had time to brace yourself before eight year old Sophie wrapped herself around your waist.
You laughed. “Hi, Sophie.”
“You were gone forever.”
“I was here last week.”
“Forever.”
You nodded seriously. “My mistake.”
“Exactly.” Sophie's expression suggested she'd won the argument.
Behind her, several other children had already spotted you, within seconds you were surrounded. Questions immediately started flying. “Can you help me with my reading today?”
“I got an A on my spelling test.”
“Look at my new backpack.”
“I lost my pencil.”
“I found a frog.”
The last one made you blink.
“What?”
A boy proudly held up a plastic container, inside sat a very confused frog. You stared at him and he stared back. “You brought a frog to school?”
“His name is Kevin.”
“Of course it is.”
The boy grinned a familiar laugh sounded behind you. You turned to find Mrs. Reynolds approaching, third-grade teacher. Your mentor and one of your favourite people in the building.
“Sorry about them.”
You glanced at the crowd surrounding you. “I think they're planning a hostile takeover.”
Mrs. Reynolds nodded, “That's usually how Thursdays go.”
The children immediately began protesting. You laughed and for the first time all day, every lingering thought in your head disappeared no assignments, no family, no grief, just this, just kids. It was why you'd chosen education in the first place, not because it was easy, bot because it paid particularly well. Because you loved it. Because somewhere along the way you'd discovered that helping children feel safe felt important, meaningful, necessary.
The classroom buzzed with energy once everyone settled inside. You moved from desk to desk throughout the afternoon. Helping with reading, answering questions, breaking up one surprisingly dramatic argument over coloured pencils, by three o'clock your feet hurt.
Your coffee had gone cold and you couldn't stop smiling.
A little girl named Emma sat beside you during independent reading, her dark hair was pulled into messy pigtails, her front tooth was missing and she looked deeply concerned about something, you lowered your voice. “What's wrong?”
Emma frowned at the book in front of her. “I don't know this word.”
You glanced down, the word was adventure. You pointed at it, together, you sounded it out. Slowly, patiently, Emma repeated each syllable then looked up. Her face immediately brightened. “Oh.”
“See?”
“I know that word.”
“You do.”
She smiled proudly, the kind of smile that could probably power an entire city. For reasons you couldn't explain, your chest tightened. Just slightly because moments like this mattered. People always underestimated them. One child learning a word, one conversation, one moment of encouragement. Tiny things, until they weren't. Until they became the things a person remembered years later, the things that stayed.
A memory surfaced unexpectedly. You were seven crying over multiplication homework, convinced you were stupid. Sienna sitting beside you at the kitchen table, patiently walking you through every question. Refusing to let you quit the memory hit so suddenly you almost lost your train of thought. You swallowed hard, then smiled at Emma. “You want to read the next page?”
Emma nodded enthusiastically and just like that, the memory faded again. Still there, always there. Just quieter.
The final bell rang not long after, chaos immediately erupted. Backpacks. Jackets. Parents. Children racing toward the door. The classroom transformed into complete madness. You helped Mrs. Reynolds clean up once the last student had gone. The room finally settling into silence. For a moment neither of you spoke then Mrs. Reynolds smiled.
“You know.”
You glanced up. “What?”
“You've got a gift for this.”
The compliment caught you off guard. “Oh.”
“I'm serious.” She leaned against a desk. “The kids adore you.”
You laughed. “They mostly use me as free labour.”
“That's how you know they trust you.” The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest, warm, comforting.
You weren't usually great at accepting praise but this felt different. Because teaching mattered to you, maybe more than anything.
Mrs. Reynolds continued gathering papers. “You ever think about staying in elementary education after graduation?”
“Every day.” The answer came easily, without hesitation because despite everything life had thrown at you. Despite losing Sienna, despite leaving Florida, despite the years that followed— This part had always felt certain.
Mrs. Reynolds smiled. “Good.”
You looked around the empty classroom at the colourful artwork hanging on the walls at the tiny desks at the bookshelves at the evidence of a hundred small lives learning and growing every day and for a moment, something settled inside you, a rare kind of peace. The feeling that maybe you were exactly where you were supposed to be. For now, though, all you knew was that a little girl had learned the word adventure and somehow, that felt like enough.
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The student centre was packed, which wasn't unusual.
Between classes, sports practices, study groups and what seemed like half the student population surviving exclusively on caffeine, the building was always busy. You spotted Grace immediately. Mostly because she was waving at you from across the room like she'd been stranded for days instead of twenty minutes.
You laughed. “You're ridiculous.”
Grace pointed dramatically at the laptop in front of her. “You don't understand.”
“I feel like I do.”
“No.” She looked genuinely offended. “You don't.”
You slid into the seat opposite her and Grace immediately pushed her laptop toward you, you glanced down then immediately pushed it back. “Nope.”
“See?”
“Nope.”
“Exactly.” The grin she gave you was pure satisfaction, the paper looked terrible. Not because Grace was a bad student. Because she'd apparently spent the last three hours staring at the same paragraph.
You reached for your coffee. “How many words have you written?”
Grace looked away.
“Oh my God.”
“Technically some of them count.”
“Grace.”
“Forty-three.”
You nearly choked. “Forty-three?”
“It was a difficult forty-three.”
You laughed despite yourself. The sound earned a victorious smile, that was the thing about Grace being around her always felt easy. You'd met during freshman year after being assigned to the same orientation group, somehow the friendship had stuck and years later, she remained one of your favourite people. Even if she was occasionally dramatic enough to qualify as a public health concern.
“How was placement?” she asked.
Your expression softened instantly. “Good.”
“Just good?”
You smiled. “There was a frog.”
Grace blinked. “A frog.”
“A student brought it to school.”
“Why?”
“Apparently his name was Kevin.”
Grace immediately started laughing, you joined her. The conversation drifted naturally after that. Classes, placement hours, a professor neither of you liked, plans for the weekend. The comfortable rhythm of a friendship that had existed long enough to settle into something familiar. Around you, students came and went. The noise level constantly shifted, someone dropped a tray nearby a group of athletes crowded around one of the televisions, the usual chaos.
Grace was halfway through complaining about one of her assignments when her phone buzzed. She glanced down, rolled her eyes, then smiled despite herself.
“Logan?” You guessed.
She pointed at you. “See? This is why we're friends.”
“What did he do?”
Grace held up the screen.
Logan: forgot my lunch
Logan: tragic
Logan: tell my family i loved them
You laughed. “He's such an idiot.”
“He's a dramatic idiot.”
“Same thing.”
Grace hummed thoughtfully. “Fair.”
A few moments later another familiar figure appeared beside your table. Tucker, grinning, carrying enough food for what looked like an entire hockey team. “Well, if it isn't my two favourite people.”
You narrowed your eyes. “How many times have you said that today?”
Tucker considered. “At least six.”
“Honesty. I respect it.”
He dropped into the empty chair beside Grace, immediately stealing one of her fries. Grace smacked his arm and he looked delighted by this. The next ten minutes passed in easy conversation, Tucker updated you on hockey drama, Grace complained about Logan. You mostly listened, laughing whenever necessary. The hockey team came up frequently around Briar, that was unavoidable. They were practically campus celebrities especially after everything they'd accomplished over the past few years.
You knew all of them at least loosely. Garrett. Hannah. Logan. Grace. Tucker. Sabrina.
Even Dean. Though not well. Mostly through mutual friends and occasional group gatherings, you'd spoken to him maybe a handful of times over the years. Enough to know he was charming, confident. The kind of person who could make conversation with absolutely anyone.
Not enough to know much else.
“You coming Friday?” Tucker asked suddenly.
You frowned. “Friday?”
“Movie night.”
Grace immediately groaned. “Oh God.”
“What?”
“Tucker picks the movies.”
You immediately understood. “Oh no.”
“Exactly.”
Tucker looked offended. “My taste is excellent.”
“You made us watch Sharknado.”
“It is a cinematic masterpiece.”
You laughed into your coffee, the conversation continued around you, comfortable. Easy. Normal. You found yourself looking around the crowded student centre, watching people move through their day.
Friends laughing, students studying, couples holding hands. The ordinary rhythm of campus life. For a moment, you felt strangely lucky because despite everything that had happened, despite all the things you'd lost, you'd built something here.
Friends, a future, a place for yourself. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not without scars but you'd built it anyway.
Grace was saying something about Friday, Tucker was still defending Sharknado. You smiled and shook your head and for a little while, everything felt uncomplicated. Like just another ordinary Thursday afternoon at Briar.
The kind of day nobody remembers, the kind of day that feels endless while you're living it, the kind of day that ends far sooner than you expect.
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By the time you got home, the sun had started to set. Golden light spilled through the windows of your apartment, painting everything in soft shades of orange. You kicked off your shoes by the door, dropped your bag onto the kitchen counter and immediately made your way toward the coffee machine.
It was nearly five o'clock. Too late for coffee according to most people. Unfortunately for most people, you had three assignments due next week and coffee was non-negotiable. The machine hummed to life. You leaned against the counter while it worked, the apartment was quiet, comfortably quiet. You'd never minded being alone. Not really.
After years at Briar, you'd become used to it. Your roommates had graduated the previous spring, leaving you with a small one-bedroom apartment just off campus. It wasn't fancy but it was yours.
You liked that, the coffee machine beeped and you reached for your mug, that's when your phone rang. The sound startled you enough that coffee sloshed over the rim, you hissed then glanced at the screen. Mom. Your stomach immediately tightened, not dramatically, not painfully, just enough. The familiar reaction of someone who never quite knew what version of a conversation they were about to get.
You answered anyway. “Hey.”
A pause, then your mother's voice. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart, the word should have felt comforting, instead it just felt distant like something she said because she'd always said it. Not because she meant it. You hated yourself for thinking that. “How are you?” she asked.
You carried your coffee into the living room, settling onto the couch. “I'm good.”
“Classes going okay?”
“Yeah.” The conversation immediately fell into an awkward silence, neither of you seemed to know where to go from there. It had been like this for years. You remembered when phone calls used to last hours, now they felt like obligations. Something both of you were trying very hard not to fail. Finally you spoke.
“I had placement yesterday”
“Oh.” A pause. “How was it?”
A small smile appeared despite yourself. “Good.” You tucked your feet beneath you. “One of my students brought a frog to school.”
Your mother laughed softly and the sound caught you off guard, for a moment, she sounded like herself. The version of her that existed before. “The school allowed that?”
“Apparently not.”
Another laugh and for one brief second, everything felt easy, normal.
Then your mother sighed. “I found one of Sienna's old notebooks today.”
The moment shattered, just like that. Your smile disappeared and your grip tightened around your mug. “Oh.”
The silence stretched, you knew this routine, you knew it by heart. “One of her field journals.” Your mother's voice softened. “It still had all her notes in it.”
You closed your eyes briefly, of course it did. Sienna had filled dozens of notebooks over the years. Observations, ideas, dreams, plans, entire futures written neatly across hundreds of pages. “I forgot how beautiful her handwriting was.”
There it was, the shift. The conversation changing direction, again. Always, you stared at the wall opposite you. Listening. Your mother continued speaking. About the notebook. About finding one of Sienna's old photographs tucked between the pages. About a marine conservation project she'd wanted to work on. About how excited she'd been, you listened quietly. Making the appropriate sounds responding when necessary. The same way you'd done for years because what else were you supposed to do?
Tell your mother she was talking about your dead sister again? Tell her every conversation somehow ended here? Tell her you missed Sienna too?
The words stayed trapped inside your chest. Unspoken like they always did.
Eventually your mother paused and before you could stop yourself, you said: “I got really good feedback from my placement teacher.” The line slipped into the conversation carefully, like testing ice.
For a second, silence, then “That's nice, honey.”
That's nice, the words landed heavily. Not cruel. Not dismissive. Just automatic. Like she'd barely heard them.
Before you could respond, your mother continued. “I wish Sienna could've seen what you've done with your life.”
Your throat tightened because she meant it kindly. That was the worst part, she genuinely meant it kindly. Yet somehow it still hurt.
You stared down at your coffee, watching the steam rise from the surface. You suddenly felt eighteen again, standing in a hospital room, holding a shell necklace. Invisible beside a loss that consumed everyone around it. “I do too.” The words came out quietly.
Your mother sighed. “She would've been so proud of you.”
Tears threatened unexpectedly. You swallowed them down immediately because you weren't angry, you weren't, you understood, you really did. Your mother had lost a daughter. A piece of herself. The grief had hollowed her out, you knew that, you knew it every single day. The problem was, she wasn't the only one. You had lost her too and sometimes it felt like everyone forgot that. The conversation limped on for another few minutes. Neither of you saying what you actually meant.
Eventually your mother glanced at the time. “I should go.”
“Okay.”
“We love you.” The words came automatically. Practiced. Familiar.
You closed your eyes. “Love you too.”
The call ended. The apartment immediately fell silent again. You stared at your dark phone screen. The ache in your chest settling somewhere familiar. Not new, not sharp, just old, an old wound you'd learned how to carry. Slowly, your fingers lifted to the necklace around your neck. The shell rested beneath your sweater. Warm from your skin. You held it gently between your fingers. Thinking about your mother, thinking about Sienna, thinking about all the things that had been lost alongside her. After a moment, your phone buzzed. A text from Grace.
Grace: Movie night tomorrow remember. You're coming.
You laughed softly despite yourself, the sound echoed through the empty apartment. Then you typed back.
You: Is Tucker still choosing the movie?
The reply appeared almost instantly.
Grace: unfortunately
You: then absolutely not
Grace: too late. you're already invited
A smile tugged at your lips. Small. But real.
Life moved forward. It always did.
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Friday nights at Briar had always been chaotic. Not the wild party kind of chaotic, at least not for you. The hockey crowd had somehow evolved into something closer to a family over the years. Loud. Unhinged. Constantly in each other's business. But a family.
Which was how you found yourself standing outside Garrett Graham and Hannah Wells' apartment balancing a six-pack of soda in one hand and a bag of microwave popcorn in the other. The door flew open before you could knock.
“Thank God.” You blinked and Grace grabbed your arm immediately. “You're here.”
“Hello to you too.”
“Tucker brought three movies.”
“Oh no.”
“Exactly.”
She dragged you inside and the room was already full. Garrett sat sprawled across one end of the couch. Hannah occupied the other. Sabrina and Tucker were arguing near the kitchen, or maybe flirting. With those two it was honestly difficult to tell. Logan sat in an armchair looking entirely too comfortable, the room immediately felt familiar. Comfortable. Like stepping into something warm.
“Look who finally showed up.”
You rolled your eyes at Garrett. “I was three minutes late.”
“You were seven.”
“I was not.”
“You were.”
“You literally have no proof.”
Garrett pointed toward Logan. “Witness.”
Logan didn't even look up from his phone. “She was late.”
Traitor.
You narrowed your eyes. “I hope your team loses.”
Garrett gasped dramatically and the room immediately erupted into offended noises. You laughed. Some things never changed.
Grace finally released your arm. You dropped into the empty space beside Hannah. She immediately offered you popcorn, you accepted because she was your favourite, don't tell the others. Conversation flowed easily around the room, classes, internships, the latest hockey drama, plans for winter break. The kind of conversation that only happened between people who'd known each other long enough to stop trying.
For a little while you just listened, watching everyone interact, Garrett making terrible jokes. Logan pretending not to laugh at them, Sabrina threatening violence, Tucker encouraging it. The usual a smile tugged at your lips. You liked this, the simplicity of it, the comfort.
It felt earned somehow. Like after years at Briar, these people had become part of your life in ways you hadn't expected.
Maybe not your closest friends but close enough, safe enough. The door opened suddenly, a burst of cold air swept inside. You looked up automatically Dean Di Laurentis stepped into the apartment carrying two pizza boxes. “You're welcome.”
Several people immediately stood, not to help, just to steal food.
Dean sighed dramatically. “Animals.”
“Took you long enough” Garrett called.
“I had to save dinner.”
“You got lost.”
“I did not get lost.”
“You absolutely got lost.”
Dean rolled his eyes, the motion was so familiar it almost made you laugh. He looked exactly the same as every other time you'd seen him over the years, confident, easygoing. Always in the centre of everything without really trying, people gravitated toward him naturally. You'd noticed that before. Not because he demanded attention because he made everyone feel comfortable. The room always seemed brighter when he walked into it.
He set the pizzas down, immediately caught sight of you. “Hey.” The smile he offered was easy, friendly. The kind you gave someone you recognized but didn't know particularly well.
“Hey.”
“How've you been?”
“Good.”
“Student teaching still going okay?” The question surprised you, you hadn't expected him to remember. Apparently your expression showed it. Dean shrugged. “You talked about it at Tucker's birthday.”
Six months ago, you blinked. “Oh.”
His grin widened slightly. “That's a yes then?”
A laugh escaped. “Yeah. It's going well.”
“Nice.”
The interaction lasted maybe thirty seconds, nothing important, nothing memorable. Just conversation. Dean grabbed a plate. Someone yelled at Garrett. Tucker began defending another terrible movie choice. Life moved on and yet. A strange thought crossed your mind as you watched the room settle back into its usual rhythm. Dean was easy to be around. Not in a flirtatious way, not in a romantic way. Just easy. Like someone who genuinely cared when he asked how you were. The thought disappeared almost immediately. Lost beneath louder conversations, laughter, arguments over pizza toppings, the movie finally starting. The night continued, normal, comfortable, forgettable.
Hours later, as the credits rolled and everyone began gathering their things, you found yourself smiling, the evening had been fun. Nothing more, nothing less. You said your goodbyes. Promised Grace you'd text when you got home and ignored Tucker's insistence that Sharknado deserved awards. Then stepped out into the cold Massachusetts night, the air bit at your cheeks immediately.
You tucked your hands into your pockets, started the walk toward your car. Behind you, laughter spilled from the apartment. Warm and familiar.
You smiled to yourself.
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The apartment was quiet when you got home, almost midnight. Most of Briar was still awake. Weekend nights usually meant parties, crowded bars, loud music drifting through open windows, your apartment building, thankfully, was a little calmer, you locked the door behind you. Kicked off your shoes. Dropped your keys into the bowl beside the entrance, the familiar routine settled over you automatically. Comfortable. Predictable. Safe.
Movie night had been fun, your cheeks still hurt slightly from laughing. Particularly at Tucker's increasingly desperate attempts to convince everyone that Sharknado deserved critical acclaim, you shook your head.
Idiot.
The smile lingered as you moved through the apartment. Until your eyes landed on the calendar hanging beside the fridge and immediately disappeared.
November 14th, three weeks, your stomach dropped. Three weeks. That was all. The date stared back at you. Unmoving. Unforgiving. You looked away first because of course you did. You always did.
Her birthday wasn't today, there was no point thinking about it today. No point counting down. No point letting it ruin a perfectly good evening, three weeks. You swallowed hard. Then headed toward your bedroom, the necklace felt heavier than usual against your skin.
The room was dark except for the small lamp beside your bed, you sat on the edge of the mattress. Slowly reached for the chain, the motion was muscle memory by now. The clasp clicked open and you carefully lifted the necklace over your head. For a moment you simply held it, the shell rested in your palm, small, white, worn smooth after years of being touched. You traced your thumb across the surface, the same way you always did.
Then opened the drawer of your bedside table, inside sat a wooden box, nothing fancy. Just a small rectangular thing you'd bought during freshman year. The hinges squeaked slightly as you opened it. The contents were sparse, a bracelet, a faded concert ticket, a photograph and beneath them, your phone charger. Because apparently you trusted absolutely nobody. You laughed softly, then reached for the photograph, the edges were worn from years of handling, the image itself was simple.
You and Sienna at the beach, she couldn't have been older than twenty.
You sixteen both sunburnt.
Both grinning. Sienna had an arm around your shoulders. You were making a face because she'd shoved you into the ocean moments before the picture had been taken. You remembered being furious, she'd laughed for nearly an hour.
Your throat tightened, the memory came so easily, too easily. Sometimes you worried that one day it wouldn't.
That one day you'd forget the sound of her laugh, the exact shade of her eyes, the way she'd throw her head back when something genuinely amused her. That was your biggest fear, not grief, not sadness, forgetting.
You stared at the photo for a long moment, then carefully set it aside. Beneath it sat an old voicemail notification. A screenshot. One you'd taken years ago because the voicemail itself lived on three different devices. Two cloud backups and a USB stick, you were many things, careless wasn't one of them. Slowly, you picked up your phone, opened the file, pressed play.
Static crackled briefly. Then, “Hey loser.”
Your eyes immediately closed, there she was years later. Still there. Still waiting. “Mom said you're stressing about college again.” A laugh escaped you despite yourself. Same opening every time. Same stupid teasing. “You're gonna be amazing, okay? Stop acting like you're about to fail out before you've even gotten there.”
Your chest ached, not sharply, not the way it used to. Just enough. Enough to remind you.
“Call me later. Love you."
The voicemail ended, silence returned. You sat there for several seconds, phone still in your hand. The apartment felt impossibly quiet eventually you placed the necklace back around your neck. The shell settled against your skin. Home. Comfort. Pain, all at once.
Your phone buzzed suddenly, the sound startled you, you glanced down. Grace.
Grace: made it home?
A smile tugged at your lips.
You: yes mom
Three dots appeared instantly.
Grace: rude
Grace: just checking
You typed back.
You: i know
A second later another message arrived.
Grace: goodnight ❤️
You stared at it, something warm settled in your chest. Not because of the text itself because somebody had checked. Somebody had thought about you, it was such a small thing. Yet somehow it mattered.
You: goodnight grace ❤️
You set the phone down, turned off the lamp and slid beneath the covers. Outside, wind rattled gently against the windows. The campus continued moving around you. Students laughing. Cars passing. Life continuing, normal. Tomorrow would be another ordinary day, classes, assignments, coffee, friends. The same routine you'd built over four years. You closed your eyes and somewhere across campus, completely unknown to you, another Briar student was enjoying what would become one of the last ordinary weekends of his life.
Not because he was going to die.
Because someone he loved was.
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The next few days passed exactly the way most days did, quietly, classes, placement, assignments, coffee, repeat. By Tuesday afternoon, you found yourself wedged into a corner booth in the student centre with a textbook open in front of you and absolutely no motivation to read it. The words blurred together, you reread the same paragraph three times. Retained none of it. Across from you, Grace wasn't doing much better. She stared blankly at her laptop. “You know” she said eventually, “I think if I close my eyes long enough, maybe my paper will finish itself.”
You looked up. “That's not how writing works.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I've tried.”
Grace sighed dramatically. “Tragic.”
You smiled, outside the windows, students crossed the quad beneath a grey November sky. The weather had turned colder over the past week, winter creeping closer. You glanced at your phone, three thirty. Another hour before you had to be anywhere, plenty of time. A comfortable silence settled between you and Grace, the kind that only existed between people who no longer felt the need to fill every moment with conversation. You returned to your reading. Made it through exactly one sentence.
Then Grace's phone buzzed, neither of you paid much attention. Until it buzzed again and again and again. Grace frowned. “What the hell?”
You looked up, her screen continued lighting up, messages flooding in one after another, the expression on her face changed immediately, confusion, then concern. Then something else, something colder.
Your stomach tightened. “Grace?”
She didn't answer, her eyes moved rapidly across the screen, reading, rereading. Whatever she was looking at seemed impossible, like her brain couldn't quite process it. “Grace.”
This time she looked up and the colour had completely drained from her face. A pulse of anxiety shot through you, “What happened?”
For a second she just stared at you, then looked back down at her phone. “No.” The word came out barely above a whisper. “No.”
Your chest tightened and the student centre suddenly felt quieter. Not actually quieter, just different, wrong. “What is it?”
Grace swallowed hard, you watched her fingers shake, actually shake around her phone and suddenly every instinct in your body went on alert. Something had happened, something bad, something terrible, people nearby had started checking their own phones. Conversations faltering, expressions changing. One by one, like a ripple moving through the room. The atmosphere shifted and you could feel it happening. See it. A collective confusion spreading across campus.
Grace looked down again, then covered her mouth. “Oh my God.”
Fear curled sharply in your stomach. “What happened?”, your voice sounded distant, the words barely yours.
Grace finally met your eyes and whatever she saw on your face seemed to break something inside her because tears appeared instantly. You'd almost never seen Grace cry, not like this, not without warning. Your heart started pounding. “Grace.”
Her voice cracked. “Beau.”
The name meant nothing to you for half a second, then everything clicked into place. Beau. The football player, Dean's friend. The one everyone loved. The one who always seemed to be around, your stomach dropped.
“What about him?”
Grace stared at the screen, then at you. And whispered “He's dead.” The world tilted. Not because you knew Beau particularly well, you didn't. You'd met him a handful of times, shared conversations at parties, movie nights, group gatherings, nothing more. But death had a way of making everything else irrelevant. For a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The student centre around you seemed frozen, phones lighting up, messages spreading. Shock travelling through the campus faster than wildfire. Someone nearby started crying another student stood abruptly. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Dead. The word echoed through your mind. Dead.
You looked at Grace at the tears gathering in her eyes, at the horror written across her face and suddenly you weren't thinking about Beau, not really. You were thinking about a hospital waiting room. Bright fluorescent lights. A doctor saying I'm sorry. You were thinking about a shell necklace clenched tightly in your fist, about a sister who'd left for a boat trip and never come home, about all the people left behind when someone died. Because grief wasn't just about the person you lost. It was about everyone who survived them, everyone forced to keep living afterward.
A face appeared unexpectedly in your mind.Blue eyes. Easy smile. Pizza boxes balanced in his hands.
Student teaching still going okay?
Dean.
Your throat tightened.
Because if Beau was gone then somewhere on campus Dean Di Laurentis had just lost one of the people he loved most in the world.
And whether he knew it yet or not
His life had just been split into a before and an after. Exactly like yours had.
The realization settled heavily in your chest. Painfully familiar. Terrifyingly familiar and for the first time since Grace had spoken, you found yourself thinking one thing. Not about Beau, not about the tragedy, not even about yourself. Just Dean. Wondering if anyone was with him. Wondering if he was alone. Wondering if somebody was making sure he remembered to breathe.
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The first thing you noticed was the silence, not actual silence. The student centre was still full, people still moved through the building. Chairs scraped against floors, coffee machines hissed, phones rang but something had changed. The atmosphere felt wrong like the entire campus had collectively forgotten how to breathe.
You sat frozen in your seat. Grace's words still echoing through your head. He's dead. Across the table, Grace stared at her phone, neither of you had touched your work in nearly fifteen minutes. Messages continued flooding in, the screen lit up every few seconds. Names. Questions. Rumours. People desperately trying to understand something that didn't make sense.
Your own phone vibrated, then again, then again. You looked down. The group chat. Over fifty unread messages. You didn't open them, not yet, you couldn't. Because you already knew what they would say, shock, disbelief. Questions nobody could answer.
You'd seen it before. Different names. Different circumstances. Same reactions. The memory hit so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs, a waiting room, hospital blankets, people crying, someone saying: "No, there has to be a mistake."
You blinked hard, forcing yourself back into the present. Not then. Now. This was now. “Grace.” Your voice sounded strange, small, she looked up, tears still clinging to her lashes. “What happened?” The question had been circling your head ever since she'd spoken.
Grace swallowed. “I don't know everything.”
Neither of you moved, the student centre seemed filled with people doing exactly the same thing. Checking phones, making calls, searching for information, searching for something that would make it make sense. Grace looked back at her screen. “Logan said it was an accident.”
Your stomach tightened. Accident. You hated that word. Accidents were cruel because they happened on ordinary days, normal days. Days that weren't supposed to become tragedies. Your fingers curled around your coffee cup. It had gone cold. You hadn't noticed.
“Is Logan okay?” The question escaped before you could stop it.
Grace's face crumpled. “No.” The answer came instantly, without hesitation and somehow that hurt. Because of course he wasn't, none of them would be. Not Garrett. Not Tucker. Not any of them. They'd lost someone, one of their people. You looked around the room, students continued receiving the news.
A girl near the entrance covered her mouth, a guy stood up so abruptly his chair nearly tipped over, two people started crying. The shock spread through campus like a living thing, fast, relentless, unstoppable. Your phone buzzed again. This time it was Tucker. You frowned but opened the message.
Tucker: where are you?
Another arrived immediately.
Tucker: grace too
Then: Tucker: everyone is coming to the house
You looked at Grace, she'd received the same message. You could tell by her expression. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then she whispered, “We should go.”
You nodded immediately because staying here suddenly felt impossible.
The walk across campus felt surreal, the sky overhead was grey, students moved around you, classes still changing, professors still teaching, life continuing. The unfairness of it settled heavily in your chest. You remembered hating that after Sienna died. The normality, the way people still laughed, still made plans, still worried about assignments. As if the world hadn't ended, as if everything hadn't changed.
Grace walked beside you silently. Phone clutched tightly in her hand. Neither of you knew what to say. What was there to say? Eventually Grace spoke. “So many people loved him.”, the words came out broken. You glanced at her, she looked devastated. Not just sad. Devastated. The kind of sadness that arrived when someone good disappeared. You'd met Beau a handful of times. Enough to know he was loud, funny. The kind of person who made everyone feel included, the kind of person people assumed would always be there.
You swallowed hard.
Because that part felt familiar too.
You used to think that about Sienna.
By the time the house came into view, your chest felt tight. Cars already lined the street. People stood outside, talking quietly, crying. Making phone calls. The entire hockey community seemed to be gathering. Drawn together by grief, you stopped for a second. Just looking. A strange sense of dread crawled beneath your skin. Not because you were afraid of going inside because you knew exactly what waited there.
Shock, denial, anger.
People trying desperately to make sense of the impossible, you'd seen it all before, you knew every stage, every expression, every silence.
And suddenly you were eighteen again, standing outside a hospital room. Trying to gather the courage to open the door.
“Y/N?” Grace's voice pulled you back, you looked up. She offered a small, shaky smile. “You okay?” The question caught you off guard, for a second you didn't know how to answer. No. Yes. Maybe. You weren't grieving Beau, not really. You were grieving every memory his death had dragged back to the surface.
You forced a smile. “Yeah.”
It wasn't entirely true but it wasn't entirely a lie either. Grace nodded.
Then together, the two of you climbed the steps toward the house. Toward the people whose lives had just changed forever and toward a grief-stricken hockey player who still didn't know you were about to become one of the most important people in his life.
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The Briar hockey house had never been quiet, not once in the years you'd known people who lived there. There was always music, someone yelling, a game on television, an argument over food, something, tonight felt wrong, the closer you got to the front door, the more obvious it became.
You followed Grace up the front steps, the front door was already open. Students drifted in and out. Former teammates, friends, people who loved Beau, people who couldn't quite believe he was gone. The second you stepped inside, grief hit you like a physical force. The house was packed, every couch occupied, people sitting on floors, peaning against walls. Gathered in the kitchen, nobody seemed to know what to do. Everyone just wanted to be near each other, like separating would somehow make it more real. Your chest tightened because you'd seen this before, not the hockey house, not these people but this feeling. The helplessness. The shock. The desperate need to gather.
After Sienna died your family home had been filled with people for days. Neighbours. Friends. Relatives. People bringing food nobody ate, offering condolences nobody remembered. Everyone trying to help, nobody actually knowing how. A hand brushed your arm. You blinked. Returning to the present.
Grace. “You okay?”
You nodded automatically, she didn't look convinced. Thankfully she let it go, the living room came into view.
Garrett sat on the couch or rather, he occupied it physically. Mentally he seemed somewhere else entirely, his eyes were red. Hannah sat beside him, one hand gripping his. Neither looked up when people entered across the room Tucker stood near the fireplace. Talking quietly to someone, his voice sounded strained. Like he'd been speaking all day.
Logan paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. His phone pressed tightly against his ear, you'd never seen him look so unsettled. The entire house felt suspended nobody knew what happened next nobody knew how to move forward because grief was like that. One moment life existed. Then suddenly it didn't and everyone was expected to keep going anyway. Your stomach twisted, the familiar ache of memory pressing against your ribs.
Grace disappeared toward Hannah almost immediately. The two women falling into each other's arms. You remained near the doorway. Unsure where to go, unsure what to do. Then Tucker spotted you for a second something softened in his expression. Recognition, relief, any familiar face helping. “Hey.”
You offered a small smile.
“Hey.”
He looked exhausted. The kind of exhausted sleep couldn't fix. You knew that look too. “How's everyone doing?” The question felt stupid the second it left your mouth.
Tucker's laugh was hollow. “Not great.”
You immediately wished you could take it back. “Sorry.”
“It's okay.”
His eyes drifted around the room, toward Garrett, toward Logan, toward people crying quietly in corners. “Nobody knows what to do.”
The honesty hit harder than anything else had because that was exactly it, nobody knew what to do. You couldn't fix death. You couldn't solve grief. You just endured it. One second at a time. One breath at a time. One day at a time.
Tucker rubbed a hand across his face. “He was here last week.” the words cracked, just slightly, enough. “He was literally here.”
Your chest tightened because that was grief too, the disbelief, the inability to comprehend that someone could exist one day and disappear the next. You remembered thinking exactly the same thing about Sienna. She'd texted you. Three hours later she was gone. Your eyes burned. You blinked quickly. Across the room somebody started crying again, the sound settled heavily over the house. Tucker looked away. You could tell he was trying not to cry himself. Trying and failing. Because grief didn't care how strong you were it came anyway.
A sudden movement near the staircase caught your attention, several heads turned, conversations faltered. The atmosphere shifted instantly, you frowned. Not understanding why, then you followed everyone's gaze and saw someone descending the stairs.
Dean.
For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The entire room seemed to hold its breath. You stood near the doorway, watching. Dean descended the stairs slowly one hand trailing against the banister his head lowered. Like every step required conscious effort, the sight immediately made your stomach drop. Because Tucker had been right, nobody looked okay.
But Dean looked different, wrong.
A memory surfaced before you could stop it. Your reflection in a hospital bathroom mirror. Eighteen years old. Pale. Shaking, eyes swollen from crying. Looking like someone you didn't recognize.
The memory vanished as quickly as it came, leaving you staring at Dean trying to understand why your chest suddenly hurt. He reached the bottom step people immediately gravitated toward him. Not physically, nobody rushed him, nobody touched him. But every eye in the room followed him. Concern. Worry. Helplessness. Everyone watching the same person. The same way people had watched your mother after Sienna died, like they were afraid to look away.
Dean didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did, maybe he just didn't care. His hair was messy, his clothes looked slept in, the dark circles beneath his eyes stood out immediately. But it was his expression that got you or rather the lack of one. Because Dean Di Laurentis had always seemed animated. Smiling, laughing, talking. The kind of person who filled a room, this version looked hollow like somebody had removed something essential from him.
He moved through the crowd without really seeing anyone, people spoke. He nodded. People touched his shoulder. He barely reacted. Your chest tightened further because you knew that look. God. You knew it.
You remembered standing at Sienna's funeral while people hugged you, talked to you, offered condolences and none of it felt real. Their words had sounded distant, muffled. Like they were reaching you through water, you'd smiled when required. Nodded when expected, not because you were listening. Because it was easier than explaining that your brain had stopped working. Dean looked exactly like that, lLike someone operating entirely on instinct. A machine pretending to be a person. The realization settled heavily inside you. A terrible kind of familiarity.
Across the room, Logan approached him first, the two exchanged a few words. You couldn't hear them Dean nodded, Logan said something else, Dean nodded again. That was it. No conversation. No reaction, nothing. Your stomach twisted because people expected grief to look dramatic.
They expected screaming, crying, breaking things. Sometimes it did. But often it looked like this. Like a person disappearing while still standing right in front of you. You remembered doing the same thing, for weeks afterward. Going through motions, attending classes. Eating when people reminded you, sleeping occasionally. Breathing. Existing. Not living. Just existing.
A horrible thought appeared suddenly. Has he eaten? The question caught you off guard, you frowned because it seemed ridiculous. Yet you couldn't stop thinking it. Had he slept? Had anyone made him drink water? Had anyone checked? Your therapist had once told you grief turned people into children, not emotionally. Practically. You forgot things, basic things.
Food.
Sleep.
Self-care.
Your body became secondary to the loss and looking at Dean now. You doubted he remembered any of it. The realization lodged itself stubbornly in your chest.
Across the room, Garrett finally stood, he crossed the space between them and pulled Dean into a hug.
A long one, neither spoke, neither moved. Dean's eyes squeezed shut, just briefly. One second. Maybe two. Then he stepped back and for the first time all evening, you saw genuine emotion crack through, pain, raw, devastating. Gone almost immediately, hidden again. But you'd seen it. The room had too, several people looked away. Others started crying. You couldn't, you couldn't stop looking. Not because you were fascinated. Not because you had feelings for him. Because every instinct inside you was screaming. You know this, you know exactly what this feels like. A lump formed in your throat. Suddenly the house felt too warm. Too crowded. Too familiar. You couldn't stop seeing yourself, the similarities, the shock, the emptiness, the way grief hollowed people out from the inside.
Your fingers found the shell necklace beneath your sweater automatically, holding it. Grounding yourself, the familiar shape pressed into your palm. You stared at Dean, at the grief written across every line of his body and for one impossible second, the years disappeared. You weren't twenty-two and standing in a crowded hockey house.
You were eighteen. Standing beside a hospital bed, holding your sister's necklace, trying to understand how the world kept turning. The realization hit with startling clarity. Nobody could fix this for him.
Nobody.
Not Garrett.
Not Logan.
Not Tucker.
Not you.
Because grief wasn't something that could be fixed. Only survived. And suddenly you felt something dangerously close to fear. Not for yourself, for him. Because you remembered what came next. The nights, the loneliness, the silence after everyone went home, the way people slowly stopped checking in, the way the world expected you to recover long before you were ready.
The worst part wasn't the funeral, the worst part came after. When everyone else returned to normal life and you were still drowning.
Dean turned slightly, for a brief second, his gaze swept across the room. Across the gathered friends, across the strangers, across you. His eyes met yours, only for a moment. A heartbeat, then moved on. He didn't recognize you or if he did, it didn't register. You were just another face, another person filling the room, another reminder that Beau was gone. Yet somehow that brief glance settled heavily inside your chest because there had been something in his eyes. Not sadness. Not exactly. Something deeper.
The kind of pain that changed people, the kind that divided lives into before and after. You knew it because you carried it too and standing there in a crowded house filled with grief, you realized something that terrified you. You understood him.
More than anyone in this room probably realized.
More than you wanted to.
More than a stranger should.
And for the first time since hearing Beau's name that afternoon, you couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the last time you'd find yourself thinking about Dean Di Laurentis.
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You left the hockey house just after midnight. The air outside was cold, sharp enough to sting your lungs. For a few seconds you simply stood on the porch, listening. The muffled sound of voices drifted through the walls people still arriving, still grieving, still trying to understand. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that settled somewhere deeper than your bones. Grace had stayed behind because Hannah needed her. Honestly, everyone needed everyone right now.
So you'd quietly slipped out, promising to text when you got home. The walk to your car felt longer than usual. Your mind refused to stay in the present. Every few minutes it dragged you backward.
Back years. Back to hospital hallways, funeral homes, condolence cards, the smell of flowers. God. You hated funeral flowers, you hadn't thought about them in years. Yet suddenly you could smell them, see them, feel them. Your fingers tightened around your keys.
By the time you reached your apartment, your chest ached.
The silence hit immediately, the kind only an empty apartment could create. You locked the door dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes and stood motionless in the middle of the living room.
The evening replayed itself automatically. Garrett. Logan. Tucker. Grace crying. Dean, especially Dean. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to stop thinking about him.
Not because you didn't care because you cared too much and you didn't understand why, you barely knew him. Had never had a real conversation with him. Yet every time you pictured his face, your stomach twisted because he looked exactly how you remembered feeling.
Not looking, feeling. There was a difference. People always talked about grief like it was sadness, it wasn't, not at first. At first it was shock, disbelief, confusion. Your brain refusing to accept reality, your body continuing long after your mind stopped functioning. Dean looked trapped in that stage and the sight had followed you home.
You sighed heavily. Then crossed the room toward your bedroom. The necklace felt unusually heavy against your skin.
The wooden box sat exactly where it always did. Inside the bedside drawer, waiting. You opened it without thinking. Muscle memory. The hinges creaked softly and your eyes immediately landed on the picture.
The beach photo, you and Sienna. You picked it up, the edges were beginning to wear, you should probably laminate it. The thought arrived automatically, the same practical thought you'd had a dozen times before and ignored every single one.
You sat on the edge of the bed, photo in hand. The apartment dark except for the lamp beside you. Outside, a car passed, then another, life continuing, always continuing.
Your eyes drifted across Sienna's face. Twenty-two forever. She would have been twenty-five now, the thought hit harder than usual.
Twenty-five. She should have had a career, an apartment, a future, maybe kids someday.
Instead your throat tightened and you looked away. A familiar ache settling in your chest, not sharp, not overwhelming. Just present like an old scar.
Then your gaze caught on something else, a second photograph, one you'd almost forgotten was there. You pulled it free, the image was grainy. Taken during your first semester at Briar, orientation week. You stood between Grace and some guy you'd briefly dated, everyone looked painfully young.
The sight made you laugh softly, then freeze. Because suddenly you remembered.
Freshman year, two weeks after arriving at Briar someone had asked if you had siblings. You'd burst into tears in the middle of the dining hall, completely without warning. The poor guy had looked horrified, you'd spent ten minutes apologizing. The memory surfaced vividly, embarrassingly, painfully.
And then another memory followed. A different one. A worse one. You sitting alone in your dorm room. Three in the morning, unable to sleep, unable to stop crying, scrolling through old photos because you couldn't bear the silence. Nobody checking on you. Nobody calling. Nobody knowing. Your parents trapped inside their own grief, the world moving forward without permission. You swallowed hard because that was the part people didn't understand, the loneliness, everyone showed up at first. For the funeral. For the tragedy. For the story. Then they slowly disappeared.
Not because they stopped caring.
Because life kept going.
You couldn't blame them.
But God. It hurt.
Your fingers tightened around the photograph and suddenly Dean's face appeared in your mind again, the empty look in his eyes, the way he'd barely reacted to anyone speaking, the way he'd seemed disconnected from the room around him.
You stared at Sienna's photograph, then whispered softly: “I hope somebody stays.” The words surprised you, you hadn't meant to say them out loud, yet there they were. Hanging in the silence. A confession, a prayer, a wish, not for yourself, for him. Because once upon a time, you'd needed somebody to stay too and nobody had, the realization lingered long after you switched off the lamp. Long after you climbed into bed. Long after sleep should have come. Instead, you lay awake staring into the darkness. Thinking about grief, thinking about loneliness, thinking about a hockey player sitting in a house full of people and somehow looking completely alone. And for the first time, a dangerous thought began taking root.
Maybe everyone was wrong.
Maybe what Dean needed wasn't space.
Maybe what he needed was exactly what you'd needed all those years ago.
Someone willing to sit beside him in the dark.
And stay.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
The funeral was on a Saturday. You didn't go, it felt wrong to not because you didn't care, you did, you cared deeply. But Beau hadn't been your friend, not really. He'd been someone you knew, someone you liked, someone whose death had shaken the campus. But the people attending that funeral deserved space to grieve him properly, you weren't one of them.
So instead, you spent Saturday alone, trying and failing to focus on coursework, trying and failing to stop thinking. The day felt heavy from the moment you woke up like the air itself knew.
Around noon, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the floor of your living room, laptop open, textbook untouched, a half-finished coffee growing cold beside you. Your attention drifted toward the window, then your phone, then the clock, then nowhere at all.
You knew exactly what was happening right now. The service, the eulogies, the tears, the impossible finality of it all. Your stomach twisted because funerals were strange. Everyone treated them like closure. You'd never understood that, there had been no closure at Sienna's funeral, only confirmation. A room full of people acknowledging that she was really gone.
You hated funerals, you hated sympathy cards, you hated flower arrangements, you hated casseroles.
And most of all you hated what came after, the silence, the world moving on, the grief staying behind.
Your phone buzzed. Grace. You hesitated before opening the message.
Grace: it's over
Just three words. Yet your chest tightened immediately. You stared at the screen, at the tiny blinking cursor.
Then typed:
You: how is everyone?
The reply took longer this time, several minutes. You imagined her sitting somewhere with the others, probably emotionally exhausted, trying to answer a question that didn't really have an answer. Eventually your phone buzzed again.
Grace: not good
You swallowed. A second message appeared.
Grace: dean especially
The words landed heavily, your eyes closed briefly, of course. Another message.
Grace: he barely spoke
Grace: i don't think he's cried yet
Your stomach dropped because that wasn't necessarily unusual. People grieved differently, some cried immediately, some didn't, some couldn't. But something about it bothered you, something about it felt familiar, dangerously familiar.
You set the phone down, stood abruptly and started pacing. One lap around the apartment, then another, then another. The restless energy building inside your chest. You didn't understand why this was affecting you so much, you really didn't.
Dean wasn't your friend. You barely knew him.
If someone asked, you could probably count your conversations on one hand. Yet every update felt personal somehow, every detail lodged beneath your skin. You stopped pacing. Stared at the bookshelf across the room. Then immediately looked away because sitting on the second shelf was a framed photograph.
You and Sienna.
Suddenly you were twenty minutes after her funeral, standing in your childhood bedroom, still wearing black. Everyone downstairs eating food and talking quietly. You alone because nobody had noticed you'd disappeared. The memory arrived with startling clarity. You remembered sitting on the floor, holding a photograph. Thinking: Now what?
Not dramatically.
Not poetically.
Just honestly.
Now what? How was life supposed to continue? How was anybody supposed to keep going?
Nobody had answers, nobody had even stayed long enough to hear the question.
The realization hit you so hard you sank onto the couch, breath leaving your lungs slowly. Because that was it, that was the thing that had been bothering you. Not Dean. Not specifically. The loneliness. You remembered the loneliness.
Eventually life resumed, eventually the grieving person was left alone with the wreckage and somehow everybody expected them to know what to do next.
You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to stop the memories, trying to stop thinking. It didn't work. Nothing worked because now you were remembering everything.
The sleepless nights.
The panic attacks.
The forgotten meals.
The feeling of walking around campus convinced nobody could possibly understand.
You'd survived it, eventually. But God, you wouldn't wish it on anyone. Especially not someone who looked as lost as Dean had. Your eyes drifted toward the bedroom, toward the drawer, toward the wooden box. The necklace resting against your chest suddenly felt heavier, meaningful, present.
You decided to open the box again. Just to see pieces of a person who no longer existed, pieces of the one girl that might know what to do right now. Your fingers brushed over the beach photograph, then the old voicemail screenshot, then a folded note. The note stopped you.
You hadn't looked at it in months, carefully, you unfolded it. Sienna's handwriting immediately greeted you, messy, familiar, alive.
A note she'd left on your bedroom door years ago before leaving for a college field trip, one sentence stood out immediately.
Take care of yourself while I'm gone, okay?
Your throat tightened because the irony was cruel, painfully cruel. You stared at the words, reading them again and again and again.
Then something shifted, not dramatically, not all at once, just enough. Enough for a realization to settle quietly into place, for days now, everyone kept saying the same thing.
Give him time.
Give him space.
Leave him alone.
The words echoed through every conversation, every update, every concern. And maybe they were right, maybe Dean wanted space, maybe he wanted to be left alone, maybe showing up would be intrusive. Inappropriate, insane.
You barely knew him, the thought should have ended there. It didn't. Because another thought immediately followed.
What if they're wrong?
You sat on the edge of your bed heart beating a little faster.
What if everyone was wrong?
What if space wasn't what he needed?
What if space was the worst possible thing?
You remembered sitting alone in your dorm room, wishing somebody would knock, wishing somebody would sit down beside you. Not fix it, not make you feel better. Just stay. Nobody had. Not really.
And suddenly for the first time you knew exactly why you couldn't stop thinking about Dean Di Laurentis. It had never been about him, not entirely. It was about eighteen year old you. The version of yourself nobody noticed. The girl quietly drowning while everyone focused on the tragedy. You looked down at Sienna's note, at the familiar handwriting, at the words she'd left behind and before you could talk yourself out of it, a decision settled deep inside your chest.
Quiet.
Certain.
Terrifying.
You were going to check on him.
Not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But soon.
Because if there was even a chance he felt the way you'd felt, you couldn't ignore it, you just couldn't and once the decision existed, there was no taking it back. The moment you acknowledged it, you knew. Sooner or later, you were going to end up at the hockey house and everything was going to change.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
The decision haunted you for three days, three days of talking yourself out of it, three days of convincing yourself it was a terrible idea, three days of immediately thinking about it again. By Tuesday evening, you were exhausted, not physically, mentally. Because every time Grace mentioned Dean, your stomach twisted, every time someone brought up Beau, you found yourself wondering how he was doing, every time you remembered the look on his face in the hockey house, you felt that same horrible sense of recognition.
And eventually you ran out of excuses, the November air was freezing. You shoved your hands into your coat pockets as you crossed campus. Your heart pounded harder with every step. This was insane, absolutely insane. You barely knew him, what exactly were you expecting to accomplish? You weren't a therapist, you weren't his friend. Hell, you weren't even part of the hockey group the way Grace and Hannah were.
You were just... You. A girl carrying around too much grief of her own.
The hockey house came into view, warm light glowed from the windows. Cars lined the street, the familiar sight should have been comforting. Instead it made your stomach lurch, you stopped walking, twenty feet from the porch and your pulse hammered. You could still leave, nobody knew you were here, nobody would ever know, you could go home, make a cup of tea, watch television. Convince yourself you'd done the sensible thing.
The thought lasted approximately three seconds, then you started walking again because deep down you already knew. If you left now, you'd spend the next week wondering whether you should've stayed. The porch steps creaked beneath your feet, you climbed them slowly, one at a time, the cold wind bit at your cheeks.
Your fingers found the shell necklace beneath your sweater automatically, touching it, grounding yourself.
You stared at the front door, suddenly eighteen again, standing outside a hospital room, trying to find the courage to walk inside. Your chest tightened, you raised your hand, knocked. The sound echoed far louder than it should have, then you waited. One second. Two. Three. Your heart climbed into your throat.
The door opened, Logan stood on the other side. For a moment he simply stared at you, clearly not expecting this. You weren't exactly a regular visitor, his eyebrows pulled together, confusion flashing across his face. “Y/N?”
Immediately, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Hi.”
Smooth. Very smooth.
Logan looked tired, not ordinary tired. Grief tired, the kind that sat behind someone's eyes. He glanced over his shoulder briefly before looking back at you. “Everything okay?”
The concern in his voice almost made you abandon the entire plan because now that you were here, you realized how ridiculous it sounded. Hi, I know we barely know each other, but I'd like to see your grieving best friend because I think I understand what he's feeling.
Insane.
Completely insane.
Your pulse raced and Logan waited. You swallowed, then forced the words out. “I need to see Dean.”
The confusion deepened instantly, you couldn't blame him. If anything, you were surprised he hadn't shut the door already. “Dean?”
“Yeah.”
Logan blinked, for a moment he seemed genuinely unsure he'd heard correctly. Behind him, you could hear voices, the television. Someone moving around the kitchen, life continuing inside the house. Your stomach churned. “I know this is weird.” Massive understatement. “I just...”
The words caught. How were you supposed to explain this? How could you possibly explain that a stranger's grief had been keeping you awake at night? That every instinct inside you was screaming not to leave him alone? That you recognized something in him nobody else seemed to?
“I lost my sister.” The words escaped before you could stop them, silence, immediate, heavy. Logan froze and you stared at the porch floor. Unable to look at him now, unable to take it back. “My sister died when I was eighteen.” Your voice sounded smaller than usual, more fragile. “I know what this feels like.”
The wind swept across the porch, cold against your face. Neither of you moved. For several seconds, Logan didn't speak. Then quietly, “Oh.”
You nodded, still looking down. The necklace rested heavily against your chest. The familiar weight of it. The familiar ache. “When everyone leaves...” Your throat tightened. “...that's when it gets bad.”
The words hung between you, raw, honest. Painfully true. You finally looked up and Logan was staring at you differently now. Not confused anymore, not suspicious, just understanding. For the first time since opening the door he looked past the awkwardness, past the weirdness. And saw what was actually happening. You weren't here because you wanted something. You were here because once upon a time nobody had shown up for you and you couldn't bear the idea of that happening to someone else.
Logan glanced over his shoulder, toward the staircase, toward wherever Dean was. Then back at you, your heart hammered so hard it hurt. For a second you thought he might say no, thought he might tell you Dean wasn't seeing visitors, that he was sleeping, that this had been a mistake. Instead, Logan stepped back, opening the door wider. His voice was quiet, gentle.
Almost grateful. “Come in.”
Your breath caught. The warmth of the house spilled out onto the porch and standing in the doorway, you realized something.
You had absolutely no idea what you were going to say once you saw him, only that you couldn't walk away. Not this time, not from this, not from him.
And with your heart threatening to beat straight out of your chest, you stepped inside.
Dean interrupts your gaming moment to steal all your attention.
warning : Suggestive +18 content, sexual language, intense kisses, and insinuation of sexual acts.
note : English is not my first language, so sorry for any mistakes or weird phrasing that slipped through. Thank you for reading, and I hope you still enjoy it!
Your attention had completely drifted away from the game on your phone. It was impossible to concentrate when Dean Di Laurentis was in the same room. Because Dean, even when doing absolutely nothing, already demanded attention. But this time he wasn’t still. He was with Beau, plotting one of their usual idiot schemes.
The victim: John Tucker.
You settled more comfortably into the armchair, practically sprawled out, as if that position would let you hear more clearly.
In short, Tucker had to keep a strawberry intact. Something that would have been easy if Beau and Dean weren’t… well, themselves.
You weren’t surprised at all when they warned him that if he dropped the fruit, it would be replaced by a bigger one.
Nor were you surprised when Dean ate it just a few seconds later.
You looked back at your phone, your fingers moving quickly across the screen as you tried not to miss any notes. You were about to win when the pressure of a warm mouth on your neck distracted you, making you fail the long note.
“Damn it, Dean!” you protested.
Dean let out a deep chuckle and effortlessly scooped you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing. He dropped onto the armchair with you sideways on his lap. You took the opportunity to elbow him in the stomach, but he didn’t even flinch.
“Weren’t you supposed to be bothering Tucker with his fruit?” you asked, frowning at him.
“Beau’s handling that” he replied, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer against his chest. “This is much better.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but Dean took the phone from your hands, locked it, and set it aside on the armchair.
“Perfect. Now I have your full attention.” he said with an arrogant smile, despite your obvious annoyance. “Come on, don’t look at me like that. You know you want this.”
“Take my phone away? No way!”
He brought his lips to your ear, lowering his voice.“Say it over and over again. Maybe you'll start to believe it.”
You frowned, even though a shiver ran down your spine at the feel of his warm breath against your skin.
“Enough” you grumbled, poking his chest with your finger.
“Admit it, you were bored with that shitty game. Now you’re exactly where you want to be.”
“So where am I supposed to be?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“On top of me. Underneath me. Anywhere, as long as it’s with me” he answered without hesitation, wearing that smile that drove you crazy and made your pulse race at the same time.
Estabas segura de que algún día te daría un infarto por culpa de ese rubio de más de un metro ochenta con cara de "siempre me salgo con la mía". Y, sinceramente, no te quejarías.
Soltaste una risita incrédula.
“Dean…”
He easily turned you on his lap until you were straddling his hips. His large hands settled on your waist, pressing you against his body.
“Say it again” he requested, with that arrogant grin. “I love how my name sounds when you’re annoyed and turned on at the same time.”
“I’m not turned on!” you exclaimed, slapping his shoulder—which, as expected, had zero effect.
Dean buried his face in your neck and left a slow trail of wet kisses until he reached just below your ear.
“Admit it” he whispered against your skin.
“I hate you” you said with zero conviction.
Dean always made you lose.
“No. You love me” he corrected, amused. “And now you’re going to kiss me like you really hate me… and then prove me wrong.”
“Poor baby” you said sarcastically, sliding a finger along his collarbone. “Are you that desperate for affection?”
“Not desperate” he replied, smirking as his hand slid down your back to rest dangerously close to your ass. “I’m just a very motivated man. And you’re way too dressed for my taste right now.”
You closed your eyes for a second and shook your head.
“Where did your shame go?”
“What? Now you’re embarrassed because I’m telling the truth?” His green eyes dropped to your lips. “Yesterday you were sitting on my face and today you blush because I say this. You’re a strange one.”
Your face burned. You tried to cover his mouth with your hand, but he caught your wrist and kissed your palm.
“Stop fighting and just kiss me already, baby. I’ve been waiting since you walked through that door with that 'don’t touch me, I’m busy' face.”
His thumb slowly caressed your lower lip. For a second you stayed silent, lost in those bright green eyes and that intense stare that always managed to make you lose your mind. Without thinking twice, you grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him hard.
Dean growled in approval against your mouth. His free hand tangled in your hair as he deepened the kiss, pulling you even closer.
Your fingers slid to the back of his neck, tugging gently at the soft blond strands. Dean let out a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through your chest.
“You two have a damn room for these not-safe-for-work situations”
Logan growled from the doorway.
A thin string of saliva stretched between your lips as you pulled away abruptly at the sound of his voice.
“Sorry” you said quickly.
“I’m not” Dean replied with a shameless grin, his hands sliding back to your hips.
You shot him a reproachful look, but Logan was already heading to the kitchen, muttering something under his breath, clearly tired of catching you like this again.
You’d actually lost count by now.
As soon as they heard his footsteps fade, Dean let out a low laugh and pulled you against his body once more.
“As I was saying…” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours.“You’re way too dressed.”
“We’re not doing it here” you protested between laughs, even as your fingers kept playing with his hair.
“Then we’d better move.”
Without giving you time to argue, he stood up with you in his arms. Your legs automatically wrapped around his waist as he climbed the stairs with sure, determined steps.
Hi!! I’m obsessed w your graham!sister fics and was wondering if you do requests? If so, I’ve been thinking about how Logan or whoever would react to finding out about the abuse from garret (like in the show) while they are dating graham!reader? Just the whole reaction and angst and comfort from it all
Until Someone Knew
John Logan x Graham!Reader (y/n)
Summary: Garett tells Logan about his dad, which makes Logan realise that y/n, Garett’s sister also had to deal with years of abuse from Phil.
TW: mentions of abuse
Word Count: 2.4K
The house was unusually quiet. No music blasted from Logan’s room. No television. No laughter from the living room. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the sound of rain tapping against the kitchen windows. Logan looked up from the sandwich he was halfway through making when the front door opened. Garrett walked in. One glance was all it took. Something was wrong.
This was different. His shoulders were tense. His eyes looked empty. Logan watched him disappear into the kitchen before following a few seconds later. Garrett stood in front of the sink, staring blankly out the rain-speckled window. He hadn’t moved.
Logan leaned against the counter.
Silence.
Normally he’d fill it. Normally Garrett would. Tonight, neither of them seemed capable.
The clock above the stove ticked loudly.
Finally…
“I gotta tell you something.”
Logan straightened.
Garrett’s voice was flat. Not emotionless. Worse. Like he’d run out of emotions altogether.
“Okay…” Logan said carefully.
Another long silence.
Garrett rubbed both hands over his face and sighed. Seemed like he was preparing to tell something. Logan didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush him. Just waited.
“My dad…” Garrett swallowed. “…used to beat me.”
The words settled heavily between them. Logan felt something tighten painfully in his chest.
He knew Garrett and his father didn’t get along. He knew Phil Graham was an asshole.
But this…
This wasn’t where he’d expected the sentence to go.
Garrett laughed quietly.
“You know what’s funny?”
Logan shook his head.
“I still can’t say it without feeling like I’m lying.”
He stared down at the kitchen tile.
“I keep expecting someone to tell me I’m exaggerating.”
“They won’t.”
Garrett looked over.
Logan’s expression hadn’t changed.
No pity.
No disbelief.
Just complete attention.
Garrett took a shaky breath.
“He wasn’t always angry.” Another pause “That would’ve been easier.”
Logan frowned slightly.
“He’d be normal.” Garrett’s eyes unfocused as memories surfaced. “We’d eat dinner. He’d ask about school. We’d joke. And then I’d have a bad game.”
Silence.
“Or I’d miss a shot.”
“Or I’d mouth off.”
“Or sometimes…”
He laughed bitterly.
“…sometimes nothing happened.”
Logan’s jaw tightened.
Garrett continued quietly.
“You stop trying to figure out why after a while.”
His fingers gripped the edge of the counter.
“You just spend all day wondering if today’s gonna be one of the bad days.”
Logan’s chest hurt.
He could picture little Garrett.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Coming home after hockey.
Wondering whether opening the front door would end with dinner or bruises.
“I got good at reading him.” Garrett’s voice was almost distant now. “The way he’d close the car door. The way he’d walk into the house. Whether he’d say my name.”
“If he was quiet…” He closed his eyes. “I knew.”
Logan felt sick.
“I started staying at the rink longer.” Garrett shrugged. “Coach thought I was dedicated. Another humorless laugh. “I was just killing time.”
His voice cracked slightly. “Sometimes I’d pray he’d be asleep when I got home.”
The kitchen felt impossibly small.
Logan couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t sound meaningless.
So he stayed quiet.
Garrett seemed grateful for that.
“I got bigger eventually.”
He looked down at his own hands.
“Started hockey training year-round. Started lifting. Dad hit me one night and I …” A pause. “I shoved him back.”
Garrett’s expression was unreadable.
“He looked at me like he didn’t know who I was.”
Another silence.
“That was the last time.”
Logan finally spoke. “You were a kid.”
Garrett gave a tiny nod. “I know.”
“No.” Logan stepped closer. “You were a kid.” The words were firmer now. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened.
“I still think maybe if I’d just…”
“No.”
Logan cut him off immediately. “No ‘if.’”
Garrett blinked.
“You were a child.”
Another pause.
“Kids don’t deserve to get hit because they had a bad game.”
The words hung between them. Garrett looked away quickly. His eyes burned.
“I’ve never told anybody except Hannah”
Logan’s heart twisted.
“None of the guys?”
Garett shook his head.
Logan moved without really thinking. He wrapped one arm around Garrett’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug. Garrett froze for just a second. Then all the tension he’d been carrying seemed to give way. He leaned forward, forehead pressing against Logan’s shoulder. He didn’t cry. But Logan could feel him shaking.
“It’s over,” Logan said quietly.
Garrett let out a slow breath. “I know.”
“You got out.”
“…Yeah”
“You survived.”
Garrett nodded once. “I guess.”
“No.” Logan pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “I mean it.” His voice was steady “I’m proud of you.”
Garrett actually frowned.“…For what?”
“For surviving something nobody should’ve had to survive.”
Garrett stared at him. Like the thought had genuinely never occurred to him.
The silence stretched again.
Then Logan’s expression slowly shifted.
Something crossed his face.
Confusion.
His brow furrowed.
“…Wait.”
Garrett looked up.
Logan’s stomach suddenly felt heavy.
“Y/N…”
Garrett didn’t move.
Logan’s heartbeat sped up.
“She’s…”
His voice came out quieter now.
“She’s younger than us.”
Garrett looked at the floor.
“Garrett…?”
Nothing.
“Tell me she was too young.”
Silence.
Logan’s pulse pounded in his ears.
“Garrett…. Please…”
Still nothing.
“Did she also…” Logan couldn’t even finish off the sentence. “Did Phil…”
Garrett’s eyes filled with something Logan had never seen before.
Guilt.
The kind that consumed a person from the inside out.
Then Garrett gave the smallest nod.
Once. Barely noticeable.
It was enough.
Logan felt like the floor had disappeared beneath him.
“Oh…”
Logan closed his eyes.
“…Jesus Christ.”
The word left him as little more than air.
His mind raced through every memory he had of Y/N.
Her laugh.
The way she always smiled before anyone else did.
The way she’d apologize for interrupting conversations she hadn’t interrupted.
The way she’d tense whenever someone raised their voice.
Things he’d never questioned.
Things that suddenly fit together in a way that made him feel sick.
—
Logan sat in his car for almost twenty minutes. The engine had gone cold. Rain tapped steadily against the windshield, but he barely noticed.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Garrett standing in that kitchen.
“My dad used to beat me.”
Then… that tiny nod.
The one that had answered everything Logan couldn’t bear to ask.
Y/N.
His girlfriend.
Garrett’s little sister.
How many times had he looked at her and missed it?
How many times had she smiled at him while carrying something no one should ever have to carry?
His phone buzzed.
Y/N: You still coming over? I made pasta :)
Logan stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
Then he started the car.
—
Y/N answered the door wearing one of his sweatshirts.
His sweatshirt.
Her hair was tied into a messy bun, and she smiled the second she saw him.
“There you are.”
She stepped aside.
“I was about to eat without you.”
Logan couldn’t smile back. The expression slipped from y/n’s face almost instantly.
“…Logan?”
He walked inside.
She closed the door.
“Is everything okay?”
He looked at her.
Really looked.
There was a tiny scar near her wrist he’d never asked about.
God.
How had he never…
“Logan?”
She took a small step toward him.
“You look pale.”
He let out a slow breath.
“I talked to Garrett.”
She froze.
“He…”Logan tries to stop his thoughts from rushing. “He told me about your dad.”
Everything inside her stopped.
For a long moment, she simply stared at him.
“…He what?”
“He told me.”
Silence.
“No.”
The word escaped before she could stop it.
“He wouldn’t.”
“He did.”
“No.”
She shook her head faster.
Logan’s stomach twisted.
“You know.” She covered her mouth with one hand. Tears immediately filled her eyes.
“No, no, no…”
She turned away.
Logan stepped forward.
“Y/N…”
Her breathing became uneven.
“How can you look at me right now?” It was more like a cry of pain than a question targeted at Logan. But Logan still answered with the words he found to fit best.
“I won’t look at you differently.”
“You will! You are!”
“No”
“You do!”
She spun around so quickly it startled both of them.
Her voice cracked.
“You know now!”
The apartment fell silent.
Logan stared.
Y/N immediately regretted yelling.
She stepped backward.
“I’m sorry.”
Another step.
“I’m sorry.”
Logan frowned.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I yelled.”
“So?”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“So?”
“I just…”
She wrapped both arms around herself.
“I shouldn’t have.”
Logan’s chest ached.
“You don’t have to apologize for raising your voice.”
“I do.”
“No.”
“I do.”
“No.” His own voice rose without him meaning to. “You don’t.”
She flinched.
Hard.
Like she’d been struck.
The second Logan saw it, all the anger drained from his face.
“…Oh, God.” His voice became barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Y/N couldn’t look at him anymore. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor.
“I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You yelled.”
“I…” Logan stopped.
Because she wasn’t hearing him. She was hearing someone else. Someone years older. Someone much crueler.
He took one slow step backward. Then another. Giving her space.
“I’m angry,” he said quietly. “But not at you, never at you sweetie.”
Silence.
“I’m angry because someone hurt you.”
“I’m angry because I love you.”
Her breathing hitched.
“And someone made you think this…” He gestured helplessly between them. “…was your fault.”
Tears slid silently down her face. Logan wanted nothing more than to hold her. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
She whispered so quietly he almost missed it. “I’m “I’m trying not to be.”
His heart broke.
—
Several minutes passed before either of them spoke again.
It was Y/N.
“He stopped.”
Logan looked up.
“My dad.”
She wiped her face.
“He stopped.”
“When?”
She hesitated.
“A while ago.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
“I don’t know.”
“Months?”
“…Yeah.”
“A year?”
She looked away.
Logan noticed.
Immediately.
“…Y/N.”
She stayed quiet.
His pulse quickened.
“When?”
Another silence.
“After Garrett left he continued…”
The words were barely audible.
Logan closed his eyes.
Fuck.
She continued before he could say anything.
“It wasn’t every day.”
His eyes snapped open. She said it so automatically. Like she thought it made things better. “It wasn’t every week either.”
Another automatic explanation.
“It depended.”
Logan stared at her.
She kept going.
“If I stayed out of the house…If skating competitions went well… If I….”
“Stop.” His voice cracked.
She blinked.
“You don’t have to justify it.”
“I wasn’t…”
“You were.”
Silence.
“You just listed reasons.”
She looked confused.
Logan spoke softly. “There aren’t any justifications for what he did.”
“I always thought maybe if I was just…” She searched for the word. “…better.”
“No.”
“…Quieter.”
“No.”
“…More careful.”
“No.”
His voice was firm now.
“There was never a version of you that deserved that.”
The sentence seemed to hit something deep inside her. Because suddenly she looked exhausted.
“I don’t know how to believe that.”
Logan’s eyes watered.
“I know.”
—
Another long silence.
Then Logan asked the question that had been burning inside him since he’d left Garrett.
“I need you to tell me something.”
She nodded weakly.
“Did he really stop?”
She frowned.
“What?”
“Your dad.”
He swallowed.
“I need to know.”
She looked confused.
“I just told you he stopped.”
“I know.”
His breathing became uneven.
“But you’re smaller than Garrett.”
She stared.
“You couldn’t fight back.” He hated how shaky his own voice sounded. “So I need to know…” He rubbed both hands over his face “…I need to know you’re safe.”
Y/N’s expression changed instantly. She heard something completely different.
“So now I need protecting?”
“What?”
“You think I’m helpless.”
“No.”
“You think I’m broken.”
“No.”
“You pity me.”
Logan stared at her.
“Y/N.”
“You think I can’t take care of myself.”
“I think someone failed to take care of you.”
She went quiet.
He stepped closer.
Slowly.
“So now…” His voice softened. “…I just want to know you’re okay.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then whispered, “No one’s ever asked me that.”
Logan’s throat tightened.
“What?”
“No one asks if I’m okay.”
Another tear escaped.
“They ask if I’m over it.”
“If I’m fine.”
“If I’ve moved on.”
She laughed bitterly.
“They never ask if I’m okay.”
Logan closed the distance between them.
This time she didn’t step away.
He reached up carefully.
Not touching her.
Just giving her the choice.
She looked at his hand.
Then took it herself.
The moment their fingers intertwined, she started crying again.
Logan immediately pulled her into his arms. Slowly. Giving her every opportunity to pull away. Instead she buried her face agains this chest.
“I was so scared,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I thought if you found out…” A shaky breath escaped her lips, “…you’d leave.”
Logan rested his cheek against the top of her head.
“I am scared of your past.”
His arms tightened around her just a little.
“I am scared of how alone you carried it.”
She cried harder. Not because his words fixed anything. They didn’t. Years of fear don’t disappear in one night. But for the first time since she was a little girl… Someone knew. The whole truth. And instead of turning away, Logan held her even closer.
After a long while, he kissed the top of her head.
“So here’s what’s going to happen.”
She sniffled against his chest.
“What?”
“You don’t carry this by yourself anymore.”
A tiny, watery laugh escaped her.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I absolutely do.” She tilted her head up just enough to look at him.
A hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
“I’m dating a Graham.” He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “You people are unbelievably stubborn.”
Despite everything, she let out a quiet laugh.
“There she is,” Logan murmured, relieved to hear it.
She looked at him uncertainly. “You still want me?”
He blinked.
Then, with all the sincerity he could muster, answered, “Y/N, I wanted you before I knew. I want you now that I know. The only thing that’s changed is this: now I know there were nights you needed someone, and I wasn’t there.”
His voice cracked.
“I can’t change those nights.”
He rested his forehead against hers.
“But if you’ll let me…”
His thumb gently brushed away another tear.
“…I can be here for the next ones.”
For the first time that evening, Y/N didn’t apologize.
She simply nodded.
And let herself be held.
Note: Thank you for the support. I’ve been wanting to write about Logan x Graham!Reader, where Logan finds out about Phil, but never got to it. This request finally made me do so. Thanks for the request 🤍
Summary: When y/n finds out that her drink has been spiked she has no one to turn to but Dean, her enemy. Dean finding y/n knocking at his door in her barely conscious state brings up clashing feelings.
TW: having a drugged drink at a party
Word Count: 4.8K
The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.
Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."
"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.
She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.
Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."
"I am relaxed."
"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."
"I'm mentally preparing."
"For Dean?"
Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."
Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.
Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.
"Go," Y/N said.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."
"You might if Dean starts talking."
"I'll survive."
"I sure hope you do."
Y/N shoved her lightly.
"Go."
Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.
Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.
She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.
"You look hot," Hannah had declared.
"I look dressed."
"You look hot."
"I look like someone attending a party."
"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."
Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."
Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.
"Dude."
Dean barely looked at him.
"What?"
Logan nodded toward the front hall.
Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.
"...Oh."
Logan smirked.
"Oh?"
Dean recovered almost instantly.
"So?"
"So…?" Logan echoed.
Dean shrugged.
"She cleans up okay."
Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"
"Yeah."
"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."
"I absolutely have not."
"You absolutely have."
Dean tore his eyes away.
"I was observing."
Logan’s grin widened.
"Observing."
"Shut up."
He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.
It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.
Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.
There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.
Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."
Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."
"I almost didn't recognize you."
"No?"
"Nah."
He tilted his head.
"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."
She smiled sweetly.
"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."
A couple of people nearby chuckled.
Dean nodded once.
"Fair."
Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."
"I wasn't complimenting you."
"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."
Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."
"I know I am."
"Hm."
He folded his arms.
"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."
The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.
Dean did.
"So does your personality," she replied evenly.
He smiled again.
"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."
She stared at him.
"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."
"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."
"So do people invite me."
He looked around theatrically.
"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."
There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.
She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not."
"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."
Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."
"Must've been exhausting."
He stepped just a little closer.
"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."
Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."
Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."
Dean chuckled.
"There she is."
"What?"
"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."
Y/N held his gaze.
"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."
"No?"
She smiled.
"Just you."
The surrounding group burst into laughter.
Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.
So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”
Silence.
This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”
The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.
"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."
She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."
She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.
Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"
Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.
"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”
Dean frowned.
"What?"
Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."
Dean scoffed.
"I always act like an ass."
Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."
He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.
"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."
—
To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.
Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.
Shit…
What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.
Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.
Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.
She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.
She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.
So why had that one landed?
She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.
It had just been... Mean.
Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."
She closed her eyes. Of course.
Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"
Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."
He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.
Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.
Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.
She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.
For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.
"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."
She gave a small shrug.
"Good for Logan."
"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"
"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."
That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.
"What?"
She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.
"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"
Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.
"You know what your problem is?"
She sighed.
"Please. Enlighten me."
"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."
A tiny laugh escaped her.
"No."
"No?"
"I walk around trying not to care what people think."
He scoffed.
"That's adorable."
"It works most days."
"Clearly not tonight."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.
He should've left it there. Instead….
"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"
She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.
"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"
The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.
"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."
For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.
She always had one. Always.
Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.
Dean blinked. "What?"
"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.
"Okay."
No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.
"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."
Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.
Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.
Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.
"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"
A couple of people laughed.
Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.
Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.
—
Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.
Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.
"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.
Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.
But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.
He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.
"Dean." A familiar voice.
He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.
"I've been trying to find you."
"Have you?"
"Mhm."
She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.
"I thought maybe you disappeared."
Dean looked down at her hand.
Then back up.
"Huh."
She laughed.
"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."
Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.
She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.
Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."
For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.
It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.
A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”
He blinked. "Maybe later."
The girl looked surprised.
"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."
She disappeared back into the crowd.
Dean watched her go.
That was… weird.
He took another sip.
Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.
"Dean!" Another voice.
This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.
"You owe me a rematch in pong."
"Do I?"
"You destroyed me last weekend."
"I probably did."
She laughed, looping an arm through his.
"You sound thrilled to see me."
Dean looked at her.
She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.
One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.
She squeezed his arm playfully.
"So?"
"So?"
"The rematch."
Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.
Then looked back at her.
"I think I'll pass."
Her smile faltered.
"You... don't want to play beer pong?"
"Not really."
She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.
"Okay..."
She walked away looking thoroughly confused.
Dean was, too.
What the hell?
He never turned down beer pong.
He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.
He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.
He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.
Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"
He waved without looking.
Another voice.
"Dean, come dance!"
He ignored it.
A hand caught his wrist.
He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.
"You've been avoiding me all night."
"Sorry."
She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."
Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.
Not even annoyance.
Just... Nothing.
"I'm actually heading upstairs."
Her smile slipped.
"Oh."
He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.
Halfway up, he stopped.
He looked down.
The entire house stretched beneath him.
Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.
Tonight it wasn't.
He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.
He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.
Silence.
Dean leaned back against the door.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.
"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."
He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.
He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.
All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"
—
Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.
Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.
Y/N stood in the middle of it all.
She couldn't hear herself think.
At first, she assumed it was the music.
Then she realized the room itself had started to move.
She frowned.
The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.
"Weird." She blinked hard.
Maybe she'd stood up too fast.
She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.
No.
Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.
The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.
Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.
Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.
"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."
Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.
Okay.
Okay, breathe.
When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.
Too many people.
Too much noise.
Too little air.
Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.
"Oh, shit."
Her voice trembled.
"Oh, shit..."
She looked down at the drink in her hand.
Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.
She needed Hannah.
That thought came immediately.
Hannah.
She'd know what to do.
Y/N turned toward the hallway.
Then remembered.
Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.
Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.
Privacy.
Right.
Y/N swallowed.
She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.
Absolutely not.
Her breathing grew uneven.
The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.
Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.
Think.
Who else?
Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.
An ambulance?
No.
That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?
No, no...
She wasn't even sure what was wrong.
She just... She just needed someone.
Someone she knew.
Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.
Dean.
She almost laughed.
It would've been funny under different circumstances.
Dean Di Laurentis.
The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.
She hated him.
He was an ass.
Cocky.
Infuriating.
Meaner than he realized.
But...
He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.
Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.
She knew that with complete certainty.
Her feet were already moving.
The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.
Come on.
One more.
She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.
Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.
"No..."
She squeezed the railing harder.
"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.
Another breath.
Another step.
Then another.
By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.
Dean's door.
End of the hallway.
So close.
She took one step. Then another.
Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.
She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.
The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."
Everything suddenly felt so far away.
She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.
—
Inside, Dean didn't move.
He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.
The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.
A knock sounded.
Dean sighed.
Without getting up, he called toward the door.
"Occupied."
Silence.
Good.
Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.
Not happening.
He leaned back against the headboard again.
Another knock.
More insistent this time.
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I said go away."
Nothing.
Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.
Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.
He yanked the door open. And froze.
Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.
"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"
She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.
Was he angry? No.
Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.
"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”
Her eyes began slipping shut.
Dean's expression shattered.
Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.
"Y/N!"
He caught her before she could hit her head.
Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.
"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.
"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."
Nothing.
"Come on."
Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.
"There you are."
His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.
"What happened?"
She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.
Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.
"What did you have to drink?"
She frowned.
"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."
"Did you hit your head?"
A tiny shake. "No."
"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.
"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.
Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.
"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."
He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.
"I've got you."
He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.
She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.
The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.
She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.
"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.
"I'm trying."
"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."
She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.
"I'm here."
Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.
Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.
She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.
A lump settled painfully in his throat.
Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.
"I'm here." Dean whispered.
Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.
"No, no."
Dean gently squeezed her hand.
"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."
"Tired."
"I know."
"Just..." Her words were fading.
He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."
She tried.
God, she tried.
He could see it.
The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.
Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.
"Y/N?"
No answer.
Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.
Dean stayed exactly where he was.
Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.
Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.
Summary: grief doesn’t ask permission before it moves … and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that should’ve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person who’s still standing when everything else has fallen down
Warnings: you’re going to need tissues
Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.
He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.
“Dean, honey,” his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. “Are you holding up?”
He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.
“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”
Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.
Dead.
The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.
“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.
Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.
“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.
Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”
“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.
His chest tightens at the thought of you.
You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.
Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.
***
“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s
“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”
“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”
“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.
“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”
“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”
“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.
“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.
“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.
***
The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.
Dean turns.
You are walking down the center aisle.
His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.
Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.
He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.
You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.
The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.
“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”
Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.
You stand up.
A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.
You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.
You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.
You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.
“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”
You stop, swallowing hard.
“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”
A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.
“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”
You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.
Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.
“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”
You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.
“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house.
“My dad was driving,” you say softly.
Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.
“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”
You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.
“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”
You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.
“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”
“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.
“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”
Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.
“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”
Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.
“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.
“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”
“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.
“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”
You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.
You collapse.
You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.
But Dean is faster.
He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.
“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”
Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.
“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”
You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”
“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”
“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”
Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.
“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”
“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”
“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”
“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”
Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.
“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”
Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”
“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.
“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.
You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.
“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”
***
Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.
He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.
Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.
He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.
Empty.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.
“Hey, Dean?”
Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.
“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.
“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”
“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”
“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.
“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”
“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.
The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.
His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.
He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.
“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”
Silence.
He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”
Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.
Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.
The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.
“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.
He flips the light switch.
You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.
Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?
“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”
He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.
Your eyes are open.
A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”
But you don’t respond.
Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.
Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.
“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”
You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.
Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.
But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.
Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.
“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”
You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.
“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”
He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”
You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.
Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.
“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”
He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.
Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”
He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.
“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”
He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.
“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”
He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.
He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.
Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.
Dean freezes.
It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.
Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.
He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.
“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”
You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.
A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.
Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.
“Let’s go,” he says softly.
He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.
***
Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.
The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.
Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.
“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.
Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.
“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”
You don’t respond.
A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.
Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.
The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.
Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”
The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.
Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.
The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.
“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says.
You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.
“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.
Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”
You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.
Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”
You take a small sip.
They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.
“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.
Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.
“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”
“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”
And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.
***
The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.
It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.
The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.
“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.
“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.
The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.
“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.
You blink at it. “What is that?”
“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”
Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.
“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.
“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”
“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”
“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”
“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.
“No, you’re not.”
Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.
“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.
You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.
“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”
“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.
“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”
You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.
“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”
***
The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.
Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.
You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.
“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”
Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.
“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”
Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.
Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.
“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”
The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.
Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.
Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.
Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.
Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.
“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”
The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.
“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”
Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.
“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”
The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.
You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.
Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.
***
When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.
Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.
“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.
“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.
“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.
“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”
“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.
“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”
You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.
Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.
“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.
Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.
They all stop when you walk in.
There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.
But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”
“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.
“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”
“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”
“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”
“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”
“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.
Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”
The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.
Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.
After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.
“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.
“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.
“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”
“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”
“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.
He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.
The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.
“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”
“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”
“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”
“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.
You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.
You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.
Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.
As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.
The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.
Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.
***
Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.
The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.
He looks down.
You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.
Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.
He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.
You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.
“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.
He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.
He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.
Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.
But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.
Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.
He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.
He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.
About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.
Dean turns his head.
You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.
Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.
But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.
A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.
He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.
For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.
Then, the fourth second hits.
The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.
You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.
And now, you are in Dean’s bed.
You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.
The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.
You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.
But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.
He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.
You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.
“Dean,” you whisper.
The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.
You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.
“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.
His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”
“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.
“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”
You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.
“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”
Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.
“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.
“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”
“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You open your wet eyes.
Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.
“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”
You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.
“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”
“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.
“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”
“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.
“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”
“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”
The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.
You break.
You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.
And Dean breaks right along with you.
The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.
You hold him, and he holds you.
You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.
You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.
You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.
The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.
“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”
You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”
“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”
“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”
“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”
You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.
Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”
You look into his eyes, inches from your own.
“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”
The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.
Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.
You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.
“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.
The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.
But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.
“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.
“Never,” Dean replies instantly.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.
For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.
***
Grief is not a straight line.
It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.
But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.
Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.
The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.
You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.
He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.
A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.
“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.
“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.
“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”
You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”
“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”
You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.
Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.
You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.
The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.
So, you quit.
It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.
***
“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.
“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”
“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”
You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”
“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.
***
He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.
The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.
You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.
Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.
“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”
“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”
Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”
“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.
“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”
You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.
The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.
“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.
“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.
“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”
You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.
“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.
“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”
“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”
“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.
“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”
“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”
You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.
You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.
You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.
Hours later, the house finally quiets down.
Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.
You and Dean are left alone in the living room.
The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.
“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.
“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”
Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.
Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.
“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”
Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”
“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”
His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”
“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”
“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.
The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.
You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.
“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.
Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”
“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”
Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.
The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.
“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”
“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.
“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.
Your breath catches in your throat.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.
“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.
He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”
“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”
You stare at him, completely paralyzed.
For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.
But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.
“Then kiss me,” you whisper.
Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.
He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.
The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.
Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.
It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.
When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.
“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.
Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.
But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.
“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”
You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”
Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”
You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.
“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”
Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.
“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”
The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.
You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.
“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”
A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.
“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”
Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”
You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”
“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.
He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.
“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”
“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.
“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.
For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.
You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.
***
“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”
Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.
“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”
Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”
“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”
“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”
You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.
“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.
Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.
“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”
“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.
He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.
“Hey,” you whisper back.
“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.
Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.
“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”
Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”
***
The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.
You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.
The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.
You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.
Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.
“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”
Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”
A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.
“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”
The crowd erupts into applause.
It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.
You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.
“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.
You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.
You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.
He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.
You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.
Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.
Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.
A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.
You walk down the opposite set of stairs.
You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.
He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”
***
The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.
You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.
Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.
“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.
Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.
Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.
You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.
“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”
You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.
***
Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.
Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.
“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”
Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”
“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.
“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.
“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.
You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.
Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.
“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.
Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”
“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”
Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”
“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.
“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.
“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”
Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.
The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.
“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”
“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.
You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.
***
By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.
You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.
Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.
“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.
“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”
“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”
You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.
“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”
“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.
The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.
You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.
The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.
“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.
“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”
Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”
“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”
As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.
“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.
“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”
“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”
“You were very bossy.”
“And you loved it.”
You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”
The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.
The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.
Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.
He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.
You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”
“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”
“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.
Your breath hitches.
Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.
He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.
“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.
You freeze.
Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.
“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”
The air completely leaves your lungs.
You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.
“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”
Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.
You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.
You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.
And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.
The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.
***
The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.
“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”
You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.
It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.
You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.
You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.
Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.
“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.
Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.
“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”
“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”
“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”
You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”
“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”
Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.
The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.
He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.
“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”
Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”
“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”
***
The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.
You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.
“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.
She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.
“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.
You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.
A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.
Your breath completely catches in your throat.
“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”
“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.
“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.
The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.
Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.
He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”
“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”
A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.
“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”
You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.
“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”
“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.
She hands the envelope to Dean.
Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.
“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.
“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”
***
The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.
The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.
Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.
“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.
“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”
“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.
“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”
“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.
Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.
“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”
You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”
“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.
He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.
He hands it to you.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.
You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.
Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You look down at the envelope in your lap.
“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.
“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.
“On three,” you say.
“One,” Dean counts.
“Two,” you whisper.
“Three.”
Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.
There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.
It’s a boy!
The world completely stops spinning.
You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.
Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.
“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.
“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.
Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.
“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.
When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.
He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.
“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.
You look at him.
For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.
But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.
There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.
“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.
Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.
“Beau,” Dean whispers.
Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”
“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.
“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”
“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.
“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”
You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.
When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.
He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.
“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.
“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”
Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.
“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”
A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.
“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”
Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.
“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”
He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.
You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.
The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.
But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.
It continued.
It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.
You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.
“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.
Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.
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