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TikTok Trends

Beau Maxwell x F!Reader

summary: your boyfriend not having tiktok might be the best part of your relationship

cw/tags: swearing, slightly suggestive content, pet names used, no y/n, you have hair, not proofread, run on sentences!! ignore them pls! it’s my whimsy!!

kooksandpearls

garrett graham ❄︎ proper lunch.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – between wound reviews, vaccination clinics, asthma education, and stolen lunch breaks, garrett makes sure his girlfriend gets fed and reminded how good she is. warnings – medical placement, primary care setting, vaccination clinic mention, wound care mention, asthma review, food/eating. notes from me – MY SWEET DOMESTIC BABIES HOW I LOVE THEM!! based on these requests combined! thank you babes! word count – 3.1k

navigation – masterlist |

Monday

By twelve-thirty, the medical centre has already taught her three important things: the blood pressure machine in room four lies, children can sense fear more accurately than most diagnostic equipment, and nobody working in primary care gets to eat lunch at the time written on the roster.

She comes out through the side entrance at twelve forty-seven with her scrub top pulling strangely beneath her cardigan, one pocket weighted down by three pens, a folded observation sheet and a tiny glittery sticker she’d found stuck to her elbow after the morning vaccination clinic.

The air outside is cold enough to make the inside of her nose sting. Garrett’s already sitting on the little bench beside the staff car park, one ankle resting over his opposite knee, a paper takeaway bag tucked between his shoes and his phone loose in one hand.

He looks up before the door has finished closing behind her. The change happens quickly, his attention lifting away from the screen and landing fully on her like he hasn’t spent the last twenty minutes surrounded by traffic, bare winter trees and a medical centre sign advertising flu shots. “Hey, baby.”

mnkeycveringisemoji

loss of my life

author's note: uhm, so i tried to go to sleep but i wrote this instead. hope you like it! i hate reading angst but i LOVE writing it so let me know what you think about this one! also, my deepest apologies to the person who requested for the friends to lovers fic with beau, i promise i will be getting that out soon!!

words: 2.6k+

summary: beau is the love of your life, he's all you could ask for. until tragedy strikes and he becomes the loss of your life

warnings: angst angst angst, hurt/no comfort, did i mention angst?, mentions of accidents/car crashes, crying, death, heavy angst, you have been warned, most likely will not be a part two to this, this was written very quickly so it's most likely not well written, very quick proofread, and inaccurate book errors because author has never read the books and got all of her information off the internet.

kooksandpearls

How You Get The Girl ❀ 01

pairing – Petal!Reader x Garrett Graham summary – Garrett Graham has a ten-step plan to get his girl back. warnings – Emotional abuse references, domestic violence references, abusive parent, family trauma, anxiety. word count – 10.3k

navigation – Masterlist ❀ Chapter One ❀ Chapter Two

kooksandpearls

garrett graham ❄︎ lockdown etiquette.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – garrett plans to ask properly over dinner. instead, panic, hospital security, and two hours of waiting turn the moment into something far less polished and much more honest. warnings – hospital lockdown, anxiety/panic, fear for a loved one, trauma references, relationship discussion, emotional vulnerability, fluff. notes from me – EVERYBODY STAY CALM!!!!! word count – 4.8k

navigation – masterlist |

The emergency department being locked down turns out to be excellent for her academic career.

Somewhere behind two sets of badge-access doors and several increasingly irritated security guards, something has happened in psych. The details have reached the rest of the department in broken little pieces: a patient tried to leave, somebody made a threat, a door may or may not have been damaged, and one student insists she heard the phrase improvised weapon while another swears it was only a plastic chair.

Nobody actually knows anything, which hasn’t stopped everyone from knowing it very loudly.

What she knows is that the hospital stopped accepting incoming ambulances just after six, the waiting room thinned out by seven, and the usual constant churn of paramedics, relatives, stretchers, crying children, people with towels wrapped around bleeding hands and men experiencing chest pain who still want to finish a cigarette first, has slowed to something almost civilised.

sunnydilaurentis

distance between us | found family au ⋆˚࿔

✩.* found family fics!

✩.* found family masterlist

summary: in which garrett struggles with the quiet ache of feeling shut out by the person he loves most, as y/n seemingly leans on everyone but him.

notes: hi!! ahh my first angst for found family, i hope you all enjoy! thank you so much for this request, it broke my heart to write 🥹

ꪆৎ

it starts slowly. so slowly, garrett almost convinces himself he’s imagining it.

you’ve always had moments of quiet. moments where you disappeared inside your own head for a little while, where your smile softened at the edges and your answers became smaller, less detailed, like you were trying to preserve energy without admitting you were running out of it.

this feels different. this feels like watching you fold yourself smaller each day and pretending nothing is happening.

the first time he notices, you’re at the hockey house on a saturday morning, tucked into the corner of the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling on the table beside you.

everyone else is loud. you’re there, technically, but not really. your eyes keep scanning the same paragraph on your screen, your fingers hover above the keyboard, your mouth pressed into a thin, tired line.

garrett watches you from the kitchen doorway. he has your favourite mug in his hand, the one you always reach for when you’re over.

he doesn’t say anything at first, just crosses the room quietly, setting it down beside your laptop before leaning over the back of the couch.

“you okay?” he asks softly. you blink like you’ve been pulled back from somewhere far away. you look up at him, and your face changes too quickly. smile first, answer second.

“yeah” you say. “just tired.”

garrett studies you. “you sure?”

you nod, already looking back at your laptop. “mhm.”

he doesn’t push because he knows you, sometimes pushing makes you retreat further. he kisses the top of your head instead, lets his hand rest briefly against the side of your neck, thumb brushing once beneath your ear.

“eat something soon,” he murmurs.

you hum. “i will.”

you don’t. he notices that too.

following that day, he notices everything.

garrett notices the texts that come hours later than usual, not absent, never fully absent, you still reply, still send him little updates when something funny happens, still send photos of your coffee, lecture slides, allie asleep in weird positions across your dorm bed.

but something about it feels thinner, as though you’re giving him proof of life instead of what's truly going on. he notices the way you stop coming by after class as often, the way you say you have readings to catch up on, the way you say you’re fine.

fine. fine. fine.

he starts hating the word.

one night, he calls you after practice. you answer on the fourth ring.

“hi,” you say, voice soft, clearly laced with exhaustion.

garrett leans against the wall outside the locker room, one hand still damp from his shower as he presses the phone closer to his ear.

“hey. you sound tired.”

you laugh lightly, too lightly. “rude.”

“not an insult.”

“still rude.”

he smiles faintly, but it fades quickly. there’s a pause, he can hear papers shifting on your end, the quiet hum of your dorm room, the faint sound of allie’s music playing somewhere in the background.

“what are you doing?” he asks.

“nothing.”

garrett’s brows pull together. “nothing with papers?”

you go quiet for half a second too long, then, “just study.”

“want help?”

“with law readings?”

“i can sit there and look pretty.” that gets a real laugh out of you, small, brief, but real. his chest loosens a little.

“tempting,” you say.

“i can also bring food.”

“also tempting.”

“so say yes.” another pause, this one feels worse.

“i think i’m just gonna sleep soon,” you say. garrett looks down at the floor, he knows you’re lying, not about being tired, about sleeping.

“okay,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to do without sounding like he’s accusing you of something.

“call me if you need anything.”

“i will.”

you won’t, he knows that too.

allie notices the shifts more clearly at first, mostly because living with you makes the changes harder to miss. she notices the light under your door staying on past midnight.

then one, then two. then enough that she stops thinking of it as unusual.

she notices the way your laundry piles up in the corner because you keep telling yourself you’ll do it tomorrow. she notices the untouched dinners, the cold coffee, the emails open on your laptop that make your face go blank.

she tries, gently at first. “y/n,” she says one night, leaning against your doorway in one of dean’s hoodies. “when did you last eat something that wasn’t toast?”

you don’t look up from your laptop. “toast counts.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“it was a good answer.”

“it was a concerning answer.”

you sigh, rubbing both hands over your face. “allie.”

her expression softens, not teasing now. “you’re scaring me a little.”

her words make you look up, guilt immediately settling into your chest. “don’t say that.”

“then stop looking like you’re one email away from fully combusting.”

you try to smile, it doesn’t work. allie steps into your room, sitting carefully on the edge of your bed.

“is this legal internship stuff?”

your throat tightens, you look back at your screen. “partly.”

“and exams?”

“partly.”

“and home?”

you don’t answer, that is an answer in itself. allie exhales softly, “does garrett know?”

your fingers go still. “know what?”

“y/n.”

you shut your laptop, not gently. “i’m handling it.”

allie gives you a look. “that wasn’t what i asked.”

“i know.”

“so?”

you stand, suddenly unable to sit still, moving around your tiny dorm room like you have somewhere to go even though there is nowhere. you grab your water bottle, unscrew the lid, screw it back on without drinking.

“he has enough going on.”

allie’s face shifts. “oh, babe.”

you hate that, the softness, the pity. you turn away. “don’t.”

“i’m not doing anything.”

“you’re looking at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like i’m sad.”

allie’s voice is careful. “you are sad, y/n.”

your eyes burn immediately, you hate that even more. “i’m stressed,” you correct, too quickly. “there’s a difference.”

“okay.”

“and i don’t need garrett worrying about me on top of everything else. he has hockey and captain stuff and phil being weird again and-”

“he’s your boyfriend.”

“i know that.”

“do you?”

you turn back to her. “what is that supposed to mean?”

allie lifts her hands slightly. “nothing. i just mean, he would want to know.”

“i know.”

“then tell him.”

your jaw tightens. “i can’t.”

allie’s face softens again. “why not?”

if you tell garrett, really tell him, he’ll look at you like he sees all of it. you don’t know if you can survive being seen that clearly.

if you say it out loud, that you’re overwhelmed, that you feel like you’re failing, that every rejection feels personal, and every conversation at home makes your chest tight, it becomes real.

garrett will care, deeply. somehow that feels like too much, for now.

“i just can’t.”

allie doesn’t push after that, but she remains even more worried.

garrett lasts another week. he tries, he really tries. he tries being patient, he tries being gentle, he tries letting you come to him when you’re ready.

every time he reaches for you, you slip away with a tired smile, a soft apology and a promise that everything is fine. the thing is, garrett knows fine. he knows your fine. he knows the difference between your annoyed fine, your sleepy fine, your 'don’t want to talk about it yet' fine.

this is none of those, this is a locked door, and he is standing on the wrong side of it.

the worst part is that you’re still sweet to him. you still curl into his side when you come over, still kiss him softly, still laugh when he says something dry under his breath, still steal his hoodies and forget to give them back.

but there’s distance, not physical, worse, emotional. you sit beside him and somehow feel incredibly far away.

it comes to a head on a friday night at the hockey house. it isn’t even meant to be a big night, just dinner after practice, everyone gathered around the living room with takeout containers spread across the coffee table and a movie playing in the background that nobody is watching.

you’re tucked beside garrett on the couch, knees drawn up, his hand resting lightly on your thigh. you’ve been quieter than usual. he can feel the tension in you, the way your body never fully relaxes against his, the way you keep checking your phone whenever it lights up, the way your face falls every time you read something before you smooth it over again.

he wants to ask, he has already asked, you have already lied. so he stays quiet.

dean says it. casually, carelessly, with no idea he’s stepping directly into something fragile. “oh,” dean says, pointing his fork towards you. “did you hear back from that firm yet?”

the room keeps moving for half a second, then stops. not dramatically, not all at once, but enough.

allie freezes, sabrina’s eyes flick towards you, logan stops mid-sentence, garrett’s hand stills on your thigh. you feel it immediately, your stomach dropping.

slowly, garrett turns his head towards you. “what firm?”

dean looks between you and garrett, his face changing.

“uh.” you sit up straighter. “dean.”

he lowers his fork. “shit.”

garrett doesn’t look at dean anymore, only you. “what firm?” he repeats. his voice is calm, too calm.

you swallow. “it’s nothing.”

something shifts in garrett’s expression, not anger, not yet, hurt. quiet and immediate. “don’t do that, y/n.”

your cheeks heat. everyone is watching, even though nobody wants to be. you can feel it, you hate it.

“garrett,” you say quietly. he removes his hand from your leg, not harshly, not dramatically, but the absence of it feels like a clear slap.

“you applied for internships?”

your throat tightens. “yes.”

“when?”

you stare down at your hands. “a couple weeks ago.”

his jaw moves once. “a couple weeks.”

you don’t answer. dean looks like he wants the couch to swallow him. “g,” he starts. “i didn’t realise-”

“don’t,” garrett says. not sharp, not loud, just enough to stop him. dean shuts his mouth. garrett stands.

you look up quickly. “where are you going?”

he looks at you for a second, and it is awful. you would almost prefer anger. anger you could fight, anger you could meet with your own defensiveness, pride, hurt.

garrett just looks wounded, like something inside him has gone very still.

“upstairs” he says.

he walks away, the room is silent after him. for one unbearable second, nobody moves. allie says your name softly. you stand before she can say anything else. “i’m fine.”

nobody believes you, you follow him anyway.

garrett’s bedroom door is half open when you get there. he’s standing by the window, one hand braced against the sill, the other pressed to the back of his neck.

his shoulders are tense. you pause in the doorway, for a second, you almost leave. not because you don’t want to fix it, because you know this won’t be easy, you know he’s hurt, you know, deep down, he has every right to be.

you knock lightly, even though he already knows you’re there. garrett doesn’t turn around.

“can i come in?” you ask.

a pause.

“yeah.”

you step inside and close the door behind you. the sound feels too final.

the room is familiar in all the ways that usually comfort you. his hoodie over the desk chair, the water bottle by his bed, the framed photo tucker had taken after a home game, garrett’s arm around your shoulders, your face turned up toward him mid-laugh. you can barely look at it.

“i was going to tell you” you say.

garrett laughs once. it's quiet, empty.

“when?”

you flinch. he turns around then, and his face makes your chest hurt.

he isn’t yelling, he isn’t furious. he just looks tired, hurt.

“i don’t know,” you admit.

he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “you don’t know.”

“i’ve had a lot going on.”

“yeah,” he says, voice roughening slightly. “i’m starting to get that.”

your arms fold over your chest before you can stop them. defensive, protective. “don’t do that.”

his eyebrows draw together. “do what?”

“make me feel like i’ve done something wrong.”

garrett stares at you. “you don’t think you did?”

your stomach twists. “i didn’t lie to you.”

“you didn’t tell me.”

“that’s not the same thing.”

“it feels the same.”

your mouth closes. garrett drags a hand over his jaw, looking away like he’s trying very hard to keep himself under control.

“do you know how shitty it feels,” he says, quieter now, “hearing about something going on with you from someone else?”

your own hurt rises fast, too fast. you’re embarrassed, overwhelmed.

you already feel like you’re failing, and now even garrett is looking at you like you’ve failed him too.

“i didn’t ask anyone to tell you.”

his head snaps back towards you. “jesus y/n, that’s not the point.”

“then what is?”

“the point is that i’m your boyfriend.” his voice cracks slightly around the word. he takes a breath, trying again. “i’m supposed to be the person you come to.”

your eyes burn. “you are.”

“no,” he says. one word, quiet, devastating.

“i’m not.”

you blink hard. “that’s not fair.”

“isn’t it?”

“no.”

“then tell me what’s going on.”

you look away, garrett’s silence deepens. there it is, the answer. your inability to answer. he nods once, almost to himself, and that hurts worse than anything else.

“right.”

“garrett-”

“no, seriously. tell me.” his voice is still controlled, but there’s something sharper underneath now. something fraying.

“because i’ve been asking for weeks. i’ve asked you if you’re okay, i’ve asked if you need help, i’ve asked if you want me to come over, and every single time, you look me in the face and tell me you’re fine.”

tears prick harder behind your eyes. you hate crying when you’re angry. you hate crying when you’re wrong.

“because i didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“it is a thing.”

“not everything has to be shared.”

garrett goes still. you regret it immediately, you see the words hit him, see his face close off in a way that terrifies you.

“okay,” he says.

your heart drops. “that’s not what i meant.”

“sounds like what you meant.”

“i meant i’m allowed to deal with things privately.”

“of course you are.”

“then why are you angry?”

“because this isn’t fucking private, y/n.” his voice finally rises, not loud enough to be yelling, but enough that the hurt cuts through. “this is you shutting me out.”

you shake your head. “i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m overwhelmed, garrett.”

“i know.”

“no, you don’t.”

“because you won’t let me.”

that silences you. he steps closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you have to look at him.

“you think i don’t notice?” he asks. “you think i don’t see you barely eating? you think i don’t know when you’re lying about sleeping? you think i don’t notice that you’re sitting right next to me and still somehow not here, not present?”

your breath catches, garrett’s face twists. “i notice everything.”

that is the problem, that is exactly the problem.

you press your lips together, but the tears spill anyway. garrett sees them and softens for half a second, instinctively. at the end of the day, he is garrett. even angry, even hurt, some part of him still wants to move towards you.

he stops himself.

“i wasn’t trying to hurt you,” you whisper. his expression crumples slightly. “i know.”

you breathe out shakily. “then why are you acting like i did this on purpose?”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m acting like it hurt me.”

your chest tightens, garrett swallows, “because it did, y/n. you're killing me here.”

the room goes quiet. you stare at him, he looks away first. not because he doesn’t mean it, he does, but because saying it cost him something.

your voice comes out small. “i didn’t want you to worry.”

he laughs under his breath, but there’s no humour in it. “too late.”

garrett drags a hand over his face, jaw tight, trying to rein himself in before he says the next part. when he speaks again, his voice is lower. rougher.

“do you know what got me?”

you blink. “garrett-”

“dean knew.”

the words land hard. you freeze. garrett shakes his head slightly, like he still can’t quite believe it.

“dean fucking knew.” his voice cracks with frustration now, emotion finally slipping through. “and from the look on everyone else’s faces, they did too.”

his eyes lock onto yours. “i was the only one in that room left in the dark.”

your breath catches, “garrett…”

“and i keep asking myself why.” his voice softens then, somehow worse than when he was angry, hurt, raw.

“because i know you trust dean. i know you tell him things.” he swallows hard. “and of course i’m okay with that, more than okay."

he takes a step closer, but there’s tension in every line of him.

“i love that you have people. i love that you have dean, allie, sabrina, grace and everyone else.” his eyes search yours desperately now. “i don’t need to know every single thought in your head, y/n. i don’t.”

his voice drops.

“but this?”

his chest rises sharply. “something this important. something that’s clearly been eating away at you, something that’s been hurting you." he stops, jaw clenching.

“why didn't you let me in?”

garrett’s voice breaks just slightly. “it makes me feel like you don’t trust me.”

a single tear slips from your eye as you shake your head, trying to defend yourself. “you have so much going on i-"

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“decide for me what i can handle.”

your mouth shuts. garrett steps back, running both hands through his hair. “i can't keep watching you fall apart and standing here feeling completely useless because you won’t let me in.”

your tears are falling properly now. you wipe at them quickly, frustrated with yourself. “i can’t afford to fall apart right now, and if i say everything, all of my problems out loud to you, then it becomes even more real.”

the honesty comes out before you can stop it. broken, raw, too much.

garrett freezes. you cover your mouth with one hand, shaking your head like you can take it back, but you can’t. it’s out now, the room feels heavier around it, garrett’s voice is gentler when he says your name, that almost breaks you completely.

“don’t,” you whisper.

he looks pained. “baby-”

“don’t call me that right now.” he stops. you see that hurt him too. you hate yourself for it immediately.

everything in you feels too exposed. too tender, too raw.

“i should go,” you say.

garrett’s face changes. panic, brief and buried.

until pride covers it, hurt covers it. “if that’s what you want.”

it isn’t, that’s the awful part. it is the last thing you want. you want him to cross the room, you want him to pull you in, you want him to forgive you without you having to explain all the ugly parts.

you are too defensive to ask, too scared to stay, too tired to keep standing there with the person you love looking at you like you’ve made him feel alone.

so you nod. “yeah.”

garrett’s jaw tightens. “okay.”

you wait for him to stop you, he doesn’t, you leave. by the time you make it downstairs, allie is standing near the bottom of the steps.

one look at your face and hers falls. “oh, y/n.”

you shake your head quickly. “please don’t.” her mouth closes. behind her, dean is standing in the kitchen, pale with guilt. logan and grace are in the hallway, unusually quiet. tucker and sabrina are frozen near the couch.

you hate that they all know. you hate that they all saw enough to understand. you grab your bag from beside the couch.

allie follows you to the door. “i’m coming with you.”

“you don’t have to.”

“i know.” she grabs her keys anyway, you don’t argue. if you try, you’ll cry harder.

you are already barely holding yourself together.

garrett doesn’t come after you. he hears the front door close, he hears allie’s car start outside, he hears dean swear quietly downstairs.

then nothing.

he sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. he feels sick, not because he thinks he was wrong to be hurt. he was hurt, he is hurt.

he can still see your face when you said it, because if i say it out loud then it becomes more real. the words keep replaying in his head until they start to hurt.

he reaches for his phone, opens your messages, staring at the last text from you.

you: do you want me to bring coffee when i come over? garrett: only if you’re part of the delivery you: gross garrett: romantic you: very debatable

that was two days ago. it feels like longer. he types, i’m sorry, deletes it, types again. are you home safe? deletes that too.

he doesn’t know what he’s apologising for yet, he is sorry, but he is also still hurt.

part of him wants to get in his car and go to you immediately, another part of him remembers how you looked at him and said not everything has to be shared. like loving you was something he had to stand outside of until he was invited in.

a knock sounds at his door. garrett doesn’t answer, the door opens anyway.

dean steps in. garrett looks up.

“not now.”

dean holds both hands up. “i’m not here to lecture.”

“good.”

“or yell.”

“also good.”

dean shuts the door behind him, then stands there awkwardly. garrett stares at him. “what?”

dean grimaces. “i’m sorry.”

garrett looks away. “you didn’t know.”

“yeah, but still.” dean rubs the back of his neck. “i shouldn’t have said anything.”

“it’s not your fault.”

“kind of feels like it.”

“it’s not.”

dean is quiet for a moment. then, carefully, “she’s been pretty bad, g.”

garrett’s chest tightens, he looks back at him. dean seems to regret saying it, but continues anyway. “not bad bad. just… not herself. allie’s really worried.”

garrett laughs once, bitterly. “everyone’s worried.”

dean winces. “yeah.”

garrett looks down at his hands. “everyone knew.”

“i don’t think she meant for it to be like that.”

“doesn’t make it feel any better.”

“i know.” dean leans back against the door. for once, he doesn’t make a joke.

“she does that sometimes.”

garrett’s eyes lift. dean shrugs, uncomfortable with his own sincerity. “acts like if she can keep everyone else from worrying, then nothing’s actually wrong.”

garrett’s throat tightens. “i know.”

“yeah,” dean says softly. “i figured you did.”

silence settles between them for a moment before dean breaks it. “for what it’s worth, i don’t think she was keeping it from you because she doesn’t trust you.”

garrett looks away again, that’s the part that hurts. because logically, he knows that, emotionally, it doesn’t matter.

“then why?”

dean exhales. “because you matter more.”

garrett’s face tightens. dean looks almost apologetic. “i know that sounds backwards.”

garrett says nothing.

“but i think it’s harder with you because she knows you’ll actually see it.”

that lands, quietly. he thinks of your forced smiles, your cold coffee, the way you had kept turning your face away from him lately, like eye contact was dangerous.

dean opens the door. “i’ll leave you alone.”

garrett nods once, before dean steps out, he pauses. “also, if you make her cry again, i’ll be very annoying about it.”

garrett huffs a humourless breath. “she made me cry internally first.”

“yeah, well. do that externally next time. might help.”

dean leaves. garrett sits there alone, phone still in his hand, he doesn’t text.

neither do you.

the next morning is worse. mornings are yours. saturday mornings especially.

usually, you come to the hockey house with allie. usually, garrett has coffee waiting or pulls you into him before you’ve even taken your shoes off. usually, dean makes some comment about how disgusting the two of you are, and you flip him off without looking.

today, you don’t come. allie does, alone.

garrett is in the kitchen when the front door opens. he knows it’s not you before he sees her. no soft footsteps beside allie’s louder ones, no familiar voice, no automatic call of, “where’s my coffee?"

he keeps his eyes on the mug in front of him. logan, sitting at the counter, notices. allie steps into the kitchen, face guarded. garrett looks at her, she looks back.

for a moment, neither of them say anything, then garrett breaks, asking the question he's been dying to know the answer to.

“is she okay?”

allie’s expression softens, however not enough to make him feel better.

“not really.”

his hand tightens around the mug. “did she sleep?”

allie hesitates, which is an answer in itself. garrett nods once, “right.”

allie steps closer. “she’s not trying to hurt you.”

“i know.”

“she just-”

“i know,” he says again, quieter this time. allie stops, studying him for a second before saying, “you’re allowed to be hurt too.”

garrett looks down at his mug of coffee. allie's words almost make it worse, everyone keeps giving him permission to feel something, and all he wants is for none of this to have happened.

logan waits until allie leaves the kitchen before speaking. “you want advice?”

“no.”

“cool. i’m giving it anyway.”

garrett sighs. logan leans back in his chair.

“you’re both doing that thing where you’re waiting for the other person to make it easier.”

garrett gives him a flat look. logan shrugs. “i’m just saying, y/n is stubborn when she’s scared, you’re stubborn when you’re hurt. horrible combination.”

garrett looks away. logan’s voice softens. “she looked awful last night.”

garrett closes his eyes briefly. “i know.”

“you looked pretty awful too.”

“thanks.”

“anytime.”

garrett exhales slowly. “i don’t know what to say to her.”

logan is quiet for a second, "then maybe you should start there."

you spend the day in bed. not sleeping, not studying, not really doing anything.

your laptop sits open beside you, the screen now dark. your phone is face down on the blanket. every few minutes you reach for it, check for a message, then put it down again like you weren’t hoping.

garrett doesn’t text. you tell yourself that’s fair, that he simply needs space and that you were awful to him. then you tell yourself he was unfair, that you were both hurt, and then you cry again.

allie brings you lunch. you take a few bites because she stands there until you do. sabrina texts you a photo of tucker looking sad.

sabrina 💌

he says the hockey house has been off ever since you stopped coming around. apparently your absence is affecting morale (and his appetite).

you almost smile, almost.

dean texts later.

dean

i’m so sorry, y/n. genuinely

i didn't know garrett didn't know

also please be okay, garrett is being weirdly silent and it's freaking everyone out

you stare at the messages for a long time before replying.

not your fault. i'm okay.

dean replies immediately.

love you, y/n

you don’t answer. by evening, your room feels too small. too hot, too quiet.

your chest has been tight all day, a constant pressure beneath your ribs, and the more you try to ignore it, the worse it gets.

you open your laptop, look at your applications, your unfinished cover letter, the rejection email sitting in your inbox, the lecture notes you haven’t caught up on, the email from home you still haven’t responded to.

everything blurs, suddenly, you can’t breathe properly. it isn’t dramatic at first, just one shaky inhale that doesn’t quite work.

then another, then your hands start trembling.

you stand too fast, knocking your water bottle off the bed. it hits the floor and rolls beneath your desk. the sound makes you flinch, your vision blurs. you press a hand to your chest. “no,” you whisper to yourself. “no, no, no.”

you try to breathe in, it catches.

you sit back down on the edge of your bed, then stand again immediately because sitting feels worse. your whole body feels wrong, too hot and too cold all at once.

your phone is on the bed, you stare at it. allie is out with dean getting food. you could call her, you should call her. instead, without letting yourself think, you call garrett. he answers on the second ring.

“y/n?”

his voice alone almost makes you break. you try to speak, nothing comes out. there’s a rustle on his end. he sits up, instantly alert.

“baby?”

you squeeze your eyes shut. the nickname ruins you. a tiny, broken sound leaves your mouth.

garrett’s voice changes completely. “where are you?”

you inhale shakily. “dorm.”

“are you hurt?”

“no.”

“can you breathe?”

you don’t answer fast enough. “okay,” he says, and you can hear movement now. keys, a door, footsteps. “i’m coming.”

you start crying harder. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t.” his voice is firm, but not harsh. “don’t apologise. just stay on the phone with me.”

“i can’t-” you choke. “i can’t calm down.”

“that’s okay.”

“it’s not.”

“it is. listen to me. put your feet on the floor.”

you do. bare feet against the cold ground. “okay,” you whisper.

“good. now tell me five things you can see.”

you cry through them. “my laptop. your hoodie. my lamp. allie’s stupid pink cup. the- the photo on my wall.”

garrett’s breathing is steady through the phone. “good girl. four things you can feel.”

your hand twists in the blanket. “blanket. floor. phone. my shirt.”

“three things you can hear.” you swallow.

“you. my fan. someone outside.”

“good. keep listening to me.”

“garrett.”

“i’m here.”

that makes you cry harder, because he isn’t, not yet. he is still somehow the only thing holding you to the room.

“i didn’t know who else to call,” you admit.

there’s a pause, not long, but you hear it. then garrett says, very quietly, “i’m glad you called me.”

you press the phone harder to your ear. “i’m sorry.”

“we’ll talk about it later.”

“okay.”

“right now, just breathe.”

by the time he gets there, you’re sitting on the floor beside your bed, knees drawn to your chest, phone still clutched in your hand even though the call is connected and he’s already outside your door.

he knocks once. “it’s me.”

you can’t get up. “come in.”

the door opens. garrett steps inside. the second he sees you, everything on his face breaks.

all the hurt. all the anger. all the careful distance. gone.

he closes the door behind him and crosses the room without hesitation, crouching in front of you.

“hey,” he says softly.

you look at him through tears. his eyes move over your face, your shaking hands, the laptop open on your bed, the mess of papers across the floor. “can i touch you?”

you nod immediately. he reaches for you, and you fold into him so fast it almost knocks him off balance.

garrett catches you. of course he does.

one arm wraps around your back, the other hand cradling the back of your head as you bury your face in his shoulder and sob. not pretty crying. not quiet tears. the kind that takes over your whole body. weeks of holding it in finally ripping through you all at once.

garrett says nothing for a while, just holds you. solid, warm, there. his hand moves slowly over your hair, again and again. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs. “you’re okay.” you clutch his shirt tighter.

“i’m not.”

his arm tightens around you. “okay,” he whispers. “then you’re not. that’s okay too.”

that makes you cry harder, because nobody says that.

everyone says you’ll be okay.

garrett lets you not be.

eventually, when your breathing starts to slow, he shifts carefully until his back is against the side of your bed and you’re tucked against his chest on the floor between his legs, his arms around you.

his chin rests lightly against the top of your head. neither of you speaks for a long time.

your room is dim now, lit only by your desk lamp. outside, voices pass faintly in the hallway. somewhere down the corridor, someone laughs. it feels strange that the world is still normal. you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jumper.

garrett reaches towards your bedside table, grabs the tissues, and passes them to you without a word.

you take one. then another. then you whisper, “i’m sorry.”

his chest rises behind you. “i know.”

your fingers twist in the tissue. “i should’ve told you.”

garrett is quiet for a second. then, “yeah.”

you close your eyes. “i just didn’t know how.”

his hand moves slowly up and down your arm. “you could’ve started with that.”

your mouth trembles. “i know.”

“i would’ve listened.”

“i know.”

“i wouldn’t have thought less of you.”

your throat closes. you turn slightly, looking up at him. his face is softer now, but still tired, still hurt. that might be the worst part. the fact that being loved by you has hurt him.

“i didn’t think you would,” you whisper.

garrett’s brows pull together. “then why?”

you look down. for once, you try not to run from the answer. it takes a while, garrett lets it.

“because you see me too clearly,” you say eventually. his hand stills. you keep staring at the tissue in your lap.

“and sometimes that feels really safe. and sometimes it feels terrifying.”

garrett says nothing. so you keep going, voice shaking.

“if i told you how bad everything felt, you’d know. and then i couldn’t pretend anymore. and i needed to pretend because i didn’t know what else to do.”

your eyes fill again. “i’m trying so hard, garrett.”

his face changes. you can’t stop now.

“i’m trying so hard and i feel like i’m failing at everything. i feel like i’m behind in classes, and i don’t know if i’m good enough for any of these internships, and every time i open my email i feel sick, and then there’s stuff at home and i don’t want to talk about it because everyone has their own problems, and i just-”

your voice breaks. garrett shifts, turning you more fully toward him.

“y/n.”

you shake your head. “i’m so tired.”

his eyes shine. “come here.”

you fold into him again. he holds you so tightly it almost hurts. in a good way, in a necessary way, like he’s trying to keep all your pieces together through sheer force.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper into his shirt.

his lips press against your hair. "i’m sorry too.”

you pull back just enough to look at him. “you don’t have to be.”

“yeah,” he says quietly. “i do.”

you shake your head. “i hurt you.”

“and i let you leave.”

your chest aches. “i was awful.”

“you were scared.”

“that doesn’t make it okay.”

“no,” he agrees softly. “but it helps me understand.”

you stare at him. he brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his voice lowering. “i wasn’t angry because you were struggling.”

your breath catches, garrett’s throat works. “i was angry because you were struggling alone.” your face crumples, he leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

“and because i love you,” he whispers. “and i didn’t know what to do with that when you wouldn’t let me near you.”

you close your eyes. “i’m sorry.”

“i know.”

“i love you.”

his hand slides to the side of your neck, thumb brushing softly beneath your jaw. “i love you too.” for a moment, neither of you move.

you eventually whisper. “are you still mad?”

garrett exhales slowly. “i’m still hurt.”

you nod, fresh tears spilling. “okay.”

“but i’m not going anywhere.”

that breaks you again, quieter this time. you lean into him, and he pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“we have to talk about it properly,” he murmurs.

“i know.”

“not tonight.”

you nod. “okay.”

“tonight you’re going to eat something.” a weak laugh slips out of you. garrett pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

“not a joke.”

“i know.”

“and drink water.”

“bossy.”

his mouth twitches, barely. “you missed me.”

you breathe out a tiny laugh, watery and exhausted. “so much.”

his expression softens completely. “yeah?”

you nod. “i kept checking my phone.”

his hand cups your cheek. “me too.”

“why didn’t you text?”

he looks down for a second. “because i didn’t know how to say i was hurt without making you feel worse.”

your chest tightens. “you can tell me when i hurt you.”

his eyes lift back to yours. “same rule for you.”

you nod. “okay.”

“okay.”

the word settles between you. small, not a fix, not completely, but a start. garrett leans in slowly, giving you time to move away, you don’t. his mouth touches yours softly, carefully, not desperate, not heated, just gentle. forgiving.

you make a small sound against him, and his hand slides into your hair, holding you there like he has missed you more than he knows how to say. when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours again.

“no more pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i’ll try.”

“that’s all i’m asking.”

you nod. “and no more finding out important things from dean.”

you wince. “fair.”

“because, honestly, devastating source.” that makes you laugh properly, small, but real. garrett smiles a little.

allie comes home twenty minutes later with dean behind her, both of them carrying food. she stops in the doorway when she sees garrett sitting on your bed, you tucked against his side under a blanket, eyes swollen but calmer.

dean almost walks into her back. “why did we stop?”

allie elbows him. then she looks at you. “all okay?”

you nod, embarrassed.

“okay.”

garrett’s arm tightens around your shoulders. dean peers around allie, “am i allowed to speak or is this a hostile environment?”

garrett gives him a look. “depends.”

dean nods seriously. “understood.” then he lifts the bag in his hand. “i brought fries as a peace offering.”

you sniffle. “for me or garrett?”

dean pauses. “both.”

allie rolls her eyes and steps inside. sabrina and grace appear in the doorway fifteen minutes later with tucker and logan, because apparently nobody in this group knows how to give anyone privacy for longer than thirty seconds.

“we heard there were fries,” tucker says. logan looks between you and garrett, assessing quietly, then his face softens.

“you good?”

garrett looks down at you, you look up at him. his thumb brushes once over your shoulder. you nod, “getting there.”

logan nods back. “good enough.”

sabrina climbs onto the bed on your other side without asking, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“you scared us, y/n.”

you lean into her. “sorry.”

“don’t do it again.”

“i’ll try.”

allie sits at the foot of the bed and starts unpacking food. dean leans against your desk, still guilty but trying to hide it. tucker steals a fry and immediately gets slapped by sabrina. logan takes the chair and pretends not to watch everyone with fond amusement.

garrett stays beside you through all of it. steady, quiet.

his hand never leaves you, not in a possessive way, not in a way that demands, just there, a reminder. you don’t have to hold yourself up alone.

later, when everyone has finally left and your room is quiet again, garrett helps you clear the food containers from your bed.

he plugs your phone in, closes your laptop, picks your water bottle up from under the desk and places it on your bedside table.

small things, garrett things. you watch him move around your room with tired eyes. “are you staying?” you ask softly.

he turns, his expression gentle. “do you want me to?”

you nod, "please.” he crosses back to you immediately.

“then i’m staying.”

you shift under the covers as he climbs in beside you, and for the first time in weeks, your body relaxes before you can think yourself out of it. garrett pulls you into his chest, you press your face against his shirt, his hand slides beneath the back of your hoodie, palm warm against your spine.

“i don’t want you to feel shut out.”

his hand stills for half a second, then continues moving slowly. “i don’t want you to feel like you have to be okay all the time.”

you close your eyes. “i don’t know how to stop.”

“we’ll figure it out.”

“what if i mess up?”

“then we talk.”

“what if i do it again?”

his lips press to your forehead. “then i remind you.”

you swallow. “what if you get tired of reminding me?”

garrett pulls back just enough to look at you. his face is serious, tender, a little wounded that you would even ask, but patient with it anyway.

"i’m not going to get tired of loving you, y/n."

your eyes burn again.“garrett.”

“i mean it.” you look at him for a long moment, then nod, because you believe him.

he kisses you once, soft and lingering, then tucks your head back beneath his chin. outside your room, the dorm is still noisy. voices in the hall, doors opening and closing, the faint sound of laughter somewhere far away. inside, everything is quiet. not perfect, not fixed, but honest. for tonight, that is enough.

garrett’s thumb moves slowly along your back. you let yourself breathe. this time, when he murmurs, “you okay?”

you don’t say fine, you don’t pretend, you press closer and whisper, “not really.”

garrett holds you tighter. “okay,” he says softly. “i’m here.”

and for the first time in weeks, you let that be enough.

lacyydollette

TEXTS BETWEEN BF!DEAN DI LAURENTIS X READER PART 2 PREVIOUS

ANGEL (💭) : some inspo for the texts were taken from pinterest. suggestive language && swearing ahead.

𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐘𝐘𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 — est. 2026 © do not copy, claim or take inspo of my work anywhere.

masterlist

whattheforkdude

please unmute this

failbag

I’ve never seen high school musical and now I never need to

beccar

Basketball basketball we love basketball

junezsq

coach beau

beau maxwell x fem!reader

summary: beau finds out you don’t understand a single thing about football and decides it’s his duty to teach you

established relationship

warnings: not much tbh, basically pure fluff and beau being a golden retriever boyfriend

word count: 5.4k

a/n: i’ve been saying id write a beau fic to my friend for weeks now and this is the first actual one i’ve completed lmfaoaoaoao i hope you love it<3

── ᵎᵎ ✦

the game had been on for the past 45 minutes before you finally admitted defeat. not because one team was winning or losing, not that you were actually able to distinguish the two, but because you’d spent the entire time nodding along every time your boyfriend reacted, pretending you understood why he was groaning one minute and cheering the next.

from your spot tucked against his side on the couch that was stood in the middle of your tiny campus apartment, you stole another handful of popcorn from the bowl balanced on his lap. beau absentmindedly nudged it closer without taking his eyes off the television.

on screen, a quarterback launched the ball halfway across the field. the commentators practically shouted over one another and the crowd roared. beside you, beau leaned forward so quickly the popcorn nearly slid off his knees. “oh!” he exclaimed, “no way, that throw was insane.”

you watched the replay of the ball flying across the screen and the guy catching it in slow motion, “that’s good…?”

“mhmm.” beau’s eyes stayed glued to the tv.

another replay played, even slower this time, “…really good?”

“very.”

you nodded thoughtfully, as though his confirmation explained everything, “cool.”

beau finally tore his attention away from the television to look at you. his eyebrows slowly knitted together as his eyes flickered between you and the game, “you have no idea what’s happening, do you?”

you opened your mouth to reply, but quickly closed it again, debating what to say. after a moment you mumbled, “…not really”

the tv continued blaring in the background, but was quickly forgotten when beau looked at you as though someone had muted the entire room. “what do you mean,” he asked slowly, “not really?”

you shifted a little, suddenly aware that perhaps this wasn’t the confession you’d intended to make, “i mean … i know … the basics?”

his expression brightened slightly, “okay.”

“you score touchdowns.” you counted on your fingers as you started listing your knowledge, “and … there’s a lot of running.”

beau stared at you, “babe.”

“what?”

“we’ve been dating for eight months.”

“i know,” you nodded as you dropped your hand.

his eyes stayed on you, waiting for the punchline, but it didn’t come. you just looked at him from your spot on the couch, legs tucked neatly underneath your body, and your expression somewhere between sheepish and completely unbothered. he blinked, “you’ve come to every home game.”

“i did.”

“while you don’t understand football?”

a guilty smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. it was the kind of smile you wore whenever you’d accidentally done something you knew he’d tease you for later, “i mostly just watch you.”

the words landed with far more force than you intended, and for a second beau honestly thought he’d misheard you, “what?”

you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, suddenly finding it much more interesting than looking your boyfriend in the eye.

“i mean…” you began carefully, “i know where you line up. so i just…” you shrugged one shoulder, “follow you.”

silence settled between you. the television kept playing in the background, the commentators growing louder after another big play, but beau barely registered any of it anymore. his entire attention had shifted to you.

“so…” you continued, glancing up at him through your lashes, “when everybody cheers because you do something, i cheer too.”

he searched your face, trying to see if you were joking or not, but he could tell you were completely sincere, “babe, after that touchdown against harvard…” a soft laugh escaped him, “you jumped out of your seat and screamed ‘that’s my boyfriend!’”

“i was being supportive.”

“so, you knew what happened?”

“well…” you hesitated long enough to realize how ridiculous this all sounded, “i saw you with the ball, and everyone started cheering, so…”

a loud laugh now burst out of him before he had the chance to swallow it. you crossed your arms immediately, “oh, wow.”

“i’m sorry.” he wheezed.

“no, you’re not.”

“i’m really trying.”

“you are literally laughing at me!” you exclaimed.

his grin only widened, “i’m just…” another laugh escaped him, “i’m laughing because this is adorable.”

you narrowed your eyes, “i’ve spent months trying to blend in.”

“and apparently doing an incredible job.”

“i thought so.”

“babe.” he smiled at you in complete disbelief, “you’ve watched four quarters of football almost every weekend.”

you looked at him like the answer should have been obvious, “yeah, because i like watching you.”

the teasing disappeared from his face. not completely, but just enough for something soft to slip through. his chest tightened in the strangest way as every home game flashed through his mind in quick succession. every kick. every tackle. every time he’d instinctively searched the stands after a good play until he’d found you.

he’d always assumed you were following the game, cheering because you’d seen him break through the defensive line or make a good read. instead, you’d been watching him.

not football. just … him.

watching him adjust his helmet before every snap because he always did it twice. watching him bounce on the balls of his feet while waiting for the next play. watching the stupid little dance he did with one of his teammates after a touchdown because they’d started it one year and refused to stop.

you’d noticed all of that.

the realization settled warmly somewhere behind his ribs. it was, without question, one of the sweetest things anyone had ever admitted to him.

however, it was also deeply concerning. “you…” he was still trying to process the revelation, “you don’t know what a first down is.”

you lightly shook your head, “no.”

“the yellow flags?”

“…bad?”

he stared at you for another long second before a strangled noise escaped from somewhere deep in his chest. before you could ask if he was okay, beau sprang off the couch so quickly the popcorn bowl dared to fall to the ground. you lunged forward just in time to catch it, “what are you doing?”

“we’re leaving.”

you let out a chuckle, convinced he was joking. he wasn’t; he was already reaching for your hand. you twisted in your seat to glance at the digital arm clock sitting on your desk. 11.47pm. “it’s basically midnight.”

“i know.”

“we have class tomorrow.”

his expression didn’t change, “we’ll survive.”

you let out a laugh, searching his face like he did yours earlier, but nothing. he was completely, hopelessly serious, “you cannot honestly think i’m going outside right now.”

“why not?”

you gestured vaguely toward the dark window behind him, “because it’s november, and it’s freezing.”

“so?”

“so,” you repeated, “normal people don’t voluntarily leave their warm apartments at midnight to do … i don’t know what.”

“i’m gonna teach you how to play.” a small smirk started playing on his lips, “also … that sounds an awful lot like quitter talk.”

at his words you rolled your eyes dramatically, “you’re impossible.”

you expected him to keep arguing. instead, his gaze drifted over you, lingering for just a second, causing you to glance down at yourself. you were wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts you’d stolen from beau’s closet weeks ago. it was comfortable and warm enough for inside. absolutely not warm enough for a late-november night, though.

before you could say anything, beau gave a small nod to himself, as though he’d reached an important conclusion, “stay here.”

you blinked, “…what?” but he was already walking toward your bedroom, “beau?”

no answer, but you heard a closet door, the rustling of fabric, and something hitting the floor. then, a few seconds later, he reappeared with his favorite briar hoodie draped over one arm.

you recognized it immediately. it was the faded navy one, which was so ridiculously soft you’d ‘borrowed’ it constantly because it somehow always smelt like him; clean laundry and his signature cologne.

without a word he tossed it in your direction. with barely any time to lift your hands to catch it, it landed squarely on your head, “okay, rude.”

his laugh echoed through your apartment, “put it on.”

you peeled the hoodie off your head, shooting him an unimpressed look, “i have my own jacket, you know.”

“i know.”

“so why am i wearing your hoodie?”

he shrugged, “‘cause this one’s warmer.”

“i think that’s a lie.”

“it is.” he smiled, completely shameless, “i just like seeing you in my clothes.”

your stomach performed the most embarrassing flip and you tried very hard not to let him notice he affected you this much, “you’re impossible.”

“so you’ve said.” he crossed the room in two easy strides, stopping just close enough for his knees to graze the couch before reaching for your hand.

your fingers fit together instinctively now, muscle memory built over months of stolen walks across campus, movie nights, and afternoons spent wandering around hastings with no particular destination.

his thumb swept lazily over the back of your hand, “come on, pretty girl.”

you looked from your joined hands to the ridiculously excited grin on his face. he looked genuinely thrilled, like teaching you football on a random night was the best idea he’d ever had. another sigh, one that sounded far more reluctant than you actually felt, escaped your lips, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

his grin grew even wider, “i know.”

you shook your head, laughing to yourself as he gently tugged you up and towards the door with all the enthusiasm of an overexcited labrador that had just spotted a tennis ball.

somehow, you still weren’t entirely sure how, you’d gone from spending a perfectly cozy night curled up beside your boyfriend on your couch to agreeing to a midnight football lesson because he had taken personal offense to the fact that you didn’t know what a first down was.

only beau maxwell could hear, ‘i don’t really understand football,’ and somehow interpret it as, ‘take me outside immediately.’

you weren’t even surprised anymore.

“come on,” he urged, glancing back over his shoulder with an impatient grin that was far too infectious this time of night, “we’re burning valuable time here.”

“it’s almost midnight.” you snorted as you slipped on your sneakers, “normal people are asleep.”

“well, we’re college students.”

“…fair.”

he flashed her a triumphant smile, “i win.”

“you didn’t win.”

“i definitely won.”

you rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t quite stop smiling as you stepped into the hallway behind him. most of the doors lining the corridor were closed, the muffled sounds of late-night television or music barely audible through the walls. someone laughed several apartments away before a door clicked shut again, leaving the hallway wrapped in comfortable silence.

beau slowed just enough to fall into step beside you, and without thinking his hand found yours. he never really asked anymore, he just reached out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

maybe it was.

his fingers slipped between yours effortlessly, warm and familiar, his thumb once again brushing over the back of your hand as you walked toward the stairwell.

he always did that and you weren’t entirely convinced he even realized it. it was just one of those unconscious habits, like bouncing his knee whenever he sat still too long, or rubbing the back of his neck when he was embarrassed, or smiling so easily it made it impossible for anyone around him to stay in a bad mood.

the thought made you glance sideways at him, and sure enough… he was smiling. it wasn’t his usual smile, this one was brighter, the kind that reached all the way to his eyes. “you’re really excited about this.”

his head snapped toward you, “what?”

“this.” you gestured between them, “the football lesson.”

“i’m not excited.”

you raised your brows at him. “okay, maybe a little.” he spoke, his grin returning as he pushed open the heavy door leading outside, holding it open for you with an exaggerated little bow. you laughed and shook your head as you stepped past him.

the cold hit you immediately. late autumn had settled over hastings almost overnight, bringing crisp air that smelled faintly of damp leaves and wood smoke from somewhere off campus. you inhaled sharply, “okay, it is significantly colder than i expected.”

beau looked over, and without a word reached up to adjust the hood of his hoodie you’d thrown on a few minutes earlier, “there.” he pulled the hood slightly over your forehead, “better.”

you looked down at yourself, the hoodie practically swallowed you. the sleeves extended well past your fingertips, and the hem nearly reached your thighs.

you’d always loved stealing his clothes. partly because they smelled like him, partly because they were super comfortable, but mostly because you loved the quiet little smile he’d get every single time he caught you wearing it.

and there it was; tiny, almost smug. “you’ve got that look again.”

“what look.” his eyes flickered back up to yours.

“the one where you’re way too pleased with yourself.”

he looked offended, “i have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“you absolutely do.”

“i don’t.”

“you’ve been smiling at me since i put this on,” you squeezed his hand.

“i smile at you all the time.”

“not helping your case.”

he laughed under his breath, “can i help it if my girlfriend looks cute wearing my clothes?”

you felt warmth creep into your cheeks despite the cold. dating beau was almost unfair. he handed out compliments with such casual sincerity that you were never prepared for them. he didn’t flirt because he wanted a reaction, he flirted because, as far as he was concerned, he was simply stating facts.

you pulled your eyes away from him as you started walking again. without the usual rush of students hurrying between lectures, the brick pathways stretched out almost empty beneath pools of golden lamplight.

the library glowed quietly on the distance. a handful of students were still inside, silhouettes bent over textbooks.

suddenly a girl hurried towards you carrying what looked like three coffees and enough notebooks to qualify as a small workout.

beau instinctively moved you to the inside of the sidewalk as the girl passed. it was such a tiny movement you doubted he noticed he’d done it, but you did.

“you know,” you said after a comfortable stretch of silence, “most people would’ve just explained the rules.”

he looked at her, “and rob you of the experience?”

“i would’ve survived.”

“nah.” he shook his head, “you need practical application.”

“what i need, is sleep.”

“you can sleep tomorrow.”

you laughed, “i have an eight a.m.”

“so do i,” he shrugged.

“and?”

“and i’m making sacrifices for your education,” he smirked at you.

“my education?”

“exactly.”

you bumped you shoulder lightly against his, “you sound like you’re about to charge tuition.”

“i considered it.”

“oh?” you raised a brow, “what would’ve been the price.”

he pretended to think for a moment, “probably…” he squeezed your hand, “one kiss.”

you stopped walking, “so you’re saying your extorting your own girlfriend.”

“i’m saying education isn’t free.”

you let out a laugh so loud you had to duck your head for a second, hoping you weren’t waking anyone up, “you’re an idiot.”

“i prefer entrepreneur.”

you reached up and flicked the brim of the briar baseball cap he’d pulled on before you left. he caught your wrist before you could pull it away, “assaulting your teacher already, huh?”

you groaned dramatically, “i hate that you’re enjoying this so much, you’re going to be insufferable.”

“oh yeah, for at least the next hour.”

“only an hour?”

he looked at you like you’d offended him, “you underestimate my commitment.”

you laughed, god you loved this. not football. not even the ridiculous reason you were outside in the first place. just… walking around campus hand in hand with beau. he had a way of making ordinary moments feel like little adventures.

you glanced over at him again. he was looking ahead toward the athletic complex now, free hand in the pocket of his sweatpants, and his breath visible in faint clouds every time he exhaled. you smiled, “you’re such a dork.”

he laughed bright and easy, the sound echoing across the empty pathway, “i’ll take that.”

“i figured you would.”

“i know you love me,” he teased. however, when you looked up at him and his smile hadn’t faded you didn’t tease back, you admitted quietly, “yeah … i do.”

his grin softened into something gentler. he leaned down just enough to press a quick kiss against your temple without breaking stride. the gesture was over almost before you registered it. it was simple, effortless, and entirely like beau.

“good,” he murmured. his fingers tightened around yours for just a second before relaxing, “‘cause i really love you too.”

neither of you spoke for the rest of the walk, you didn’t need to. the silence settled comfortably between you as the goalposts came into view ahead, beau’s steps picking up with unmistakable excitement.

the gate to the practice field gave a quiet squeak as beau pushed it open. he stepped aside with an exaggerated sweep of his arm, "after you."

you looked through the opening before looking back at him, amusement dancing in your eyes, "i still can't believe we're doing this."

his grin only widened, "i'm more surprised we didn't do it sooner."

shaking your head, you stepped through the gate. the stadium was almost unrecognizable without thousands of students filling the stands.

it was quiet.

not the awkward kind of silence that begged to be filled, but the comfortable sort that settled over everything after a long day. the towering bleachers stood empty beneath, rows upon rows of silver benches stretching into the darkness. the scoreboard was blank. no music echoed through the speakers. no whistles cut through the air. the only sounds came from the breeze stirring the trees beyond the stadium and the distant murmur of campus life somewhere outside the gates.

you’d spent dozens of saturdays here, frozen in the student section. cheering until you throat was sore while watching beau play.

yet somehow, standing on the turf itself made the place feel completely different. you slowly turned in a circle, taking everything in. "so ... this is where you spend all your time."

beau glanced around, following your gaze, "pretty much." a faint smile tugged at his mouth, "i like it better when it's empty."

you looked at him, "you do?"

he nodded, both his hands now settled into the pockets of his sweats, "game days are fun." his eyes wandered toward the silent stands. "but this..." he shrugged lightly. "this is when it actually feels like mine."

you weren’t sure why that made you smile. maybe because you rarely got to see this side of him. game-day beau was loud, competitive, constantly moving, but this beau looked almost peaceful.

he glanced toward the equipment shed, “give me one second."

you folded your arms, "that sentence makes me nervous."

"it'll be fine."

he disappeared into the small building beside the field, leaving you standing in the middle of the field. left alone, you wandered a few slow steps, your gaze falling on the student section out of habit.

you could practically picture yourself sitting somewhere near the middle, wrapped in blankets while complaining about the cold to whichever friend had come with you that week.

only now, replaying those memories, you couldn't help but laugh to yourself. because, apparently you’d spent an entire football season tracking one person instead of the game. every play had started and ended with finding him. the realization was almost embarrassing. almost.

the equipment room door opened again. you turned to find beau walking back across the field with a football tucked beneath one arm, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

you smiled, "you definitely weren't supposed to take that."

his smile was suspiciously innocent, "i prefer the word borrow."

you laughed, shaking your head. as he reached you, he tossed the football lightly in your direction. you caught it against your chest with a soft grunt, tightening your grip before it could slip through your hands. your eyebrows rose, "oh."

"what?"

"it's heavier than i expected.”

beau smiled to himself, "most people say that."

you turned the football over in your hands, feeling the rough leather beneath your fingertips. "i don't know..." you frowned thoughtfully, "i just expected it to feel ... fluffier."

his laugh escaped before he could stop it, "fluffier?"

"you know what i mean."

"i really don't."

“it just feels..." you searched for the word, "...solid."

"i think that's the idea."

you narrowed her eyes, "are you making fun of me?"

"i'm trying not to."

"alright." you looked up expectantly, "teach me."

his eyes immediately dropped to the football, then to the way you were holding it. he paused and a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "...okay."

something in his tone made you instinctively glance down at the ball, “what is it?"

"we've got a little work to do."

you looked between him and the football. "...that bad?"

"i've seen worse." he tilted his head thoughtfully, "...not by much, though"

you gasped dramatically, "i've been holding this thing for thirty seconds!"

he stepped toward you, his teasing smile softening as he closed the distance between you.

you’d noticed that about him months ago; the way he seemed to shift whenever he was teaching someone something. his shoulders relaxed, his voice lowered, and his playful sarcasm gave way to quiet encouragement without him ever seeming to realize he was doing it.

coach beau. you liked coach beau.

he reached toward the football, “can i?"

you looked up, caught off guard by the question. he didn't need permission, not really. but he waited anyway.

you smiled, "you always ask."

one of his shoulders lifted in an easy shrug. something warm settled quietly in your chest. that was beau; thoughtful in all the little ways that most people never noticed.

he rested one hand lightly over yours, careful not to pull the football away. instead, he simply turned it until the white laces faced upward, "there."

his thumb brushed lightly across them, "these are the laces."

you tilted her head, “the stitches."

he looked at you, "they're called laces."

"they're stitched onto the football, though."

"they're still called laces."

"that feels misleading."

a laugh escaped him, quiet enough that it barely disturbed the silence around them, "i can already tell this is going to become a recurring argument."

"it doesn't have to."

"no?"

you smiled sweetly, "i could just keep calling them stitches."

he shook his head with a grin, "i walked right into that." slowly, he adjusted the football in her hands, “you don't have to squeeze it so hard."

"i wasn't."

"babe."

"i wasn't!"

his eyebrows lifted and you glanced down "...okay maybe a little."

"i promise it isn't going anywhere," he carefully repositioned your fingers, making tiny adjustments one at a time instead of moving your whole hand.

"this finger rests here," his thumb nudged yours gently. "these fingers sit across the laces." he paused after every correction, giving you a second to get used to it before making another. you weren’t sure you’d ever seen someone so patient. it suited him.

"there." he smiled to himself, “better already."

you weren’t looking at the football anymore, your eyes had flickered up to him instead. at the tiny crease between his eyebrows whenever he concentrated, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his bottom lip disappeared between his teeth every few seconds without him realizing it.

"...you're doing it again."

you blinked, "hm?"

his eyes lifted to yours, “staring."

heat rushed to your cheeks, "i was listening."

"mhmm."

"i was."

"what did i just say?"

you looked down at the football, then back at him, "...hold it?"

his laugh was softer this time, "i appreciate the confidence."

you smiled sheepishly, "i got distracted."

"so i noticed," without thinking, he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the back of his fingers brushing your cheek.

for a second, neither of you moved. the stadium seemed impossibly quiet around you; a cold breeze swept gently across the empty field, and somewhere beyond the stands, a car door slammed shut. everything else faded into the background.

it was just the two of you; standing a little too close and smiling a little too much.

finally, beau cleared his throat and took a deliberate step backward, putting a few feet between you again, “right.” he pointed at the football in her hands, “lesson first.”

you smiled to herself, adjusting your grip, “…probably a good idea.”

he took a small step backward, giving you room to breathe, "okay." he pointed toward her feet, "let's fix your stance."

you looked down obediently, "my stance?"

"mhm, feet about shoulder-width apart."

you shifted awkwardly, "like this?"

"a little wider."

you adjusted again, and he nodded once, "perfect." then, almost as an afterthought, he gently nudged the toe of one your sneakers half an inch with his own, "there."

you looked up at him, "you seem very invested."

"i am."

"in my stance?"

he smiled, “in giving you a fighting chance."

you laughed, tightening you grip on the football, "alright." you took a slow breath, "i think I'm ready."

beau took several steps backward until a comfortable distance separated you. he didn't fold his arms or bark instructions. he simply stood there, hands now resting on his hips, smiling at you with complete confidence, "don't worry about throwing it far."

you frowned, "really?"

"i don't care how far it goes" his voice was gentle now, "i just want you to get comfortable with it first."

something about the way he said it loosened the knot of nerves you’d been carrying since you’d stepped onto the field.

he wasn't expecting you to be good. he was just happy to be here and spend time with you. a smile played on his lips, "you've got this."

"i don't."

"you do."

"i really don't."

he shrugged easily, "then fake confidence."

you huffed out a laugh, "that's terrible advice."

"it's gotten me surprisingly far."

you rolled her eyes before you planted your feet the way he'd shown you. taking a slow breath, you drew you arm back. for one brief, hopeful second, everything felt right, but then the football left your hand.

the nose dipped almost immediately. instead of cutting cleanly through the air, it wobbled, tipped sideways and drifted off course before bouncing harmlessly across the turf several yards to beau's left.

silence settled over the field as you stared after it, "...well."

beau hadn't moved, but his head was bowed slightly, one hand pressed over his mouth and his shoulders gave one suspicious shake.

you narrowed her eyes, "don't."

he looked up immediately, "i'm trying."

he really was, you could see it. his lips were pressed together so tightly they'd almost disappeared, and his eyes had started watering from the effort of holding in a laugh.

for two whole seconds, he managed it. then one escaped. it wasn’t loud, or mocking. just a single helpless burst of laughter that broke whatever composure he'd been clinging to. "i'm sorry," he said, already shaking his head. "i really am."

you folded you arms, doing your best to look offended, "you were supposed to be supportive."

"i am supportive," he looked up at her, still smiling despite himself.

you held the glare for another second before the corners of your own mouth betrayed you. his laugh had always been contagious; you never stood a chance.

by the time beau returned with the football, you were both smiling. he rolled the ball between his palms before offering it back to you, "the good news?"

she accepted it cautiously, "what is it?"

"that looked exactly like a first throw."

you frowned, "...you're lying."

he shook his head, "really, you're doing fine." there wasn't an ounce of teasing in his voice now.

you looked down at the football again, "i think i panicked."

he stepped back into your space, not close enough to overwhelm you, but just enough to see what you were doing, "you rushed it."

his hand settled lightly against your forearm, guiding it back into position before dropping away again, "you were thinking about throwing it hard."

"i was."

"you don't need to," he tapped the side of the football with one finger. "forget about distance." he met your eyes, "just throw it to me."

something about the simplicity of that made your shoulders loosen. there wasn't a need to score, no crowd watching, no pressure to impress him. he believed you’d get it eventually; there wasn't the slightest hint of doubt in him.

so, you reset your feet and adjusted your grip. this time, instead of worrying about every tiny thing that could possibly go wrong, you focused on one thing. him.

beau stood several yards away again, hands resting loosely at his sides, watching you with that same easy confidence he’d had since you’d stepped onto the field. “whenever you’re ready!” he called.

you nodded once before throwing. the football left your hand and for a split second, you braced yourself for spectacular failure.

instead, it cut clean through the air. it wasn’t perfect; it dipped slightly toward the end, but it flew straight.

beau’s eyes widened as he took a step forward before the football landed neatly against his chest. for a heartbeat, he simply stared down at it. then his head snapped back up and his face lit up so quickly it was almost comical, “babe!” his voice echoed over the field, “did you see that?!”

you blinked, “i think so?”

“you think so?” he laughed in disbelief, “that was awesome!”

before you could respond, he was already running toward you. the biggest grin you’d ever seen stretched across his face as he crossed the distance between you in seconds, “you did it!”

“i mean—” you didn’t have time to finish your sentence before he reached you. without thinking, he dropped the ball and wrapped an arm around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground. a surprised squeal escaped you as the world spun, “beau!”

he laughed, a bright, unrestrained sound that bounced off the empty bleachers, as he spun you in a quick circle before setting you back on your feet.

the moment your sneakers touched the turf again, he steadied you instinctively, both hands still resting at your waist. for a second, neither of them moved.

you looked up at him, breathless from laughing, “…i threw a football.”

he looked genuinely amazed, “you threw a football!”

you couldn’t stop laughing, “it wasn’t even that good.”

“what are you talking about?”his eyebrows shot up, “it got to me.”

“barely.”

“it got there,” he shrugged as though that settled the matter entirely. “that’s progress.”

you looked at him for a long moment. his cheeks were flushed from the cold, his hair had escaped from beneath his cap, and he was smiling at you like you’d just accomplished something extraordinary instead of managing one decent throw.

the realization made your chest ache in the nicest possible way. no one had ever celebrated you quite like beau did. and it wasn’t because you’d done something impossible. it was simply because you were trying.

“you know…” you said softly.

“hmm?”

“i think you’re more excited than i am.”

he considered that for all of half a second, “i definitely am.”

his hands were still resting lightly against your sides, “so…” his grin was still playing on his lips, “again?”

you looked down at the football that was on the ground next to you, then back at him and the excitement practically radiating off him. he looked so absurdly happy over something so small. how could you possibly say no?

“again,” you confirmed with a smile.

his grin somehow widened as he placed a chaste kiss against your lips before grabbing the football, tossing it to you once more and backing away across the field, already raising his hands to catch.

“alright, quarterback,” he called, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. “let’s see another one!”

you rolled your eyes affectionately, laughing as you settled the football into her hands.

maybe you’d never love football the way beau did. but standing beneath the stadium lights with him, long after midnight, you had a feeling these lessons were going to become one of your favorite memories.

kooksandpearls

garrett graham ❄︎ wanted you.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – after a head injury at clinical, garrett graham gets to be the one doing the looking after for once. warnings – head injury, concussion, facial bruising, blood, medical care, patient aggression, emotional distress, caretaking, strong language notes from me – we're getting somewhere my loves!!!! based on this ask, hope u enjoy! <3 word count – 11.9k

navigation – masterlist |

The car smells like hospital hand sanitiser and Maria’s vanilla air freshener and the coppery, unpleasant trace of blood she’s pretty sure is still stuck somewhere under her nose.

She sits very carefully in the passenger seat with her bag clutched in her lap and the discharge papers folded into the front pocket because Maria had put them there for safekeeping after watching her try to read the same paragraph three times and then ask, quietly and with genuine confusion, whether nausea was spelled with an o. The answer is no. Apparently. She knows that. Usually.

Her head throbs with every tiny vibration of the road, a dull, spreading pressure behind her eyes and across the bridge of her nose, pulsing in time with her heartbeat like her skull has decided to develop a second career as a bass drum. The split in her lip keeps reopening every time she moves her mouth too much, which is rude, considering she would very much like to continue pretending this is all fine and fine people generally require functional lips for lying.

There’s dried blood under her nose. She can feel it there, tight and flaky against her skin, the way she can feel the swelling beginning to gather beneath both eyes, heavy and hot and humiliating.

sunnydilaurentis

a summer secret | beau maxwell ✶

summary: in which dean notices the quiet, suspicious intimacy growing between beau and his sister.

pairing: beau maxwell x fem!dilaurentisreader

notes: hi!! thank you so much for your request. i hope i've done your idea justice <3 💌

ˋ°•*⁀➷ in other words, four times dean notices moments between beau and y/n that feel a little too intimate to ignore, and the one time he finally catches on.

ꪆৎ

the car ride

the thing about cape cod was that it had always felt like tradition.

same beach house, same salt-heavy air, same worn wooden deck that creaked under bare feet, same maxwells, same di laurentis family.

for as long as you could remember, summers were spent in cape cod. beach days, late-night bonfires, shared dinners, too many drinks, too much laughter.

it was familiar in the kind of way that felt permanent, except this summer, everything had changed. somehow, somewhere between classes at briar and now, beau maxwell had stopped being just your brother’s best friend and started becoming yours.

secretly, quietly, completely.

which meant one thing.

dean could absolutely never find out.

the first time dean nearly catches on, it happens before you even reach the holiday house, which in hindsight, should've been a clear warning. luckily, he brushes it off as nothing.

dean drives, claiming it’s because he knows the route better, but really, it’s because he has control issues, deeply mistrusting anyone else behind the wheel.

you sit in the backseat, legs tucked beneath you, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, one hand wrapped around an iced coffee.

beau sits in the passenger seat. too close, yet too far all at once.

he looks unfairly good for someone who’d been awake since six that morning, like he hadn’t spent half the night before in your dorm room, his hands warm against your waist as he kissed you breathless against the wall until you’d both lost track of time.

his hair is still damp from a shower, one arm resting against the open window, tanned skin catching the late morning light. every now and then, his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, meeting yours.

never long enough for dean to notice, but always long enough to make your pulse jump.

“so,” dean says, one hand loose on the wheel. “ground rules for the week.”

you immediately groan from the backseat. “oh my god.” beau’s mouth twitches in amusement.

dean glances at you in the mirror. “don’t start.”

“we haven’t even arrived and you’re already lecturing me.”

“because i know you.”

“you know nothing.”

“i know enough to know you make questionable decisions near large bodies of water.”

you sit forward slightly. “that was one time.”

“you fell off a paddleboard while it was still tied to the dock, y/n.”

"i was nine years old!"

beau coughs into his hand, attempting to hide his laughter. you narrow your eyes, gaze landing on the back of his head. “don’t laugh.”

he glances back at you, eyes warm. “i didn’t say anything.”

“your shoulders moved.”

beau turns to look out the window, still smiling, feigning innocence.

you hate him a little for how easily he can do that. how easily he can sit in the front seat, acting as though nothing is happening. like he hadn’t slipped his fingers around your waist for one fleeting second while dean loaded the cooler into the trunk. like he hadn’t whispered, “i miss you,” even though you had been standing two feet apart.

dean keeps talking. something about not getting lost, not swimming too far out, and not letting joanna convince you to jump off the dock after midnight.

you hear maybe half of it, because beau’s hand has shifted. casual, at first, resting near the centre console, then lower. closer to the gap between the seats.

your eyes drop instantly. his fingers hang loosely there, hidden from dean's direct line of sight.

an invitation.

you stare at his hand for a second too long before reaching forward, pretending to grab something from the cupholder. your fingers brush his gently. the action so brief, yet enough for beau to react.

you notice the smallest flex of his hand, like he wants to catch yours and hold it.

“you listening, y/n?” dean asks suddenly.

your head snaps up. “yes.”

your brother looks at you in the rearview mirror. “what did i just say?” you blink. beau turns his face towards the window once more.

traitor.

“you said...” you start slowly, buying time. “to make good choices.”

dean stares at you. “that is the vaguest answer you could’ve possibly given.”

beau loses the internal battle he must've been having with himself, laughing under his breath.

dean glances at him briefly, “what?”

beau shakes his head in response. “nothing.”

dean's eyebrows furrow temporarily, looking at his best friend for a few seconds more. not suspicious yet, just watching. you feel beau’s hand pull back instantly, and the absence of it makes your chest ache.

an hour later, somewhere after the second gas station stop, dean brings up a topic that almost ruins everything.

“oh y/n,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just lit a match in the middle of the car. “someone asked about you last week.”

you look up from your phone. “me?”

“yeah.”

beau’s body stills, not much, but enough that you notice. dean reaches for his drink. “a guy from hockey. matthews.”

your face blanks slightly. “who?”

“exactly,” dean says. “which is why i told him no chance.”

you frown. “you told him no chance?”

“obviously.”

“dean.”

“what?”

“you can’t just police every interaction that may come my way.”

“i absolutely can.”

beau stays facing forward, but you catch the way his jaw ticks, fingers tightening briefly where his arm rests against the window. it's subtle, small enough that dean misses it entirely, however you don’t, of course you don’t.

“he asked if you were seeing anyone,” dean continues, completely unaware of the way your pulse had started to climb. “i told him no, and that he should probably leave it there.”

you stare at him. “that’s insane.”

“that’s brotherly.”

“that’s overstepping, dean.”

“same thing.”

beau joins the conversation before he seems to think better of it. “you told him she wasn’t seeing anyone?”

the car goes quieter, not silent, but quieter.

dean glances sideways at him. “yeah.”

beau keeps his gaze on the road. “right.”

your fingers tighten around your phone, anxiety coursing throughout your body. dean’s brows pull together slightly. “why?”

beau shrugs, attempting to be casual. “just asking.”

“since when do you care who my sister’s dating?”

there it is, the first crack.

you feel yourself almost stop breathing. beau doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move, doesn’t panic. he just leans back against the seat and says, “i don’t.” a beat passes, then he adds. “i just think maybe y/n can answer for herself.”

your heart twists. dean’s eyes narrow slightly, caught somewhere between amused and confused. “wow,” he says. “that's very noble of you."

you kick the back of his seat. “shut up.”

dean laughs, and the tension breaks, barely, but not completely. beau looks in the rearview mirror a few seconds later, and this time, when your eyes meet, there’s something there.

something possessive, something frustrated, something almost apologetic.

dean sees just enough of that glance to go quiet, only for a second, but you notice, so does beau.

2. the annual di laurentis & maxwell beach volleyball match

the second time dean nearly catches on, it happens during the annual beach volleyball match, which is ridiculous, because the annual match is usually the least romantic event of the entire summer.

the teams change every year, mostly because dean insists on drafting like he’s building an olympic roster instead of playing barefoot volleyball with relatives and family friends on a beach. this year, you end up on a different team to beau. which is both a blessing and a curse.

a blessing because standing beside him would have been dangerous. a curse because standing across from him somehow turns out to be worse.

he's shirtless, which shouldn't matter, because you've seen him shirtless before, many times.

recently, privately.

with your hands against his chest, his mouth at your throat, his voice soft in your ear telling you to stay quiet. you should have been immune. unfortunately, you're not, not even close.

beau stands on the opposite side of the net beside joanna, sunlight catching on his shoulders, hair pushed back messily from the ocean.

you’re wearing a bikini you had almost talked yourself out of wearing. dean had barely glanced at you before immediately pointing at the sunscreen bottle, “don't make me remind you again.”

you had thrown a towel at his head.

beau, on the other hand, had looked once, only once, then very deliberately looked away, which told you everything.

the game starts messy.

dean is competitive in a way that makes everyone want to either laugh or throw something at him, joanna cheats shamelessly, and beau keeps failing at pretending he isn’t watching you, his attention drawn to you like instinct.

then the guys arrive. not your guys, not anyone’s guys.

just a group from a nearby beach house. loud, sunburnt, carrying beers they definitely should have finished slower. they linger too close to the edge of the game, watching. mostly you.

you feel it before you see it. that prickling awareness of eyes staying too long. one of them says something under his breath to another, and they both laugh.

you miss the ball, dean notices immediately. “you good?” he calls from beside you.

“yeah,” you say, shaking it off. “sun got in my eyes.”

beau’s gaze has already shifted. not to the ball, not to dean, to them.

his expression changes so subtly most people probably would have missed it. his shoulders square slightly, jaw tightening. the warmth in his face completely gone.

you feel your stomach dip, because beau can’t do anything, not really. not without making it obvious, not without stepping into a role nobody is supposed to know he has.

that might be the worst part of keeping something secret. it's not the sneaking around or the lying, it's the consistent restraint. the way love has to sit quietly inside your chest even when every instinct tells it otherwise.

the next serve comes hard, and you dive for it, sand scraping your knees as you manage to bump the ball up. dean shouts something triumphant, joanna yells that it doesn't count.

you laugh breathlessly, pushing yourself up onto your hands. following your action one of the guys whistles. low, obvious, clearly directed at you. your smile falters.

beau hears it, everyone hears it, but he reacts first.

“you wanna keep your eyes on the game?” he snaps.

the beach stills slightly. your head lifts, dean turns. the guy raises his hands, laughing. “relax, man.”

beau doesn’t smile. “then stop being fucking weird.”

beau is usually easy, relaxed, charming when he wants to be. this is different. this is sharp, personal.

dean looks between beau and the guys, then back to you. you can practically see the pieces moving in his head. you stand quickly, brushing sand from your thighs.

“beau,” you say softly, too softly. his eyes cut to you immediately, not like a family friend, not like someone who has known you forever. more like someone who belongs to you, like he forgot, for one second, that he wasn’t allowed to.

dean sees that too, his expression shifting, just slightly.

“you okay?” beau asks.

you swallow. “yeah.”

dean’s brows lift. “why wouldn’t she be okay?”

beau’s eyes flick towards your brother, and for one terrifying second, you think he might say something stupid. something honest. instead, he shrugs.

“because those guys are being assholes.”

dean stares at him, then slowly turns towards the guys. “he’s right,” dean says, and just like that, big brother dean takes over.

which should be helpful.

except now beau looks like he wants to murder someone, dean looks like he’s trying to understand why beau cares so much, and you're standing between them in a bikini, wishing the ocean would swallow you whole.

3. 'one double chocolate chip ice cream with sprinkles, please'

the third time dean nearly catches on, it happens because of double chocolate chip ice cream. by now, he knows he's not just simply imagining it

the afternoon starts on the boat. everyone spends hours out on the water. your skin feels warm from the sun, salt drying in your hair, laughter carried away by the wind.

beau looks incredibly good it almost feels painful.

he sits near the back of the boat, sunglasses on, one arm stretched along the seat behind him, t-shirt abandoned somewhere near the cooler. every time the boat cuts over a wave, his stomach tightens slightly, and you have to pretend very hard that you're looking out at the horizon.

you're of course not looking out at the horizon. you're looking at your boyfriend, from beneath your sunglasses, like a coward, like a girl undeniably in love.

later that evening, beau docks the boat. everyone wanders into town for ice cream.

the shop is crowded, sticky floors and bright menus, families packed shoulder to shoulder, kids running around with melting cones already dripping onto their hands. before you can order, joanna tugs you back outside, insisting she needs your opinion on a bracelet in the little store next door.

which leaves dean and beau inside, alone, with your order.

it should mean nothing.

however, when you and joanna finally meet them outside, beau is already holding two cones. one mint chocolate for himself, one double chocolate chip for you.

complete with rainbow sprinkles. your favourite order. exactly.

dean’s gaze drops to the cones in beau’s hands before settling on his best friend, an unreadable expression on his features.

“how’d you know that?”

beau looks at him. “know what?”

“y/n's order.”

you step forward quickly. “everyone knows my order.” dean turns to you. “no, i know your order.”

“congratulations?”

“why does he know your order?”

beau’s face remains calm, infuriatingly calm. “she gets it every year.”

dean points at him. “i do not like how reasonable that answer was.”

joanna laughs from behind you. “dean, you’re being insane.”

“am i?”

“yes.”

dean looks at you again as you take the cone from beau carefully.

your fingers brush his. a mistake, another one. beau’s thumb moves, not much, just a small, instinctive stroke over your knuckle before he lets go.

dean’s expression goes blank. not angry, not yet. just very, very still.

you immediately shove the ice cream toward your mouth like that can somehow undo the last three seconds.

“good?” beau asks quietly. too quietly.

you nod. “yeah.”

dean stares, his gaze moving between you and beau, something unreadable settling over his features.

for the rest of the afternoon, he watches, and once he starts noticing, he can’t seem to stop.

he notices the way beau instinctively walks behind you on the crowded sidewalk, one hand briefly brushing your back to steer you away from a cyclist. the way you pass him your water bottle without even looking, and he takes it without question, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times before.

dean isn’t entirely sure what he’s seeing yet, but he knows enough to realise this isn’t nothing.

4. jealousy, jealousy

the drinks night is supposed to be casual, which in hindsight, is exactly why it becomes a problem.

it’s just you, beau, dean and joanna at your favourite beachside bar in town, tucked around a small table beneath warm string lights, the air sticky with salt, and music low enough that everyone still has to lean in slightly to hear each other.

dean is, predictably, thriving.

he’s halfway through a beer, leaning against the back of his chair with that stupidly charming smile on his face while some girl at the next table over keeps glancing at him.

joanna notices first.

“oh my god dean" she mutters into her straw. “she’s been looking at you for ten minutes.”

dean’s brows lift. “has she?”

you snort. “don’t act humble. it doesn’t suit you.”

dean's gaze shifts to yours as a smirk graces his features. “what can i say...i’m naturally magnetic, y/n.”

“you’re naturally annoying.”

beau laughs quietly beside you, the sound brushing over you in the way it always does. low, familiar, private even when everyone else can hear it.

you don’t look at him. you can’t.

his knee is pressed lightly against yours beneath the table, hidden by the shadows and the angle of joanna's chair. it has taken every ounce of self-control in your body not to lean into him properly.

dean catches the girl’s eye and smiles. that’s all it takes, within five minutes, she’s at the table. pretty, confident, already laughing at something dean says before he’s even finished saying it.

then, because apparently the universe has decided to punish you personally, two of her friends follow suit.

one of them looks directly at beau and you feel your stomach drop.

she’s tall, sun-kissed, wearing a white linen dress. she has the kind of easy smile that comes from knowing it’s almost always returned.

“hi,” she says, leaning slightly towards him. “i’m natalie.”

beau glances at her politely, tipping his head in greeting. “beau.”

“beau,” she repeats, like she’s testing how it sounds. “that’s cute.”

your fingers tighten around your glass. joanna's eyes flick to you immediately. she knows, of course she does.

dean is too busy flirting to notice anything yet, but joanna sees the way your smile stills. the way you look down at your drink instead of across the table. the way beau’s knee presses a little more firmly against yours, like he feels the shift before you even say a word.

“are you here for the summer too?” natalie asks.

“just the week,” beau says.

polite, short, safe.

not rude enough to raise questions, not warm enough to invite anything. still, it burns.

she doesn’t know he’s yours.

she doesn’t know that his hand had been at your waist fifteen minutes ago in the hallway outside the bathrooms, thumb brushing beneath the hem of your shirt while he whispered that you looked beautiful.

she doesn’t know anything, and you hate that she’s allowed to look at him like she might.

“you should come by our place later,” natalie says, smile widening. “we’re having people over.”

beau pauses and you feel your throat tighten instinctively. dean, finally tuning back in, glances over with lazy amusement. “look at that, maxwell. making friends.”

your nails press lightly into your palm beneath the table.

beau doesn’t look at dean. he looks at you, just for half a second, too quick for anyone else, long enough for your heart to twist.

he turns back to natalie. “thanks, but we’ve already got plans.”

your chest loosens slightly. natalie tilts her head. “all of you?”

beau’s mouth lifts faintly, but his voice stays steady. “yeah.”

dean narrows his eyes slightly. “do we?”

joanna immediately kicks him under the table.

“ow.”

“yes,” she says brightly. “we do.”

you take a sip of your drink to hide your smile. natalie lingers for another second, clearly not used to being dismissed that gently, then shrugs and lets one of her friends pull her back towards the bar.

the moment she’s gone, dean looks between all of you.

“why are you guys being so weird?”

joanna rolls her eyes. “because you make everything weird.”

you stand suddenly, grabbing your drink. “i’ll be back, i'm going to grab some water.”

you slip through the crowd towards the bar, heart beating too fast for something so small, because it is small. you know it’s small. beau didn’t flirt back, he barely even smiled, but secrecy makes everything feel sharper.

every glance someone gives him feels like a reminder that the world still thinks he’s available.

you’re waiting at the bar when he appears beside you. not touching, not close enough to be obvious, but there.

“y/n,” he says quietly.

you keep your eyes on the counter. “you didn’t have to follow me.”

“yeah,” he says softly. “i did.”

you swallow. for a second, neither of you speak.

beau leans one elbow against the bar, studying your expression. “talk to me.”

your grip tightens slightly around your drink. “it’s silly, beau.”

his voice stays gentle. “i don’t think it is.”

you exhale slowly, trying to put words to the feeling. “it’s not even about her.”

beau stays quiet, letting you speak.

your voice softens, “it’s just… hard sometimes.” finally, you look at him. “having to sit there and act like i don’t care.”

something in his expression shifts immediately. understanding, softness, guilt.

he glances down briefly, then back at you. “i’m sorry, y/n.”

you blink. “for what?”

“for putting you in that position.” his voice is low, steady. “for making you feel like you have to pretend none of this matters.”

your chest tightens, “beau-”

“because it does matter.”

his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “you matter.”

your expression softens. his hand shifts on the bar, close enough that his fingers brush yours for half a second. quick. hidden.

“she didn’t matter.”

your breath catches.

his voice stays quiet. “i knew exactly who i was leaving with tonight.”

emotion lodges somewhere in your throat. you look down, a small smile finally pulling at your lips once more.

“i’m sorry.”

beau’s brows pull together slightly. “don’t apologise.”

“i know she didn’t mean anything,” you say softly. “i just… had a moment.”

his expression turns impossibly gentle. “you’re allowed to.” silence settles between you again, but it feels softer now, steadier. “are we okay?” he asks quietly.

this time, your smile comes easier. small. warm.

“yeah.”

some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “okay.”

he says it so softly it almost sounds like relief.

back at the table, dean watches the two of you standing side by side at the counter, not touching, not too close, nothing obvious.

yet, something about it feels strangely intense, serious. your expressions are soft but focused, like you’re having a conversation that matters.

beau says something quietly. you look down, then back up. dean narrows his eyes slightly. he can’t hear a word, can’t see anything concrete, but something about the whole thing feels… off.

a series of tiny moments that finally stop feeling explainable. nothing obvious, nothing he can actually point to.

yet, enough to leave dean with the quiet, unsettling feeling that he’s missing something.

5. uh oh...

back at the house, you find beau in the kitchen, alone. finally.

the whole house is loud around you, music plays from the living room, parents drink wine on the deck, dean somewhere outside arguing with joanna about whether he cheated at cards.

beau stands by the sink, sleeves pushed up, rinsing sand out of a cooler. you pause in the doorway, he looks up. everything in his face softens, quietly, instantly.

“hi,” he says.

your heart aches. “hi.”

for a moment, neither of you move. “dean’s watching us” you whisper.

beau huffs softly, turning off the tap. “yeah.”

“you noticed?”

“it's pretty hard not to.”

you lean back against the counter, a small smirk gracing your features. “you were the one who knew my ice cream order.”

“i do know your ice cream order.”

“that’s the problem.”

his mouth curves faintly. “i'm sorry for paying attention to you.”

you give him a look. he steps closer, not touching, not yet, but close enough that the air shifts.

“i’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”

your gaze lifts to his. the bar, about how hard this had become.

beau’s jaw tightens slightly. “i hate that you feel like you have to sit there pretending none of this matters.”

your chest tightens. “beau-”

“i mean it.” his voice is calm, steady. “watching you walk away earlier because you felt like you couldn’t react… it sucked.”

your expression softens. "it did for me too.”

“not being able to just…” he exhales, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before lifting again. “be normal with you.”

your chest pulls tight. “beau.”

his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “i know why we’re doing this,” he says quietly. “i do. dean’s your brother. he’s my best friend. i understand why this is complicated.”

his voice drops. “but i’m starting to hate pretending.”

your throat tightens, you look down. “dean’s already noticing.”

“yeah.”

“he’s smart.”

a faint smile touches beau’s mouth. “unfortunately.”

you let out a small laugh, your face softening once more. “that’s what scares me.”

the words sit between you, honest, fragile. beau’s hand lifts slowly, giving you enough time to pull away. you don’t. his fingers brush your wrist, then settle there gently, hidden below the counter.

beau goes quiet. when he speaks again, his voice is gentler.

“dean finding out doesn’t scare me.”

your brows lift slightly. “it doesn’t?”

he shakes his head. “no.”

you laugh softly despite the seriousness of the conversation. “it should."

he stifles a small laugh before shaking his head. “what scares me is losing this.”

your breath catches, his eyes lock on yours.

“losing you, y/n.”

everything in you stills. beau’s expression shifts, suddenly more vulnerable than before, like the words came out before he could stop them.

he swallows. “i’m serious, baby i-”

dean’s voice sounds down the hallway, growing louder as he nears the kitchen. beau steps back quickly, the action alone looking suspicious. dean appears in the doorway two seconds later, his eyes move from you to beau, then to the space between you, then back again.

“what’s going on?”

you grab the nearest object off the counter. a spoon, for no reason.

“nothing.”

dean looks at the spoon in your hand, then at you. “why are you holding that like a weapon?”

you look down. “because you scared me.”

dean's eyebrows furrow. “by entering a kitchen?”

“aggressively.”

beau coughs. dean’s eyes flick to him.

“something funny?”

beau shakes his head. “nope.”

dean stares at him for one long second. then points between you. “you two are being weird.”

your stomach drops. “we’re not.”

“you are.”

“you think everyone is weird.”

“because lately everyone is being weird.”

he holds your gaze for another moment, and for a second, you think that’s it. that he knows, that he’s about to say it.

but then joanna yells from outside, accusing dean of hiding the cards, and he backs out of the doorway with one last suspicious glance. “this conversation isn’t over.”

you wait until he disappears. then exhale. beau looks at you.

“we’re terrible at this.”

the following day

the time dean actually catches you, it’s the last night, which feels unfair and inevitable at the same time.

the kind of thing summer had been building towards all week.

the house is full of noise behind you. music, laughter, screen doors opening and shutting, someone yelling about missing marshmallows, the distant clink of bottles being moved across the deck.

you slip away after dinner, simply needing some fresh air.

the dock is quiet when you get there, the water black and silver beneath the moon, the old wood still warm from the day’s heat beneath your bare feet. you sit at the edge with your knees pulled up, chin resting against them.

for a few minutes, you're alone, then the dock creaks behind you.

you don’t turn around, already knowing who had come to join you. beau sits beside you without speaking, shoulder brushing yours.

for a moment, neither of you say anything. tomorrow everyone goes home, and cape cod becomes another distant memory, until next year.

“you disappeared,” he says quietly.

“so did you.”

his mouth curves faintly. “followed you.”

you look at him then, bad idea. the moonlight softens him. his hair is messy from the wind, sweatshirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, eyes fixed on you like the rest of the world had become background noise.

“dean’s inside,” you whisper.

“i know.”

“someone could come out.”

“i know.”

you should move away, you don’t. instead, beau’s hand finds yours, his fingers threading slowly through yours like he’s giving you every chance to pull away.

not rushed, not hidden this time.

“i’m tired of pretending i don’t want to do that,” he says.

your eyes sting suddenly. “beau.”

“i don’t want to spend the whole year only looking at you when no one else is paying attention, y/n.”

your fingers tighten around his. “i don’t either.”

he turns more fully toward you. “then we tell him.”

you laugh once, nervous and soft. “you say that like it’s easy.”

“it won’t be.”

“he might kill you.”

“probably.”

you huff a small laugh in response. he smiles faintly, but his eyes stay serious. “i’d rather deal with him than keep making you feel like something i’m hiding.”

that gets you, completely. this is exactly what you had been too afraid to say out loud.

you look down at your joined hands. “you don’t make me feel like that.”

“sometimes this does though, y/n”

you hate that he’s right. you hate that you love him for noticing. the word arrives in your chest before you can stop it.

love.

maybe it had been there for longer than you realised, waiting patiently for you to stop looking away. beau reaches up slowly, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. you close your eyes for half a second, savouring the moment.

“we should go back,” you whisper.

“yeah.”

neither of you moves. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes open, and then he kisses you. softly at first, careful, like even now, even after everything, he’s giving you the chance to change your mind.

you don’t.

you lean into him, one hand curling into the front of his sweatshirt. beau makes a quiet sound into the kiss like the week had finally caught up with him all at once.

his arm slides around your waist, yours around his neck. for once, there is no pretending, no careful distance, no stolen almost-touch hidden behind towels or car seats or kitchen counters.

just beau.

warm and solid and yours beneath the summer night.

“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

you tear apart so fast you nearly lose your balance. beau’s hand catches your waist instinctively, which, unfortunately, does not help your case.

dean stands at the start of the dock. still, silent. your heart drops through your stomach.

“dean,” you breathe.

he doesn’t look at you first, he looks at beau.

to his credit, he doesn’t move away from you completely. beau lets go of your waist, but he stays close. close enough that dean notices. close enough that you do too.

“how long?” dean asks, his voice calm, too calm.

you stand slowly. “dean-”

“how long?”

beau answers. “a few months.”

dean’s jaw tightens. “months,” dean repeats.

you wrap your arms around yourself. “we were going to tell you.”

he laughs once, humourless. “when? at your wedding?”

“that’s not fair.”

“isn’t it?”

his eyes finally move to you, and the anger cracks just enough for hurt to show underneath. that is worse, so much worse. “you lied to me.”

your throat tightens. “i know.”

“both of you.”

beau’s voice stays low. “that’s on me.”

dean turns on him instantly. “do not do that.”

beau stills.

“don’t stand there and try to take all of it like that fixes the fact that you’ve been sneaking around with my sister behind my back.”

“i’m not trying to fix it.”

“good, because it doesn’t.”

you step forward. “dean, please.”

his face softens for half a second at your voice, then he looks away, dragging a hand through his hair. for a while, nobody says anything. the water moves quietly beneath the dock. the house hums behind you, distant and unaware.

finally, dean exhales, long, tired.

“i kind of figured.”

you blink. beau’s head lifts slightly. dean looks at you both like you’ve personally exhausted him. “i’m not an idiot.”

you say nothing. he points towards the house. “the car ride? weird.”

“the volleyball thing? very weird.”

beau looks down.

“the ice cream?” dean continues. “please. beau knew about the rainbow sprinkles, y/n.”

“lots of people know i like rainbow sprinkles,” you mutter weakly. dean gives you a flat look, you take it as a sign to stop talking.

“and the kitchen,” he adds. “you were holding a spoon like you’d been caught redhanded”

beau presses his lips together. wrong time to laugh, dangerously wrong.

“something funny, maxwell?”

beau shakes his head. “no.”

“good.” silence again. dean’s shoulders drop slightly, not forgiveness, not completely, but something less sharp.

“i’m not mad because it’s you,” he says, looking at beau. that surprises you, it seems to surprise beau too.

dean’s jaw works once. “honestly, if it had to be someone…” he stops, annoyed with himself for even saying it. “whatever. that’s not the point.”

your voice comes out small. “what is the point?”

dean looks at you, really looks at you, and suddenly he’s not angry in the loud way anymore.

he’s your brother.

the boy who used to carry your beach bag because he said you packed like you were fleeing the country. the boy who scared off guys before you even knew they were interested. the boy who pretended he wasn’t protective while being the most protective person alive.

“the point is you’re my sister, y/n” he says, softer now. “and he’s my best friend. and both of you decided i was the last person who got to know.”

your chest aches. “we were scared.”

“of me?”

you hesitate. dean’s expression shifts, that hurts him too.

“not like that,” you say quickly. “not because we thought you’d be horrible. just because it mattered. because you matter. because beau matters. and i didn’t want everything to change before we even knew what this was.”

dean looks at you for a long moment, then his gaze flicks to beau. “do you know what this is?”

beau doesn’t look away. “yeah.”

your breath catches. dean studies him carefully. “yeah?”

beau nods once. “i love her.”

everything stops. you turn towards him. for a second you forget dean is there, forget the dock, forget the entire summer sitting around you.

beau’s eyes meet yours, steady despite the nerves in his face. “i didn’t want to say it like this,” he says quietly.

your eyes burn. a small, helpless laugh escapes you. “on a dock while my brother plots your murder?”

beau’s mouth lifts faintly. “yeah. not exactly how i pictured it.” dean makes a strangled sound. “i’m literally standing right here.” you look back at him, wiping quickly beneath one eye.

“sorry.”

dean stares at you, then at beau. he sighs like the universe has personally wronged him.

“unbelievable.”

his voice is different now. still annoyed, still protective, but not furious. not anymore.

he steps closer, pointing directly at beau’s chest. “you.” beau straightens immediately. “don’t fuck this up.”

“i won’t.”

“i’m serious.”

“so am i.”

dean’s eyes narrow. “she’s my sister. don’t forget that.” beau’s face softens, but his voice stays firm.

“i never have.”

dean looks away, jaw tight, before pointing vaguely between you both.

“and no more sneaking around.”

you nod quickly. “okay.”

“no more lying.”

“okay.”

“and absolutely no making out on docks while everyone else is inside eating dessert.”

you frown. “that feels very specific.”

“because it just happened.”

beau looks down, hiding another smile. dean points at him again. “wipe that look off your face.”

beau immediately does, you bite your lip. dean turns to you, eyes narrowing. “and you. don’t think you’re getting out of this because you look emotional.”

you blink up at him. he lasts three seconds, maybe four, then his expression breaks. “come here,” he mutters. you step into him immediately.

dean wraps his arms around you, tight and familiar, one hand pressing briefly to the back of your head the way he used to when you were younger, crying over things you didn’t want to explain.

your throat closes. “i’m sorry,” you whisper.

he sighs into your hair. “yeah. you should be.”

his arms tighten. “i just didn’t want to lose you,” you admit quietly.

dean stills, pulling back enough to look at you. “you’re not losing me because you fell for my idiot best friend, y/n.”

beau mutters, “fair.”

dean doesn’t look away from you. “you’re stuck with me.”

your mouth trembles into a smile. “unfortunately.”

“watch it.”

you laugh softly, and dean’s face eases a little at the sound.

he looks over your shoulder at beau. “you can walk her back.”

beau blinks. “i can?”

“don’t make me regret saying it.”

“i won’t.”

dean starts walking backward towards the house, still pointing.

“door stays open.”

“dean.”

“i don’t care if we’re outside right now, the door stays open.”

you groan. “you’re so annoying.”

he turns finally, heading back toward the house, but stops halfway. for a second, he looks back. not at beau this time, at you.

his expression softens. “for what it’s worth,” he says, quieter. “i’m glad it’s him.” he disappears into the noise of the house before either of you can answer.

you stand there for a moment, stunned. beau steps closer beside you. careful now. respectful of the fact that everything has changed, and yet nothing at all.

“you okay?” he asks. you look at him, really look at him. the boy you had spent the whole summer loving in glances, in almost-touches, in quiet corners and stolen seconds. the boy who had just told your brother he loved you without flinching.

you nod slowly. “you love me?”

his face softens. “yeah.”

your heart turns over. “that’s inconvenient.”

beau laughs quietly, stepping close enough for his fingers to brush yours. “very.”

you slip your hand into his, openly, for the first time. “i love you too,” you whisper.

beau’s entire expression changes. he leans down, then stops, glancing towards the house.

you laugh softly. “dean said no sneaking around.”

“this isn’t sneaking.”

“no?”

his thumb brushes over your hand. “not anymore.”

so you kiss him again, softly, briefly. smiling against his mouth when someone from the deck yells, “door stays open!”

dean, obviously.

beau drops his forehead to yours, laughing under his breath. for the first time all summer, you don’t pull away.

kooksandpearls

garrett graham ❄︎ i've got you.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – a bad loss, a worse party, and garrett finding out exactly what kind of man used to make someone he cares about feel small. warnings – angst, emotional abuse references, slut-shaming, public humiliation, violence, physical fight, blood, strong language notes from me – i promised garrett would find out about her ex! based on this ask, thank u babe! word count – 6.5k

navigation – masterlist |

The party is technically still a party, in the way a body is technically still alive when it’s lying very still and making everyone else uncomfortable. There’s music coming from the living room speakers, and the kitchen is full, and someone has already knocked over half a case of beer near the back door, but the usual post-game buzz hasn’t properly taken.

The loss has followed the boys home like bad weather, clinging to the sharp set of Garrett’s jaw and the bruise darkening near Logan’s cheekbone and the way Dean keeps drinking. Even Tucker, who can usually make a room feel less like it wants to bite itself, has been standing at the counter for ten minutes making tiny sandwiches with the grim focus of a man assembling evidence.

“Don’t call them tiny sandwiches,” Tucker says, responding to something Logan had said that she'd missed. “They’re dippables.”

There's a beat of silence so beautiful and complete that she almost respects the universe for giving it to them.

Then Dean says, “I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just call them?”

kooksandpearls

garrett graham ❄︎ just this.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – garrett’s father shows up at a game, and the aftermath hurts worse than the black eye. warnings – mentions of domestic violence, abusive father, childhood trauma, emotional breakdown, crying, panic response, hockey injury/black eye, strong language notes from me – i've had a few requests for this moment, and wanted to write it v carefully! i took a lot of inspiration from the scene where garrett tells hannah abt his dad <3 word count – 7.5k

navigation – masterlist |

The thing about sitting in Garrett Graham’s letterman jacket at a Briar hockey game was that it made people stupid. Not her, obviously. She was being incredibly normal about it. Mature, even.

She'd only rolled her eyes twelve times since they’d left the parking lot, which, considering Lucy had made a full production out of tugging the jacket collar up around her face and going, “Oh my God, babe, do you smell that? Commitment,” felt like a real exercise in restraint.

Monique had been worse, because Monique had a quiet voice and a deadpan delivery. She kept looking over with her chin tucked into her scarf, eyes flicking from the jacket to the ice, then back again, like she was watching an organism evolve in real time.

“He is not my boyfriend,” she said, for what had to be the fourth time, settling deeper into her seat like the plastic could open up and swallow her if she pressed hard enough.

kooksandpearls

garrett graham ❄︎ he dropped my girlfriend.

pairing – garrett graham x figure skater!reader summary – figure skating should not look like that, garrett decides. it also shouldn't involve another guy dropping his girlfriend. warnings – figure skating injury, failed lift, pain, brief panic, jealousy, protective behaviour, strong language notes from me – based on a couple of requests that i combined!! i hope u enjoy babes!! word count – 4.9k

navigation – masterlist |

The problem, Garrett thinks, is that figure skating shouldn't look like that.

It looks too good. It looks like somebody took all the brutal, ugly, body-destroying parts of being an athlete and then had the nerve to cover them in clean lines and soft music and a little white practice skirt that keeps flicking up every time she turns.

It looks like balance and force and trust all disguised as something delicate enough that the idiots sitting beside him have started making wounded animal noises every time she glides past the boards.

Which is, obviously, not helping.

“She’s kind of insane, dude,” Logan says from Garrett’s left, elbows planted on his knees, chin tipped up toward the ice with the open, helpless awe of a man watching someone do something he understands is hard, but absolutely cannot personally replicate without dying.

kooksandpearls

garrett graham ❄︎ bossy hockey bitch.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – garrett graham can ignore almost anything at practice. a low glucose alert from dexcom is not one of them. warnings – diabetic reader, hypoglycemia/low glucose episode, dexcom follow alert, mild medical stress, established relationship notes from me – as requested!! sorry this took a little while – i had to research to make sure it was accurate lmao! let me know if i got anything wrong <3 word count – 4k

navigation – masterlist |

Garrett’s phone goes off halfway through bag skate, which is about as close to a death wish as technology can get inside a hockey rink. It cuts through the scrape of blades and the hard, ugly rhythm of twenty exhausted guys trying not to throw up on fresh ice, a sharp little alarm from the bench where everyone’s phones are piled with water bottles and tape and somebody’s abandoned hoodie.

Usually, Garrett ignores his phone at practice. Usually, there’s no reason to stop in the middle of a drill unless someone is actively bleeding, concussed, or Coach Jensen has decided to experiment with psychological warfare again.

But Garrett knows that sound. He turns his head so fast the edge of his skate catches a little too hard on the ice. Tucker nearly clips him from behind and swears, loud and breathless, but Garrett’s already skating toward the bench with his pulse shifting in a way that has nothing to do with the suicides they’ve been running for the last twenty minutes.

“Graham,” Coach barks, because concern for his girlfriend’s pancreas doesn’t fall within approved training interruptions.

Garrett grabs his phone, glove half off with his teeth because the stupid thing won’t unlock with cold fingers and sweat and the universe personally fucking with him.

The Dexcom Follow notification sits bright on the screen, clinical and calm in the way medical apps always are, like they’re not announcing information designed to put a hook straight through his chest.

LOW GLUCOSE ALERT.

kooksandpearls

garrett graham ❄︎ slow laps.

pairing – garrett graham x figure skater!reader summary – rehab is ugly, slow, and humiliating. garrett graham, annoyingly, makes it feel a little less lonely. warnings – sports injury, rehab/physio, knee injury, recovery anxiety, fear of reinjury, crying, emotional vulnerability, strong language notes from me – thank u for the request, anon!! such a cute idea 🥹 tried to write this !reader as a lil more anxious & shy than my others, it was fun!! <3 word count – 5.5k

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By the second week of physiotherapy, she’s started recognising the rehab room by smell before she even gets through the door.

It’s always the same: rubber mats, disinfectant, stale coffee from the travel mug Cam leaves on the little desk by the wall, the faint clean plastic smell of resistance bands and ice packs and the weird foam balance pads that look harmless until you’re standing on one leg on top of them, sweating through a university-issued t-shirt, trying not to make eye contact with your own reflection in the mirror.

The room isn’t big enough for how humiliating it is. That’s what she decides somewhere around the seventh time Cam tells her to keep her knee tracking over her toes and not let her hip drop, as if any part of her body has retained a functional management structure since the injury.

It’s not big enough for the amount of trying happening in it. Not big enough for lacrosse girls doing hamstring bridges, a baseball player walking around with one of those compression sleeves on his elbow, a freshman swimmer crying silently through shoulder mobility in the corner while pretending she is absolutely not crying.

It’s not big enough for all the little griefs athletes drag in with their water bottles and their taped joints and their faces set carefully into the shape of being fine.

She used to think of her body as something she could ask things of.

kooksandpearls

garrett graham ❄︎ chain reaction.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – four times garrett’s chain causes problems, and one very smug hockey captain pretends he isn’t loving every second of it. warnings – suggestive content, making out/grinding, mild sexual references, implied oral sex, drinking, party setting, garrett being smug and whipped. notes from me – as part of my 1k celebrations, here's the top requested fic!! enjoy 🫶🏼 word count – 5k

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The first time Garrett realises his chain is a problem, they're in his room with the door locked, the bass from downstairs moving through the floorboards in lazy, uneven pulses and the old house doing what the old house always does around a party, which is pretend it’s not seen worse.

There are voices below them, Logan’s laugh cutting through once in a bright, drunken bark, Dean yelling something that sounds like an accusation and Tucker answering with the sort of dry, patient tone that means someone is absolutely about to be called an idiot.

But up here, everything has gone smaller. Warmer. The room narrowed down to Garrett’s weight between her thighs, the soft give of his mattress under her back, the skirt shoved high enough on her hips that there's no point pretending it’s even a skirt anymore, and his mouth dragging over hers like he has all night and no better use for it.

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