summary: he doesn't mess around when it comes to the light of his life (established relationship)
author's note: new obsession, so yk what's up, gotta write a fic abt it. One back and forth discussion with my sister, and we have this masterpiece. You're welcome.
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Music. Or rather, vibrations. Bass was pummelling through her body like a speeding truck. The thing they didn't tell you about college parties was that the music was always shit. Either some newly released rap song blaring on the speaker, or an EDM that she had come to memorise from hearing so many times. Every now and then, when a good song played, everyone seemed to enjoy their time a little more. Today was that exception.
In all honesty, the party wasn't even supposed to happen. But the end of the semester blessed the hockey boys with a reasonable excuse to round up whatever beers and alcohol they could find, let the word travel around campus and get everyone drunk as a final hurrah.
The jello shots were flowing through her veins, loosening her muscles just enough to feel alright about dancing. It was her and Allie between the mess of bodies in the living room. Their hands were intertwined as to not be lost amongst the people. They moved against each other. Drunken sways that she didn't entirely process.
John was in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the island. Red solo cup in hand, backwards cap doing things to her mind that she couldn't entirely put into words as he talked to Garrett easily. She knew one thing, though. His mind could've been invested in whatever conversation they were having, but his eyes? Yeah, they were on her. When their eyes met, an easy grin lifted onto his face. Pride dripped off his teeth as he smiled into the cup, dark eyes following her as she moved around Allie. Mischief gleamed in her eyes. He quirked a brow.
That was their thing. It didn't matter where they were or who was around them; they'd find each other from across the room. If he were in a match and happened to catch her gaze in a crowd of cheering peers after a wicked goal, John would lower his head, even if it was the most minuscule amount, and raise a brow in her direction. You see me, baby? She'd smile in return. I see you, baby.
Allie's scoff from beside her broke her gaze away from John. "My god," She said jokingly, "You two are so sweet, it makes me want to throw up"
A laugh escaped her throat. She raised her hand, bringing Allie's along with it to gently spin her. "You're one to talk, Allie-cat. From what I hear, Di Laurentis is fitting into the boyfriend tag pretty well"
"Why not just ask Logan to be your boyfriend already? You two are practically married"
Her lips fell into a quiet pout as she shrugged. "We just...don't like the titles. And you know how it is with the hockey boys. Asking him to be my boyfriend is basically popping the question"
The music had seemingly slowed all together, something the couples would enjoy swaying to. She and Allie remained on the floor, talking quietly. Though she spoke, her words seemed to float away with a gust of misplaced wind. Her mind had begun to scatter upon the mention of 'boyfriends'. Allie's smile widened at the sudden dreamy look in her eyes.
Y/n was never one to date around. Not because she didn't want to. Because she was saving it -the love, the chase, the fall, and the complete and utter infatuation- for the one. She made that fact known to anyone she met, and soon the people around her seemed to understand that fact as well. She wasn't like 'that'. Then she met Allie and Hannah while she was working part-time at Malone's for a semester. Steadily, one party invite led to another, and that was how she found herself intertwined with John Logan. He was her brief break from ramrod-straight morals. Somehow, through the long hours of practice she'd sit through for the sake of being near him, the countless study sessions where he'd mindlessly remain by her side in the library, and the endless hours they'd spent talking at night long after they were meant to go to bed, John Logan had found a way around the set rules she had for herself, and crept into the crude little spaces of her heart with an ease she found difficult to understand.
"Just do it," Allie said after a while. "The guy's head over heels for you. I doubt he'd say no"
They laughed it off like any other time. Maybe she would, if the opportunity arose. And for a while after, everything seemed to be floating. The liquor had absorbed into her bloodstream, giving her just enough of a buzz that it was enjoyable. It seemed she was not the only one who was feeling it.
The joy was too brief. It all happened before she could really think. A hand began to snake around her waist. When she glanced over at the kitchen, John was still there with Garrett. The foreign touch drew a reaction from her that was so immediate it felt as though her soul had left behind her material body. She lurched forward, letting go of Allie's hand to strip the hand from her torso. There must've been a look of terror on her face because Allie's smile dropped.
As soon as she spun around, a huff of sour breath passed over her face. The eyes that stared back at her were entirely new. "C'mon, Doll. Dance with me, you know you want to"
"Call me that again and see what happens." Her voice was low, barely above a whisper. But it was the quietest creatures that were the most dangerous.
Allie held onto her wrist, staring wide-eyed between her friend and the man in front of her.
He huffed a laugh, raising his hands in mock surrender. But she knew guys like him. They were never ones to back off that easily. His eyes would continue to trace the lines of her body, leaving a trail of dirt down the skin she would scrub meticulously later. Intoxication was clear in his dilated pupils. He certainly didn't look like one of the regulars who stumbled into the hockey house's parties. Probably just came for the free booze and the ladies. If he was a regular, he wouldn't have tried what he did. Not with her anyway.
His hands had fallen from the surrender, and they were reaching towards her again. "Don't be like that, Doll-"
The words hadn't even formed in the air before she grabbed the front of his shirt between the balls of her fist, pushing him back. His leg caught the back of the coffee table, and he fell like a log. There was a large hollow echo. The alcohol certainly wasn't doing him any favours.
"Get the fuck off of me or get the fuck out" The voice that came out of her mouth sounded far different from her own. It cut through the air, leaving a visible mark.
Allie's soft voice rang in her ear. "Y/n..." It sounded far away, like her head was underwater.
That's when she realised the music had stopped. Everyone was frozen in their positions, all of them having turned in the direction of the commotion. Her direction. No one said a word. No one made a move. And yet the trepidation that crept up was undeniable. If was as if the universe was telling her something was wrong, but instead of a soft nudge, her whole body was being whipped around. Her neck was growing hot, the heat slowly spreading up to her face.
Normally, she wouldn't care much for the attention. Hell, she was supposed to care less because she was a little drunk. What did it matter? Guys could be weirdos, and the sound of such commotion had become such a usual thing that it no longer drew the attention that it used to. But doubt flooded the back of her mind. What if I was wrong? What if I overreacted?
John's face suddenly came into view. His brows were cinched tightly like he was looking at a car's engine, trying to figure out what the problem was. His hand rose to her cheek. "Baby, what's wrong? What's going on?"
She couldn't find the words. It felt like tiny needles were continuously poking at her skin wherever he touched. Something stood between the echo of his voice and her ear drum. Nothing felt like it was fully there.
Garrett had joined them in the living room, having picked the guy off the floor by his collar like he was a rowdy cat. "Come on. Get up, fella" His grip was as firm as his voice, eyes narrowed as they pointed down at the guy.
The mortification seemed to only grow as the seconds pass. Feeling was beginning to return to her hands and feet. Little stopped her from staying here, but a lot stopped her from bolting. Allie was still holding her wrist. John was blocking the way to the front door, and she knew it'd be useless trying to get past him without an explanation.
Garrett's gaze flickered between her and the guy. "What'd you do to her?"
"What I did to her?" He repeated in a tone of amazement, "I didn't do nothing, man! I was trying to show her a good time and the crazy bitch pushed me over!"
The blur only seemed to intensify then. Maybe it was the build up of tears in her eyes or her brain simply beginning to shut down, but everything seemed to be too slow. All she could make out was John rushing the guy, taking him off Garrett's hands.
If there was shouting, she couldn't hear it. John took him by the neck, dragging him out the front door before tossing him off the porch.
"No, no, no..." She muttered under her breath. Whatever was keeping her inside seemed to disappear in an instant. She carefully shrugged off Allie's hand, shoving past the crowd that was beginning to gather by the door. The air was like a shock of cold water. The sight in front of her was the ice that ran down her shirt.
John was hunched over the guy, the white ball of shirt in his hands stretching so much that it was beginning to rip. His other hand was in the air, reeling back to send another punch to the guy's face. The moon lit up the scene like a spotlight. And beneath the gleaming blades of grass, crimson blood coloured the front lawn in delicate specks. It almost looked staged how perfectly everything fell. John's fist hit the guy's face once more, causing another round of splattering to join the army that had begun to form. Her feet moved themselves. She stumbled far enough down the stairs to get a better look at the guy's face. There was little reminiscent of his strange eyes and unfamiliar structure os his features. His nose now had an uncomfortable bend in the middle. Broken, no doubt. The sight made the uneasiness in her stomach grow.
"Yeah? Call her a bitch one more time. Do it!" His roaring voice split the fuzz that had grown over her ears. It wasn't the same soft voice that was speaking to her moments ago. The flames, once so calm and easy, now roared with a fierceness that almost frightened her.
It took seconds for Garrett and Dean to rush past her on the porch. They were quick to pull John off the guy but the damage was already done. There was a man on their front lawn, bruised and bloodied.
After that, everything seemed to blend together. She wasn't outside much longer, having been pulled back into the house by Allie, and a shaken Hannah who was following behind her. Tucker kicked everyone out, managing to find the guy's friends who seemed less than surprised at the sight of their friend. With a promise to take him home, peace had somewhat returned to the house. Or at least the little peace they had managed to salvage.
"What the hell was that?" Dean breathed as soon as the last person left the house.
Allie looked at her for a second before noting she was in no state to speak. The hot embarrassment was still evident by her red cheeks, but there was also something else. She explained everything, sparing a glance to her friend every now and again to make sure she was still standing.
A moment of silence passed. No one knew how to react.
The tension only grew when her voice broke the surface. "Where's John?"
Garrett looked at her sympathetically. "He went upstairs. Look, y/n, I'd give him a minute to cool down-"
She was already half-way up the stairs by the time he finished his words. The door to the shared bathroom was ajar. The furious rush of the sink running told her he was right behind there.
When she pushed the door open gently, John was in front of the sink, running his busted knuckles under the running water. A grimace lay under his hardened expression, the one she had come to learn and peel back. Wordlessly, she closed the door behind her, reaching to turn the water off.
The pain in his eyes seemed to fade when she gently grabbed his hand. Her eyes ran over the split skin around his knuckles from the barrage of punches. She'd seen many of his hockey injuries before -nasty bruises, split lips, scrapes, tears- but this one felt different. She was the reason for it. Guilt built up like a ball in her throat. Though her chest was moving, little air entered her lungs. A low hiss escaped from his gritted teeth as she barely brushed a finger over the wounds.
"Sit down" She whispered, "We should clean it out before we wrap you up"
Rummaging through their tiny medicine cabinet, she found a half-evaporated bottle of alcohol that would work. He'd positioned himself on the edge of the bathtub. She gently took his hand once more, savouring the warmth that spread through her fingers that had become freezing from the blood that was rushing to her head. With a clean rag she found on the rag, she began carefully dabbing at the wound. Most of the blood had been washed off, but a redness still lingered from the exposed flesh. It was hard to control her face. Every time she'd touch the wound, a sharp pain would spike in her own knuckles. As if she were feeling it.
Her eyes would flicker up to his face every now and then. They'd watch his eyes, searching every crevice to find the winces he was hiding. A crease would form between his brows whenever he did. It was small, but it was something she'd taken note of. When his frown deepened, she sighed.
"You don't have to pretend with me, tough guy" She muttered. The attempt at being light-hearted seemed to fall on a half-hearted laugh.
John looked up at her. His uninjured hand caressed the back of her thigh. "I'm sorry about tonight, baby"
"There's nothing to be sorry about, Johnny" She furrowed.
When she continued to dab at his knuckles, he stopped her gently, taking the rag away before setting it down on the counter. Just as he had done earlier that night, he cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Did he hurt you? If he did, I'm getting other people involved. Hell, I'll go file a police report..."
Her hand rested on top of his. "No. No, he didn't hurt me. I just...freaked out. I was drunk, and I had no idea what I was doing. I pushed him off, but I think I overreacted. I don't know"
At her admission, John immediately stood, dark, furrowed eyes scanning her face like he was looking for a lost treasure. "This isn't your fault, baby"
"But it is," She started, frustration beginning to build in her tone. "If I hadn't lost my temper on that guy, maybe he would've just left me alone. Maybe none of this would've happened at all, and maybe there'd still be a party downstairs where people were actually enjoying themselves, and you wouldn't be hurt right now"
"This is nothing, y/n. I've gotten worse injuries," He argued.
"That's not the point. The point is that I wasn't thinking straight, and I ruined it for everyone"
John shook his head. "Don't say that. I don't care if someone accidentally bumped into you, or touched you by accident, or insulted you on purpose. Whatever happens, you handle it the way you think should be handled. And if you don't want to deal with it, you come to me, and I'll deal with it for you, okay?"
She was silent for a long while, just staring up at him with her eyes still glossy with tears. Her heart was rapping at her chest with desperate knocks. All these months and he still managed to make her heart pound. A small smile broke on her face. "Maybe Allie was right."
"About what?"
"About how I'm completely in love with you"
A huff of laughter left his lips as he pressed them to the corner of her mouth. "I don't need someone to know that."
when your new roommate observes your 'friendship' with hockey captain garrett graham, she can't help but think your relationship with your childhood best friend is more than platonic. (childhoodbestfriend!reader)
ᨳଓ you're the girl in garretts lockscreen
you finally meet visit the off campus house and meet garrett's friends, but not in the way either of you imagined. (childhoodbestfriend!reader)
summary: five times you and your best friend, garrett graham, share a bed.
my credentials: this used to be a one direction writing account. i can't remember the last time i wrote publicly, but i first mentioned reading the OC series back in march 2016. garrett graham has been on my mind since then.
word count: 6k
warnings: (3) is a little salacious, nothing crazy. everything else is hurt/comfort/fluff.
(crossposted on ao3)
There is only one bed.
Somewhere in the back of Garrett's mind, he is acutely aware this is how a majority of those cheesy, colorful books that litter your bookshelf lazily shove two unwilling characters together.
It's a trope, you have emphasized before, chin low on his mattress with your legs crossed at the ankles in the air behind you, hair strewn all over his pillows, your scent permanently etched into the fabric of his comforter as you thumbed through the pages of what he would consider utter bullshit, and what you would end up believing in.
Well, Garrett thinks tropes are lazy and that the universe is sabotaging him with a scenario that should only exist in romance novels. He thinks he'd rather ruin his lower back on a floor where god-knows-what has happened than shove his much bigger body under the covers next to yours and pretend every hitch of your breath isn't a gunshot to his chest.
He does it anyway.
Every time.
One
It's freshman year and you are terrible at keeping your liquor down. It's a true party foul that has cockblocked Dean on more than one occasion (because he fucks anyone anywhere, the shared bathroom included), but Garrett made your family a promise that he would keep an eye on you if you two wound up at the same college together.
It's harder to keep than he thought - not because he doesn't want to, but because you keep physically disappearing on him.
His heart is in his throat after ten minutes of searching for you. The wind in the backyard doesn't carry your laugh with it. He walks in on Dean with his tongue shoved down the throat of another instead of finding you with your head in the toilet bowl. You aren't in the kitchen with Tucker, you're definitely not lounging on the couch next to Logan while he starts another game of NHL, and no one who attempts to stop him with congratulations has seen you.
It shouldn't be this hard to find you; you're yay tall and wear only the most egregiously yellow soft sweaters or his last name on the back of his jersey you wear to the games. You make a point to say hi to everyone at these parties, even those who sneer at you behind your back and beam at Garrett instead, and there's always a trail of your perfume wherever you go. If you were retching into a bush and wanted his hand firmly planted on your neck for support or needed a degree of separation between you and the guy from your English Lit class again, he would have known and he would have been there.
Which is why he fumbles with the handle on his bedroom door, because he knows his phone is charging in there, and maybe you would have texted him -
He flicks the lights on and sees a lump of you at the edge of the bed, awkwardly tangled in his sheets with your jeans still on.
"Sunshine," he hisses, already pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation as he foots the door closed behind him. "Have you seriously been in here this whole time?"
Your responding low moan is enough proof of life for him, so he carefully turns the lights back off and moves towards you, because he always gravitates to you like you are the sun no matter how much he tries to drag his feet.
"Hey." Garrett's voice is softer when he crouches down next to you, careful to keep his body off the mattress as his hand hovers over the crown of your head. "Talk to me. What are you doing in here?"
"Sleepy," you mumble, something citrusy and warm on your breath. He hears the rustle of the covers as you flop your arms to either side of your head. "Wanted you, couldn't find you, bed."
Garrett would snicker at your lack of full sentences if his blood wasn't thrumming in the side of his neck, his eyes adapting to the dark and taking stock of every inch of you like he's looking for one hair to be out of place.
Against his better judgement, he lets his palm sweep over your forehead and brush some tendrils back. "Don't do that without telling someone where you're going," he murmurs. "I couldn't find you, and I..."
"I know." You nod against his hand, nuzzling into it like a cat that has found warmth. "You always find me."
He swallows against the lump in his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do."
You blearily peek one eye open at him, everything about you twinkling even in the dark. A small pout plays at your lips. "Because they asked you to, right? I'm a liability?"
"No," he breathes out easily. "I just - I've been here for two years now and they expect me to watch after you, be a good influence." He pauses. "Not supply you cheap alcohol and just let you wander until Jackson, or Jake, or whatever his name is - "
You groan again. "Ugh, I hate that guy - "
" - asks you for more than your notes when I'm not there to do anything about it."
You both fall still, him now on his knees on the floor and you curling your hands under your chin as you turn to face him better. His fingers fall from your temple; he braces his hands against his thighs to stop himself from reaching out again.
"Just to be clear," you add, voice quiet and raspy with sleep, "he didn't tonight. I just came up here because I wanted somewhere to be comfortable."
Hearing that does something very dangerous to Garrett's psyche.
He nods once, twice, maybe a third time. "Good," he hears himself say after a moment. "You can always stay in here."
Your body seems to relax at that, sinking further into his mattress. He starts to roll back onto his heels, ready to stand and maybe guard the door the whole night like a fucking dog while you slumber peacefully in his bed, when your smaller fingers wrap gently around his forearm.
"Will you stay, too?"
Garrett can't hear anything else - not the sound of his ceiling fan, not the stumbling and giggling in the hallway. The only thing his traitorous ears pick up on is the quiver in your voice, like maybe you're just as unsure as him and yet you can't do anything about the gravitational pull, when you very quietly, so sweetly whisper only to him, "Please."
Garrett thinks back to all of the times in your childhood that you would have never, under any circumstances, shared a bed: camping trips, summer movie nights, when Phil's voice could be heard booming from next door and your parents prepared the guest room for Garrett as he fought back the tears in his eyes. You were always there to squeeze his hand goodnight, but then you were gone, and he would toss and turn all night.
He doesn't know why this time is different, but it takes him very little convincing to find you both a change of clothes and settle in beside you. There is no pillow divider, no separate sleeping bags, no children afraid of the dark; only a man fighting every instinct to pull you closer to him.
Many hours later, when he finally starts to fall asleep and you start migrating to his side of the bed, your hand scrunching at the waistband of his sweatpants, he tells himself it's because he made a promise.
He tells himself he's just watching the door.
He tells himself he's just taking precaution in case you need to throw up in the middle of the night.
He tells himself anyone would do this for a friend.
He falls asleep repeating that one word, and he wakes up to your head nestled underneath his chin with his body wrapped fully around you, and finally, silently, claims you to him.
-
Two
Garrett has a mildly bruised ribcage and an increasingly annoying throbbing in his head that won't go away.
Tucker has been fretting over him all night, adhering to the team doctor's orders without missing a beat. Garrett has barely had time to close his eyes and adjust in his own bed without the shrill reminder to take his meds when warm knuckles tickle the stubble at his jaw.
"It's just me," you shush him when he jerks back into his pillows. Your fingers trail up into his hair and scratch lightly at his scalp the way you've learned he likes; only then does he relax again.
He can barely hold the volume in his voice when he murmurs your name. "What are you doing here?" he rasps.
Your lips thin into an unamused line. "If you thought your best friend wasn't going to show up after watching you get obliterated on the line, you're more concussed than I thought."
Tucker, who took it upon himself to rearrange Garrett's pillows and fluff the covers over him despite everything already being in fine condition, scoffs. "I'm the best friend here."
Garrett almost smiles, but winces when he tries. "Didn't think people would be fighting over me with my concussion. Wonder how the other guy is doing."
"Stop talking," you toss back, but your voice doesn't harbor any heat in it. There's a waver of panic there, and Garrett's face drops into a frown despite the pain that he knows will come with it.
Before you can say anything else, Tuck backs off and dims the lights on his way out. "Don't forget to wake him up every few hours," he quietly adds before shutting the door behind him.
"You're staying?" Garrett hates that he perks up and can't blame it entirely on the pain pills.
You don't respond, rubbing at a spot on your sternum that hurts all of a sudden. Garrett tracks every movement of yours despite his loopiness, hating even more when he catches the moisture pooling in your eyes even though you think you're avoiding his gaze.
"Hey, hey," he starts, nearly forgetting his injuries to push himself up to grab you. You stop him with a gentle hand on his chest, feeling every pulse of his heat through his henley and into your bloodstream.
You wipe underneath your eyes and shake your head at him. "We really should be whispering," you warble weakly, "or not talking at all. Rest. You're hurt. I'm here to take care of you, not - "
"Sunshine."
"No, listen - "
"I'm okay," he soothes, and your shoulders drop, because - damn it - that's the tone you should be using with him instead. "Everything is okay."
A sigh shudders past your lips when his hand comes up to swallow yours where it rests over his heart. Before you know what you're doing, your thumb is moving back and forth along the fabric of his shirt and his is curling around yours.
Garrett finally settles back after you take a few calming breaths. He keeps your hand trapped beneath his grip, but closes his eyes and hums in contentment when you continue smoothing your fingers over the hard planes of his chest. It was only today when you realized that he is not as invincible as he looks.
"You scared me," you admit in a whisper. "Of course I was going to be here to make sure you were okay."
Garrett is numb enough that he can sort of raise his shoulder on the side of his body that isn't bruised in a shrug. "Jus' never had anyone take care of me after a game before, s'all."
Your sternum feels that burning sensation again. You ground yourself against the steady beat of him beneath your hand. You watch as his long eyelashes flutter open and closed, open and closed again - like he's fighting sleep just to get one more good look at you.
That decides everything for you then. "Lift your good arm up for me, Graham."
"Hmm?" is his sluggish response, but it's you asking, so of course he does it without much thought anyway.
You've already toed off your sneakers, leaving you in those fluffy socks he bought you so many years ago all because you had mentioned being cold once. You pull the covers up, careful not to jostle him where he lies perfectly in the middle, keeping both of your sides warm. You slide carefully into him, running your palm along his abdomen to press him closer to you as your toes dance along his shins. Your cheek finds his good shoulder. His arm slots perfectly around you. You both release a heavy breath that neither of you knew you were holding in.
The headache suddenly goes away. Garrett isn't sure if there were ever actually bruises marring his skin before.
"I got you," you murmur when his whole body falls lax into yours. You gingerly reach up and brush your lips against his cheek, and it ticks beneath your touch.
"Gonna be the longest four weeks of my life," he slurs. He nudges his nose into the top of your head and might press a kiss there, too. "But not if..." A huge yawn overtakes his face.
You stroke his shirt again, peering up at him. There's a soft smile gracing his features, and you know sleep is imminent.
"Not if what?" you whisper.
Garrett falls into a dream about you while mumbling, "Not if you're here."
-
Three
Allie and Dean are god-damn shit stirrers. They are no better than front desk hotel employees.
"...so, yeah," Allie is saying, ears gone a bit pink like she's been caught in an act that she typically performs without being betrayed by her poker face. "Or, um, the girls could room together..."
"Baby doll," Dean chides, slinging his arm around her shoulders. "They don't want to split up the other couples here. I'm sure they'll be just fine in this big bed. I mean, look at the view of the rolling hills, and the ocean! Oh, the ocean, Allie Cat. Isn't it just wonderful? I hear this part of California even has love birds, can you believe it?"
Allie momentarily gets caught up rolling her eyes at what Garrett can only assume is Dean's dramatic improvisation.
Garrett's jaw clenches. "I think I'll just take the living room, thanks."
You try - and fail - not to flinch at that. He pretends he doesn't notice it.
Dean is nodding like he was waiting for the counter. "Up to you, G, but we may keep you up pretty late."
A low, rumbly sound rolls off of him. Dean presses his lips together to stop from laughing at him.
"It's fine," you jump in, already setting your bags on the floor. "The bed is big enough."
"Your boyfriend would be okay with that?" is Garrett's sharp retort. He can't even look at you when he asks.
Two other pairs of eyes volley between you and Garrett in the deafening silence that follows.
"Ha!" You jab a finger into his chest accusatorially and scowl when it meets hard muscle. "I knew it. You were acting weird the whole drive over here."
Allie squeezes Dean's forearm in warning. Garrett glares down at you, shuffling his feet until they go head-to-head with yours, defiant and itching with frustration, suddenly forgetting you have an audience.
"I'm sorry I'm not comfortable with you dating the fourth line bench warming prick who makes a point to antagonize the entire team every time we play him."
"We went on one date, Garrett. A single date. We are not dating."
"Who gives a fuck! It's the principle!"
"Well, I do, because you've been acting like a petulant child for the past two weeks, and you're supposed to be my best friend, and I miss you, but you can't even look at me anymore, and all I wanted was a nice night, to be wined and dined, and he did that, and he was a gentleman and respectful to me, but that's not enough for you, and nothing I do anymore is enough for you, and - "
Both of your gazes swing to the door Allie and Dean retreat through. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each angry intake and exhale. Garrett clenches and unclenches his fists by his side.
"Fuckin' assholes," he grumbles, only half-serious. The fight leaves him immediately, his shoulders dropping.
With the rest of your run-on sentence stuck in your throat, you deposit your bags onto the bed and angrily open and close drawers to put your clothes away. With your back now turned to him, Garrett is safe to watch you, and so he does, shamelessly; the rigidness of your shoulder blades, the flush on your neck, the hoodie he's been missing for two or three months now finding its way into the dresser. Even mad at him, yourself, Allie and Dean, that fucking guy who has no business knowing you, whoever, or maybe life itself, and he still thinks you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen.
He doesn't say anything to you the rest of the afternoon. You don't ask him to.
Allie at least has the decency to look chagrined when you come out to the backyard hours later. Dean offers you an awkward smile with a glass of sangria, like that'll fix everything - and maybe it will, after a few. Logan and Grace unceremoniously shove themselves into one wicker chair around the bonfire, sharing kisses and giggles and fruit-coated breaths that you can no longer look at. Tucker is leaning in close to Garrett, showing him something on his phone, and Garrett is...
There, across from you through the flames. Broad and huge, his powerful thighs spread wide. He's already sun-kissed without needing to bake all day. The beer bottle is loose in his hand between a few long fingers, and he's slouching and laughing like nothing is wrong.
But everything is wrong, and you're losing your best friend. He doesn't seem to care.
Which is why not too long later, you're shoving the blanket off you and saying your goodnights. Sabrina frowns subtly at you like she knows everything the others do not, catching your arm in her soft hand. You shake her off with a weak smile, and Garrett notices, because Garrett always notices, and yet he still does not say anything when you walk away from him once more.
It's much later after that, two or three in the morning, when the bed creaks beneath you. Your eyes fly open, your body pulling taut at the familiar scent of his cologne and the natural awareness you always have when he's around. You're in your tiniest sleep shorts and the softest of his hoodies, but you're still so mad, betrayal creeping in whenever you breathe too deep or think of him too long.
"I'm sorry," Garrett murmurs softly, mouth almost on the bare skin where your neck meets your shoulder. You fight back the shiver. "I have been mean, and unfair, and childish, and whatever else you were going to call me earlier."
You don't respond for a moment, calculating. Then, "I was going to call you a fourth line bench warming prick, actually."
You hear the pin drop. You feel his chest rise and fall steadily behind you. Then, without notice, his arm brandishes itself against your chest and hauls you back towards him.
"Hey - "
His palm seals over your mouth, forceful enough to take your next words but not tight enough that you couldn't wrench yourself free if you needed to - if you wanted to. Both of you think maybe you don't.
You make an unintelligible protest underneath him, fingers curling around his wrist at where his massive hand paws your jaw.
"I deserved that," is his quiet admission, "but you drive me insane."
If his arm were any lower, he would feel the unmistakable hardening of your nipples against his punishing hold. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the waves crash onto the shore. It might be your heart in your eardrums.
His fingers start to slacken against your cheek. "If I move my hand, do you promise to let me finish my apology?"
I've been waiting for you to talk all day, is what you so desperately want to retort, but your body is traitorous, even against you, always when it comes to him. You nod slowly instead.
With your mouth free, Garrett rearranges you so that you slot perfectly into him. You don't dare say anything, letting him fix your legs inbetween his and budging down when he beckons your head to be lower on his chest. He tightens around you almost protectively, like he's shielding you from himself.
You should be so, so, so mad. You're something entirely different.
"I'm sorry," he says again, tucking his head against yours. "I was wrong to be jealous." You feel his mouth open and close, maybe considering his next words. "I am jealous. You're my best friend."
You only exhale.
"I asked Dean if he thinks it's because you're my best friend and I don't want to share your time with someone else. He said yes."
"You talked to Dean?" you whisper in the dark.
Garrett chuckles with no humor. "Desperate times call for desperate measures." He pauses. "I don't think Dean is right."
"Oh."
"I think he said that to make me feel better for not knowing."
You relax further into his chest, warm and fuzzy all of a sudden. "What do you not know?"
Garrett's thumb has started doing that thing above your belly button. Your hips may push back into his involuntarily, the movement infinitely small. He feels it everywhere anyway.
"Why I'm jealous," he manages, the other hand braced against your waist to stop the next motion. The flex of his fingers, strong and sure against you, causes you to let out a quiet and bewildered moan, nearly heady.
It dissipates into the night.
"Go to sleep, sunshine," Garrett whispers. His arm tightens around you as imperceptibly as your hip movement. "Let me figure it out."
You want to tell him that you already have, that he doesn't need to worry anymore; but you have never felt so small, so securely tucked against someone else, safe and cozy, that your eyelids droop on their own accord. He presses the softest of kisses into your hair.
You sleep. He does not.
-
Four
Garrett does not have it all figured out. In fact, he's even more confused than two months ago in that bed with you, because you've gone on three more first dates since then. They have not been with him. He practically begs for the recaps from the girls and only gets them through osmosis from the guys, which is somehow worse because they have all the details wrong and can't even describe what you were wearing for someone who wasn't him, or if you kissed them.
How do they not know if you kissed them? Was no one else bothered by this?
Now he's desperate and he still doesn't know why. You've decided you can no longer wait around in agony to be wanted while he trapezes through an investigative journalism major.
The breakups hit harder for that reason.
None of them really landed as actual breakups, per se, and certainly not the kind that made you have to pack up your belongings through your heartbreak and leave the shared room or town - but they were enough. One texted you saying you were sweet, but not quite compatible enough to make the conversations worthwhile. Another fully admitted to still being in love with his ex.
The most recent date did not call you back last week. You didn't know why until his friends started snickering every time they saw you in the cafeteria. Today was the last straw. You took one look at him sitting there, welcoming the laughs at your expense, and slammed your tray back down so hard it rattled more than your bones.
Garrett hears about it, because Garrett always hears about it, and doesn't hesitate to drive to your apartment in lieu of finishing out his next two classes.
Unfortunately and understandably, your roommate has the same protective streak as him, blocking the entrance politely. "I don't think it's a good day for company," she tries.
"Please," he all but growls. She might be scared of him if she didn't already know how soft he gets around you, hearing so often how he would never raise his voice at anyone after his childhood.
"Fine," she concedes, "but you're doing my sociology homework for the rest of the semester."
He doesn't even blink. "Done."
She's taken aback by that. "I was just joking. Aren't you busy with hockey?"
"I'm not busy for this one thing."
"Oh... oh," is all she can choke out before he's gently shouldering past her and into your orbit.
Maybe the violence is still embedded beneath his skin, because he takes one look at you crumpled up on your bed and almost turns back to campus to find the asshole responsible.
"I'm going to kill him," Garrett seethes.
Your head jolts off the pillow. "What the hell, Garrett?"
He thinks you're referring to his murder plot, not the fact that he's standing in the middle of your room while your mascara tracks down your cheeks without any other announcement. He continues pacing.
"I'm going to need Tucker for this. Logan, too. Dean can't keep his mouth shut to save his life."
"Garrett, what the hell are you doing in my room?"
Garrett stops and takes one more look at you, awareness prickling at his skin. He can barely stand the sight of your red-rimmed eyes and puffy lips. He thinks he might be dying.
"I..." He shakes his head, incredulous. "What do you mean? Of course I'm here. You need me."
Your lip wobbles then. Hurt fills your eyes, followed by a fresh set of tears. He's definitely dying. "Need you?"
Garrett is still trying to figure out what was wrong with that sentence by the time you've blindly grasped the pillow next to you and soared it through the air at him. For a man who is planning to go professional in reaction time, he does not react fast enough; it hits him squarely where his heart might be if it wasn't already constricting at your crying. His breath whooshes out of him. They just keep coming after that.
"Needing you is the reason I'm in this predicament!" A pillow. "You" - a chuck - "are such" - another launched - "a selfish" - harder this time - "ass!"
"How many fuckin' pillows do you have?" he snaps.
The second to last throw narrowly misses the corner of his eye. You're gearing up to assault him with the final one - the one you were holding tightly to your chest like a lifeline - when he suddenly has enough of your nonsense and charges you. He rips the fabric free from your hands, and in one motion, pulls you back to the headboard, the place he sits up against while cradling the back of your head in one hand, the other placing you securely in his lap.
You hesitate against him so quickly he almost misses it, but then he murmurs something low and soft into your ear, and you melt into him. You sob harder.
"I just want," you gasp through the tears, clutching the front of his shirt tightly enough that your knuckles pale. "Want someone to want me. I want to be wanted, I want..."
"Shhh," Garrett soothes roughly, not to cut you off, but because your breath is hitching so much it's starting to worry him. "I know. I know, baby. Take a breath."
Somewhere through the fog, it is not fully lost on you that it's the first time he's ever called you that. You're not Sunshine right now, and maybe it's because the cloud of rain is so heavy and dark in your room, but you wonder if you could become that - baby - instead.
In the middle of holding you, Garrett decides you already are that to him.
"I know," he tuts again, but perhaps it's said to finally agree with himself on something rather than speaking it aloud to you.
Both of his hands swoop along the length of your back, moving your hair from your shoulders, up and down again in the loveliest rhythm. You rub your nose against his collarbone and take a calming breath of him, all smoky woods and soft lavender.
It takes another minute for your hiccups to subside. Once they're gone and Garrett doesn't quite feel like he's dying anymore, you peer up at him with the widest eyes you've ever made at him.
"You called me baby." You swallow. "Or did the emotional regulation make that up?"
Garrett hums nonchalantly, rubbing your cheek carefully like you might crack beneath his ministrations. He chooses his words carefully, too, and ultimately banks on - "Yeah, guess I did."
"Why?"
Garrett feels the most honest he has in a long time, maybe forever, like he accidentally leaned on a rusty switch that hasn't been turned on in years. "Felt right."
Your lips open in a purse at that. You blink down to where you're straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, fallen open at some point when he was clutching you to him while your salty tears gave away all of your secrets.
"Hey, Graham?" you whisper. Garrett is too busy memorizing the shape of your lips and the crinkles at your eyes when you start to smile at him that he misses your words completely.
"Hmm?"
"Are you ever going to kiss me?"
His eyes flicker back up to yours then. There's need written all over him, but something else, too. You wonder how long that's been there; if both of you might have been blind to it.
He shifts underneath you slightly, dragging his hands down to your waist. "Not after you've been crying," he murmurs. "Breaks my heart to hear you cry."
Your lips twitch. His eyes go there one more time. "Making excuses again?"
"What if I did?"
"What, kiss me?"
"Yeah."
"I think I'd like that."
Garrett's eyes flare. "That wouldn't ruin anything? We'd still be best friends?"
"Is that what we've been afraid of this whole time?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."
You shake your head at him and he tracks the movement. Unconsciously, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Your breath is warm against him. You shift further down onto your knees and press your weight fully into him, pelvises aligning. He lets out the groan he's been holding in for years and squeezes your lower back, throwing his head back against the headboard and chanting something about crying and best friends and waiting underneath his breath.
"Kiss me," you whisper, gently fisting dark tufts of his hair at the nape of his neck. You angle his chin up to yours. He prays to a god he doesn't fully believe in. "Want me."
That's the problem, he realizes; Garrett has wanted you for so long that a part of him turned on him and made him believe he didn't deserve it, didn't deserve you. That part of him is so quiet now that he thinks he might've killed it.
You're warm and pliant, coaxable beneath his touch when he lifts up and meets you in the middle. He kisses you like he plays hockey: hurried but controlled, with something to prove, tender but intense, worth every bruise to his mouth. He learns the playing field of your mouth first - how to drive you wild with a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth and the peak of your cupid's bow - before his tongue, heavy and competitive, meets yours.
You moan something into his mouth, and he nods as if he's both heard and understood what you've said when neither is true. He holds you tighter at the base of your spine and then at your thighs and then at your face and jaw because he can't get enough of you and there's too much time to catch up on to touch you in only one place.
"This does not mean I forgive you for waiting so long," you mumble against his mouth as he lays you against your back, the pillows long gone to the floor.
"Baby, I won't forgive myself for that either."
-
Four & A Half
You realize it's a date before he says anything.
The boys aren't home.
There's a vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen island.
Garrett is wearing an apron, probably Tuck's, both too small and too big on him, and a nervous grin.
He pushes the brownie sundae towards you, because he's Garrett, and Garrett knows everything about his best friends, and right now all you want is dessert before dinner.
The cherry stem on top of the ice cream gets tied by his tongue at some point. The dinner moves to the couch in the living room, where you two laugh during storytelling and pretend to watch a movie, when really you are so intently focused on the other person that the picture-perfect couple in the movie is digitally offended.
You get sleepy at some point; Garrett offers to carry you up to his room.
"Carry me?" You rub at your eyes sleepily. He has already dimmed the lights because anything that hurts you hurts him. "You're promoting me to being carried to bed?"
Garrett tries not to smile and fails so terribly it's sickening. "It's not too much of a raise. We still have to share one bed."
Garrett gives you the shirt off his back and lets you pick whichever side you want. It feels semipermanent, being able to choose and potentially having it forever.
When you fall asleep that night, curled safely into his ribs on your side of the bed, you realize the dilemma comes from choosing him, potentially for forever.
-
Five
Your husband muffles a curse into the mattress. Little feet and hands continue balancing precariously on his lower back, which is still sore from last night's rivalry game against the Canadiens. He thinks he may be getting old.
"Daddy," your mini me scolds once and only once, no room for argument in her tone. "That's a bad word."
Garrett turns his head slowly towards you, sleep lines marring his skin, hair poking up in every direction. He should be getting at least another hour of sleep before he slips out of bed to make you your coffee, but duty calls, and he takes being a father very seriously.
The sleep leaves his voice immediately. "When did my little monkey get so big?"
A squeal of delight sounds from above you two when he twists to his back and catches her in the air. He tucks her back underneath his arm and turns to you, placing her in the middle of the bed between you two. You both lean in at the same time to cover her face in kisses.
Garrett's free hand finds you and strokes up and down your arm while you get an earful about waffles with chocolate chips. He closes his eyes briefly, soaking it all in.
You share a bed now. Your little girl climbs into it every morning he's home, sometimes too early to function properly. Garrett couldn't imagine life any other way.
summary: after finding out that your fiancé had cheated on you with his childhood best friend—who just so happened to be Rafe's fiancée— Rafe proposes a reckless plan: follow them across Italy and Greece and ruin the dream honeymoon they stole. but somewhere between petty sabotage, breathtaking views, and far too much time together, the two of you begin to discover there's more waiting for you than revenge.
content warning: strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity, one bed, sexual tension, explicit sexual content 18+ MDNI
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ When you enter the Love Island villa as a bombshell, you spark an instant, high-stakes connection with the intense and complicated Rafe Cameron. As you navigate each others web of secrets, messy betrayals, and jealous rivals, you must decide if your undeniable chemistry is a genuine match or just a casualty of the game...
WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, smut, mentions of past relationships, suggestive content, mentions of addiction, circumstantial cheating/infidelity, general LI drama, arguments, mentions of mental health, drinking, more detailed warnings for each individual chapter
SERIES TAG NAV‧₊˚ #fic analysis☀️ | #sotb | #mailbox:sotb
some quick (kinda important) notes
EPISODES
The Deep End (Day 1+2) | tweets
2. Muggy Mornings and Moonlit Pasts (Day 3+4) | tweets
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has always been the kind of man who plays to win. You just never realized the game had already started … or that you were the prize. He calls it love. He’s not wrong. He’s just not telling you everything
Dean does not do quiet nights in. Or at least, he didn’t.
For the first two years of his time at Briar University, Dean was an absolute legend. He is the charming, impossibly good-looking hockey star whose bed rarely sees the same woman twice and, sometimes, sees two at once. He’s the guy who buys the entire bar a round of shots and still remembers the bouncer’s kid’s name. With two high-powered, fiercely loving attorneys for parents and a maternal family drowning in luxury hotel money, Dean has always had the world on a silver platter. He never had to try too hard at anything. Hockey, women, school — it all just came easily to him.
But that was before you.
Now, Dean pushes open the front door of the house he shares with his teammates, ignores the lingering scent of stale beer from last weekend’s party, and makes a beeline straight for the sunroom.
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watches you.
You are sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls that have definitely seen better days. Your hair is piled into a messy bun, held together by a single pencil, and there is a streak of cerulean blue swiped right across your cheekbone. You are completely engrossed in the canvas propped up on the easel in front of you.
“Did you even go to practice, Di Laurentis, or did you just stand by the glass winking at puck bunnies?” You ask, not even bothering to look up from your palette.
Dean grins, pushing off the doorframe. “I resent that. I winked at exactly zero bunnies today. I am a retired man, remember?”
“Retired from what? Being a menace to the female population of Massachusetts?”
“Exactly.” Dean drops onto the battered floral sofa behind you, sprawling his long legs out. “Besides, Coach ran us through skating drills for an hour. I’m too exhausted to be a menace to anyone but you.”
You finally turn your head, giving him a flat look. “You don’t look exhausted. You look exactly like you always do. Smug.”
“It’s not smugness, babe. It’s natural charisma.” He reaches out, tugging gently on the frayed hem of your overalls. “Come here. Tell me about your day.”
You sigh, setting your paintbrush down and wiping your hands on a rag before crawling over the drop cloth. You settle between his knees, resting your back against the sofa as his hands immediately find your shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tight muscles at the base of your neck.
“It was fine,” you say, closing your eyes as his hands work their magic. “I spent four hours in the studio trying to get the lighting right on this piece, and then I had to go argue with the financial aid office about my scholarship disbursement for next semester.”
Dean’s hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? Argue with them. I could just-”
“Dean,” you warn, your tone carrying a familiar edge.
“I’m just saying! One phone call. My dad would have a check overnighted, and you wouldn’t have to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit.”
“And we’ve talked about this,” you reply gently, tipping your head back to look up at him upside down. “I am doing this on my own. No Kennedy money, and no Di Laurentis money either.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes softening. It still blows his mind sometimes, the sheer grit you possess. You are a Kennedy heiress. You grew up in the exact same upper-crust, east-coast circles he did. He still remembers being twelve years old at some stuffy Hamptons gala, watching you in a perfectly pressed pastel dress, looking absolutely miserable while your parents paraded you around.
But the moment you told your fiercely political, legacy-obsessed family that you were majoring in fine arts instead of pre-law, they cut the cord. Shut off the trust fund, canceled the credit cards, the whole nine yards. Most people from your world would have caved. You just packed a bag, took out loans, fought for a merit scholarship, and showed up at Briar University in a pair of scuffed sneakers.
Dean recognized you immediately freshman year. At first, he just wanted to make sure you were okay — a protective instinct taking over. He made sure you knew where the dining halls were, bullied his teammates into helping you move a terrible thrift-store couch into your dorm, and threatened any guy who looked at you sideways. He thought he was just taking you under his wing. He didn’t realize he was falling completely, hopelessly in love with you until it was already far too late.
“I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a strong, independent artist who doesn’t need my money. But you’re still letting me buy you dinner, right? Because I’m starving, and if I have to eat another one of Logan’s weird protein-powder concoctions, I’m going to hurl.”
You laugh, a bright, clear sound that makes his chest tight. “Pizza? Half pepperoni, half whatever disgusting combination you want?”
“It’s called a supreme pizza, you uncultured heathen, and yes.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his lips brushing softly against yours. “Go wash the paint off your face. I’ll order.”
***
An hour later, the two of you are sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the open pizza box sitting between you. Outside, the Massachusetts wind is howling, rattling the old windows of the hockey house, but inside, wrapped in Dean’s oversized gray hoodie, you are perfectly warm.
“So, next year is looking good,” Dean says around a mouthful of pizza. “But honestly, after Harvard, I don’t even know. My mom is already sending me listings for apartments in Cambridge.”
“She’s excited,” you say, stealing a pepperoni off his side of the box. “Her son, the legacy, heading to Harvard Law. It’s a big deal, Dean. You should be proud.”
“I am,” he says, leaning back against his bedframe. And he is. He’s worked his ass off to keep his grades up alongside hockey, proving to everyone that he’s more than just a rich party boy with a good slap shot. “But it’s going to be weird. No more Briar. No more living with the guys. Just actual adulthood.”
“Terrifying,” you agree, wiping grease from your fingers.
“Hey, it’s not like you aren’t right there with me,” he points out, bumping his knee against yours. “We’re both graduating. We’re both moving on. Which reminds me — have you checked your email today?”
You freeze, your hand hovering over the pizza box. “No.”
“You haven’t?” Dean sits up a little straighter. “Babe, they said the end of the week. Today is Friday. You need to check.”
“I don’t want to look,” you admit, pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s a rejection, I want to live in denial for just a few more hours. Let me have my pizza in peace.”
“Nope. Absolutely not.” Dean reaches over, grabbing your laptop off the desk and setting it squarely on your lap. “Open it. If it’s a rejection, I will personally drive to the admissions office and key their cars. But it won’t be. Because you’re brilliant.”
You let out a shaky breath, flipping the laptop open. The screen casts a blue glow over your face as you pull up your email. Dean watches you, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs. He knows how much this means to you. Your art is your entire world. It’s the reason you gave up your family and your fortune.
“Okay,” you whisper. “There’s an email.”
“Read it,” Dean says, leaning over your shoulder. He can smell your shampoo — something fruity and sweet — mixed with the faint, metallic scent of oil paint.
Your eyes dart across the screen, reading the first few lines. And then, you gasp. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth, your eyes widening impossibly far.
“What?” Dean asks, his voice urgent. “What does it say?”
“Dean,” you breathe out, turning to look at him. There are tears welling in your eyes, but your smile is blinding. “Dean, I got in. They accepted me.”
“Holy shit!” Dean barks out a laugh, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his lap. He buries his face in your neck, hugging you so tightly you squeak. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! You’re a genius!”
You are laughing and crying at the same time, throwing your arms around his neck. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Full ride, Dean. They’re covering the tuition and giving me a stipend. I don’t have to take out more loans.”
“Because you’re incredible,” he says fiercely, pulling back to frame your face with his large hands. “I am so proud of you. Do you hear me? So damn proud.”
He kisses you, deep and passionate, pouring every ounce of his pride and love for you into it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers
tangling in his dark blond hair. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. You did it. Against all odds, without your family’s safety net, you achieved your dream.
“We have to celebrate,” Dean says, pulling back slightly, his eyes shining. “I’m calling the guys. I’m buying kegs. Hell, I’m renting out the entire bar downtown.”
“Dean, no, we don’t need to do all that,” you laugh, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.
“Yes, we do! My girl is getting her Master of Fine Arts. From Stanford!”
He says the word with so much enthusiasm, so much triumph. But as soon as the syllables leave his mouth, the sound hangs in the air between you.
Stanford.
Dean’s smile falters, just a fraction of an inch.
Stanford. Palo Alto. California.
He suddenly feels like he’s just taken a slapshot bare-chested. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, silent rush. All the adrenaline, all the excitement that was humming through his veins just a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, icy drop in his stomach.
“Stanford,” he repeats, and this time, his voice doesn’t have the same booming volume. It’s quieter.
You seem to catch the shift in his tone. The massive smile on your face dims slightly, your brows knitting together in concern. “Yeah. Stanford. The MFA program.”
“Right. Right, yeah. West Coast.” Dean forces his mouth back into a smile, though it feels a little stiff. “That’s … that’s amazing, babe.”
“Dean?” You shift in his lap, looking at him closely. “Are you okay?”
“Are you kidding? I’m fantastic,” he lies smoothly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I just … realized how far California is. Going to be a bitch of a flight.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, your eyes searching his face. “It’s … it’s really far.”
“But it’s the best program in the country,” Dean jumps in, his voice slightly louder, desperate to fill the sudden quiet in the room. “And you deserve the best. It’s incredible.”
“We’ll figure it out,” you say, resting your hand against his cheek. Your thumb brushes against his jaw. “Right? I mean, you’ll be in Cambridge, and I’ll be in California, but people do long distance all the time.”
“Exactly,” Dean says immediately. “Long distance. Easy. We’ve got FaceTime. We’ll rack up frequent flyer miles. It’s nothing.”
You study him for a long moment, and Dean actively works to keep his expression open and supportive. He cannot ruin this for you. He will not be the guy who makes your greatest triumph about his own selfish panic. He loves you too much for that.
“Okay,” you finally whisper, leaning your forehead against his. “We’ll figure it out.”
“We will,” Dean promises, pulling you tight against his chest.
***
It is 3 AM.
The house is dead silent, save for the hum of the radiator and the steady, rhythmic sound of your breathing.
You are fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown across Dean’s bare chest. Your head is tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck, exactly where you belong.
Dean is wide awake.
He is staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering a dull, heavy beat against his ribs. The darkness of the bedroom feels suffocating.
Three thousand miles.
The thought loops in his head on a relentless, torturous cycle. Three thousand miles. A six-hour flight. A three-hour time difference.
He turns his head slightly, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo. He closes his eyes, trying to force down the rising tide of panic that has been clawing at his throat for the last six hours.
When he told you they’d figure it out, he meant it. He wants to figure it out. But in the quiet, terrifying solitude of the middle of the night, the reality of the situation is crushing him.
He is going to Harvard Law. The curriculum is famously brutal. He’s going to be drowning in case studies and legal briefs, pulling all-nighters in the library. You are going to a highly competitive, intense MFA program on the other side of the continent. You’ll be spending all your time in the studio, surrounded by new people, new artists, a whole new life.
How does this work? How do they survive this?
Dean has never been an insecure guy. He knows what he brings to the table. But the idea of you being thousands of miles away, living a life that he isn’t a part of every single day … it terrifies him.
What if the distance is too much? What if the time zones make it impossible to talk? What if you meet someone in a coffee shop in Palo Alto who understands your art in a way Dean never could? Someone who doesn’t have a meathead hockey past. Someone who is there.
He tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You murmur softly in your sleep, shifting closer to his heat, your hand curling against his chest.
He loves you. God, he loves you so much it physically aches. You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. You grounded him, you saw past the arrogant hockey star, and you loved him for exactly who he is.
And now, he has to let you go.
He has to smile and pack your boxes and put you on a plane to California, because holding you back would be a betrayal of everything he loves about you.
Dean stares into the dark, his jaw clenched tight, a profound, agonizing fear settling deep into his bones. He is going to lose you. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when, but as he lies awake holding you in the dark, he is absolutely terrified that this is the beginning of the end.
***
It has been exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-two minutes since you got the acceptance email from Stanford.
Dean knows the exact timeline because that is exactly how long it has been since he last took a full, deep breath.
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the hockey house is relatively quiet. Most of the guys are either in class or at the gym. Dean is sprawled on the battered living room couch, his long legs hanging over the armrest, staring blankly at his phone. He’s supposed to be reading a chapter on contract law for his seminar tomorrow, but the textbook is lying face-down on the floor, abandoned.
Instead, he’s doom-scrolling.
His thumb flicks upward. A hockey highlight. Flick. A girl dancing. Flick. A dog falling off a couch. Flick.
The algorithm, sensing his stagnant, depressive mood, throws something different onto his screen. It’s a girl sitting in a bedroom that looks like a library, excitedly tapping a thick paperback book against her chin.
“Okay, BookTok, hear me out,” the girl on the screen says, her voice breathless and enthusiastic. “I just finished the most unhinged dark romance of my entire life, and I am obsessed. The male main character? A total walking red flag, but we love to see it.”
Dean’s thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn’t care about romance books. He’s about to swipe when she says the next sentence.
“He knows she’s going to leave him for her dream job in Scotland,” the girl continues, her eyes wide. “So what does our morally gray king do? He baby traps her. He literally takes a needle to his stash of condoms and microwaves her birth control pills. And the craziest part? It works. She stays. They get married. He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.”
Dean freezes.
He stares at the girl on the screen. The video loops, starting over from the beginning.
He baby traps her. Dean scoffs out loud, a harsh, jagged sound in the empty room. He locks his phone and tosses it onto his chest. That is insane. That is genuinely psychotic. He is a good guy. He was raised by a mother who would literally skin him alive if he ever disrespected a woman. He understands consent. He believes in bodily autonomy. The idea of doing something so manipulative, so violating, makes his stomach turn.
But as he lies there staring at the water-stained ceiling, a tiny, insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind. But she stayed.
Dean clenches his jaw. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble there. He hasn’t shaved in three days. He’s losing his mind. You haven’t even left yet, and he’s already grieving you like you’re dead.
If you love something, set it free.
He has always hated that saying. Whoever came up with that bullshit clearly never loved anyone the way he loves you. If you love something, you fight for it. You hold onto it. You don’t just open the door and watch it walk out of your life.
“You look like you’re planning a murder.”
Dean snaps his head up. Logan is standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding a massive protein shake in a shaker bottle. He’s in his sweatpants, a towel draped over his broad shoulders.
“Just thinking,” Dean mutters, sitting up and letting his phone slide onto the cushions.
Logan walks over and drops into the armchair across from him. “About what? You haven’t spoken a full sentence to anyone in the house since Friday night.”
“I’ve spoken.”
“Grunting when someone asks you to pass the salt doesn’t count, man,” Logan says, unscrewing the cap of his bottle. He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “Talk to me. You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re wearing the same hoodie you wore to practice yesterday. You smell like despair and cheap body wash.” Logan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “This is about Stanford, isn’t it?”
Dean glares at him. “Don’t say the word.”
“Stanford? Palo Alto? California? West Coast?”
“Shut up, Logan.”
“Look,” Logan sighs, his tone softening slightly. “I get it. It sucks. But guys do long distance all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It’s three thousand miles,” Dean snaps, his voice rising despite his effort to keep it steady. “Do you know what the success rate is for long-distance relationships in grad school? It’s abysmal. Especially when one person is doing law and the other is doing an intensive art program.”
“So you’re just giving up?”
“No! I’m not giving up!” Dean drags both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I want her to go. I want her to have everything she wants. She deserves this. She fought so hard for it, and her family treated her like garbage. I am so proud of her, I could burst.”
“But?”
“But I can’t breathe when I think about her leaving,” Dean admits, the truth tearing out of him. His chest heaves. “I don’t know how to do this, Logan. I don’t know how to wake up and not have her right there. I don’t know how to go days without seeing her. What if she realizes she doesn’t need me? What if she builds this whole new life out there, and there’s no room for me in it?”
Logan watches him for a long moment. “Dean, she loves you. You’re acting like she’s looking for an excuse to leave.”
“Distance changes people,” Dean says darkly.
“So what are you going to do?” Logan asks, arching an eyebrow. “Beg her to stay?”
“No. I’d never ask her to give up Stanford for me. That would make me a piece of shit.”
“Then you support her. You help her pack. You buy a webcam. And you trust her.” Logan stands up, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he walks past. “Get your head out of your ass, Di Laurentis. Don’t ruin her moment because you’re terrified.”
Logan leaves the room, and Dean is alone again.
He grabs his phone off the couch. The screen lights up, still paused on the BookTok video.
He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.
Dean swallows hard, his throat dry. He swipes out of the app entirely, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. He is not a villain. He is a good guy.
But as he grabs his keys to drive over to your dorm, his hands are shaking.
***
“Look at this one, Dean,” you say, turning your laptop screen toward him.
You are sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed, your glasses pushed up on your head, holding a mug of green tea. Dean is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back against the wall, trying his hardest to look engaged.
“It’s a converted garage in Redwood City,” you explain, pointing at the screen. “It’s about a twenty-minute commute to campus, but the rent is actually manageable with my stipend.”
Dean looks at the photos. The place is tiny. It has exposed pipes, concrete floors, and a kitchenette that consists of a mini-fridge and a hot plate.
“A garage?” Dean says, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Babe, you can’t live in a garage.”
“I’m an artist, Dean. And I’m on a strict budget,” you say, pulling the laptop back to look at the photos again. “Besides, look at the natural light from that skylight. It’s incredible for painting.”
“It doesn’t have a real kitchen,” he points out, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I survive off coffee, dining hall food, and whatever you force-feed me anyway,” you reply with a laugh.
“Yeah, but when I come visit, where am I supposed to cook for you?” Dean asks. “I can’t make you my famous chicken parm on a hot plate.”
You soften instantly, your eyes lifting to meet his. You set the laptop aside and crawl over the duvet, settling onto his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.
“You’re going to cook for me?” You murmur against his neck.
“Someone has to keep you alive while you’re out there playing starving artist,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tight against him. He presses a kiss into your hair.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper, and Dean can hear the slight tremble in your voice.
The sound of it hits him like a physical blow. His grip on you tightens until it’s almost painful.
“You don’t have to miss me,” he says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I’ll visit all the time. I’ll fly out every weekend.”
You pull back slightly, resting your hands on his chest. You look at him with a sad, gentle smile. “Dean, you’re going to be at Harvard Law. You’re not going to have time to fly out every weekend. You’re going to be swamped.”
“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “I’ll study on the plane.”
“It’s a six-hour flight,” you remind him softly. “And it’s expensive.”
“I have money.”
“But you don’t have infinite time,” you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “We have to be realistic about this. It’s going to be hard.”
“I don’t want to be realistic,” Dean mutters, leaning into your touch. “I want you to stay.”
The room goes dead silent.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean wishes he could snatch them back out of the air. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. He promised he wouldn’t guilt you.
Your hand falls from his face. You look down at your lap, your expression unreadable. “Dean …”
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I want you to go. I’m just … I’m just having a hard time today.”
You look back up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do you think this is easy for me? Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
“Then don’t,” the dark voice in his head whispers.
He shoves the thought away, physically shaking his head. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish. Show me the garage again. Let’s look at the skylight.”
You study him for a long moment, clearly torn between addressing his outburst and letting it go. Eventually, you sigh, reaching for the laptop again. “Okay. Look, the bathroom actually has a decent-sized tub.”
Dean forces himself to look at the screen. He nods, making agreeable noises, pointing out things he likes about the tiny, pathetic apartment. But he isn’t really seeing it. He is looking at the screen, but all he can see is the ticking clock counting down the days until he loses you.
“Hey, I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says suddenly, gently lifting you off his lap and standing up. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” you say, your eyes already back on the Zillow listing. “Don’t take too long, I want your opinion on this complex in Mountain View.”
Dean walks out of the bedroom and heads down the short hallway to the shared dorm bathroom. He flips the light switch, closes the door, and locks it.
He leans heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He can’t do this. He can’t sit there and help you pick out the apartment where you’re going to learn how to live without him.
He opens his eyes and walks over to the sink, turning on the cold water. He splashes some on his face, shivering at the sudden chill. He grabs a hand towel off the rack and presses it to his face.
When he lowers the towel, his eyes catch on something resting on the edge of the sink counter, right next to your toothbrush cup.
It’s a small, rectangular object. A plastic compact.
Dean stares at it. He knows exactly what it is.
He slowly reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly, and picks it up. He flips the compact open. Inside is a blister pack of birth control pills. They are small, pink, and perfectly circular. You take one every night before bed. He watches you do it. Half the time, he’s the one who reminds you when you get too distracted by your painting.
He stares down at the little pink pills.
The video from earlier flashes behind his eyes, vivid and loud.
He literally microwaves her birth control pills.
Dean’s breathing turns shallow. The bathroom feels entirely too small, the air too thin.
He is a good guy. He is Dean Di Laurentis. He respects women. He would never take away your choice. He would never violate your body. He would never trap you.
But she stayed. He loved her enough to be the villain.
If you got pregnant.
The thought crashes into his brain like a freight train, loud and violent and impossible to ignore.
If you got pregnant, you couldn’t go to Stanford. You wouldn’t be able to move across the country, live in a tiny garage, and spend eighteen hours a day in a studio surrounded by toxic paint fumes. You would have to stay in Massachusetts. With him.
He has money. He has family support. He has a massive trust fund. He could buy you both a beautiful house in Cambridge. He could set up a state-of-the-art studio for you in the spare bedroom. You could still paint. You could still be an artist. You just wouldn’t be doing it three thousand miles away from him.
He would take care of you. He would give you everything you ever wanted. He would worship the ground you walk on. You would be safe. You would be loved.
And, most importantly, you would be his.
Forever.
Dean’s thumb moves over the smooth foil of the blister pack. It would be so easy. It takes thirty seconds to pop them in the microwave. The heat destroys the active hormones. They look exactly the same, but they become completely useless. You would take them every night, thinking you were protected, and within a month or two …
His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hands are sweating.
He imagines you standing in this very bathroom, holding a positive test. He imagines the look of shock on your face. He imagines pulling you into his arms, telling you it’s going to be okay, promising you that he will fix everything. He imagines your belly swelling with his child. He imagines you walking down the aisle toward him.
He imagines a life where he never has to watch you pack a suitcase and leave him behind.
“Dean?”
Your voice comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled. “Everything okay in there? You’ve been in there a while.”
Dean flinches, nearly dropping the compact into the sink. He snaps it shut, his breathing ragged.
He stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a stranger. He looks like a monster.
“Yeah!” His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, babe, I’m fine. Just washing up.”
“Okay! I think I found a two-bedroom we could actually afford if I got a roommate. Come look!”
The words twist like a knife in his gut. A roommate. Some stranger. Maybe some pretentious art bro who understands color theory and drinks matcha and gets to see you every single day while Dean is stuck in a torts lecture freezing his ass off in Boston.
Dean looks down at his hand. His knuckles are white from how tightly he is gripping the compact.
The line between love and obsession is so incredibly thin, and Dean suddenly realizes he doesn’t know which side he’s standing on anymore. He has always been a guy who plays by the rules. But when the stakes are this high, when the only woman he has ever truly loved is slipping through his fingers … the rules don’t seem to matter as much.
He slowly opens the compact again.
He stares at the foil backing.
He loves you. He loves you so much it’s making him sick. He loves you enough to do anything to keep you.
Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes his choice.
***
The next sixty days are the most agonizing, excruciating two months of Dean’s entire life.
It is a completely different kind of torture, a quiet, invisible agony that eats at the lining of his stomach every single second of the day. Every time he looks at you, his heart performs a violent, jagged leap into his throat. He watches you pack cardboard boxes. He watches you buy bubble wrap. He listens to you excitedly chatter over FaceTime to a potential roommate in California. And every time, the same terrified, frantic questions loop in his mind until he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.
What if it didn’t take? What if the microwave trick was just some stupid internet myth? What if the hormones were still active? What if it’s all for nothing?
The uncertainty is driving him insane. He has always been a man of action. If he wants something on the ice, he skates hard and takes the shot. If he wants a grade, he studies. But this? This is entirely out of his hands. He has set the wheels in motion, and now all he can do is sit back, play the supportive boyfriend, and wait to see if his gamble pays off.
And the guilt. God, the guilt. It hits him at the most random times. When you look at him with those wide, trusting eyes and thank him for helping you tape up a box of canvases. When you fall asleep on his chest, exhausted from finals, murmuring about how much you love him. He feels like a monster. He is a fraud, a liar, a manipulator playing God with your life. But then he pictures you getting on that plane at Logan International Airport, walking out of his life and taking three thousand miles of distance between you, and the guilt instantly evaporates, replaced by a fierce, possessive resolve.
He cannot lose you. He will not lose you.
Four weeks in, you miss your period.
Dean knows exactly what day it’s supposed to start because he has been tracking it in his head like a madman. But when the day comes and goes, you don’t even blink.
“I’m just stressed,” you tell him one afternoon, waving off his carefully casual question while you aggressively highlight a textbook. “My cycle is always wonky when I’m stressed. Between finals, graduation, and the move, my body is probably just freaking out. It’ll come.”
Dean nods, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm indifference, while inside, a tiny spark of hope ignites.
But as week five turns into week six, and week six bleeds into week seven, the spark turns into a roaring fire.
Because Dean starts noticing the signs. Even before you do.
It starts with the coffee. You are a notorious caffeine addict. You practically bleed espresso. But one morning in the kitchen of the hockey house, Dean sets a fresh, steaming mug of your favorite dark roast on the counter next to you. You reach for it, bring it to your lips, and suddenly pale.
“Ugh,” you grimace, pushing the mug away. “Did you burn this?”
Dean blinks, looking at the coffee pot. “No? I made it the exact same way I always do.”
“It smells like burnt plastic,” you say, pressing a hand to your stomach and stepping back from the island. “Actually, could you just pour it down the sink? The smell is making me nauseous.”
Dean slowly picks up the mug, his eyes fixed on your pale face. He pours it down the drain, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud in his chest. Nausea. Aversion to smells.
Then comes the fatigue.
You have always been a night owl, staying up until two in the morning to finish a painting or study. But right around the eight-week mark, Dean finds you dead asleep at seven-thirty in the evening. You fall asleep on his bed, on the couch, once even sitting straight up at your desk with a paintbrush still in your hand.
“I’m just so tired, Dean,” you murmur one evening, burying your face in his chest as you lie on the couch. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. My bones feel heavy.”
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he soothes, stroking your hair. “Just rest, baby. I’ve got you.”
And then, there are the physical changes. Dean knows your body better than he knows his own playbook. He notices the subtle softening of your
stomach, the slight rounding of your hips. He notices that your breasts are fuller, and that you flinch slightly when he brushes against them.
“They’re sore,” you complain one night as you change into one of his oversized t-shirts. “I think my period is finally coming. PMS is hitting me like a truck this month.”
Dean just smiles softly from the bed, his blood humming with a dark, triumphant thrill. He knows it isn’t PMS. He knows exactly what it is.
It’s working. He did it. You are pregnant. You are carrying his child, and you don’t even know it yet.
But Dean also knows he can’t push it. If he suggests you take a test out of nowhere, you might get suspicious. He has to wait for you to come to the realization on your own. He has to let it be your idea.
The breaking point finally arrives on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
Your apartment is almost entirely packed. There are only two weeks left until your flight to California. The reality of the move has been a dark cloud hanging over Dean’s head, but today, that cloud is about to break.
You are standing in the middle of your living room, taping up a box of books, when you suddenly freeze. The roll of packing tape slips from your fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
“Babe?” Dean asks from where he’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, sorting through some of your records. “You good?”
You don’t answer. Your face drains of all color, turning a terrifying, translucent shade of gray. You clap a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide and panicked.
And then, you sprint for the bathroom.
Dean is on his feet instantly, tossing the records aside and chasing after you. He reaches the bathroom just in time to see you drop to your knees in front of the toilet. You retch violently, your shoulders heaving as you empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl.
“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Dean says immediately, dropping to his knees beside you. He gathers your hair in one hand, holding it back from your face, and uses his other hand to rub soothing circles onto your back. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”
You gag again, a miserable, choking sound, before finally collapsing back on your heels. You are trembling violently, tears streaming down your cheeks. Dean reaches up and flushes the toilet, then grabs a damp washcloth from the sink and gently wipes your mouth.
“Food poisoning?” Dean asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “What did we eat for lunch?”
“I don’t …” You shake your head, taking a ragged breath. You lean back against the bathtub, pulling your knees to your chest. You look completely terrified. “Dean.”
“What is it?” He asks softly, sitting cross-legged in front of you.
“Dean, what’s today’s date?”
“May sixteenth,” he answers smoothly.
You let out a quiet, strangled gasp. Your hands fly up into your hair, gripping the roots. “Oh my god.”
“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me.” Dean leans forward, placing his hands on your knees, projecting nothing but steady, loving concern.
“I’m late,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain lashing against the bathroom window. “Dean, I’m so late. I missed my period in April. And now May is halfway through. I haven’t … I haven’t had a period in almost two months.”
Dean allows his eyes to widen in perfectly calculated shock. “Two months?”
“I thought it was stress!” You cry out, your voice cracking. A fresh wave of tears spills over your eyelashes. “I thought it was just the graduation stress, and the move, and … oh my god. The coffee. The exhaustion. I’ve been throwing up all morning.”
“Okay. Hey, look at me.” Dean moves closer, framing your face with his large hands. He wipes your tears with his thumbs. “Look at me. Don’t panic. There are a million reasons you could be late. You said it yourself, the stress is insane right now. Nausea could be a stomach bug.”
“Dean, I need to know,” you sob, grabbing his wrists. “I can’t … I can’t just sit here and wonder. I need to take a test.”
“Okay,” Dean says, his voice a soothing, deep rumble. “Okay. I’ll go to the pharmacy right now. You stay here. Get into bed, drink some water. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I promise.”
“Hurry,” you beg, your eyes wild with fear.
“I will.” Dean kisses your forehead, lingering for a second, before standing up and rushing out of the apartment.
The moment he is alone in his truck, the mask drops.
Dean grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, and lets out a massive, shuddering breath. A wild, manic energy surges through his veins. He drives to the nearest CVS, ignoring the speed limit entirely. He buys three different brands of pregnancy tests — Clearblue, First Response, the generic CVS brand — and a pack of prenatal vitamins to keep for later.
When he returns to your apartment, you are sitting on the edge of your bare mattress, staring blankly at the wall. You look incredibly small, swallowed up in one of his Harvard Law sweatshirts.
Dean walks in and gently sets the plastic bag on the bed next to you.
You stare at the bag like there is a live bomb inside it.
“I got a few different kinds,” Dean says quietly, sitting down beside you. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here.”
You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly. “What if it’s positive, Dean?”
“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” he lies effortlessly. He crossed that bridge two months ago. “Go. Take the test.”
You grab the bag with shaking hands and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.
Dean stands in the hallway outside the bathroom. The wait is excruciating. The box said three minutes. It feels like three agonizing lifetimes. He leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of plastic rustling from the other side of the thin wooden door.
He knows the result. He engineered the result. But the anticipation is still burning him alive from the inside out.
Five minutes pass.
The bathroom is dead silent.
“Babe?” Dean calls out softly, rapping his knuckles gently against the door. “Are you okay in there?”
Silence.
And then, a sound that sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine. It’s a sob. A raw, devastating, heartbroken sob that tears from your chest and echoes in the small hallway.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns the handle and pushes the door open.
You are sitting on the tile floor, your back pressed against the vanity cabinets. Your face is buried in your hands, and your shoulders are shaking violently. Three plastic sticks are scattered on the floor in front of you.
Dean drops to his knees. He glances down.
Two pink lines. A bold, undeniable plus sign. And the word Pregnant glowing on the digital screen.
All three. Positive.
Dean’s heart explodes in his chest. A fierce, predatory surge of possessiveness, of ultimate triumph, washes over him so intensely he almost dizzy. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.
You’re his. You’re staying. It worked.
But outwardly, Dean is the picture of a devastated, supportive boyfriend. He shoves the tests aside and scrambles forward, pulling you into his arms.
You collapse against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing hysterically into his shirt. “It’s positive,” you cry, your voice muffled against his collarbone. “Dean, they’re all positive. I’m pregnant. Oh my god, I’m pregnant.”
“Shh, I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He buries his face in your hair, holding you as close as humanly possible. “It’s okay. Breathe, baby, breathe. I’ve got you.”
“My life is over,” you sob, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “Stanford. The MFA program. I can’t go to California. I can’t move across the country. I don’t have the money for a baby. My parents cut me off. Dean, what am I going to do?”
“Hey, listen to me.” Dean pulls back just enough to force you to look at him. Your eyes are bloodshot, tears streaming endlessly down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Your life is not over. Do you hear me? You are not in this alone. I am right here.”
“But Stanford-”
“Stanford can wait,” Dean says firmly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. “Art can wait. But whatever happens, whatever you want to do, I am with you. One hundred percent.”
You sniffle, looking up at him with desperate, seeking eyes. “What do you mean?”
Dean takes a deep breath, preparing to deliver the most manipulative performance of his entire life. He knows you. He knows your heart. He knows exactly which buttons to press to get the outcome he wants.
“I mean, the choice is entirely yours,” Dean says softly, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You are the one who has to carry this burden. It’s your body. It’s your future. If you are not ready for this … if you want to go to Stanford and live your dream …”
Dean pauses, swallowing hard to make it look like the words are physically paining him to say.
“If you don’t want to keep it,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “I will support you. Completely. No judgment. No guilt. I will stand up right now, I will walk you out to my truck, and I will drive you to Planned Parenthood myself. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, and I’ll pay for everything. And we will never speak of it again, and you can get on that plane in two weeks.”
You stare at him, the tears freezing on your cheeks.
Dean holds his breath. It is the ultimate gamble. He is giving you the out. He is offering you the exact thing that would ruin all his plans. But he knows that if he tries to force you, if he acts too possessive or tries to trap you openly, you will run. You have to believe it is your choice.
You look down at the three tests scattered on the floor.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Dean’s heart is hammering so loudly he is terrified you can hear it.
“No,” you whisper.
Dean exhales, a slow, silent breath out of his nose. “No?”
You shake your head, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. You reach out, your trembling fingers brushing over the digital test that spells out the word Pregnant.
“No,” you say again, your voice shaking but finding a sliver of resolve. You look back up at him, your eyes searching his face. “Dean … this baby is half me. But it’s half you, too.”
“I know, baby,” he whispers, reaching down to take your hand.
“I love you,” you cry, squeezing his hand tightly. “I love you so much. And … and we created this. Together. I can’t … I can’t just end it. I could never do that. Not to a piece of you.”
Dean feels a genuine lump form in his throat, overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating purity of your love for him. You are so good. You are so incredibly, beautifully good, and you are sacrificing your dream because you love him too much to let his child go.
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, his voice thick with fake hesitation. “You don’t have to do this for me, Y/N. I told you, I support whatever you need.”
“I’m sure,” you sob, throwing yourself back into his arms. “I’m sure. I want to keep it. I want our baby. But I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t have a family to help me.”
“You have me,” Dean says fiercely, wrapping his arms around you like a vice. He pulls you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You have me. I am your family now. I will take care of you. I’ll take care of both of you.”
“What about Harvard?” You cry against his collarbone. “What about my scholarship? Where are we going to live?”
“I’ll handle it,” Dean promises, his voice low and vibrating against your skin. “I’ll handle everything. I’ll call a realtor tomorrow. I’ll buy us a house in Cambridge. A beautiful house, with a room for a nursery and a room with huge windows for your art studio. You can defer Stanford. You can paint at home. I’ll work, I’ll go to school, and I will provide for you. You will never have to worry about a single thing ever again.”
You cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he is a lifeline in the middle of a raging ocean. “Promise me, Dean. Promise me you won’t leave me.”
“I am never, ever leaving you,” Dean vows, his grip on you tightening. “You’re mine. Forever.”
“I love you,” you weep into his chest, completely surrendering to him, completely trusting him.
“I love you too, baby,” Dean murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “So much.”
He holds you there on the bathroom floor as you cry out the last of your fear and grief for the future you just lost. He rubs your back, he murmurs sweet, comforting words into your ear, and he plays the role of the perfect, supportive partner flawlessly.
But as you press your face against his chest, completely blind to his expression, Dean slowly lifts his head.
He stares at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
His eyes are dark, burning with a terrifying, absolute victory. The panic, the agonizing anxiety of the last two months is completely gone, replaced by a cold, settling sense of permanent ownership.
Dean pulls you just a fraction of an inch closer, his hand resting protectively over your flat stomach.
And as you continue to cry into his chest, entirely unaware of the cage that has just locked firmly into place around you, Dean smiles.
***
The smell of stale beer, fried food, and cheap cologne at Malone’s usually brings a sense of comfortable familiarity. Tonight, it just makes you want to gag.
You slide into the worn vinyl booth, wedging yourself into the corner next to Dean. The leather of his jacket squeaks against the seat as he crowds in beside you, his thigh heavily against yours. Across the table, Garrett Graham is already deep into a heated argument with Logan about the Bruins’ defensive woes, while Tucker and Beau are trying to flag down a waitress over the din of the Friday night crowd.
“I’m telling you, it’s a weak blue line,” Garrett says, slapping his hand on the sticky table for emphasis. “If they don’t trade for a solid two-way defenseman, they’re getting swept in the first round. Tell him, Dean.”
“Leave me out of it,” Dean replies, his arm casually slung over the back of the booth behind your shoulders. His fingers idly play with the ends of your hair. “I’m off the clock.”
A waitress finally weaves through the crowd, slamming a tray of water glasses onto the table. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two pitchers of the IPA,” Garrett orders without hesitation. “And a round of tequila shots. We’re celebrating. I passed my sports management final.”
“Barely,” Logan mutters.
“A pass is a pass, John. Don’t be a hater.” Garrett looks over at you and Dean. “You guys in for the shots?”
“No shots for us,” Dean says smoothly, his hand dropping from the back of the booth to rest firmly on your thigh under the table. His thumb strokes a soothing circle against your denim-clad leg. “Just a Coke for me, and an iced tea with lemon for her.”
The entire table goes dead silent.
Garrett slowly lowers his menu. Logan squints at Dean. Tucker, who was mid-sip of water, slowly sets his glass down. Even Beau leans forward, looking between the two of you like you just announced you’re joining a cult.
“A Coke,” Garrett repeats, the words slow and dripping with suspicion. “For Dean Di Laurentis. On a Friday night. At Malone’s.”
“You sick, man?” Beau asks, his brow furrowing.
“And you’re not drinking either?” Logan asks, turning his sharp gaze on you. “You literally just graduated. You should be funneling champagne right now.”
You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You look up at Dean. He looks perfectly calm. In fact, he looks incredibly smug, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze before he meets the stares of his closest friends.
“We’re not drinking,” Dean says, his voice steady and clear over the background noise of the bar, “because we have some news.”
“Oh my god,” Tucker breathes out, his eyes widening dramatically. He points a finger at you. “Are you guys getting married? Did you elope?”
“No,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Not married. At least, not yet.” He turns his head to look down at you, his green eyes softening in that specific, devastating way they only ever do for you. “Ready?”
You take a deep breath, your stomach doing a nervous flip, and nod.
Dean turns back to the table. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He just drops the bomb with a grin that could rival the sun.
“Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”
For three agonizing seconds, no one breathes. The silence at the table is so profound you can hear the ice clinking in Garrett’s water glass.
Then, absolute chaos erupts.
“Holy shit!” Garrett bellows, lunging across the table to grab Dean by the collar of his jacket and shake him. “Holy shit, Di Laurentis!”
Logan is laughing, a booming, genuine sound as he runs a hand over his face. “I don’t believe it. I actually do not believe it. You? A dad?”
“Congratulations, man!” Beau shouts over the noise, reaching over to slap Dean hard on the shoulder.
Tucker looks like he might actually cry. “Oh my god. There’s going to be a little Di Laurentis running around.”
“Hey, easy on the jacket, Graham,” Dean laughs, shoving Garrett off him, but he’s beaming. He looks so incredibly proud, his chest puffed out, absorbing the shock and excitement of his brothers.
“Wait, wait,” Logan says, holding up a hand to quiet the table. He looks at you, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. “How are you doing? Are you okay? You’re moving to California in like, a week.”
The question hangs in the air. You feel a familiar, heavy ache in your chest at the mention of California, but before you can even open your mouth, Dean steps in.
“She’s not going,” Dean says, his voice taking on a firm, protective edge. “We’re staying here. I’m going to Harvard in the fall, and we’re looking for a place in Cambridge together.”
Garrett leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. He looks at you closely. “Giving up Stanford? That’s huge. You sure you’re okay with that?”
“I am,” you say, and to your surprise, your voice doesn’t waver. And it’s true. The initial devastation has faded, replaced by a quiet, fierce dedication to the tiny life growing inside you. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but … this is our family. Stanford will still be there someday. Right now, I need to be here.”
“Damn right you do,” Tucker says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “We’ve got your back. All of us. You need anything — groceries, midnight ice cream runs, someone to put together a crib — you call us. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” Logan agrees, raising his water glass. “To the newest Briar mascot. God help us all.”
The guys clink their glasses together, the tension fully dissipating into a warm, chaotic celebration. You lean into Dean’s side, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over you. They aren’t judging you. They aren’t questioning the timeline. They are just happy.
You look up at Dean. He is watching you, that same dark, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. He leans down and presses a hard kiss to your temple.
“Told you they’d be thrilled,” he murmurs against your skin.
***
Two weeks later, the hunt for a house begins.
“It’s just … it’s a lot of money, Dean,” you say quietly, standing on the sidewalk of a quiet, tree-lined street in Cambridge.
In front of you sits a massive, stunning three-story brownstone. It has creeping ivy climbing up the brick exterior, a set of heavy, double oak doors, and huge bay windows that look out over the cobblestone street. It is beautiful. It is perfect. And it is completely, obscenely out of your budget.
“I told you not to look at the price tag,” Dean says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking at the house with you. “My trust fund is built for stuff like this. It’s an investment.”
“It’s an estate,” you correct him. “Dean, it has five bedrooms. There are three of us. Well, two and a half.”
“We need a master bedroom, a nursery, a guest room for my parents or the guys, an office for me to study for law school, and a room for you,” he lists off easily, kissing your cheek. “That’s five. It’s perfectly practical.”
“Practical,” you scoff, though a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.
The real estate agent, a sharp-looking woman named Sylvia, pushes the front door open and gestures for you both to follow.
The inside is even more breathtaking. Original hardwood floors, crown molding, a massive kitchen with a marble island, and a working fireplace in the living room. It smells like lemon polish and old money.
Dean walks through the rooms with a critical eye, checking water pressure, knocking on walls, and asking Sylvia questions about the roof and the HVAC system. You follow slightly behind, feeling completely out of your depth. A month ago, you were prepared to live in a converted garage with a hot plate. Now, you are touring a multi-million-dollar property in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.
“And finally, the top floor,” Sylvia says, leading you up a narrow, winding wooden staircase. “The previous owners used it as a storage space, but it has phenomenal potential.”
You reach the top of the stairs and step into the attic.
You gasp.
It spans the entire length of the house. The ceiling is vaulted, with exposed wooden beams, but the true masterpiece is the lighting. There are four massive skylights built into the pitched roof, and the far wall is entirely comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. The afternoon sun pours into the room, bathing the dust motes in a warm, golden glow.
It is the most spectacular natural lighting you have ever seen in your life.
“Oh,” you whisper, walking slowly toward the windows. You run your hand along the sill. “Wow.”
“You like it?” Dean asks. He is standing by the stairs, watching you intently. He hasn’t looked at the room at all. He is only looking at you.
“It’s incredible,” you breathe out, turning around to face him. “The light in here … you could paint for hours without needing a single lamp. It’s perfect.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, blinding smile, and walks over to you. He wraps his hands around your waist. “It’s yours. We’ll rip up this old carpet, put down some hardwood that you don’t mind getting paint on. We’ll install a huge utility sink over there in the corner for your brushes. Whatever you want.”
“Dean, you don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “This is going to be your studio. Just because you aren’t going to Stanford doesn’t mean you stop painting. You are an artist. You need a space.”
You feel tears prick the backs of your eyes, a hormonal surge of emotion hitting you out of nowhere. You rest your forehead against his chest. “You are too good to me.”
“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to rest flat against your stomach. “Or my girl and my boy. Whichever.”
He pulls back slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. He looks into your eyes, his brow furrowing just a fraction. It’s a perfectly rehearsed look of supportive concern.
“You know,” Dean starts, his voice gentle. “We are in Boston. There are amazing programs here. BU, MassArt, even Tufts. We could look into applications for the spring semester. You could still do your MFA locally. We can hire a nanny for when we’re both in class.”
He offers the words smoothly, laying the trap with expert precision. He knows exactly how you will react, but he needs to say it. He needs to play the role of the partner who is willing to move mountains to keep your dream alive, so you never, ever suspect that he is the one who killed it.
You sigh, leaning back from him slightly to look out the window.
“I appreciate it, Dean. I really do. But … no.”
“No?” He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” you explain, rubbing your arms. “I’m due in January. Right in the middle of the winter semester. Even if I got in somewhere, I’d have to drop out immediately to have the baby. And I don’t want a nanny raising our newborn while I’m locked in a studio across town. I want to be here. I want to raise our kid.”
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, stepping closer and cupping your cheek. “I don’t want you to resent me. Or the baby. I don’t want you to feel like you gave everything up.”
“I’m sure,” you say softly, turning your face to kiss his palm. “I have this beautiful house. I have you. I’m going to have a baby, and a studio right upstairs. I have everything I need right here.”
Dean pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck so you can’t see his face.
He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, and a massive, shuddering wave of relief and victory washes over him.
You’re done fighting, he thinks, his grip on you tightening possessively. You’re staying. You’re his.
“Okay,” Dean whispers against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, hidden triumph. “Okay, baby. We’ll buy the house.”
***
The true test comes three days later.
Lori Heyward and Peter Di Laurentis are flying into Boston for a legal conference, and Dean has made a dinner reservation for the four of you at Ostra, one of the most exclusive seafood restaurants in the Back Bay.
You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in your dorm room, staring at your reflection, feeling like you are about to throw up.
“I look huge,” you whisper, pulling at the fabric of your black dress.
“You are eight weeks pregnant, you do not look huge,” Dean says from the bed. He is already dressed in a charcoal suit that makes him look devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly grown-up. He walks over to you, swatting your hands away and smoothing the fabric of the dress down your hips. “You look gorgeous. Stop stressing.”
“I can’t stop stressing, Dean,” you say, your voice rising in panic. You turn to face him, your chest heaving. “Your parents are high-powered attorneys. They deal with sharks for a living. They are going to see right through me.”
Dean frowns, his hands resting on your waist. “See through what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I am a broke art student who just got pregnant by their son!” You cry out, burying your face in your hands. “They are going to think I trapped you. They’re going to think I poked holes in the condoms. They’re going to think I’m a gold-digger who locked down the Di Laurentis fortune. They are going to hate me.”
Dean flinches.
The words hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The bitter, sickening irony of your fear threatens to choke him. You are terrified of being accused of the exact monstrous thing that he actually did to you.
“Hey,” Dean says sharply, grabbing your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me.”
You blink up at him, tears swimming in your eyes.
“My parents love you,” Dean says, and for the first time in weeks, he is telling the absolute, unvarnished truth. “My mom has been obsessed with you since the day I brought you home for Thanksgiving sophomore year. My dad thinks you’re the only person who can keep me in line. They know who you are. They know you didn’t do this on purpose.”
Because I did, he adds silently in his head.
“But the timing-”
“The timing is a surprise,” Dean interrupts smoothly. “But it’s a happy surprise. Trust me. You are going to be fine. Let me handle the talking.”
He kisses you hard, pouring all of his protective energy into the contact.
An hour later, you are sitting in a plush leather booth at Ostra. The lighting is dim, the clinking of crystal glasses fills the air, and you are vibrating with anxiety.
Lori Heyward is a force of nature. She has sharp, striking features, perfectly blown-out blonde hair, and is wearing a white blazer that probably costs more than your entire college tuition. Peter is a massive, intimidating man with a booming laugh and Dean’s green eyes.
“So, Y/N,” Lori says, elegantly slicing into her sea bass. “Dean tells us the Stanford move is off. I have to admit, I was shocked when he told me. That MFA program is incredibly difficult to get into.”
You freeze, your fork hovering over your plate. You shoot a panicked look at Dean.
Dean reaches under the table, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing firmly. He clears his throat, setting his own fork down.
“Actually, Mom, Dad … there’s a reason she isn’t going,” Dean says. His voice is calm, authoritative, and totally in control. “We wanted to tell you both in person.”
Peter pauses, taking a sip of his wine. He looks between the two of you, his thick eyebrows raising. “Well? Out with it. Did you fail a class, Dean? Because if Harvard rescinds that acceptance …”
“Harvard is fine, Dad,” Dean says, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks at you, gives your hand another squeeze, and looks back at his parents. “Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”
The reaction is instantaneous.
Lori drops her fork. It clatters loudly against the fine china plate, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her mouth falls open, her perfectly manicured hands flying up to cover her lips.
Peter chokes on his wine, coughing loudly into his napkin before staring at Dean with wide, shocked eyes.
You brace yourself. You wait for the narrowed eyes. You wait for the accusations. You wait for Lori to ask for a paternity test or a prenuptial agreement.
Instead, Lori’s eyes well up with tears.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice cracking completely. “A baby?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “A baby. Due in late January.”
Lori practically scrambles out of the booth. She completely abandons decorum, rushing around the table and pulling you right out of your seat. She wraps her arms around you in a crushing, fiercely tight hug. She smells like expensive perfume and genuine, overwhelming joy.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Lori cries, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, this is the best news. This is wonderful! I’m going to be a grandmother!”
You stand there, stunned, your arms hovering awkwardly before you slowly wrap them around Lori’s back. “You … you aren’t mad?”
“Mad?” Peter booms, standing up from his side of the booth and walking over. He wraps his massive arms around both you and Lori, pulling you into a group hug. “Why the hell would we be mad? You’re giving us a grandchild!”
“But … the timing,” you stammer, looking between them as they finally pull back. “We’re so young. And Dean is just starting law school. I thought … I was worried you would think I …”
“Y/N,” Lori says softly, reaching out to cup your face in her warm hands. Her sharp eyes soften completely. “We know exactly who you are. We know you come from that awful, stiff-necked Kennedy family, and we know you walked away from millions of dollars just to paint. You don’t care about our money. You care about our son.”
She looks over at Dean, who is watching the exchange with a soft, satisfied expression.
“We love you,” Lori continues, wiping a stray tear from under her eye. “You are already family to us. The fact that you’re having Dean’s child? It’s a blessing. A complete blessing.”
You finally break. The anxiety that has been coiling in your chest for weeks snaps, and you burst into tears. You cover your face with your hands, sobbing in the middle of the fancy restaurant.
“Oh, honey, the hormones,” Lori coos sympathetically, pulling you back into her arms and rubbing your back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We are going to spoil this baby rotten. We are going to buy out the entire baby section at Neiman Marcus tomorrow.”
“We’re buying a house,” Dean announces proudly from the table, clearly riding the high of his parents’ reaction. “A brownstone in Cambridge. Closing next week.”
“I’ll have my interior designer call you on Monday,” Lori says immediately, not missing a beat. She pulls back and looks at you warmly. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We are here for you.”
You look over Lori’s shoulder at Dean.
He is leaning back against the leather booth, looking like a king sitting on a throne. He has his parents’ money, he has his Harvard acceptance, he has the house in Cambridge, and, most importantly, he has you. Completely, irreversibly, forever.
He catches your eye and winks, a slow, dark, possessive smirk playing on his lips.
You smile back through your tears, feeling so incredibly lucky to have a man who loves you this much. A man who protects you, provides for you, and stands by you no matter what.
You have absolutely no idea that you are thanking the wolf for guarding the sheep.
***
September in Cambridge brings a crisp chill to the air, turning the leaves on the ancient oak trees into brilliant shades of copper and gold.
It also brings the brutal, unrelenting reality of Harvard Law School.
The transition is jarring. One week, Dean is spending lazy mornings in bed with you, painting the nursery a soft sage green and arguing over crib designs. The next, he is plunged headfirst into a shark tank of hyper-competitive, sleep-deprived geniuses. His schedule is instantly swallowed by torts, contracts, civil procedure, and endless stacks of reading that weigh as much as a small car.
But if anyone expects Dean to crumble under the pressure, they are sorely mistaken. He attacks law school with the exact same ruthless, arrogant confidence he used on the ice. He does the reading, he dominates the Socratic method, and he never, ever lets them see him sweat.
But the biggest change isn’t Dean’s schedule. It’s you.
You are nineteen weeks pregnant, and the nesting instinct has hit you like a freight train.
At first, you spent all your time in the spectacular third-floor studio Dean built for you. You painted for hours, losing yourself in the canvas. But as the weeks drag on and the reality of the brownstone’s quiet emptiness settles in while Dean is at class, a restless, anxious energy begins to vibrate under your skin.
You don’t like the quiet. You don’t like the empty house. Most of all, you don’t like being away from Dean.
So, you find a new project.
“You don’t have to do this, baby,” Dean says, leaning against the marble kitchen island.
He is wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a pair of tailored gray trousers, and a tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looks like a devastatingly handsome young lawyer, but his eyes are entirely focused on you.
You are standing at the stove, wearing a pair of soft black leggings that stretch over the undeniable, perfect little bump at your midsection, and one of Dean’s old Briar Hockey t-shirts. You are carefully placing a homemade, artisanal turkey and brie sandwich into a sleek glass Tupperware container.
“I want to,” you say, snapping the lid shut and tucking it into a brown paper bag along with a container of mixed fruit and a slice of banana bread. “You told me the cafeteria food in the law building tastes like salted cardboard. I am not letting the father of my child survive on salted cardboard.”
“I could just grab something at a café off-campus,” Dean points out, though the massive, self-satisfied smirk on his face completely betrays his words.
“You don’t have time between your civil procedure lecture and your study group,” you counter, grabbing a sharpie from the junk drawer. You quickly draw a small heart on the brown paper bag and hand it to him. “There. Now you have a balanced meal. Eat the fruit, Dean. Don’t just give it to that guy in your study group.”
“Ben is iron-deficient,” Dean jokes, taking the bag from your hands. He sets it on the counter, grabs you by the waist, and pulls you flush against his chest.
His large hands spread out over your lower back, his thumbs resting just above the curve of your hips. He looks down at you, his green eyes dark and warm.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “But seriously. You’re supposed to be resting. Or painting. Not playing 1950s housewife for me.”
“I like doing it,” you admit softly, resting your hands flat against his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. “The house gets so quiet when you leave. It makes me anxious. Taking care of you gives me something to focus on.”
Dean’s chest swells. A dark, possessive thrill shoots straight down his spine.
He loves this. God, he loves this so much it makes his teeth ache. He loves that you are seeking him out. He loves that your entire world has shrunk down to this beautiful house, your art, and him. The fact that the silence of the house makes you anxious — that you literally crave his presence to feel grounded — is the greatest victory he could have ever engineered.
“If you get lonely, you call me,” Dean orders softly, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a lecture. You call, and I’ll walk right out.”
“You will absolutely not walk out of a Harvard Law lecture just because I’m feeling a little clingy,” you laugh, swatting his chest.
“Watch me,” he challenges, entirely serious. He kisses you then, deep and lingering, tasting like mint toothpaste and coffee. “I have to go. Contracts wait for no man.”
“Knock ‘em dead, counselor,” you smile, fixing the collar of his shirt.
He grabs his leather messenger bag, his lunch, and heads out the front door.
But by 12:30 PM, the silence of the brownstone becomes suffocating again. You put your brushes down, wipe the cerulean paint off your hands, and look at the clock.
Dean has a break at 1:00.
You make a split-second decision. You go downstairs, pack a fresh container of pasta salad you made yesterday, grab two bottles of sparkling water, and throw on a long, cozy cardigan over your leggings.
***
The courtyard outside Austin Hall is swarming with law students. The air is thick with tension, the smell of burnt coffee, and the frantic sound of people debating case law.
Dean is sitting at a wrought-iron patio table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He is surrounded by three other first-year students. They all look like they are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he’s waiting for a bus. Cool, relaxed, entirely unbothered.
“But if you apply the ruling from Hawkins v. McGee,” a highly strung girl named Katelyn says rapidly, aggressively highlighting a massive textbook, “the expectation damages have to be calculated based on the difference between the promised state and the actual state.”
“Katelyn, breathe,” Dean says lazily, leaning back in his chair. “You’re overthinking it. The professor doesn’t want you to just regurgitate the formula. He wants you to argue why the formula is flawed in this specific application. Pivot to the ambiguity of the contract.”
“Easy for you to say,” grumbles Ben, a pale guy with thick glasses. “You got cold-called today and practically gave a TED talk.”
Dean just smirks, reaching for his water bottle.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice says.
Dean’s head snaps up.
You are standing at the edge of the patio table, holding a canvas tote bag. Your hair is pulled back into a loose braid, and the soft beige cardigan clings perfectly to the distinct, rounded curve of your belly.
The transformation in Dean is instantaneous.
The arrogant, laid-back law student vanishes. He is on his feet before you can even take another step, closing the distance between you and wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders.
“Hey,” Dean says, his voice entirely different — softer, warmer, dripping with devotion. He pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple in front of everyone. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?”
“We’re fine,” you laugh softly, leaning into his side. “I just … I finished painting early. And I realized you were probably going to be hungry again after that sandwich, so I brought the pasta salad.”
Dean looks down at you like you just handed him the winning lottery numbers. He doesn’t care about the pasta salad. He cares that you couldn’t stay away from him. He cares that you walked right onto his campus, into his territory, for everyone to see.
“You are incredible,” he murmurs, kissing you again, lingering a little longer this time.
He turns back to the table, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his side so your bump is proudly on display.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his chest puffed out. “My girl.”
The three law students stare at you in varying states of shock.
“Hi,” you say politely, offering a small wave.
“Oh,” Katelyn says, blinking rapidly. She looks from Dean to your stomach, and then back up to Dean. “Wow. Hi. I’m Katelyn. We didn’t … Dean didn’t mention he was …”
“Expecting?” Ben finishes, adjusting his glasses. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls out the chair he was just sitting in and gently guides you into it. “Sit. You shouldn’t be standing too long.”
You roll your eyes, but you sit down, digging into your tote bag to pull out the Tupperware containers and the forks.
Over the next few weeks, this becomes your routine.
Whenever you feel that creeping, lonely anxiety in the big empty house, you pack a bag and take the short walk to campus. You become a fixture in the courtyard. The terrifyingly intense law students quickly realize that the only way to get Dean Di Laurentis to help them with their outlines is to be extremely nice to his pregnant girlfriend.
They bring you decaf coffee. They offer you their chairs. They ask about the baby.
And Dean? Dean thrives on it.
He loves sitting at a table with his arm draped over the back of your chair, his hand absentmindedly resting on your stomach while he debates property law with his peers. He loves the jealous looks he gets from other guys when you show up looking effortlessly beautiful, carrying his lunch. He loves that everyone on campus knows exactly who you belong to.
It happens on a crisp Tuesday afternoon in October.
You are sitting next to Dean on a stone bench just outside the law library. He is eating a slice of quiche you brought him, and you are resting your head on his shoulder, soaking in the autumn sun.
“Di Laurentis,” a stern voice calls out.
Dean pauses, swallowing his bite of quiche. He looks up as Professor Richards, an intimidating, gray-haired man who teaches constitutional law, stops in front of your bench.
“Professor,” Dean greets easily.
“Excellent brief on the Marbury application today,” Richards says, adjusting his briefcase. “Your argument regarding judicial review limitations was surprisingly concise.”
“Appreciate it,” Dean says, offering a polite nod.
Richards’s sharp eyes shift down to you. You sit up slightly, offering a polite, nervous smile.
“And this must be the famous lunch-delivery service I’ve been hearing about,” Richards says dryly, though there is a hint of amusement in his eyes. He looks at your bump. “Congratulations to you both.”
You reach out and shake his hand. “Y/N Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you.”
Richards’s hand freezes. He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately. His gray eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, his expression shifting from polite indifference to sharp, sudden intrigue.
“Kennedy?” Richards repeats, the word hanging heavily in the air.
He looks at your face closely, studying your bone structure, your eyes, the tilt of your chin. In elite East Coast circles, that name is royalty. It’s power. It’s money.
“Any relation to Senator Joseph Kennedy?” Richards asks, his tone entirely different now.
You feel your stomach drop. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twists in your gut. You hate this question. You hate the association. Since your family cut you off, hearing their names just feels like a raw wound being poked.
“He’s my uncle,” you say quietly, pulling your hand back from his grip. “But I’m not really … involved in politics. Or with the family, right now.”
Richards looks stunned. He looks at Dean, and then back at you. “A Kennedy. Here, in the courtyard. Well. That certainly explains the poise. Your father must be devastated you didn’t choose the law yourself.”
You swallow hard, looking down at your lap. “Something like that.”
Dean feels the exact moment your body tenses. He feels the anxiety radiating off you.
A dark, protective rage flares in his chest, instantly mingling with that deep-seated, possessive pride. He knows exactly what Richards is thinking. Richards is looking at you like you are a prized show pony, an elite piece of political capital. He is looking at you like you belong to the Kennedys.
Dean stands up.
He doesn’t do it aggressively, but the sheer size of him, the broadness of his shoulders, instantly forces Richards to take a half-step back.
Dean steps directly into Richards’s line of sight, blocking his view of you. He reaches down, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers tightly through yours. He pulls your hand up, resting it firmly against the center of his chest.
“She’s an artist,” Dean says. His voice is perfectly polite, but the underlying steel in his tone is unmistakable. It is a warning.
“An artist,” Richards repeats, clearly recovering his composure. “Well. A Kennedy venturing into the fine arts. How … modern.”
Dean smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his voice ringing out clearly in the quiet courtyard. He looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, before locking his piercing gaze back onto the professor.
“She won’t be a Kennedy for long,” Dean states, his words slow and deliberate.
Richards blinks. “Excuse me?”
Dean’s grip on your hand tightens. He looks at the professor with absolute, unyielding dominance.
“I said, she won’t be a Kennedy for long. She’ll be a Di Laurentis soon.”
The courtyard seems to go completely silent.
Richards stares at Dean for a long, calculating moment. He is a man who understands power dynamics, and he clearly recognizes that he has just stepped directly onto Dean Di Laurentis’s fiercely guarded territory.
“I see,” Richards finally says, clearing his throat. He offers a tight, formal nod. “Well. Best of luck with the wedding. And the baby. Good day, Mr. Di Laurentis. Ms. Kennedy.”
Richards turns and walks briskly away toward the faculty building.
As soon as he is out of earshot, you let out a massive, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your shoulders slump, and you cover your face with your free hand.
“I hate that,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I hate when people do that. The sudden shift in how they look at me. Like I’m just a walking bank account or a political connection.”
Dean immediately sits back down next to you. He wraps both of his massive arms around you, pulling you onto his lap right there in the middle of the courtyard. He doesn’t care who is watching.
“Hey,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Look at me.”
You drop your hand, looking up into his intense green eyes.
“You are not a walking bank account,” Dean says, his voice low and fierce. “You are the most talented, brilliant, beautiful woman I have ever met. You are going to be an incredible mother. And you don’t need them. You hear me? You don’t need their name, and you don’t need their money.”
“I know,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just … it caught me off guard.”
“They’re cut off,” Dean says darkly, his hand resting securely over your baby bump. “They don’t get to claim you. Not anymore. You’re mine now. This is your family. Me and this baby.”
“I know,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Dean replies, kissing you back, hard and deep.
He holds you there on the bench, completely ignoring the stares of the passing students. He rubs soothing circles into your back until your breathing evens out and the tension finally leaves your body.
He plays the role of the ultimate protector flawlessly. He makes you feel safe, cherished, and completely shielded from the world that rejected you.
But as you rest your head against his chest, finding comfort in his steady heartbeat, Dean stares out across the campus lawn, his mind racing.
He didn’t just say it to put the professor in his place. He said it because it’s the next logical step.
The baby trap was phase one. It anchored you to him. It kept you in Boston. It forced you to rely on him for housing, for support, for everything.
But Dean knows how fragile that is. You are still technically a free agent. You aren’t married. The baby binds you together, but it isn’t a legal lock.
He needs the lock.
He needs a ring on your finger. He needs your name changed. He needs to legally, permanently bind you to him in a way that you can never, ever escape, no matter what you eventually find out.
Dean’s hand slides from your back to rest gently over the swell of your stomach. He feels a tiny, fluttering kick against his palm. His child. His fail-safe.
He looks down at your peaceful face, blissfully unaware of the cage he is meticulously building around you.
Tomorrow.
He will skip his afternoon seminar tomorrow. He will drive into downtown Boston, he will walk into the most exclusive jeweler in the city, and he will buy the biggest, most undeniable diamond they have in the vault.
Because Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t just play to win. He plays for absolute, total possession. And he is almost at the finish line.
***
December in Massachusetts is a bitter, bone-chilling kind of cold, but inside the grand ballroom of the Harvard Club of Boston, the air is suffocatingly warm.
The annual winter alumni networking gala is in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, glittering light over hundreds of Boston’s most elite legal minds, politicians, and high-powered executives. Waiters in crisp white jackets weave through the crowd carrying silver trays of champagne flutes and miniature crab cakes. The dull roar of classical string music and pretentious conversation echoes off the mahogany-paneled walls.
You are standing near a massive, roaring fireplace, holding a crystal glass of sparkling cider and trying very, very hard not to let your exhaustion show.
At thirty-four weeks pregnant, you look like you are about to pop at any second. Your belly is a heavy, undeniable presence beneath the dark emerald velvet of your maternity gown. Your feet, squeezed into a pair of sensible but elegant black flats, are throbbing. You feel massive, clumsy, and entirely out of place among the sleek, tailored crowd.
But you are here for Dean.
Dean is in his element. He is standing about ten feet away, locked in a conversation with a senior partner from a top-tier corporate law firm. He is wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that fits his broad, athletic frame to absolute perfection. His dark blond hair is pushed back, his jaw sharp, his green eyes completely focused as he charms the absolute hell out of the partner.
He looks like a king holding court. He looks like he was born to inhabit these rooms, to shake these hands, to command this kind of power.
But even as he laughs at a joke the senior partner makes, Dean’s eyes flick over to you. It’s a constant, rhythmic check-in. Every two minutes, his gaze finds you across the room. He catches your eye, his lips curving into a soft, private smile that is meant only for you, before he seamlessly turns back to his conversation.
You smile back, taking a sip of your cider. You feel a familiar rush of warmth in your chest. He is so incredibly good to you. Even in a room full of people who could make or break his future career, you are still his absolute center of gravity.
“I think I need to sit down,” you murmur to yourself, feeling a sharp ache in your lower back.
You turn slightly, intending to find an empty chair near the edge of the ballroom.
But as you turn, the crowd parts slightly, and the breath is punched completely out of your lungs.
Standing less than five feet away, holding a glass of scotch and looking exactly as terrifyingly composed as you remember, are George and Marie Kennedy.
Your parents.
You freeze. Your feet weld themselves to the plush carpet. Your heart performs a violent, painful leap into your throat, the glass of cider trembling in your suddenly cold hands.
You haven’t seen them in over a year. Not since the day you stood in their sprawling foyer and told them you were going to art school, and your father coldly informed you that you were no longer welcome under his roof.
They haven’t changed at all. Your father looks sharp and imposing in his tuxedo, his graying hair perfectly styled. Your mother is draped in an ice-blue silk gown, a massive diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. They look wealthy. They look powerful. They look completely devoid of warmth.
Marie’s eyes sweep over the crowd and land directly on you.
She stops. Her gaze drops instantly from your face, scanning down the emerald velvet of your dress, and lands squarely on the massive, undeniable swell of your stomach.
Her eyes widen slightly, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock crossing her perfectly Botoxed features. She grabs your father’s arm, her sharp manicured nails digging into his tuxedo sleeve. She whispers something urgently to him, nodding in your direction.
George Kennedy turns. His cold, calculating eyes lock onto you. He takes in your face, the simple elegance of your dress, and the baby bump that you are suddenly, desperately wishing you could hide.
Your instinct is to run. To turn around, push through the crowd, and hide in the bathroom until Dean can take you home. But your legs refuse to move.
Your parents begin to walk toward you.
They move with a slow, predatory grace, parting the crowd without even trying. Every step they take feels like a hammer striking your chest. You instinctively wrap your free hand around your stomach, a protective gesture for the baby that is currently kicking against your ribs.
“Well,” Marie says as they stop in front of you. Her voice is like cracked ice. Smooth, cold, and incredibly sharp. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Y/N. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”
You swallow hard, your throat feeling like it’s lined with sandpaper. “Mother. Father.”
“Don’t call us that,” George says, his voice low and devoid of any affection. “You lost that privilege the day you decided to embarrass this family.”
The words sting, a fresh lash against an old wound, but you force your chin up. “What are you doing here?”
“We are alumni,” Marie says, taking a sip of her champagne. Her eyes rake over your stomach again, her lips curling into a sneer of pure disgust. “The real question is what you are doing here. And … in this condition. Though, I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
“Excuse me?” You say, your voice trembling slightly.
“Oh, please, Y/N,” your mother sighs, looking at you with complete, humiliating pity. “We all knew that ridiculous little art school fantasy wouldn’t last. Did the money dry up that quickly? Did the reality of living like a peasant finally set in?”
“This has nothing to do with money,” you say, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m here with my boyfriend. He’s a law student.”
“A law student,” George repeats, a harsh, humorless chuckle escaping his chest. “Let me guess. A rich one? Someone with a trust fund?”
“His name is Dean Di Laurentis,” you say, your voice growing firmer, a defensive heat rising in your chest. “And you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Marie leans in slightly, the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume making your nausea spike. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You realized you had no skills, no family name to fall back on, and no money. So you found a boy with a fat wallet and you did the only thing left to do to secure the bag. You got yourself knocked up.”
The words hang in the air between you, vile and suffocating.
“You trapped him,” George adds, his voice dropping to a harsh, vicious whisper. “You spread your legs and trapped some poor, unsuspecting heir because you were too lazy to work and too stubborn to apologize to us. You are a disgrace. You’re little better than a high-priced-”
“Finish that sentence, and I will shatter your jaw into so many pieces the surgeons won’t be able to put it back together.”
The voice is a low, lethal snarl that cuts through the classical music and the chatter of the ballroom like a blade.
You gasp, turning your head.
Dean is standing right behind you.
The charming, relaxed future lawyer is completely gone. In his place is the Briar University enforcer, the hockey player who used to drop his gloves and beat grown men bloody on the ice. His green eyes are black with fury. His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle is jumping erratically in his cheek. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands balled into massive, white-knuckled fists at his sides.
He looks like he is about to commit a murder in the middle of the Harvard Club.
He steps around you, putting his body entirely between you and your parents. He is significantly taller and broader than your father, and the physical threat radiating off him is so intense that both George and Marie instinctively take a step back.
“Dean,” you whisper, terrified.
Dean doesn’t look at you. His murderous gaze is locked on George Kennedy.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Dean demands, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.
“I am speaking to my daughter,” George says, though his voice wavers slightly under the sheer, terrifying intensity of Dean’s stare. “And who are you? The boy she trapped?”
Dean lunges forward.
It’s an involuntary, deeply ingrained reflex. The hockey player in him wants violence. He wants to feel bone crunch under his knuckles. He wants to destroy the man who just made the love of his life look so small and terrified. He raises his right fist, his body coiling like a spring.
“Dean, no!”
You drop your glass. It shatters on the carpet, soaking the floor with cider. You lunge forward, grabbing his raised arm with both hands.
“Don’t,” you beg, your voice cracking. “Dean, please. He’s not worth it. Don’t ruin your career over him. Please.”
Dean freezes.
The desperate, trembling sound of your voice cuts through the red haze of his rage. He looks down at your hands, gripping his tuxedo sleeve, and then at your face. You look terrified, pale, and on the verge of tears.
He takes a harsh, ragged breath. The violent tension doesn’t leave his body, but he slowly lowers his fist. He covers your hands with his, squeezing tightly to reassure you, before turning his attention back to your parents.
He chooses a different weapon.
“My name is Dean Di Laurentis,” Dean says, his voice no longer a snarl, but something much colder. Something smooth, calculated, and infinitely more dangerous. He speaks with the absolute authority of a man who knows exactly how much power he wields. “My father is Peter Di Laurentis. My mother is Lori Heyward. I’m sure you know the names.”
George Kennedy pales. The arrogant sneer drops off his face instantly.
Of course he knows the names. The Di Laurentis family is legal royalty in New England. They own half of the corporate real estate in Boston, and their law firm has the power to destroy entire political campaigns with a single phone call.
“I … I am familiar,” George says tightly.
“Good,” Dean says, a dark, cruel smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then you know that I am not some poor, unsuspecting heir. And you know that I am the last person in this room you want to piss off.”
Marie crosses her arms, though her hands are trembling slightly. “Mr. Di Laurentis, we were simply trying to warn you. You are young. You have a bright future. Y/N is manipulative. She knew what she was doing when she let this happen. She wanted your money.”
Dean actually laughs. It is a harsh, mocking sound that makes a few people at the neighboring tables turn their heads.
The bitter, twisted irony of the accusation almost makes him want to scream. They think you trapped him. They think you are the master manipulator. They have absolutely no idea that you cried for hours over losing your dream, while Dean smiled into your hair because his sick, desperate plan worked perfectly.
“Let me make something incredibly clear to both of you,” Dean says, stepping slightly closer to them, forcing them to look up at him. “Y/N didn’t trap me. She didn’t want my money. In fact, she fought me tooth and nail when I tried to pay for her groceries.”
He pauses, letting the words sink in, his eyes burning into theirs.
“I chased her,” Dean states, his voice ringing with absolute, possessive pride. “I begged her to give me a chance. I am the one who fell on my knees thanking God when I found out she was carrying my child. Because she is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and she is entirely too good for the likes of you.”
You let out a soft, choked sob, pressing your face against Dean’s bicep.
“She is a Kennedy,” George snaps, his pride rearing its ugly head one last time. “We gave her everything.”
“You gave her nothing,” Dean fires back, his voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. “You gave her conditions. You gave her a bank account attached to a leash. When she decided she wanted to be her own person, you threw her out like garbage. You threw away the most brilliant, talented, loving woman in this entire city because she didn’t want to go to law school.”
Dean leans in, his face inches from George’s, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.
“You lost your greatest asset, George. And I won.”
George’s jaw tightens, his face flushing a dark, humiliated shade of red.
“Now,” Dean says, his tone shifting into the smooth, ruthless cadence of a future courtroom shark. “This is how this is going to work. You are going to turn around, and you are going to walk out of this ballroom. If I ever see you near her again, if you ever so much as speak her name in public, I will have my father’s firm audit every single one of your offshore accounts.”
Marie gasps, her hand flying to her chest.
“I will bury your political ambitions so deep you won’t be able to run for dog catcher,” Dean continues ruthlessly. “I will make sure every partner in this room knows exactly how the Kennedys treat their pregnant daughters. I will ruin you. Do you understand me?”
George and Marie stare at him. They are completely, utterly defeated. They know he isn’t bluffing. They know he has the resources, the power, and the viciousness to do exactly what he promised.
George grabs Marie’s arm. “We’re leaving.”
Without another word, your parents turn and quickly disappear into the crowd, rushing toward the exit like they are being chased by dogs.
The moment they are out of sight, all the terrifying, cold energy drains out of Dean.
He turns to you immediately. He wraps both of his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, right in the middle of the ballroom. He doesn’t care who is watching. He doesn’t care about networking. He buries his face in your hair, his hands running frantically over your back, your shoulders, the curve of your belly.
“Are you okay?” He asks urgently, his voice rough and breathless. “Did they hurt you? Are you having contractions? Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” you sob, clinging to the lapels of his tuxedo. The adrenaline is fading, leaving you shaky and exhausted, but the overwhelming surge of love for him is making your chest ache. “I’m okay, Dean. I’m fine.”
“I should have broken his jaw,” Dean mutters darkly against your neck. “I should have put him in the hospital.”
“No,” you say, pulling back slightly to look up into his fierce, beautiful face. You reach up, resting your hands flat against his cheeks. “No. You handled it perfectly. You protected me. You always protect me.”
Dean closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. A heavy, complicated sigh escapes his lips.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you with such intense, staggering devotion that it takes your breath away. “I love you. You are my family. Just you and this baby. They don’t matter. They will never hurt you again. I won’t let them.”
“I know,” you whisper, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. “I know you won’t. I love you, Dean.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Dean says, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “Let’s go home. You need to rest.”
“Okay,” you agree, letting him tuck you securely under his arm.
As Dean guides you through the ballroom, leaving the glittering lights and the staring alumni behind, you rest your hand on your massive stomach. You feel completely safe. You feel entirely loved. You look up at the handsome, powerful man walking beside you, thanking every lucky star that you found someone who would fight so fiercely to keep you.
And Dean?
Dean holds you close, his jaw set in a hard, victorious line. He feels the warmth of your body against his, the weight of his ring sitting in a velvet box in his tuxedo pocket, waiting for the perfect moment.
They accused you of trapping him.
Dean almost laughs at the twisted perfection of it all. He didn’t just trap you with a baby. He trapped you with love. He trapped you with protection. He built a cage out of devotion, and you just handed him the final key.
You will never leave him. Not ever.
And as he helps you into the back of his black SUV, wrapping his coat around your shivering shoulders, Dean Di Laurentis knows that he has won the most important game of his life.
***
“I am going to kill you! I swear to God, Dean, I am going to murder you with my bare hands!”
Your scream tears through the sterile, brightly lit delivery room at Massachusetts General Hospital, echoing off the pale blue walls and completely drowning out the rhythmic, agonizing beeping of the fetal heart monitor.
“I know, baby, I know,” Dean says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute devotion. “You can kill me. As soon as he’s out, you can do whatever you want to me.”
“Don’t patronize me!” You sob, your head thrashing back against the sweat-soaked hospital pillow. Your face is flushed, your hair plastered to your forehead in damp, tangled strands.
You grip his left hand with the strength of a dying gladiator. You are squeezing so hard that Dean is genuinely, medically certain you are fracturing the small bones in his knuckles. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch. He just leans closer, using his free hand to wipe a cool, damp washcloth across your burning forehead.
It is 3:26 AM on a freezing Thursday in late January. Outside the hospital windows, a massive nor’easter is dumping two feet of snow onto the streets of Boston. But inside this room, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and blinding, primal exhaustion.
You have been in labor for nineteen hours.
“Okay, Y/N, you’re doing beautifully,” Dr. Williams says calmly from the foot of the bed. “The contraction is peaking. I need you to take a deep breath, tuck your chin to your chest, and push. Give me everything you have.”
“I can’t!” You cry out, shaking your head wildly. “I can’t do it anymore, Dean. I have nothing left. It hurts too much.”
“Look at me,” Dean commands, his voice firming up, cutting through the haze of your panic. He drops the washcloth and frames your face with his right hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. His green eyes are fierce, burning with an intensity that physically anchors you to the bed. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You look up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.
“You can do this,” he says, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You are the strongest person I have ever met. You are going to push, and you are going to meet our son. Do you hear me? We are so close, baby. You are doing so incredibly well.”
Another wave of unimaginable agony rolls through your abdomen. You bear down, squeezing your eyes shut, and let out a guttural, primal scream. You pull on Dean’s hand so violently his shoulder pops, your fingernails digging crescent-moon shapes into his skin.
As you pull, the fluorescent hospital lights catch the massive, flawless piece of jewelry sitting on your left ring finger.
It’s a three-carat oval diamond set on a delicate, crushed-ice platinum band. Dean had dropped to one knee in front of the roaring fireplace in the living room of your new brownstone on Christmas Eve, holding the velvet box. You had cried so hard you could barely choke out the word ‘yes.’
“Ten seconds,” the labor nurse counts down, keeping her hand flat against your stomach. “Eight … nine … ten. Okay, slowly release the breath. Good. Good.”
You collapse back against the pillows, your chest heaving violently. You are panting, staring up at the ceiling with wide, exhausted eyes.
“I am never doing this again,” you gasp out, your voice rough and raw. You turn your head to glare at Dean, your eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Do you hear me, Di Laurentis? I am never having sex with you again. Ever. We are sleeping in separate rooms for the rest of our lives.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs easily, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.
“I mean it!” You threaten, pointing a shaking finger at him. “If you come within ten feet of me with … with those intentions … I will castrate you.”
“I hear you,” Dean says smoothly, brushing the hair out of your eyes.
But internally? Dean is trying very, very hard not to smile.
Good luck with that, he thinks, his eyes tracing the beautiful, flushed lines of your face.
Separate bedrooms? Not a chance in hell. He hasn’t slept a single night without you tangled in his arms in nine months, and he has no intention of starting now. And as for never doing this again? Dean has already mapped out the timeline. He wants a big family. He wants the massive five-bedroom brownstone in Cambridge filled with noise, toys, and chaos. He wants at least three more babies with you. He is already looking forward to getting you pregnant again.
But he is smart enough to keep that entirely to himself while you are actively trying to push an eight-pound human out of your body.
“Okay, mom and dad, he’s crowning,” Dr. Williams announces, her tone suddenly shifting into high gear. “Y/N, I need you to stay focused. This next push is the big one. We’re going to bring this baby out.”
The panic returns, seizing your chest. “Dean, I’m scared.”
“I’ve got you. I’m right here,” Dean says, climbing halfway onto the side of the hospital bed to brace your back with his arm. He pulls you up slightly, his broad chest supporting your weight. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“Okay, the contraction is starting,” the nurse says, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Deep breath … and push!”
You scream, bearing down with every single ounce of strength you have left in your battered body. You squeeze Dean’s hand so hard you literally feel something give way in his knuckles, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just holds you, whispering a constant, steady stream of encouragement into your ear.
“That’s it, that’s it, keep going!” the doctor urges. “I have the head! Y/N, give me one more big push! Don’t stop!”
“Dean!” You cry out, your voice breaking into a sob.
“Push, baby, push! He’s right here!” Dean practically shouts, his own voice cracking with emotion. His eyes are wide, locked on the doctor.
You let out one final, agonizing, earth-shattering scream, forcing your body past every known limit.
And then, suddenly, the unbearable, crushing pressure is gone.
It is replaced by a wet, slippery sound, and then, a second later, the most beautiful, piercing wail Dean has ever heard in his entire life echoes through the delivery room.
“He’s here!” Dr. Williams laughs, pulling her mask down. “Time of birth, 3:31 AM. You did it, Y/N!”
You collapse back against Dean’s chest, completely boneless, gasping for air. You are sobbing openly, the tears running into your ears, your entire body trembling with shock and exhaustion.
Dean is frozen.
He is staring at the tiny, screaming, purple, blood-covered creature the doctor has just lifted into the air.
His son.
The breath leaves Dean’s lungs in a staggering, silent rush. Tears, hot and fast, spill over his eyelashes, tracking down his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to wipe them away. He is completely, utterly overcome.
The doctor quickly wipes the baby down with a towel and immediately places him directly onto your bare chest.
“Oh my god,” you sob, bringing your shaking hands up to cup the baby’s tiny, slippery back. “Oh my god. Dean. Look at him.”
Dean leans over you, his large hands trembling as he reaches out. He doesn’t even know where to touch. The baby is so small, so impossibly fragile. Dean gently rests two fingers against the back of the baby’s head, feeling the soft, dark fuzz of hair there.
“I see him,” Dean chokes out, a wet laugh tearing from his throat. He presses his face to yours, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips, tasting salt and sweat. “You did so good. You did so fucking good, baby. He’s perfect.”
“He looks just like you,” you cry, looking down at the baby’s face.
And he does. Even scrunched up and screaming, the baby is the perfect mix of the two of you. He has Dean’s strong jawline and thick, dark blond hair, but he has your delicate nose and the exact shape of your eyes. He is a Di Laurentis through and through, but he belongs entirely to you.
“Dad, you want to cut the cord?” The nurse asks, holding out a pair of sterile scissors.
Dean nods, unable to speak. He takes the scissors, his hands shaking slightly, and snips the physical connection between you and the baby.
As the blades snap shut, something profound happens inside Dean’s chest.
For the last nine months, a tiny, deeply buried knot of anxiety has been living at the base of Dean’s spine. It was the fear of discovery. The fear of failure. The fear that somehow, someway, you would pack a bag, figure out the truth about his monstrous deception, and leave him. The fear that the ghost of Stanford and the life you were supposed to have would eventually tear you away from him.
But as Dean looks at his son lying on your chest, as he watches you weep with pure, unadulterated love for the child he gave you, that knot entirely unravels.
It is done.
The trap is sealed. Not just in a lease, not just in an engagement ring, but in blood. In bone. In life.
You are a mother now. You are the mother of his child. You will never walk away from this. You will never walk away from him. The cage isn’t just locked; the key has been completely destroyed.
An intoxicating wave of relief and victory washes over Dean, relaxing muscles in his back and shoulders that he didn’t even realize were wound tight. He feels light. He feels powerful. He feels like a god.
“I love you,” Dean whispers fervently, resting his forehead against yours as the nurses bustle around the room, checking vitals and weighing the baby. “I love you so much, Y/N. Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me.”
“I love you too,” you murmur, your eyes heavy, completely exhausted but radiantly happy. “We have a son, Dean.”
“We have a son,” he repeats, the words tasting like victory on his tongue.
***
Two hours later, the chaos of the delivery room has completely subsided.
You have been moved to a private, luxury postpartum suite that Dean paid to upgrade. The lights are dimmed to a soft, warm amber. Outside the window, the blizzard is still raging, painting the city of Boston in a blanket of silent, isolating white.
But inside the room, it is perfectly quiet and incredibly warm.
Dean is sitting in a leather armchair pulled directly up to the side of your hospital bed. He has finally washed the sweat and blood off his hands, though his left hand is heavily bruised and wrapped in an ice pack. Logan, Garrett, Beau, and Tucker had blown up his phone with thirty different texts from the waiting room downstairs, but Dean had ordered them to go home and sleep.
He didn’t want to share you yet. He wanted this quiet, sacred time to be just the three of you.
You are propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a fresh, soft hospital gown. Your eyes are half-closed, the heavy toll of labor visible in the dark circles under your eyes, but you look so peaceful.
“He’s awake,” you whisper, looking down at the bundle resting in the crook of your arm.
Noah Di Laurentis.
Dean leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He watches as Noah roots around, turning his tiny, fuzzy head against your chest, his mouth opening and closing in small, frustrated movements.
“I think he’s hungry,” Dean says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.
“Yeah. The nurse said I should try to get him to latch as soon as he showed signs.” You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as you shift your weight. “Can you help me?”
“Of course,” Dean says immediately.
He stands up, tossing the ice pack onto a side table, and leans over the bed. With incredibly gentle, careful hands, he helps you unbutton the top of the hospital gown, pulling the fabric aside to expose your breast.
Dean’s breath hitches.
He has seen your body a million times. He has worshipped it, explored it, memorized every single inch of it. But seeing you like this — soft, maternal, your skin flushed and full — sends a completely different kind of shockwave straight to his groin.
You adjust Noah in your arms, guiding his tiny head forward. It takes a few clumsy seconds, but suddenly, the baby latches on perfectly.
You let out a soft, sharp gasp of surprise at the sensation, your eyes widening slightly before fluttering shut in relief. “Okay. Okay, he got it.”
Dean slowly sits back down in the armchair. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.
He sits there in the dim light, completely mesmerized, watching you breastfeed his baby for the very first time.
The sight does incredibly complex, dangerous things to Dean’s mind.
It is the most beautiful, pure thing he has ever witnessed. You look like a Renaissance painting, bathed in the soft amber light, your head tipped back against the pillows, your hand gently stroking the soft curve of Noah’s back. The rhythmic, quiet sound of the baby swallowing is the only noise in the room.
But beneath the awe, beneath the profound, overwhelming love he feels for you, is that dark, feral, possessive core that drives every single thing Dean does.
He watches the baby feed from your body, and the visual confirmation of what he has achieved is intoxicating. His seed. His child. Sustained by your blood, grown in your womb, and now feeding from your body. You are physically nourishing the anchor he used to keep you.
You look down at Noah, a soft, exhausted smile playing on your lips. Then, you lift your eyes and look at Dean.
You catch the intense, dark, heated look on his face. Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.
“What?” You whisper self-consciously, pulling the edge of the blanket up slightly to cover yourself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Dean asks, his voice thick and husky.
“Like … like you want to eat me,” you say, letting out a breathy, tired laugh.
Dean smiles, a slow, predatory smirk that makes his green eyes flash dangerously in the low light. He reaches out, trailing his knuckles gently down the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point hammering wildly at your collarbone.
“Because I do,” Dean murmurs, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours. He inhales the scent of you — sweat, hospital soap, and that warm, sweet, milky scent of a new mother. It is a potent, addictive drug. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”
“Dean, I just gave birth,” you laugh softly, though you lean into his touch. “I look like a train wreck. I’m covered in sweat, and I’m pretty sure my hair is matted to my head.”
“You look like a goddess,” he corrects fiercely. He drops his hand to rest lightly over yours where it cradles the baby’s back. “You gave me everything. You gave me a family.”
“We did it together,” you say softly, your eyes softening with that deep, absolute trust that Dean relies on to survive. “I didn’t think … when we first met, I never thought my life would look like this. I thought I’d be alone in a studio in California right now.”
Dean’s hand stills. The mention of California is a ghost from the past, a fleeting phantom that used to terrify him, but now, it holds absolutely no power.
“Are you sad?” Dean asks, his voice perfectly smooth, perfectly supportive. “That you aren’t in California?”
You look down at Noah. You watch his tiny chest rise and fall as he feeds. You look at the massive diamond ring sparkling on your finger. And then, you look back at Dean, the man who has protected you, provided for you, and loved you fiercely when your own family threw you away.
“No,” you whisper, and the absolute honesty in your voice makes Dean’s heart soar. “No, Dean. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Dean leans in and kisses you. It is a deep, branding kiss. He pours all of his dark, twisted, possessive love into it, claiming your mouth the same way he has claimed your life.
When he pulls back, he is breathless, his eyes burning with absolute triumph.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he looks at his beautiful fiancé and his perfect son. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
***
The Cambridge brownstone is exactly as Dean promised it would be ten years ago.
It is massive, stunning, and entirely filled with absolute, deafening chaos.
“Noah! If you do not put your dress shoes on in the next thirty seconds, I am leaving you here to guard the house!” You shout, standing at the bottom of the grand wooden staircase.
“I can’t find the left one!” A nine-year-old boy yells back from somewhere on the second floor. He sounds exactly like his father, complete with the dramatic, exasperated groan.
“Check under the sofa in the den!” You call back, resting a hand on your hip. You turn around, narrowly avoiding stepping on a rogue Lego brick. “Naomi! Nicole! Please stop trying to put lipstick on the dog! The Doberman does not need to look pretty for the reunion!”
“But she’s a girl, Mommy!” Six-year-old Naomi argues from the living room rug, holding a tube of your expensive Chanel lipstick while her identical twin sister, Nicole, tries to hold the extremely tolerant dog still.
“No makeup on the dog!” You command, swooping in to pluck the lipstick out of Naomi’s hand.
You let out a long, exhausted breath, pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. You are wearing a breathtaking, form-fitting crimson silk dress that pools around your ankles, your hair styled in soft, cascading waves. You look like a movie star, but you feel like a frantic zookeeper.
“You know, when I pictured my gorgeous wife in that dress, I didn’t picture her wrestling a tube of lipstick away from a canine.”
You spin around.
Dean is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding two-year-old Jamie perfectly balanced on his hip.
Ten years have done absolutely nothing to diminish Dean Di Laurentis. If anything, time has only made him more devastating. He has traded the hockey jerseys for custom-tailored suits. The boyish charm has sharpened into the lethal, commanding presence of one of Boston’s most feared and successful corporate litigators. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his jaw covered in a faint shadow of stubble, and his broad chest fills out the crisp white dress shirt he’s wearing under his black suit jacket.
He walks toward you, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep over your body that makes your stomach do the exact same flip it did when you were nineteen.
“Well, your gorgeous wife is currently managing a circus,” you sigh, reaching out to fix Jamie’s tiny bow tie. The toddler giggles, grabbing your finger with his chubby hand. “Is the diaper bag packed?”
“Diaper bag is packed, bottles are in the cooler, and Noah’s shoe was in the pantry, for some reason,” Dean says smoothly. “He’s putting it on now. We are ready to go.”
Dean steps into your space, entirely ignoring the chaotic noise of the twins arguing over a toy behind you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
“You look unbelievable,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, husky register that is reserved exclusively for you. “I’m half-tempted to cancel the babysitter, skip the reunion, and take you upstairs.”
“Dean,” you warn, though a breathless laugh escapes your lips as you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck. “We can’t. Tonight is a big deal. The gallery showing first, then Briar.”
“I know, I know,” he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear before pulling back. He looks into your eyes, his green gaze bursting with absolute, overwhelming pride. “Tonight is about you. My brilliant, famous wife.”
You blush, looking down at his crisp lapels. “It’s just a local gallery, Dean. I’m not famous.”
“You sold out your last three collections,” Dean corrects fiercely, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You have a waitlist of private buyers six months long. You are incredible, and tonight, I am going to show you off to every single person in Massachusetts.”
You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. Even after a decade, four kids, and a marriage that has weathered the exhausting storms of his law career and your art shows, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.
“Okay,” you whisper, kissing him softly. “Let’s go show off.”
***
The art gallery in downtown Boston is buzzing with quiet, sophisticated energy. Soft acoustic music plays through hidden speakers, and waiters carry trays of sparkling water and champagne.
The walls are lined with your work — massive, vibrant, emotionally charged oil paintings that explore the beautiful, chaotic reality of motherhood, love, and time. You have spent the last two years pouring your soul into this collection, painting in the sun-drenched attic studio Dean built for you when you were pregnant with Noah.
“Excuse me, Y/N?”
You turn away from a couple admiring a piece near the window. The gallery owner, an elegant woman named Beatrice, is practically vibrating with excitement.
“Yes, Beatrice? Is everything okay?”
“Okay? It’s phenomenal,” Beatrice breathes out, leaning in close. “I just got word from the front desk. Five more pieces just sold. To a private, anonymous buyer.”
Your jaw drops. “Five? At once?”
“Yes! They just wired the full asking price. Y/N, the entire collection is sold out. Every single canvas.” Beatrice grabs your hands, squeezing them tightly. “This is unprecedented for a first-night showing. You are a star.”
You are in absolute shock. You excuse yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs, and scan the crowded room.
You find Dean standing in the corner, holding Jamie, while Noah explains the plot of a Marvel movie to him with wild hand gestures. Dean is nodding along, pretending to be deeply invested in the cinematic universe, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.
You walk over, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor.
“Dean,” you say, stopping in front of him. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you do it?”
Dean blinks, his expression a mask of perfect, innocent confusion. “Did I do what, baby?”
“Did you buy five of my paintings through an anonymous proxy just now?”
“Me?” Dean gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am deeply hurt by this accusation. I am an officer of the court. I uphold the law. I don’t use anonymous proxies.”
“Dean.”
“Okay, it was my dad’s firm acting as the proxy,” Dean smirks, entirely unrepentant. He shifts Jamie to his other hip and reaches out to pull you close. “But I used my money.”
“Dean, you can’t just buy out my gallery!” You laugh, hitting his shoulder. “That’s cheating! You already own half my portfolio. Our house looks like a museum dedicated to me.”
“It’s an investment,” Dean says smoothly, quoting the exact same excuse he used ten years ago when he bought the brownstone. “And I don’t want anyone else owning them. I saw that guy in the turtleneck staring at the self-portrait of you at the beach. He looked like he wanted to buy it. I wasn’t going to let some hipster hang my wife in his living room.”
You roll your eyes, burying your face in his chest to hide your massive, ridiculous smile. He is so possessive, so fiercely protective of everything you create.
“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his suit jacket.
“I’m your biggest fan,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head. “Now, come on. The babysitter is meeting us at the car to take these monsters home. We have a ten-year reunion to crash.”
***
The Briar University campus looks exactly the same. The brick buildings, the sprawling green quads, the crisp, freezing winter air — it’s like stepping into a time machine.
The alumni gala is being held in the main event hall, a massive space decorated in Briar’s signature black and red. The music is loud, the open bar is packed, and the room is overflowing with the Class of 2016.
You walk through the double doors with your hand tightly wrapped in Dean’s. Without the kids pulling you in four different directions, the two of you look like a terrifying power couple. Dean looks immaculate, sharp, and intimidating. You look stunning, glowing with the confidence of a successful woman completely secure in her life.
“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”
You hear the booming voice before you see him.
Garrett pushes his way through the crowd, a massive grin on his face. He is holding a beer in one hand, looking exactly like the cocky, legendary hockey captain he used to be. Right behind him are Logan and Tucker.
“Graham,” Dean grins, dropping your hand to catch Garrett in a rough, back-slapping hug. “You look old, man. The NHL is aging you.”
“Shut up, Di Laurentis,” Garrett laughs, shoving him back. “Some of us actually work for a living instead of sitting behind a mahogany desk.”
“Hey, Y/N,” Logan says, pulling you into a warm hug. “How was the gallery?”
“Sold out,” Dean answers for you, his voice ringing with absolute, obnoxious pride. “Every single piece. She’s a certified genius.”
“Congratulations!” Tucker beams, giving you a hug as well. “That’s incredible. How are the kids? Did you guys bring the whole circus?”
“Babysitter has them,” you say, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “If I brought Jamie in here, he would dismantle the ice sculpture in five minutes.”
“Smart,” Garrett nods, taking a sip of his beer. He looks at Dean, shaking his head in disbelief. “I still can’t get over it. Ten years ago, you were getting kicked out of Malone’s for doing body shots off a bartender. Now you’re a partner at a law firm with four kids and a minivan.”
“It’s an SUV,” Dean corrects smoothly, completely unbothered. “And it has heated leather seats. Don’t be jealous just because your life is boring.”
As the guys fall into their familiar, effortless banter, you look around the room.
It is incredibly surreal. You recognize faces from your freshman art history seminars, girls from your dorm, guys who used to throw massive, destructive parties at the hockey house.
And they are absolutely staring at you.
Or, more accurately, they are staring at Dean.
“Oh my god. Is that Dean Di Laurentis?”
You glance over to see a group of women standing by the bar. You recognize two of them instantly. They were notorious puck bunnies, the kind of girls who used to hang around the ice rink practically begging for Dean’s attention.
One of them is staring at Dean with her mouth literally hanging open. She whispers something to her friend, her eyes darting from Dean to you, and then down to the massive, blinding diamond ring on your left hand.
Dean notices the stares. He notices everything.
He smoothly extracts himself from his conversation with Garrett, steps behind you, and wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls your back flush against his chest, crossing his arms over your stomach. It is a completely territorial, undeniable claim.
He looks directly at the group of whispering women, his green eyes cold and sharp, before he deliberately leans down and presses an open-mouthed, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.
You gasp softly, your hands flying up to grip his forearms. “Dean, we are in public.”
“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Let them look. Let them see exactly whose wife you are.”
“You’re impossible,” you laugh, leaning back against him anyway.
Suddenly, a guy in a slightly ill-fitting gray suit approaches your group. He looks nervous, clutching a plastic cup of beer.
“Dean? Dean Di Laurentis?” The guy asks.
Dean slowly pulls his face away from your neck, though he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He looks at the guy. “Yeah. Evan, right? From constitutional law seminar?”
Evan nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah! Wow, man. It’s crazy to see you. I follow your firm’s cases. That corporate merger you blocked last month? Phenomenal legal maneuvering. Absolute shark stuff.”
“Appreciate it,” Dean says smoothly.
“And I heard …” Evan hesitates, looking between Dean and you with total bewilderment. “I heard you have kids now? Like, a lot of them?”
“Four,” Dean says, the word completely devoid of any embarrassment. He says it like it’s a badge of honor, like he just won the Stanley Cup. “Two boys, two girls.”
Evan actually chokes on his beer. He coughs, his eyes watering. “Four? You? Dean Di Laurentis has four children? With the same woman?”
“I do,” Dean smirks.
“Man, that’s wild,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I just … I remember you in freshman year. You were an absolute machine. I thought you’d be a bachelor forever, living in a penthouse and terrorizing the dating pool.”
“I found something better,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so completely sincere, that the entire circle goes quiet.
He looks down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and your heart physically aches with how much you love him.
“I met my wife,” Dean says, his green eyes locking onto yours, making you feel like you are the only two people in the crowded, noisy room. “And I realized I didn’t want anything else. Just her. And as many kids as she’d let me give her.”
Evan awkwardly clears his throat, clearly realizing he has interrupted a deeply intimate moment. “Right. Well. Congratulations, man. Good to see you.”
He scurries away, and the guys chuckle.
“You really enjoy terrifying the general public, don’t you?” Logan asks, clinking his glass against Dean’s.
“It’s my favorite hobby,” Dean agrees, finally letting go of your waist to take your hand again. “Come on, sweetheart. They’re playing our song. Let’s go terrorize the dance floor.”
“They are playing an EDM remix of a Taylor Swift song, Dean,” you point out, laughing as he drags you toward the center of the room. “This is not our song.”
“It is now,” he declares.
He spins you into his arms, completely ignoring the fast-paced beat of the music, and pulls you into a slow, swaying dance. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your hands in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
You are surrounded by hundreds of people. You are surrounded by the ghosts of your college years, the memories of the broke, terrified, fiercely independent nineteen-year-old girl you used to be.
But as you look at Dean, you realize you don’t miss that girl at all.
You look at the man who saved you. The man who gave you a home, a beautiful family, the freedom to paint, and a love so intense it feels like it could swallow you whole.
“You’re staring,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to rest intimately on your lower back.
“I’m just thinking,” you reply softly, stepping closer so your bodies are perfectly aligned. “About how lucky I am.”
Dean’s breath catches.
His grip on you tightens convulsively. He looks into your eyes, seeing the absolute, unwavering trust and devotion shining there.
Ten years.
It has been ten years since he stood in a tiny, cramped dorm bathroom, staring at a blister pack of birth control pills. Ten years since he made the darkest, most selfish, most terrifying decision of his entire life.
He put them in the microwave. He destroyed the hormones. He trapped you, systematically dismantling your chance to leave him, closing every door until the only path forward was exactly where he wanted you.
And you never knew.
You never suspected a thing. You thought the universe had simply handed you a surprise, and you had embraced it, turning that surprise into a beautiful, thriving family. You think he is your savior. You think he is the good guy who stepped up when your family abandoned you.
Dean stares down at you, his heart pounding a heavy, victorious rhythm against his ribs.
Does he feel guilty?
He searches the darkest, most honest corners of his soul.
No.
He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt. He would do it again, a thousand times over. He would burn the entire world to the ground if it meant keeping you in his arms. He built this life with a lie, but the love is real. The house is real. The four beautiful children sleeping in their beds in Cambridge are real.
He is a monster, maybe. But he is a monster who gets to sleep next to a goddess every single night.
“I’m the lucky one,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with a raw, primal emotion. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “You gave me everything, Y/N. You are my entire world.”
“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.
Dean turns his head, capturing your lips in a slow, deep, devastating kiss. He kisses you until your knees go weak, until you forget about the reunion, the music, and the people staring at you. He kisses you until you are completely, utterly his.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, a familiar, predatory heat burning in his green gaze. He drops his hands from your back, letting them slide slowly, deliberately over the curve of your hips, resting them flat against your stomach.
“You know,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, seductive rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “The house has five bedrooms.”
You blink, confused for a second, still dazed from the kiss. “Yes?”
Dean smirks. It is the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and knows exactly how to get it.
“Noah has his room. The twins share. Jamie has the nursery. And we have the master,” Dean lists off, his thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles over the silk of your dress. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Which means we have some extra square-footage.”
Your eyes widen. You pull back slightly, staring at him in absolute shock. “Dean Di Laurentis. Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m just saying,” Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound of pure joy. “We have the space. And you look entirely too good tonight. It’s making me reckless.”
“We have four kids!” You whisper-shout, hitting his chest, though you are smiling uncontrollably. “Four! I am not having a fifth! I told you in the delivery room with Noah, I was going to castrate you!”
“You’ve been threatening to castrate me for a decade, sweetheart, and yet, here we are,” Dean points out smugly, pulling you right back into his chest. “Come on. Just one more. I want another little girl who looks exactly like you.”
“You are insane,” you laugh, burying your face in his neck.
“I’m in love,” he corrects fiercely.
He wraps his arms around you, swaying you to the music, holding his entire world perfectly secure in his grasp.
Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t believe in setting things free. He believes in holding on. He believes in fighting, claiming, and keeping.
He looks out over the crowded ballroom of his past, his chin resting softly on top of your head. He has the brilliant career, the massive fortune, the perfect children, and the only woman who ever made his heart stop.
He trapped you.
And as he holds you close, listening to your bright, beautiful laughter, Dean smiles into the dark.
Genuinely, I saw a girl post one of these videos and ran here to make this. I didn’t expect it to take me this long or this much work so… enjoy!
Warnings: none? Use of y/n, but content is pretty tame
After rewatching your video a few times, you hit post. You smile to yourself, pleased.
You put on a playlist and set your phone down before crawling onto to your futon, opening the book you’ve been reading.
You’re barely done with the page when your phone starts blowing up.
You answer the next time he calls, and you can tell he’s already in his car.
“Baby,” he says, half relieved and half whining.
“Dean,” you reply, sounding as unbothered as you can.
“Not funny, Y/N.”
“Like I said, I don’t know what you mean.”
“And like I said, I’m coming over. I’m almost there, and I suggest you familiarize yourself with what I’m upset about before I get there.”
You can barely hold in your laugh, muting the call for a moment.
“I guess we’ll see. Drive safe.”
He groans. “Baby—”
You hang up.
While you wait, you check your phone, scrolling through the comments on the TikTok video.
Allie and Hannah are blowing up your group chat about how funny this prank is.
That’s when you get a notification from Instagram.
You were tagged in a post.
You already knew what it was going to be, so you didn’t bother checking it just yet. (Big mistake because you didn’t notice the comment)
For some context, you and Dean had been messing around since the beginning of college, both originally not wanting a relationship.
He was a playboy, and you… didn’t do relationships either, but for different reasons.
A few months ago, you had broken it off. You thought Dean was with someone else. However, once you found out it wasn’t the truth, you used it as an excuse to back out.
Things were getting too serious.
Unfortunately, after a while, another girl thought she could slide in. The classic massive-ego puck bunny that thought she could lock down Dean di Laurentis.
Your Dean di Laurentis.
After finding out about this, it led to a… for lack of better terms, explosion from you.
It took him months to work his way back into your, well, heart.
But, just this past week, you had agreed to give him another chance. Dean had a way of worming through your attachment struggles and avoidant tendencies.
However, you liked to mess with him.
So, when you saw countless girls on your for you page posting thirst traps to Drama Baby, you decided to join in.
Specifically, this part of the song.
He come running back like, baby, I'm yo' biggest fan
You can't fuck on me 'cause you be fucking on them bitches
When you fuck them bitches, it be all about revenge
And I dare that bitch to try to play up in my face
And then, maybe you captioned it with other lyrics from the song… maybe these ones:
I'ma act like I don't need you here
You over there, I'm over here
Before you could decide to do anything about the post on FifthLine, you heard a key turning in your lock.
“Baby? I’m coming in.”
You headed towards the door, getting there just as he walked through.
He looked somewhat out of breath, his hair still damp from his post-practice shower. His eyes raked over you, concern and desperation on his face.
You crossed your arms, feigning indifference.
“Baby? Y/N, please tell me what happened? I want to fix it.”
It was then that you decided your torment for the past hour or so was enough.
You took a step closer. He looked at you, unsure of what was to happen next.
Then, you wrapped your arms around him.
“Hey,” you muttered into his chest.
Despite himself, he hugged you back firmly, kissing the top of your head. Hugs initiated by you were few and far between, so he found himself more worried.
Only for a moment, though.
You couldn’t hold it in anymore, and a laugh escaped you.
He pulled back, hands on your shoulders so he he could look at you.
“Are you kidding me?”
You covered your mouth, trying and failing to contain your laughter.
“I’m sorry, I had to.”
“Babe, I was freaking out.”
“You have to admit, I got you good.”
He sighed, his hands moving from your shoulders to your hips as he stepped closer.
“I guess I deserved it.”
He’s referring to that puck bunny, the one he purposely fooled you into thinking he was interested in to get you back.
“Yeah, you did.”
And with that, he leans down to kiss you.
————————————————————————
About an hour later, you’re curled into Dean on the couch at the hockey house. Everyone is there, and you’re all talking and playing games.
Tucker walks in the door, joining you all.
You all are talking about anything and nothing for a while, until he can’t handle it.
“So, we’re just not going to talk about it?”
Dean sighs. “Don’t worry, Tuck. We got it figured-”
Tucker cuts him off.
“Dude, did you not see Davenport’s comment on FifthLine?”
Dean stills beside you, and everyone goes quiet.
“What?” Dean asks sharply.
Tucker shakes his head. “Take a look, man.”
He tosses Dean his phone. Dean takes one look at the pose and comment, and he’s off.
He kisses you briefly, gently shifts you off of him, grabs his keys, and heads out the door.
You look around at everyone, Hannah and Allie’s expressions matching yours.
“So, that’s not good,” Allie says, before you three laugh.
The boys all shoot up and head out the door after Dean.
“So much for a harmless prank,” you say to your two best friends, before laughing again.
Genuinely, I saw a girl post one of these videos and ran here to make this. I didn’t expect it to take me this long or this much work so… enjoy!
Warnings: none? Use of y/n, but content is pretty tame
————————————————————————
After rewatching your video a few times, you hit post. You smile to yourself, pleased.
You put on a playlist and set your phone down before crawling onto to your futon, opening the book you’ve been reading.
You’re barely done with the page when your phone starts blowing up.
You answer the next time he calls, and you can tell he’s already in his car.
“Baby,” he says, half relieved and half whining.
“Dean,” you reply, sounding as unbothered as you can.
“Not funny, Y/N.”
“Like I said, I don’t know what you mean.”
“And like I said, I’m coming over. I’m almost there, and I suggest you familiarize yourself with what I’m upset about before I get there.”
You can barely hold in your laugh, muting the call for a moment.
“I guess we’ll see. Drive safe.”
He groans. “Baby—”
You hang up.
While you wait, you check your phone, scrolling through the comments on the TikTok video.
Allie and Hannah are blowing up your group chat about how funny this prank is.
That’s when you get a notification from Instagram.
You were tagged in a post.
You already knew what it was going to be, so you didn’t bother checking it just yet. (Big mistake because you didn’t notice the comment)
For some context, you and Dean had been messing around since the beginning of college, both originally not wanting a relationship.
He was a playboy, and you… didn’t do relationships either, but for different reasons.
A few months ago, you had broken it off. You thought Dean was with someone else. However, once you found out it wasn’t the truth, you used it as an excuse to back out.
Things were getting too serious.
Unfortunately, after a while, another girl thought she could slide in. The classic massive-ego puck bunny that thought she could lock down Dean di Laurentis.
Your Dean di Laurentis.
After finding out about this, it led to a… for lack of better terms, explosion from you.
It took him months to work his way back into your, well, heart.
But, just this past week, you had agreed to give him another chance. Dean had a way of worming through your attachment struggles and avoidant tendencies.
However, you liked to mess with him.
So, when you saw countless girls on your for you page posting thirst traps to Drama Baby, you decided to join in.
Specifically, this part of the song.
He come running back like, baby, I'm yo' biggest fan
You can't fuck on me 'cause you be fucking on them bitches
When you fuck them bitches, it be all about revenge
And I dare that bitch to try to play up in my face
And then, maybe you captioned it with other lyrics from the song… maybe these ones:
I'ma act like I don't need you here
You over there, I'm over here
Before you could decide to do anything about the post on FifthLine, you heard a key turning in your lock.
“Baby? I’m coming in.”
You headed towards the door, getting there just as he walked through.
He looked somewhat out of breath, his hair still damp from his post-practice shower. His eyes raked over you, concern and desperation on his face.
You crossed your arms, feigning indifference.
“Baby? Y/N, please tell me what happened? I want to fix it.”
It was then that you decided your torment for the past hour or so was enough.
You took a step closer. He looked at you, unsure of what was to happen next.
Then, you wrapped your arms around him.
“Hey,” you muttered into his chest.
Despite himself, he hugged you back firmly, kissing the top of your head. Hugs initiated by you were few and far between, so he found himself more worried.
Only for a moment, though.
You couldn’t hold it in anymore, and a laugh escaped you.
He pulled back, hands on your shoulders so he he could look at you.
“Are you kidding me?”
You covered your mouth, trying and failing to contain your laughter.
“I’m sorry, I had to.”
“Babe, I was freaking out.”
“You have to admit, I got you good.”
He sighed, his hands moving from your shoulders to your hips as he stepped closer.
“I guess I deserved it.”
He’s referring to that puck bunny, the one he purposely fooled you into thinking he was interested in to get you back.
“Yeah, you did.”
And with that, he leans down to kiss you.
————————————————————————
About an hour later, you’re curled into Dean on the couch at the hockey house. Everyone is there, and you’re all talking and playing games.
Tucker walks in the door, joining you all.
You all are talking about anything and nothing for a while, until he can’t handle it.
“So, we’re just not going to talk about it?”
Dean sighs. “Don’t worry, Tuck. We got it figured-”
Tucker cuts him off.
“Dude, did you not see Davenport’s comment on FifthLine?”
Dean stills beside you, and everyone goes quiet.
“What?” Dean asks sharply.
Tucker shakes his head. “Take a look, man.”
He tosses Dean his phone. Dean takes one look at the pose and comment, and he’s off.
He kisses you briefly, gently shifts you off of him, grabs his keys, and heads out the door.
You look around at everyone, Hannah and Allie’s expressions matching yours.
“So, that’s not good,” Allie says, before you three laugh.
The boys all shoot up and head out the door after Dean.
“So much for a harmless prank,” you say to your two best friends, before laughing again.
summary: in which y/n is rarely clingy, but tonight she can’t seem to let go of garrett, and he finds himself loving every second of it.
notes: hi!! i'm so sorry for not posting in a few days, i've been incredibly busy! i hope you all enjoy, thank you so much for this request! 💌
ꪆৎ
it starts with garrett receiving a message.
he’s sprawled on the couch at the hockey house, half-watching whatever logan has put on the tv, one arm slung over the back cushion while tucker argues with dean about something deeply stupid and entirely unimportant.
his phone buzzes once, then again. garrett glances down.
allie
come get your girlfriend. she's stressing me out
his brows pull together immediately. before he can reply, another message comes through.
sabrina
correction. she’s stressing all of us out
then a photo. garrett opens it, immediately fighting the urge to laugh.
you’re tucked into the back booth of some loud bar, cheeks flushed pink, eyes glassy, smiling way too hard at the camera while clutching someone’s half-eaten fries like they’re precious cargo.
you look adorable.
you also look very, very drunk.
garrett stares at the photo for half a second before pushing himself upright. dean notices instantly. “what?”
garrett is already standing. “allie says y/n’s drunk.”
logan pauses. “drunk drunk?”
garrett shows them the photo. logan bursts out laughing, dean practically lunges forward. “oh, she’s gone.” tucker squints at the picture. “are those fries?”
garrett ignores them, calling allie. she answers on the first ring, already laughing. “how bad?”
allie snorts. “depends.”
garrett grabs his keys from the counter. “on?”
“how much patience you have.”
dean is already standing too. “we’re coming.”
garrett looks at him. “why?”
logan stands. “because this sounds entertaining.”
tucker shrugs, grabbing his hoodie. “and because if she’s really drunk, you’ll need help.”
garrett sighs, already knowing that arguing would be pointless. “fine.”
-
the second garrett steps into the bar, he hears you before he sees you. your laugh carries across the room, bright, loud, completely unfiltered. music pounds from overhead speakers, people are packed shoulder to shoulder around tables and booths, but garrett’s attention locks in immediately.
allie spots them first, relief immediately flooding her features, before amusement quickly follows. beside garrett, dean is already grinning, far too entertained by the situation before him.
garrett shoots him a suspicious look. “why are you smiling like that?”
dean claps a hand against his shoulder. “because this is going to be hilarious.”
“this will not be hilarious.”
“it really will.”
then garrett sees you. you’re sitting in a chair while sabrina crouches beside you, trying, and failing, to keep you still. your hands are moving animatedly while you tell some story that appears to be deeply important.
grace is trying not to laugh, sabrina looks exhausted, allie looks seconds from losing it again. suddenly you look up, spotting him. your entire face lights up, like the sun breaking through clouds.
“garrett!”
oh no.
that voice. that ridiculously happy drunk voice. every single person around you visibly braces. garrett barely gets two steps closer before you’re on your feet, launching yourself at him, fully.
he catches you instinctively with a quiet grunt, arms wrapping securely around your waist before either of you topple over. “easy.” your arms loop around his neck, before your hands move to hold his face.
garrett freezes, a smirk gracing his features, clearly entertained by your intoxicated state. you stare at him with intense concentration, like you’re studying something very serious. “you’re sooo handsome.”
logan chokes, dean fully loses it, tucker pinches the bridge of his nose like he physically can’t handle what he’s witnessing.
garrett closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. “hi, baby.” you squint at him, focused. your thumbs brush his cheeks. “you have nice eyelashes.”
garrett blinks, “thank you.”
you keep staring, still holding his face. “like. really nice.”
he bites back a smile. “thank you, y/n.”
your expression changes so fast it gives him emotional whiplash. your face falls, devastation written plainly across your features. “i lost my bag.”
garrett goes still, immediate concern replacing his amusement. “what?”
before panic can properly settle in, sabrina lifts your bag. “i have it.”
you gasp, eyes widening, like this is the greatest miracle you’ve ever witnessed. “you found it!" logan folds over laughing, garrett exhales slowly.
right. okay, this was going to be a long night.
-
getting you out of the bar somehow proves to be harder than expected, mostly because drunk you has apparently decided walking is optional. garrett has one arm firmly around your waist, guiding you towards the exit. you’re leaning heavily into him, all of your weight, happy as can be.
“baby.” garrett adjusts his grip. “walk.”
you look up at him and smile dreamily. “no.”
dean nearly trips laughing, garrett shoots him a look sharp enough to kill, “you’re not helping.”
dean places a hand over his chest, dramatically feigning offence. “i’m being supportive.”
garrett deadpans, “of who?”
dean pauses, considering garrett's words, “good question.”
outside, the cool night air hits you. you blink slowly before tilting your head up towards the sky. for a second you go quiet, completely still. your gaze lingers on the stars scattered overhead, glowing softly against the darkness. you hum under your breath, “pretty.”
garrett glances down at you, noticing the way your features have softened. you look sleepy, content, like you're completely at peace. his chest tightens.
god.
he loves you. even like this, especially like this, ridiculous and clingy and completely unfiltered.
by the time you all reach the car, you’ve somehow gone limp again.
garrett stares. “seriously?”
you grin. “carry me.”
logan laughs so hard he has to grab the car door. garrett sighs as though he’s annoyed. he isn’t, he never could be. he simply slips an arm beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly.
you beam, victorious. “thank you.”
“you’re impossible.”
“and pretty.”
he huffs, a smirk gracing his features. “that too.”
eventually garrett gets you settled in to the passenger seat. he leans over to buckle your seatbelt, immediately pausing. your fingers are in his hair, gently playing with the strands at the nape of his neck. his breath catches for half a second, his entire expression softening as he looks at you.
behind him, dean makes a dramatic gagging noise.
“oh my god.” allie smacks dean’s arm, sending him a glare.
garrett ignores both of them, eyes staying on you. “seatbelt first, y/n.”
you pout. “mean.”
he laughs quietly. “yeah?”
“you’re bossy.”
“only because you’re drunk.”
you narrow your eyes, like you’re deeply offended. “you smell nice.”
from the backseat, logan groans. “i cannot do this anymore.”
dean grins, clearly amused. “g’s trying so hard not to smile.”
garrett shuts the door, walking around to the driver’s side, muttering under his breath, “i hate all of you.”
logan leans forward from the back, “no you don’t.”
starting the car garrett responds, "yeah. i do.”
the drive back is chaos, absolute chaos. for exactly six seconds, the car is quiet, until you begin rambling. “do you guys remember when sabrina cried watching that military homecoming video?”
sabrina immediately groans from the backseat. “why is that your favourite story?”
you turn in your seat as much as the seatbelt allows, fully invested in the conversation. “because you cried for like ten minutes.”
“it was emotional.”
“you cried harder than me.”
“that is completely untrue.”
tucker snorts, dean grins. “i saw it. there were tears.”
sabrina gasps. “dean!"
garrett reaches over with one hand, gently guiding you back towards your seat before you twist too far. his hand settles lightly against your shoulder, his touch steady. “eyes forward, baby.”
you squint at him suspiciously before obliging and turning around to face the front. that lasts approximately ten seconds before you gasp, causing everyone to jump.
you twist again, offended, your tone accusatory. “grace stole my chips!"
grace stares at you, eyes wide with amusement, “you offered them!"
you point dramatically. “i offered some.”
logan laughs, dean is already losing it again. grace simply shakes her head, trying not to smile. “you were literally shoving them at me, y/n.”
you look deeply betrayed. “that’s not the point."
the car erupts into laughter again. you try to maintain the offended expression for a few more seconds, but grace is looking at you with barely-contained amusement, and you unfortunately crack.
a laugh slips out of you, quiet and warm before you mouth an exaggerated i love you in her direction. grace’s expression softens instantly, smiling and blowing you a kiss in return.
garrett can’t help the smile tugging at his mouth, even as he shakes his head in quiet disbelief at the chaos around him.
keeping one hand on the wheel, he reaches over with the other and gently guides you back into your seat, grounding you with the easiest kind of familiarity. “sit properly, y/n.”
you slump dramatically into your seat, sighing. “everyone’s against me.”
sabrina's voice sounds from the back of the car. “y/n, no one’s against you.” you pout, then sigh, before glancing sideways at garrett.
“my boyfriend is.” you bite your lip, refraining from laughing.
garrett raises a brow. “me?”
you nod solemnly. “you’re bossy.”
dean bursts out laughing. “she’s got you figured out.”
garrett doesn’t even spare him a glance, simply laughing to himself.
you stare at him, your face brightening. “you smell nice.”
logan groans loudly. “again?”
dean grins. “this is incredible.”
tucker shakes his head from the back. “i’ve never seen her this clingy before.”
allie smiles. “oh, no. she's going to get worse.”
logan glances at her briefly. “worse?”
allie smiles innocently, nodding in response. “much worse.”
-
by the time you get back to the hockey house, logan realises allie wasn’t exaggerating. if anything, she undersold it. the second garrett kills the engine, you turn towards him. “can you please carry me.”
garrett exhales. “baby.”
you blink at him, completely serious. “my legs are broken.”
tucker wheezes laughing, dean nearly folds in half. “legs broken is an insane excuse, y/n.”
garrett pinches the bridge of his nose before unbuckling his seatbelt. “your legs are not broken, y/n.”
you smile sweetly. “can’t prove that.” he stares at you for a second, before sighing, already knowing he’s losing this battle, again.
when he opens your door, you immediately lift your arms towards him, expectant, waiting. garrett just shakes his head. there’s no real annoyance there, just reluctant amusement.
he slides an arm beneath your knees and another around your back, lifting you effortlessly. you melt into him instantly, arms around his neck, cheek against his shoulder, content, safe.
“thank you.” your voice is softer now, sleepier. garrett’s hold tightens, “of course.”
as he carries you inside, dean calls after him, “captain’s down bad.”
garrett doesn’t even turn around. “shut up, dean.”
-
garrett barely makes it to the couch before sitting down with you still in his arms.
allie settles into the armchair beside the couch, clearly staying close in case you need anything, while grace and sabrina take the other end of the sectional.
across from them, dean and logan sprawl across the opposite couch, tucker lingering nearby with a half-open bag of chips in hand.
garrett reaches for the water bottle and painkillers allie had handed him. big mistake. the second he shifts even slightly, you crawl fully into his lap.
your arms rest around his neck, your face buried into his shoulder. garrett barely catches the water before it spills, his hand settling automatically on your back, slowly moving up and down.
you mumble into his neck, words coming out slightly muffled. “i missed you.” the room goes quieter, not silent, just softer, even dean pauses mid-comment, his grin fading into something more fond.
garrett’s hand slows, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. “yeah?”
you nod against him. “so much.”
his expression softens completely, every trace of amusement gone, replaced by something quieter, warmer. “baby, i was only gone for three hours.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, sleepy, earnest. “felt longer.”
allie grins from beside you, a knowing look on her features. she catches the tiny smile tugging at garrett’s mouth. “he loves it.”
logan huffs a laugh from across the room. “that’s disgustingly obvious.”
garrett doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even try.
everyone knows him too well, they can all see it. the way his entire body softens around you, the way one arm stays secure around your waist so you don’t slide off his lap, the way his other hand keeps brushing your hair back from your face.
the way he looks at you, like you hung the damn moon.
garrett lifts the water. “drink some.” you stare at the cup, eyes filled with suspicion, before shaking your head no.
“yes.”
“no.”
you keep glaring at the cup like it personally insulted you.
garrett blinks. “why?”
you frown, seriously. "too hard.”
garrett stares, “holding the cup is too hard?”
you nod, completely sincere. “right now? yes.”
garrett sighs softly, lifting the water bottle to your lips himself. you obediently take small sips. garrett waits, patiently, calmly. you finish the water, leaning back against him once more.
eventually, after enough teasing and dramatic commentary from dean, tucker and logan, garrett decides you’re done for the night.
you’re visibly wilting in his lap now, sleepy, heavy. your words come out slower, your movements softer. garrett can feel the way your body has relaxed completely against his, all loose limbs and warm weight. he rubs a hand slowly up and down your back, his voice coming out quiet, gentle. “you wanna head upstairs?”
you barely lift your head from where it’s tucked into his neck. “no.”
garrett smiles faintly. “yes.”
you make a small protesting sound. “mm' comfortable.”
god.
you’re half asleep and still clinging to him.
his hand slides beneath your thighs while the other supports your back. “c’mon, baby.”
you let out a tiny noise in protest as he stands, but your limbs wrap around him almost instantly, arms around his neck, legs around his waist.
logan grins from the couch. “godspeed, captain.”
dean raises his hand in a mock salute. “good luck, g.”
garrett rolls his eyes, shooting both of them an unimpressed look, though a small smile still tugs at the corner of his mouth.
nearby, allie watches from the armchair with a soft smile. despite all the chaos, despite all the teasing, there’s something sweet about this. the way you trust garrett completely, the way he takes care of you without hesitation, the way this has always been so easy with you two.
garrett carries you upstairs. your head is tucked against his shoulder, your breathing warm against his neck. by the time he reaches his room, you’re nearly asleep.
his room is quiet, still, dimly lit. the soft yellow glow from his bedside lamp spills warm light across the room, softening everything.
garrett carefully sets you down on the edge of his bed, you sway slightly and his hands immediately settle on your waist to steady you. “stay here.”
you blink up at him, sleepy confusion clouding your expression. “where are you going?”
garrett’s mouth twitches. “bathroom.”
your brows furrow. “why?”
“makeup wipes.” you stare at him for a second, processing his words, before nodding.
the makeup wipes had started as an accident. months ago, after one unexpected sleepover, he’d watched you standing in his bathroom trying to scrub mascara off with tissues and face wash.
the next day, garrett had bought makeup wipes, then moisturizer, then hair ties, then spare makeup remover, now everything lived permanently on the bathroom counter.
just for you.
he grabs the wipes and turns back towards his room, then stops, completely.
for one full second, his brain stops working. somehow, in the thirty seconds he’d been gone, you’d managed to undress.
your dress lay discarded in a soft heap on the floor. you’re sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but navy blue lace underwear, slightly sleepy, completely unbothered.
garrett just stares, his throat suddenly dry.
god.
the navy fabric hugs softly against your skin, delicate lace tracing over your figure in a way that makes every coherent thought in his head evaporate. you notice his expression almost immediately, your sleepy face brightening.
“oh.”
you glance down at yourself, then back up at him. a smile spreads across your features. “i bought this the other day.”
garrett exhales, slowly, dangerously slow. his gaze lifts back to meet yours. “yeah?”
you nod. “do you like it?”
god.
the way you ask it. soft, open, sleepy, completely sincere.
his expression shifts instantly. beneath the initial shock, all he really feels is affection. maybe a little devastation.
you’re so beautiful it physically hurts sometimes. garrett steps towards you slowly. his voice lowers, soft, rough around the edges. “yeah, baby.”
his eyes stay locked on yours. “i really like it.”
your smile turns soft, melting under the warmth of his voice. for a second, neither of you move. the air feels heavier somehow, charged with desire. garrett’s gaze lingers, just for a second, admiring, appreciating. he drags his attention upwards once more. “you trying to kill me?”
you giggle, actually giggle. “maybe.”
he huffs a quiet laugh, helpless, gone for you, completely.
garrett reaches for his dresser and pulls out one of his old t-shirts before stepping closer towards you. “arms up.”
you obey immediately, sleepy and trusting. he carefully pulls the shirt over your head, gently guiding it down, careful not to mess up your hair. the fabric falls to your mid-thigh, swallowing you whole. his hands smooth the shirt down automatically, lingering for just a second at your hips. “better?"
you pout. “covered.”
he smiles, laughter escaping from his lips. “yes.”
“rude.”
“self-preservation.”
you laugh softly in response and the sound settles somewhere deep in his chest.
-
once you’re tucked against his pillows, garrett sits beside you with the makeup wipes, “c’mere.” you immediately scoot closer, close enough that your knees brush his thigh.
your eyes are already heavy with sleep. garrett’s chest tightens as he tilts your chin upwards gently. “let me take your makeup off for you quickly.”
you nod, smiling in admiration at him.
garrett works slowly, carefully. the wipe brushes gently over your skin, lifting away smudged mascara first, then eyeliner, then the faint traces of blush.
you stay perfectly still, quiet, simply just watching him.
garrett notices your gaze after a minute. “what?”
your sleepy smile returns. “nothing.”
his thumb brushes lightly along your jaw. “y/n.”
you lean into his hand, voice softer now, coming out barely louder than a whisper. “you’re taking care of me.” something warm settles painfully in his chest at your words. his voice drops, “always, baby.”
your expression shifts, softening in the way that always undoes him, like you’re seeing something in him no one else gets to. “you’re really nice.”
he smiles faintly. “you said that already.”
“still true.”
he finishes removing the last traces of mascara, reaching for your moisturiser. he rubs a little between his hands, gently smoothing it over your cheeks. your eyes flutter shut instantly, feeling yourself melt beneath his touch. “that feels nice.”
garrett laughs quietly. “yeah?”
“mhm.”
his fingers move slowly across your skin, gentle circles, careful strokes, until your whole body looks relaxed. when he’s done, he sets everything aside. you open your eyes just enough to look at him, before lifting your arms, wordlessly, asking.
garrett’s expression softens instantly, he slips into bed beside you. the second he does, you move, curling into him like you were made to fit there, arms around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest.
garretts arms close around you without hesitation. your voice is barely a whisper, half-asleep. “garrett?”
he presses a kiss into your hair. “yeah?”
you mumble against his shirt, words slurring slightly with sleep. “thank you for being patient with me.”
his chest aches, hand sliding slowly through your hair. "i'll always be patient with you, y/n.”
you smile sleepily. “even when i’m annoying?”
garrett laughs under his breath. “especially then.”
you hum, content, already drifting. “i love you.” the three words are soft, sleepy, unguarded, yet they hit him all the same.
garrett stills for half a second, his arms tightening around you in assurance. his lips brush your forehead, tender. “i love you too, baby.”
your breathing evens out not long after, slow, steady, fast asleep.
garrett lies there in the quiet, one hand moving slowly through your hair, listening to your breathing, feeling your warmth tucked against him, thinking about navy blue lace, makeup wipes in his bathroom, and the fact that somewhere along the way, loving you had become the easiest thing he’d ever done.
[Off Campus x fem!reader] [Eventual Garrett Graham x fem!reader]
Summary: Y/N Y/L/N was considered the best goalie in all of college hockey. However, she knew that if anyone, whether it be her teammates, the media, or the fans, were to find out that she was actually a woman behind the mask, her reputation would be screwed and her dreams of getting drafted into the NHL would go down the drain. So, she did would anyone would do if they were trying to be perceived as a man while actually being a woman: She went by her first initial and her last name, she rarely took off her mask, and she did not interact with her teammates off the ice. Y/N was a ghost, a phantom, who came to life only on the ice. The only person that knew of her true identity was Coach Jensen, who was willing to overlook her flaws (being a woman) because of her talent.
After transferring to Briar from Harvard, Y/N finds herself desperately trying to avoid her new teammates, who are keen on getting to know their goalie better, and keep her identity hidden from the world.
Chapter 1: She's The Man
Chapter 2: How to disappear
said i’m the love of your life (about a million times), steve harrington
steve harrington x fem!reader (7.6k words)
in which steve is trying really hard to become your boyfriend, but you keep rejecting him over and over — yet it doesn’t seem like you hate the idea of him. but that’s okay, because steve’s never been one to give up so easily.
or 3 times you reject steve and the one time you don’t.
warnings: reader is crazy oblivious, angsty with happy ending, jealousy, vecna’s curse (reader), kissing, yearning, dustin being a sap for most part, robin is lovely, slow burn, anxiety and depression, friends to lovers, shit ending
☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩
You sit on the comfy old couch on the Wheeler’s basement, left corner pretty much already belonging to you from the amount of time you come over. It would be weird in any other circumstance, except it’s all because of the little gremlins that you’re supposed to call teenagers that are spread out all over the room.
Dustin is sitting by the other end of the couch, munching contently on some chocolate in a way that almost makes you smile. Mike and Will are both on the floor, sitting snugly against the armchair to Dustin’s left. And Lucas lays stomach down in the middle of the basement, not paying much attention to the movie and seemingly more focused on the fashion magazine in front of him.
You’re smart enough not to question why he’s suddenly so interested in gap’s summer collection. You can assume why, as his mood is gloomier than ever due to having a silly fight with max again.
It’s not something to get worried about though, he’s a pretty sappy romantic kid and you’re sure he’ll get her back in no time.
The door opening sounds through the basement, steps following down the stairs as Steve comes into view.
He throws the bag of popcorn to the two boys by the armchair, ignoring Mike’s complaints as they land right on his face.
“A diet coke for the lady.” He hands the can to you smoothly, though your gaze stays focused on the movie.
“Mhm.” It’s enough of a thank you to him, knowing you too well to disturb your focused moment.
Fishing out the bag of peanuts from his pocket, he throws himself rather loudly to the spot on the couch beside you, smiling at your annoyed tap on his leg for him to be quiet.
Without saying a word, he opens the packet on his hands, picking out peanuts one by one and cracking the shells open before handing them to you.
“Aren’t you gonna eat some too?” You say after a moment of realizing they’re appearing on your hand way too fast for you to be sharing.
“No, i’m good.” He affirms, so gentle it makes you momentarily glance at him.
Except seems to have the same idea as you, eyes focused on your face as if he’d been staring for at least a little while. It makes you grow all hot, though you blame it on the july weather.
Shaking out a confused nod, you turn back to the tv. Refusing to ask why he’s doing this. You really don’t want to know the answer.
It’s not that Steve’s not a nice guy, he’s always been kind to you for all you know. But then again you never really interacted with him back in school.
He’s just been extra nice for the last couple of months, and you would love it. You would. Except to you he pretty much seems to be obsessing over getting someone to date. And you don’t want to be one of them, not when he’s doing it all to get over someone.
Besides, Nancy is a really nice girl and the last thing you want is to get yourself into some kind of rivalry with her. That’s not you.
While you’re distracted you don’t notice Lucas approaching Dustin, whispering something to him while pointing at the magazine from before.
“Will you two let us watch the movie? Jeese.” Steve grumps, throwing you a ‘are they serious?’ look, although you know he doesn’t really care.
“Yeah so, about that- we gotta go!” Dustin suddenly jumps up from the couch, excited in a rather suspicious way.
“What?” You frown.
“We’re so sorry but i just found like the perfect gift for Max and it’s on sale! I need to go get it before someone gets their grabby hands on it.” Lucas points to the golden necklace on the catalogue.
It is pretty, you can’t deny that.
“Ok well, you two don’t take long cause the sun’s setting soon.” It’s a bit weird to be sounding like one of their moms, but you’ve gotten used to it.
“Us four, actually.” Dustin cuts in, pointing to Mike and Will you look like they are just as confused as you.
“That must be some heavy necklace for you to need four of you to carry it.” Steve answers amusedly, as if he knows exactly what the boy is doing.
Damn them and their way of communicating. Sometimes you really believe they were separated in birth, even with the age difference.
“Dude, you seriously are so out of touch. We need an extra opinion in case there’s no necklaces left.” It’s some stupid excuse, but you’re too tired and hot to retaliate.
“Just don’t take long. Your parents will all kill us if they knew we let you out till late.” You give in easily, finding yourself to be way more accepting than Steve.
“Be back before 8 or i’ll come get you!” Steve exclaims as the teenagers start running up the stairs.
“Yes, mom!” Dustin yells sarcastically.
Steve huffs beside you, not moving even a bit even with the extra space on the couch now.
“Could’ve at least called me Dad. Mom.” He scoffs the end of the phrase out.
“Oh no, you’re definitely mom.” You giggle, more bubbling out of your chest at his faux offensed face.
“Am not!” He squeaks.
“You sure are very motherly towards them. Sound exactly like my Mrs. Wheeler scolding at them.” You poke his bicep jokingly.
He rolls his eyes, though a little smile is at the corner of his mouth. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t for the next few seconds and you don’t wait to turn back to the tv.
“Does that mean you’re like the dad?” You freeze at his silly question.
Because he doesn’t mean for it to be silly and you don’t even have to process it to know it. He sure as hell doesn’t mean it in a ‘friendly divorced parents’ way.
“What?” You blurt, scraping your nails against the can on your hands anxiously.
He notices your demeanor, almost frowning but pulling the happy mask before his eyebrows get to pinch together.
“Like- cause i’m mom and all.” He laughs awkwardly. “We’re like their parents at the point with how much we babysit.”
“Right. Of course.” You smile tightly.
Your heart soars at the way he seems upset due to your dry tone. It almost makes you want to tell him that it’s okay, that you don’t mind it, that you wish you were actually a couple.
“I mean- i did feel like a dad with you bringing me a drink while i watch tv. You’d make a pretty good housewife.” Your eyes gleam when your comment lightens his smile.
“Look at us breaking stereotypes.” Steve muses, pretty teeth impossible not to look at when he smiles just for you.
You can only smile too, head leaning slightly back against the couch as your body feels suddenly aware that he’s close to you. Enough that your legs touch and your shoulders brush with every slight movement.
“I would make a nice housewife.” He affirms to himself, voice filled with ego.
“Yeah, don’t let it get to your pretty head.” You mock.
“You think i’m pretty?” He whispers, almost like a secret.
The air you’re about to let out catches on your throat, chest heavy in the worst best way. He’s so gorgeous - the most.
And you really want to feel it naturally, what he’s trying to give you. But you can’t. Because there’s always that little voice at the back of your head, like a string that makes you trip every time you try to go through the door that leads to him.
So you pull back, turning from his searching eyes and desperately trying to find something to say to make this less awkward.
“Oh look, Leia and Han are about to kiss for the first time.” Great. That so makes it better.
“Yeah.” Steve croaks after a moment.
It makes you want to dig into the couch, hide yourself inside the cushions until everything is okay. It makes it worse that he feels more hurt than angry at the rejection.
“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom real quick.” He gets up, almost skipping steps as he goes up the stairs.
There’s a bathroom in the basement.
“Steve-“
“I’ll be right back.”
You dig your nails into the palms of your hands, feeling like a jerk and definitely lonely and weirdly not because of the empty basement. It’s for the best.
You’re tiring, he’d get tired. You’d tire him, is what you tell yourself to make it seem like a good decision.
He only comes back to tell you he’s picking the kids up, not quite looking you in the eye but acting like normal all over again. Almost as if he still wants to be overly nice to you. Still opens the car door for you. Still puts on your favorite radio station.
☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩
“I just really have a feeling that he likes someone.” Robin rambles while organizing the mountain of tapes on their correct shelves.
“Steve?” You ask, shuddering a bit at the thought.
“Yeah, i mean- he hasn’t told me about any recent date. But then again i might have just made him think i don’t care about those.” She looks slightly apologetic as she says.
“I’m sure he doesn’t think that.” You reassure, rubbing her arm comfortably as you come closer to help sort.
Robin hums, putting on the expression she has when she’s trying to remember something.
“He did tell me about this girl. I didn’t think much of it at first but now that i’m thinking, he hasn’t mentioned anyone after that.” You try to process her words, trying to hide the way your stomach drops.
“And like he didn’t wanna reveal her identity. But he said it was someone he’s know for a long time, that he thought he finally found his person.” She goes on before adding, “‘said she’s different from other girls.” She scrunches her nose at the phrase.
“Oh yuck.” You laugh with her, forgetting the problem in question for a moment.
“So original of him, right?” Robin bumps her hip with yours.
“Please tell him to never confess to her by saying that.” You smile through it.
Then it hits you. Someone he’s known for a long time. He thinks she’s the one. Nancy.
“Actually, i was thinking you could talk to him.” She puts out, raising her eyebrows in question.
“Me?” You’re more confused than ever. Why would you need to speak to him? He can like whoever he wants to like. None of your business.
“As much as i want to find out who it is, i don’t think i’ll get it out of him. He acts all weird whenever i talk about it. And you’re his best friend, too. Maybe you could help him out.” She explains, though it seems like she’s holding back.
You’re Steve’s best friend. Did he say that? You hope he did.
It’s not a good idea that he might still be in love with Nancy. She’s got a boyfriend and they’re happy together.
“I guess that makes sense.” You agree, “Nancy would probably be upset if he tried something right now.”
“What?” Robin practically gasps.
“He seems like he wants to make a move, doesn’t he?”
“No, no, no- that’s not-“ Her eyes widen as she speaks, but the bell makes a loud noise as the store’s door opens, interrupting her mid sentence.
Steve smiles widely at you both, “I’m back!” As if you can’t see him right there.
It makes you smile a bit more, more so when he looks right at you. “You’re here. Hi.” He sounds rather excited about it.
“Yeah, Robin said i should keep you company since you’re covering for her.” You tell him.
“That’s nice of you, thank you.” He says.
“‘Course, it’s nothing.” You wave him off, sticking your hand into your pocket as you forget what to do with your hands.
“Okayyy…” Robin drags the word, leaving some kind of suggestion in the air. “That’s my cue to head out for a date with my lovely lady.” She bows dramatically.
“Yeah, okay. Brag.” Steve teases, though you see it in his smile that he loves that she’s happy.
“Bye, Rob. Have so much fun.” You receive a happy thumbs up before she’s out the door.
You smile to yourself, sorting through the tapes as you feel Steve come to stand beside you and let out a big breath before getting to work. Dramatic.
“Had fun with Buckley?” He asks, glancing at you with his soft deer eyes.
“I sure did. She’s much less boring than you.” You tease.
He brings his hand to his chest, “Oh wow, you wound me.” While giving you his best pout and it make it even harder for you to keep the friendly act going. “You totally love my company.”
“You’re okay.” You give in, refusing to look him in the eye as you know it’d crack your smile in one second. He notices.
“Did you have lunch?” He blurts randomly, as if remembering something.
“Uh- not yet, no.” You look at him amusedly.
“I brought you that sandwich you like, the one with the pretty wrapping. Cause, you know, i went there for lunch and i thought it would be nice.” He confesses nervously.
“Thanks, Steve.” You give in the urge to squeeze his bicep, your usual and mutual understanding thank you.
You let the comfortable silence fill the store, empty of customers due to it being lunch time.
Thoughts gear through your head, trying to put whatever you’re about to say in the right words so they don’t come out in a way that makes you look like a jerk.
Why couldn’t Robing be the one to speak to him? God, you feel like a mom having the conversation with her kid for the first time.
“So, there’s something i kinda need to talk to you about.” You start, words uneasy.
Steve nods slowly, as if processing. “‘Kay.” He urges you to go on.
“Robin tells me you like someone.” And fuck, you probably weren’t supposed to tell him she said that. Some good start you just picked for yourself.
“She does?” His expression seems to flicker with panic for a moment, before he practically shakes out of it and changes it into a confused one.
“Yeah, and i know it’s really none of my business but as your friend-“
“Best friend.” He corrects naturally.
“As your best friend,” The words feel nice to say, coming out too easy for the conversation you’re trying to have. “i feel like i have this duty to tell you when i think you’re gonna make a stupid decision. You know?”
Now he looks actually confused, eyebrows pinched together and thoughtless look. “Sure?”
“This to say that i understand you’re still on her,” It feels impossible to let her name out. “But i don’t think it’s a good idea to do something about it, quite unfair if i can be honest with you.”
“Wait, what?” He practically squeaks, dropping the tapes back in the cart. You try to understand why he’s avoiding it, but there’s no reason that comes to mind.
“Nancy.” You decide to be direct.
“Nancy? I’m not following, sweetheart.” The pet name rolls out his tongue easily and it leaves you in absolute despair.
“You’re thinking on making a move, are you not?” You try to have him catch up.
“No! I don’t know why Robin told you that, i really don’t. But i’m not doing anything with Nancy, there’s nothing with Nancy. Seriously.” He seems truthful enough as he speaks and you hate yourself for not fully believing him.
“But you like someone?”
He hesitates, “I do.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry for assuming, Robin didn’t actually say it was Nancy.” You give him a guilty quirk of the lips.
“That’s okay.” He reassures, sweet as always.
Steve shuffles on his feet, opening his mouth a few times as if he’s about to say something a but never seeming to muster the courage. You give him time.
“This girl-“ He cuts himself off, words coming out in a harsh breath, “she’s amazing. The most amazing girl i’ve ever met. And even though i have known her for a good while, i’ve looked at her with different eyes for the last few months.”
Your breath catches, you start to understand his words. Hate and love is what you have for them, no in between.
“She’s a breath of fresh air, although i do seem to be out of breath whenever she’s around. She’s the best with the kids, probably more caring than me. Has really good taste in music and movies - i wouldn’t have gotten this job if she didn’t make me decorate the name to every Star Wars movie.” He laughs but it seems more like relieved sigh.
You feel stuck to the ground, eyes wide and motionless. You don’t encourage him to go on, but he takes your silence.
“And most of all she makes me not care about what others think. Makes me wanna be a good person and nothing else.” He finishes, carefully leaning closer without stepping towards you.
You didn’t think this would happen like this, thrown right on your face like some splash of freezing water that leaves you freezing on the spot.
He’s lovely, his words are everything you’ve ever wanted to hear. But you’re filled with dread, because you know what’s about to come and you’re going to reject it.
“What do you say?”
It’s complicated, you’re not sure why you want to say no. You don’t fully believe him for one. It’s not fair to make him have someone who has doubts by his side.
“No.” You state, simply.
“What?” He asks, straightening up immediately and drily gulping.
You laugh, but it’s really more cause you don’t know what to say. “There’s no way you actually think we’d work.”
“Why not?” He sounds defensive, “I do think that, i think about it everyday.” His voice is more hurt than anything now.
“Steve, this is crazy. We’re best friends. No way.” You shake your head.
“Did you just hear all that i said? I don’t wanna be your best friend - at least not just that.” He exasperates, searching for your eyes when you refuse to look at him.
“Now, this was the kind of stupid decisions i was talking about a moment ago.” You scoff.
You’re trying to play it cool, but it’s like he sees right through it. He reaches for your hand, loosely enough that you can let go of it if you want.
“It’s not a stupid decision. If anything, it’s the best decision in think i’ve made in a while.” His thumb brushes your knuckles.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, eyes feeling with tears at the confrontation.
He frowns, “Tell me you don’t like me.”
“What?”
“Tell me you don’t like me back and i’ll leave you alone.” He asserts, focused on making it work.
“Steve, that’s not the point.” You say desperately, “I’m not your usual, you’re interested by this idea of me because we’re close and you want someone.”
“Wow, that’s what you think of me?” He looks truly offended now.
You purse your lips, feeling unfair for acting like this. “No, i’m sorry.”
“But we’re so different, truly different. And i don’t think there’s anything you can do right now to change my mind.” You want to reach out and pull him into a hug, but it really wouldn’t be a good idea right now.
“Sweetheart-“
You’re saved by the door opening, two clients coming in. Steve looks the most disappointed. But not angry, and that’s always a relief.
“I’m just- gonna get onto that sandwich while you take care of that.” You look apologetically at him, smiling at him to try amend the situation.
“Yeah- sure.” He rubs his temple for a second before turning away from you.
You’re certainly a jerk after that. But it’s only a few days later when he starts acting normal again, sweet as usual towards you and keeping you close as his best friend.
☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩
A weird shiver runs across your back as you enter the abandoned house, even more when the big group turns into just you and Steve. The idea of the group being separated turns your stomach.
The flashlight on your hand doesn’t feel enough to light your path through the somber hallways, headache tingling on your temples as you try to find anything useful.
It’s not that things have been weird with Steve, which they have, but they’ve been weird with everyone. You lack the energy to try and even have a conversation with anyone. If you were to be honest, you’re not even sure why you’re here because your mind is all but up to having ideas that will actually help find Vecna.
It started a few weeks ago. The ultimate feeling of emptiness, like everything and everyone is moving and you’re stuck on the same spot. All the things happening in Hawkins don’t help your case either. Eddie being accused of being a murderer, sweet Chrissy’s death, Max almost being sentenced to that end too.
You don’t feel like you have a major thing ruining your life and making you miserable, but you feel sad even without it. And that leaves you to wallow in self pity and to think you aren’t anything but selfish. There are people who are in real danger around you and all you can think about is your unreasonable sadness.
The conversation at Radio family was a few months ago, not that you feel the need to track it. You thought you could pull yourself together after it, told yourself all you needed was time to get over it.
But all you can think about when he’s kind to you, when he brings you food, when his hand brushes your arm while he’s standing next to you — is that he actually mistakes it for real feelings for you. And the worst of it all is that you find yourself enjoying it, the idea of him loving you. Selfishly you wish he’s still confused, hoping he sometimes thinks about you at night like you think about him.
You feel his stare burn into the back of your skull as you walk slightly ahead of him, avoiding to walk beside him and having to make small talk.
The old wood board floor cracks under your shoes, filling the awkward silence that creates a barrier between the both of you. You stop in front of some type of wardrobe with glass door, pointing inside with your flashlight to get a look at what’s inside.
Steve keeps his distance, seemingly looking at the rest of the furniture in the room. “Someone sure liked bugs.” His face is scrunched when you turn to see, light pointed at a few glass jars with dead bugs inside it.
Your stomach turns at the sight, displeased but acknowledging hum ripping through your throat.
A small smile forms on his lips, “Scared?” He wiggles one of the jars, though the way he keeps it away from his body tells you he’s terrified.
In another occasion you think you would’ve made fun of him, teasing him relentlessly for being scared of dead bugs inside a jar.
“No, just gross.” You settle for answering, shrugging your shoulders without much emotion.
“Right.” He sighs, setting the jar down slowly before brushing his hands against his jeans. He stands a bit awkwardly, even more clueless than you about what to look for.
Your head aches all around, pressuring your eyes and temples.
You hear Steve hum to himself, a slight bored look as he seems to do it almost without noticing. He flicks the ruffles on a curtain with his fingers, immediately regretting it as dust spreads in the air and right on his fingers. You find yourself stifling a smile against your palm, realizing now you might have missed his antics a bit too much.
Palming his pocket, Steve pulls out a pack of gum that you know he carries around with him. You watch him awkwardly play with it after fishing one out for himself, taking a step towards you in false confidence after a second.
“Want some?” His arm reaches out to signal for you to take one, not leaving you much option but to accept it. Not that you could get yourself to anyway.
“Sure.” You reach to grab it, cursing when your fingers hit the it with too much force and it tumbles out of his hold.
Both of you bend to pick it up at the same time, but you’re the one who regrets it immediately. You don’t know if it’s because of the way his fingers graze yours or because of the hot liquid that starts running down your nose.
You flinch away immediately, head knocking against his forehead with force and making you stumble back with a pained groan.
“Fuck- i’m sorry!” He exclaims, a groan escaping his lips too as he reaches to touch his forehead with his fingers.
The hit makes your headache even stronger, eyes closed in attempt to make it go away. Although you’ve know for a while that it won’t. That’s also been going on for a few weeks, paired with nightmares that leave you sweaty and terrified to ever sleep again. It feels impossible to ever have a good dream again, not when your living life feels like a nightmare itself.
“Are you okay?” Steve’s panicked voice reaches your ears over the high stinging noise of your own head, eyes trying to get a good look at your face that you’ve turned away from him.
“‘M fine.” You try to dismiss, lifting a hand that helps nothing with keeping him away.
“Hey, don’t do that.” You know he means pulling away, grabbing you by the arm and gently pulling you to face him when you don’t necessarily go against it. “You’re bleeding.”
You’re reminded by why exactly you stood up so fast, and as if on cue the blood running from your nose touches your lips. He looks alarmed at the sight, eyes wide with worry and hands around your biceps with the most featherlight touch — you almost think you might be imagining him touching you.
“Here-“ Steve moves without thinking, stretching the fabric of his shirt sleeve so it covers his whole hand and bringing it to your nose.
His shirt will probably be stained forever, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it the least, cleaning the area around your nose like it’s his second nature to be attentive. He taps your skin with care, covered thumb brushing your lips to wipe the blood and lingering for a second too long.
Your hand rests on his arm as if it’s a natural instinct, watching the way his throat bobs when he accidentally pulls your lips open with a rather clumsy wipe and you grip his shirt lightly. “Sorry…” He mumbles, not needing to speak at a proper tone when standing so close, “for that and for hurting you.”
“Hurting me?” You throw him a confused look.
“Dunno if you remember but i hit you so hard your nose started bleeding just a second ago.” He tries to tease, smile tugging at his lips.
“I hit you.” You reason, huffing at the way he’s so sweet about it. Ready to take the blame when it’s not supposed to be his. “And-“ It was already bleeding before i hit you, is what you wish but step back from saying.
You don’t want him to think this is just like other people, the ones who get headaches and nosebleeds and visions and then get cursed and bones snapped to death. You can’t possibly be going through that — can’t believe you’re going through that.
“And it’s fine, anyway.” You settle for saying, brushing the possibilities off.
Steve hums, brows pulled into a frown that tells you he doesn’t necessarily believe you. But he doesn’t pressure you and you feel guilty for making him feel like he can’t do it just a little, like a best friend would out of worry. You’re quite sure all the pushing away and closing yourself off from him have taken a tool on making him think he can’t ask you about things.
You become too aware of how close he’s standing to you and how he takes in your features with soft eyes like he hasn’t been able to take a look at you in ages. Subconsciously, you tug his arm away and look at your feet.
He’s hit with how intimate the moment might have looked, arm dropping to his side as his mouth moves exasperatedly trying to find the right words. “I wasn’t trying anything, i swear.”
You know he wasn’t, Steve would never. Not after you told him not to, that’s not who he is. You just couldn’t handle it.
The gears in your head move as you try to keep yourself together, “Let’s just keep looking, Steve. Please.” You practically begging, eyes looking at his face for once.
“Of course.” He relents easily.
You’re taking steps away from his as soon as the words leave his mouth, flashlight on again as you suddenly find the celling so interesting. A simple excuse to have you look up and stop the tears from fully forming and falling down your face. Because why would you even cry?
The background noise of Steve’s presence suddenly disappears, you’re too embarrassed to look back and make sure he’s there.
The same shiver from earlier leads its way up your spine and forms a cold sweat. A clock ticks from the corner of the room, making your turn towards it with a gasp. That wasn’t there before.
And Steve, who was there just a moment ago, isn’t anymore. A panicked whimper pulls through your mouth, heart beating so hard against your ribcage you think it might crack a rib.
Cracking bones. You can already see it. Your own body getting the future it’s destined to have.
A hand finds your shoulder with a shake, pulling you out of what you can’t call a daze — because it feels more like a living nightmare. Steve calls your name, snapping his fingers in front of your eyes.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
You breathe in with force, ignoring the sweat that’s starting to drip down your back. “Yeah, i’m good.”
It gets harder to lie by the minute. You pretend to observe the empty corner of wall that just had a clock stuck in it.
He sighs from his spot behind you, “You can speak to me. You know that, right? Because i’m your friend, i want to be your friend.” He tries, as if he’s been holding back from speaking the whole time, “And i worry, so much it hurts. I’m sorry that i acted so impulsively before — but i’m not sorry for feeling it.” Not sorry for loving you.
“I know i can.” You nod, “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to make it weird, there’s just so much going on.” But you leave out everything else.
Steve waits for you to say something else, but it doesn’t come. You do your best at throwing him a warm smile, “This place just creeps me out, that’s all.”
He agrees, “That’s putting it lightly.”
You bounce slightly on your feet, not sure on what to say. It’s turned into this when you’re around him, awkward conversations and things left unsaid.
“C’mon, we should get some ice for your nose. I’m sure they’ve done enough searching for today.” He motions for the door with his head.
“Yep.” You walk ahead, once again ahead of him. It would make it harder to have his arm around your shoulder like it once was normal.
The imminent future makes it impossible to think of it as enjoyable. Him loving you means getting left without you, because your headache is stronger than ever, your nosebleeds are more intense and you think you’ve just had what all the victims had before they died — a vision.
Steve watches you refuse to walk beside him, finger coming to touch the spot on his shirt that’s stained with your blood.
☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩
It happens fast, too fast. One moment you’re with your friends, setting up a trap with Robin while Steve and Dustin bicker on the back about something you’re too tired to pick up on. The next, just as you reach down to pick up a tool, everything feels darker.
They all look at you wrong. Even Dustin, who’s ever so sweet to you, has his eyes set on you with an uncharacteristic angry expression.
At first you believe it, as if your mind has been telling you to wait for the moment they all call you out for your bullshit. Warning you that they have every reason to turn against you.
When Steve speaks you think your heart might beat out of your chest, harsh words slicing you like a knife against your back. Yet his voice doesn’t seem his, a rough undertone and malice that isn’t Steve’s — not even when he’s mad.
You feel stupid once you realize what’s happening, recognizing the cloudy sky that erupts with red thunder that Max has told you about. So you run ignoring the calls from your friends, because you know they aren’t real.
The day that you’ve known was coming is finally here, the dread on your stomach turning into the drop of it at the knowledge of what’s going to happen next. And the worst part is that it’s only now that you feel guilty for not telling anyone. About the headaches, about the nosebleed, about the nightmares.
A droplet of sweat makes it’s way down your forehead as you move as fast as your feet allow you to, thinking about how confused everyone probably is. Because how could they have known?
You hate the choice you made of not allowing yourself to process it. You wish you would’ve told your friends how much they matter to you, how it’s not their fault that you feel miserable. You think about telling Steve that you were just so scared of exactly the situation what you’ve come to be in that you couldn’t allow yourself to love him at your fullest.
It’s not like you know why you didn’t tell them. Was it because you were scared? Or was it really just knowledge of what you were designed to go through?
The anxiety building in your chest makes it harder to breathe, slowing you down in the process.
You feel helpless and alone, trapped in a part of your mind with your worst nightmares. A vine wraps around your ankle and yanks you with force to the ground, elbows erupting with pain as soon as you hit it.
But it doesn’t compare to what you feel once you spot him, the creature that you’ve all been looking for a long time but that you wish was nowhere in sight now.
You claw at the death grip of the vines around your ankles, clumsily making an effort to regain your blood circulation as a sob escapes your mouth. Tears fall down your eyes and across your cheeks at the sight of them not budging.
He calls your name, to which you shake your head with a shaky breath and try your hardest to ignore. Even when you feel yourself slide through the ground as the vines pull you towards him.
You can’t run from what’s been planned for you. It sounds through your head like a reminder, leaving a ringing on your ears.
The last thing you want to do now is give up, not without getting to tell everyone everything you want to say. You refuse to leave like this.
And it’s like some force seems to hear you, a familiar melody sweeping through somewhere around you. It’s your favorite song, the one you’ve heard countless times on your walkman and that you take the liberty to turn up the sound of the radio when in Steve’s car.
It brings a warm feeling in contrast to the cold that surrounds you.
Distracted, the grip on your leg loosens. With a swift movement, you slide the vines off of you and scramble to your feet. This time it feels freeing when you run, towards the sound and the image of your friends.
They’re right there, so close. You can see them looking up at your floating figure, voices panicked as they call for you.
So you fight against your sore ankles until they reach their limit and you’re falling again, but this time you have arms around you as you reach the ground.
You’re breathing heavily when you come back to reality, frantically looking around to make sure you made it. Steve has his arms secured around you as he situates you between his legs with his chest pressed to your back, his voice cracking once he says your name.
“You’re okay— i’ve got you. It’s okay, baby. I promise.” His mouth is close to your ear as he speaks, reassuring you over his own worries. “I’m right here, not letting you go anywhere.”
A sob bubbles out of your throat and you grip onto the arms around you, probably a bit too tight — to which he doesn’t complain. Your chest heaves with struggle to breathe, tears clouding your vision as they fall down your face.
You feel him press a hand to your chest, “Can you take deep breaths for me?” The touch grounds you as you nod in agreement. “Come on. There you go, honey.”
His heart beats at an erratic pace against your back, you can tell he’s trying his hardest to be calm for you. “Steve.” Your voice is hoarse, fingers shakily grabbing his that are still pressed to your chest.
“Yes, ‘m right here.” His voice breaks mid sentence, tone desperate.
“I’m sorry.” You manage to say, breathing starting to feel like an easier task.
“No don’t say that,” You can picture him shaking his head even without seeing him. “Look at me.” Steve turns you in his arms, never letting go of you.
“This is not your fault, okay?” He’s cupping your face with gentle hands, eyes red and teary as his lips turn into the saddest pout you’ve seen. It almost gets you to smile.
He brushes your tears away, “Does anything hurt? Tell me, baby.” Eyes inspect at your face.
You shake your head with a sniff, wincing slightly as the cold wind hits your arms. “No.”
“Here.” He’s quick to take off his jacket, draping it around your shoulder and helping the sleeves into your arms. “All good.” His smile is forced but a good way of lightening the mood.
Not satisfied yet, Steve pulls you into his arms once again for a proper hug now. He ignores then way your knee pushes into his thigh a bit too hard, pressing you as close as possible with his nose buried in your hair. You slump your weight onto him, hands sprawled on his back as you press an impulsive but small kiss to his neck.
He sighs, “Oh my god.” The whisper comes out before he can stop it, more to himself than anything else as he finally relaxes. As if still in disbelief of the whole situation that just hit him like a truck.
You stay in his arms for a moment longer, only letting go when Robin and Dustin come back from filling the others in through the walkie.
“Thank god you’re okay.” Robin smiles with worry all over her face, pulling you into a bear hug that Dustin joins into. She drapes an arm over your shoulders as you walk to the car, sharing the worry of leaving you alone.
Steve stops you before you get on the backseat, hand to your bicep protectively. “Stay at my house?” You don’t have it in you to deny.
“We’re going too.” Dustin quips as if it’s a given.
For once, Steve doesn’t answer with a remark.
He helps you in even when you protest, pulling your seatbelt on. For the whole ride there your head rests on Robin’s shoulder, sharing occasional glances with Steve as he looks at you through the rear view mirror.
Once you arrive at his house, it’s not long before the others show up. They elaborate plans, ones that you feel too exhausted to pay attention to but try your hardest to. You notice the way they keep a close eye on you, not letting you be alone in any occasion.
And as they settle on his living room, Steve grants you some privacy as he pulls you into his bedroom. The offer of a shower is something you can’t deny, fresh clothes that belong to him awaiting for you after.
You leave the bathroom with your hair still wet, dripping on his shirt on your torso. He’s right there, laying out blankets on the floor beside the bed.
“Hey, do you feel better?” He’s worried and looking at you with wide eyes.
You shrug, “Shower felt good.”
Steve nods, as if he wants to say something but doesn’t. “I hope it’s okay that i sleep here— i don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone.” He shifts awkwardly as he speaks.
“It’s okay.” You smile, slightly endeared.
It’s not that you think you’re going to get much sleep. But being alone right now is the last thing you want. You’re not even sure if you’re out of the woods yet.
Settling inside the covers of his bed, you hear him sit on the floor against the bed over the blankets. You don’t think he intends to sleep at all.
You try to sleep, you really do. But the fact that he’s right there after months of not allowing yourself to be close to him is killing you. So you move without thinking, finding yourself taking a seat beside him without saying a word.
He doesn’t budge, contemplating.
“I love you.” Steve cuts through the silence, frowning as if it pains him to.
Air gets caught in your throat, “What?”
“You told me i just needed someone. Maybe i do. But that someone is you, and i’m more sure of it now than ever.” Guilt forms in your stomach at your harsh words from before. He remembers. Word by word.
“You don’t love me, Steve.” You start with a shake of your head. “Not that way. Because it would never work.”
“Why not?” He exasperates sadly.
You don’t answer, turning your head away once you feel the tears build up.
“Stop doing that.” He’s gentle even when frustrated. “Why do you do it? You tell me you don’t want it yet i see the way it hurts you to say it.” A hand slips to your cheek, angling towards him.
“Because— you have this idea. Your whole suburban dream. I can’t give you that, it’s not me.” You brush your eye with frustration.
He gulps the lump in his throat away, “Don’t you get it? I want whatever you want. Whatever you want. I will do it. Because it wouldn’t make sense otherwise, not to me. I would do anything you want me to do, sweetheart.”
You feel tired of hiding it, the need you feel to have something with him. Tired of pretending you don’t want it as if something is holding you back from it. Your own mind, your own insecurities, your own doing.
So you don’t stop yourself this time. Your lips press to his in a long waited kiss, fingers grabbing his shirt by the chest. Steve hums in surprise but doesn’t pull away, hands coming to hold your face in a ghost gentle touch.
His heart beats fast against your hand, his nose bumping against yours when you smile against his lips.
“I love you, Steve.” You allow yourself to say.
“I know.” He references, smug smile full of affection. His face is still leaning towards yours, giving you a good look at his shiny eyes.
There’s no doubt he does too.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, “For the things i said. And for pulling away.”
“Don’t be.” He reassures. “Didn’t deserve to have you just— whenever i wanted to. I shouldn’t have expected you to just take it. I needed you to know for sure that i love you. And if that meant i had to fight and wait, i’d do it. I did. I’d do it again. I love you.”
Steve’s thumb brushes against the pulse on your neck, leaving you space to lean against him.
“You’re still my best friend.” You mumble, head slumping on his shoulder.
“Don’t want it any other way.” A kiss to your head, then a pause. “We’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna be okay.”
You believe him through the doubt, humming against his collarbone.
“Sleep. I’m right here, baby.” The smooch he presses on your forehead is comforting, his hands pulling you down to lay against the blankets.
You fall asleep with your ear pressed to his chest, hand laying on his stomach as he hugs you close.
Steve doesn’t sleep, eyes wide through the whole night as you rest against him.
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