Summary: Everyone acts like Brendon Park has no heart and most days, he agrees. Until one neonatologist looks right through him with no idea who he is. Then he finds out just how fragile bones and hearts can be. Or how Brendon Park falls in love with you. (5.5k)
Pairing: Brendon "the Shark" Park x neonatologist!fem!reader
TW: Sunshine x grumpy trope; patient loss; angst; fluff; Park is down bad; Reader had ADHD; medical inaccuracies; smut; reader's nickname is Candy; mentions of wearing a backpack for a getaway if someone grabs it (I recommend you do this); 18+ because of a short sex scene although it's not descriptive really; Park is a dick and down bad; reader makes him work for it.
Credit: GIF made by @siratonin
Requested: Yes. Osteomyelitis article used for research in this fic, here
Bones break, that’s reality. Bones are strong but even they have a breaking point, something you can’t push past, fragile in a way. Hearts are the same way—strong up to a point but after that, then they’re fragile, so fragile. And they’re a lot harder to piece back together.
The babies are small, smaller than Brendon thought, nearly impossibly small, their fingers like specs of dust, their faces smushed and tiny, bodies not even as long as his forearm. He knew logically that babies are small, neonates even more so, but there is a difference between logic and reality. Even the strongest of logic can falter in the face of reality, especially a reality like this. Where what’s real seems like it shouldn’t be.
The one he’s looking at right now, has tiny eyes closed, fists raising upwards at the concealed glass bassinet that holds it, tubes and wires and medical gear all around it, a monitor beeping out a steady, fast rhythm of a heartbeat.
He knows that its bones are even smaller, soft and malleable, that ossification won’t have started yet, the bones mere cartilage really, hard enough but soft enough too. He remembers learning about paradoxes in his high school English class, but he didn’t understand it until now, looking at the baby here. These babies are paradoxes, fragile and yet not, strong yet not, malleable yet not.
He’s never been here on this floor, the one reserved for the NICU, the place most doctors avoid if they can help it, the sight of babies, the most innocent and delicate things fighting for their life too much for most. It takes a special kind of person, he believes, to handle losing these kids, knowing that sometimes you just can’t save them. It takes a special kind of person to keep coming back here.
“Can I help you?” he hears a voice behind him, one that rings strong and true and yet bright and light at the same time. He turns around, gaze trailing as he does so, taking in the matching bassinets and the babies all hooked up to machines that keep them living, his heart breaking in particular when he sees a baby on dialysis. He lifts his gaze to you, a woman with arms crossed over bright pink scrubs decorated with lollipops.
“I’m—” he begins, but your face brightens as you take him in, the scowl shifting to a smile as you interrupt him.
“Oh, uh, you’re ortho, right?” you say and he nods, swallowing hard, his mouth going dry as you step towards him, your hand outstretched. He takes it, your skin soft against his hand, shocks spearing through his nerves at your touch, listening as you say your name, the sound pretty and perfect and suited to you. “…but everyone calls me Dr. Candy,” you finish.
“I’m…” he pauses, glancing off at the delicate children all around, the ones you deal with as an attending neonatologist and he realizes he doesn’t want you to know him as the rest of the hospital knows him, as Park the Shark. It doesn’t fit here in this quiet, special place full of life. “You can call me Dr. Brendon,” he tells you and you nod, turning and walking away while he remains rooted to the floor, watching as you go.
“Come on, Dr. Brendon,” you call out, glancing over your shoulder, “the patient’s this way.” He follows after you, smoothing his suddenly damp palms on his scrub pants, his steps just slightly hurried as he catches up to you as you stop before a bassinet, your palm pressing against the glass as if you’re touching the small child within.
“The call said something about advanced osteomyelitis,” he says, his words drawing your attention back to him, your expression turning solemn as you nod, taking the iPad from the side of the table, swiping and clicking on a chart, passing it over to him.
“This is Brandy Michaels,” you tell him, “we’ve been treating her osteomyelitis with antibiotics and antimicrobials. She presented with the second form of presentation, that of sepsis-like symptoms accompanied by temperature instability, feeding intolerance, irritability and reduced movement. It progressed to fever and local swelling at which point we tested her CRP and erythrocyte sedimentation rates and found that they were elevated. We treated, as stated, with antibiotics and antimicrobials as decreed in the protocol. We also performed bone scintigraphy and MRI, finding high evidence for osteomyelitis. Unfortunately, this little one hasn’t improved on her regimen over the past two weeks.”
Brendon could listen to you speak forever, your voice high and light and pretty, your hand resting against the glass of Brandy’s…home as if it’s her, as if it’s giving her comfort. He scans the charts, taking in the notice of the five affected bones, the sites of manifestation and looks up at you, his lips pressing together.
“I’ll book the OR for her,” he whispers, handing the iPad back to you, watching as your expression falls, your bottom lip trembling just slightly as you nod, your chest moving just a bit as you draw in breath, trying to make it seem like you’re not. “The abscesses need to be drained,” he tells you, his tone softer than it’s ever been, soft for only you.
“I know, Dr. Brendon,” you tell him, lips pressing into a thin-lipped smile. “It just never gets easier this job. Thank you, now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go inform this little one’s parents.” You nod once more at him, spinning on your heel, the soles of your bright pink shoes squeaking on the polished floor as you do so.
Brendon is surprised by hard it is to watch you walk away, the first doctor to see him without seeing him.
He resolves to see you again. Somehow, someway. It just doesn’t feel like the story’s done yet.
“Do you know what that was?!” you hear Ava cry, her voice loud, too loud for your quiet space, the one place that focus is easy, that everything seems to align. The place you belong.
“The ortho consult I called for?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at your hectic, chaotic friend, her dyed red hair loose around her shoulders, frizzing from the heat outside.
“That was Park the Shark!” she hisses, reaching you, her acrylic nailed fingers digging into the skin of your forearm as she walks with you, your steps in sync like always.
“Who?” you ask, attention snagging on one of the monitors for your patients, the sight of the hiccup in the line enough to derail you, the destination you had in mind fading for the moment as you stop, checking on the small, precious baby.
“Park the Shark,” Ava repeats as you slide your hands into the gloved areas attached to the sealed bassinet, reaching in, gloved thumb stroking the baby’s cheekbone as you reattach the sliding wire causing the change on the monitor. “The super-hot, sexy ortho surgeon who scares everyone in the hospital cause he’s all mean and nasty only increasing his rom-com lead charm?” she continues, the end of her sentence lilting into a question as if she expects you to understand right away despite the phrasing.
“But he…wasn’t mean,” you tell her, sliding your hands from the gloves and turning back to her, your brows knitting together, the image of the man with his awed expression for the babies superimposing over reality for a moment before you blink it away, focusing back on your best friend and her darkening cheeks.
“That’s cause that man wants you,” she says, her tone clear and heavy with innuendo. “That man wants your cookie bad, my friend.”
“Shut up!” you tell her, stepping away from the bassinet, feeling that familiar confusion, the one that comes with not knowing what you were doing before distraction.
“You were going to tell the Michaels baby’s parents about the surgery,” Ava prompts and you can feel that familiar relief that comes from her picking up on your silent cues and returning to you to the real world.
“Thank you,” you tell her, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze before running off down the hall towards the parent’s room where Riley and Jesse will be waiting for updates on their daughter.
But as you go, as you approach them and tell them what’s happening, what needs to happen and they cry, folding in on each other, holding each other up as they thank you, you wonder.
You wonder what Dr. Brendon’s arms would feel like holding you up when the tears made it impossible to stay up on your own.
Brendon doesn’t know why he’s here, doesn’t entirely know why he came back only that he liked the fact that you saw him and not the idea that has been built up in the hospital to the point he’s practically an urban legend. He doesn’t entirely know why he bribed the red-headed nurse for your coffee order, promising to bring her one as well, hers already dropped off, only that he did.
And now he waits with sweaty palms, two cups of coffee from the shop down the street from the hospital in his hands as he waits for you to arrive. He’s curious too, to what scrubs you’ll be wearing today.
“What are you doing on my floor again, Dr. Brendon?” he hears you call out and he turns around, swallowing hard again as he takes in your appearance, your lips glossed and shimmering in the light, light blue scrubs decorated with rainbows on, your badge on your pants rather than your chest like everyone else and your arms crossed, hip cocked out.
“Coffee,” he says, the words said far too fast and far too loudly as he holds out the clear plastic cup holding an iced crackle (whatever that is) coffee. The condensation on the cheap plastic beads and slides from the cup, dripping onto the floor so, maybe his palms aren’t all that sweaty after all or even if they are, at least he has an excuse.
“For me?” you ask him, stepping closer, crossing the room to him and taking the proffered cup from him as he nods, swallowing again at your proximity, at the way you smell like citrus candy. Maybe that’s why they call you Dr. Candy. You lift the cup to your lips, pursing around the lime green straw and drawing liquid up as you hollow your cheeks in a way that has Brendon feeling like he’s burning up. “How’d you know my coffee order?”
“Would you believe a lucky guess?” he asks, adjusting his stance, shifting weight from the left to the right. All you do in response is raise your eyebrows until he nods, just once, understanding. “Yeah,” he says, “I didn’t think you would. I bribed a nurse to tell me your order.”
“Out of curiosity,” you begin, your eyes flicking from him to a sight in the NICU, in the glass behind him, “did this nurse have bright red hair, dark eyes, glittery skin and really annoying acrylic nails?”
“I don’t know if the nails were annoying, but yes,” he says. “All it took was getting her a coffee too, why?” But you’re already walking away, expression in a faux kind of scowl as you lift a hand in a wave, glancing over at him, the scowl changing briefly to a smile as you call out, “see you around!” before disappearing behind the tall glass doors.
“Yeah,” he whispers, “see you around.”
“You’re back!” you call out, crossing the room, heart beating faster with excitement when you see Brendon standing before the door to the NICU, two cups in his hands again. He’s been coming every day for the past three weeks, offering small bits of conversation before you each disappear to the jobs that consume you.
“I am,” he replies, the corner of his lip tugging up in a smile as he holds out your cup, the one that holds the dark chocolate crackle coffee, the cup decorated with frozen chocolate that you crack into the coffee. “I have to ask,” he says, his eyes trailing over your body, everywhere his eyes linger heating up beneath your lime green and neon pink scrubs, the ones decorated with watermelons, “what’s with the scrubs?”
“Oh!” you exclaim, your voice rising as your eyebrows lift, excitement rising in you making your heart rate fast and your breaths choppier. “Neo’s pretty lax because, I mean, if you’re down here, you’re here for one reason, right? There’re no real codes, it’s kind of just the NICU so we’re given free reign unlike the rest of the departments. You know surgery is purple and EM is black…neo…we’re the wild child of the hospital.”
“What about peds?” he asks, lifting his cup to his mouth, taking a sip of what must still be a scalding flat white, your eyes following the trail it takes down his throat, momentarily distracted, his question slipping away.
“Sorry,” you say, “what was the question?”
“I asked, what about peds?” he says and you nod again, smiling at him, the kind of smile you have that apologizes while also doesn’t. It says I’m me and sorry if you don’t like it.
“Peds is allowed patterns but they’re told the base colours they have to wear,” you tell him. “See peds surgery has to have a base of light pink, peds general is light blue, peds oncology is lime green and peds EM is, unfortunately, just black. No patterns, no nothing. It doesn’t matter how much I argue with management, it doesn’t change. But these kids! They’re meeting their doctor who wears black like the fucking grim reaper!” Your rant cuts off when you hear the deep chuckle of Brendon, blinking back into focus as you take in the sight of him and his unfairly hot, Greek god body, shoulders shaking as he tries to suppress his laughter.
“Something funny, Park?” you ask him, crossing your arms, the condensation from the coffee cup, slick on your hand.
“No, nope,” he says, his face still split into a smile, the kind that sets your heart aflutter. “I just like listening to you.”
And you can feel your entire body burn at his words, no one having ever said that to you before.
“Are you free tonight?” Park asks you, the feeling of his heart in his throat and trembles in his hands all new to him. You bring out nerves in him like no one ever has before.
“Depends,” you tell him, shouldering your bag on your back, one strap on your shoulder, the other loose. You say it’s safety, if someone grabs it, you can just slip out of it, the thought of you getting hurt causing his chest to constrict and blood to pulse in his head every time.
“On what?” he asks, his hand reaching for yours, the habit something built up over the past two weeks where bringing coffee migrated to walking with you out to the parking lot, seeing you safely to your car. It helps him sleep at night, knowing that you’re safe.
“If you’re finally asking me out or not,” you tell him and he pauses, his reflection distorted as it stares back at him from the shiny metal doors of the elevator, the distorted expression of shock and disbelief and happiness almost comical.
“I was planning on it,” he says, his tone stilted, slightly nervous as you turn to him, your face split in the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen as you bounce on your toes, excited, hands clapping once as you nod, teeth sinking into your glossed bottom lip.
“Then yes,” you tell him, your voice high with excitement. “I’m free.”
“Pick you up at seven?” he asks as the elevator doors ding open, the two of you slipping on, hands still joined.
“Yeah,” you tell him, leaning forwards and pressing a soft kiss against his cheek. “See you at seven.”
“You have not lived,” you tell him, dragging him over with you across the grass towards the taco truck, set up for the movie night, “until you’ve had a taco from here.”
“Okay,” he says, his hand, warm and large and firm, calloused in a way that has your heart jumping in your throat at the way it feels against you, “then let me live.” You can’t help but laugh a little, a breathy kind of chuckle, a nervous kind of giggle as you drag him up to the order window.
“Can I order for you?” you ask him quickly, glancing back at him as he nods, lips curving up in that pleased smirk he has, the one that always makes you want to kiss him even when you never have before.
“Of course, Candy,” he says and you swallow hard on instinct, never having been called just candy. You’ve been Dr. Candy since you were a med student, known for your sweet attitude, but also an attitude that is never the same, like each piece of candy is unique from any other. But no one’s ever just called you candy; you’ve never had a real nickname before.
And you really like it.
“Two number threes, please,” you say, your free hand pulling your wallet from the pocket of your skirt, the one that you and Ava spent hours adding to the vintage find, the one that seems like vintage Stevie Nicks.
“Nuh-uh, Candy,” Brendon says, pulling you back by your joined hands. “What kind of man would I be if I let you pay on the date? I feel bad enough that we’re not going to a restaurant.”
“I didn’t want a restaurant!” you cry, slapping his chest with indignation. “I’ve been excited for this movie in the park for months!”
“Then I’m paying,” he says, his eyes darkening in a way that makes you understand why he’s called the Shark, the look in his eye predatory in a way that has your breath hitching, your body burning in a way that is new and strange and delicious. Like that look.
He taps his card against the card reader, accepting the taco bag with his free hand and guiding you back to the green of the park, to the blanket you spread out on the grass. He sinks down beside you, pulling you against him, your back to his chest, arm anchoring you against him, heavy and protective in a way that is heady.
And it stays like that for the entire movie, even when he whispers that you were right about the tacos or when you start to cry at the ending of The Notebook. He stays holding you just like that for the entire time, his touch safe and gentle in a way that no one’s touch has ever been before.
And something changes when you get in his car and he drives back to your house, Ethel Cain playing on low volume over his Mercedes sound system. Something changes because every moment is charged.
“Come inside?” you ask him when he’s stopped before your house, “Nettles” softly playing in the background.
“Candy,” he whispers, his hand reaching out to cup your face, touch gentle and igniting in its own way. Your skin feverish beneath his touch. “If I go inside…I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself.”
“Maybe I don’t want you too,” you whisper and he nods, pupils expanding across ocean blue eyes as he follows into your house, helping you out of your coat, his hand torturously slow as he eases the zipper down. You kick off your shoes as he hangs the coats up and you turn to him, reaching for his shirt and pulling him too, wanting to feel.
You press your lips against his, feeling a spark move through you, his hands resting on your hips, fitting to you as if they were meant to be there all along, his lips moving against yours in a way that feels too good, in a way that should be illegal.
You move as one, backing up to your bedroom, clothes worked free from bodies, his tongue sliding along yours before you break away, breathless, chest heaving, stomach coiling and body wanting. You want his touch.
“You ready?” he asks you, his eyes entirely black and you nod, his hands freeing you of the rest of your clothes, freeing him of his. He pushes you back onto the bed, his touch gentle as he spreads your legs, kneeling before you, pressing kisses against your inner thighs, his eyes on yours as he inches closer to your cunt.
You shudder at the feeling, at the rightness of it, when he drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit, swirling twice, whispering, “just as sweet as I imagined.” The rest of the night is a haze of sex, sex and more sex, his touch perfect in a way you’ve never had before.
And when it’s over, when you’re falling asleep you hear him whisper, “I think I might love you, Candy.”
And you think you might love him too.
Brendon watches as you push through the glass doors, every inch of your body drawn tight like a high wire, anger writ all over you. He heard the codes called, watched as you tried to save that infant, pumped air into their lungs, watched as it wasn’t enough.
It’s why he crosses to you now, guiding you from the hallway, into your office, shutting the door behind him. He knows you need to explode, but he also knows that no one else can see it. You need to explode where no one will judge.
“Come on, Candy,” he whispers, your attention not on him, but on some distant point, a storm raging in those perfect eyes. “You need to hit something, so hit me.”
You listen, your hands moving, slamming into his chest over and over and over, but it doesn’t hurt, not the way the sounds of your sobs do as you hit him. And he just lets you hit him until you stop, until the anger gives way and sadness reigns completely, your voice broken as you whisper, “it hurts, Bren.”
“Then why do you do it, sweet girl?” he asks, his hands taking yours as you collapse onto the couch, looking up at him with haunted eyes.
“I do it for the ones that survive,” you whisper, your expression still sad but shifting to a happier look. “You know,” you pause, swallowing hard, “for every patient I lose, there is one that survives.”
“Is it worth the pain?” he asks you, his own voice breaking. He doesn’t understand, but he wants too desperately.
“So much,” you tell him, smiling a watery kind of smile. “I know that every patient that survives will go on to do great things. I know they’ll save the world even when we’ve given them a fucked up one.”
“Because of you,” Brendon whispers, surprised when your face shifts, twisting into anger, into annoyance, the sadness wearing away for a bit.
“No, I don’t a surgeon’s god complex,” you tell him and if he didn’t know you, he would be insulted, but he does know you and he knows you just speak. “They’ll do great things because that’s them. I just will be the one who never gave up on them because of one bad day.”
“Babe?” you hear Bren call out and you turn from the sink, your hands wet, peaches slipping between your hands, the water from the tap rushing out and over your hands.
“What’s up?” you ask, watching as he steps in, shirtless, pajama pants hung low on the V of his hips.
“What are these?” he asks you, holding up an orange prescription bottle, the one you take every day, the Adderall for twice a day.
“My meds,” you tell him, your tone slow and not understanding. You feel like there’s some bigger picture here that you’re not seeing, something you’re missing as you turn the sink off, setting the peach into the drainer, turning and wiping your hands on a dish cloth.
“Why do you have Adderall?” he says, his expression knitting together into one that you can’t quite read as your eyebrows rise and you cross your arms, your body prickling, muscles tensing with defensiveness.
“I have ADHD, why? What’s your problem?”
“Should you really be a doctor?” he asks you, his expression looking concerned, but you don’t give a fuck. You thought he was different! You thought he was better!
But he’s just like all those fuckers who told you that you’d never be a doctor. That the dream you’ve had since you were a kid was impossible for someone who couldn’t fucking focus! But you’ve shown them! You’ve become an attending! You run a department! You save more lives than most NICUs across the country!
How the fuck can he question you?!
“GET THE FUCK OUT!” you scream, your voice guttural and raw and aching. You back up when he moves to step towards you, his expression falling. But he did this to himself! He has no place in your life if that’s how he’ll be.
“Candy,” he whispers, but all you do is reach beside you, grabbing the peach you’d just washed and throwing it at him with all your strength. He dodges it and it smashes against the wall, the pulp crushed on impact, juice and skin and guts splattered on the wall as it sinks down to the floor, slow, slow, slow.
“Did I stutter, Park?” you ask him, tone cold and cruel and nothing like the one you’ve used around him before. He blanches, setting the pill bottle on the kitchen table and walking from the room, the front door slamming.
When it slams, you give yourself permission to fall apart, sinking down to your knees, back sliding against the kitchen cabinets, your head falling against your knees as you cry, giant hiccupping sobs, your body shaking.
You thought he was different but you were wrong again. You thought he was the one but you were wrong again.
When will you ever be right?
Park stands outside your house, his hand hovering, wanting to knock, to have you open the door so he can take back what he said, but he can’t. You won’t.
It’s that thought—that you wouldn’t open the door for him—that has him moving, turning and leaving.
But he’s not giving up on you, on the two of you.
He just has to figure out how to remove his foot from his mouth.
You see the coffee on your desk, a sorry, Brendon on the plastic. You wonder if he’s watching, but you don’t really care either way, simply knocking it off your desk, into the trash can, the lid coming off, the coffee gushing and filling every crevice in the black bag.
Some things just can never go back in once they’re out.
“Hey, Ava?” you call out, holding out the lip gloss, the Rhode one that was sitting on your desk, another gift from Brendon. “You want this?”
Another coffee.
Into the trash it goes.
“Where do you keep getting these gifts?” Ava asks as she takes the bracelet from your hand, a silver chain lined with small sapphires. “I mean, I love that you keep giving them to me, but don’t you think you should keep them?”
“They’re from Brendon,” you tell her and she hisses, her lip curling at his name. “I’d trash most of them, but some of them,” you nod at the bracelet she’s clasping on her wrist, “are too expensive.”
“While,” she says, pulling you into a hug. “At least one of us gets usage out of ‘em.” The two of you laugh even as your heart twists painfully at the idea of him.
A clock. What the fuck do you want with a Bulova clock?
“Hey Marge?”
The note has his handwriting on it. You don’t even bother reading it, simply sweeping it into the trash can and dumping out the rest of your coffee on it, the letter disintegrating underneath the liquid.
You only feel bad for the janitors.
“What the fuck are you doing at my house?!” you cry, stepping out of your car, your keys on one finger, the metal clicking against the bright pink key chain which reads kicking ass and taking names in glittery gold writing. A gift from Ava.
“I want to talk.” Brendon looks horrible, bags under his eyes and dry, chapped lips, but you can’t find it in you to be sorry because he’s the one who did this. He’s the one who said something you can’t take back.
“Pretty sure you said all you needed to,” you tell him, your tone sardonic, voice just slightly husky from the tears building in your throat as you push past him, sliding your house key into your deadbolt.
“I didn’t mean it,” he says, his hand pressing against your arm. You shrug away from his grip, the movement aggressive as you turn to him, your face burning with anger and your eyes narrowed in a glare.
“Don’t fucking touch me, you asshole!” you hiss and he takes a step back, but he doesn’t leave.
“I want to apologize and you’ve been getting rid of all my gifts!” he cries, his own anger getting the better of him and you step forwards, hauling your hand back and slapping him, the sound ringing through the still air of your neighbourhood. You can see, even in the dim lights, the red welt from your hand on his cheek.
“FUCK OFF!” you scream. “Take a fucking hint! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU! I. DON’T. WANT. YOU. IN MY LIFE!”
“You can’t just decide that!” he yells, his own voice arcing through the air as he reaches forwards, his hand wrapping around yours. “I made a mistake—”
“No!” you yell, your voice guttural. “You were a fucking ableist prick! That’s not a mistake, that’s just you!”
“I LOVE YOU!” he cries and you wrench your hand from his, turning from him and unlocking your door, stepping in and closing the door, leaving only a little bit open as you look out at him.
“Fucking prove it.” And then you close the door, falling apart all over again, great heaving sobs as you run through your house to your bedroom, collapsing into sheets that still smell like his skin, still carry the imprint of his body.
He hurt you in a way that no one ever has before. He’s hurt you in a way that is not so easily forgiven even as your heart wants him here to hold you against the pain he caused.
He’s your paradox.
You can see Brendon standing against the door to the NICU, two coffees held in his hand, just like those early days, months ago.
“Hi,” he says, stepping up towards you, “my name’s Brendon.” He holds your coffee out to you, worry and hope warring in his eyes.
“Cute trick,” you whisper, shoving past him, your shoulder digging into his chest. “Keep trying.”
And he does. Every day, waiting for six months. Six months in which he never complained about your cold shoulder, about your ignoring him. Six months of him never pushing for more.
That’s why you decide that a second chance might be in order.
“How’d you know my coffee order?” you say to him today from across the hall, running up to him and taking the proffered cup from his hands.
“Would you believe a lucky guess?” And it’s that easy to fall back into it, to fall back into friendship, then something more.
It’s not always easy and it’s not always perfect, but second chances do exist. Can happen. Sometimes, damaged people can worm their way back into a damaged heart.
Park looks at the tightly bundled baby in your arms, thinking he’s never seen anything so tiny in his life, never seen anything so fragile and yet strong, so paradoxical before. He’s never seen anything as precious as you, the love of his life, holding his child before though, for sure.
“Smaller than you think, huh?” you whisper and he nods, tearing his eyes away from the baby girl in your arms, the one with your hair and eyes and frown.
“Thank you,” he whispers, the words thick in his throat as he reaches for your hand, holding it as he sinks down beside you on the bed, his other hand smoothing non-existent hair back from your—his—daughter’s head.
“For what?” you ask, your words elongated with the yawn.
“For giving me a second chance.”
Hearts are, definitely, the most fragile organ in the human body. They break and bleed and stop and start and do a million things that destroy you completely.
But they’re also the most essential. They give you life and love and second chances. They can be fixed when they break with time and a skilled hand and sometimes, a persistent, fucking asshole.
Bones and hearts break but that’s just being human. That’s just the paradox of living.
It’s orientation day in the chaotic trenches of The Pitt, and a brand-new rookie nurse is eager to learn how to survive the morning shift. Standing confident, brilliant, and entirely in control, attending physician Dr. Y/N Diaz watches as the new trainee takes a distinct liking to the primary preceptor assigned to her track—the street-smart, fiercely competent, and undeniably handsome Mateo Diaz. Completely missing the identical last names on their badges and the flawless, silent choreography between the two, the rookie nurse decides to boldly make her move on the floor. What follows is a delicious lesson in workplace observation, a masterclass in quiet confidence from Y/N, and a legendary central-desk reveal that the ER staff won't let the new recruit forget anytime soon. After all, Mateo doesn't have a girlfriend... but he definitely has a wife.
The humid morning air of the city vanished the second the heavy glass doors of the Pittsburg Hospital slid shut behind them. Dr. Y/N Diaz stepped out of the elevator on the clinical floor, her fingers tightly laced through those of her husband, Nurse Mateo Diaz.
They were a striking contrast walking down the quiet corridor toward the locker rooms. Y/N was a vision of focused, effortless confidence, her pristine white lab coat draped over one arm and her stethoscope resting in her hand. Mateo walked beside her with a relaxed, street-smart swagger, his broad shoulders shifting beneath a dark zip-up jacket that hid his faded scrubs, a heavy gym bag slung casually over one shoulder.
"I'm telling you, it’s a full moon tonight," Mateo murmured, his voice a low, rumbling rasp as he tilted his head toward her. "The night shift was already complaining about the psych holds when they called me at five. We're going to get slammed the minute we step onto the floor."
Y/N smiled, using her free hand to adjust the slightly crooked collar of his shirt. "Let them try. We survived that massive multi-car pileup last weekend, Diaz. We can handle a little cosmic energy."
Mateo smirked, his dark eyes softening with a familiar warmth. He stopped just outside the locker room doors, checking the empty hallway before leaning down to press a quick, stolen kiss to the corner of her jaw. "Spoken like a true attending. Go do your magic, Doc. I'll see you at report."
"Don't be late," she teased, flashing a quick grin before turning into the women’s locker room to prep for the chaos ahead.
Ten minutes later, the morning shift at The Pitt was officially in motion, and it was already proving to be an exercise in survival. Today, however, carried the added weight of orientation day for the hospital's newest emergency department floor recruits.
Y/N stood at the central nurses’ station, her posture confident and relaxed as she reviewed a stack of incoming telemetry charts. Her white coat was open, revealing sharp, fitted scrubs, and her ID badge—reading Dr. Y/N Diaz, Attending—shimmered under the fluorescent lights.
Beside her, Mateo was stocking a mobile cart with trauma supplies. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms, his own badge clipped firmly to his pocket: Mateo Diaz, RN.
Without looking up from her chart, Y/N reached out her hand. Mateo didn't even have to look; he seamlessly dropped a roll of medical tape into her open palm. It was the flawless, silent choreography of a couple who spent forty hours a week working together and the rest of their lives living together.
"Diaz," a sharp voice called out.
Both Y/N and Mateo looked up simultaneously.
Chief of Emergency Medicine, Dr. Michael Robinavitch, was walking toward the desk, trailing a remarkably eager-looking young woman in a set of crisp, brand-new navy scrubs.
"Dr. Diaz," Robby said, offering Y/N a brief, knowing smirk before gesturing to the rookie beside him. "This is our new orientee nurse starting on your track today. Keep her alive, show her how we run things in The Pitt, and don't let Princess terrify her too badly on day one."
"No promises on that, Chief," Princess called out from a nearby computer terminal, causing a few staff members to chuckle.
Y/N offered the new nurse a warm, reassuring smile, stepping forward as the attending in charge. "Welcome to the war zone. Just stay focused, ask questions when you're lost, and you'll do fine. I'll be the attending running this side of the floor today."
The new nurse nodded quickly, smiling brightly. "Thank you, Dr. Diaz. I'm ready to learn."
As Robby nodded and walked away, the new nurse’s eyes instinctively drifted across the station, landing squarely on Mateo. Mateo was currently checking the lock on a narcotics drawer, his impressive build shifting underneath his scrubs. When he turned around, he caught the trainee staring and offered her a polite, professional nod.
The new nurse’s cheeks flushed a subtle pink. She cleared her throat and quickly looked away, completely oblivious to the amused look passing between Y/N and Princess.
---
By midday, the ER had dissolved into its usual rhythm of controlled chaos—a revolving door of standard lacerations, asthma attacks, and orthopedic injuries. Because Mateo was the senior preceptor assigned to their track, the new nurse spent the entire morning shadowing his every move, hanging on his every word as he demonstrated the frantic pacing of The Pitt.
Y/N noticed a shift in the rookie's behavior almost immediately.
Every time Mateo explained a clinical procedure, started a difficult IV line, or adjusted a cardiac monitor, the new nurse shifted just a little too close into his personal space. Her voice dropped an octave, becoming softer, and she began finding entirely unnecessary reasons to look for compliments.
"Nurse Diaz," the trainee murmured, lingering by the supply cabinet where Mateo was gathering bags of normal saline. She leaned against the doorframe, twisting her brand-new lanyard between her fingers. "I just wanted to make sure I drew those labs exactly how you wanted them. I really want to make a good impression on you today."
Mateo blinked, holding a bag of fluid. "The labs are for Dr. Diaz's patient. As long as she's happy with them, you're good."
"Well, yes. But you're the one evaluating me," the new nurse said, flashing him a bright, distinctly flirtatious smile. "I just like to make sure my preceptor is... happy. Especially someone who runs a trauma bay as well as you do."
Mateo’s face remained entirely stoic, though a dangerous glint of dark amusement danced in his eyes. "Appreciate it. Just make sure the labels are straight next time."
From the central desk, Y/N was leaning against the counter, a bottle of water in her hand, watching the entire exchange play out with an arched eyebrow.
Dana stepped up beside Y/N, crossing her arms and grinning like a shark. "Are you going to go mark your territory, or should I get popcorn?"
Y/N took a slow sip of her water, totally unbothered. "Please. Let her dig the hole. It's the most entertainment I've had all week."
A few minutes later, the new nurse walked back to the desk to print a patient wristband, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. She stood next to Y/N, her eyes tracing Mateo as he walked down the hall toward an incoming ambulance gurney.
"He's incredibly competent," the trainee murmured to Y/N, trying to sound purely clinical but failing miserably. "And, honestly, he’s gorgeous. Does Nurse Diaz have a girlfriend, Dr. Diaz? I noticed he isn't wearing a watch or any jewelry."
Princess actively choked on her coffee at the terminal behind them.
Y/N didn't break a sweat. She simply tilted her head, a confident, amused smile playing on her lips as she looked at the rookie. "No. He doesn't have a girlfriend."
The new nurse’s eyes lit up. "Good to know. The Pitt might not be so bad after all."
---
The afternoon rush hit The Pitt like a tidal wave, and the temperature in the department seemed to rise with the patient count. Running between Trauma 2 and a row of high-acuity observation beds, Y/N finally hit her limit with the stifling hospital layers.
Standing by the charts at the central desk, she unbuttoned her white lab coat, shrugged it off her shoulders, and tossed it onto the back of an empty rolling chair.
Without the heavy coat, her dark, fitted scrubs hugged her frame perfectly, the fabric sharp and professional but undeniably flattering. She rolled her shoulders, letting out a breath, entirely unaware of the effect the sudden wardrobe change had on the floor.
Across the nurses' station, Mateo was handing off a clipboard to Jesse when his eyes flicked over. He froze mid-sentence. His gaze dragged slowly down the length of her scrub-clad silhouette, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. A dark, intense look settled into his eyes—one that had absolutely nothing to do with medicine.
Y/N caught him staring and offered a subtle, devastating smirk before turning to check on a patient.
Five minutes later, the distinct buzz of Y/N’s phone vibrated in her scrub pocket. She pulled it out to find a text from her husband.
Mateo❤️🩹: Supply closet. Track 2. Now.
Y/N’s heart did a familiar, wicked little flip. She glanced around the bustling department. The new nurse was occupied at the computer, and Princess was drowning in phone calls. Slipping her phone back into her pocket, Y/N casually strolled down the hallway, blending into the background before pushing open the heavy, keycard-locked door of the central supply room.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the dim, fluorescent shadows of the supply closet swallowed her. Before she could even take a full breath, a large, warm hand wrapped securely around her forearm and pulled her deeper into the rows of floor-to-ceiling metal shelving.
Mateo trapped her gently against a stack of boxed trauma dressings. His broad frame completely blocked her view of the door, shielding them from the rest of the hospital.
"Mateo," Y/N breathed, her voice a soft, amused whisper as she looked up at him. "We're on the clock."
"Don't care," Mateo rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp. His hands came up to rest flat against the wall on either side of her head, pinning her in place. His dark eyes burned into hers. "You need to put the lab coat back on."
Y/N raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on her lips. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his scrubs, pulling him just an inch closer. "Oh? Is the attending distracting you, Nurse Diaz?"
"You're a menace," he muttered, leaning down so his breath fanned warm against her lips. "You know exactly what those scrubs do to me. And I've spent the last four hours watching a clueless rookie try to flirt with me right in front of your face."
"I told you, I was letting her dig the hole," Y/N whispered, her confidence radiating even in the dark.
"Yeah, well, the hole is deep enough," Mateo growled playfully.
He didn't give her a chance to reply. Mateo tilted her chin up and brought his lips down onto hers in a deep, bruising kiss that completely stole the air from her lungs. It wasn't the sweet, quick kiss from the locker room; it was possessive, heated, and heavy with the frustration of working a grueling twelve-hour shift in close proximity.
Y/N whimpered softly into the kiss, her hands moving up his chest to tangle in the short hairs at the back of his neck. Mateo groaned, his hands leaving the wall to slide firmly down her waist, gripping her hips and lifting her slightly so she was flush against his hard chest.
The scent of his familiar cologne and the sterile smell of the hospital blended together as his mouth moved to her jawline, leaving a trail of searing kisses that made her knees go entirely weak.
"Mateo..." she breathed, her fingers tightening in his shirt as a sudden overhead page echoed faintly through the heavy door.
“Dr. Diaz, line two. Dr. Diaz, line two.”
Mateo stopped, his forehead resting against hers, his chest heaving as they both tried to catch their breath in the quiet dark. A lopsided, breathless smirk broke across his face.
"Saved by the page," he whispered, his thumbs rubbing slow, teasing circles over her hip bones through the scrub fabric.
Y/N let out a ragged laugh, smoothing down the front of his shirt. "You're bad for my professional reputation."
"Pretty sure I am your professional reputation," he teased, giving her one last, lingering kiss on the lips before reluctantly letting her go. "Go on, Attending. I'll give you a two-minute head start before I go back out there and deal with our shadow."
Y/N flushed, fixing her tangled hair and adjusting her badge. She flashed him a wicked grin over her shoulder as she unlocked the door. "Don't keep her waiting, Nurse Diaz. She really wants to make a good impression."
---
The overhead page was right—The Pitt had officially descended into the afternoon rush. Ten minutes after slipping out of the supply closet, Y/N was fully back in attending mode, her clinical focus sharp and absolute.
A trauma call had brought her, Robby, and Mateo into Treatment Room 3. The patient was an elderly woman who had taken a nasty spill on the concrete outside her apartment, resulting in a severe, jagged compound fracture of her radius. The injury was messy, the bone threatening to break through the bruised skin of her forearm, and the poor woman was understandably terrified.
"Alright, sweetheart, you're doing great," Mateo said softly, his deep voice dropping into that incredibly calm, reassuring tone he reserved for his patients. He was gently stabilizing her elbow while Y/N carefully assessed the distal pulses in the woman's wrist. "I know it hurts like hell, but we’re going to get you some good pain meds in just a second."
The curtain swung open, and the rookie nurse slipped into the room, holding a tray of sterile drapes.
But instead of handing them to Y/N or stepping to the open side of the gurney where she was actually needed, the trainee immediately navigated the tight space to stand directly next to Mateo. She pressed her shoulder right up against his arm, tilting her head up to look at him as if they were partners on the case.
"I brought the extra supplies you might need, Nurse Diaz," the rookie whispered, her eyes entirely locked on his face, completely ignoring the patient. "Just let me know how else I can assist you."
Mateo didn't even shift his gaze from the patient's arm. His jaw tightened just a fraction, a muscle leaping in his cheek. "Set them on the tray. And step back so Dr. Robinavitch can get to the lines."
Robby stepped up to the head of the bed, a chart in hand. He glanced at the new nurse, then at the blatant way she was crowding Mateo, and finally shot Y/N a highly amused, raised-eyebrow look. Robby had known the Diazes long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.
"Alright, ma'am," Robby said, turning his attention to the patient and explaining the procedure in a calm, authoritative voice. "Here’s the plan. Dr. Diaz and I are going to have to reset this bone to make sure the blood flow to your hand stays perfect. It’s a nasty injury, but Dr. Diaz is the absolute best we have on the floor today. She’s going to talk you through the alignment while my nursing team handles your sedation."
As Robby spoke, the new nurse leaned in even closer to Mateo, subtly brushing her hip against his as she reached for a syringe. "We make a pretty good team handling the heavy stuff, don't we?" she murmured quietly to him.
Y/N caught the whisper. Without the shielding layer of her lab coat, her fitted scrubs made her look incredibly striking, but it was the calm, radiating authority in her eyes that completely commanded the room. She didn't look angry; she looked like a cat watching a mouse wander right into a trap.
"Actually," Y/N intercepted smoothly, her voice cutting through the clinical hum of the room with absolute, effortless dominance. She looked directly at the rookie nurse. "Since it’s a high-acuity reduction, I need my senior nursing staff fully focused. Nurse Diaz," she said, her eyes locking onto her husband's with a fierce, burning familiarity, "step over here and take over the manual traction. I trust your hands a lot more with this than anyone else's."
"You got it, Doc," Mateo rumbled.
He didn't hesitate for a single fraction of a second. He immediately broke away from the trainee, leaving her standing alone in the corner, and stepped into Y/N's immediate space. As he took over the placement on the patient's arm, his fingers intentionally brushed against Y/N’s, his dark eyes flashing with a wicked, private smirk that told her exactly how much he loved it when she took charge.
The new nurse blinked, her face falling as she was completely sidelined, still entirely oblivious to the storm she was brewing for herself at the central desk.
---
With Mateo’s steady hands maintaining perfect manual traction and Y/N guiding the alignment, the reduction went flawlessly. The medication Robby ordered took the edge off, and within minutes, the jagged fracture was safely set, stabilized, and wrapped in a clean, secure splint.
The elderly patient let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, the color finally returning to her pale cheeks. She looked up from the gurney, her eyes moving from Y/N's reassuring smile to Mateo, who was gently wiping a smudge of antiseptic from her fingers with a warm towel.
"Oh, thank the Lord," the woman breathed, her voice shaking but full of genuine gratitude. "The pain is so much better now. You two are absolutely wonderful."
Y/N patted her uninjured hand gently. "You did all the hard work, ma'am. We’re just glad we could get you comfortable."
The woman smiled softly, her gaze lingering on the seamless, unspoken coordination that still lingered between the doctor and the nurse. "I've been in and out of hospitals a lot in my life, dear, but I don't think I've ever seen a doctor and a nurse work together like that. You can just feel how much you trust each other." She chuckled weakly, looking between Y/N’s striking silhouette in her fitted scrubs and Mateo's broad shoulders. "Honestly, you two would make such an incredible couple. You look beautiful together."
From the corner of the room, the new nurse’s head snapped up so fast her lanyard clicked against her zipper. Her eyes went wide, flashing with a sudden, sharp spike of territorial annoyance. The very idea of the pristine, dominant attending physician being paired up with the handsome nurse she had spent all morning targeting clearly rubbed her the wrong way.
Robby had to physically bite the inside of his cheek, burying his face in his clipboard to hide the massive grin breaking across his face.
Mateo didn't flinch. A slow, incredibly lopsided smirk crept onto his face as he tucked the towel away, his dark eyes locking onto Y/N with absolute, wicked amusement. "An incredible couple, huh? You hear that, Doc? The patient thinks we look good together."
"I did hear that, Nurse Diaz," Y/N countered smoothly, her voice dripping with casual, radiating confidence as she met his gaze. She offered the elderly woman a brilliant, knowing smile. "And you have excellent instincts, ma'am. We’ll make sure your transfer upstairs is just as smooth."
The new nurse let out a subtle, tight breath, practically vibrating with jealousy as she grabbed the empty supply tray. She clearly couldn't handle watching them share the moment for another second. "I'll... I'll go ahead and take these drapes back to the central desk, Dr. Diaz," she muttered stiffly.
"Perfect," Y/N said, not even looking back as the curtain pulled shut. "We'll meet you out there for the shift handoff."
---
The final hour of the shift finally rolled around, and the central nurses’ station was buzzing with the energy of the oncoming night crew.
Mateo was standing at the counter, logged into a computer terminal, typing up his final nursing notes for the fracture reduction. The new nurse took it as her absolute last chance to make a move. Sliding onto the rolling stool right next to him, she leaned in close enough that her shoulder brushed his sleeve, completely ignoring the rest of the busy department.
"Mateo," she said softly, entirely dropping his clinical title for the first time all day. "A few of the night shift crew are going to a diner down the street after the shift ends at seven. I was wondering if you’d want to come with? My treat, since you had to tolerate me all day."
Mateo’s fingers paused on the keyboard. He slowly turned his head to look at her, an incredibly lopsided, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "After seven?"
"Yeah," she smiled, leaning a bit closer, feeling confident after the patient's comment earlier. "Just a casual drink. Get to know each other outside of the hospital stress."
Before Mateo could answer, Y/N walked up to the opposite side of his terminal. Without her lab coat, her fitted scrubs made her look radiating, beautiful, and absolutely dominant.
"Actually," Y/N said, her smooth voice dripping with a casual, terrifying authority that made the rookie instantly freeze.
The trainee blinked, looking up. "Oh, Dr. Diaz."
Y/N didn't say another word. Instead, she leaned over, placed a hand flat against Mateo’s chest, and slid gracefully onto his lap.
The new nurse’s jaw completely dropped. Her eyes went wide as saucers, her brain violently short-circuiting as she looked from the confident attending physician to the street-smart nurse.
Mateo didn't hesitate for a single fraction of a second. The moment Y/N sat down, his large hands came up to wrap securely around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. He rested his chin naturally against her shoulder, looking at the rookie with absolute amusement.
"As I was saying," Y/N continued, her tone conversational as she reached past Mateo to click a final button on his computer screen. "He doesn't have a girlfriend. But he does have a wife. And at seven o'clock, he's taking me home to cook dinner."
The new nurse looked like she wanted the linoleum floor of The Pitt to open up and swallow her whole. Her gaze darted frantically from Y/N’s face, down to the matching silver bands they both wore on chains beneath their scrubs—and finally, to their identical last names printed on their ID badges.
Dr. Y/N Diaz.
Mateo Diaz, RN.
"Oh my god," the trainee choked out, her face turning an aggressive, burning shade of crimson. "Oh... oh my god. I am so sorry. Dr. Diaz—Nurse Diaz—I didn't put the names together, I just—"
Mateo let out a low, rumbling laugh, his arms tightening around Y/N's waist. "Don't sweat it. But for the record? My wife's a lot meaner than she looks when people touch her stuff."
"I am going to go restock the blanket warmer," the rookie squeaked, practically tripping over her own feet as she spun the rolling stool around and bolted down the hallway at a near-sprint.
The second she was out of earshot, the central desk completely erupted. Princess was laughing so hard she was wiping tears from her eyes, Jesse was shaking his head from the medication cart, and Robby just stood by the charts, quietly applauding.
Y/N shifted on Mateo's lap, turning around to face him fully. She wrapped her arms around his neck, raising an eyebrow with a playful smirk. "So. Efficient work, huh? And gorgeous?"
Mateo smirked, his eyes dark and full of affection as he tilted his head up toward hers, completely unbothered by the lingering eyes of their coworkers. "Jealous, Dr. Diaz?"
"Not even a little bit, Nurse Diaz," she whispered.
Mateo closed the distance, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to her lips right there in the middle of the department, cementing the fact that no matter who walked through the automatic doors of The Pitt, he belonged entirely to her.
AN: the beau fic I have been working on foreverrrr. Okay so basically I needed an AU where Beau lives soooo…
Warnings: Medical Talk, Mentions of Blood, Car Accident
When Beau had invited you to his grandma’s birthday dinner you thought nothing of it. Of course you would be in attendance with your handsome boyfriend to celebrate Mimi Maxwell’s birthday. If there was one person Mimi Maxwell loved more than Dean Di Laurentis, it was Y/N Di Laurentis. Yes, how cliche, you were dating your older brother’s best friend. Though you use the term older lightly, Dean was barely 11 months older than you.
Dinner had gone well, Mimi was especially pleased to see her favorite grandson’s girlfriend. Beau’s dad had offered to drive you both back to campus. The two of you using the evening to relax and have a couple of drinks in honor of Mimi. Beau held the backdoor of his Dad’s SUV open for you. You giggle slightly.
“Why thank you kind sir.” You say in your best posh accent. Beau grins at you, you’re both a little tipsy, and you know exactly what kind of fun you’ll be getting into when you get back to campus. Most likely your dorm, considering you opted out of the roommate situation.
You expect Beau to get in the passenger seat next to his Dad, but he doesn’t. Instead he slides in next to you.
“Oh babe, you don’t have to sit back here with me. You can sit up front with your Dad.” You say.
“Nah, then you’ll be all alone back here.” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“You hardly have any leg room!” You laugh. Beau just smiles at you.
“I’m fine, really. I want to set back here with you.” He says. Beau’s dad climbs into the drivers seat.
“Feel like I need a chauffeur hat.” He says. You and Beau both laugh, settling into the backseat for the hour long drive back to campus.
Snow drifts lazily through the glow of the headlights, just enough to dust the road. The car is warm, and you can’t help but feel drowsy as you lay your head on Beau’s shoulder. His arm wraps around your shoulders as he chats with his Dad. He’s in the rear passenger seat and you’re in the middle, having migrated to snuggle into him.
“Told you she’d be asleep before we got home,” Beau says. His dad chuckles, glancing in the rearview mirror, his heart sweeping at the sight of his son so utterly in love.
Beau smiles without looking up.
“She’s had a long week.” Beau offers.
“School?” Beau’s father asks.
“Yeah.” He brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “She’s been studying like crazy, and tutoring other students.” His dad nods knowingly.
“She’s a keeper.” His dad says. Beau’s smile grows.
“I know.” He tells his father. You let out a sleepy sigh, unconsciously burrowing even closer into him. He chuckles under his breath before pressing a kiss against the top of your head. Outside, snow continues to fall. The highway is nearly empty. Until it’s not. All to quickly a deer sprints across the road, causing Beau’s father to hit the breaks. The car slides as it hits a patch of black ice. Your eyes flutter open at the movement.
“Beau?” You ask, voice still sleepy. His gaze snaps toward you, your head resting on his shoulder. And the lack of a seatbelt across your lap. You’d moved to the middle to snuggle up to him and forgone your seatbelt about 20 miles ago. The world outside the windows is spinning. Snow. Trees. The guardrail rushing toward them.
Beau’s stomach drops. You’re not buckled and things are about to be very bad. He doesn’t think. One arm hooks around your waist, hauling you flush against his side. His other hand cradles the back of your head, tucking your face in the crook of his neck. He curls around you as much as the cramped backseat allows. Every instinct he has screams the same thing. Protect her and hold on. The SUV spins across the highway before the car slams into the guardrail with a sickening crunch.The passenger side takes the brunt of the collision. Glass explodes inward.
You let out a startled cry, instinctively curling tighter against him. Metal shrieks. The SUV ricochets away from the barrier. It spins again, hitting more ice.
The oak tree fills the windshield. Beau tightens his hold. The front passenger corner takes the full force of the impact. The sound is deafening. Airbags erupt. The engine compartment folds inward. The violent force throws the cabin sideways.
Beau twists with it, wrapping himself around you as the passenger side caves in. Something in his right leg gives with a sickening crack. Pain explodes through him. His shoulder slams into the interior. His ribs scream. Even then his arms never loosen.
It’s late when Dean gets a call.
His phone buzzes across the kitchen island just as he and Allie are about to head upstairs for the night. Allie is curled up on the couch beside him, half-watching a movie, half-scrolling through her phone. He almost ignores the call.
Unknown Number.
He answers anyway.
“Hello?” He asks.
“Is this Dean Di Laurentis?” A professional female voice asks. His stomach tightens instantly a feeling of dread
“Uh, yeah.” He says, sitting up on the couch. Beside him Allie straightens reading her boyfriend’s body language.
“My name is Rachel. I’m a registered nurse at Briar Memorial Hospital. I’m calling because your name is listed as the emergency contact for Miss Y/N Heyward Di Laurentis…”
Dean goes completely still.
“and Mr. Beau Maxwell.” Dean’s face turns stoic.
Allie immediately looks up from the couch. She knows that expression.
“What happened?” Dean asks, already standing.
“There was a motor vehicle collision. EMS transported both patients to our emergency department a short time ago.” Dean’s face drains of color, the worst possible scenario going through his mind.
“Are they alive?” He asks.
“Yes, sir. They’re both alive.”
The breath Dean lets out is shaky.
“But they’re both being evaluated by our trauma team. We recommend you come to the hospital as soon as possible.” The nurse says.
“We’re leaving now.” Dean says, motioning to Allie. She grabs his keys and slips on her shoes.
The call ends.
“What happened?” Allie asks, already grabbing her purse before he can answer. Dean runs a hand through his hair.
“They were in a wreck.” He says, voice shaky. Allie’s eyes widen.
“Oh my God…” she breathes. He doesn’t wait another second, he takes his keys from her hands her one of his hoodies and ushers her out the front door.
“Come on.”
Neither of them says much during the drive. Dean’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel. Allie had tried to convince him to let her drive but he felt like he needed to be in control.
Allie reaches across the center console, quietly resting her hand over his.
“They’re alive,” she says softly. “That’s a good sign.”
Dean nods, his little sister, his best friend both hurt, possibly near death.
The emergency department is controlled chaos when they rush through the sliding doors. Paramedics weave between trauma rooms. Monitors beep incessantly. Nurses move with practiced urgency. Dean barely makes it to the desk before speaking, he’s practically shaking.
“My sister was brought in after a car accident, and her boyfriend.” He explains.The receptionist nods.
“They’re both still being evaluated. A physician will update you shortly.” She says curtly. Dean starts pacing immediately. Allie stays close beside him, watching every set of trauma doors that swings open.
Then voices carry from just down the hallway. Two EMS providers are giving report to another nurse outside one of the trauma bays. Neither Dean nor Allie means to listen. But once they hear Beau’s name…
Neither of them can look away.
“Single-vehicle MVC. Driver lost control after hitting black ice trying to avoid a deer.” One says.
“Driver?” The nurse asks.
“Just some minor abrasions.” A paramedic updates.
“And the passengers?” The nurse inquires.
“The male in the rear passenger seat…” the paramedic checks his notes. “Beau Maxwell.”
“What about him?” The nurse asks.
“He took the majority of the impact.”
Dean feels Allie’s fingers tighten around his arm.
“He instinctively wrapped himself around the female passenger before the collision.”
The nurse blinks. “He shielded her?”
“Pretty much.” The paramedic says.
“Rear passenger side hit the tree.” He pauses.
“If she’d taken that impact instead…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
Another nurse quietly says, “She would’ve been crushed.” The paramedic nods.
“He kept her against him the whole time. She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.” Allie covers her mouth, tears pricking in her eyes.
“Oh my God…” she whispers.
“He likely prevented her from being ejected or taking the direct intrusion from the passenger side.” Dean stares at the floor, swallowing hard. The paramedic continues.
“He has an obvious right femur fracture, multiple rib fractures, shoulder injuries, probable concussion.”
“And her?” The nurse asks expecting the worst.
“Bruised up pretty badly. Some facial lacerations, cuts from broken glass, we’re ruling out internal injuries…”
He gives a tired smile.
“Honestly, she’s doing far better than we’d expect from that mechanism.”
“Because of him?” One of the nurses asks.
“I’d bet my paycheck on it.” The paramedic says.
Dean feels his chest tighten. Beau hadn’t just been hurt. He’d put himself between his sister and a tree.
A trauma physician steps into the hallway.
“Dean Di Laurentis?” He asks.
Dean and Allie are both on their feet instantly.
“I’m Dean.”
The doctor offers a reassuring smile.
“They’re both stable.” He says. Dean exhales so sharply his knees nearly buckle. Allie grips his arm to steady him.
“But Beau will need surgery tonight for a fractured femur.” He explains. “I’ve already spoken with his father, he has you both listed as emergency contacts.” The doctor explains.
“And my sister?” Dean asks immediately.
“She’s bruised, cut up, and has what appears to be a mild concussion, but all of her scans look reassuring so far.” The doctor pauses.
“Considering the severity of the crash…” He glances toward the trauma bays. “…she’s incredibly lucky.”
Dean looks through the narrow window in the door. He spots his little sister first. Bandages. Bruises already blooming across her face and arms. But alive. Then his eyes drift to the next bay. Beau. Blood is streaked across his forehead, his brown eyes wild. His right leg is immobilized. His shoulder splinted. Three nurses trying to keep him flat on the stretcher, but he’s frantic.
“Where is she?” Beau rasps. One of the nurses gently presses him back down on the bed.
“Mr. Maxwell, you need to stay still.” One of the nurses says calmly. The look he gives her is heartbreaking.
“I can’t. I need to find her.” He says voice cracking.
“Honey, you need to calm down, we need to help you.” Another nurse coaxes. Beau looks like a wild animal, trapped in the trauma room. He tries to get out of bed wincing in pain. He spots Dean, that only makes him more frantic, tears spilling down his cheeks. It’s the adrenaline and shock and pure fear for her life that has him acting out.
“Dean! Dean! Is she okay, oh God is she okay?” Beau cries. One of the male nurses enters the room helping to hold down Beau’s arm as a nurse preps some medication. No doubt something to calm him down.
“Somebody tell me something.” Beau begs.
“She’s alive.” The male nurse offers. “They’re trying to help her in the next room, just like we’re trying to help you buddy.” He says. The medication hits Beau almost instantly, his body going limp, eyes heavy. Beau squeezes his eyes shut trying to blink off the sedation.
“Can I… can I see her?” He mumbles.
“Not yet.” One of the female nurses says.
“Please…” Beau slurs, his eyes shutting. Dean has known Beau for years. He’s seen him after devastating losses. After brutal practices. After his childhood dog Sparky died unexpectedly. He’s never seen him look this terrified. Allie quietly wipes away her tears, she’s trying to be strong for Dean, but seeing her friends hurt is killing her. Dean simply stares through the glass. Realization hitting him square in the face. He’d never doubted Beau loved you, but this was different. This was the kind of love that overrode fear, reason, and even self preservation.
In the next room over, your sobs echo through the thin hospital curtain. Hot tears stream down your cheeks as a doctor carefully examines the deep gash along your hairline, gently parting the blood-matted strands of your hair to assess the wound.
The doctor glances up as Dean rushes into the room.
“I’m sorry, unless you’re immediate family, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside,” he says, his tone professional but kind.
“She’s my little sister,” Dean chokes out, his voice cracking.
Without another word, he crosses the room and takes your hand, wrapping both of his around yours. The doctor’s gaze flicks briefly toward Allie as she quietly slips into the chair in the corner, but he doesn’t object. She offers you a small, reassuring smile, though her eyes are glassy with tears.
The physician turns his attention back to your head.
“Based on the depth of this laceration, it definitely needs to be closed,” he explains. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, calm and composed. Under almost any other circumstance, you might have thought he was cute.
“I can give you a couple of options. I can suture it, but because of where it’s located, I’d need to shave a section of your scalp first. Or…” He lifts a small sterile stapler from the tray. “We can close it with staples and avoid shaving your hair.”
Your eyes widen at your options, neither sounding particularly pleasant.
“Shave my head?” you whisper before the words dissolve into another sob. Dean’s grip tightens around your hand.
“No.” His answer is immediate. He looks the doctor square in the eye. “Clean it out, staple it, do whatever you have to do—but you’re not shaving my twenty-one-year-old sister’s head.” The doctor gives a small nod.
“Fair enough,” he says. “Some patients get a little uneasy about the staples, so I like to offer both options.”
He opens a drawer and pulls out a sterile staple kit, setting it on the tray beside you.
“I’m also going to numb the area first,” he adds reassuringly. “You’ll feel a few pinches from the anesthetic, but after that you should only notice some pressure. We’ll have this closed up in just a few minutes.”
The doctor snaps on a pair of gloves. Your mind races into a jumbled ball of incoherent thoughts.
“Is Beau?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, you can’t finish the sentence. Dean looks up from where he’s been holding your hand, his heart sinking.
“What happened to Beau?” You ask.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Truthfully, he doesn’t know and as much as he wants to tell you everything is okay he doesn’t want to give false hope.
“I…” He glances toward the doorway. “I don’t know yet.”
Allie is already on her feet.
“I’ll go find out.” She says. Dean nods gratefully, never once letting go of your hand.
“Thank you.” He tells her, she nods, eyes full of love and empathy.
She slips quietly into the hallway, leaving the room just as the doctor begins preparing the local anesthetic.
“I’m going to numb the area first,” the physician says. “You’ll feel a few pinches.” You don’t respond. Your eyes remain fixed on the doorway, willing Allie to come back. Every second feels like an hour. Dean rubs slow circles across the back of your hand.
“He’s tough,” he says softly. “If anyone can pull through this, it’s Beau.”
A few minutes later, Allie returns. She steps inside, her expression enough to make your stomach twist. She walks over, stopping beside the bed.
“I talked to Beau’s dad.” She says softly. You hold your breath preparing for the worst.
“He’s alive.” She assures quickly. The words release a fraction of the panic squeezing your chest.
“But…” you whisper. Knowing that it couldn’t be that easy. Allie nods gently.
“But he’s pretty banged up, a broken femur, several broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder.” She pauses. “They also think he may have some internal bleeding.” Your fingers tighten around Dean’s, you try to stop the tears from spilling but they come anyway.
“So they’re taking him into surgery,” Allie finishes quietly. “Actually…” She glances toward the clock. “He’s already there.” The room goes silent.
“It-it can’t be that bad,” you whisper, shaking your head. “He was talking to me.” Dean’s thumb brushes across your knuckles.
“The adrenaline probably kept him going.” Dean says softly. Your eyes immediately fill with fresh tears.
“He wrapped himself around me.” You say. Neither Dean nor Allie says anything.
“He…” Your voice breaks. “He held onto me the whole time. I-I didn’t have my seatbelt on.” You say choking on your sobs. Dean looks down, swallowing hard. A sob tears from your chest.
“This is all my fault.” You say.
“I’m going to staple now, try to stay still for me.” The doctor instructs. You close your eyes flinching at the sound of your head being stapled shut.
“No, it’s no one’s fault. It was an accident.” Dean’s answer is immediate.
“If I hadn’t climbed into the middle and taken my seatbelt off…” you trail off.
“No.” His voice is firm now. “This is not your fault.”
“I want to see him.” You say, even though you know he’s in surgery. Allie gently shakes her head.
“Not yet.” Allie reminds. “As soon as he’s out and the doctors say visitors are okay,” she promises, “we’ll take you straight to him.” You nod weakly, another tear slipping down your cheek.
“I just need him to be okay.” You whisper. Dean leans over and kisses your forehead, careful to avoid the wound.
“He knows you’re alive,” he says. “And I guarantee the first thing he’s going to ask when he wakes up is where you are.” For the first time since the crash, you manage the smallest, tearful smile.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “That sounds like Beau.”
The room is quiet except for the steady beep of the heart monitor. You stop in the doorway. For a second, all you can do is stare at him. He’s pale, bruised, and wrapped in enough bandages to make your chest ache. His right leg is elevated in a bulky cast. His arm is secured in a sling. There are scrapes across his face and a small bandage near his hairline. But he’s here, and he’s alive, and he’s breathing, and he’s entirely yours. Dean gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Go on.” He en courages. You walk to his bedside, carefully slipping your hand into his. His parents had stepped out, Dean assuring them that he’d look after you and Beau. Almost immediately, Beau’s eyelids flutter. He blinks staring at you. Then he blinks again. You’re afraid for a split second that something horrible has happened, that he doesn’t remember you or something. His eyes finally find yours. He stares.
“Well…” he trails off, voice scratchy. You laugh nervously giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Hi.” You whisper. Beau’s brown eyes assess you, another long stare.
“You’re really pretty.” He murmurs. You smile, heart beating erratically, maybe he didn’t remember you.
“You’ve said that before.” You tell him.
“I know.” He says nodding slightly.
“Worth saying again and again.” He tells you, his eyes shutting for a split second before he opens them again looking around the room. Dean snorts realizing that his best friend is absolutely zooted.
“He’s still on another planet.” Dean says. Beau barely seems to notice he’s in the room, his eyes drifting to his best friend for a half a second before fluttering back to you. He keeps looking at you.
“Did I die?” He asks seriously. You shake your head quickly.
“No, no baby.” You say reassuring him.
“You sure?” He asks you in disbelief.
“I’m positive.” You say with a slight laugh. He gestures weakly toward you, his hand just barely coming off of the bed, the oxygen sensor lighting his finger up red making him look like E.T.
“’Cause you look like an angel.” He tells you. Your eyes immediately sting, you can’t help but smile. Even high off his ass he’s sweet.
“Beau…” you say. He smiles lazily.
“Knew you’d come find me.” He mutters. Your heart squeezes in your chest. Then his eyes wander past you. He spots Dean. His face scrunches in confusion.
“How the hell did he get in here?” He asks looking back and forth between you and Dean. Dean raises an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?” Dean says feigning offense.
“I thought this was heaven.” Beau whispers to you. Your face scrunches in confusion.
“If this is heaven who the hell let him in? Someone’s getting fired.” Beau says seriously. Allie has to turn around because she’s laughing hysterically. Dean folds his arms.
“I’ve been sitting in this hospital for seven hours and these are the words you have to say to me? Wow, I’m hurt truly.” He says.
Beau looks genuinely confused.
“Dude I know the stuff you’ve done.” Beau says giving him a knowing look. Dean just shakes his head a smile on his face.
“I liked you better unconscious.” He says jokingly. Beau narrows his eyes weakly flipping him off. You laugh.
The nurse walks in with a warm smile, carrying another bag of fluid.
“Look who’s awake.” She says kindly. Beau looks over.
“Hi.” He says.
“How are you feeling?” She asks him. He thinks about it, pondering the question before he sighs.
“Not the best.” He admits. You laugh so do Dean and Allie. Even the nurse laughs.
“Any pain?” She asks.
“My whole body.” Beau replies. Your heart squeezes in sympathy. Your poor baby.
“We’ll fix that, I’ll bring you some pain medicine.” She says. She checks his IV before asking, “Need anything else before I go grab those meds?”
“Yeah.” He says.
“What is it?” She asks sweetly.
“I gotta pee.” Beau whispers. She smiles.
“You’re okay. You have a Foley catheter in. We’ll take it out tomorrow. But it’s peeing for you essentially.” She says. Beau nods.
“Cool.” He says. She checks something in the chart. Five seconds pass. He looks back at her.
“Hang on.” He says skeptically.
“Yes?” She asks.
“Take what out tomorrow?” He asks.
“The catheter.” She reiterates.
“Where is it?” He asks confusingly.
“It’s draining your bladder.” She explains. He nods slowly.
“Okay.” He says. His eyes suddenly get enormous.
“Oh.” He says realizing what that must mean. The room goes silent as he looks under the blanket, then back at the nurse.
“You mean to tell me…” he trails off. He points toward himself.
“There’s a tube in my penis?” He asks. The nurse nods calmly an amused smile on her lips, you can’t help tell she’s trying hard to stay professional.
“Yes.” She confirms. Beau stares at the ceiling contemplating his life.
“That is the worst news I’ve gotten all day.” He says with a sigh. Dean barks out a laugh.The nurse smiles sympathetically.
“We’ll take it out first thing tomorrow.” She assures. He looks at her.
“You’ve seen it?” He asks wide eyed. You bite back a laugh.
“I have.” She confirms.
“Man.” He says.
“It’s okay.” She assures him.
“I don’t really like people seeing it all…” He makes a vague motion with his hand.
“…noodley.” He says. Allie folds in half laughing. You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. Leaning forward you bury your face against Beau’s bed because you’re laughing too hard yourself. Dean has tears in his eyes.
“Noodley?” Dean asks through laughter.
“I don’t know, man.” He says. Beau shrugs.
“I wasn’t expecting company.” He says. The nurse pats his shoulder.
“Honey, I’ve seen more genitalia than a prostitute your is unremarkable.” She says. She starts toward the door signing out of the computer and sliding the glass door shut.
Beau stares at you.
“Well that doesn’t necessarily make me feel better.” He huffs. You bite back a laugh, running a hand through his hair gently.
“Baby, it’s very remarkable in my opinion.” You say.
“Did not need to hear that.” Dean mutters. Beside him Allie laughs.
“I’m gonna go get some coffee, you want anything?” Allie asks. You shake your head.
“I’ll go with you, you two behave. No funny business.” Dean says eyeing you down.
“Dude there’s a tube in my dick.” Beau says. You laugh covering your face with your hands. Allie and Dean walk out leaving you and Beau alone.
A moment passes before Beau glances down at his leg. He lifts the blanket an inch.
“Geez.” He huffs.
“What?” you ask.
“That’s my leg?” He asks.
“Unfortunately.” You say, grimacing at the sight of his poor leg. He stares at it.
“Fuck.” He mutters. “There goes the draft.” He says. You frown.
“Baby,” you begin, not sure what to say.
“Guess I’m just gonna have to be your trophy husband.” He says leaning his head back against the pillows.
“We’ll have to see what the doctor says baby, but you’re always welcome to be my trophy husband, NFL or not.” You say.
“Yeah…” Beau sighs dramatically.
“But now Mel Kiper’s gonna spend six months saying ‘if healthy’ every time he says my name.” He says. You laugh, he just survived a horrible wreck and of course these are the thoughts going through his head.
“And you will be healthy.” You say, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.
“I swear I hate that guy.” He mutters. You laugh so hard your head starts to ache. Beau hears it and looks back at you.
“There it is.” He grins.
“What?” You ask.
“Your laugh.” He says softly. He smiles, eyes already drifting closed.
“Missed that.” He murmurs. You squeeze his hand.
“I missed you too.” You say eyes welling with tears.
He hums sleepily, his eyes fluttering shut. “Still think you’re the prettiest girl in the room.” He murmurs.
“Baby I’m the only girl in the room, but that’s very sweet.” You say.
Beau doesn’t even open his eyes. Thirty seconds later, he’s asleep again, still holding your hand.
“We’ll get through this Beau, you and me. Promise.” You murmur, pressing a kiss to his forehead. And you were right, the two of you would make it through as long as you were together.
Statistically Speaking - Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Three: Dana Evans
Series Summary: After completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. With a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married.
Chapter Summary: Dana's the one to catch you in the bathroom when you come down with a stomach bug.
Content: vomiting/emetophobia, discussion of pregnancy
A/N: love this one i fear she's very cute and waaahh to me
Word Count: 3.5k
You make it through two full months with nobody finding out about you and Brendon, everybody in on it keeping their lips zipped and everyone else happily oblivious, but that changes one random day when you wake up feeling like shit.
“You should just stay home, baby,” Brendon murmurs as he watches you slog through getting dressed, clearly exhausted and feeling off. “The ED can survive without you for one day.”
You shake your head and insist, “All I need is breakfast and a coffee and I’ll be all set. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Alright, I trust you,” he sighs, dropping down so he can tie your shoes the way he has every morning for more than 3,000 days. “Take it easy though. For me. There’s that nasty bug going around and if this is the start of it-”
“I’m fine, Bren,” you assure as he stands up. “You worry too much.”
He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sweet,” you reply, nudging up to kiss him softly. You know he only worries about your health so much because he had to watch you nearly lose your life a few years ago; you’re sure you’d be ten times as bad if the roles were reversed. “Let’s go get the kids up, yeah?”
He nods solemnly. “I’ll start pancake duty.”
You pat his ass and push him toward the bedroom door. “Good boy.”
Annoyingly, though, you really aren’t feeling better by the time you’ve had your coffee and breakfast and snuggles with your mama’s boy. Still, you take a deep breath, get the little ones in their car seats, and head to the hospital with a determination to get through the day since you have the next two off.
You don’t even make it to lunch.
Your breakfast decides to make a dramatic reappearance out of nowhere, sending you running to the staff bathroom at code speeds. After puking, your skin is about ten shades grayer than usual while you slide down the wall next to the bathroom trash, head spinning and forehead shining with sweat.
The next person to push inside the bathroom is Dana, having watched you hustle away with an expression every mom recognizes when there’s a bug going around. When she spots you, she immediately drops down and touches the back of your clammy forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but, Jesus, you look terrible.”
“Thanks for that.” You grimace as she grabs one of the little paper cups and fills it with water for you to sip on.
“You’ve gotta go home; you look like you’re gonna pass out. Can I call someone for you?”
Shit, you left your phone in your locker this morning. You manage to mumble out as much to her and say, “If you have your phone, I can tell you my husband’s number.”
He picks up on the last ring after excusing himself from supervising a more-than-capable resident, knowing an unknown number could easily be the kids’ school or daycare. “Hello?”
Your voice creaks through. “Hi, hon, I left my phone in my locker. Borrowing Dana’s. I think I’ve got the bug that’s going around. I’ve been throwing up for like half an hour.”
“I’m so sorry you’re sick, sweetheart,” he soothes softly. “You need me to come down and take you home?”
Dana’s head cocks to one side. That’s a familiar voice, but she can’t quite place it because she’s never heard it sounding sympathetic before.
“Yeah, I think so,” you reply, feeling defeated and exhausted. “This thing’s really knocked me on my ass. Literally, actually. I’m on the bathroom floor.”
Brendon’s voice gains intensity as it lowers in volume. “Are you okay? How serious is this?”
“I’m alright,” you reassure him, “just needed to sit down somewhere cool and quiet. Dana’s here with me being amazing. You’ll come down soon?”
“Yeah, baby, of course,” he sighs tenderly. You hear him shuffling things around, already reorienting his day at the first sign of you needing him. “I’ve got one more quick post-op and then I’ll grab you, okay? Can you find somewhere to hang tight until then?”
“Mhm,” you offer queasily. “I’ll wait for you in Occupational Health, maybe? I can lay down and get some meds there at least.”
“That’s a good idea. Tell them I want blood and cultures. Don’t forget that you want trimethobenzamide, not Zofran, for the nausea. Zofran always makes you too fatigued.”
“Yes, doctor,” you reply with an eye roll. But when the eye roll makes the world spin which makes your stomach flip, you groan, “Thanks, Bren.”
As she puts all the baffling dots together, Dana steps in and tells him, “I’ll bring her up to OT. She looks like she could go down any second, so I’m gonna stick with her.”
Brendon sighs. You know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to stop himself from getting too upset that he can’t fix everything right away. “Thanks, Dana, I’ll see you both soon.”
Dana manages to get you to Occupational Health without catching any stray questioning stares. After being briefed on your symptoms, the OT nurse gives you a sympathetic smile as she preps her kit. “It’s probably the flu, but we’re going to draw some blood and take a couple cultures just to be safe, alright?”
Dramatically presenting your arm for the poke, you murmur, “As if my husband would let me leave without a battery of tests for a seasonal virus half a Pittsburgh has.”
She smiles knowingly. “Park definitely seems like the protective type.”
“Park the fuckin’ Shark,” Dana sighs, still disbelieving, as she shakes her head. “So tell me: Was he nice when you first met or were you mean?”
Seeing Brendon’s broad form in the corner of your eye, you turn toward him and sigh romantically, “He’s always nice to me.”
The moment he catches your eye, Brendon’s expression softens. Dana’s never seen that before. He strides quickly to your side and takes your free hand as the nurse does your blood draw. With a quick squeeze to your palm, he asks gently, “How’s the patient feeling?”
You tilt your head back and pout. “Supremely crappy. Sorry, baby, I know you told me to stay home this morning.”
Brendon shakes his head and presses his lips to your hair. “Never apologize for needing my help; that’s the job. You’ve been nauseous half of your adult life and you’re used to pushing through it. Shit happens. Let’s just get you home, baby.”
Dana watches the exchange with befuddled eyebrows. Suddenly the mountain of a frown she’s come to know is a gentle giant, his eyes concerned and his expression tender. He’s had baby blue eyes this whole time? Jesus. She never would’ve guessed after avoiding eye contact so long. She gestures broadly and half-laughs as she asks Brendon, “You’re telling me all those precious angels she’s got covering the inside of her locker belong to you? The meanest man in the hospital?”
“Guilty as charged,” Brendon confirms as he once again kisses the top of your head. He’s rubbing your back, too, unable to stop touching you as a way of grounding himself. “We’ve been together almost ten years now.”
She whistles, impressed. Turning to you while the nurse disappears with your tests, she asks, “Any reason you don’t talk about him at work besides the fact that he’s undeniably awful?”
“I talk plenty about my husband,” you laugh softly, not able to muster much energy to tease, “you all just don’t think my cute stories could be about him.”
Suddenly recontextualizing countless adorable accounts, Dana disbelievingly says, “Brendon Park takes his girls to their father-daughter dances every year in a tie that matches their dress. Brendon Park writes notes for his kids’ lunchboxes and takes them all on dad dates so they don’t miss out on quality time with him.” She shakes her head and laughs, “No wonder he keeps his family a secret; I think you might be the sweetest man in the world, Dr. Park. I’m never gonna look at you the same way again.”
“That’s all hearsay,” Brendon snaps back through a chuckle. Then he sighs and tells her, “Look, surgery may be my life, but those kids are my world. Family’s everything.”
Dana can’t help smiling. “God, now I’m gonna be sick.”
You make kissy lips at Brendon and say, “I tell you guys all the time: My husband’s a huge softie.”
Brendon shakes his head and jokingly covers your ears with his hands. “She’s delirious; don’t listen to a word she says.” Then, while you get cleared to leave, he nudges Dana on the arm and adds, “Hey, don’t tell anyone about us, alright? We’ve got a whole bet going.”
And she gives the only response heard in the Pitt: “Can I get in on the action?”
Just as you’re about to go home after your first shift back a few days later, feeling much better after resting and hydrating as with Brendon’s mom coming over to dote on the kids, Dana touches you on the shoulder. Her eyes are sharp and her voice is low. “Do you have a few minutes?”
You glance at your watch. Brendon’s grabbing the boys from daycare, so you can spare a few minutes. “Now?”
She nods and you can see something serious hiding behind her eyes. Immediately you worry about the particularly fragile patient she assisted you with a few hours ago. “No time like the present.”
“Um, yeah, alright.”
She leads you into a private room and closes the door behind her. Inside, she picks up a chart and a few packets of paper she had waiting.
Swallowing hard as your mind easily supplies all sorts of horrible news, you check, “Is this about a patient?”
“Ah, kind of,” she replies, gesturing for you to sit on the bed. You hop up and she steps closer. After a deep breath, she hands over the clipboard – your chart from your visit to OT last week – and says, “No point beating around the bush, I say. You’re pregnant.”
The floor falls out from under you.
Your ears start to ring. Staring down at the litany of blood tests, your eyes settle on that firm POSITIVE next to a sky-high hCG level.
While your heart thuds its way into your throat, Dana adds softly, “I’m guessing you’re already well into your first trimester based on those numbers. Maybe 10, 12 weeks.”
Not quite processing, you blink fast and ramble out, “I- I’m so good about my birth control pills. Same time every day. Never miss them. With five kids, you don’t miss your birth control.”
“I read over your chart, honey,” she explains, standing next to you now so she can place a hand on your upper back. “One of the medications you’re on – the modafinil, for your sleep issues – reduces the effectiveness of hormonal birth control.”
Tears sting at your eyes as you scoff, feeling stupid and confused and jarred, “How did I not know that? I’m a fucking doctor.”
“You’re not a psychiatrist. If they didn’t tell you that, you should sue as far as I’m concerned.” She hands you a couple stapled packets of paper and a pamphlet. Studies, you realize. “Look, take a day and talk about it with your husband, whatever you need to do, but if you decide to stay pregnant, you’ll need to stop taking it because first trimester exposure can cause some complications and malformations.”
If the floor fell out of you at the first news, it’s the ceiling flying off this time. Your hand goes over your mouth as you choke back a sob. “Oh, god.”
“Don’t go panicking yet,” she soothes, rubbing your back how your mother would when you were little. “The chance is still low and you know as well as I do there are things we can screen for and most of them are fixable, treatable, or manageable even if they’re present. All your numbers look fantastic and you’ve got a nice long history of healthy pregnancies, right?”
You wipe the tears from your cheeks and take a deep breath, steadying yourself as much as you can. “Right. Right, yeah. Okay. Everything’s okay.”
Dana gives you a sympathetic, understanding smile. “Do you want a minute alone? Or I can walk you out to your car?”
You sniffle and try to force your face into a grateful expression, genuinely thankful she’s being so kind and taking the time to be supportive. “That would be nice.”
With her voice low and her arm slung protectively around your shoulder, Dana guided you out of the back entrance and to your waiting car. She says goodbye with a tight hug that lingers, promising you everything will be okay.
Then, alone in your car, your mind finally settled enough to relax, you feel that tiny little spark.
Underneath the shock, underneath the panic, underneath the confusion, peeking out like a sprout growing through a crack in the concrete, there’s that familiar bloom of pure love. That soft, sacred, quiet thing that grows unrelentingly inside of you when everything else threatens to crumble.
Love without boundaries, without conditions, without a name. The same love that has you sewing custom Halloween costumes, baking preschool graduation cakes, and wiping sniffly noses all cold season long. A love made from you and the man who’s rerouted and dedicated his entire life to making sure you and your children are safe and adored.
As you turn over the engine, you touch your lower abdomen and murmur softly, “We’re doing this again, aren’t we?”
You hate to say it, but you’re grateful when Brendon is pulled into an emergency surgery at the end of the day, sending his mom to pick up the boys at daycare. It’s nice to have some time to think while you make dinner and help the older ones with homework.
While everyone settles into the evening, you catch yourself watching the kids playing with each other, leaning in the doorway with a soft, far away expression. You’d felt so finished having kids after Felix, but suddenly you can see another baby to bounce as you chase the others around. You can see it so clearly that your eyes sting with tears. Even when you imagine that baby with any myriad of complications, you love it. You want it.
Late that night, all the kids in bed save your littlest one, Felix is half-asleep on your chest, his thumb in his mouth while you watch the TV on low. You just can’t bear to stop moments like this when you know they’re so fleeting. Running your fingers through his hair, just like Brendon’s downy waves, you murmur, “What do you think about becoming a big brother, little man?”
He stirs slightly and gives you a heavy-lidded smile. With a half-giggle that always melts you, he muses, “Baby sister?”
“Baby something,” you confirm gently. “I just have to tell daddy.”
He nods as if knowingly, nestling his forehead into your side. “Daddy happy.”
“I hope so.”
“Know so.”
You’ve convinced yourself that you’ll manage to wait to tell Brendon until after he’s had a solid night’s sleep. But then he comes home. And, in a matter of minutes, you remember it’s impossible for you to keep a secret from him, especially one this big. That’s the problem with being married to your best friend; he’s the one person you want to talk about everything with, even when it’s not the best time.
“I got my bloodwork back,” you tell him tentatively as you watch him go through his bedtime routine from the bed, “and I don’t have the flu.”
After he finishes flossing, he heads into the closet and asks, “Norovirus?”
Your hands start to sweat. This feels very, very different from your other pregnancies. The shadow of Felix’s birth clouds you both. You swallow hard and squeak out, “Not quite.”
Stepping out in nothing but his boxers, a few droplets of water still on his chest from his recent shower, Brendon sits next to you on the bed and cups your cheek. With a furrowed brow, he urges, “I can read you like a book, angel. Spit it out.”
Searching his blue eyes for any islands to rest away from your anxiety, you whisper, “I’m pregnant.”
Every time you’ve told him before, he’s scooped you up into his arms and spun you around and celebrated. This time, the blood drains from his face. His palms go clammy. The world stills.
After a minute, he asks in a voice that’s jumbled up with fear and grief and love and hope and desperation, “You want us to keep it?”
“I think so,” you reply quietly, “but not if you don’t want another-”
“I’d raise as many kids as you’d give me, baby, that’s not what I’m nervous about.” Brendon turns to you, clutches your hands in his, and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear an Etch-a-Sketch. Through tears that just won’t stop falling, he whispers, “After everything last time, after I almost- almost fucking lost you, I don’t know if I can- if I can handle it.”
You rush back, “That won’t happen again, Bren.”
“You can’t know that for sure.”
Brushing his wet cheeks with your thumbs, you remind him, “I can know it to 99.99994 percent based on the latest research. We both know the odds are astronomical that that complication would happen more than once.”
Unable to speak, Brendon buries his face in your shoulder and takes a deep breath. His arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you effortlessly into his lap to hold you as tight to him as possible.
You massage his scalp with your fingertips and soothe, “I’m okay, Bren. I’m just pregnant.”
“I know, baby, I know.” He pulls back and kisses your hand over and over with his eyebrows pinched together. “But you’re older now, and-”
“Sweetheart, I’m not even thirty,” you chuckle and shake your head. “The average woman hasn’t even started having babies by my age.”
“You’re really on one with the statistics tonight,” he half-laughs, wiping his tears and taking a deep breath. After a minute of studying your features the way he always has when he wishes he could read your thoughts, he checks, “Are you sure?”
You nod and give him the first secretive smile. “Completely.”
Brendon hugs you close once again and sighs out all his fears with his next breath. “Then I’m sure with you.” Sliding his strong arms beneath your ass, he offers a mischievous smile and asks, “Feel secure?”
You roll your eyes and grin and nod – and he hoists you up into the air. Letting out a needed laugh, you lock your legs around him and kiss him hard as he spins you around. With your forehead pressed to his, you giggle out, “We’re gonna have a baby.”
“I love you so fucking much,” he says, kissing across your cheeks. Once he’s got you laughing and thrilled, he flops you back on the bed and kisses your stomach. Finally, propped on his elbows next to you, that boyish smile of his blooms in full force. He says seriously, “At least this means we have some wiggle room for our ultimate frisbee lineup. Margot’s not exactly shaping up to be an athlete with all her musical theater.”
You snort run your fingers through Brendon’s hair as he rests his head on your stomach, eyes closed reverently as he once again reimagines his future with another baby. “Hear that, kiddo? Daddy’s gonna teach you to throw as soon as you’re out of there. Work extra hard on building up that right hook.”
“Nah, we need a Southpaw,” he corrects with the most adorable smile you’ve ever seen. Then he just shakes his head happily and snuggles closer to you, the picture of domestic bliss. As he softly kisses anywhere he can, he muses, “We’re gonna have to go ring shopping again.”
You poke him in the pec and balk, “You want me to wear a six carat diamond? My hand will fall off, Bren. We could send one of the kids to college with that.”
He holds up his hand to stop you in your tracks. “One carat per baby; that’s been my rule for a decade and I’m not about to betray my values now.”
With a snicker, you reach back and turn off your bedside lamp, getting cozy under the covers together. “I can’t even wear my ring to work.”
He counters, “But I like when you wear it on dates.”
“Because you like to show me off like some trophy wife.”
Dramatically, he sighs out, “God forbid a man be madly, spectacularly in love with a gorgeous woman and want everyone in a ten-foot radius to know.”
“Fine,” you relent, unable to stop smiling even in the dark, “six carats it is.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Summary: When you decided to go into sports medicine and intern with the Briar Hockey medical clinic you really didn’t comprehend the pain and suffering you would have to endure.
Pairing: Yearner!John Logan x Reader (Doctor in training)
Warning: There isn’t anything explicit, but Logan does get into some details towards the end 🤭
Note: I tried to be accurate with my medical facts without getting too gory. I just really wanted to capture Yearner John Logan 💕 Hope y’all enjoy 🫶
You sat on a rolling stool, your simple jeans and a faded, slightly ratty grey zip-up hoodie keeping you as warm as they could managed. Your hands—as always—were icy to the touch, and you were currently mindlessly picking at the chipped black polish on your bitten nails. You adjusted your glasses, looking down at your socks. Left foot: neon green stripes. Right foot: rubber duckies. You always wore two different socks for good luck.
Your luck was clearly failing you today.
"I told you to sit still," you grumbled, your voice thick with exasperation.
"Yes, Doc," Logan crooned.
You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply. "Stop calling me that. I hate it" (You lied. You loved it. But he didn't need to know that).
Here is how your semester as a sports medicine intern had been going, broken down into the medical chart of one specific Briar hockey player who seemingly lacked a self-preservation instinct.
The first time it got ridiculous, Logan stumbled into your exam bay with a split lip that was actively dripping blood onto his jersey.
"Doctor Y/N!" Garrett had yelled, dragging Logan by the collar.
"I'm not a doctor yet, Garrett, I'm an intern," you sighed, grabbing a sterile gauze pad. "What happened?"
"Some dick at the bar was talking trash about Tucker's baking," Logan mumbled, wincing as you stepped closer. "Said his cinnamon rolls tasted like cardboard. Had to defend his honor, Doc."
"Tucker can handle himself, Logan. He's literally a giant," you scolded, pressing the gauze to his lip. "You're an idiot. Stop smiling, it's bleeding worse."
Logan, despite the pain, let his lips stretch into a wide, boyish grin, entirely unbothered by the blood staining his teeth. "Can't help it, ma'am. You're real pretty when you're bossing me around."
"Don't 'ma'am' me," you scolded, gently pressing the gauze to his lip. Your cold fingers brushed his jaw, and he let out a contented sigh, leaning into your icy touch like a cat. "You're a dumbass, John Logan."
"I had to," Logan mumbled against the gauze, his eyes intensely searching your face behind your glasses. "He insulted my teammate. Had to do it for my friend. Can't have people thinking Briar boys are soft, ma'am."
"Shut up," you muttered, your face burning as you applied a bit more pressure than necessary.
Two weeks later, the Briar hockey team was celebrating a win at a house party. You were there strictly off-duty, wearing your comfort-first uniform of jeans and an oversized tee, when a commotion broke out in the hallway.
Ten minutes later, you was back in the clinic room, staring at Logan, who was sitting on the examination table with a visibly dislocated shoulder. He was pale, sweating from the pain, but his eyes were still laser-focused on you.
"Some guy didn't take 'no' for an answer from Allie," Logan grunted, his jaw clenched. "Tried to put his hands on her. I took care of it."
"Allie is dating Dean, Logan! Dean was literally five feet away! He could have helped her! And that’s IF she even needed help!" You cried out in sheer exasperation, prepping the room. "Why are you like this? Don't move. I need to go grab the stabilizing brace from the cabinet so I can reset this properly."
As you turned to step away, Logan panicked. Disregarding the excruciating pain, he lunged forward with his good arm, wrapping his hand firmly around your waist to pull you back toward him.
"Ah! Fuck!" Logan yelped, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as the sudden movement jarred his ruined shoulder. He turned white as a sheet, but his grip on your waist didn't slacken.
"Are you insane?!" You gasp, your icy hands instantly flying to his chest to steady him. "I told you not to move! Let go of me!"
"Don't go far," he panted, his forehead resting against your hip, his grip tight around your waist. "Don't like it when you're across the room, Doc. Just stay close."
You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs. You looked down at his stubborn, pain-lined face, your tone softening into something hopelessly affectionate. "You are the biggest dumbass in the entire state. Let go so I can fix you."
"Yes, ma'am," he whispered, finally letting his hand slip from your waist, though his eyes never left yours.
The third time, it was a black eye. A massive, swelling, purplish-blue shiner that completely fused his left eyelid shut.
You walked into the treatment room, holding an ice pack, and stopped dead in your tracks. Logan was sitting on the table. As soon as he saw you Logan started frantically using his thumb and forefinger to physically peel his swollen, bruised eyelid open, grimacing in discomfort.
"What in the actual hell are you doing?!" You demanded, rushing over and slapping his hands away from his face. "Stop touching it! You're going to give yourself an infection!"
Logan, now looking at you with one perfectly clear eye and one terrifyingly forced-open, bloodshot eye, giving you a cheeky, boyish grin.
"Had to," he said smoothly, completely unbothered by how ridiculous he looked. "Needed to see your gorgeous face, Doc. Couldn't let a little swelling block my view."
You felt your cheeks burn. You pressed the ice pack hard against both his eyes, cutting off his vision entirely. "Who did you fight this time, you maniac?"
"Some random frat guy refused to use Jules' proper pronouns," Logan muttered under the ice pack, his voice suddenly dropping its teasing edge and turning serious. "Kept doing it on purpose. Couldn't let that slide. Jules is family."
You swallowed hard, your anger melting away into a warm, dangerous puddle of affection. You adjusted your glasses, your icy fingers brushing his temple. "You're a good brother, Logan. But you're still a complete idiot."
"Anything you say, ma'am."
Which brought you to tonight. Tonight was the pinnacle of your suffering.
Logan had gotten into a brutal, massive brawl on the ice with Aaron Delaney. He didn't even know why he was fighting him—he just knew Garrett hated Delaney from some previous drama, and Logan’s philosophy was simple: if his best friend hated a guy, Logan was going to punch that guy.
He had sustained a nasty deep bone bruise and a mild concussion, and the team doctor had authorized a heavy dose of painkillers to manage the acute pain before sending him home with a concussion protocol.
Now, you were stuck monitoring him. And Logan was completely, utterly loopy.
"Doc," Logan whispered. Except it wasn't a whisper. It was a loud, booming shout that echoed in the empty clinic. "DOC! I HAVE A SECRET!"
"Logan, please, you need to lay down and rest," you said, sitting in the chair beside his bed, frantically filling out his chart.
Logan was flailing on the clinic bed, his long limbs moving expressively as he spoke, kicking his legs out. "NO, LISTEN. IT'S A SECRET." He leaned over the edge of the bed, his face inches from yours, his eyes completely dilated. "I love your glasses. They make you look like a sexy librarian who's gonna yell at me for talking. I like it when you yell at me."
You paused your pen, looking up to the ceiling, silently cursing whatever force in the universe had assigned you to the hockey team.
"Logan, lay back before you fall off the bed," you ordered.
"You're like a tiny, angry mouse," he shouted happily, still flailing his arms. "A little mad mouse! I love it when you scowl. It makes my chest feel all tight. You're scolding me right now and honestly, Doc? It's doing things to me. You're so cute when you're mean."
You stared at him, completely horrified and deeply flushed. "I need to check your cognitive functions because the absolute nonsense coming out of your mouth is unfathomable."
"My cognitive functions are great," Logan crooned, staring up at you with pure, unfiltered worship shining in his eyes. He reached out, his thumb gently catching the edge of your hand to play with your fingers.
"Your hands are so cold," Logan rambled on, reaching out and clumsily snatching your other icy hand into his warm, massive paws. He brought them to his chest, squeezing them. "I'm gonna warm 'em up for you. Forever. I'll hold 'em forever, Doc. Anything for you, Doc..."
"I am trying to fill out your chart. If you don't sit still I will leave you with your teammates!" You growl irritated.
"Oh, look at that," Logan loud-whispered to the empty air, though because of the meds, his "whisper" was essentially a shout that rattled the tongue depressors in their jars. "She’s doing the face. Garrett! Look at her face!"
Garrett who had been lingering around to make sure his best friend was okay promptly turned around. "I'm leaving," he announced, raising his hands and backing out of the clinic. "Good luck, Y/N."
"Traitor!" you called after him, before turning back to Logan, who was now writhing around on the clinic bed like a caught fish, his long legs kicking out. "John Logan, I swear to God, if you do not lay your head on that pillow this second, I will personally ensure you spend the next three games on the bench."
Logan froze, staring up at you through heavy, hooded eyes. The goofy grin vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated awe. He swallowed hard.
"Do it again," he crooned, his voice dropping into a desperate, loopy rumble.
"Do what again?"
"Say my full name in that hot, angry voice," he muttered, leaning forward and trying to wink, though he ended up just blinking both eyes slowly. "You're so pretty when you're mad at me. Did you know that? Your little eyebrows go all swoop in the middle. It’s gorgeous. It makes my chest hurt. Or maybe that's where that idiot punched me… No, it's definitely you."
Logan hummed mindlessly as he thought about something before continuing. "The angry voice," He shouted-whispered, leaning forward, entirely invading your personal space. His knuckles gripped the edge of the mattress. "Say my full name like that. God, Y/N, you have no idea. You get all stern, and- and you scowl at me with those pretty eyes... it’s a problem."
You blinked, your pen hovering over the tablet. "What?"
"It’s a huge problem," Logan continued, his arms flailing again to emphasize the sheer magnitude of his crisis. "You lecture me, and my brain just melts. You call me a dumbass—and you say it so sweet, like you actually care about my stupid face—and I literally get hard. Like, right now. I am so hot and bothered because you’re mad at me. It makes me so horny, Doc, you don't even know—"
"Logan!" You felt the heat blast up your neck, your face turning a violent shade of crimson. You grabbed a pillow and practically shoved it into his chest to keep him back. "Shut up! Oh my god, stop talking!"
"I can't!" he yelled back, completely oblivious to your mortification. "I'm telling you it’s a literal turn-on when you're bossy. Put me in handcuffs, Doc. Court-martial me. I’ve been a bad boy—"
You were mortified. Absolutely, completely, utterly mortified.
"John Logan," you said, your voice shaking with an terrifying mix of irritation and sheer embarrassment.
"Oh, fuck, full name again," Logan whimpered, a look of pure, unadulterated ecstasy crossing his face. "Please say it again. Scold me more. Tell me what a bad boy I've been."
You dropped the tablet onto the rolling cart and slowly looked up at the ceiling tiles. You closed your eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
Why, universe? you thought desperately. What terrible, unspeakable crime did I commit in a past life to deserve this? Was I a war criminal? Did I kick a puppy? Why is this giant, horny hockey player waxing poetry about his erection while high on clinical-grade painkillers in my examination room? How can one human being possess this much weaponized audacity and zero shame?
"Y/N," Logan whined, his flailing hand catching the sleeve of your hoodie, pulling weakly. "Don't look at the ceiling. Look at me. Scold me some more. Tell me how stupid I am. Your hot angry voice is doing things to my soul."
"Universe, be so for real with me right now," you muttered out loud, genuinely questioning if his head trauma was worse than you initially assessed. "Is he stupid? He has to be stupid."
"Once again m’ not stupid," Logan sighed happily. "Just a man in love, Doc. A man who wants his doctor to put him in timeout."
You looked back down at him, contemplating every single life decision that had led you to Briar University. You regretted choosing sports medicine. You regretted taking this internship. You regretted ever looking John Logan in his stupid, handsome, yearning face.
...Okay, maybe he was a little bit of a cutie.
You forcefully pushed his flailing legs back onto the bed and snapped at him to keep his mouth shut before you sedated him for real. Which only made his grin widen with absolute adoration.
Mental Note: As a sports medicine intern, I am sworn to do no harm. I cannot smack the patient. Even if the patient is a beautiful, giant idiot.
Suddenly he was ramping up, his voice getting louder, his limbs twitching as he prepared to launch into another passionate, drug-induced monologue about you.
You couldn't take it anymore. The yearning radiating off him was a physical force, suffocating the room, and if he said one more word, you were going to combust.
"John Logan, shut up," you whispered.
"But Y/N, I gotta tell you—"
"Logan, shut up."
"Yes, Doc, but—"
Driven by pure desperation, a lack of sleep, and a sudden, overwhelming surge of her own bottled-up feelings, you leaned forward.
You grabbed his jaw with your icy fingers, tilting his head up, and cut off his rambling by pressing your lips firmly against his.
The kiss was soft, tender, and incredibly gentle, mindful of his bruised face. It tasted like mint and the copper tang of a healing cut, and it was everything you had been trying to ignore for the last six months.
When you pulled away, blinking through your glasses, you braced yourself for another onslaught of loopy commentary.
Instead, Logan was utterly, completely paralyzed.
The lovesick sap had turned into a literal statue. His eyes were wide, his mouth was slightly parted, and he lay perfectly, beautifully still on the clinic bed. Not a single limb flailed. Not a single word escaped his lips. The yearning had short-circuited his entire brain.
You let out a breathy, victorious laugh, your cold fingers trailing down to tap his chin.
"Look at that," you whispered affectionately, picking your pen back up and returning to his chart. "I finally found a way to make you follow doctor's orders. Now stay still, dumbass."
Patient Name: John Logan.
Notes: Lacerations to knuckles, moderate bruising, stitches needed, mild concussion, acute and severe loss of all verbal filters due to analgesics. Patient is exhibiting highly alarming levels of yearning. Will continue to monitor.
That was a fluff and crack fix all in one !!
so funny to see Logan so passionate about the doc scolding him and the doc asking for the universe what she had done to deserve that 😂
I personally don’t like my mom all that much (she did scream at me instead of showing sympathy) but I’m terrified of anyone dying by my hand so fuck it
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park operated like most shark, always patrolling and returning to where he was familiar. he knew how to fix fractures and re-implant amputated limbs with confidence. he was a master in his professional craft. socially—brendon didn’t have that same skill, and when you moved to the night shift, the atmospheric change was something he couldn’t stabilize like bones.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical description, sexism/conflict in the workplace, pediatric/mass casualty cases, burnout, slow burn, grumpy/sunshine, competence kink, emotionally repressed brendon (he honestly needs therapy), power imbalance, this is just park realizing he fucked up and lowkey yearns for reader to notice him again lol
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ here is the long awaited continuation! someone said something of a park pov and i couldn't resist it!! i hope this is a worthy part two (yall let me know honestly, okay?) i love brendon park y'all and i know you guys do too, so i really hope you guys like it (i have a validation kink)
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 14.4 k
part one: find another soldier!
Brendon heard more than what he wanted to about the hospital and its staff. Even though staff were acutely aware when he was around (typically refraining from making obvious comments about him), he was still able to pick up a few things here and there.
Observations of potential flings and affairs between nurses and doctors. The ‘drama’ that occurred within departmental staff—some of them including married couples who challenge their vows by working together. The latest news on what residents royally screwed up or who had been reprimanded for forgetting protocol.
Brendon Park, who had the hearing of a shark, picked up those sociable conversations between colleagues. He always stood a comfortable distance from the parade, finding no satisfaction in bonding with people he was meant to work with. The absence of relation and sharing intimacy such as personal details didn't affect his work negatively, which was all that mattered to him
He told himself he didn't care about any of it, even when he heard a thing or two about himself. Internally, he knew that was the absolute truth. There was no exception.
Until he passed by the nursing station where Sully, his chief resident, was speaking with Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending. The two were off to the side, speaking among themselves like the two had done so before. Sully held a digital chart in his hands, but his attention was on Dr. Emmick, casually slumped with her hands in her jacket pockets.
“She’s doing perfectly on her own.” Dr. Emmick shrugged, a proud smile on her face. The relief that escaped Sully made something tick in Park. “I mentioned nominating her for chief resident next year. That just seemed to amp up her determination even more, if that was possible.”
“That's not surprising. She’s always been miles above some of the other residents.” Sully responded with a buzzing smile. Brendon had resorted to stopping by the printer behind the station, pretending to be shuffling through pages he had already arranged. “She’s managed to teach me a few things I plan to take with me.”
“I’m sure she’ll be sad to see you leave,” Dr. Emmick patted his shoulder, that softer smile she reserved for praises and quiet appreciations painting her face. Sully nodded along with her words. “But, she’s blossoming here. Before you know it, she’ll be running this place.”
“Dr. Emmick,” Park cut through the conversation, standing from across the nursing station. He held up the papers in his hand, a curt nod in her direction.
She offered one more smile to Sully as she moved around the desk. Park didn’t look over at her as the two merged to walk alongside each other. In the time Dr. Emmick had been at PTMC, she never once spent time alone with Brendon Park. The most solitude the two of them spent was when they had meetings, and even then, those events included other admin or members of the collective hospital boards they were in.
She figured out he was a lone shark when they first met, preferring to slip in and out the doors without so much of a ‘good morning’ or ‘good night.’
The least he could do was offer her a nod whenever they passed each other by hand-off.
Dr. Emmick walked with a small sway, too much energy for someone who spent the entire shift focused on an emergency reconstruction of a patient with an unstable pelvic ring fracture. Brendon sensed the small glances she sent him, and he sighed out through his nostrils, maintaining his aloof demeanor. If he acted normal, she’d keep the curious questions to herself.
“We’re only a few months shy from graduation again.” Emmick mentioned casually, maneuvering around some nurses passing by, offering small ‘excuse me.’ “Do you have anyone in mind for chief residents?”
Brendon barely flinched at the question, keeping his attention straight ahead. The two pushed through the first pair of double doors until they reached the nonclinical area of the surgical department, where his office along with the other chief surgeons and attending lounge was.
He snorted lightly, shaking his head. “At the rate my residents are working, we may have to settle on one, if we both agree on someone.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for one resident,” Dr. Emmick snickered. She was aware what residents wanted the title, which came with the most attention from the attendings. All the other residents were their little ducks to watch, a true simulation of being an attending in a trauma-1 hospital.
Which came with the responsibility of their wrong-doings as much as their wins.
Emmick brushed her stray hairs behind her ear, “And if you can't settle on someone from the day-shift, I’d hate to hear what you think of those in the night shift.”
“I’m assuming you're asking because you had someone in mind.” Brendon diverted smoothly, his tone even and rested. Despite the fact he knew exactly where she was reigning the conversation, he still held the detached perceptive look he had when he was making an objective judgment.
She hummed, advancing ahead of Park to scan her badge to enter the hospital-staff exclusive area. With a beep, the doors clicked open and Brendon stalked down first. When the door shut behind Emmick she stepped back to his side, “It’s someone we both have worked with extensively.”
When Brendon reached his office, he bowed his head slightly to hide the twitch in his nose. Once he sat at his desk, he had put back the stoic expression. Emmick shut the wooden door, pulling out a chair for her to sit across him. Both her hands folded onto her lap, legs crossed. The small twitch in the corner of her mouth all but confirmed his suspicion.
When your name escaped her mouth, he straightened his back. He was recalling the image of him sitting on his desk, your buzzing body standing in front of the door, waiting for the moment to escape. You had left and never looked back.
Once the switch was made official, Park wasn't expecting there to be a lapse in his day-to-day life. It’s not like you had moved departments or hospitals. He would see you passing by the halls during hand-off, the back of your head or the familiar fleece jacket you sported in the eerily cold hospital; but there was a distance that didn't exist while you worked the dayshift.
Working under his command and his directive as his resident.
“What about her makes her ideal for the position?” Brendon questioned. The current quarterly review the two were meant to oversee before their meeting pushed aside.
The question was firm, like he was interviewing his colleague instead of searching for her opinion. She raised her eyebrows at him, an amused grin flashing back at him. “You want my professional opinion?”
“Obviously.”
“She is a good mentor, has great instinct and initiative. She keeps a clinical perspective while under pressure.” Emmick listed out concisely, opting to appease the language Dr. Park preferred. He didn’t care about the mush or the personable trait that made you stand out to him, even if Emmick felt those strengths were your greatest virtues. “As a third-year resident, she is already doing the job of a chief resident, without the title.”
Brendon remained silent, pressing his lips into a thin line. The subtle movement of his jaw, an obvious tick, made it evident what he refused to put into words. He had doubts.
“This observation is based on the last three months she’s been on the night shift?” He clarified while crossing his arms over his chest. Through the sleeves of his scrubs, his muscles tightened, pulling the fabric tighter.
Emmick confirmed with one silent nod, eyeing Park from her chair. “As well as the double and previous night shifts she has worked.”
“And you're confident in her abilities?”
The more questions he spewed, the more it resembled an interrogation. He was investigating a theory he was keeping to himself through the people who knew you, instead of addressing the source. In three months, it was clear that you were keeping a distance.
No one wanted to spend five minutes alone in a room with Park, let alone talk to him that long. In your case, you confronted him of the clear judgments he made of your work while under his supervision. The public displays of his criticism had pushed you into the deep end of a pool, and as you found an edge to climb off, you took the extra steps to never fall in that situation again.
If you had asked him, he’d describe it as running.
“You aren’t?" Emmick resounded incredulously, like it was unbelievable he thought contrary to popular belief.
“I think that in the majority of the three years I’ve witnessed her work, I’ve noticed moments requiring additional correction.” Brendon commented with no hesitation, as if he was waiting for the opportunity to let it out.
The frustration you caused when Mr. Stevenson suffered through compartment syndrome. The lack of awareness when you were run down through your double shifts. Even the lack of urgency when treating patients. It was all hindering your ability to be a perfect orthopedic surgeon.
“All residents need to be corrected.” Emmick remarks with a humorous scoff. Park ticked his head to the side, displeased with her dismissing his objection. “I’m not saying she’s perfect.”
“It was implied strongly by your choice of words.”
“Well, in comparison to some of the other residents, she’s damn near it.” Emmick cocked her head to the side, almost daring him to utter a word. Brendon kept his eyes on her, and all he saw were talons flared out, like a hawk ready to protect its nest.
Emmick had traits he respected in a colleague. Working together as attendings undertaking residents with shaky hands became a source of common ground. What divided them was their nonidentical ways of going about it. Emmick stuck her ground when Brendon might expostulate with gravity to the risks. She believed in a hand-on validating method. Brendon had to see it first to believe it.
“I thought maybe you might agree.” She mentioned casually, picking at a lint on her jacket sleeve.
Brendon nose twitched, leaning forward in his seat to rest his burly arms on the table. “Why is that?”
“Because I like to believe you couldn’t possibly deny when a resident is good at their job.” Emmick narrowed her eyes at him, tempting to push him just close enough to the edge where he’d have to turn and face the issue.
What Brendon thought was nothing was something worth omitting. He could brood all he’d wanted, and most of his residents wouldn’t blink a teary eye, but what he cursed Emmick over was her peculiar talent at observation.
“Especially not a resident like her.”
He huffed out a sigh, almost cracking his resolve. This had to be a joke. “The residents chosen for the chief position need to have earned my utmost trust. It’s not a title handed prematurely.”
“Like Sullivan?” She asked skeptically, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back in the chair.
Her steady stare dragged across every inch of his face. He didn’t bother intimidating a colleague who had proven time and time again she wasn’t to be messed with; even when people assumed she was too lax in comparison to him.
But, she had a nasty bite.
Brendon knew exactly what she was insinuating. Apart from Sullivan (who was personally chosen for the role by Park) his co-chief for night shift was also a man who (in Parks terms) got lucky from the process of elimination. Despite the fact Emmick might’ve argued the two female 4th year residents would’ve made wonderful selections.
“Look, before you snarl your shark-teeth at me, let me say one thing.” She put up a hand to restrain his irritability right before they were meant to meet with administration.
When he mentioned nothing more, she sat up straight, leaning in closer like she might tell him a life-changing secret. “If this is about her moving to night shift, that might’ve been my doing more than hers. No hard feelings, Brendon.”
“What do you mean?” He entertained, eyes turning into slits as he stared curiously. Like examining an amputation on the field.
“I told her I could use a resident with her skill.” She mentioned casually, like the concept was known by everyone. Brendon was aware of what Emmick thought of you, as much as the other resident did. She didn’t hide her affection or pride with a firm guard as he did.
She shrugged, her smile upside. “I didn’t think she’d want to give up the chance to be taught by you, but here we are.”
Brendon's eyes moved down at the desk, feeling the oak from that night as he gripped the edge of his desk. He conformed to the idea his sudden dissatisfaction was from you standing over him, pointing blame for affecting your work. He was too hard, too malevolent, or contemptuous for your liking.
All the effort he put in was just him being too “proud” and “arrogant.” He expected more from you, and he didn’t need your honesty (as you had put it), to remind him that you weren't up to the plate.
“I still stand by the fact she’s exceptional, and it would be a disservice if we didn’t even consider her.” She concluded, with the firmness that came from working her way to where she was.
On the very few occasions that they spoke, Emmick had expressed small gratitude for the trust he had extended to her when she first transferred over. He didn't comprehend the need to “thank” him. He assumed the hospital was hiring competent attendings to take over the hard work while teaching naive residents and interns.
So when he thought of you, as chief resident or an attending, the bill did not fit. Nobody just deserved the title. It was earned from hard work. You had yet to work hard enough to garner a standing ovation from him.
Philosophy wasn’t Brendon’s strong suit. He didn't waste his time on debates, but he did have strong beliefs. Medicine was a rational practice. There were right and wrong things to do in a hospital—as a surgeon—that could put the lives of others in the balance. He was taught that lesson long ago, and when it came time for him to pass along his teachings, he made sure to drill it in all his residents.
‘Your patient can die at any moment. Don't be the reason they don’t make it.’ was something he had reminded them time and time again. He didn't need to be pulled away from one life-saving surgery to futilely attempt another. His residents should be covering all bases, without serving any reminders.
He hadn't forgotten the occasions you had failed at that.
It was rookie mistakes unsuited for third year residents. When he enforced responsibilities, he expected stellar work in return. If the residents signed up for the work of orthopedic surgery, they should be held accountable for every action and inaction that they take. He expected them to enforce that upon themselves.
He had put that weight on you.
He was unapologetic for what he had done while you worked with him. It was all for the sake of the patients, himself, and you. Your work was a reflection of him, and if you couldn't figure out how to stand on your own two feet, how could anyone trust the training you had to save lives?
You had not seen it that way. Brendon shrugged it off in turn.
Maybe he was vindictive, waiting for Emmick to see the dangerous flaws he did. He expected Emmick to see it as he did, but she had other pillars in her teaching.
He saw it the way she smiled whenever you showed up around her. Brendon noticed it from inside patient rooms, behind nursing stations, and the few occasions you two were in the same space together. Emmick praised you with the same ease as breathing.
Everyone was aware how rare Dr. Park complimented anyone for his or her work. Marla Emmick operated oppositely.
She’d pat your shoulder, whisper something with that curled grin of hers, or give you a fist-bump as a supportive nod of your actions. Brendon rolled his eyes at it.
These weren’t kindergartners who needed a gold star for accomplishing something required of their program. These were grown adults who needed to comprehend the intensity of their choices, their observations and evaluation of patients, and the importance of knowing what they were doing as much as showing up to do it.
He was trying to make competent surgeons capable of saving fragile human life and he would do that at the expense of feeding the “shark” persona everyone saw. Cold-hearted, detached, and mean.
Even while you were under the supervision of Emmick, he still tried to figure out whether you had learned anything from the time you spent with him. He needed to see whether Emmick was right about her observation.
Park was making his way to the patient waiting in the pre-op wing. He stalked around, looking for the small group of residents making their rounds. He nodded at Annette, the charge nurse, as she pointed over to patient room three. When he made his way to the room, he saw the collective group of residents standing at the foot of the bed. He stood by the doorway, listening to the hand-off Reddy, the senior residents for the night, conducted.
Frank Giles, a 65-year-old, needing a total hip replacement after a nasty fall in his home, sat on the bed. He was cracking jokes with the residents, who seem to go along with it.
He was looking around the crowd, in search of someone specific. Frowning, he looked at Dr. Reddy, “Where is that one doctor? She’s the one who spoke with me when they first admitted me.”
Reddy furrowed his brows, glancing up from the device in his hand. He paused for a moment before speaking your name. It rang bells in Mr. Giles face as his smile widened, “Would it be too much to ask if she could do the operation?”
Sully smiled sincerely, standing center at the foot of the bed. “Her shift ends soon, unfortunately. But knowing her, she will likely check in with you tonight once you’re resting up in post-op.”
Mr. Giles conformed to the idea, despite the fact his smile was nearly as bright as before. “Good friend of hers, I assume?”
With a flustered grin, Sully nodded. “Roommates. Given the amount of time we spent together, I would hope we are.”
A belly laugh filled the room, and Mr. Giles identified with something Sully said. The endearing look on his face made it clear to Brendon, watching the old man examine Sully like he were someone familiar. “Reminded of my late wife and I.”
Brendon could make out a quiet condolence from Sully. Before Mr. Giles could go on a tangent, Sully smoothly transitioned the conversation into pre-op protocol. Reddy jumped in easily, going over the diagnosis.
He nodded along to what Reddy explained about the procedure assigned to Sully. After a couple of questions, the residents paid their farewell and filed out in a line.
Park stood back, waiting for the senior residents to emerge from the room. When his chief resident noticed Park, he gave him a silent tut of his chin. He fell in line beside him, silencing the quiet conversation between Sully and his co-chief resident.
“Where is Dr. Emmick?” Park asked without invitation. The question was directed to Dr. Reddy, who lifted his brows in response.
Park expectantly looked at him with hooded eyes. He shook himself from the daze, “She got stuck in a complex acetabular reconstruction. 3 hours and counting.”
“Alone?” Park followed up, eyes darting in front of him as he counted the back of the resident's head.
He knew exactly who was missing. He didn’t need to specify where his curiosity lied.
“No,” Sully jumped in, glancing at Park from beside him. Despite the fact they were about the same height, he still towered over the senior resident. He then said your name with a smile, “Dr. Emmick managed to rope her into a possible ten-hour surgery. Although, I doubt she would’ve said no to it.”
“Better her than me.” Reddy had mumbled under his breath, presuming his comment could be omitted from Park the Shark.
“As a fourth-year resident, it should be you.” Park swiftly remarked, barely jerking his head to look at Reddy. He did extend his arm to Sully, silently taking the device in order to sneak a look at the operation details. “How do you intend to make up for your lack of exposure in a different hospital? By choking up the minute you’re standing over a patient with everything at stake?”
Reddy's wide eyes panicked and landed on Sully, hoping the person supposedly in his corner would save him. Sully gave him a menial headshake, refusing to intervene. Reddy sighed in defeat, shoulders sagging. “It was a joke.”
Park didn’t elaborate more on the matter as he glared at him from the corner of his eye. As he opened the operation details, he read about the patient suffering a work-accident. Based on the intake details and initial imaging once in the ER, it was an unfavorable surgery to hop on while almost done with a 12-hour shift. With a both column fracture involved, you two were bound to be stuck there for ten hours.
Before Park could rip Reddy apart even more, he excused himself to debrief about a patient in post-op. Instead of joining the group, Park stopped by the nursing station, investigating the details of the case further. Of course, Emmick would choose her most prized resident to join the surgery.
However, Brendon couldn’t help but wonder whether you agreed for the experience and bragging rights that came from being selected over your senior resident only.
Sully stood in front of him, hands in his pocket while glancing between his fellow residents in the patient room and his attending. He leaned back on his heels, “I heard the patient was in a pretty bad state when he came in. Dr. Emmick might be stuck in there a while, if you needed her.”
Park huffed out a sigh, shaking his head slightly. With your absence, he was able to gauge what type of doctor Sully would turn out to be. He was the same ambitious and focused resident he always was, even without you to support him through every surgery.
Whether he wanted to or not, he had asked Park for a recommendation letter for an attending position he planned to take at a trauma-1 hospital in Chicago.
Brendon never embellished the truth—whether personally or professionally. There was no way he would lie on a rec letter for a resident, no matter how much they relied on it for a position anywhere. But, he hated to admit, Dr. Sullivan had managed to push Park to add some flourish to the letter.
“Maybe this is out of place, but I know talks about chief residents are being held around this time.” Sully leaned in casually, still keeping his focus mostly on Reddy and the other residents. They both could hear enough from outside the room. “Do you mind if I give you my opinion as their predecessor?”
Park lifted his gaze up, hooded eyes staring back at Sully, who waited patiently for a response. Looking bored, Park sighed, “Something tells me you’re going to give it to me regardless.”
Sully chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck casually. He shrugged, “I want to make sure you and Dr. Emmick consider everything to make the right choice, not that you need me to do that.”
Remaining silent, Park stared blankly at Sully. After a beat, he understood Park wasn’t going to welcome the suggestion verbally. That was beneath him. Sully leaned onto the nursing station, eyes focused on Dr. Park. “I don’t want you to think this is some plug just because she’s my roommate or because we’re close.”
Brendon didn’t need any more explanation as to who he was referring to. The utterance of your name from him was something he was starting to dread after the last conversation with Emmick. Sully stared skeptically at Park, trying to read into the stoic demeanor he had all the time. “She is a good surgeon, and as her chief resident, I do believe she could fulfill the position with ease.”
“Are you sure she’ll survive without you?” Park questioned, his eyes now narrowed on Sully. It wasn’t the type of concern Emmick would’ve shown him. It was a mockery of what Sully just expressed. The everlasting doubt in his resident still understands the work. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t vocalize it yet either.
Sully cocked his head to the side, “I don’t doubt it. The real question is if I’m going to survive without her. I got too comfortable having her around, I guess.”
Brendon saw the slight tenderness in his eye. Something soft he didn’t get to see every day between him and you. He could almost sense your presence while you were holed away in an OR. The way patients asked for you with the same affection they’d search for a comrade. He was aware of what the residents thought of you, often turning to you to save them from a sinking boat.
It was like they knew you’d throw them a life preserver, unlike the harsh suggestion to ‘figure it out’ on their own like Park would do.
“The lease of our apartment is already under her name. She is set for next year.” Sully mentioned coolly. Park hated small talk, but he found it odd within himself to hesitate with cutting the conversation short. He stared with the same blank expression at Sully, completely unsure what to do with that information.
Sully chuckled, “If she weren’t set on staying, I would drag her over with me.”
Brendon forehead creased in the center and his jaw clenched, similarly to when attending a consultation in the ER. A solid focus on trying to capture every detail of a patient’s leg, arm, or other joint susceptible to needing care under his department.
He never questioned where a resident went once they were done with their program. They all couldn’t stay here, and the ones that attempted found it hard to continue with the pressure pushed by ‘Park the Shark.’ Even if there were a resident whom he deemed sufficient to fill an attending position, he’d never advocate on their behalf.
Brendon didn’t get where he was by accepting a hand-out from anyone.
“I’m still going to hold her a place over there just in case.” Sully continued, still hanging around Park like there was more to discuss.
Park caught the residents leaving the room, walking over to another a couple of doors down. His eyes followed their movement, barely blinking when he looked back at Sully, questioning glare. “Shouldn’t you be doing hand-offs with the rest?”
Sully didn’t look over his shoulder, or show any attempt to attend to his duties. There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation, not even when he saw the glare from Park, staring him up and down. He was a man determined to do a job Brendon saw no point in. “I’m telling you this because I’d hate for you to come to the realization how critical her contribution to this hospital is until it’s too late.”
Brendon grinded his jaw slightly. Had Sully conspired with Emmick to shove you down his throat? Or maybe this was a lousy attempt at your end to get an apology out of him. Park didn’t relinquish. He didn’t care how much people argued the contrary, he refused to give in on what people may think was “best” for his department.
“You may not need her, but that doesn’t eliminate her worth around here.” Sully stated with firmness.
From the hardened stare of his resident, Brendon knew exactly what Sully was referring to. He didn’t doubt that you’d share the hostility brewing between him and you. It wasn’t exactly a secret. Park would not shy away from exposing a resident for their wrong doings.
What he was starting to notice was the courage of certain residents willing to put their foot down on what they saw was unjust.
They handed him the short end of the stick during his residency and med-school years. His teachers and attendings didn’t make it easy, and they certainly wouldn’t have tolerated being advised by residents like you and Sully.
Instead of picking a fight, he chose the silence. It was early in the morning to dig into Sully. He’d chosen to wait into swatting him around like a shark with its fin. It took another minute for Sully to realize Park the Shark was opting to glare at him, inserting dominance until he got the hint.
Park handed him the device back. Sully took it without question, swiftly turning to head in the direction the residents disappeared. Standing firm in place, he watched the cloud of plum scrubs move around the post-op floor.
He knew exactly which ones would cry over his directive before the start of their next year. Who would hesitate and second-guess themselves the next time they answered a consultation. He could acutely guess who would be eaten alive by the other attendings across different departments. If they couldn’t handle the likes of Robby or Walsh, then he saw them quitting sooner rather than later.
Yet, you didn’t fit that image, physically or metaphorically.
You, who was off doing a surgery only he trusted senior staff on, were ambitiously seeking to make yourself indispensable. There was no need when you had staff like Emmick and Sully in your corner, even the dreadful surgical attendings like Walsh were jabbing at Park to ‘ease up’ on the only resident able to keep up with him.
He heard it all and up until now, it never made sense to ‘ease up’ on his residents. It was far from his natural instinct to push until they finally figured to pull themselves up, even as he had control of the rope. You had managed to deny him that pleasure, opting to climb the side of the cliff with your bare hands.
Now, he was left watching and waiting, with the rope still in his hand.
When Brendon heard about the opening of OR 5, cleaned up after the complex acetabular reconstruction, it was past noon. He was doing the afternoon check in with Annette, and he hadn’t realized how late the surgery ended.
There was no sight of you or Emmick. He would not have assumed either of you were going to stay longer than necessary once charting was done. It was a difficult procedure based on the pre-operative details. The day had been lulled by a scheduled base itinerary that the residents could handle with limited supervision. He had time to spend, and he was analyzing the patients chart as if he was going to scrub in for surgery.
It was obsessive, but the compulsion to understand every surgery in the department he commanded, was a given.
He happened to be going around the post-op ward. Checking in with residents as patients moved out of surgery to observation or were discharged or transferred elsewhere. As he was passing by the room in the far corner, he heard a familiar belly laugh. Unrestrained and engrossed in whatever made him laugh.
Brendon peeked his head first, checking in through the window. Mr. Giles sat on the bed, glancing to his left with a toothy grin. The surgery had been done in a few hours, and although he’d probably feel better sleeping the entire procedure off, he had his own form of treatment.
He was staring fondly at a female visitor. It was hard to make out who they were from their face, but the silhouette was too familiar. He noted the black backpack sitting beside the chair, pulled close to the bedside. It wasn’t until the voice started laughing along with Mr. Giles that it clicked.
“I swear, I’ve never seen anyone slip so animatedly as then.” You breathed out, the laugh subsiding into giggles as you tried to catch your breath.
Stopping beside the filler of the wall between both rooms, he crossed his arms. Without realizing, he was inclining his ear closer to listen. You sighed out dramatically, “He’s not the most graceful, but he can suture up nerves and tissue even with his eyes closed.”
“So, how come he’s leaving?” Mr. Giles questioned, interested in the explanation. He cleared his croaky throat.
There was a beat of silence, and from the corner of his eye, Brendon noticed how you shrugged. “He doesn’t see himself staying here. This was always temporary compared to where he wanted to be.”
“And how about you?” Mr. Giles proposed, smiling again. “You’re pretty good at what you do. Where do you want to be?”
You hummed, nervously laughing after as you tried deflecting the comment. Too humble to know when to just take the compliment. “I haven’t decided yet. Dr. Sullivan has invited me to join him once my residency is over, but I still have a year to figure that out.”
“Don’t wait too long.” Mr. Giles advised in the antiquated fashion Brendon’s parents did to him.
Marriage. Kids. Retirement plans; personal-life-milestones Brendon put aside. He didn’t have to think about that while focusing on his career. As long as he could continue to be the chief orthopedic surgeon at PTMC, his life was as fulfilled as he felt it could be. He didn’t need personal distractions to keep him occupied.
“Sometimes, the things that are good for us are the things we let go.” Mr. Giles warned, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. “If I had taken my own advice, I would’ve married my wife before going to the Marines. I was lucky enough she came to find me once her first marriage ended.”
Brendon glanced down at the watch positioned on the inside of his wrist. It was past one and he didn’t need the liability of restless residents staying around past their bedtime. He advanced towards the patient’s door, one hand braced on the frame of the open sliding door.
He spoke your name briskly, title and surname firm into the air. You turned towards the door of the room, eyebrows raised to your hairline. Staring at you with heavyset eyes, he saw the casualness of your attire. Plum scrubs more than likely in the dispenser, changed into relaxed jeans, a grey t-shirt, wrapped in your fleece jacket.
Rotating from the hip, you put on a tight lip smile. “Dr. Park. Did you need to check in with Mr. Giles?”
“No,” The firm definition of his arm around the sleeves of his scrub tightened, gripping tighter to the frame. “I’m here to make sure all my staff is where they need to be.”
With the pronunciation of his possession over the day shift, you heard the message clearly. Facing Mr. Giles, your body relaxed with the revelation of his soft expression. With one hand stretched, you patted his hand lying flat on the bed. “I will check on you tonight.”
He scoffed, the corner of his lip curling up. “So soon? You just can’t stay away from this place, huh?”
While reaching down to slip on your backpack, you smiled coyly. You pushed the chair back to the corner, and once back by Mr. Giles bedside; you paused with your hands in your jacket pockets. “What can I say, I love what I do. Rest up, Frank.”
Making your way out the room, Brendon pulled his arm back, stepping aside to give you an undisturbed exit. The air that hit him as you were passing by was colder than the fuzziness between you and Mr. Giles. Brendon still found himself venturing in the same direction as you.
“If you’re looking for Dr. Emmick, I last heard she was speaking with the wife of the steel-yard worker.” You directed to Park walking behind you. As you turned the corner, walking in the direction of the elevator, he was still behind you.
“How did the surgery go?’ He asked with no change in the equilibrium of his tone.
You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s in the ICU. Apart from the fracture and the reconstruction, he suffered major trauma to his internal organs. Spleen was compromised, and Dr. Walsh removed a part of his kidney.”
The way you noted all the information was robotic. It was like having an automated voice read the chart. If he had wanted the differential diagnosis of the patient, he wouldn’t have asked. His eyes lingered on the back of your head, suddenly determined to leave the hospital as rapidly as possible. As if your pit stop to see Mr. Giles wasn’t the true reason you had delayed leaving.
Instead of heading straight for the elevators, you derailed into the residents lounge, slipping in and letting the door fall behind you. Park, with the reflexes from his childhood, pushed the door back with his palm. Inside the lights were dimmed, and you walked over to the fridge, as if you were utterly alone in the room.
“How come you were pulled to assist?” Brendon ruminated, eyes narrowed at you.
When you stood back up straight, you had an energy drink in your hand. The crack of the seal echoed and you shrugged while sipping the beverage. He awaited a verbal response. Some nonsensical explanation for an answer you had no way of knowing.
You took a couple of steps, in his direction, before stopping. He didn't move from the path to the door. With wide eyes and an awkward tight lip smile, you rocked on your feet. “Is there something else you needed to know about the patient, Dr. Park?”
The question wasn’t proposed because you wanted the conversation to continue. If it was the only way for you to be able to leave the confined space, you would; but you make it practical. About the patient care and the workload, the night shift was leaving the day shift. Nothing of the sort that related personally to you and him.
He knew with the scheduled double shift you were blocked for must have been a dread. If the current direction this conversation was heading was any clue, he could see the double shift being the last thing you want to do.
Working for 24 hours—half of them stuck with the attending you shunned from your education. Brendon was anticipating some form of retaliation. Letting your professionalism turn to spite. Lying in wait to see whether you’d give him the same treatment you felt you unjustly earned from him.
“Typically a fourth-year resident would perform or assist the procedure.” Park responded, completely guiding the conversation in the opposite direction.
You didn’t remove your eyes from him. They were glassy, and the way your lids would flutter ever so slightly, weary. With your lips sealed, you slowly nodded your head, as if remembering for the future. Don’t get used to this treatment. It’s not meant to last.
“I responded to the consultation and it was Dr. Emmick’s directive to have me on the surgical team.” You plainly renounced. This antagonistic approach was doing nothing in his favor. From the way you kept looking at him with the blank expression, he had more luck talking to a wall. “It was a learning opportunity.”
Brendon curtly nodded once, flexing his jaw as his teeth pressed against each other. Firmer than before. How were you supposed to be ‘equals’ if you could barely speak words to him?
“I have to go home. I work another shift tonight.”
Silently, you maneuvered around his body. As he felt your arm come up against his, he finally retracted himself. You only opened the door wide enough to slip your body, letting partial light from the hospital peek in the ambient lounge.
Brendon’s hand reached for the handle, pulling it open wider. You glanced up when you noticed the door leave your grasp. You spun around once stepping out the room, eyeing Brendon peculiarly.
He stood opposite of you, shoulder tall and pulled back. He nodded once more, “See you next week for day shift.”
Brendon prided himself on the control he had. The influence in his department that allowed him to rule over his residents prevented health violations and potential lawsuits from knocking on his door. It saved him from unprecedented headaches. The less likely he was to have an unplanned meeting with Admin, the better.
That idea was expanded to his residents. He deemed it efficient to harbor the tenacity his attending preached. If they put on a mile with an inch, they could potentially save someone’s quality of life.
That is a lot harder said than done when patients weren’t easily agreeable to their plan of care.
Which was the only reason Brendon was tenser with pediatric cases. With more parties involved with the care, there was more time dedicated to explaining operative procedures and post-op care. Everything was done for the consideration of the children, but Brendon didn’t understand that type of reliance.
Being a single man in his early forties, he had yet to figure out that stage of his life. There was no personal life with a wife or children waiting for him outside the hospital doors. So his approach was practical when explaining, but it was failing him at the moment.
A 12-year-old girl was trembling in fear, tears staining her cheeks, while sitting on the hospital bed. Her parents were sitting beside her, and after Brendon thought they might be able to proceed with the open reduction and internal fixation, they were pulling out with the consent forms before them.
“We just don’t feel as comfortable as we did before. I mean, how do we know the probability of the risks?” The father reasoned, similar in build as Brendon, one arm filled with tattoos. He twisted at the hip, as one hand held the smaller one of his daughter, while facing Brendon.
He shouldn’t have sent Jones to sign the consent forms.
“We don’t have precise numbers, but most children recover well.” Brendon’s concise answer was honest, not medically malicious. He couldn't provide them false hope. That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.
“But, could she develop this growth plate injury the other doctor mentioned?” The mother questioned, leaning forward in the chair. Her eyes were sunken from the exhaustion, and despite the fact, they had only been there for three hours, the hospital air and lights were draining the youth in her.
“So we aren’t even sure if she will be able to dance, let alone move normally?” She continued with a shaky breath.
He was totally going to rip Jones a new one.
Before Brendon could make a feasible attempt to remedy their concerns, they all heard a knock come from the door.
You peeked your head in, one hand braced on the door you slid open. Your eyes landed on the couple and their daughter, and as if you immediately sensed the tension in the room, you smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Dr. Park for a moment.”
When your attention moved to Park, he let out a heavy sigh, one raised eyebrows in your direction. What is it?
The subtle shake of your head, Not in here.
Brendon grabbed the device the parents put at the edge of the girls bed. The father stood up, wiping his hands on his black denim jeans. “We will need more time to think about this, anyway.”
“Let the nurse know when you’re ready.” Brendon curtly responded.
You opened the door wider, stepping back to let him through. Closing it gently once he stepped out, you spared the family a soft smile. You both walked away from the glass, over to the nursing station. Brendon put down the device, “What is it?”
“ER needs a consult.” You informed him immediately. He put his hands on his hips, turning to the patient's room.
When he glanced at you, he noted the army green scrub cap, beige stars littered around it. It seemed new. He shrugged his shoulders, lips pursed. “Why hasn’t anyone gone down?”
“Bryant did.” You affirmed, shaking your head as you scoffed. “Dr. Robby must be in a mood because he sent him up immediately. I just happened to catch him groveling when I left the OR.”
His eyes wandered up to drink in your nurtured appearance. Despite the last shift you worked being night shifts, you managed to come rejuvenated for the day. This was no longer the shift you mastered, but you appeared the same as before.
Except Park knew things were different. Unexplainable, but it was messing with the ‘control’ he had within himself and in his habitat.
When you came in for hand off, you joked with the night shift. Hugged and laughed along with whatever funny patient interaction they had that night. When you came around Emmick, she’d check in with you, tease you about the change of schedule.
Once Park came around to collect all the residents, he caught the slight wink she sent you when you both looked in his direction. Like the two of you had always spent your residency as close friends.
“So, how come you're here telling me this?”
You chuckled, grinning subtly. “It’s better than having to hear about you ruining another resident's spirit.”
The knowing look in your eye that twinkled before you looked away didn’t go amiss. That was shady, but something told him that’s exactly what you meant to do. Even if he couldn’t admit it, you were intentional with your action.
You looked back over your shoulder to pre-op room 6. “Was that the girl with the Salter-Harris fracture?”
Park hummed, shifting on his feet. You had noticed the patient from looks alone. The only time you could’ve heard of the patient was from nurses when they transferred her up from the ER, before participating in the rotator cuff repair. You had the faintest idea of who she was, but you were aware from when you walked in.
“Seemed tense.” You noted cautiously, eyeing Park from his face alone. It was like you were trying to angle out his response without words. You had been able to read any room you had entered, which is why he believed in practicality.
No need to play different parts every time you enter a room.
He looked down at you. You mimicked his posture, less weight on your shoulder, appearing casual. “Blame Jones. He’s freaked the patient out, and now the parents are hesitant to sign the consent forms.”
He scowled and there was a beat of silence.
“Is there any way I can help?”
The question was assertive. You weren’t planning to be overlooked, and you needed an answer. You weren't going to walk away without an answer. It was the drive he kept alluding you were missing. Whatever pushed you into wrapping your soul around another was showing up more in this two-minute conversation than before.
The private check-in that Brendon had never acknowledged as you were looking out for a colleague (as much as a supervisor) was an ‘act’ that disappeared in three-months. In that time, you had erased the previous routine and rapport with him, and started new. Brendon knew it was taking everything in your power to restrain yourself from doting on him as much as anyone else you worked with.
He was also acutely aware you didn’t stray away from what mattered most to you. Professionally or personally.
Brendon reasoned. This was genuine, but the way your steely eyes waited expectantly, it felt like looking in a mirror. He was sure the residents recognized the impersonal stares from the countless times he stared down at them. He didn't hide the fact he was displeased, stressed, or irritated with an outcome.
No one wanted to be the one sent to bother him during those moments. You had dared to step up to the plate in place of an intern.
“Why not answer the consultation?” Brendon fixated on the fact you heard of the consultation and preferred coming to him personally to let him know. You hadn't responded to it, nor were you aware there was a consultation to see until a few minutes ago.
You cocked your head to the side, playfully rolling your eyes. “I’d rather not get on Dr. Robby’s bad side.”
Fair, he supposed. You set boundaries with your own attending. He couldn't say he was shocked you’d do so easily with someone who wasn’t directly your supervisor. The slight stretch of his neck managed to pull at the muscles down to his shoulders, and the dread of the patient in room 6 was getting to him.
Before Brendon could assign you to some scheduled surgery to busy yourself, you pointed your thumb back to the room. “I will talk to the parents. It is best that they make a decision soon before the girl takes a turn for the worse.”
He was left with no choice but to stiffly agree with you. The careful steps you were taking backwards put immense distance again. “You better head down to the ED before Robby rips you a new one.”
The smooth turn you made flipped a switch. You sanitized before knocking the door. When you opened it, he could make out the faint sound of you greeting them properly while introducing yourself . He could see you smiling all over again. It wasn't just the bed-side manner you put for patients, but the authentic side of you that was patient and illumining.
Brendon buffered for a minute, waiting to see whether you’d come out, deferring to the idea of appealing to their psychological needs. After what felt like minutes, you hadn’t come out at all. No inkling of a potential departure.
Daring to fight against the curve, Brendon stalked close enough to peek in the room from the window. To any nurses or doctors passing by, he was the leader taking mental notes of what was happening in his area of control.
He saw your figure first from the angle. You were sitting on a chair, nodding along to something the girl was saying. Beside her, the parents were grasping onto her hands, while the 12-year-old patient let tears roll down her eyes.
You were on the mothers opposite side, listening intently like any other adult patient. Yet, this patient was comfortable being a frightened 12-year-of girl. The father jumped in, speaking at you with more elaboration as his hands moved.
The transition was simple, still empathetic and understanding as they explained in detail what they couldn’t tell Park standing in the room. You spoke slowly and steady, much more available to sit and reflect on every aspect of a surgery you had done before.
When Brendon assumed time was escaping him, you weren’t fighting nearly as desperately as he was. He was endeavoring to make it worth his while. You were working at the pace that suited the patient under your care.
While being young and having better neuroplasticity than him, you were malleable with every experience. You were adapting to every interaction with patients and coworkers—which explained why you were unrecognizable in an element Brendon Park had no intervention in.
No control over a habitat you were reigning with your mind and fortifying with your heart.
And after answering the consult from a brooding Robby and booking an OR, he found you sitting in the dictation room, typing away. You had lost the scrub cap, letting your hair be free. You hadn’t moved when he walked in, as if you had been expecting him to look for you.
He was looking down at the consent forms, initial and signed by the parents.
“How did you manage to get them to consent?” Brendon queried. He stood at the door, holding the device up.
There was a small hum to fill in the silence of the room. He awaited there, like you had the knowledge of the Holy Grail—waiting for you to bestow upon him the privilege of knowing.
Standing in front of anyone, he’d feel like an idiot. Standing in front of you, he was trying to get to know what everyone else saw. The missing piece to his elaborate puzzle with a decades work into.
You lazily lifted your head, briefly confused until you realized what he was alluding to. Shrugging your shoulders and leaning back in the chair, you sighed. “I just sat there and spoke to them.”
“The parents and the girl had questions they felt Jones didn’t address.” You clarified, simplifying the previous trouble Brendon was having.
You made it sound like the antiquated practice had somehow been lost between consultation and transfer to the surgical floor. “They just wanted to have a conversation instead of being mandated to agree with the surgery.
Standing up, you wandered over to the coffee pot with a mug already in hand. Pouring the liquid, your light breathing was calm. You weren’t rattled by emotionally distraught parents and frightened girls.
The same way standing up against him came out as if you had done it before.
The coffee pot clicks back on the machine. You carefully moved around, grabbing sugar packets and powered creamer. “They knew it was necessary, but it didn't stop them from feeling scared.”
“It’s all for the benefit of their child.” Brendon responded. You were a doctor. He was aware you knew that. It was a reflex. It was the practical answer.
It should’ve been a no-brainer. For you and for the parents. No parent should neglect or delay care necessary, especially if the odds of them being mobile without the procedure was at risk.
You stared at him with wide eyes, before chuckling. “They know that, Dr. Park.”
With the stare of your eyes, you were communicating what you weren’t going to put in words for him. They’re still human and afraid. It was redundant considering Park had scolded you for such. You weren’t going to bother with explaining yourself anymore.
“I also spoke with Jones about appropriate verbiage when getting consent from patients, specifically in pediatric cases.” You informed, holding the mug in two hands while
heading back to your workstation.
He shook his head, squeezing his teeth together until they rubbed. You stuck a hand out, halting whatever tangent he was going to start. “Not everyone’s preferred method of criticism is from Park the Shark.”
The small grin on your face while you typed didn’t agitate him as much as it would’ve from anyone else. Walsh would’ve earned a scowl. He might’ve glared at Emmick from the corner of his eye, with a strained stretch of his neck. Garcia knew better than to poke the Shark when she saw him send the senior resident out of the OR as a second year.
And while he thought he had sunken his teeth deep enough to be able to pull you from making grave mistakes, you had slithered from his grasp. You had him chasing your tail in a trail that would end with him going to the depths of the dark ocean.
“Some of us learn differently. There’s nothing wrong with that.” You casually mentioned, clicking around on the computer and typing. “The point is we learn to do better next time, right?”
When his brain registered you were talking with him, he huffed out a breath, tempted to let the corner of his mouth curve. He picked up the subliminal message. You were becoming braver with your jab; and even while you pretended not to be overtly interested in to stare him in the eyes, you were making precise stabs.
Before he could push the conversation further, there was a beep. You both glanced down at each other's pagers and the small scrape of your chair against the floor followed. You breezed past him without a second thought, leaving him in the wake of your sunshine. Even with the glumness of his personality, you were shining the darkest of places. He was inches from touching the sunlight, but some cloud always obscured it.
Brendon looked at the door click shut and he saw the same cloud shutting his limited sunlight once again.
“All non-emergent surgeries will be rescheduled. We need to focus on OR turnover to be quick. Some of these patients may not be able to wait five minutes.” Brendon instructed precisely, staring at the patient board over the nursing station. His arms folded over his chest, musing in thought.
“My nurses know what they’re doing, Dr. Park.” Annette joked, frameless glasses sitting on her nose as she stared down at her device. Her fingers moved eagerly to start moving the scheduled times of the current list of patients.
Brendon shook his head with a small hum. He heard the clacking of shoes down the hall and his head followed the noise. Emmick was typing rapidly on her phone, while approaching him. “What is the current count?”
“17 including children, right now. It can change soon.” Annette responded, glancing at Emmick who stood close to them.
Emmick sighed, pocketing her phone. She shook her head as she saw a couple of the residents rushing by to reach out to loved ones and run to the bathroom before they were buried in their work. A multi-vehicle pileup on the interstate, including an 18-wheel truck. Once the mass size of the gasoline truck flipped over, the rest of the cars followed, and the casualties were increasing by the second.
“Have you reached out to the rest?” Brendon asked, turning to Emmick.
She stiffly nodded, interlocking both her hands behind her head. “I’ve debriefed with the residents in the lounge. A couple of them will be going over 24 hours on their feet.”
He knew exactly who was supposed to be done with a double shift. That didn’t stop them from their responsibilities. They knew medical emergencies occurred at all hours, and anyone’s life could hang in the balance. Their job was to react to the trauma at hand and do everything in their power to stop the emergency.
As on cue, you were coming around the corner with Sully by your side. He was handing you a paper cup, probably filled with coffee, to push you through the unexpected extension of your shift. Despite this being your third consecutive shift, you were synchronized with Sully’s steps. He was light and energized, and with each sip of coffee, you were pacing yourself to reach the same determination.
When Sully found the two attendings standing in the small circle, he smiled casually, as if a car pileup was an everyday occurrence. “Residents are getting in their last moments of freedom. Let us know where you want us, Captain.”
“Trauma down stairs will determine priority. Dr. Emmick will run point with Garcia.” Brendon informed, tutting his chin to his colleague.
“Lovely.”
Emmick rolled her eyes, dropping her hands to her hips. Brendon briefly ignored the annoyance with a slight glare. “I will assign you all to cases as they come in.”
Sully and you both nodded to Brendon’s command. Emmick bumped your arm with her elbow. “Want to help me downstairs? Could use the second pair of eyes.”
“I’m going to need all R4 and R3’s in the OR.” Brendon intervened, glancing between the two of you through his hooded eyes. “I won’t have to check the work of the interns.”
Emmick narrowed her eyes while she pursed her lips. To the two residents in question, it would seem like Emmick was challenging the decision. It wasn’t rare that on occasion the two attendings would butt heads, like hammer-head sharks fighting for their space. But to Brendon, this was a jest. One more feather in her cap about how well she knew him while barely speaking to her.
“Fair point.” Was all Emmick mustered, suppressing the small grin on her face.
When Brendon looked over at you, there wasn’t any deflation of his prerogative. You weren’t visibly upset as you were focused. While still taking sips of your coffee, you were simply listening to the instruction. He could safely assume you were high-strung, from the small shift of your feet and your eyes to the group of your supervisors and friends. You didn’t let your face show it.
“Will you be able to manage?” Brendon questioned in your direction.
Humming, you furrowed your brows at the question. He crossed his arms, “I’m going to need you to be alert. Sometimes you’re going to have to work through the fatigue for the sake of patient-care.”
The statement wasn’t wrong. It was an observation any rational teacher would warn their student. Accepting to work at a trauma-1 hospital brought the exhaustive workload. If he was going to trust any of the residents to demonstrate leadership and initiative, it was a moment like this to prove it.
He noticed the hesitant eyes from Sully and Emmick, caught off guard from the warning. You nodded once, ignoring the uncertainty for your closest work-partners. “I understand, Dr. Park.”
Satisfied enough with that answer, he looked back to Annette who was watching the interaction carefully while speaking on her spectralink phone. She muttered small replies before hanging up. “Ambulances are 7 minutes out.”
“That’s my cue.” Emmick announced, clapping her hands together. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, sending you a small wink. “See you once the dust settles.”
Brendon scoffed, shaking his head. Emmick began her tread backwards, pointing a finger at Brendon. “Don’t’ go biting any of my resident’s head off!”
Sully snickered, covering his mouth with a hand and with the two of you standing in front of him, he didn’t see that task as impossible. He motioned his hands outward. “Get your nerves out before either of you kill a patient.”
You pushed a smiling Sully in the direction that Emmick went down, your free hand resting lightly on the back of his arm as you guided him away. He was mimicking an aggressive bite, chomping his teeth at you. Retracting your head, you laughed, eyes crinkling into little slivers.
The energy changed two hours later. With the surgical unit bustling with all the possible staff available, his residents were no longer smiling or kidding—covered in blood stained gowns, dispersed between the 25 operating rooms. Brendon stepped out of OR 17, doffing the gloves he was wearing. When he walked down the hallway, he noted another door slide open farther down.
You stepped out, hands on your hips as you sighed. When you looked in his direction, he was already heading towards you. “What do you have?”
“Bilateral wrist and humeral shaft fracture with a radial nerve injury. Put in plates and screws.” You sanitized your hands, rubbing vicariously through every side. Motioning your head to the ER you just exited, you sighed. “May is closing up.”
The double doors down the hallways clicked open. Turning both your heads at the sound, a patient was being wheeled in with a small group of doctors and nurses surrounding the head of the bed. Brendon recognized the vascular surgeon, Greg Norton tying up his scrub cap. He greeted Brendon with a grin, hands landing on the bed railing. “Park, ready to make mincemeat with this poor fellow?”
When the bed came up towards where you both stood, you had moved beside Brendon, hands on your hips as you stared down at the patient. He noticed the quizzical look in your eye, staring at the lower extremities. “I won’t be scrubbing in.”
You turned to look at him as Dr. Norton furrowed his brows, his grin faltering. “What? Don’t tell me you’re going to send me one of your pups?”
Looking down at you, there was a moment of doubt, like you couldn’t believe Park was actually looking at you. “Possible posterior wall acetabular fracture with hip dislocation. Emmick called beforehand about it.”
“What did imaging show?” You questioned, already honing into your diagnostic skill. Your eyes shifted around his face, and your mind was moving at an incredible speed attributed to the neuroplasticity you sharpened.
“Come on, Park.” Dr. Norton interrupted, leaning forward as to cut into the silent digression of the case. His thick New England accent bounced off the walls with the heightened volume he always spoke at. Brendon crossed his arms as he reluctantly glared at the older, fuller man. Dr. Norton then looked towards you, nose scrunched slightly. “What are you, sweetheart? R3?”
“I’ve done this procedure before.” Your calm voice still gives way for the displeasure of his dismissal.
It wasn’t disappointment, it was anger. Despite being 20 years his junior, you maintained a sense of composure for your age. Some might have acted ferociously. Brendon knew there were attendings that would not have kept up appearances for the sake of respect in the workplace.
Dr. Norton snorted, shaking his head. “Nothing against you, honey, but this procedure is made for meticulous hands. I don’t need the trouble of some shaky, doe-eye resident screwing this man’s possibility of walking.”
Brendon's own disbelief didn’t seem as animated as yours, widening your eyes while tilting your head to the side. Dr. Norton had been around since before Brendon joined the hospital. He always poked at the fact Brendon didn’t smile for a doctor with ‘razor sharp’ teeth. He thought Dr. Brendon Park was as animalistic as people described him to be, he’d flaunt it.
Before you could proceed by jumping into a pit of fire, Brendon crossed his arm, squaring his shoulders. “Dr. Norton, I assign the cases, and if you have a problem with that you can take it up with me after my resident performs the surgery.”
Dr. Norton snarled, lifting his top lip to his nose. He looked at you before smacking his lips. With the menial glare from Brendon, he could see his ego visibly deflate. If he wanted him to show his teeth, he should have asked nicely.
“You ready?” Dr. Norton grumbled, motioning his head to one of the OR’s down the hallway. He was turning his father away from Brendon and avoiding your gaze, as if you had ripped his jugular.
Offering a polite nod, you took a step back, still staring at him. “I will meet you there after looking at the imaging, Dr. Norton.”
Dr. Norton grumbled, signaling for the nurses to continue down the hall to the OR. Brendon stood there, eyeing Dr. Norton as he passed, burly arms crossed to intimidate with his physicality as much as his personality. When the doors to OR 22 closed behind the transfer team, Brendon finally turned to face you, who was staring up at him with a deadpanned expression. “I didn’t want you defending me.”
Brendon pressed his lips in a thing line. You didn’t deny that you needed it. Dr. Norton didn’t know how to talk to his female colleagues, and his brusque manners didn’t rub people the right way, regardless. You had worked with him before, under Brendon’s guide, which left you in the limelight compared to center stage.
The overcasting shadow of his reputation protected you from the scrutiny. While stranded at sea, you had to find your own anchor to throw.
“I wasn’t.” Was all he plainly said.
He wasn’t defending you. He was defending your knowledge. Had you been Jones or Reddy, he wouldn’t have jumped so eagerly. There were weaknesses in all his residents, some more than others, but you had been the exception in most areas. Even if it didn’t come at first, it came from work. You could not have survived up to 27 hours of traumatic repairs if you had not put sweat and tears into getting it right.
“You better hurry and scrub in.” Brendon advised, cocking his head to the side. Go look at the images and prove to him he’s wrong. Prove to me you’ve got this.
With less visible friction, you walked around Brendon, heading in the direction of the double doors. You walked with the power of someone prepared for the challenge. When Brendon turned around, he noticed another figure had joined the hallway, having exited OR 2.
Sully stood outside the door, speaking at you quietly. He furrowed his brows, hands on his hips as he saw you walk away. You nodded in response to his question, pushing the door open with you back and slipping through gracefully.
Brendon sighed, walking down the hall and nodding to Sully in acknowledgment. “You done? I have a couple of open-tibia fractures that won’t heal on their own.”
Buffering for a moment, Sully complied with a small smile. He turned back to the door, forehead pinched as he tried deciphering the scene. Park, you, and Dr. Norton. From the small snort, he had picked up all the clues necessary to make a bold assumption. It didn’t help Norton spoke with the volume of twenty people.
“Thank you, Dr. Park.” Sully gently grinned; slyly leaning forward as he suggestively spoke.
The word rang in his ear repeatedly: You may not need her, but that doesn’t eliminate her worth around here. Sully was assuming Brendon thought the hospital couldn’t utilize your brilliance. That the hospital didn’t need surgeons with exemplary bedside manner that matched their skills in an operating room; or that he couldn’t use someone he could trust at this very moment to dedicate themselves in a surgery he trusted himself to do.
In typical Brendon fashion, he stared at Sully, lips in a tight line that strengthened his jaw and cheeks even more. Sully pushed the limits by still standing before him and that distressed him more than he liked. He didn’t know whether it was the fact that Sully had thanked him something he saw as unnatural, or the fact you had yet again dismissed his efforts others would consider valiant.
He didn’t want to be a hero of any sort (not that you needed it, he was starting to realize). You could snarl just as nasty as him, but it wasn’t your preferred method of surviving—because you weren’t just surviving your residency. The formulated relationships with your co-residents, attendings, and patients were your life mission, apart from learning to improve someone’s life while living their worst day.
The vulnerability that he considered not outfitted for the workplace led to how you operated. Your life, the patients, even the residents you helped when they just were not there yet.
Brendon didn’t see the future as optimistically as you, and when the shattering reality came of how it could look different to what he was used to know, it did break his stride. The built of momentum between you and him—his correction and your fear of fucking it up—was his everyday routine. Not to minimize you, but to build the tools to survive.
Of course, the method didn’t work. And he stupidly realized he was attempting to survive on his own like a shark in a tank.
It was a hard lesson you were teaching him while baiting him. He was rolling his neck around trying to compose himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” Sully responded, raising his chin higher as he squared his shoulders. The same self-satisfied grin gracing his youthful features. He watched for any unwelcoming passersby before leaning in. “Better you than me. I might’ve socked the guy.”
Brendon's lips twitched, and he looked at Sully thoughtfully. He definitely had the build. He had seen him work out at the gym across the street from time to time. “You wouldn't have.”
“For her? Yeah.” Sully confirmed breathy as he scoffed from the disbelief. “Like I said Dr. Park, she could survive without me, but I don't think I could’ve made it without her.”
“I don't take lightly when people dismiss her.” Sully stuffed his hands in his scrub pockets, shuffling briefly like the admission was something too vulnerable. For a conversation with Dr. Park? It was a revelation that went beyond professional bounds.
You had taught Sully a thing or two about being attuned with your inner spirits—and if that meant warding away what ate the center of it—there was worthiness in the cause. Park saw the deep resemblance in the now stoic impression on Sully’s face. Bold and Brendon couldn't ignore it.
Sully took careful steps backwards, arms falling to his side. “So, thanks, Dr. Park.”
“I’ll book the OR.” Brendon announced walking out of Trauma 2 in ER. He ripped off the gloves he was wearing, tossing him in a nearby waste bin. It was an ironic day to get into a motorcycle accident while the interstate was still being cleared from the debris of the MVA in the morning.
What more could you expect from a 21-year-old boy whose frontal lobe still had not developed.
It was almost 2 and the majority of the patients that came in during the accident had been moved to the post-surgical unit or the ICU while waiting for follow up surgery for open wounds. The surgical department had cleared half of its staff that stayed overnight or pulled the spontaneous shift. Those still on the clock were dragging their feet and it was taking everything in him not to bite. When the night shift residents were able to leave, they were also zombies walking.
All, except one. When he got up to the surgical floor, he walked into the viewing room, where their charge nurse could gauge operations with the camera live streaming it all. He could see OR 22 running up to 8 hours of operation time. He mostly was staring at the different scrub caps to distinguish all the involved staff.
The only one missing was a green cap.
“Are they finishing it up?” Brendon questioned, turning to Annette sitting at one of the open tables, typing into the device.
She hummed, head still lowered. “Ortho is done with the reconstruction. Vascular and trauma is finishing up.”
Brendon nodded curtly before heading back out the room. The surgery couldn’t have been too complicated if you were done in roughly 7 hours. He had slipped in once as he continued assigning residents to the incoming patients. You had stayed stuck there for the majority of it, and Brendon didn’t feel the need to come in after that.
His immediate thought was to check the dictation room. If you were still lingering, you’d probably be trying to finish up work you had, which meant charting. To his luck, when he peeked through the window on the door, he found you hunched over a computer. The same station you sat at the last week he had spoken to you.
Inhaling a sharp breath, he twisted the door open, and the click caught your attention. Lifting your head and eyebrows simultaneously at the direction of the door, your body visibly jolted. He knew you were awake enough to orally translate your notes, but your body kept succumbing to the sleep it needed.
“How was the surgery?” Brendon questioned, approaching the desk with his hands in his scrub pockets. With the height advantage, he had a clear view of the desk. You had a paper cup of black coffee, an open energy drink, and a small bottle of ibuprofen.
Straightening you back as a way to stretch your body, you shrugged. “Went better than expected.”
“Did Norton give you any grief?” Brendon followed up, not taking his eye off the obvious display of you recklessly messing with your body’s melatonin. From the look of it, you didn’t have anything of substance to run off.
You gently twirled your wrist to reboot your dexterity and putting down the microphone in your hand gave you the break your body needed to lean back in the chair. The question caught you off-guard, leaving your mouth open, while your brain lacked the reflex to come up with a response.
“He was fine. Didn’t talk much unless he was bragging about his NFL athlete son to the nurses.” The small scowl on your face made him bite back the laugh he wanted to let out.
He heard the stories. The accolades he made about a son who mostly sat on the bench. He couldn’t remember the last time they had even aired his face on anything bigger than a phone screen. Brendon crossed his arms, the slight cure of his lips gave him away. “He's the 2nd running back on a good day, at best.”
You bit your bottom lip, shaking your head lightly. “Have you told him that?”
“Almost.”`
The loopy grin on your face made you look cuter, as Emmick or Walsh might describe it. He was aware what staff liked you for your personality and which other liked you for something other than work-appropriate. In an objective sense, none of them were wrong, nor did it concern him or HR yet. Your hands rubbed the back of your neck, easing it from side to side. “Apart from that, he is a respectable surgeon. He just lacks the social cues to elevate him to a standard that I could befriend.”
Brendon arms crossed over his chest. When he looked away, he was starting to see there were some lessons you felt he needed reminding of. Brendon had casual friends, people from college or med school he kept in touch with enough to be invited to weddings. He didn’t plan trips to see them across the country, but he thought being mutual on social media made up for that.
When in comparison to you, he did fall flat of the mark. You had the charisma that engaged everyone, and no one forgot your name because of it.
In no way was it to save face for anything you may lack. It was your greatest strength, which as healers earned more respect that skill did.
You let out a choppy yawn, attempting to hide it before it just came out altogether. He cocked his head to one side, tightening his stance. “You’re exhausted”
“No, I'm fine.” You corrected him. He could not help to think that if Emmick were standing here, you would be more subject to her compassion than his no-nonsense tone. “I have charting to get done.”
“Which you are barely awake for.” Brendon pointed out.
The sigh that escaped you paired with the glare of your bloodshot eyes confirmed it all for him. You were past your limits, and there was no reason to prove you were capable of heaving the heavy load. Not to Brendon’s eyes.
He watched you reach for the energy drink and before you could take a sip, it was pulled from your loose grasp. You stuttered, sitting up taller while staring accusatory to Brendon, holding the now relatively small can in his hand. Before you could utter a word, he leaned over to grab the cup of coffee with the other. “You don’t need this. You’re frying the melatonin in your brain telling you to go home.”
“I am needed here.”
He scoffed, turning his back to you as he found a way to keep the caffeinated drinks from your reach. He opted to put it on a nearby counter, leaning back into it with feet crossed to hide the mere temptation of sight.
“If I did need you, I’d need you to stay awake and alert.” Brendon grasped the edge of the counter underhanded, flexing the muscles in his biceps. “Right now you are neither of those things.”
Sagging in the chair turned to face him, your computer with the dictation notes still open abandoned, you frowned. “You could use the help.”
“No, I need you to go home.” Brendon emphasized his stare glued to your tired body. You didn’t have the precision to walk in a straight-line let alone cut into someone and know the difference between each ligament in a fractured tibia. It wasn’t an undercut. He wasn’t even sure it was out of pity. It was the rational thing to do for both you and him. “I can't work if I'm concerned about the moment you come down from the adrenaline of everything else.”
“You’ve been working over 30 hours straight. Either go home or sleep in the on-call room until Sullivan is out, but I don't want to see you in any OR, understood?” He questioned the way a parent might give an ultimatum to their preteen.
With those options presented to you on a platter and not some vicious stab of his displeasure of your character, you came to your senses. “You’re right. It was stupid.”
“It’s the exhaustion.” Brendon huffed out, standing from the counter. He turned his back to you and dug in one of the cabinets.
“Is Park the Shark making an excuse for his resident?” You mused and he could imagine the dopey grin on your face.
“You’re my resident now?” Brendon questioned back, shutting the cupboard while hiding the item he grabbed in his wide fist. He glared at you through his eyelashes. It wasn’t nearly as fierce as Park the Shark could be.
“Honorary resident, depending on how I feel.” You joked, while craning your head back the closer he approached you.
The bags under your eyes were deserved. Not in a derogatory sense to put you down for your appearance, but because it felt like a badge you could brandish. The hard work you put while he pushed his thumb into your back, grinding your gears until you saw the same perspective from ten-feet above the ground, and you stood on your toes to match. It was an effort he could recognize in few residents.
Except not all dare yank him down to see it from their eyes. You had all but grabbed him from the collar and shook him. With dignity and pride to recognize yourself for something more than the surgical ‘pipsqueak,’ you humbled him.
That wasn’t an easy feat, and Brendon hadn't even snarled his teeth.
He held out his one curled hand, a protein bar in a plastic wrapper facing you. When you look back up at him, lips curled inwards and eyebrows curved in confusion, he sighed. He rolled his eyes, “Eat something. You’ve had enough caffeine to kill your heart two times over.”
Skeptically, you took the protein bar in your hand and muttered a small ‘thanks.’ Slowly peeling the wrapper apart, you took a generous bite. He stepped away, stalking around from behind, still making sure you were chewing properly the only piece of nutrients you’ve had in hours.
After sufficiently breaking down the food and digesting it down your esophagus, you spun your chair around, catching Brendon before he approached the door. “I appreciate your endorsement, by the way. With Dr. Norton.”
He looked at you from over his shoulder, before turning his body to get a better look. You nodded appreciatively. “I probably didn't deserve it, but I couldn't have entered that OR without some of your help.”
The cheeky smile on your face made him narrow his eyes humorously at you. He twitched his nose to hide the smile that wanted to break. If there was anything you were good at besides completely reconstructing the stability in someone’s hips, it was pecking at him with a double edge sword.
“If the patient makes a full recovery, Dr. Norton won’t have anything to complain about then.” He shrugged. It was a safe response. One that didn't compromise the stone-cold persona.
He knew you thanked him because you meant it, but also because he had already extended one hand to pull you back towards him. One step closer to reimagining what you both thought couldn't align.
“Not to be cocky, but I’m sure he will.” You said softly, the opposite of bold and pretentious. You hopped back on the computer, rapidly typing and clicking around on the screen.
Brendon snorted, enjoying the bona fide assurance. It’s the only reason he hasn't loiter or probe the medical judgment you made in the OR. Even with the pressure boiling like a cooker pot, you had earned the space to own the operation room he typically did with years of experience.
“I better not see you in my OR.” Brendon looked at you pointedly. “Not until your next shift.”
Now leaning in the chair, with your free hand, you lazily saluted to him. You brought up the protein bar and chewed lazily through another bite. He cocked his head to the side, awaiting a serious response from a third year resident.
“I promise, Dr. Park.” You added, reaching down for your backpack. With raised eyebrows, you wait for him to move along, proving he was satisfied with the response.
He looked you up and down once more before heading for the door again. With his hand on the door knob, he heard the shuffling of the chair and your bag. He opened the door and stopped when you called his name one more time.
With the sound of your voice, he pressed his back against the door, keeping it open while turning his head once more. You were approaching him, backpack hanging low as you trudged it. Slipping in between him and the space he held open with his body, he had to crane his neck down to watch the top of your head travel past him.
“Have a good rest of your shift, and I’ll see you around, Dr. Park.” There was a faint smile on your face as you started walking backward, still looking at him.
He stayed frozen holding the door, half his body stepping out into the hallway. You spun gracefully, fiddling with the wrapper of the protein bar. He believed the words, because they came tenderly from your lips. The easy steps of your walk communicated what you didn't say with the words. He was one step closer to getting in your good graces, and he rubbed away the stiffness in his jaw as he bit back the grin.
it’s ongoing but my god is it good. The FMC is standing up for herself after park one too many mean « teaching » moment and is shining through after that.
I really like that by becoming her better self once she break through from park it makes him rethink his position slowly but surely
know wherever you will be, so too shall i be | garrett graham
Home really is where the heart is, he realizes as he finally looks at you—not from the tiny screen on his phone, not from the photos you send him throughout the days, not from the video calls you sneak in during your free time—as you stand right in front of him.
contents — hurt/comfort, long-distance relationship, garrett’s relationship as told through hannah’s pov, hannah and logan bcs they had a great chemistry in the show <3, essentially a series rewrite but not really heehee, idk anything ab how away games work and how unis in the us work bcs i have never stepped foot in any part of the country, there’s not much of allie (i too am disappointed)
word count — 4.3k | title — you’ll be safe here by rico blanco
request — garrett graham with a long distance gf. they’ve been dating since freshman year and are LOCKED in, but it’s a fairly private relationship. one night g gets drunk and starts crying because he misses her, so dean calls her and flies her out to surprise garrett
gabby says — i hope this is what you had in mind, lovely anon 🫶🏼 even though i kinda strayed from the original request </3
gabby also says — ok so i am back-ish?? i mean i didn’t take a real break but i’m like out of my slump now <3 i’d still take things slower now to avoid burning myself out so i’m going to start working through the requests but at a much slower pace <3 tysm everyone for understanding and i hope you all like this one!
off campus masterlist
The first time Hannah Wells saw Garrett Graham anywhere other than Malone’s was in the boys’ locker room while she was cleaning. He was sitting on the bench with his phone in hand, a soft, not very Garrett-like smile on his face. A woman’s voice—your voice—drifted from the phone’s speakers, speaking animatedly about something Hannah could not fully understand.
“I miss you,” Garrett suddenly spoke, and you stopped talking. “I can’t wait to see you, baby.”
“I miss you too, honey,” you said softly. “Just a few more months away, Gare.”
“Why do you have to be on the other side of the country when you could be right here in Briar with me?” His voice was light and airy as he laughed, but his eyes held an unmistakable longing.
“I’m sorry, baby, I would stay with you if I could,” you said. “But you know how my dad is. He wants me here just until I graduate college, and then I’m off to wherever I want after graduation.”
“I know, baby.” He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “And I respect your parents’ decisions. That doesn’t mean I can’t spend every second missing my girl.”
“You miss me? I wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for the hundreds of messages and voicemails you send me every day.” Your tone dripped with sarcasm, but Hannah noticed there was no real heat behind your words—only affection for your (presumably) boyfriend.
He laughed softly, the sound far from the sarcastic, arrogant laugh he had on the ice. The sound then was genuine—a very brief glimpse of who Garrett Graham is behind closed doors. “I’ll see you soon, baby,” he said, his voice quiet and intimate. “I’ll be counting the days until I see you again. I love you. Please take care of yourself.”
“I love you too, GG.” Your voice turned sharper—stricter. “You take care of yourself, or I’ll have Tuck dragging your ass into the kitchen to shove real food into your mouth.”
Hannah almost laughed at that because *now she can definitely see Garrett being bossed around by a headstrong woman. It might not seem like it at first glance, but the more she heard them, the more she believed it.
“Baby,” he groaned. “The last time he did that, I gained at least three pounds. Coach Jensen was on my ass the whole week.”
“So don’t even think of skipping meals this time.” You laughed freely. “I really have to go now, babe, I have my first class in ten minutes. Bye-bye, love you.”
“I love you more.”
“Not possible!” You said before the phone clicked as you hung up, leaving Garrett sitting there with a lovesick smile on his face.
Hannah saw the man’s face harden, the tension returning to him with full force. She watched as he stared at his dark screen, as if replaying the brief memory of your face and your melodic voice. She watched as Garrett stared at the dark screen for several moments before his eyes lifted to where she stood.
“Can I help you?” He asked, his voice devoid of the warmth he had with you, but not unkind. His facial expression was tense, a far cry from the soft, fond look he had earlier. It wasn’t that Garrett Graham had an attitude—it was just that no one had ever seen him that soft.
Hannah jumped and blinked a few times. “Oh, sorry, I…” She gestured vaguely around the locker room. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just waiting for you to finish so I can… clean up.”
Garrett’s face slackened in slight surprise, and he nodded, standing from the bench and slinging his large duffle bag over his shoulder. “Sorry, lost track of time.”
Hannah watched Garrett leave—his tense frame, his hunched shoulders, and lowered head were significantly different from the man in front of you just minutes prior.
Huh, Hannah thought. She did not even know Garrett had a girlfriend in the first place, but it totally made sense—for her, at least.
—
The next time Hannah saw Garrett was in their philosophy class as their professor returned their papers.
“Perfect. Another D,” Dexter said beside Hannah, turning to her expectantly after looking through their own paper. “So… how’d you do?”
Hannah looked at her paper, shook her head hesitantly, and said, “Not good.”
“Girl.” Dexter looked somewhat apprehensive because *Hannah Wells—not doing well? The girl was quite literally a music prodigy and a smart cookie in general, but then again, Hannah was known to be humble—too humble. “Really?”
“Yeah, I wrote it in like an hour, so…” She left the rest of her sentence unsaid.
She heard him before she saw him.
“Fucking hell, you aced it?”
Garrett Graham was a fucking loudmouth, and if Hannah did not know before, she definitely did then.
“I knew it,” Dexter said from beside her. “Show me.”
“Do you mind?” Her brows furrowed as she turned to look at him.
“What?” He smirked—that annoying, cocky smirk he always had. “Only you get to eavesdrop on conversations you shouldn’t?”
Garrett was still grinning by the time Hannah turned back around with a deep sigh and a roll of her eyes.
After that, Garrett had found Hannah in front of the building.
“Mona!” He called out from a few feet away. “Mona,” He said again once he was right behind Hannah.
“Uh, who’s… who’s Mona?” Hannah asked her friends.
“I think… you.” Dexter raised their eyebrows, taking a slight step back.
“I… I’m not Mona,” Hannah said, almost awkwardly.
“It is an M though, right?”
“Not even close.”
“Sorry about that.” Garrett grimaced. “I’m not… very good with names.”
“What do you want, Garrett Graham? Petals to walk on? Maybe another fancy gym that costs thousands of dollars even though the theater department is literally falling apart.” Allie rolled her eyes from beside Hannah, who turned to her with a sympathetic smile.
Meanwhile, the hockey captain had an amused smirk on his face.
“You guys are late for scene study.” Hannah grinned. “Go, I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Bye, Mona.” Dexter teased with a grin, wiggling their fingers in a wave as they practically pulled Allie with them.
“Could you please, with a sugar on top, help me study, so I don’t fail spectacularly?” Garrett immediately asked as soon as Hannah turned back to him.
“Didn’t know you had manners in you, but no,” she said as quickly as possible, starting to walk away from Garrett—and hopefully from the conversation.
“Come on, do me a solid,” Garrett, like the annoying little shit he was, followed after her. “I mean, for feminism?”
That pulled a laugh from Hannah. “Now, what are you actually on, Garrett Graham?”
“I’m serious,” Garrett said, “I have to ace the oral presentation, or I can’t play.”
“Believe it or not, I have priorities that have nothing to do with hockey,” Hannah said with a chuckle. “Find another tutor, dude.”
“Look…” He started, but realized he hadn’t even gotten her name yet. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” she deadpanned. “But it’s Hannah Wells—not even close to Mona.”
“I mean, it kinda is,” he mumbled, before shaking his head. “Look, it’s really important that I play this next game.” He was literally about to get to his knees and beg if that was what it would take for Hannah to agree. “We are playing against UCLA in two weeks, but that’s not what’s important. Hear me out, but my girlfriend lives halfway across the country, and… drumroll please…” He actually paused, to which Hannah raised an eyebrow. “She studies at UCLA. That’s why I really, really need to play.”
“I still hardly see how that is my problem?” Hannah backtracked immediately. “I’m sorry, it’s just I already am holding three jobs down right now, and I really, really can’t afford another job. You’re a good guy, Garrett, I’m sure you can find another tutor.”
“Okay, uh…” He rubbed his forehead briefly before his face literally lit up. “I can pay you.”
“I think that’s what having a job entails.”
“No, I mean, I can pay you however much you need,” he said, “Just name your price, Wellsy.”
“Wellsy?”
“That’s literally not what’s important.”
Hannah mulled his words over, and she would be lying if she said his offer was not tempting, but she didn’t know him, and she didn’t know how far he would be willing to go. “If I, hypothetically, agree, how long and how often would our sessions be?” She asked.
“Hypothetically, would 2 hours work for you?”
“It would,” she said slowly, “And if I, hypothetically, ask for fifty dollars per hour?”
“Then I would hypothetically agree.”
“Dude, seriously?” She turned to him, wide-eyed. “Do you know how much the minimum wage is?”
“Yeah,” he easily said, “But the whole point of this is that you are not to be paid the minimum wage, Wellsy.”
“Then…” She sighed deeply before reluctantly nodding. “Then I guess it’s a deal.”
—
Hannah found herself standing by the hockey house’s front door, her fist raised as she knocked—almost pounding on the wood to make sure she was heard over the game blaring from the speakers.
“Turn that down for a moment!” She heard someone yell from inside, his voice sounding closer as he walked over. Soon enough, the door swung open, revealing Logan.
“Hannah, hey! Didn’t expect to see you here.” Logan greeted Hannah with a twinkle in his eyes Hannah could not quite understand.
“Hey.” She waved, the gesture a little awkward and shy. “Uh, is Garrett here?”
“Garrett?” Logan’s brows furrowed before it dawned on him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “You’re his tutor!” He opened the door wider to let the girl in. “Come in. Is it okay for you to wait in the dining room while I call him down?”
“Yeah, for sure.” Hannah waved him off politely. She wandered through the house, looking around their shared space—which was surprisingly neat for a bunch of college athletes—until she found an unoccupied space on the farthest side of the dining table.
“Hey, Wellsy.” She heard Garrett greet as he descended the stairs and walked into the dining room. He was looking down at his phone, but looked up briefly to turn to the guys. “Can we have two hours of peace and quiet? Just two hours, guys.”
“Yeah, for sure.” Birdie put the controller down and turned the television off.
“Yeah, no, I gotta get started on dinner too.” Tucker rose from the couch. “All of you, except G, are on dinner duties. Get up now—right now.” There was an immediate commotion, but Tucker heard none of it. “Dinner duties or no dinner.”
“Wow, now I know why the house is tidy,” Hannah said as Garrett took a seat across from her, placing his phone face down on the table. “He runs a strict program here.”
“He really does.” Garrett laughed, eyeing her notes with a bit of interest. “Take it away then, Wellsy.”
As Hannah began talking, Garrett slowly lost what little interest he had at the beginning. He jumped every time his phone pinged on the table, his face lighting up slightly as he immediately picked his phone up, only to be disappointed every time.
She spoke when he picked his phone back up for the third time. “You know, I’d really appreciate it if you paid more attention,” she said, but not unkindly. “I don’t think you’d pass the oral presentation—and the class—if you don’t even try to understand what this is all about. Garrett, you told me you needed this, so please take this a bit more seriously.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Garrett sighed, turning his phone to do not disturb. “Sorry. Can you backtrack?”
Two hours had passed quickly after that, and Hannah had been packing her stuff when Garrett’s phone rang. She watched as tension quickly left his body.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” he said quickly and picked up without waiting for her to respond—not that she minded. They were already done.
“Hi, GG!” Your voice came from the phone speaker soon, and Hannah couldn’t help but take a subtle peek into Garrett’s phone screen. “Sorry, I just got off my last class. It was hell, but anyway, how are you, honey?”
“I’m alright, baby.” He smiled softly—the same smile he had in the locker room, and the one he had when he was talking about her just the day prior.
Enthusiastic greetings and your name echoed behind Garrett as the guys scrambled towards their friend.
“Hi, guys!” You said as your boyfriend turned the camera over to the rowdy bunch. “Oh my God, you reek of testosterone, and it reaches me all the way over here.”
“Hey! Garrett’s tutor is here with us!” Dean spoke up from behind Logan. “And she’s a woman, so that essentially cancels out the testosterone.”
Your eyebrows raised in surprise and excitement. “She’s there? Please, I need to see her!”
Garrett laughed, looking at Hannah. He turned the camera over towards her when she nodded, and watched as your face softened.
“Hi, oh my God! Finally, another woman!” You grinned, introducing yourself to Hannah. “I’m this doofus’ girlfriend, unfortunately.”
“Hey!”
“Hi!” Hannah laughed, her heart warming every second she talked to you. She honestly did not expect you to be this warm and welcoming, especially since you had a bit of a mean girl vibe at first glance. “Hannah Wells. I’m Garret’s tutor, unfortunately.”
“I am starting to regret this, just so you know,” Garrett grumbled behind the phone.
“Oh, that is unfortunate.” You giggled when your boyfriend turned the phone back to his face. “Baby, I am proud of you, and I’m glad you’re getting the help you need.”
“Babe, I have a tutor, not a therapist.”
You ignored his words. “But it is unfortunate for Hannah because you are as stubborn as a mule.”
“You are so lucky I love you.”
Hannah ended up staying for another hour before you finally ended the call, borderline threatening your boyfriend to drop her off up to her dorm room or else.
But Garrett had other plans, unbeknownst to her.
“So, uh, Wellsy,” he said. “My ride’s actually not in good shape right now, so I probably can’t drop you off, but Logan here can.”
Logan looked at Garrett with wide eyes behind Hannah, to which he responded with a knowing grin.
“Oh, is that okay? I actually have my bike, so I can just, you know, bike,” Hannah said, trying to look at Logan without blushing.
“No, it’s late, I’ll drop you off,” Logan said with a charming smile. “Your bike will most probably fit in the truck, so…”
“Oh, that is so nice of you. Thank you!”
Meanwhile, Garrett was cheekily sending you a message.
Garrett: So
You: So?
Garrett: I didn’t drop Hannah off
You: ?
Garrett: Pls hear me out
You: I am listening…
Garrett: Logan likes her, like like her…
You: Okay…
Garrett: So I asked him to drop her off.
Garrett: You know, so they bond. 🙂↕️
You: You scheming dick 😟
You: I love it. Let me know what Logan says after 🤭
—
Hannah buckled her seatbelt in, waiting for Logan to enter his truck after strapping her bicycle in the pickup.
“Sorry for the wait,” Logan said as soon as he opened the door, quickly buckling in and turning the engine on.
“Oh, no.” Hannah waved him off. “I should be thanking you for the ride.”
“It’s nothing.” Logan started driving. “It’s late and dark out. Bare minimum, really.”
Hannah only smiled in response, and there was a few minutes of silence, only the sound of the radio filling the slightly awkward air between them.
“So…” Hannah began.
“So…” Logan repeated.
“Garrett and his girlfriend…”
“Oh, them?” Logan grinned. “As far as I know, they’re childhood sweethearts. Her family moved to Boston when they were around six and left in the second semester freshman year due to her dad’s relocation at work. They’re thick as thieves, I’m telling you. When they were together, they were inseparable and they were both menaces. There was no peace with those two around. If you think Dean is bad, you should see them together.”
“That’s… actually really sweet.” Hannah smiled wistfully as she imagined you and Garrett together.
“It really is.”
They soon arrived in front of Hannah’s dorm building.
“Well, this is me,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Thanks again for the ride.”
“Yeah, no worries.” Logan, too, unfastened his seatbelt and exited the car to help Hannah with her bicycle.
Once the bike was chained safely onto the pole, they both stood there awkwardly.
“Uh…” Hannah gestured to the main entrance. “I’m gonna go in. Thank you so much again for giving me a ride. Drive safely on your way back. Message me when you get home?”
“Thanks, but, uh…” Logan put his hands in his pocket, not knowing what to do with them. “I don’t have your number.”
“Oh!” She chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, I can… give it to you now.”
“Yeah, sure.” He handed her his phone, and she quickly typed her number in before handing the phone back to him.
“Here. Thanks again.”
“Anytime.”
Hannah smiled and slowly walked toward the building, waving at Logan shyly as he stood there with an almost dopey grin on his face.
—
It had been about two months since Hannah had tutored Garrett. He was able to ace his oral presentation in their philosophy class, and was ultimately permitted to play against UCLA.
From what Hannah had heard from Logan, you had watched the game wearing Garrett’s jersey, despite being a UCLA student, which had caused a bit of commotion with your friends.
You and Garrett were able to spend a few days together before they had to essentially pry your boyfriend off you.
It had been two and a half months since then, and now, here they all are at Malone’s. Hannah is serving their table, Garrett is drinking his sorrows away a few days away from Thanksgiving, and the guys are there for emotional support.
From what Hannah had heard from Garrett himself as he very loudly (and drunkenly) announced to practically the whole diner, he was supposed to be flying to California to spend Thanksgiving and the rest of the break with you and your family. Unfortunately, his dad had required him to spend at least Thanksgiving with him in Boston, only for his world-class asshole of a father to cancel at the very last minute.
Garrett, having canceled his flight ticket to California during one of the busiest times of the year, had to wait another three weeks for the next available flight because all flights were booked. On top of that, you hadn’t been responding to any of his calls and texts in the last few hours, which felt like a lifetime for a heartbroken man.
Hannah watches as a tear falls from Garrett’s eye after prolonged hours in the diner and a drink too many. Soon, more tears are streaming down his face as he sobs and hiccups.
“Fuck, I miss her so much, man.” He says to no one in particular. “Honestly, fuck my dad, and fuck the airlines and the planes. I will build my own fucking plane if I could.” He is hiccuping in between his words, while his friends look like they don’t know whether to laugh or sympathize with their friend.
“Call her,” Tucker mouths to Dean over Garrett’s shoulder.
“She’s fucking unreachable, dude!” Dean whisper-yells in a slight panic, not loud enough for Garrett to hear over his own heartbreak. “I’ve been trying for hours!”
“Well, try again!”
“What am I, a miracle worker?”
“Considering that a miracle is what we need right now, yes.”
“Choke.”
“Stop fucking talking!” Garrett interrupts with a sob—very out of character for the cold, untouchable captain of the hockey team. “My girl is across the world and I’m alone… I’m so lonely… I miss her… I miss my baby…”
“Dude, it’ll just be three weeks.” Logan tries to soothe his crying friend. “Time will pass quickly, I promise you.”
“Three. Weeks.” Garrett’s words slur together as he speaks. “Three whole weeks, Loge. I can’t wait that long. I will die. I will literally die.”
“No, you won’t, G, you’re being dramatic.”
“Fuck you, Dean. Try being away from your girl for your whole university life.”
“…Okay, fair.”
Another hour passes, and they finally manage to drag Garrett out of Malone’s with a (slightly empty) promise of having you on the phone by the time they get home, to which he easily agrees.
But Hannah, having clocked out of her shift just in time to come with the guys to the hockey house, takes the wheel after Garrett threatens to jump out of the moving car if he had to spend another second without you.
Hannah does not know whether to laugh at Garrett or to cry with him as he continues babbling and slurring in the backseat. The man she is seeing is significantly different than the hockey captain the rest of the world sees, but it somehow makes sense to her that he gets to this point of distress when it comes to you.
About fifteen minutes pass quickly before Hannah finally pulls over and kills the engine, while Logan and Dean try to drag a very uncooperative, very uncoordinated man into the house.
They are halfway through the front door when Tucker comes to a halt—an actual, sudden stop that causes Garrett’s head to bump into his back.
Hannah instinctively scans the room trying to find the reason why Tucker froze, and that is when she spots the unfamiliar pair of shoes in the rack, two large suitcases beside stairs, an unrecognizable coat draped on the backrest of the couch.
Dean and Logan, completely focused on Garrett, do not immediately notice the slight changes around the house, but Hannah and Tucker do.
“Fuck, man, warn a guy next time—” Dean’s words are cut off abruptly when he finally sees the reason for Tucker’s sudden pause. “Holy fuck.”
Hannah’s jaw drops as her eyes land on you lounging on the sofa, the wide smile on your face faltering when you see the state your boyfriend is in.
“Oh God, what happened?” You stand from the couch to rush over, your hands immediately finding your boyfriend’s face. “Baby, what happened to you?”
Garrett looks up, his bleary, unfocused eyes staring through you, and he drunkenly laughs. “Shit, I miss her so much I’m hallucinating.”
You fight back a smile at his words.
The guys and Hannah exchange quick pleasantries with you as you let them drag Garrett into his room with a promise to spend more time with you once your boyfriend has had his time.
You hug each of them swiftly. “I have some stuff for you in the pink luggage.”
“You are a lifesaver.”
“We literally love you.”
“You are amazing,” Hannah suddenly says, which makes you stop. “Even more amazing in real life. I hope you know that I adore you already, and I hope to get to know you more.”
“Babe, I love you, and please. I would love to know the person who saved my boyfriend’s career.” You grin, giving her a quick hug before entering Garrett’s bedroom.
Soon enough, it’s just you and your drunk boyfriend in his room. He is lying on his back, spread out like a starfish, and you snap a quick photo before moving.
You wet a washcloth with warm water and gently wipe him clean when he starts groaning and trying to push your hands off him weakly.
“Stop it, I have a girlfriend,” he mumbles, barely able to roll over. “She’s the only one I want. I love her and I miss her so much.” He almost starts crying right then and there.
“I’m sorry,” you say with a grin. “I’m sorry, I won’t touch you again, but can you please move over? Can you leave a space for when your girlfriend comes?”
“Mkay,” is all he murmurs as he rolls over to his own side on the bed, before promptly falling asleep.
You tidy up swiftly and crawl into bed with him, exhaustion taking over just as quickly.
—
Garrett regains consciousness slowly, but the pounding in his head quickly makes itself known. He winces slightly as the memories rush through his head with them ending right before his friends had dragged him home.
He raises a hand in an attempt to rub his eyes free of sleep, only to realize that his whole arm is pinned on the bed. He slowly turns to look, and his eyes immediately land on a mop of hair—your hair—and he feels the air leaving his lungs when he realizes that you are lying right there, on his bed, with him. You are not sleeping on your own bed across the country in California, but right here in Hastings.
A smile spreads across his face, his hangover completely forgotten as he leans down to wake you with gentle kisses on your skin.
He does not stop until you wake up, and he definitely does not—cannot—keep his hands off you—not when you shower together, not when you leave his bedroom and make your way downstairs, not when you walk into the kitchen, not when you talk with your friends, and definitely not when you spend the entire break with him.
Home really is where the heart is, he realizes as he finally looks at you—not from the tiny screen on his phone, not from the photos you send him throughout the days, not from the video calls you sneak in during your free time—as you stand right in front of him.
☄︎ Warnings: each chapter will have their own but overall - Angst (love hurts!), slow burn (ish), fluff, reader being blind af, i don't have a proofreader, idk my tenses so i flip flop
☄︎ Pairing: f!Reader x John Logan (past), f!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis (main)
☄︎ Rating: PG (1-4, 6); Smut mention (5)
☄︎ Words: 21.9k
☄︎ AN: This was born from this post. I saw it and my mind immediately started racing. The respose to the first one posted was amazing, so I've turned this into a series. Thank you so soo much for all the wonderful comments and engagement.
pretty please continue to share thoughts xx
Main Masterlist
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Contents:
1 I've Got You (#1) 〣 Read here 〣 2.8k 〣 24.05.2026
2 I've Got You (#2) 〣 Read here 〣 4.6k 〣 28.05.2026
3 I've Got You (#3) 〣 Read here 〣 7k 〣 05.06.2026
4 I've Got You (#4) 〣 Read here 〣 3.3k 〣 07.06.2026
5 I've Got You (#5) 〣 Read here 〣 3.2k 〣 24.06.2026
6 I've Got You (#6) 〣 Read here 〣 0.7k 〣 04.07.2026
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Summary: grief doesn’t ask permission before it moves … and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that should’ve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person who’s still standing when everything else has fallen down
Warnings: you’re going to need tissues
Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.
He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.
“Dean, honey,” his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. “Are you holding up?”
He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.
“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”
Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.
Dead.
The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.
“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.
Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.
“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.
Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”
“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.
His chest tightens at the thought of you.
You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.
Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.
***
“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s
“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”
“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”
“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.
“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”
“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”
“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.
“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.
“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.
***
The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.
Dean turns.
You are walking down the center aisle.
His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.
Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.
He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.
You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.
The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.
“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”
Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.
You stand up.
A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.
You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.
You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.
You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.
“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”
You stop, swallowing hard.
“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”
A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.
“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”
You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.
Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.
“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”
You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.
“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house.
“My dad was driving,” you say softly.
Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.
“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”
You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.
“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”
You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.
“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”
“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.
“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”
Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.
“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”
Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.
“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.
“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”
“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.
“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”
You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.
You collapse.
You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.
But Dean is faster.
He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.
“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”
Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.
“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”
You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”
“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”
“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”
Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.
“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”
“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”
“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”
“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”
Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.
“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”
Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”
“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.
“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.
You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.
“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”
***
Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.
He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.
Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.
He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.
Empty.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.
“Hey, Dean?”
Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.
“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.
“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”
“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”
“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.
“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”
“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.
The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.
His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.
He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.
“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”
Silence.
He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”
Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.
Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.
The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.
“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.
He flips the light switch.
You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.
Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?
“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”
He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.
Your eyes are open.
A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”
But you don’t respond.
Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.
Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.
“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”
You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.
Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.
But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.
Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.
“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”
You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.
“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”
He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”
You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.
Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.
“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”
He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.
Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”
He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.
“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”
He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.
“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”
He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.
He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.
Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.
Dean freezes.
It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.
Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.
He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.
“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”
You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.
A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.
Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.
“Let’s go,” he says softly.
He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.
***
Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.
The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.
Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.
“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.
Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.
“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”
You don’t respond.
A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.
Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.
The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.
Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”
The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.
Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.
The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.
“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says.
You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.
“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.
Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”
You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.
Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”
You take a small sip.
They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.
“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.
Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.
“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”
“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”
And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.
***
The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.
It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.
The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.
“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.
“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.
The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.
“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.
You blink at it. “What is that?”
“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”
Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.
“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.
“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”
“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”
“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”
“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.
“No, you’re not.”
Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.
“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.
You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.
“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”
“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.
“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”
You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.
“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”
***
The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.
Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.
You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.
“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”
Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.
“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”
Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.
Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.
“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”
The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.
Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.
Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.
Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.
Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.
“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”
The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.
“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”
Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.
“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”
The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.
You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.
Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.
***
When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.
Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.
“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.
“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.
“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.
“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”
“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.
“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”
You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.
Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.
“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.
Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.
They all stop when you walk in.
There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.
But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”
“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.
“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”
“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”
“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”
“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”
“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.
Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”
The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.
Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.
After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.
“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.
“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.
“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”
“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”
“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.
He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.
The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.
“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”
“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”
“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”
“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.
You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.
You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.
Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.
As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.
The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.
Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.
***
Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.
The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.
He looks down.
You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.
Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.
He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.
You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.
“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.
He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.
He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.
Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.
But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.
Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.
He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.
He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.
About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.
Dean turns his head.
You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.
Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.
But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.
A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.
He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.
For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.
Then, the fourth second hits.
The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.
You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.
And now, you are in Dean’s bed.
You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.
The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.
You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.
But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.
He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.
You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.
“Dean,” you whisper.
The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.
You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.
“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.
His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”
“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.
“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”
You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.
“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”
Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.
“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.
“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”
“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You open your wet eyes.
Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.
“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”
You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.
“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”
“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.
“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”
“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.
“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”
“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”
The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.
You break.
You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.
And Dean breaks right along with you.
The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.
You hold him, and he holds you.
You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.
You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.
You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.
The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.
“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”
You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”
“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”
“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”
“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”
You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.
Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”
You look into his eyes, inches from your own.
“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”
The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.
Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.
You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.
“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.
The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.
But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.
“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.
“Never,” Dean replies instantly.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.
For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.
***
Grief is not a straight line.
It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.
But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.
Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.
The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.
You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.
He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.
A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.
“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.
“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.
“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”
You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”
“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”
You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.
Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.
You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.
The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.
So, you quit.
It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.
***
“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.
“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”
“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”
You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”
“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.
***
He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.
The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.
You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.
Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.
“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”
“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”
Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”
“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.
“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”
You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.
The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.
“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.
“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.
“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”
You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.
“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.
“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”
“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”
“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.
“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”
“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”
You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.
You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.
You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.
Hours later, the house finally quiets down.
Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.
You and Dean are left alone in the living room.
The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.
“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.
“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”
Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.
Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.
“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”
Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”
“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”
His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”
“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”
“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.
The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.
You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.
“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.
Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”
“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”
Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.
The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.
“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”
“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.
“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.
Your breath catches in your throat.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.
“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.
He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”
“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”
You stare at him, completely paralyzed.
For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.
But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.
“Then kiss me,” you whisper.
Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.
He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.
The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.
Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.
It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.
When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.
“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.
Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.
But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.
“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”
You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”
Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”
You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.
“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”
Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.
“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”
The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.
You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.
“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”
A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.
“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”
Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”
You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”
“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.
He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.
“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”
“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.
“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.
For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.
You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.
***
“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”
Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.
“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”
Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”
“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”
“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”
You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.
“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.
Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.
“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”
“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.
He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.
“Hey,” you whisper back.
“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.
Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.
“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”
Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”
***
The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.
You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.
The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.
You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.
Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.
“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”
Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”
A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.
“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”
The crowd erupts into applause.
It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.
You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.
“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.
You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.
You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.
He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.
You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.
Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.
Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.
A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.
You walk down the opposite set of stairs.
You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.
He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”
***
The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.
You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.
Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.
“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.
Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.
Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.
You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.
“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”
You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.
***
Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.
Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.
“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”
Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”
“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.
“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.
“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.
You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.
Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.
“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.
Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”
“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”
Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”
“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.
“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.
“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”
Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.
The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.
“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”
“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.
You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.
***
By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.
You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.
Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.
“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.
“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”
“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”
You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.
“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”
“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.
The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.
You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.
The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.
“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.
“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”
Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”
“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”
As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.
“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.
“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”
“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”
“You were very bossy.”
“And you loved it.”
You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”
The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.
The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.
Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.
He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.
You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”
“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”
“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.
Your breath hitches.
Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.
He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.
“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.
You freeze.
Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.
“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”
The air completely leaves your lungs.
You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.
“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”
Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.
You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.
You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.
And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.
The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.
***
The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.
“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”
You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.
It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.
You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.
You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.
Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.
“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.
Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.
“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”
“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”
“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”
You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”
“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”
Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.
The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.
He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.
“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”
Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”
“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”
***
The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.
You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.
“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.
She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.
“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.
You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.
A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.
Your breath completely catches in your throat.
“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”
“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.
“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.
The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.
Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.
He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”
“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”
A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.
“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”
You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.
“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”
“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.
She hands the envelope to Dean.
Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.
“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.
“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”
***
The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.
The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.
Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.
“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.
“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”
“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.
“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”
“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.
Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.
“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”
You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”
“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.
He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.
He hands it to you.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.
You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.
Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You look down at the envelope in your lap.
“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.
“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.
“On three,” you say.
“One,” Dean counts.
“Two,” you whisper.
“Three.”
Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.
There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.
It’s a boy!
The world completely stops spinning.
You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.
Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.
“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.
“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.
Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.
“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.
When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.
He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.
“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.
You look at him.
For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.
But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.
There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.
“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.
Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.
“Beau,” Dean whispers.
Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”
“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.
“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”
“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.
“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”
You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.
When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.
He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.
“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.
“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”
Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.
“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”
A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.
“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”
Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.
“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”
He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.
You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.
The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.
But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.
It continued.
It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.
You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.
“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.
Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.
Pairing: garrett graham x childhood best friend!reader
Summary: when the granddaughter of the former head coach of the New York Rangers transfers to BriarU, people don’t expect you to be so attached to captain of the Briar Hawks hockey team, garrett graham. what everyone didn’t know was that you are his childhood best friend. don't forget the guys who welcomed you with unconditional support and became family like you’ve never expected.
Warnings: childhood best friends to lovers trope. (they act like they’re married and have been together for 30 years) one-bed trope. no mention of y/n, pet names are used to refer to the reader: petal and angel. found family to the absolute max, along with dean being a menace. wholesome love all around. reader is given princess treatment.
a/n: worked my butt off for this one, and i hope you all love it as much as i do. i'm such a sucker for the found family trope. also a little family healing for garrett, and did i mention that garrett is completely gone for the reader? (let me know what you think!)
Word count: 13.1k
masterlist
“Did you guys hear about the granddaughter of the former New York Rangers coach transferring here from Columbia?” Logan asked Dean and Tucker from the kitchen. “We’re out of beer.”
Just as he made the statement, Garrett walked through the front door holding a case of beer: “I come bearing gifts.”
“Our saviour,” Logan jokingly praised as he opened his welcoming arms for Garrett to hand the case over to him.
“Logan, is she hot?” Dean chirped from the couch.
“What girl caught your eye?” Garrett teased, walking over to the pantry in search of a snack.
“Not yet. I was asking the boys if they heard about the new transfer from Columbia. Apparently, she’s the granddaughter of the former Rangers coach,” Logan explained.
His words had Garrett pause his rummaging and slowly turn around to face Logan. “Where’d you hear that from?” Garrett’s voice came out more snippy than he had meant.
“A couple of the guys in the locker room mentioned it today at morning practice,” Logan shrugged, not noticing Garrett’s shift in mood.
Garrett’s breath hitched at the mere thought of guys he knew talking about you.
The girl he grew up with. Of course, he knew you.
He couldn’t even remember the number of times you two would go off and explore an arena wherever the Rangers were playing. Even when someone would catch the pair of you somewhere you probably shouldn’t have been, no one could ever say anything against the pout that you would pull out when you were kids. It helped that you were the Rangers’ head coach’s granddaughter.
Your families have been connected since before both of you were born. His father met yours when he first made the team at 18. Your father was 20 and determined to prove that he deserved to be on the team, not just because his father was the coach. Both felt like they had something to prove and became a fierce pair on the ice.
Your mothers bonded quickly when they were first introduced. It wasn’t easy with husbands who were always in the limelight.
They marveled when they found out they were pregnant around the same time. Garrett was born exactly one month before you. Which was something you never heard the end of during your childhood. He would always claim that it was his job to make sure you were safe.
They would always gush when you two were together as children. Garrett was always trailing behind or beside you like a protector, and he was always the first one to help you up when you stumbled over your feet. Sometimes, it felt like he knew you better than he knew himself.
Garrett remembered all the family vacations that you guys shared. The way that his father would put on an act and pretend that they were this picture-perfect family, but you didn’t buy it.
You’ve hated Phil Graham from the moment you overheard an argument between Garrett’s parents when you were 8 years old. You were staying over for a couple of days as your parents were away traveling. Garrett had begged you to ask your parents if you could just stay with his family instead of staying with your grandparents.
It didn’t take much convincing for your parents to let you stay with the Graham family. Granted, they didn’t know what happened behind closed doors.
A memory flashed in Garrett’s mind of the first Halloween without his mom and the first time his father laid hands on him.
“Gare, you don’t have to be brave with me.” You were inspecting his bloodied knuckles. The first aid kit sat next to you on the bed. “This is going to burn a bit.”
“Petal, just do it already.” he tried to squirm away, but you kept a firm grip of his hand in your lap.
Garrett redirected his focus from the pain to you. He watched as you took care of his hand, making sure it was clean before putting ointment over the split knuckles and wrapping it with such care. He looked at you like you were the only thing that brought light to his life.
“Okay, all done,” you muttered quietly while you started putting all the stuff from the kit away. You walked over to his closet to put it back in the corner where you first stashed it when you saw bruises on his mother’s wrists years ago.
“I hate him.”
“I know you do.”
“He’s a monster. He’s cruel. He never treated my mom right, even before she got sick. He’s always been so mean,” Garrett sniffled. He looked down at his wrapped hand and clenched his other fist tightly. “I never want to be like him.”
His words caught your attention, and you sat back over to him. You took his hands in yours and brought them close to your heart. “You, Garrett, are nothing like your father. You are nothing but kind and caring. You always look out for me even when you don’t need to. You are so special, and I never want you to think otherwise.” You told him with fierce invigoration.
Even at 12 years old, Garrett knew then that he would never love someone as much as he loved you at that moment.
“G? You all good there?” Logan snapped his fingers in front of Garrett’s face, hoping to pull him out of his daze.
Garrett shook his head slightly as if to clear the thoughts that scrambled through his mind about you. “Sorry, what’d you say?” His eyes flickered over to Logan, but he still seemed distracted.
“I was telling you about that girl. I heard from a couple of the guys that it hasn’t even been confirmed that she’s transferred officially.” Logan explained to him.
Garrett let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. That news made him feel better that it was just rumors. His chest felt tight at the thought that you wouldn’t share such big information with him. Especially considering he last talked to you a week ago, and you didn’t mention anything about the possibility of transferring to Briar U.
“Hey, G? Do you know her? With your dad being a former Ranger,” Tucker speculated, making his way over to the kitchen to grab a beer. “Maybe a connection?”
Dean joined the rest of the group. “If you do, can you put in a good word for me?”
“Not a chance,” Garrett snorted. “I’m leaving this conversation.” He started to walk away from the boys and headed for the stairs.
“G? You didn’t answer the question!” Garrett heard Tucker yell out from the kitchen. Ignoring him, Garrett made quick work of taking out his phone and pulling up your contact.
His thumb hovered above the call button until he got to his room and closed the door behind him.
“Hey, bub! What’s up?” you answered. Just from hearing your voice, Garrett’s body relaxed. He felt the tension that he held in his shoulders melting away while listening to you. “I actually have some news for you!”
Garrett shook his head. He flopped back against his bed, softly laughing to himself, “Just wanted to talk to you.”
“Love, we just talked last week. Did something happen?” The concern in your voice was obvious. “You know you can call me anytime, right? No matter what.”
“I know, Petal.” A warm smile crept onto Garrett’s face. “Is it a crime to just want to hear your voice?”
“You’re such a sap.” Your laugh came through the phone, and Garrett almost forgot the reason why he called you.
“You said you had something to share with me?” Garrett turned the conversation back to you.
“You know how I’ve been telling you I want a change of pace? I feel stuck here, and I love my family, but I need some space to breathe without someone asking me for Rangers tickets or if I’ve ever wanted to hook up with any of them,” you rambled, beating around the bush of the actual news. “I just want to feel like I’m on my own for once. Wow, I sound entitled. I am so sorry for that–”
“Don’t apologize. I’m always here to listen to you.” Garrett cut you off, knowing that if he didn’t, you would continue apologizing for something you never had to be sorry for. “And I get it. Trust me, I do.”
“I miss you, Garrett.” You admitted it so softly that he almost missed it.
“I miss you, Petal.”
“You’ll be sick of me when I transfer to Briar U.” You snuck the surprise in. “I’m serious, you’re never going to get a moment alone again.”
The moment he comprehended what you said, he couldn’t stop his smile from widening. “Petal, don’t play with my heart like that if you’re not serious.”
“Garrett Graham, did you hear what I just said? I am serious.” You mockingly defended your words. “Love, I mean this. I already submitted the paperwork. I’m waiting on my credits to transfer over, so I can get my new schedule.”
“When will you be here?” The urgency in Garrett’s voice and the question got a giggle out of you.
“Maybe a week or two. I’m still trying to solidify my official housing situation. They offered me a suite on campus, but I’m considering looking for a place off campus,” you explained the small conundrum. “Gramps said he would pitch in if I find a place because he says that he knows the ‘kind of boys that could live on the same floor’ as me. Which is verbatim to what he said, by the way,” you laughed to yourself, thinking back to the conversation with your grandfather.
“I one hundred percent agree with Gramps. Don’t even worry about finding a place. Just stay with me, Petal,” Garrett offered without a single thought or hesitation. “I’d know you’re safe. Gramps would feel better knowing that you’ve got four giant hockey players to protect you. Your dad might not be the biggest fan of it cause he hasn’t met the other guys, but he’ll trust me with you.” Garrett was reasoning with you.
“Love, I couldn’t intrude on you or the rest of your housemates. This is a big thing, and I’m a big girl. I can figure this out…” You trailed off. You had to admit to yourself that what Garrett offered sounded nice. From your search, most places close to campus were already filled since it was midway through a semester. You saw a few that caught your eye, but the drive was 25 minutes away from campus.
“Petal, this isn’t up for discussion.”
“Yes, it is. Especially considering I’m almost positive that when you were moving in, you told me that there were only four rooms.”
“I’ve got the master bedroom, Petal. It’s plenty of room for you and me. There’s an ensuite bathroom. Honestly, it’d just be how it was when we were little and used to go on vacation,” Garrett countered you. “Baby, please just stay with me.”
The softness of his voice almost made you cave at the spot. “You have to ask your housemates.”
“Done. They won’t have a problem with it.”
“You ask them now, Garrett. Go downstairs and throw the idea out there for them. Keep me on call, so I can hear their reactions,” you instructed him.
“Yes, Ma’am.” Garrett shot out of bed and headed for the door. “Boys! I got a question for you!” Garrett yelled out to them, hoping they could hear him over the TV blasting the sounds from their video game.
“Bub, that was straight in my ear,” you pointed out, reminding him you were still right next to the speaker.
“Oh shit, sorry, Petal,” Garrett muttered as he hurried down the stairs.
Dean was the only one to catch what Garrett had said. He pointed it out to Logan. “Petal?”
Logan looked up from the screen. He twisted his head to glance at Garrett. “What’s up, G?”
“Who are you talking to?” Dean quipped at the same time as Logan.
The exchange took Tucker out of the game and left him watching the people around him. He muted the TV, leaving the house quiet.
Garrett’s posture gave away his nervousness about finally bringing you up to them. He never purposely tried to avoid any topics that could relate to you, but that also meant he chose to never bring it up. He got enough questioning about his ‘legendary’ dad and what it must have been like to grow up in that environment. That’s all anyone ever cared about anyway.
“The granddaughter you were asking about?” Garrett answered, hoping his tone was enough to signal to them to be cool about it.
“What do you mean ‘the granddaughter,’ G?” Logan questioned. His eyes widened by the moment.
“How do you guys feel about getting another roommate?” Garrett blurted out. He never thought it would be nerve-wracking to mention you to the guys. He felt like he had to share a part of you that he only ever wanted to keep to himself.
“We only have four bedrooms,” Dean pointed out the obvious.
Tucker gave him an up slap against the back of his head, “He knows that, dingus.”
Garrett ran a hand through his hair as he scanned the guys for their reactions. “What’d they say, Bub?” You weren’t even on speakerphone, but it was loud enough in the silent house that the others could hear you clearly.
“You’ve known who I was talking about this whole time? You just pretended to be stupid or something?” Logan's thoughts gathered quickly to make the connections. “Let me sound like some idiot going on about it.”
“Yeah. She’s transferring from Columbia.” Garrett swept over Logan’s realization.
“G, I don’t know any girl that would want four guys as their roommates,” Tucker claimed, because it seemed laughable that a girl would ever want to live with guys who eat, breathe, sleep hockey.
“She’ll be fine. I’m not asking you to give up any of your rooms. Mine will be fine. I don’t want her to be in the dorms. You know how the guys over there are. I’d feel better knowing she’d be close,” Garrett explained with a rare softness in him that no one ever really heard other than you.
“She’d be more than close,” Dean muttered under his breath. Logan nudged him in the side with his elbow.
“Are you sure she even wants to move in?” Logan asked him honestly.
“Gare, put me on speaker, please?” You requested politely. Garrett abided and shoved the phone more in the guys’ direction. “Can they hear me?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” All three of the guys affirmed for her.
“Unbelievable.” Garrett guffawed at the three in front of him.
“Garrett’s just being overdramatic about this. I don’t want to force myself into your guys’ space–”
“Petal.” Garrett cut you off with a tone that didn’t leave room for much argument.
“Love, you can’t just ask them something like that and expect them to be completely okay with it.”
“Petal, I will call Gramps. Please don’t make this more complicated.”
“Garrett Graham! Don’t you dare!” You yelped on the phone.
Garrett’s mind was only focused on the sound of your voice, as if the rest of the world melted away from him. Logan, Tucker, and Dean all raised eyebrows at each other because of the pair of you. They had never heard Garrett be like that with a girl. Hell, they never saw him interact with many girls unless it was for a night, and they were always quick to leave.
“Petal, all you have to do is say yes.” Garrett implored.
“Would you guys be okay with it? If not, I’ll work something else out, don’t worry about me.” You asked them, uncertain about Garrett’s plea.
“If you’re important to Garrett, you’re important to us. You’re welcome here anytime,” Tucker answered for the three.
Dean raised a finger in the air to signal he was about to chime in. “Get ready for some serious game nights,” he joked.
Logan added, “What’s your drink of choice?”
“A cosmo,” you answered simply, with humor lacing your voice.
“Bullshit, it’s always a strawberry mojito,” Garrett called out to counter.
“Besides the point,” you brushed off.
“Honey, we have to go attend the fundraiser.” Your dad’s call from the hallway broke you away from the conversation. He knocked against your door softly.
“Come in,” you told him.
“You talking to someone, Sweetie?” He said from the door.
“Just Gare, Dad,” you announced to him as he started to enter your room.
“Hey, son! I saw a clip from your last game, and you’re looking real good out there. With this one transferring over, I’m going to have to attend some games in person finally,” your dad happily spoke to Garrett. Who had made his way to the kitchen and placed his phone on the counter while he searched for a drink.
The other three scrambled from the couch to the counter to continue to listen to the phone call. All of them actively started to slowly get more and more geeked out at the mere presence of your dad’s voice.
“Hey, Pop! Thanks, it’s been quite a season out there, but our next home game is in two weeks. Will you be in town?”
“Yeah, I’ll get the lot to come out since it’ll be Petal’s first home game because she originally chose a school with no hockey!” Your dad bellowed out in a laugh. “We have to cheer for you while we can.”
“Gramps, still mad at me for Boston?” Garrett queried.
“Like Gramps could say mad at you, Bub,” you snorted.
Logan, Dean, and Tucker were in utter disbelief at what they were witnessing. They had never seen Garrett at peace and content, talking to people on the phone. He was never like this when he was on the phone with his dad.
They started to question the relationship that Garrett had with you and, presumably, the rest of your family. It was evident that he was close with your family, but it seemed deeper than that. A casualness that only came around when you were talking to family, but they assumed he was somehow also romantically linked to you. Maybe it was both, but the scene in front of them was creating bounds of confusion.
“He’ll get over it once he sees you on ice,” your dad assured him. “Anyways, Garrett. Petal and I have to seriously head out now before the Missus has both of our heads.”
“It was good talking to you, Pop.”
“Bye, bub. I’ll let you know when I get back later. I love you!”
“I love you too, Petal.” Garrett grinned to himself, and the boys officially thought they had lost the Garrett Graham that they knew. The call ended, and Garrett turned back to the boys. “You shitheads are actually okay with this, right?”
And just like that, Garrett Graham was back the way they knew him to be. “G, what the hell was that?” Logan was baffled.
“The former Rangers’ head coach is going to attend our next game,” Dean said in a daze.
“You gotta tell us what’s going on, man,” Tucker said, exasperated by no explanation.
It was clear that Garrett didn’t even know where to start. His mouth opened and closed exactly three times before he even let anything out. “What do you guys want to know?” He thought it was a great question to gauge where the guys’ heads were at.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been with her this whole time, and you’re still with bunnies,” Logan chastised him. “That’s not cool, man.”
“No. No, we’re not dating,” Garrett responded, putting his hands up to somehow show his innocence. “We grew up together.”
“No way there’s nothing there, G,” Tucker protested.
“So you wouldn’t mind?” Dean gave Garrett a look that explained what he had meant.
“Dean, you’re not getting with her. Don’t even think about trying anything,” Garrett warned.
“Oh, you’re in love with her.” Logan snapped his fingers at Garrett.
“Dude, I thought we already knew that,” Tucker said to Logan.
“Wait, how is it going to work with her moving in here? This is not exactly a five-star hotel.” Dean gestured to the slight mess around them. While it was cluttered, the house wasn’t too bad at its current state. It looked lived in. “I mean, if you’re not dating her, but she’s going to share your room with you. I’m just trying to understand this, man. Because that means no more bunnies for you like ever.”
“There’s not going to be another bunny,” Garrett said as if it were the most simple thing.
“He’s a changed man, Dean,” Tucker whooped as he made his way over to Garrett and gave him a good slap on the shoulder. “G, this girl means a lot to you, and if you want her to live here. We’re seriously cool about it.”
“Thanks, Tuck.”
After much discussion, your family thought it was best if you had a week to settle in. Since you weren’t moving into your own place, you didn’t need to bring much other than clothes and necessities. You and Garrett had talked about what he had and what you still needed to buy, but agreed that you could just go shopping together rather than getting anything beforehand. Everything you needed to bring was able to fit in your G-Wagon.
While you didn’t officially start until next Monday, you were finally at Briar to pick up your schedule and really take in the new campus without the rush of trying to figure out where your classes were.
It was Friday, and students were still scattered around campus for those who still had classes. You were walking around aimlessly, trying to find a cafe that Garrett recommended that you might like.
Meanwhile, the guys were finishing grabbing lunch on campus after their practice. They headed out of the dining hall together. Garrett was looking down at his phone as he checked your location, knowing you would be at Briar already.
Garrett cocked his head to the side because, according to the phone, you were in his vicinity. “Holy shit, look at her. She’s like an angel,” Dean guffawed as he stopped the guys in their tracks.
“She’s beautiful,” Logan commented.
“Out of your league, dude,” Tucker added on.
Garrett tilted his head back up to see what Dean was going on about. There you were, about 20 feet away. He had half a mind to tell Dean off, but he agreed with him.
You hadn’t noticed the group staring at you. They watched as you pulled your phone out as if you were making a call. You held the phone to your ear while still looking around, but not fully catching the four boys.
Garrett’s phone rang in his hand, the other three’s heads snapped to look at his phone. He accepted the call. “Hey, Petal.”
“Bub, I think I’m lost,” you told him.
“You look so cute, though. Like a lost little duck,” he continued to admire you from afar.
He watched the realization dawn on your face after his words. You scanned your surroundings and finally saw them. Your face lit up at the sight of Garrett. He did just the same when he saw you start to head in his direction. You hung up the call and slid your phone back into your purse. Garrett slid his to his pocket to free up his hands.
The three guys stayed back as Garrett walked to meet you. They watched as your grin spread across your face. It was so bright that it could make anyone melt if they knew it was directed at them.
The sight of you starting to jog towards Garrett in pure joy was something to behold. You met each other halfway and practically crashed into one another. His arms wrapped around your waist automatically. Your arms locked around his neck. Neither of you was particularly interested in letting go.
“You’re actually here,” Garrett mumbled into your hair. His grip tightened even as he pulled back to look at your face. His eyes crinkled at the corners from the way he was smiling in genuine delight. “I’m never letting you go anywhere without me again,” he chuckled as he picked you off your feet and spun you around.
Your laugh was blissful. Students flowed around you both while they pointed out Garrett and the ‘mystery girl’ he was with. But in the moment between you and Garrett, all of them were forgotten, like the rest of the world.
“Gare, let me down!” you yelped, laughing. Garrett missed that laugh. More than he’d realized.
Garrett set you back down, but you stayed in his arms. You reached up to fix a piece of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Without any hesitation. Without any thought. Like you had done it a thousand times before. Garrett didn’t even react. He was fully occupied by admiring you.
Back to the Dean, Logan, and Tucker. The three guys nearly choked when they saw that. “I thought he said they aren’t dating?” Dean pointed to you two. “She fixed his hair.”
“I was not expecting them to run into each other’s arms,” Logan quipped.
“What is happening?” Dean was utterly confused by the scene in front of him.
“I don’t know.” Logan shook his head.
“I’ve never seen him smile that much.”
“Neither have I, Dean.”
“They have to be dating,” Dean declared.
“If they’re not now, I hate to see them when they are,” Tucker cackled, clapping his hands together. “C’mon, let’s introduce ourselves to our new roommate.”
You tore your eyes away from Garrett’s and glanced over to where the guys were. “Your friends?”
Garrett turned back and saw them walking toward you two. He sighed, “Unfortunately.” He watched as Dean cheesed and happily waved to you. “Oh, my God.” Dean was mortifyingly enthusiastic.
You broke an arm away to wave back. “Are they on something?”
“Worse.”
“Perfect.”
You dropped your arms down and attempted to pull away from Garrett to get ready to greet them. Which Garrett’s response was laughable. Instead, he moved to stand behind you and keep his arms around you. The guys caught how Garrett’s stare stayed on the side of your face. The kind of smile plastered on his face was something his friends had never seen before. It was warm. He looked hopelessly gone.
“Let me guess, the one leading the pack is Tucker, Dean is obviously the blond, which leaves Logan, who has that brooding brunette look to him.” You humored him.
“The second they get over here and meet you. They’re never going to leave us alone,” Garrett said, exasperated. You laughed and moved one hand to lightly grip his forearm while you waited for the three to make their way over.
“Can’t believe he waited a week before she transferred to tell us that he knows her,” You heard Dean tell the guys.
“Hey, you guys! Garrett, you remember we exist, right?” Logan greeted,d joking.
Dean was the first one to offer you a hand. You moved your hand from Garrett’s arm and shook Dean’s waiting hand. “Hi, Angel.”
“Angel?” you whispered to Garrett in question as you pulled away from the handshake.
Garrett just scoffed, but luckily Dean was there to explain, “You look like an Angel, unless I can call you Petal?”
“You’re pushing it,” Garrett warned. Dean smirked and raised his hands to motion to back off.
“Okay, but Angel, if things don’t work out with him, let me know. I’ll only be a few doors away.” Dean winked at you playfully, signalling he was really only saying it to mess with Garrett.
Garrett looked about a second away from committing a felony. You felt his arms tighten around you and pull you to press against him. Logan noticed and burst out laughing. You nearly choked. “You’re a fun one, Dean.”
“Call me Six Flags,” Dean nodded at you.
“I hate you,” Garrett told him.
“No, you don’t, Graham.” Dean smiled.
“Don’t mind him,” Tucker pushed Dean out of the way. “I’m Tucker, well, John, but Logan is also John,” Tucker introduced himself. He opened his arms slightly, and you tapped on Garrett’s arms to let you go. You giggled and accepted the hug. “We cleaned the house for you, Ma’am,” he whispered as you guys parted.
“Oh, how very kind of you all,” you told him.
Logan watched with a grin on his face that reflected genuine. Like he’d decided within the past few minutes that you belonged with them. “We’ve heard nothing but your name for the past week, and honestly, I’m just happy you’re here.”
Your expression softened. “That’s really sweet. And seriously, thanks for being so cool about this. I really appreciate you guys.”
“Any time, Angel,” Logan replied. Dean snorted at the use of the name.
“Not you too, Logan.” Garrett rubbed at his temples. He reached an arm out to you, and you naturally wrapped your arms around him. “Do you have everything with you already?”
“Yeah, my car is packed to the brim right now,” you answered. “Are you guys done for the day?”
“We cleared the schedule, so we can help the Missus move in,” Dean claimed.
“Perfect! Would any of you mind if you drove my car to the house?” You reached into your purse to grab your keys and dangled them in front of the guys. Dean nodded and opened the palm of his hand. “Thank you, kind sir,” you teased, dropping the keys into his waiting hand. “I parked it in the lot near admissions! It won’t be hard to miss.”
Dean finger-saluted you. “I’ll see you all at home?”
“Yeah, we’ll meet you back there.” Tucker motioned to himself and Logan before breaking away from the group with Dean.
“See you in a bit,” Garrett responded, waving goodbye to the three.
When Garrett pulled up to the house, it was bigger than you expected, but at the same time, it made complete sense for the four hockey players.
Well.
Four college hockey players, and apparently you know.
Even after Garrett had parked the car, you knew better than to try to just get out yourself. You waited patiently while Garrett rushed over to your side to open the passenger door and offer a hand to you.
With your hand laced with his, you guys made your way to the porch. The front door swung open. Dean stepped outside, twirling your car keys around one finger. “Your car is officially here.”
“My hero,” you pretended to gush. “Thanks, Dean.”
“No problem, Angel.”
Dean tossed the keys in your direction, but Garrett intercepted and caught them. He kept hold of them and pointed them to pop open the trunk. The movement was so familiar that neither of you really reacted. Unfortunately, Dean did, and so did Logan and Tucker, who were right behind him.
Immediately. They exchanged a look. You pretended not to notice. Garrett definitely noticed.
“Alright,” Garrett announced. “Let’s move this circus inside.”
You all turned to look at your car and the full trunk. Silence. You cleared your thoughts. “What?”
Logan pointed to the mountain of boxes. “You know you’re sharing a space with G, right?”
“We’ll make it work.” You shrugged.
Tucker went to pick up one of the boxes, and he immediately regretted it. “What is in this?”
“Just books.”
“All of them?”
You nodded proudly, “I like reading.”
“Nobody likes reading that much,” Dean retorted.
You pulled your hand away from Garrett to snatch the box away from Tucker. “Give me my children.”
Garrett laughed, and the sound made you smile before you could stop yourself. “Come on,” he said, taking the box from your arms before you could protest.
“Hey!”
“No, Petal.”
“I can carry it,” you defended.
“I know.” He said, heading into the house.
Instead of arguing, you sighed, picked up another box, and followed him inside. Dean, Logan, and Tucker were standing still, which, in passing, you told them, “I thought you guys were going to help?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The three all got a box of their own to carry in.
The inside of the house was exactly what you expected. A little chaotic, but you could tell that they made an effort to tidy up the house for your arrival. It was comfortable. The kitchen looked surprisingly clean.
“I’m a mean cook, Angel. Just you wait,” Tucker boasted before going up the stairs to drop off the box in Garrett’s room. Well, now your shared room.
Any nerves that you had about transferring to Briar and moving in with the guys disappeared. This didn’t feel like walking into a house of strangers. It felt like walking into a place you’ve somehow already been a hundred times.
Maybe because Garrett was here, or that his friends welcomed you without hesitation. Everyone kept making room for you without even realizing they were doing it.
By the time the second trip down to the car was made, you were already helping Dean and Logan make fun of Garrett’s habit of neatly folding laundry.
By the third trip, Tucker is asking you what your favorite meal is, so he can try to make it. Then Logan explained the house’s completely unnecessary ranking system for takeout restaurants, and somehow you’re laughing through all of it.
Dean placed the final box onto the floor. “Important question.”
“Which is?” you asked back while looking through a box full of shoes in dust bags.
“You’re completely okay with just moving into his room,” Dean gestured around Garrett’s master bedroom.
“He offered,” you shrugged, “And it’s not like we haven’t shared rooms before. Growing up on summer vacations, our parents always figured that we would sneak into each other’s rooms anyway, so they just started putting us together by the time we were seven.”
“That clarification should’ve come when we first called last week,” Logan said.
“I hate living here.” Garrett rubbed a hand over his face.
“No, you don’t, G,” Tucker mumbled.
By midnight, only a few boxes were left to unpack, and you guys gathered in the living room for some late-night pizza. The kitchen light was off, the room was illuminated by the TV, and six pizza boxes had taken over the coffee table.
Dean was on his fifth slice and in full interrogation mode. “Okay,” he said, pointing at you and Garrett. “We have questions,” he said, pointing to Logan, Tucker, and himself.
“Yup, we all do,” Logan added, leaning back against the couch.
Tucker nodded. “Especially because he’s acted weird for an entire week.”
“I haven’t acted weird,” Garrett tried to pass off. All three of the roommates stared at him.
You laughed into your drink. Garrett looked betrayed.
Dean pointed dramatically, “First question: how long have you two known each other?”
You and Garrett answered at the same time, “Since birth.”
No response.
“Literally?” Logan blinked. “He neglected to mention that he had a childhood best friend.”
“Literally,” you repeated. “Our moms were best friends before we were born.”
“How?” Dean gaped.
“Buddy, I think you all know who our dads are.” You gently parented him.
“And your grandfather?” Logan asked.
“Former head Rangers coach, as you guys know. Only stepped down after my dad retired from hockey,” you told him while reaching for another slice. Before you had to get up from your place next to Garrett, Tucker plopped another slice on your place. “Thanks, Tuck.”
“Who’s older?” Dean went.
You rolled your eyes at the question, knowing what was coming.
“Me,” Garrett claimed proudly.
“By one month,” you scoffed. “You guys would never believe how many times he pulled that out in an argument.”
“I’m older,” Garrett dismissed.
“By thirty-one days.” You deadpanned.
“Still older.”
“You brought it up constantly.”
“Because it’s true.”
Logan looked delighted. “This explains so much.”
“What does it explain?” Garrett questioned.
“Why you two act like a married couple.” Logan’s words had you choking on your drink. Garrett nearly did the same, but he was quick to rub your back in soothing motions. The action really didn’t help your case. Dean howled in laughter after catching it. Logan and Tucker snickered to themselves.
After calming down, Dean moved on to his next question. “How have we never heard of you before?”
The room went a little quieter. Garrett mumbled, “You guys know I don’t really talk about home.”
No one pushed. They all knew that much.
The boys knew Garrett didn’t like interacting with his dad and that his mom had passed away when he was younger. What they didn’t know was that you had been there through it all.
You nudged his knee with yours, and he glanced at you briefly. Just for a moment, but his shoulders loosened a little.
“There was never a reason to bring me up. I was away in New York, and god knows that Columbia kept me busy enough to have any downtime,” you explained. “And you guys were always away when I would visit during the summer.”
“Wait, a damn minute.” Dean paused mid-bite.
“What’d you just say?” Logan was taken aback.
“What do you mean by that?” Tucker probed.
Garrett shook his head and poked you in the side. “They didn’t know that, Petal.”
“Well, now they do.” You finished the last bit of your slice and put your plate on the coffee table. You leaned back against the couch and tucked your feet under you. Garrett lifted his arm, and you scooted closer to his side.
His arm came behind your waist, and his hand landed on your hip. He tugged you to be snug against his side.
“Now, a serious question,” Dean remarked, even though he felt like he was interrupting something.
“Dangerous start.” Your laugh was airy, with tiredness starting to dawn on you.
“Who said ‘I love you’ first?”
“Straight for the kill,” Logan snorted.
“Oh god,” Tucker mumbled into his drink.
“So help me, god.” You heard Garrett mutter under his breath. You turned your head to look at Garrett and found him already facing you. “We’re not answering that,” Garrett scoffed.
“There was a first time!” Dean gasped.
“Everyone has a first time,” Garrett attempted to brush him off, but he replied too quickly to seem casual.
“That is not helping your case, G.” Logan chuckled.
Dean sat back, feeling victorious. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” you asked.
“That whatever this is–” Dean gestured between you and Garrett, “–has been happening for years.”
Garrett groaned.
Tucker nodded thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m just glad you finally showed up. He’s been unbearable this week.”
“I have not.”
You laughed again, and before you could think about stopping yourself, you leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was, and Garrett didn’t even hesitate before leaning back.
Dean, Logan, and Tucker exchanged identical looks like before. None of them said a word. They didn’t need to. The answer to every question was sitting right there on the couch for them to see.
The next morning, you woke up to Dean banging against the bedroom door. The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds. You turned slightly and felt your cheek brushing against Garrett’s bare skin. The bed was a sight of tangled limbs and Garrett’s head tucked into the crook of your neck.
The persistent knocking caused him to shift in his sleep, an arm instinctively tightening around you.
“Gare, I cannot breathe.” You attempted to pull yourself away from his grasp.
“Baby, it’s too early,” Garrett murmured in your ear, not aware of the knocking yet.
“Guys, wake up, we want to go to breakfast!” Dean yelled from the other side of the door.
“Dean, just come in,” you permitted him.
The door creaked softly, and Dean entered the room with a hand covering his eyes. “Angel, are you guys decent?”
“You wish I wasn’t.” You chucked a pillow at him, which he annoyingly caught.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Garrett grumbled, realizing Dean was in the room.
“The guys and I want to get breakfast at Malone’s, and Angel hasn’t been yet, so it’s perfect.” Dean begun. “We’re leaving in 30 minutes.”
“That sounds great. We’ll be ready,” you told him.
“Okay, okay, now get out,” Garrett shooed Dean away.
“Angel, you see what we’ve had to deal with?”
“Try dealing with him for your entire life,” you countered.
“You’re a strong woman.”
“The best. Now, seriously, man, out.” Garrett pointed an arm to the door.
“Fine, but you guys better be downstairs soon!” Dean said as he shuffled out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
“Finally,” Garrett mumbled, tucking his head back into your neck.
“Bub, we have to get up.” You ran a hand through his hair. You felt him smile against your skin. “Come on, let me up,” your hand continuing to play with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Baby, I haven’t woken up with you in my arms for months. You’re breaking my heart here.” Garrett expressed, trying to be serious, but the whisper of a smile played at the edges of his lips.
“You are being dramatic.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Fortunate for me.” He pressed a kiss against your forehead and finally loosened his grasp around you.
You rose from the bed and stretched. You looked out the window. “This is nice.”
“Yeah,” Garrett replied. You turned back to face him.
You found him already staring at you.
The drive to Malone’s was chatterful. Your car was chosen, but the designated driver was Garrett. You were seated in the passenger seat, holding Garrett’s hand in your lap. The backseat arrangement was laughable. Dean, Tucker, and Logan, in that order, were squeezed into your back seats, which you always felt like were spacious when driving with your friends. But with three hockey players in place, they were like a tin of sardines.
When Garrett finally parked, Logan was the first out of the car and almost tripped over his own legs, with Tucker trying to push him to get out faster.
Logan beat Garrett to opening your door. “Angel,” he said, a smirk pinching at his cheeks while he offered his hand to you.
“You’re doing this on purpose.” You stifled a laugh as you peeked at Garrett, who was five steps short of your door.
“Let me have this one?” Logan whispered. You took his hand and got out of the car. Rather than letting go of your hand, he wrapped your arms together and guided you to the entrance of Malone’s. “You are going to love this place, Angel.”
“Petal.”
You heard him say from behind you, turning back to look at him. “Yes, Gare?”
Garrett Graham would never admit to pouting, but lo and behold, a sliver of a pout was edging his lips. “You’re just leaving me behind?” he gaped. Instead of responding, you let Logan lead you guys in.
“Snubbed by your own girl, that’s got to be tough.” Dean clapped a hand on Garrett’s shoulder.
“G, stop moping and let’s go. I’m hungry, man,” Tucker told him, heading in after you and Logan.
Inside, you and Logan were waiting by a booth. Logan slid into one side, and you to the other. Tucker sat next to Logan. Dean dragged over a spare chair, spun it around backwards, and sat at the end of the booth. Garrett stopped at the edge of the booth. “Oh, now you want to be next to me?”
Ignoring his dramatics, you looked up from the menu. “What do you guys usually get?”
Garrett sighed pitifully. He slid next to you and snaked his arm around your waist to pull you closer to him. You automatically put the menu in front of both of you. “You’ll like the berry waffles.”
“Sounds yummy.” You leaned your head against his shoulder.
“You’d think they didn’t wake up next to each other,” Dean teased. “Garrett, get a grip, dude.”
Even with the teasing, Logan, Tucker, and Dean enjoyed seeing Garrett like this. A kind of softness that he never really displayed to people besides you. The tenderness as he whispered to you as if no one else existed. The way the menu was shared, and Garrett was pointing out all the things he thought you would like to try at some point.
A waitress came by with coffee. Without asking, Garrett reached over and slid a mug in front of him before adding two sugar packets. Then a splash of cream. He stirred it once before pushing it toward you. “There.”
“Thanks, baby.” You took a sip. “Perfect.” You pressed a kiss against his jaw.
“You didn’t even watch him make it,” Logan commented.
“I don’t have to?” Your eyebrows pulled together, showing your slight confusion.
“You just trusted whatever he put in it?”
“He’s made my coffee since I first started drinking coffee.”
Logan blinked. “They’ve killed me.”
“God, I forgot that you guys have been married for years,” Dean joked.
Tucker ignored the rest of the group and got to ordering. The rest of you followed suit.
Around the diner, people had definitely started noticing. Mostly because four starting hockey players were difficult to ignore, especially when one of those players is the captain, Garrett Graham. What really stuck out was you, the unfamiliar girl who leaned into his side as if you belonged there.
Whispers bounced between tables.
“Who is she?”
“Is that the new transfer girl people have been talking about?”
“How does she have Graham bringing her with the guys?”
“I thought he said he doesn’t do girlfriends.”
Two girls near the counter glanced over one too many times. One leaned toward the other. “I’ve literally never seen him with a girl before.”
“Maybe she’s his sister.”
You happened to laugh at something Garrett said, but the smile that was plastered across his face said it all.
One of the girls frowned. “Definitely not his sister.”
Dean noticed before anyone else. Without turning around, he spoke just loudly enough for it to reach anyone sitting at the counter. “Man.” The others looked at him. “It’s amazing how people forget that minding their own business is free.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Tucker said bluntly. The whispering behind him immediately quieted.
Logan casually leaned back in the booth. “It’s almost like we have our own lives.”
There was a softness that came over your features. It radiated such appreciative affection for such new, devoted friends. The guys defended you as if you were their own, without a second thought or hesitation.
Dean caught your eye and winked at you. “We’ve got your back, Angel.”
“Always,” Logan added.
“You’ve got us for life, Angel,” Tucker finished.
“You guys are going to make me cry.” You teared up a bit, and your face flushed with heat at the gesture. Garrett rubbed at your side soothingly. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Angel, we’re practically family already,” Logan reasoned, sending you a sweet smile.
“I am going to be the best uncle ever,” Tucker claimed, nodding his head.
“But I get to be the Godfather,” Dean asserted in full seriousness, but the act dropped quickly with a grin spreading across his face.
“We’ll play rock, paper, scissors for it.” Logan contended, waving a hand at Dean.
Garrett snorted, shifting the attention to him. “Unlikely,” he scoffed jokingly under his breath, but it wasn’t quiet enough for the guys not to catch it, and especially not for you.
You pressed a hand against the one he had on your side. Your thumb rubbed circles against his knuckles.
“Listen, buddy, we never said you had to be the dad,” Logan tutted at Garrett.
You felt Garrett stiff beside you. “That’s not even funny, man.”
“Oh, this is gold.” Tucker snickered at Garrett’s obvious displeasure at the mere idea of you creating a life with someone else.
“I’m fine.” You all caught on to Garrett’s voice and how defensive he sounded.
Dean wasn’t ready to end Garrett’s suffering just yet. “You want blond babies, Angel?” He wiggled his eyebrows at you. “They’d be beautiful.”
Your whole body shook with laughter at Dean’s insinuation. You didn’t see Garrett’s face, but the guys did. The way his brow wrinkled into a deep frown. His right eye twitched while he was glaring down at Dean. “Godfather, typically means you’d have to be alive for the role.”
Dean paled slightly. Instead of replying, he took a long sip from his water, gulping awkwardly.
Tucker had put his hand to muzzle his laugh that was threatening to spill out.
Logan was suddenly very interested in a ketchup bottle. “These ingredients are so funny.”
The waitress came up to the table with breakfast, unaware of the scene she was walking into. “Hope you all enjoy,” she said, setting plates in front of each of you. She refilled your waters before finally walking away from the booth.
Garrett’s frown dropped just like that. Before you could reach for the syrup, Garrett poured it perfectly on your waffles. You grabbed a piece of bacon off his plate. You took a bite of about half of it before you offered it up to Garrett’s mouth. He ate the rest without questioning.
Neither of you looked exactly at each other, but the way you moved with ease and avoided bumping into one another said it all.
Neither of you broke the conversation either. Garrett asked if you liked the waffles. You nodded sweetly, taking another bite. He hummed, satisfied in response. It happened so naturally that it was obvious that neither of you even processed how you guys were.
Across the table, Logan stared.
Then at Tucker.
Then at Dean.
“I think we’ve been upgraded from roommates,” Logan muttered to the two.
“We’re just watching these two domesticate each other in real time.” Tucker looked a bit in awe at how evidently you both were in tune with one another.
Dean nodded solemnly, “I think we’re witnessing a thirty-year marriage before the first date.” He took another bite of the pancakes. “They’re hopeless.”
You and Garrett looked over. “What?” you both asked at the same time.
The three roommates burst into laughter. You and Garrett looked at each other, and despite having no idea what was so funny. You both started laughing, too.
Della, from behind the counter, watched the way the five of you fit together. She had never seen the boys the way they are right at this moment. She immediately decided that you were a missing piece in a very chaotic puzzle of hockey players. You belonged at that table.
Breakfast lingered long after the plates had been cleared.
The conversation drifted from hockey to classes, then somehow to the time that Dean accidentally set the kitchen toaster on fire. “It was defective,” Dean insisted.
“It exploded because you put a Pop-Tart in sideways,” Tucker replied.
“That’s a design flaw.”
“More like user error.”
You laughed at the pair, shaking your head. You tapped against Garrett’s thigh. “I’ll be right back.”
“Bathroom?” Garrett slid out of the booth to let you out.
“Mhm.” He helped you out like a gentleman and kissed your hand before you walked away from the table.
You did head toward the hallway for exactly seven steps. Then you quietly veered toward the register, looking over your shoulder, and the guys were busy talking about the next home game coming up in a week.
The waitress looked up with a smile. “Everything okay, honey?”
“Perfect, actually.” You pulled out your card that you had sneaked into your pocket before you left earlier. “I’d like to pay for our table.”
She glanced toward the booth. “The hockey boys?”
“Yeah.” You smiled.
“They’re usually fighting over who pays.”
“I figured.”
“You sure? Honey, I’m positive that none of those boys would want you to pay.”
You looked over your shoulder again. The four of them were full of laughter. Logan was dramatically reenacting whatever play he was retelling. Tucker looked like he regretted encouraging him. Dean was adding in parts that Logan was leaving out. And Garrett. He was watching the conversation with that quiet little smile he’d worn almost all morning.
It tugged at something in your chest. “They’ve been really good to me.”
The waitress followed your gaze. “You’ve known them for a long time?” She wondered.
“Just the one I was sitting next to.”
She rang up the bill. You tipped her generously when signing off the receipt. When she handed your copy, you tucked it into your pocket along with your card before anyone could notice.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, sweetie.”
When you returned, Dean looked up. “That was fast.”
“I think we’re ready to finish up here,” Tucker said.
“I physically cannot move.” Dean leaned back and rubbed his stomach.
“You had seven pancakes,” Logan reminded him.
“I regret nothing.”
Garrett politely signalled for the waitress’s attention. She placed the check holder at the edge of the table. “Huh,” Garrett muttered when he reached for it.
“What?” Logan asked.
“It’s empty.”
Dean frowned. “What do you mean it’s empty?”
“The bill.”
“You guys already paid?” Tucker questioned.
Garrett looked at the others. “I didn’t.”
“I was waiting for him,” Dean said, pointing to Garrett.
“So was I,” Tucker admitted.
The waitress walked by carrying another tray to pick up the empty plates off the table. “You boys are all set.”
Four heads turned. You busied yourself with applying some lip balm. “What?”
Logan shook his head.
“It was taken care of already.” The booth fell completely silent.
Four pairs of eyes turned toward you.
“Petal,” Garrett said.
“No.” You stopped.
“You paid?” He scoffed.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You absolutely paid,” Logan retorted.
“You didn’t have to do that, Angel,” Dean said.
“I didn’t do anything,” you shrugged.
“Bullshit,” Garrett muttered.
“Breakfast seemed like a pretty cheap way to say thank you for letting me into your lives so easily.”
The table was quiet for another moment. Then Dean stood up. “Oh.”
“What?” You glanced at him. Tucker and Logan slid out of the booth to stand as well. Garrett did the same. Your eyes flickered to each of them. They all shared a look and nodded. In a blink, you were bombarded by the four. They hugged, keeping you in the middle. “Guys, I can’t breathe.”
“Too late,” Logan mumbled.
“Petal, we don’t need that.”
You were holding up two different colored fluffy throw blankets. “Do you like the dark blue better or the gray?” ignoring Garrett’s statement.
“You’re not going to use it, and it’ll end up on the floor.”
“I can use it in the living room.” You brushed him off.
“Okay, fine, just get both. One for the living room and the other for the bed.” Garrett gave in.
You hummed to yourself triumphantly. “You see, that wasn’t so hard.” You brushed a faint kiss against the left side of his jawline before you put the blankets in the cart.
A husband who was in the same aisle with his wife had watched the short interaction between you and Garrett. He had a fond expression written across his face. “Son, happy wife, happy life.” He simply said before following his wife out of the aisle.
“Are you planning a proposal I don’t know about yet?” You teased Garrett, grinning at him. Your faces were inches apart.
Garrett brought a hand to your face with his thumb gently stroking your cheek. His face carried a relaxed smile. His gaze was locked into your eyes. “Not yet. But eventually.”
You wished his words would surprise you, but in reality, it was more of a confirmation than anything else. “I think we’re skipping a few steps.” You placed a hand on his chest, and you could feel the beating of his heart.
“Like there would be anyone for me other than you,” Garrett murmured.
You could tell he was holding himself back. The way he brought himself closer to you and tilted his face to yours. His pupils dilated, and you could feel his heartbeat start to quicken. “You know, for a second there, I thought you were finally going to do it.”
“If I kissed you, I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”
“Who said you had to?”
His lips brushed against yours. It felt like he was trying to test the waters. Your hand slid from his chest to his jaw. The hand on your cheek pulled you in even closer, if that was possible. His lips smiled against yours.
The gap finally closed. The way his lips parted against your own so gently. The kiss was chaste since you both were standing in a store. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He said, pulling away to look back into your dazed eyes.
You pecked his lips again. “We never stood a chance.”
“Against what?”
“Us.”
“It’s you and me forever, Petal.”
The next week breezed past you before you knew it. The transition to classes was easier than you were expecting. Another thing you thought was going to be difficult was you and Garrett, but really, other than stolen kisses in hidden hallways or late nights in the kitchen. The pair of you hardly had to change anything.
Sure, Garrett was even more affectionate than usual, but it wasn’t overly done where the guys caught on to you two. It kind of felt fun keeping it between you and Garrett. Not that either of you meant to keep a secret. It just hadn’t come up, and anyone who had been around lately either assumed you were already dating or, like the guys, just got used to the fact that you and Garrett were suspiciously close.
Plenty of people on campus just thought that the new transfer student finally locked down the infamous Garrett Graham. Not many knew or cared to find out that you guys knew each other prior. No one found that you had moved in either, not that it was any of their business.
As much as you tried not to let it get to you, the puck bunnies were hard to ignore. Especially with the Briar Hawks having a home game soon, everyone was buzzing around you. From the guys’ endless practices and workout sessions to students’ nonstop chatter about the game and after-parties.
Garrett was quick to assure you that the minute he found out that you were coming to Briar. He hadn’t even thought about another girl since. Not that mattered anyway. It wasn’t like you were a saint in New York. You had your fair share of dates that Garrett, over the years, pretended didn’t bother him when you would call him excitedly to prepare for one.
You could hold your own, but that didn’t stop the irk you would get overhearing the bunnies talk about “whatever” you and Garrett had would never last long before he got bored.
You didn’t doubt your new relationship with Garrett. Even your mothers were rooting for you two to end up together, the second they found out about each other’s pregnancies. Garrett was yours just as much as you were his. It’s been like that since the two of you could walk.
“Baby, I’ll see you and the family later at the game, I got to run to meet with coach. I love you.” was the last thing you heard from Garrett at seven in the morning before he hurriedly pressed a kiss against your forehead before heading out the room. You weren’t even fully coherent enough to reply. Just hummed happily before dozing back off.
You decided that around nine it was time to get up for the day. You had the house empty to yourself. The first time since you moved in. Even with everyone’s hectic schedules, there was usually at least one or two other people home. Not that you minded the company, it let you know the guys better and their habits, which some were admittedly messier than others.
Your feet padded down against the staircase. You found yourself looking for something in the fridge to make for lunch. With the game being later into the night, you had plenty of time to get ready for it. Right now, you chose to make lunch for the guys. You had bought a huge slab of salmon the other day and decided that it was the perfect thing to pair with some rice and steamed vegetables for the guys. Just like your dad’s game day lunch.
Music blasted in the house while you cooked. You set out individual meal prep containers that you hadn’t had the chance to use since you bought them. You portioned out a slice of salmon, rice mixed with quinoa, along with steamed broccoli and cauliflower to each container. It was close to noon, and you knew by the time you got to the arena, it would be perfect timing for lunch.
You hadn’t told anyone that you were planning to stop by to drop off the food. The players were still on the ice when you entered the arena. You stopped to sit down a few rows behind the players’ bench while you waited for them to finish their drills. No one had noticed you yet, except for Coach Jensen.
His brows drew together as he tried to figure out if he recognized you. At first, he assumed you were a bunny trying to sneak into watching practice, but his eyes landed on what seemed to be a thermal food bag.
“Definitely a girlfriend.” He thought to himself.
He saw how you watched the boys with trained eyes. It was as if he could see you mentally noting what some of them could work on. That piqued his interest. “Okay. Let’s head to lunch!” He called out to the players on the ice. “I thought I said no girlfriends during practice.” He threw in right after, causing you to snap your head in his direction and see him already looking back at you.
“I’m just dropping off lunch!” You sheepishly called out. You made your way down, and Garrett was quick on the ice to make it over to you. “Hey, bub.” You smiled, watching him take off his helmet.
“That’s the missus, coach!” Logan hollered from across the ice.
“Angel!” Dean’s voice boomed with the sound of his skates coming to a stop near you and Garrett.
Tucker was the only one out of the four to catch what you told Coach Jensen. “I heard lunch?”
“I hope that’s for us too and not just, G!” Logan called out, making his way over.
“Missus?” Coach Jensen questioned to himself more than anyone in particular.
“Is that the transfer from New York?”
“I want lunch, too.”
“She’s the one G was with when we saw him at Malone’s the other day.”
“I didn’t know bunnies made lunches.”
That was the chatter that was amongst some of the other players.
Garrett tuned them out and honed his attention to just focus on you. “You didn’t have to bring lunch for me, Petal.”
“Great! Because I didn’t make it just for you.” Your voice was loud enough for Logan to hear, resulting in him whooping out a cheer. You brought the bag to your front and shook it ever so slightly at the four. “If your coach is okay with me bringing food to feed some of his players…” You trailed off, glancing back at Coach Jensen, who simply was amused by this whole interaction. Never in his life had he seen his star player/captain turn so soft in a matter of seconds, or give any girl the time of day on a game day.
“Whatcha got to feed these hooligans?” He walked over. You opened the bag for him to take a peek in. He could see the stack of meals you prepared for the guys. His eyes spotted how you made sure to take into account protein and grains along with the vegetables. “Not too bad.”
“Approved?” you said hopefully.
“Just make sure they get back to me after lunch is over.” He winked at you in approval before making his way to the locker room.
“Give us a bit, Petal. We’re going to take off the gear, and we’ll come back out. Make yourself comfy on the bench.” Garrett pressed a kiss against your cheek before skating off the ice.
The other three saluted you as they passed by, following Garrett to the locker room. It didn’t take them long to find their way back to you. By the time they returned. They noticed the four containers neatly laid out with a fork sitting on top of each lid, with a napkin placed underneath it.
Dean whistled out, “Angel, you’re my favorite.” He started to pass around a container, so each one of them had one.
Tucker had been the first to open it and see what you made. “Smells delicious, Angel. Is that rice mixed with quinoa? Oh, you’re good.” He complimented, blowing you a kiss.
“Our savior,” Logan greeted you with a side hug and a kiss against the top of your head. Before grabbing a container of his own and taking a seat. “Oh, TIGS.”
“Dude, what does that even mean?” Dean questioned him. “This is good shit?”
“No. This is god sent.”
“Thanks, baby,” Garrett murmured to you in appreciation. He had found his place at your side. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yeah, it’s dad’s game day lunch.” You two were sat pressed next to one another. Your eyes scanned over to the other guys. A satisfied smile wreathed your lips.
Dean closed his eyes, letting out a blissful sigh as he swallowed. “G, you’re evil for not introducing us to Angel sooner.”
Tucker paused to chew, pointing his fork at the salmon. “This is delectable. Thank you, Angel.”
Logan mumbled, his mouth still half-full. “Angel, where were you the past three years on game days? This is so good.”
Garrett just laughed at the three’s antics. “And this is why you didn’t meet them until now.”
“We heard that,” Dean called out.
“How are you guys feeling about tonight?” you asked them, shifting the conversation.
“We got to make sure we win your first Briar hockey game,” Logan affirmed.
“Not her first Briar game,” Garrett corrected before taking another bite of the food. The remark made the other three pause mid-bite/chew.
“She’s been to one before?” Logan raised a brow at him
“Angel, we could’ve known each other much sooner!” Dean yelped dramatically.
“Not the first hockey game, but my first official home game,” you explained.
“When did you see one?” Tucker asked you.
“I’ve been to a few,” you admitted. “My first one was Garrett’s first game playing because how could I ever miss that? Then I’ve been to a couple away games you guys had when it was close to New York. Most recently before the transfer, I went to Garrett’s first game as captain.”
“Hold on a minute,” Dean said. “You’ve been to all these games, and we never knew?”
“Never needed to bring it up,” Garrett shrugged.
“Wait, is that you got so weird at some of the away games? I always thought you were nervous or some shit,” Logan said in an epiphany. He snapped at Garrett’s direction, “I knew it was weird when you didn’t come out with us after.”
“Like that Clovers game! I just figured you were meeting up with a bunny–” Dean was cut off.
“No, I took Petal to dinner after the game.”
“Oh, that was the nice Italian place!” You recalled it in your memory.
“We don’t get taken to dinners after games,” Logan scoffed playfully.
“We’ll take you to dinner tonight, Angel,” Dean offered with a grin.
“Even better, I’ll cook you dinner, Angel.” Tucker winked.
“Sorry, boys. Not tonight. Gare’s got the family coming in to see this game. I’m sure Gramps will want dinner together tonight.”
“Your family is coming tonight? Like actually? I thought that was just like a joke your dad was making.” Logan gaped. “And your grandfather wants dinner?”
“Not with you shitheads,” Garrett snickered.
You smacked his arm lightly. “Be nice. They can come if they want to.”
“Family dinner with hockey royalty,” Dean said, a bit starstruck.
“G, how are you not shitting in your pants?” Tucker said, baffled.
“Her dad is okay with her living with us, right?” Logan brought up.
“More importantly, he knows that you guys are sharing a bed?” Dean added.
Garrett put down the now empty container. “Guys.”
“Yes, my dad is perfectly fine with my living situation. He knows that we’re together, and he trusts Garrett. Well, I think the entire family has had a bet going on since we were conceived.”
“Ma, definitely had one with Mom. You remember when we went to Vancouver for vacation?”
“That was what? When we were ten?”
“Yeah, Ma slid over twenty bucks to Mom during dinner when I was cutting your steak–”
“YOU GUYS ARE TOGETHER?” Dean yelled out the second it clicked in his head.
“Honestly, quicker than I expected,” Tucker claimed.
“Let’s not kid ourselves. They were always together.” Logan retorted.
You tore your eyes from Garrett’s and looked back at the guys. You felt heat flush your face, realizing what you casually said. “Yeah, we’re together.” You couldn’t help the smile that threatened to lift the edges of your mouth.
“Since when?” Tucker questioned.
“The day we brought back the blue blanket from the couch.”
“Oh, I love that blanket,” Logan noted.
“I know, it’s so soft!” You happily clapped your hands together.
“It’s really warm, too,” Logan added.
“You didn’t tell us sooner?” Dean wondered.
Garrett kept his eyes on you. How you animatedly expressed your love of the blanket. The way your eyes lit up when you talked. “Honestly, just slipped my mind. I mean, it’s just so natural being with her.”
“You talking about little old me?” You playfully fluttered your eyelashes at him. “I love being with you, too, love.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, pulling away with a gentle smile.
By the time warm-ups began, the arena was already loud. Student sections were filling with painted faces and homemade signs. Lots of 44 were seen around the arena. The pep band was halfway through the fight song.
Garrett tapped his stick against the boards before skating another lap, absently scanning the stands. He always looked. Even when there wasn’t anyone to find.
But tonight was different. Halfway up behind the home bench sat you, your parents, and grandparents. Your dad had a custom Garrett 44 hat, with your mom sporting 44 on her cheek. You spotted him almost immediately and stood, waving both hands over your head.
Garrett couldn’t help but smile. You were wearing his jersey. His actual jersey. Not one you’d buy from a gift shop. One he’d given you the second you started talking about wanting to plan your outfit.
You gestured to your parents excitedly. Garrett came to a stop, and he scanned the seats next to you. His pause was noticed by Logan. He lifted his stick toward the stands.
“What a night,” Logan looked over in its direction.
Dean nearly skated into Logan. “Man, what are you looking at?” Then he saw them too.
Tucker answered before anyone else. “That’s the family.” His eyes looked over two seats next to you, and rest assured, your grandfather sat there with the quiet confidence of someone who’d once stood behind an NHL bench for nearly twenty seasons.
Dean examined your grandfather. He looked older now compared to clips from his coaching days. The former head coach of the New York Rangers. A living legend. Not to mention your father, who sat next to you. Dean looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. “They came for him.”
Your grandfather looked down toward the ice. He spotted Garrett and raised one hand. Garrett’s smile widened even more. He lifted his glove and waved back. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Logan stared.
You laughed from the stands and leaned over to say something to your dad. He smiled, then cupped his hand around his mouth. “ATTABOY, SON!” The words echoed faintly across the ice. Garrett let out a laugh, then tapped his stick twice against the glass in front of them.
The announcer interrupted, “Ladies and gentlemen.” Warm-ups were over.
The game was fast and physical. Two teams were fighting to lead the conference. By the end of the first period, it was tied one to one.
Logan threw a huge hit that brought the crowd to its feet. Dean blocked a shot that probably should’ve gone in. Garrett had two chances and saved both. Every time he returned to the bench, his eyes drifted toward your section.
To the same five people who always cheered him on and like how they always would.
Late in the third period, it was still a tie game with only three minutes left. The arena buzzed with nervous energy. Coach Jensen leaned over the boards. “One more shift.”
Garrett nodded, and the puck dropped. Tucker won it clean, and it was back to Dean, then across Logan, who’d carried through center before slipping it wide. Garrett caught it in a stride. There was one defender. Garrett cut inside and the defender bit. Open lane. For the smallest fraction of a second, everything went quiet. He had snapped the puck.
Top corner. Bar down. Ping. The sound rang through the arena. The red light exploded with the building erupting. Goal.
Students leapt to their feet, and the bench emptied over the boards. Logan tackled Garrett first. Dean nearly knocked both of them over. Tucker arrived a heartbeat later. The arena shook with applause. You were already screaming with both hands over your mouth and tears filling your eyes.
Your dad was on his feet, clapping so hard that his palms had turned visibly red. Your grandfather stood beside him, grinning with unmistakable pride. The television camera caught them easily. “Hockey royalty celebrating that goal,” one commentator laughed. “Looks like they approve.”
The final horn sounded moments later. Briar Hawks won.
When Garrett stepped off the ice, an arena attendant waved him over. “They’re waiting.” He didn’t need to ask who. The family entrance hallway smelled faintly of popcorn and fresh ice.
The moment that Garret rounded the corner, “There he is!” you ran to him. He caught you before you even reached full speed, lifting you clean off the floor as you wrapped yourself around him. “I almost lost my voice!”
He laughed into your hair. “I heard.”
You pulled back just enough to kiss him. Like it belonged there with such ease. When you stepped aside, your dad opened his arms. “Come over here, son.” Garrett didn’t hesitate and hugged him tightly.
“Good game, Pop.”
“You kidding?” Your dad squeezed his shoulder. “That release would’ve beaten me.”
“You don’t have to say that,” Garrett attempted to be modest.
“I know,” your dad brushed Garrett’s hair back from his face. “But I mean it.”
Next came your mom. She cupped his face in both hands before pulling him into a hug. “You look exhausted.”
“I feel exhausted,” Garrett admitted.
“You eating enough?” Your mom tapped his cheek.
“Ma.”
“I asked a question.” She persisted.
“Yes, Ma.” Your grandfather stood, waiting with his hand tucked into his coat pocket. Garrett stopped in front of him. “Hey, Gramps.”
The older man looked over him for a long second and nodded, “I’m proud of you.”
Garrett swallowed hard, “Thanks.”
“You earned that one.” The former coach clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Now stop standing around me and go stand next to Petal.” You immediately slid back to Garrett’s side. Your grandfather pointed between you two, “Took you long enough.”
Your mom laughed. “I was beginning to think I should’ve agreed to a betrothal that your mom and I talked about once.”
Your dad shrugged, “I would have given them another year.”
Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. “It was obvious?” Every member of the family stared at him. He sighed, “Never mind?”
“Hey!” Another familiar voice echoed down the hallway. Dean, Logan, and Tucker rounded the corner, still carrying pieces of their gear. They stopped the second they saw your family. Every single one of the three stood a little straighter.
Dean whispered, “Oh my God.”
Logan elbowed him, “Be normal.”
“I’m trying,” Dean told him.
Tucker quietly failed to hide his awe.
You laughed, “You guys! Come over here!” You motioned them over. “This is Dean, Logan, and Tucker,” you introduced them to your family. The three hockey players suddenly looked like nervous freshmen again.
Your father smiled first and shook each of their hands, “Good game, boys.”
Dean looked as though he might frame the handshake. “Sir, I watched your highlights growing up.”
Your father laughed. “Now I feel old.”
“You are old,” Your grandfather commented.
“I walked right into that one,” Your dad admitted.
The former head Rangers coach shook hands with each of them too. “I like watching your line.” The three roommates collectively forgot how words worked.
“Thank you, sir,” Logan managed.
“That means a lot,” Tucker remarked.
Your grandfather smiled, “You boys play the game the right way.”
Dean quietly leaned toward Garrett and you, “I’m never washing this hand.”
Garrett snorted, and you laughed, leaning into his side, “I figured.”
Your mom looked around the group. “So, who’s hungry?” Every hand went up, and she laughed, “Perfect, go get changed and let’s head out.”
The players immediately obeyed. Garrett kissed the side of your head. “I’ll be back out.”
As the guys started walking together, Dean drifted beside Garrett. “So…”
“What?” Garrett glanced over at him.
“They really are your family.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He looked back to the group waiting for them. At the people that had supported him through everything. Then looked back at the guys, the friends who had become brothers. Then back to you, watching as you shooed him to hurry along.
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.
Aim, Set, Match: a Maxwell Masterclass in Finding You
seresin!reader x beau maxwell beau maxwell, star quarterback and golden boy concusses woman with football, sending her to the hospital. maybe his aim isn't so perfect after all. or maybe it's exactly what it needed to be.
warnings! heavy foreshadowing, references to God/religious language, hospital & medical imagery, inaccurate concussion protocols & non-medical language around treatment, mentions of blood, serious injuries, car accident, trauma recovery, emotional breakdowns, character frustration/snapping (non-abusive), chronic pain & rehabilitation, brief mentions of mobility loss/fear of paralysis, so much fucking angst with just the right sprinkle of fluff
off campus minilist & main masterlist!
Majoring in aerospace engineering should make it easier to contemplate the trajectory of a ball's arc, moving rapidly towards you, but clearly it takes more than being a genius to remember you actually have to move out of the way of an incoming projectile to avoid being hit. So you end up, much to your brother's distaste, knocked out cold with a hefty concussion. Maybe listing Jake as your emergency contact wasn't your smartest play.
Jake Seresin was happily relaxing tormenting Bradley at the annual Dagger Squad barbeque, sunglasses on (barely), beer in hand, sunburn forming, when his phone rang. The second he heard your name and "hospital" in the same sentence, the barbeque was abandoned, Maverick had called in a favour, and the Dagger Squad were airborne in under thirty.
Airborne in what you may ask. In a helicopter. Headed straight to Hastings, Massachusetts. Straight to you.
May God be on your side Beau Maxwell. Jake Seresin certainly isn't.
...
After several threats on Jake's behalf to fly faster, including the claim that his grandmother could fly faster than this (she was dead), they reached the hospital in record time. The helicopter touched down on the helipad with some truly questionable legality, but Maverick waved away every concern like he'd been waiting his whole life to break this particular rule (he probably had).
Inside, Beau Maxwell and Dean Di Laurentis were sitting rigidly by your bedside. Dean had a hand on Beau's back, cracking jokes in a desperate attempt to keep him from spiralling. It wasn't working. Beau, utterly wrecked, sat with his head in his hands like he was praying for some kind of miracle.
He didn't get it.
Because the doors burst open and the Dagger Squad marched in like a military tribunal. The formation was so tight it would've been funny if Bradley's Hawaiian shirt weren't the only thing preventing Jake Seresin from committing a felony.
Bradley had both arms around Jake's torso, digging his heels into the floor as Jake lunged forward, shouting, "Who hurt my baby sister?!"
Beau's head snapped up. God had finally come to take him out. Honestly, he probably deserved it for concussing a beautiful girl.
Dean whispered, "Oh, shit."
And somewhere down the hall, a nurse considered calling security, until she saw Maverick and decided she didn't get paid enough for this. Neither did he.
...
"You."
Jake immediately set his sights on the two men sitting at your bedside, pointing an accusatory finger at the blonde, instantly deciding he didn't like him. He seemed far too cocky for his own good, sitting there cracking jokes while Beau looked like he was about to pass out.
"Me?"
Dean stood up, suddenly taller than Jake, and somewhere behind them, Fanboy whispered, "Oh my God, they're the same person."
Jake's jaw tightened and Dean's eyebrows lifted, almost challenging the senior citizen to a fight. Then Beau lifted his head from his hands, voice cracking as he said, "It was me."
Jake turned so fast Bradley had to tighten his grip.
Dean exhaled in relief. "Thank God." Then winced. "Sorry, bro."
Jake zeroed in on Beau like a missile lock. Beau froze as Dean took one strategic step back. Bradley adjusted his hold. "Hangman, Jake, you're scaring the civilians."
"I am a civilian," Dean muttered.
Jake snapped, "Good."
And that's when you groaned.
A soft, miserable sound, but to Jake, it was the key to transformation. The once terrifying blonde whipped around, abandoning all thoughts of committing heinous crimes in favour of hovering over you like a panicked mother hen.
"Sweetheart? Hey, hey, you're okay, I'm here—"
You blinked up at him, squinting, instantly deciphering the situation. "Old man, stand down."
Bradley choked, Phoenix covered her mouth, and Maverick looked delighted.
Jake sputtered. "Old—? I'm thirty-two!"
You looked past him, frowning at the Dagger Squad and the two ununiformed men, specifically Dean who had not inactivated his hockey fighting stance. "Why are you about to fight these senior citizens?"
Fanboy whispered, "We're thirty."
"Senior citizens," you repeated, pointing vaguely at all of them.
Dean snickered. He's going to get along with you.
Jake looked personally victimised. But Beau... Beau was staring at you like you'd hung the moon. You turned your head, eyes finally landing on him. "You're the one who concussed me, right?"
He swallowed. Hard. "Yeah. Yes. I—yeah. I'm Beau, Beau Maxwell."
You tested the name, softer. "Beau." He actually swayed, and he didn't even know your name yet. Dean whispered, "Oh he's gone."
Jake's head snapped toward Beau, horrified. "Absolutely not." He pointed at the squad. "Out. All of you. Out."
Maverick started herding them like unruly cattle, it truly was a sight to see. Phoenix grabbing Fanboy by the collar, sending you a wink as she left. Dean grabbed Beau's sleeve, dragging him toward the door.
Beau dug his heels in just long enough to look back at you. "I— I'll come check on you. If that's okay."
You smiled, "I'd like that." Dean yanked him out of the room.
In the hallway, Beau whispered, dazed, "Dean... I think I'm in love." Dean patted his shoulder. "Yeah, man. We all saw."
Behind them, Jake yelled, "I SAID OUT!"
...
Beau shows up at the hospital the next morning with flowers.
Not just any flowers, nice flowers. Ones he spent twenty minutes agonising over because he didn't know if you liked roses or lilies or daisies, or if you were allergic to pollen, or if Jake would tackle him for bringing the wrong bouquet. Who is he kidding, of course he would. He eventually settled on an arrangement that reminds him of you.
He walks into your room.
Empty.
The bed's stripped, curtains open, and most importantly, there's no you.
He panics.
Dean, who's been chatting up a nurse and gathering some important intel, strolls in lazily behind him and sighs. "She's discharged, man. We'll find her." And Beau, bless him, nods like he's preparing for a naval operation.
Back on campus, he enlists the hockey boys, Allie, Hannah, Grace, anyone who has ever spoken to a girl. And Dean, disturbingly efficient and alarmingly skilled at social media stalking, finds your Instagram, your LinkedIn, your Briar directory listing, and your dorm building with scary accuracy. And with a few calls to girls he knows in that building, he pinpoints your floor and your room number.
"Dude," Logan says, staring at Dean's screen. "This is... impressive. And also illegal."
Dean shrugs. "Love makes you do crazy things." Then looks into the camera like he's on an episode of the office, "Don't try this at home kids. Or stalk people in general."
...
Beau knocks on your door with the flowers, this time alone, nervously shifting his weight as you open it, hair messy, comfy clothes, soft-eyed, and that damn smile. He forgets how to breathe.
You accept the flowers with a small smile. "You found me."
Beau blushes. "I… had help. A lot of help. Like, an embarrassing amount. Well, it was mainly Dean, but I had help."
You lean against the doorframe, amused. "And now you're here."
You talk in the hallway for twenty minutes, about the concussion, how you're recovering, about classes, and importantly, about how Dean is terrifyingly good at stalking. And Beau, he pays attention, filing away everything you said whilst memorising your face.
Eventually, he steps back. "I should… let you rest."
You grin. "Find me again."
He looks wrecked. "I will."
...
It takes Beau two days to find you again, and his only regret is that he hadn't found you sooner. Two days of him wandering campus like a golden retriever who's lost his favourite person. Two days of Dean telling him to "stop looking sad, it's freaking people out." By people, he meant him. Two days of Beau kicking himself for not getting your number the last time he saw you.
So when he finally spots you in the library, he could almost hit himself for not looking here, the most obvious place, sooner.
You're tucked into a corner table, surrounded by textbooks, diagrams, and a simulation running on your laptop. None of which Beau understands, but he approaches you anyway.
"Hi," he says softly.
You don't need to look up to know who it is, but you do so anyway. "You found me."
He beams, that soft, relieved smile that makes your stomach flip. He sits with you, awkward at first, then comfortable, silently pulling out his phone as you work, and you catch a glimpse of his Notes app:
Your heart does something inconvenient. Something you can't explain with aerospace engineering or propulsion or trajectories.
He takes the time to ask questions, real ones, listening with wide, earnest eyes as you break down flight dynamics and control. He's mesmerised. And even if half of it flies straight over his head, the effort alone has you melting.
You've never been a flashcard person, finding them tedious and colour-coded to death. You prefer short quizzes, quick recall checks. So explaining concepts to Beau ends up helping you more than he realises. As you relate trajectories to passing arcs or thrust-to-weight ratios while he breaks down football plays, you realise you understand the material better than ever.
Somewhere along the way, he starts bringing you coffee. Then snacks. Then dinner. He memorises your preferences with the same intensity he studies game tape, how you drink iced coffee year-round, except near Christmas, when you switch to hot chocolate with whipped cream and a gingerbread man or two, decapitating them first, naturally.
Soon you're showing him your test scores, essays, lab reports, giggling as he lifts you and spins you around. And he does the same after his games, the first person he runs to is always you. It becomes a ritual, a rhythm neither of you questions.
And when you debrief Jake, feet kicked up, smiling as you recount your week, he realises you're happy. Really happy. So maybe he only threatens Beau once. Maybe he sighs, accepts it, and admits, quietly, begrudgingly, that Beau's a good kid. And good for you.
...
It's a Thursday night, and your group study session runs far later than planned. You text Beau that you'll be home around one, expecting him to be asleep or at least already crashed after practice.
He shows up anyway.
He's sitting on the steps outside the building, hoodie pulled tight, hair messy, eyes tired by warm. When he hears your footsteps, his head lifts, he recognises you instantly, just by sound.
"You shouldn't walk alone," he says, like it's the simplest truth in the world.
You walk together. He carries your bag without asking, adjusting the strap on his shoulder like he's done it a hundred times. You stop twice to take pictures of the moon, grumbling about how she never photographs well, and he simply smiles at your frustration, the kind of soft smile he only ever gives you.
You ramble about your project, and he tells you about practice, about Dean, about how he's driving down to Wisconsin tomorrow to see his grandparents. He invites you, hopeful, but you shake your head, already planning to fly home to Texas the day after.
"That's okay," he says, nudging your shoulder gently. "I'll bring you something back." You roll your eyes, but you're smiling.
At your door, he hands you your bag, his fingers brushing yours, warm, calloused, and familiar. "Text me when you land," he says.
"I will."
He hesitates, just for a second. Then he leans in and kisses your forehead, soft and quick, like he's afraid to overstep.
"See you Sunday."
...
You don't. But God do you wish you had.
Dean's call comes just after midnight. His voice is raw like he's only just stopped crying. "It's Beau." You don't hear much after that, entering a state of shock as Dean tells you they skidded on a nasty patch of black ice, fishtailed, and slammed sideways into a tree. He was unconscious at the scene, neck stabilised by paramedics as they loaded him into the ambulance.
Then Dean says, "He might not walk again," and the admission snaps you out of your shock. You tell him it'll be alright, that Beau will walk again, but it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself. You ask which hospital, and Dean exhales, shaky with relief that he won't be alone, that you're on your way, guilty that Beau's parents are comforting him when he feels he should be comforting them. They keep telling him it's okay, that he's Beau's brother, that he's allowed to fall apart. But still...
You're already grabbing your keys.
...
The ER is chaos when you arrive, an urgency in the air as nurses move fast, voices sharp and low. A trauma code running somewhere behind the double doors, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms. The cold florescent lights and the smell of antiseptic hits you instantly as you run towards the blonde.
Dean's sitting in a plastic chair outside the trauma bay, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Tear tracks stain his face, dried and fresh, like he's run out of tears but his body hasn't caught up. Beau's parents sit beside him, his mother rubbing circles on Dean's back, his father staring straight ahead, shock hollowing him out.
When you walk in, Dean's head snaps up. And for a split second, hope flashes in his eyes, he thinks you're a doctor coming to update them. Then he sees you, and his face crumples.
"He's inside," Dean whispers. "They won't let us in."
Through the small window in the trauma bay door, you catch glimpses, flashes of movement, silhouettes of doctors leaning over a bed, the rapid rise and fall of hands adjusting equipment.
A nurse rushes past with a cervical collar in her hand. Another calls out, "CT's ready, we need to move him now."
Beau's mother squeezes your arm. "Sit down, sweetheart. You're going to wear a hole in that floor." You hadn't even realised you were pacing.
They wheel him out, bed rattling over the threshold. You flatten yourself against the wall as they rush past. Beau's strapped to a backboard, head immobilised in a rigid brace, his skin far too pale under the harsh lights.
Dean makes a sound, a broken, strangled thing, and Beau's father catches him before he collapses.
...
You sit beside Dean, knees touching, both of you staring at the double doors like you can will them open. Beau's mother is praying under her breath. His father is silent, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.
Every time footsteps approach, Dean's head jerks up. Every time, it's not a doctor.
You don't realise you're crying until your phone rings, Jake's name lighting up the screen. You should've been on your flight to Texas by now, the one you forgot to cancel. But there's nowhere else you'd rather be.
"Sweetheart?"
Your voice cracks. "Jake... it's Beau."
He doesn't hesitate. "I'm coming."
...
They take Beau to the operating theatre within minutes of the CT results. A cervical fracture with instability, not fully severed, but not fully stable either. The kind of injury that demands speed, precision, and a little luck.
A nurse explains gently, "Beau's airway is secure, and he's breathing on his own, but shallow. We're taking him to surgery to stabilise the fracture. It's serious, but he's strong and healthy, he's fighting."
Dean nods like he's hearing it through water, while Beau's mother squeezes your hand. "He'll want you here."
You don't even dream of leaving.
...
The surgical waiting room is too bright, too quiet, too cold. The chairs are stiff, the clock ticks too loudly, and every time a doctor walks past, Dean's head snaps up like he's bracing for impact.
You sit beside him, knees touching. At some point he leans into you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, and you wrap an arm around him without thinking. You're both shaking, not crying, not talking, just holding each other in the agonising silence because it's the only thing keeping either of you upright.
Beau's father sits rigidly, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles are white. You know he's blaming himself, wishing it was him, which Beau would absolutely disagree with, but you don't know the first thing you would say, so you sit in silence listening to Beau's mother murmur prayers under her breath.
You're holding Beau's hoodie, the one he wore when he walked you home, and you don't remember grabbing it, but it helps. You keep twisting the fabric in your hands, over and over, like if you stop, something terrible will happen.
Jake arrives twenty minutes later, breathless, hair wind-tossed, eyes already scanning for you. When he sees your face, he doesn't ask anything, he just sits beside you, knee touching yours, grounding you. He's never lost a wingman before, never come this close to losing someone he loves, and the fear in his eyes tells you he can't begin to imagine what you're going through.
Then he stands and goes straight to the nurses' station. "Lieutenant Seresin," he says, voice low but firm. "I need an update on Beau Maxwell. Anything you can tell me."
They can't tell him much, privacy, protocol, the usual walls, but he tries to charm his way out of it, clinging to any sliver of information he can get. Any sliver of hope he can bring back to you.
When he returns, he places a coffee in your hands. You don't remember him leaving to get it, or thanking him. You just hold it, warm against your palms, because you need something to anchor you.
Beau's mother brings sandwiches that you split with Dean, neither of you hungry to eat but you try anyway, for Beau. Later, Jake brings you water. They take turns, quietly, gently, making sure you don't fall apart, and giving themselves something to do besides sit and drown in worry.
Dean sits pressed against your side, fingers gripping your sleeve like he's afraid you'll disappear too.
You're numb. Everything feels muffled, distant, like the world's happening somewhere above you. And all you want is Beau, his arms around you, his voice telling you everything will be alright.
...
Two hours later, the surgeon steps into the waiting room.
Everyone stands. Attentive. Bracing for the worst.
He pulls down his mask. His face is tired, but not devastated.
"He made it through the surgery."
Beau's mother sobs as his father pulls her into his arms. Dean collapses into a chair, hands over his face.
The surgeon continues, "There was swelling around the spinal cord, but no complete transection. We stabilised the fracture. He's critical, but he's alive. He'll be moved to the ICU shortly."
You don't realise you're crying until Jake wipes a tear from your cheek with him thumb. "When can we see him?" he asks.
The surgeon's expression softens. "Shortly after we move him. And I should tell you... he said your name." He nods towards you, "Before sedation."
Dean looks at you, eyes red, voice cracking.
"Go."
...
The ICU is dim, humming with machines. Nurses move quietly, their footsteps barely audible on the polished floor. You're led to his room, and the sight of him steals your breath.
He's pale and bruised, neck encased in a rigid brace, IV lines running from both arms, monitors tracing every fragile beat of his heart. A ventilator sits nearby, unused but ready. His hair is messy, dried blood at his temple. He looks small in the bed, smaller than you've seen him.
But he's alive.
A nurse adjusts his oxygen cannula. "He's sedated, but he can hear you."
You step closer, fingers trembling as you touch his hand. His fingers twitch, faint, but unmistakable, and your breath catches. You swallow the sob clawing its way up your throat, leaning over him, brushing your thumb across the back of his hand.
"I'm here," you whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You bend down and press a gentle kiss to his forehead, the same way he kissed yours outside your dorm, soft and quick and full of everything neither of you had said yet.
HIs heart monitor blips higher for a moment before settling into its steady rhythm.
You rest your forehead against his for a moment, eyes closed, breathing him in, antiseptic, blood, hospital air, but still undeniably him.
Still Beau.
Still yours.
...
Beau wakes up slowly, not all at once, but in small, uneven flickers. The first time his eyes open, it's only for a second, unfocused and heavy, but it's enough to send a wave of relief through the room. His mother sobs into her hands while his father breaks down completely, shoulders shaking as he apologises over and over, blaming himself for the ice, for the drive, for everything. Beau, groggy and barely conscious, still manages to rasp out, "Dad... stop. It wasn't your fault." His father cries harder at that, not from guilt, but from the sheer relief of hearing his son speak.
Dean gets his own moment with him later. He sits at Beau's bedside, elbows on knees, eyes red, as Beau cracks a joke. It's terrible, and far too soon, the kind only Beau would dare make in an ICU, but it gets out a strangled laugh from his brother that turns into a sob. "You've got a good one," Dean later mutters, nodding toward the hallway where you're talking quietly with Beau's mother. His smile is small, crooked, but real. "I know," he whispers.
The days blur together after that. His condition improves, slowly, cautiously, and with every stable scan the talk shifts to whether he'll ever play football again. Jake pulls every string he has to get Beau the best physical therapists in the country, the kind who specialise in spinal trauma and athletes, determined to give his future brother-in-law every chance possible.
Recovery is slow and brutal, the doctors warned despite the optimism in the air. Some mornings Beau can't even sit up without wincing. Some days the pain is so sharp it steals his breath. And sometimes, when his legs refuse to cooperate, when his balance falters, when he feels like he's trapped in a body that betrayed him, he snaps. Not cruelly, never that. But sharply, out of fear and frustration. At you. At Dean. At his parents. At anyone close enough to love him. You let him, because it means he feels safe to fall apart in front of you. You understand the difficulty, the grief of relearning how to walk, the humiliation of needing help for things he used to so without thinking. And you stay, through all of it.
Slowly, painfully, things begin to shift. The stretches get easier. The tremors lessen. He starts making jokes again, still just as bad, the kind that make Dean laugh and cry at the same time. And the setting shifts, from hospital rooms with bright florescent lights to your living room, where you read research papers to him, legs draped over his lap, your voice filling the quiet. He listens the way he always has, chin propped on his hand, eyes half-focused on the words and fully focused on you.
You're mid-sentence, something about neural pathways and motor recovery, when he reaches out and gently takes your face in his hands. It's so soft you almost don't register it at first. His thumbs rest just beneath your cheekbones, warm and steady, guiding your gaze to his. You blink, confused, the words dying on your tongue.
He leans in and kisses you.
It's gentle, careful, almost reverent, and you melt into him, hands curling lightly around his wrists, forehead brushing his as he pulls back enough to breathe. You look at him, a little stunned, still processing. And Beau smiles, mall, crooked, the kind that reaches his eyes.
"Oh," you whisper, the realisation blooming warm in your chest.
He rests his forehead against yours, arms wrapping around you carefully, mindful of the last lingering aches in his body. You lean into him without thinking, fitting against him like you've been doing it for years. And you keep reading, voice soft, heart full, knowing he loves you and you love him, because you've always known since the moment he landed you in that hospital room.
Description: For years, Commander Steve McGarrett believed that a badge, a gun, and a string of broken promises were all the future had in store for him. Content to settle for a comfortable but mismatched love with Catherine Rollins—a woman he knew wasn't written in his stars—he endured years of sudden departures and emotional distance. But when she leaves his life for the final time, the universe refuses to let Steve fade into the shadows of his own isolation. Through a series of recurring, intensely vivid dreams, Steve is shown an impossible future: a backyard filled with children, a fierce woman with the spirit of a warrior, and an inevitable destiny. When Y/N arrives in Hawaii as Five-0’s newest recruit, the prophecy of his sleep becomes the reality of his waking world.
The Echoes of a False Start
The ocean outside the McGarrett home never truly silenced its roar, but there were nights when the sound felt less like a comfort and more like a clock ticking away the empty years.
Steve stood on the dark back porch, the weathered wood beneath his bare feet tracking the chill of the evening. A cold Longboard beer sat sweating in his hand, entirely forgotten, as his eyes tracked the pitch-black line where the Pacific met the sky. Inside, the house was a cavern of silence. The rooms were vast, shadows stretching across the old furniture his father had bought decades ago. It had been empty for weeks now, ever since Catherine had packed her bags and slipped away under the cover of darkness, leaving behind nothing but a lingering scent of jasmine perfume, an empty closet, and a profound, aching sense of inevitability.
They had always known. In a world where the universe physically or spiritually aligned soulmates—where people spoke of an undeniable pull, a shared rhythm of the heart, or a literal mark of destiny—Steve and Catherine were an engineered fit, not an ordained one. They didn't share that seamless mental link or the absolute, grounding certainty that true soulmates possessed. What they had was a comfortable affection, born of shared military discipline, mutual respect, and a deep-seated fear of being entirely alone in a world of high-stakes violence.
"We're good together, Steve," Catherine had told him months prior, her fingers tracing the rigid line of his jaw in the quiet dark of his bedroom. "We understand the cost of the job. We don't need the universe to sign off on what we have. We choose this."
And Steve, wanting desperately to believe that a constructed love was just as good as a destined one, had agreed. He had thrown himself headfirst into the Five-0 task force, chasing down human traffickers, dismantling international cartels, and using the high-octane rush of adrenaline to drown out the quiet, persistent voice in the back of his mind that whispered he was settling for a temporary harbor.
Then came her first sudden departure.
It happened without a single word of warning. No lingering conversation over coffee, no handwritten note left on the kitchen counter. Just a sudden, crushing absence. Catherine had left for Afghanistan, chasing a ghost from her past, driven by a deep-seated sense of duty that apparently didn't include the man waiting for her in Oahu.
Danny Williams had been the one to drag Steve out of his self-imposed isolation after that first vanishing act. He sat on this very porch, waving a frantic, wild hand in the air, his tie already loosened in the humid breeze.
"She left, Steve! Just poof! Gone into the ether like a specter, like a ninja in night vision goggles!" Danny had shouted, his voice cracking with genuine frustration. "No goodbye? No 'Hey, Steve, by the way, I'm jumping on a military transport plane to the Middle East, don't wait up'? That is not what civilized human beings who care about each other do! It’s pathological, Steven! It is the behavior of a deep-cover operative who views a relationship as a temporary layover at O'Hare!"
Steve had kept his eyes glued to the ocean, his voice a flat, dangerous monotone. "She had to go, Danny. A boy’s life was on the line. She had a job to do."
"Yeah, well, guess what? You have a job to do too! And your job shouldn't include sitting on a porch like a loyal golden retriever waiting for an owner who treats him like an afterthought!" Danny snapped, though the harshness in his tone softened as he looked at the hollow look in his partner’s eyes. "I'm just saying... you deserve someone who actually says goodbye, Steve. Someone who stays."
Steve waited anyway. He poured every ounce of his remaining soul into the team. Danny, Chin Ho Kelly, and Kono Kalakaua became his anchors, pulling him back from the edge of a dangerous, reckless edge during raids. But the silence in the house grew heavier, settling into the drywall like damp tropical rot.
And then, just as suddenly as she had vanished, Catherine returned.
It was a rainy afternoon when she appeared back on his doorstep, looking worn, carrying the dust of a foreign desert on her boots. Steve wanted to feel the spark. He wanted to feel the absolute, breath-catching rush of a man reunited with his true counterpart. Instead, as he pulled her into an embrace, he felt only a profound, tired relief. They fell back into their old routines. They cooked dinner, they talked about the task force, they shared a bed. But the ghost of her sudden departure hung over every word they spoke. They were playing house in a structure built on shifting sand. They both knew they weren't each other's forever.
The second, final departure came six months later.
This time, there was no disappearing act in the middle of the night. Catherine sat him down at the heavy oak kitchen table, her hands wrapped tightly around a mug of black coffee. The morning light filtered through the window, catching the tense lines of her shoulders. She wouldn't meet his gaze.
"Steve, I need to tell you something," she began, her voice carrying that clipped, professional tone she used when she was trying desperately not to break. "I've been given an assignment. It's a deep-cover intelligence mission with the CIA. Extremely high-risk. Classified at the highest level."
Steve felt a cold, familiar numbness settle into his limbs. He didn't yell. He didn't slam his hands on the table. He just stared at her. "How long, Cath?"
"I don't know," she whispered, finally looking up, her eyes rimmed with red. "A year. Maybe two. Maybe longer. Because of the nature of the cover, I can't have any contact with the outside world. No encrypted emails, no satellite calls, no letters through intermediaries. Nothing. To the rest of the world, I don't exist."
Steve let out a slow, ragged breath that felt like it tore at his ribs. He looked down at his own hands, calloused, scarred, and bruised from a lifetime of fighting everyone else's battles. He realized, with a sudden and terrifying clarity, that he simply did not have the energy to fight for a love that was constantly running away from him.
"Okay," Steve said quietly.
Catherine blinked, clearly thrown off balance by his complete lack of resistance. "Okay? Steve, I'm asking you to wait for me. I'm telling you that when this is over, wherever I am, I want to come back here. To this house. To you. I need to know you'll be here."
Steve stood up slowly, walking over to the window that looked out at the rolling surf. The waves kept crashing, entirely indifferent to the small, devastating tragedies of human lives. He turned back to her, a sad, resigned smile touching the corners of his lips.
"Catherine," Steve said, his voice steady but laced with a profound, underlying sorrow. "I can't wait for you anymore."
"Steve, please don't do this—"
"No, listen to me," he interrupted gently, stepping closer and placing a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder. "We've been forcing this for years, Cath. We've been trying to carve a soulmate bond out of a regular relationship because we're comfortable with each other, and because we're both terrified of what happens if we let go and look into the void. I love you. I'll always care about you. But I can't spend the next three years of my life sitting on this porch, staring at the driveway, wondering if today is the day you decide to stay. You have to go. Go do your mission. Live your life. But when you leave this time... you leave for good."
Catherine wept openly then, the tears spilling over her cheeks as she realized the absolute finality in his tone. There was no anger in his eyes, just an ancient, heavy acceptance. She packed her bags in the light of day this time. Steve helped her carry them to the trunk of her car. He kissed her cheek—a soft, final goodbye that tasted of salt and endings—and watched her drive away until the tail lights disappeared around the winding coastal road.
When the dust settled, Steve stood in the driveway for a long time. The silence that settled over the property wasn't just the absence of a person; it felt like the closing of a chapter. He was thirty-eight years old, a commander in the Navy reserves, the leader of a governor's task force, and he was entirely, utterly alone. He felt a deep, unshakable certainty settle into his bones: some men were meant for the uniform, the badge, and the battlefield, and nothing else. He was destined to walk this earth without a counterpart.
The Weight of the Silence
The next six months were a masterclass in slow motion.
To the outside world, Commander Steve McGarrett was as formidable and terrifying to the criminal underworld as he had ever been. He kicked down reinforced doors, outran suspects half his age, and managed the bureaucratic nightmares of the Governor’s office with his usual grumpy, military efficiency. But the Five-0 task force wasn't the outside world. They were his family, and they watched him with a collective, growing dread.
The bounce in his step was entirely gone. The fierce, competitive spark that usually defined his chaotic interactions with Danny had degraded into a quiet, passive compliance that worried his partner more than any physical injury ever could.
They were sitting in the headquarters' breakroom after a grueling twenty-hour case involving a local human trafficking ring. Chin Ho Kelly was pouring a fresh pot of coffee, his sharp eyes tracking Steve through the glass, who was staring blankly at a stack of state reports on the smart-table.
"He didn't even argue with you about taking the H-1 bypass today, Danny," Chin said softly, leaning his elbow against the counter.
Danny, who was pacing back and forth with an uncharacteristic lack of hand-gestures, let out a frustrated, heavy sigh. "I know. It’s terrifying, Chin. It’s completely unnatural. I drove the Camaro through three separate red lights—well, yellow-ish lights—and I explicitly told him he drove like an absolute maniac who had a personal vendetta against the laws of physics. You know what he did? He didn't yell. He didn't threaten to throw me out of a moving vehicle. He handed me the keys. He said, 'You're right, Danny. You drive.' He handed over the keys to the kingdom without a fight. He’s a shell of a man."
Kono Kalakaua walked into the breakroom, her surfboard bag slung over her shoulder, her face lined with a deep worry. "He skipped the weekend barbecue at my place again. He texted me saying he had 'house maintenance' to do. I drove past his place last night around midnight after a late surf. All the lights were pitch black, but his truck was in the driveway. He was just sitting on the porch in the dark, guys. No music, no phone. Just staring."
"He thinks he’s done," Danny said, his voice dropping to a harsh, pained whisper as he glanced toward the glass office. "He thinks because things ended with Catherine, that's the final paragraph of his romantic life. He’s adopted this stoic, tragic, lone-wolf samurai philosophy, and it is driving me completely out of my mind. He’s carrying the weight of the entire island on his shoulders, and he won't let any of us buy him a slice of pizza to help lift it."
Inside his office, Steve could hear the low, rhythmic murmur of his team's voices. He knew they were talking about him. He knew they were analyzing his silence. But he simply couldn't find the emotional currency to put on the mask of the invincible commander. Every time he walked through the front door of his empty house, the silence greeted him like a heavy lead apron. He would sit on the sand, watching the tide recede, wondering how a life that felt so full of action could feel so completely hollow inside.
Six months passed in this grey, monochromatic existence. The calendar pages turned from the rainy season to the high tropical heat of summer, but Steve remained frozen in his own quiet resignation.
And then, exactly half a year after the day Catherine left, the dreams began.
The Prophecy of the Sleep
The first time it happened, Steve woke up gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs, his skin slick with a cold sweat. The smell of salt water, ozone, and blooming plumeria was so vivid in his nostrils that he frantically looked around his dark bedroom, confused as to why he was alone in his bed.
It wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't a traumatic flashback to a firefight in Coronado or the haunting sound of his father's voice recorded on a cassette tape. It was something entirely, beautifully alien.
The dream always started in the exact same sequence.
He was standing in his own backyard. The grass was vibrant green, the Hawaiian sun high and warm, casting a thick, golden hue over the rolling waves of the Pacific. But the yard wasn't the quiet sanctuary it usually was. There was a large wooden play set constructed near the shade of the old palm trees, and the air was filled with the pure, chaotic sound of high-pitched children's laughter.
Steve saw a version of himself—older, with deep laugh lines carved around his eyes and a heavy dusting of grey hair touching his temples—sitting directly on the grass. A little boy, no older than three, was scrambling onto his back, locking chubby arms around his neck and yelling, "Daddy, look! I'm the king of the castle! Daddy, look at me!" Two older children—a fierce-eyed girl with wild hair and another older boy—were running toward him from the shoreline, carrying a bright red beach ball, their voices blending into a beautiful chorus of "Daddy, catch! Daddy, it's my turn to throw!"
In the dream, the version of Steve on the grass looked completely, entirely at peace. The perpetual knot of tension that he had carried in his chest since the day his mother's car exploded was gone. He looked light. He looked happy.
Before he could step forward to touch them, the scene dissolved, twisting like black smoke into a completely new image.
The warmth of the beach vanished instantly, replaced by the harsh, vibrating, grey-green interior of a military C-130 transport plane. The roar of the engines was deafening, rattling through his teeth. Standing right near the open jump door, silhouetted against the blinding blue sky, was a woman. She was clad in a full Army Ranger combat uniform—heavy tactical vest, communications headset, and weapons sling securely fastened. Steve couldn't see her face clearly; it was blurred, as if shrouded by a heavy, shifting mist. But her eyes were striking. They were bright, burning with an intense, unyielding focus and a brilliant, sharp intellect. She was throwing out precise hand signals to her squad, her movements authoritative, fearless, and completely commanding. She was a warrior, built from the exact same steel Steve had been forged in.
Then, the dream shifted a third time.
The military plane faded into a sterile, modern office space on the mainland. The woman was there again, dressed in civilian clothes now, but her posture was rigid as an iron rod. Standing directly across from her was an older man. He had silver hair, a sharp, aristocratic jawline, and a terrifyingly commanding presence. The physical resemblance between the two was undeniable; they shared the same sharp brow and high cheekbones. But there was absolutely no affection here. They were locked in a furious, silent argument. The older man was gesturing sharply, slamming a fist onto a mahogany desk, his face contorted in a mask of rage, while the woman stood her ground, her jaw set, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides. It was a clash of titans, a family feud dripping with unresolved bitterness and old, deep wounds.
The scene dissolved again.
Now, the woman was standing in the opulent, wood-paneled office of the Governor of Hawaii. Governor Denning was behind his desk, speaking to her with an expression of deep respect and serious intent. The woman listened, nodding slowly, her arms crossed. Steve was in this room, too, standing in the shadows of the corner, but in the dream, he was completely deaf to their words. He could only watch the silent exchange, mesmerized by the way she carried herself with a quiet dignity that completely commanded the room.
Finally, the dream shifted one last time, returning to the familiar glass-and-steel confines of the Five-0 headquarters.
The woman was walking through the smart-table room, carrying a stack of files. She laughed at something Danny said, throwing her head back, her vibrant energy filling the entire palace bullpen. The team was gathered around her—Chin was smiling warmly, Kono was giving her a playful high-five, and Steve himself was leaning against his office doorframe, a genuine, radiant smile plastered across his face. He felt a profound sense of gratitude in his chest, an overwhelming happiness just to have her near him, to have her as part of his unit, part of his soul.
Then, Steve would wake up to the cold reality of his empty room.
The first week, he dismissed it as a psychological breakdown. "My brain is just inventing a fantasy life," he muttered to himself, rubbing his face as he sat on the edge of his bed at 3:00 AM, listening to the ceiling fan spin. "Kids, a family, a new partner... it's just a lonely man's coping mechanism."
But the dreams did not stop. They happened every single night.
For three solid months, the exact same sequence played out behind his eyelids the moment he fell into a deep sleep. The backyard, the three children calling him Daddy, the Army Ranger in the sky, the bitter fight with the silver-haired man, the meeting with the Governor, and the laughter in the Five-0 bullpen. It was always the same. The details never shifted by a millimeter. The woman's face remained maddeningly out of focus, a beautiful silhouette defined only by her bright, intelligent eyes and her fierce, indomitable spirit.
By the third month, the dreams had a physical effect on him. The dark circles under his eyes vanished, replaced by a strange, quiet alertness. He started spending hours in his backyard, looking at the exact patch of grass where the play set had stood in his sleep.
Danny noticed the change immediately during a stakeout in Chinatown. "Okay, now he’s not depressed anymore, which is great, don't get me wrong," Danny whispered loudly to Chin, gesturing toward Steve, who was staring out the windshield of the SUV with a soft smile. "But now he’s doing this thing where he stares into the void and smiles like a man who knows the secret to eternal youth, or a man who has completely lost his mind. I don't know which one is worse, Chin. He’s creepy."
"He looks like he's waiting for something," Chin observed, his tone thoughtful and calm. "Like a sailor watching the horizon for a ship he knows is already on its way."
The Arrival of Y/N
The phone call came on a crisp Tuesday morning, exactly nine months after Catherine had left, and three months after the dreams had taken over Steve’s nights.
Steve was sitting at his desk, analyzing a ballistics report from a recent gang shooting, when his personal cell phone buzzed violently on the wood. The caller ID read: OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR.
He picked it up on the second ring, his military instincts kicking in. "McGarrett."
"Commander," Governor Denning’s voice came through the line, crisp, political, and authoritative. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything critical."
"No, Governor. Just paperwork. What can I do for you?"
"I'm calling to inform you of an immediate administrative change to your task force," Denning said, the rustle of official papers audible over the line. "An operative has just finished a transition out of active military service. Her record is, frankly, the most impressive piece of documentation I have ever seen cross my desk in my entire political career. Joint Special Operations Command, extensive intelligence work in North Africa, and a highly decorated tour with the Army Rangers."
Steve’s hand froze over the ballistics report. The pen slipped from his fingers, rolling across the desk. His heart gave a sudden, violent thud against his ribs. Army Rangers.
"Go on, Governor," Steve said, his voice dropping an octave, his entire body suddenly locked in a state of absolute anticipation.
"She’s originally from the mainland, but she has specific tactical and intelligence skills that fit the exact profile of Five-0. Her name is Y/N Y/L/N. Her father is a retired three-star general, so she understands command structures, though from what I gather from my contacts in D.C., their personal relationship is... strained, to say the least. She requested a transfer entirely out of Washington to get some geographic distance from her family."
Steve’s breath hitched completely in his throat. The older man. The fight. The resemblance. It was all falling into place with the terrifying, beautiful precision of a tactical operation.
"I’ve already signed off on her commission," Denning continued, completely oblivious to the profound existential shock Steve was experiencing on the other end of the line. "She’s in my office right now, completing her civilian onboarding. I want her at the palace in an hour for a briefing. Introduce her to the team, get her settled into the bullpen. Treat her well, McGarrett. She’s an asset we cannot afford to lose to the private sector."
"I understand, Governor," Steve managed to say, his throat incredibly dry. "An hour. We'll be ready."
He hung up the phone and stood up so fast his heavy office chair rolled backward, slamming hard into the glass wall. Danny, who was walking past the threshold with a fresh box of donuts, jumped a foot in the air, nearly dropping the box.
"What is wrong with you? Are we under attack? Is there a sniper on the roof?" Danny yelled, looking around the open bullpen wildly.
"Gather the team," Steve said, his voice trembling slightly with an emotion Danny couldn't decipher. "The Governor just assigned us a new operator. She’ll be here in forty-five minutes."
The wait was absolute agony. Steve paced the length of the smart-table room like a caged tiger, his eyes glued to the heavy glass doors of the palace entrance. Chin and Kono stood by the monitors, exchanging bewildered glances, while Danny leaned against a marble pillar, arms tightly crossed, watching his partner behave like a thoroughbred horse at the starting gates.
"Steve, breathe. Seriously, inhale, exhale," Danny ordered. "It’s a new agent, not an alien first-contact scenario. Why are you sweating through your shirt? You look like you're about to defuse a thermonuclear device with a pair of rusty tweezers."
"Just shut up, Danny," Steve muttered, never taking his eyes off the glass doors.
And then, the glass doors slid open with a soft hiss.
A woman walked into the Five-0 headquarters. She carried a black tactical duffel bag in her left hand, her posture straight, her shoulders square with the unmistakable grace of a tier-one military operative. She was dressed in a simple dark blazer, a white shirt, and jeans, but as she stepped into the bright light of the bullpen, the mist that had obscured her face in Steve’s dreams for three months instantly evaporated.
It was her.
The high cheekbones, the sharp, intelligent brow, and most of all, her eyes—bright, focused, and incredibly deep. Steve felt a physical shock wave ripple through his entire body. It was an actual, tangible sensation, like a high-voltage current snapping from the soles of his feet straight to his heart. The ambient noise of the room—the hum of the air conditioning, the distant honking of traffic on King Street—completely vanished into absolute silence.
Steve took a slow step forward, his eyes locked onto hers, unable to look away if he tried.
Y/N stopped a few feet away, setting her duffel bag down on the polished floor. She looked at the team, her gaze sliding over Danny, Chin, and Kono, before finally resting squarely on Steve. The moment their eyes met, a subtle, profound shift occurred in her expression. Y/N blinked, a look of sudden, intense recognition crossing her features, her breath catching slightly in her throat. She looked at his face, his chest, his eyes, as if she, too, had just felt the sudden, violent alignment of the universe.
"Commander McGarrett?" she asked, her voice clear, steady, and exactly as he had heard it in his sleep.
Steve reached out, his hand extending automatically. "Yeah. Steve."
When her fingers closed around his, the phantom touch from his dreams became solid, warm reality. A jolt of pure, unadulterated warmth flooded his chest, melting the last remnants of his winter isolation. The absolute, undeniable certainty hit him like a tidal wave: She is here. She is the one. I am not alone.
"Welcome to Five-0, Y/N," Steve said, and for the first time in nearly a year, the smile on his face reached his eyes, bright, blindingly real, and permanent. "We've been waiting for you."
The Year of Becoming
The first three months of their professional partnership were an exercise in controlled proximity. Steve and Y/N worked together with a seamless, almost frightening precision that left the rest of the team looking on in awe. But while their tactical alignment was instant, building a personal history took deliberate time.
By their fourth month together, the boundary lines began to soften. It started on a Tuesday night after a grueling chase through the valley. They ended up back at the palace, the bullpen empty and quiet. Steve walked out of his office to find Y/N leaning over the engine bay of the task force’s armored SUV, her blazer tossed over a chair, her sleeves rolled up, her hands covered in dark grease.
"You know we have a motor pool for that, right?" Steve asked, leaning his hip against the heavy bumper.
Y/N didn't lift her head, her wrench clicking against a bolt. "The motor pool guys are good, Commander, but they don't tune a block for tactical response the way I like. If I'm going to be sitting in the passenger seat while you drive like a man trying to break the sound barrier on a city street, I want to know the suspension can handle it."
Steve let out a genuine laugh, reaching for a clean rag from a nearby workbench. "Danny’s been getting to you."
"Danny makes some valid points about your relationship with the laws of physics," she countered, finally looking up. She wiped a stray lock of hair from her forehead with her forearm, leaving a streak of dark grease across her skin. She caught him staring and paused. "What?"
Steve stepped closer, his movements deliberate. Without a word, he lifted the clean rag, his fingers brushing the warm skin of her temple as he gently wiped the grease from her brow. The casual proximity sent a sudden, electric jolt through the quiet garage. Y/N’s breath hitched, her bright eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made the room feel incredibly small.
"You had a little grease right there," Steve murmured, his voice dropping into a lower register, his hand lingering just an inch from her face.
Y/N swallowed hard, her gaze unwavering. "Thanks, Steve."
"Don't worry about it," he said softly, stepping back just enough to let the air return to the room, though the spark remained burning between them.
By the six-month mark, their late-night debriefs on the back porch of the McGarrett home had become a sacred ritual. One Friday night, with a couple of cold Longboards sitting between them on the weathered wooden table, the conversation drifted away from active case files. The ocean hummed its familiar lullaby below the deck.
"The Governor mentioned your father when he assigned you to the team," Steve said gently, taking a slow sip of his beer. "He said you two had a pretty significant falling out before you came out here."
Y/N looked out at the dark horizon, her expression hardening with an old, familiar armor. "That’s an understatement. General Vance Y/L/N doesn’t do 'disagreements.' He does orders and court-martials. He wanted me to stay in D.C. He had my entire life mapped out on a strategic grid—a cushy logistics desk at the Pentagon, a rising political star for a husband, and a perfect, compliant family legacy."
"But you chose the Rangers," Steve noted, his eyes tracking the tight line of her jaw.
"I chose the mud," Y/N said, a sharp, proud smile breaking through her serious expression. "I wanted the real work. The night before my deployment, I went to his office to tell him I was leaving. He lost his mind, Steve. He slammed his hands on that massive mahogany desk and told me I was throwing away my future, that women didn't belong in tier-one units. He told me if I walked out that door, I was dead to the family."
"What did you do?"
Y/N turned her head to look at him, her eyes flashing with the exact, fierce fire Steve had seen in his sleep for months. "I told him that I’d rather be a real soldier in the dirt than a fake legacy in his trophy case. I walked out. I haven't spoken to him since. I spent years looking for a place where my skills mattered, where I wasn't just a political chip."
Steve shifted his chair closer, his large hand moving across the table to cover hers completely. The absolute warmth of the contact grounded them both. "You found it. You’re not just an asset here, Y/N. You’re family. You have me. You don't have to fight to prove you belong in this house."
Y/N’s fingers twisted underneath his, locking their hands together, her gaze soft and vulnerable. "I know. It's a strange feeling, Steve. From the very first day I walked into the palace and met your eyes... I felt this overwhelming sense of relief. Like the war was over and I could finally take off the armor."
"Then take it off," Steve whispered, leaning across the small distance between them.
When his lips met hers, it wasn't a sudden, chaotic rush; it was a deep, slow alignment of two forces that had been traveling toward each other from across an ocean of loneliness. Her lips were soft but firm, responding to his touch with an absolute certainty that left no room for doubt. When they broke apart, Steve rested his forehead against hers, his thumb tracing the back of her hand.
They began dating officially the very next morning, and the final three months of that first year became a blur of shared morning runs along the shore, stolen kisses in the palace garage, and an unshakable, quiet devotion that the entire island seemed to recognize.
Promises in the Sand
Exactly one year to the day from her arrival, Steve decided he was done waiting for the destination. The dreams had been a map, but the reality of loving Y/N was a territory he wanted to claim for the rest of his life.
The sun was dipping low over the coastal horizon, painting the sky in deep, bleeding shades of burnt orange, violet, and gold. Steve had built a small, roaring bonfire on his private stretch of beach, the crackle of the salt-soaked wood mixing with the heavy, rhythmic surge of the tide.
Y/N came down the wooden steps from the house, her bare feet sinking into the cool sand. She was wearing a simple white sundress, her hair wild and free in the evening trade winds. She held two cold beers, offering him a playful smile as she approached the fire. "What's all this, Commander? Are we celebrating a cleared warrant, or did Danny finally admit that your tactical driving saved his life today?"
Steve stood by the flames, his hands buried deep in his pockets to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. "Danny would rather eat a pineapple-topped pizza than admit I'm a better driver, and you know it."
"Fair point," she laughed, stepping into his space and handing him a bottle. She noticed the intense, focused look in his eyes and her smile softened into something curious. "Steve? What's going on? You've got your mission face on."
Steve set the beer down on a flat rock beside him, reaching out to take both of her hands in his. He looked down into her bright eyes, seeing his entire future reflected in them.
"Y/N, before you walked into the palace a year ago, I was completely resigned to being alone," Steve began, his voice thick and low, carrying the weight of years of isolation. "I thought my life was just going to be the badge, the gun, and this empty house. I thought the universe had simply skipped over me. But six months after Catherine left, I started having these dreams. Every single night, for three months straight, I saw a version of myself happy in this yard with three kids. I saw a brilliant, fierce woman in a Ranger uniform. I saw her fight with her father, I saw her join my team, and I saw how much I loved her."
Y/N’s breath caught, her hands tightening in his grasp as she listened to his words, her eyes shimmering with sudden tears. "Steve... you never told me that."
"I needed to build something real with you first, not just chase a ghost in my sleep," Steve said, his thumb smoothing over her knuckles. "But every single day of this past year has proven that the dream wasn't a fantasy. It was a promise. You are my true counterpart, Y/N. I love you more than my own life."
Slowly, deliberately, Steve dropped down onto one knee in the sand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box, popping it open to reveal a classic, brilliant diamond ring that caught the flickering orange light of the bonfire.
"I want the backyard, Y/N. I want the laughter, I want the children, and I want every single sunrise with you. Will you marry me?"
Y/N let out a wet, breathless laugh, tears finally spilling over her cheeks. She didn't just say yes—she dropped directly into the sand in front of him, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down with her. "Yes! Yes, Steve, absolutely yes! I love you so much."
He slid the ring onto her finger, his mouth finding hers in a fierce, desperate kiss as the evening tide rushed up the beach, the cool water swirling around their ankles, sealing a covenant that had been written long before they ever met.
The wedding took place three months later, right there on the wide grass lawn of the McGarrett estate. It was a beautiful, chaotic celebration of the family they had built. Danny Williams stood as the best man, spent three hours adjusting his tie, complaining about the humidity, and openly weeping during the vows. Chin Ho Kelly and Kono Kalakaua stood beside them as anchors, while Governor Denning watched from the front row with a sense of immense pride. Y/N walked down a grass aisle lined with local plumeria, looking ethereal in a simple white gown, her eyes never leaving Steve’s as she pledged her life to his.
The Promise Fulfilled
The next three years were a masterclass in living. Steve and Y/N built a marriage out of absolute trust and unyielding support. They kicked down doors together during the day and came home to cook dinner together at night. But as their third anniversary approached, a quiet, electric stillness settled over the house. Steve felt the invisible hands of the universe shifting into place.
On a warm Saturday morning, Steve was at the kitchen stove, the smell of sizzling bacon filling the air as he flipped a stack of pancakes. He heard the slow, deliberate footsteps of his wife coming down the stairs.
Y/N walked into the kitchen, wearing one of his oversized Navy t-shirts, her hair a bit messy from sleep. She looked slightly pale, but her eyes carried a brilliant, deep light that made Steve set the spatula down immediately.
She didn't say a word. She just walked straight to him, took his large, calloused right hand, and placed it flat against her bare stomach.
Steve’s heart stopped dead in his chest. He stared down at his hand, then up at her face, his voice barely a whisper. "Y/N? Are you...?"
"I'm pregnant, Steve," she whispered, a radiant, tearful smile breaking across her face. "We're going to have a baby."
Steve let out a ragged, broken sound—halfway between a shout of victory and a sob of pure relief—and scooped her up into his arms, lifting her completely off the ground. He spun her around the sunlit kitchen, burying his face in her neck as she laughed through her own tears.
The nine months that followed were a countdown filled with the chaotic love of their team. Danny spent an entire weekend on the nursery floor, surrounded by wooden panels, screaming at a set of instruction manuals.
"I am a detective, Steven! I track international fugitives! I should not need a degree in advanced structural engineering from Sweden to assemble a simple crib! These screws are cheap pot metal, and if this child suffers from a structural collapse, I am suing the manufacturer!" Danny yelled, his face red, a wrench brandished in the air.
Steve leaned against the doorframe, handing a cold glass of water to Y/N, who was resting in a rocking chair, thoroughly enjoying the show. "You're doing great, Danno. Just put the blue peg in the blue hole."
"Don't tell me about the blue peg!" Danny snapped, though he smiled as he looked at the sheer, unadulterated happiness radiating from his partner.
The child arrived on a stormy night in late March. After twelve hours of intense, silent labor where Y/N gripped Steve’s hand with the full force of a trained soldier, a sharp, healthy cry shattered the quiet of the delivery room.
The doctor wrapped the squirming bundle and handed him directly to the towering commander.
Steve held his firstborn son—cradled entirely in the palms of his massive hands. The boy had a thick tuft of dark hair and his mother’s bright, focused eyes. Steve walked carefully over to the hospital bed, sitting on the edge beside Y/N, who looked exhausted but completely victorious. He leaned his head against hers, looking down at the tiny life they had created.
"Hey there, John," Steve whispered, naming the boy after his own father, his voice cracking entirely as tears fell onto the swaddling blanket.
In that exact, sacred moment, the final lingering ghost of Steve’s past—the quiet voice that had told him for years that he was meant to be alone, that he was destined for nothing but violence and isolation—was completely destroyed. He looked at his wife, he looked at his son, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would never be alone again.
The Full House
The universe, having opened the gates of prosperity for the McGarrett home, continued its work with a beautiful, relentless generosity.
Two years after John was born, Y/N gave birth to a fierce, dark-haired little girl named Clara, who inherited her mother's brilliant intellect and her father’s complete disregard for personal safety before she could even walk. Fourteen months after that, their family was completed by the arrival of Steven Jr., a happy, bouncing baby boy who seemed to find the sound of the crashing waves a constant source of laughter.
The dreams of Steve’s lonely past had officially become the loud, beautiful reality of his present.
Five years after Y/N first stepped into the Five-0 bullpen, Steve stood on the wide wooden back porch of his estate, a cold Longboard beer resting in his hand, watching the golden-hour sun dip low over the Pacific horizon.
The yard was alive with the exact scene he had witnessed behind his eyelids years ago. The massive wooden play set stood proud near the shade of the palm trees. Five-year-old John was running across the lush green grass, booting a bright red beach ball, while three-year-old Clara chased after him with a toy plastic sword, her wild, melodic laughter filling the tropical air.
Near the steps, toddler-aged Steven Jr. was wobbling through the grass, his chubby legs moving with an unsteady but fierce determination. His eyes locked onto his father. He took three brave steps, let out a joyful, bubbling squeal, and threw his entire weight against Steve’s shins, wrapping his tiny arms around his leg.
"Daddy! Daddy, look! I'm running! I'm fast like John!" the little boy shouted, looking up with a face that was a flawless blend of both his parents.
Steve smiled a wide, brilliant smile that erased every scar on his face. He dropped to his knees in the grass, scooping up his youngest son and tossing him high into the warm air, catching him safely to a chorus of wild belly laughs. "I see you, buddy! You're getting so fast, you're gonna take over the task force soon!"
John and Clara saw the tackle and immediately abandoned the red ball, sprinting across the lawn with wild yells, launching themselves onto Steve’s back and chest. They buried him in a pile of tiny limbs, sticky fingers, and pure, chaotic joy. "Daddy, catch! Daddy, it's my turn to ride on your shoulders!" the children shouted, their voices rising up to meet the timeless roar of the ocean waves.
From the top of the patio steps, Y/N stood watching her family. She was dressed in a simple, flowing sundress, her hair catching the evening trade winds, her diamond ring flashing brilliantly in the final rays of the sun. She held a heavy tray of grilled food, a soft, deeply content smile resting on her face as she watched her husband completely surrender to the love of their children.
Steve looked up from the grass, his eyes tracking past the laughing kids to meet Y/N's gaze across the yard. The connection between them was a physical, radiant thing—a perfect, unbreakable circle of absolute certainty that had survived the long years of waiting and completely conquered the silence of his old life.
He was Commander Steve McGarrett. He was a husband, a father, a leader, and a protector. He was exactly where he was always meant to be since the dawn of time. And as his family piled on top of him in the warm island air, laughing into his chest, he knew that his story had finally found its perfect, eternal home.
The Ghost in the Wire
The peace they had built over five years wasn’t a shield against the rest of the world; it was simply a sanctuary. And in Steve’s line of work, sanctuaries were always a target.
It began on a Thursday afternoon, the sky over Oahu heavy with bruise-colored storm clouds that promised a fierce tropical downpour. The Five-0 bullpen was relatively quiet, the smart-table humming with the digital footprints of a low-level smuggling ring they had been tracking out of the North Shore.
Steve was leaning over the glass barrier, a mug of coffee in his hand, watching Y/N pull up a series of financial records. John was at school, and Clara and little Steven Jr. were at the palace day-care upstairs, a facility Danny had aggressively lobbied for three years prior.
"The money trail hits a dead end in Manila, Steve," Y/N said, her fingers dancing across the digital interface with that practiced, military efficiency. "The shell companies are heavily encrypted using an old state-department algorithm. It’s... weirdly sophisticated for a couple of local meth runners."
Before Steve could reply, the main glass doors of the headquarters slid open.
The sound of sharp, rhythmic heels clicking against the polished floor echoed through the bullpen. Steve turned, his body automatically shifting into a defensive posture, a habit that never truly died.
The woman who walked into the room was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, her dark hair pulled back into a flawless, severe bun. Her face was pale, her expression an unreadable mask of professional detachment.
It was Catherine Rollins.
The room went entirely, violently still. Danny, who had been halfway through a tirade about a parking ticket, froze with his hand in the air. Chin and Kono exchanged a sharp, defensive glance, their eyes darting immediately to Y/N.
Steve felt a cold, familiar weight drop into his stomach, but it wasn't the panic of a man seeing an unresolved love. It was the tactical dread of a commander who knew that whenever Catherine appeared, chaos followed. His hand instinctively found the small of his back, where his sidearm rested, before he relaxed his posture, keeping his face flat.
"Catherine," Steve said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "What are you doing here?"
Catherine stopped a few feet from the smart-table. Her eyes skipped over Steve, lingering for a fraction of a second on the wedding band on his left hand, before settling squarely on Y/N. There was no malice in her gaze, but there was a desperate, heavy exhaustion.
"I'm on a terminal leave from the agency, Steve," Catherine said, her voice strained. "And I didn't come here for a reunion. I came because the asset I was tracking in deep cover just broke his line. He knows who I am, he knows where I came from, and he knows about Five-0."
Y/N didn't step back. She straightened her spine, her Army Ranger posture locking into place as she crossed her arms, her bright eyes pinning Catherine to the spot. "Name the asset, Rollins."
Catherine looked at Y/N, recognizing the steel in her voice immediately. "His name is Gabriel Waincroft. But he’s not working alone anymore. He’s partnered with a tier-one mercenary group out of the mainland. They intercepted a classified transport log three days ago."
Catherine took a deep breath, her eyes returning to Steve, her voice cracking slightly. "Steve... they didn't just dump the data. They were looking for leverage against the head of the Hawaiian task force. They pulled old naval records, old agency logs from when we were together. But they didn't find me first. They found her." She pointed a trembling finger at the smart-table screen, where Y/N's profile was currently active. "And they found out about the kids."
The Breach
The word kids hit the room like a flashbang.
In a fraction of a second, the domestic peace of the last five years disintegrated. Steve didn't yell. He didn't pace. He went entirely, terrifyingly statuesque, his eyes turning into two pieces of flint.
"Danny," Steve said, his voice a whisper that cut through the air like a knife. "Lock down the building. Secure the day-care upstairs right now. Nobody leaves, nobody enters."
"On it," Danny said, already moving toward the elevator before Steve had even finished the sentence, his usual banter completely replaced by the fierce, protective instinct of an uncle.
Y/N stepped around the smart-table, ignoring Catherine entirely as she faced her husband. Her face hadn't gone pale; it had gone flush with a dark, primal rage. "They're targeting the house, Steve. If they have the naval logs, they have the coordinates of the beach property. They know our routines."
"We move them to a safe house," Chin Ho said, his hand already on his radio. "I'll get a tactical transport to the rear loading dock. Kono, get the armory open."
"Wait," Catherine interrupted, stepping forward, her hands raised. "You don't understand the scale of this. The group Waincroft hired... they aren't local shooters. It's a splinter cell from the old Blackwatch initiative. They operate in four-man fire teams. If they’re on the island, they’ve already established surveillance."
Y/N turned on Catherine, her voice dropping into a venomous, quiet hiss that made even Steve take note. "Listen to me, Rollins. You brought this to our doorstep. You spent years running away from your choices, and now your ghosts are looking at my children. You stay out of our way, or I will personally put you in a holding cell until this island sinks."
Catherine flinched, the sheer force of Y/N’s maternal fury striking her like a physical blow. She nodded slowly, stepping back. "I'm just trying to help, Y/N."
"We don't need your help," Y/N snapped, turning back to Steve. "Steve, look at me."
Steve looked at his wife. The silent, telepathic link they had cultivated over years of marriage locked into place. He saw the Ranger in her eyes—the warrior from his dreams who was ready to slaughter anything that threatened the backyard they had built.
"We split up," Steve ordered, his mind clicking into a pure tactical grid. "Chin, Kono, take Catherine with you to the safe house in the valley. Set up a secondary command post. Danny and I are taking the kids out through the tunnel system under the palace. Y/N, I want you on the high ground."
"No," Y/N said, her jaw set in concrete. "I'm staying with the kids, Steve. I am their line of defense."
"Y/N, if they hit the palace, they’ll hit the exits," Steve reasoned, his hands catching her shoulders, his thumbs pressing into her skin to ground her. "I need your eyes on the perimeter. You know the blind spots of this building better than anyone. Trust me with them. Trust Danny."
Y/N stared into his eyes, her chest heaving as she fought the urge to simply run upstairs and hold her babies. But she was a soldier. She knew that a defensive box only worked if someone was clearing the field.
"If a single hair on their heads is touched, Steven," she whispered, her voice trembling with a terrifying gravity, "I will burn this entire island to ash."
"I know," Steve said, kissing her forehead fiercely. "I know."
The Line in the Sand
The storm broke over Honolulu just as the palace power grid suffered a sudden, catastrophic failure.
The lights in the bullpen flickered once, twice, and then died, plunging the historic building into a deep, shadow-drenched green light as the emergency backup generators kicked in with a low, rhythmic thud.
Upstairs in the day-care, five-year-old John was holding his little sister Clara’s hand, his eyes wide as Danny Williams ushered them into the heavy, reinforced freight elevator. Steve followed, carrying two-year-old Steven Jr. against his chest, his left hand gripping his Sig Sauer, his eyes tracking the dark hallway.
"Danno," Clara whispered, her thumb in her mouth. "Why are the lights broken?"
"Just a little tropical rain, sweetie," Danny said, his voice remarkably calm, his face tight as he kept his body positioned between the kids and the elevator door. "Uncle Danny and Daddy are just taking you on a little adventure through the basement. Like a spy movie, okay?"
"Are there bad guys?" John asked, his voice shaking slightly, but his shoulders square—a miniature version of his father.
Steve looked down at his oldest son, his heart breaking even as his tactical mind remained frozen in ice. "Not for long, John. Keep your sister close. Don't let go of her hand."
Down in the palace basement, the air was thick with the scent of old concrete and damp earth. Steve led the way toward the old auxiliary exit that led to the secure underground parking structure. Every shadow looked like a threat. Every drop of rain hitting the ventilation shafts above sounded like footsteps.
Suddenly, the heavy iron door at the end of the corridor groaned.
Steve slammed his back against the wall, pulling Steven Jr. tighter into his chest, his gun raised. Danny instantly dropped to one knee, drawing his weapon, his body shielding John and Clara in the alcove of a concrete pillar.
Two figures stepped through the door, silhouetted by the green emergency lights. They were wearing full tactical gear, night-vision goggles flipped up, silenced carbines raised.
"Five-0! Drop your weapons!" Danny yelled, his voice echoing through the hollow basement.
The lead shooter didn't drop his weapon; he raised it, the red laser sight painting a line across the concrete floor toward Danny’s chest.
Before the shooter could pull the trigger, a deafening crack shattered the concrete silence.
The heavy glass window of the high-level ventilation shaft above exploded inward. A figure dropped through the opening like a bird of prey, landing flawlessly in the dirt and debris. It was Y/N.
She didn't hesitate. She didn't call out a warning. She had bypassed the high ground entirely, tracking the breach from the security monitors before they went dark. She fired three rapid shots from her customized Kimber .45 while still in her crouch. The lead shooter dropped instantly, the rounds puncturing his center mass.
The second shooter spun, trying to bring his carbine to bear on her, but Y/N was already moving. She closed the distance in a blur of motion, her arm coming up to deflect his barrel as a deafening shot went wild into the ceiling. She drove her combat knife straight upward, underneath his tactical vest, finding the soft tissue of his throat with a brutal, surgical precision.
The man choked, collapsing into the damp dust of the basement floor.
Silence returned to the corridor, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of the adults and the sound of the rain outside.
Y/N stood over the fallen men, her face covered in light plaster dust, her knife dripping onto the concrete. She didn't look at the bodies. She turned her head slowly, her bright, fierce eyes locking onto Steve, and then down to the three children shivering in the shadows.
"Mommy!" Clara cried out, breaking away from Danny’s grip and sprinting across the floor.
Y/N dropped her weapon instantly, falling to her knees as her daughter slammed into her chest. She wrapped her arms around the little girl, burying her face in Clara’s wet hair, her entire body shaking with the sudden release of adrenaline. John ran over a second later, throwing his arms around his mother’s neck.
Steve walked over slowly, still holding Steven Jr., who was starting to whimper. He looked down at the two highly trained mercenaries lying dead on the floor, and then up at his wife.
The prophecy of his dreams hadn't just been about the peace of the backyard; it had been about the strength required to protect it. The woman in the Ranger suit wasn't a separate entity from the mother in the sundress—she was the same fierce, protective soul that the universe had sent to ensure he would never have to stand alone in the dark again.
Danny walked up beside Steve, looking at the scene with a mixture of horror and profound respect. He let out a long, shaky breath, adjusting his wet tie. "Okay. Note to self... never, ever interrupt Mrs. McGarrett when she’s doing house maintenance."
Steve let out a soft, breathless laugh, his eyes never leaving Y/N as she held their children tightly against her chest in the green, shadowed light of the basement. The storm was still raging outside, but inside the circle of their arms, the foundation remained completely unbroken.
The Perimeter Secure
The echo of the gunfire died down, but the air remained thick with the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder and copper. Steve stepped forward, his boots crunching on the shattered glass. He handed a wide-eyed, quiet Steven Jr. over to Danny, who took the toddler with an automatic, protective gentleness.
"I've got him, Steve," Danny muttered, his voice tight. "Get the perimeter."
Steve reached down and caught Y/N by the elbow, helping her stand as she kept John and Clara tucked firmly against her sides. Her knuckles were white, her breathing shallow but controlled. He looked straight into her eyes, checking for shock, but found only the cold, lethal clarity of a sniper adjusting for windage.
"You hurt?" Steve asked, his voice low, his fingers lingering on her arm.
"No," Y/N said, her jaw still locked in a rigid line. She glanced down at the two dead mercenaries at her feet, her expression entirely unbothered by the violence. "They were waiting for you to exit through the south tunnel. There’s a second fire team outside the lower parking tier. I saw their heat signatures on the thermal feed before the main terminal fried."
"How many?"
"Three. Maybe four," she replied, reaching down to retrieve her Kimber .45 from the concrete floor, checking the magazine with a sharp, mechanical click. "They have tactical comms, which means they know these two just went dark. They’re going to push the basement doors within ninety seconds."
Steve turned his head toward Danny. "Danny, take the kids back up to the main holding cells. They’re reinforced steel with independent locks. Secure yourself inside. Do not open that door for anyone but me or Y/N. You understand?"
"Steven, you don't have to tell me twice to go hide in a bunker with my niece and nephews," Danny said, already steering John and Clara back toward the elevator alcove while bouncing Steven Jr. on his hip. "Be smart down here. Both of you. Don't do that thing where you try to out-macho each other while people are shooting at you."
"Go, Danny," Y/N said, her eyes softening for a brief second as she looked at her children. "John, look at Uncle Danny. Stay right with him."
"I will, Mommy," the boy whispered, his small hand gripping the fabric of Danny’s trousers as they disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.
Once the heavy elevator doors groaned shut, the basement fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the steady drip of water from a leaky pipe somewhere in the dark.
Steve turned back to Y/N, his hand moving to the spare magazines on his belt. "Catherine said they’re using old Blackwatch frequencies. If they’re a splinter cell, they’re going to use a standard wedge formation to clear a blind choke point like this hallway."
"Then let's give them a bottleneck," Y/N said. She stepped over to a heavy wooden supply crate, using her foot to kick it hard across the slick concrete floor, tilting it over to create a makeshift piece of low cover near the center junction. She knelt behind it, her weapon raised, her eyes scanning the dark threshold of the lower tier door. "Steve."
"Yeah?"
"If Catherine brought this to our house," she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, velvet whisper, "she doesn't get to step foot on our beach ever again."
Steve didn't hesitate. He dropped into a stack of old tires across the corridor, creating a crossfire angle that covered her blind spot perfectly. "She won't have to. This ends today."
Crossfire and Clear Horizons
The iron door at the end of the hall didn't groan this time; it blew inward with a sharp, concussive pop as a flashbang detonated in the empty air.
Steve shielded his eyes automatically, his finger already squeezing the trigger of his Sig Sauer before the smoke could clear. Three rapid shots barked from his position, the muzzle flashes illuminating the grey corridor in violent strokes of light. A heavy grunt echoed from the doorway as the lead mercenary took two rounds to the vest, stumbling backward into his teammate.
"Flank right!" a voice shouted from the dark, the accent thick and mainland-bred.
A hail of suppressed automatic fire chewed into the wooden crate in front of Y/N, sending splinters flying through the air like lethal toothpicks. One sharp shard caught her cheek, drawing a thin line of crimson, but she didn't even blink. She timed the rhythm of the burst, leaning out from the left side of the crate just as the shooter paused to transition his weapon.
Pop. Pop.
Two rounds caught the second mercenary directly in the facial cavity beneath his night-vision goggles. He dropped like a stone, his rifle clattering against the concrete.
"Move up, move up!" Steve yelled, shifting his weight and sprinting three steps forward to slide behind a concrete pillar, drawing the remaining shooter's focus away from Y/N's position.
The last mercenary, realizing his fire team had been dismantled in less than twenty seconds, panicked. He threw his weapon into a blind spray, backing toward the rainy darkness of the parking tier exit. But Y/N was already over the crate. She didn't stay behind cover; she advanced with her weapon high, her steps silent and rhythmic, tracking his retreat with the cold precision of a predator.
"Clear!" she called out as she fired a final, definitive shot through the smoke, dropping the last man right at the threshold of the storm.
Steve moved up beside her, his weapon still raised as he scanned the rain-drenched parking lot beyond the open door. The tropical storm was washing the blood off the asphalt in long, dark streaks. His radio crackled to life, Chin Ho’s voice breaking through the static.
"McGarrett, we’ve secured Catherine and cleared the perimeter at the safe house. The secondary mercenary team withdrew the moment their comms went silent on your end. They're fleeing the island. Local authorities are setting up a net at the harbor."
Steve let out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. He looked down at the radio. "Good work, Chin. Inform the Governor the palace is secure. Tell him we're going to need a cleanup crew in the basement."
"Copy that, Commander. Glad you're all alright."
Steve turned off the radio and turned his head to look at his wife. The adrenaline was still humming through her veins, her chest rising and falling as she looked out at the pouring rain. He reached out, his large, warm hand catching her face, his thumb gently wiping away the thin line of blood on her cheek.
"You're bleeding," he murmured, his voice full of an immense, overwhelming tenderness that contrasted sharply with the bodies lying around them.
Y/N leaned into his touch, her hand coming up to wrap around his wrist, her eyes finally losing that terrifying Ranger frost and turning back into the deep, warm pools he loved. "It’s just a scratch, Steve. I've had worse from Clara’s hair clips."
Steve let out a soft, breathless laugh, pulling her into his chest. He held her tightly, his arms locking around her waist as the rain beat against the concrete steps outside.
"Let's go get our kids," he whispered into her hair.
The Peace Refined
Three days later, the storm had entirely cleared from the skies over Oahu, leaving the island looking washed, vibrant, and green under a brilliant Saturday sun.
The backyard of the McGarrett home was filled with the smell of charcoaled meat and sweet teriyaki sauce. The heavy wooden play set stood exactly where it belonged, the shadow of the palm trees dancing across the grass. Danny Williams was sitting in a lawn chair, a cold beer in his hand, loudly lecturing Chin Ho about the proper way to marinate a flank steak while Kono threw a small rubber ball to John and Clara.
Catherine Rollins was gone. She had left the island on a military transport the previous morning, her security clearance restored but her ties to the Hawaiian task force permanently severed. There had been no dramatic goodbyes, no lingering glances on the porch. Just a clean, final break.
Steve stood by the large stone grill, a pair of tongs in his hand, a completely peaceful smile on his face as he watched his children run across the grass. Little Steven Jr. was sitting on a blanket near his feet, happily chewing on a plastic toy truck.
Y/N walked out of the house, wearing a bright sundress that matched the blue of the ocean behind her. The small scratch on her cheek was almost entirely healed, a tiny pink line that only added to the fierce beauty of her face. She walked up behind Steve, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her cheek against his broad back.
"Danny’s been complaining about the heat for forty-five minutes," she murmured, her voice full of amusement.
"Danny would complain if we gave him a million dollars in an air-conditioned room," Steve replied, setting the tongs down and turning around in her embrace to face her. He looked down at her, his hands resting on her hips, his heart full to the point of aching.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his eyes searching hers. "After everything this week?"
Y/N looked out at the yard, at John catching the ball from Kono, at Clara laughing as she chased a butterfly, and then back up into Steve’s eyes. The certainty that had brought her across an ocean to this exact house was brighter than ever.
"I've never been better, Commander," she said, her voice steady, warm, and entirely content. "The foundation held. It always will."
Steve leaned down, his lips finding hers in a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of salt, summer, and a future that no ghost from the past could ever touch. The universe had written their story in his sleep, but as he pulled his wife closer under the warm Hawaiian sun, Steve knew that the reality was infinitely better than the dream. He was exactly where he belonged. He was home.
The Uninvited Guest
The sun dipped lower, casting long, amber shadows across the grass. The laughter of the children slowed to a sleepy, comfortable murmur as Kono corralled them toward the patio for a makeshift game of cards. Danny had finally ceased his monologue on meat preservation and was nursing the last of his beer, his feet propped up on a plastic cooler.
The peace was absolute. Which was exactly why the sudden, deep rumble of a heavy engine down the long driveway shattered the atmosphere like a stone through a glass pane.
Steve’s posture changed instantly. The relaxed slope of his shoulders vanished, replaced by the rigid, defensive stance of a seasoned operator. Y/N felt the shift before she heard the vehicle, her eyes instantly scanning the tree line bordering the property.
A sleek, black Chevrolet Suburban—government plates, heavily tinted windows—rolled slowly past the gate, its tires crunching deliberately against the gravel before coming to a smooth halt right behind Steve’s truck.
"We expecting the Governor?" Danny muttered, dropping his feet off the cooler, his hand drifting instinctively toward his belt where his badge usually sat.
"No," Steve said, his voice dropping into a low, cautious register. "Denning calls first."
The heavy driver’s side door opened. A young man in a crisp, sharp military uniform stepped out, but he didn't approach. Instead, he walked swiftly to the rear passenger door, opening it with absolute precision and standing at attention.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out into the Hawaiian heat. He wore a crisp, tailored charcoal civilian suit that couldn't hide the rigid, unyielding military bearing etched into his very spine. His hair was a severe, cropped silver, his jawline sharp as a razor, and his eyes—cold, calculating, and piercingly intelligent—swept over the property with an air of complete authority.
The physical resemblance was undeniable. He had the exact same sharp brow and high cheekbones as the woman standing next to Steve.
Y/N went entirely, terrifyingly still. The hand that had been resting warmly on Steve’s hip slowly clenched into a white-knuckled fist.
"General Vance," Steve murmured, the pieces of his three-month-old prophecy falling into place with a sickening thud.
The silver-haired man closed the car door behind him, ignoring the young officer entirely as he began a slow, deliberate march across the grass lawn. He didn't look at Danny, he didn't look at Chin or Kono, and he barely spared a glance for the three children staring at him from the patio. His eyes were locked entirely on his daughter.
"Hello, Y/N," General Vance said, his voice carrying the deep, booming resonance of a man who spent forty years commanding battlefields and boardrooms. He stopped exactly six feet away, his arms folded behind his back, his posture as stiff as an iron rod. "It seems the Pacific air has made you soft. You used to notice a tail before it reached your sector."
The Clash of Titans
The silence that settled over the backyard was heavier than the storm that had passed days before. Danny and Chin had stepped off the porch, quietly positioning themselves within striking distance, their expressions entirely devoid of their usual warmth.
Y/N stepped around Steve, forcing her husband to let go of her waist. She walked forward two paces, meeting her father’s icy stare with a blazing, unyielding fire of her own.
"You have exactly thirty seconds to tell me how you got past my perimeter protocols, Vance," Y/N said, her voice a dangerous, velvet hiss that cut through the ocean breeze. "And then you have thirty seconds to get back in that vehicle before I treat you like an enemy combatant."
The General’s jaw tightened, a flash of old, familiar rage crossing his features before he masked it with a patronizing smirk. "Still the same insolent girl who walked out of my office in D.C. I see you haven't learned respect for the chain of command."
"You lost your command over me the night you told me I was dead to the family," she countered, her voice steady, hard, and entirely devoid of filial affection. "You don't get to pull rank in my backyard. Speak your piece or get off my island."
General Vance shifted his gaze slowly, his eyes landing on Steve for the first time. He evaluated the Navy commander with a cold, analytical sweep, noting the calloused hands, the stance, and the wedding ring.
"Commander McGarrett," Vance said, his tone clipped. "I’ve read your file. Highly decorated, entirely reckless, and a liability to the uniform. It seems my daughter found exactly what she was looking for—a man who plays by his own rules because he’s too weak to follow the ones written for him."
Steve took a slow step forward, his massive frame towering slightly over the older man. The protector in him was roaring, but his military discipline kept his voice entirely under control. "General, with all due respect to the stars on your old uniform, you’re standing on private property. If you came here to insult my wife or my record, you can take it up with the Governor's office. Otherwise, the gate is behind you."
"I didn't come here to trade barbs with a provincial task force leader," the General snapped, turning his focus back to Y/N, his hand coming out to gesture sharply toward the house. "A Tier-One Blackwatch splinter cell was dismantled on this island three days ago. The Department of Defense is in a frenzy. The data leak originated from a naval archive linked to your little unit here."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a harsh, commanding whisper. "Your grandfather's name is on the hull of a carrier, Y/N. Your legacy belongs to the capital, not a sandbox in the middle of the ocean. The Pentagon is opening a formal inquiry into the security breach of Five-0. They wanted to send a marshal. I intervened. I came to give you one last chance to salvage what’s left of your career before they strip your security clearance and drag your name through a public court-martial."
"A court-martial for what?" Y/N laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that made the General’s eyes narrow. "For defending the state capital? For putting down the rabid dogs your old agency friends failed to leash? We cleared the threat, Vance. The perimeter is secure."
"The threat is never cleared when you’re playing house with a target on your back!" Vance roared, slamming his fist metaphorically into the air between them, his face contorting into the exact mask of fury Steve had witnessed in his dreams years ago. "Look at you! A brilliant tactical mind, wasted on local smuggling routes and low-level scum! You belong in Washington, running joint operations, not hiding behind a badge because you wanted to prove a point to me!"
The Final Line
Before Y/N could reply, a small, tentative voice broke through the tension.
"Mommy?"
Five-year-old John had slipped away from Kono’s grasp on the patio. He walked slowly across the grass, his bright eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion as he looked at the angry silver-haired man. He reached out, his tiny hand catching the fabric of Y/N’s sundress, pulling himself close to her leg. "Mommy, why is that man shouting at you?"
The General froze. He looked down at the boy, his severe expression faltering for a fraction of a second as he saw the unmistakable line of his own family’s features in John’s face—the same high brow, the same sharp, intelligent eyes.
Y/N immediately dropped to one knee, her entire demeanor transforming in a heartbeat. The lethal Ranger frost vanished, replaced by the fierce, protective warmth of a mother. She wrapped her arm around her son, pulling him securely into her side, her eyes never leaving her father’s face.
"It’s okay, John," Y/N whispered, her voice carrying a chilling, absolute finality as she stared up at the General. "The man was just leaving."
She stood back up, keeping John tucked behind her leg. She looked at General Vance, and for the first time, there was no anger in her face—only a profound, unyielding pity.
"You think my life is wasted here, Vance?" Y/N said softly, her hand resting on her son’s shoulder. "Look around you. I spent years in the mud fighting wars for men who sat behind mahogany desks and treated lives like chess pieces. I thought that was the only way to be strong. But I came here, and I built something real. I found a man who would die to protect this family, and I have three children who will never know the cold, bitter isolation you call a 'legacy.'"
She pointed a single, steady finger toward the black Suburban waiting in the driveway.
"Take your Pentagon inquiry, take your D.C. politics, and get out of my yard. If a single investigator steps foot on this island to threaten my family, I won't just fight them in a courtroom—I will bring the full weight of Five-0 and the Governor's office down on your department. You have no power here, General. You’re just a ghost in a suit."
General Vance stared at his daughter, his chest heaving as he searched her face for any sign of hesitation, any crack in the armor he had helped forge. He found nothing but concrete. He looked at Steve, who stood like a stone guardian beside her, and then down at the boy who carried his blood but would never know his name.
The old man’s shoulders dropped an imperceptible fraction. The commanding posture didn't shatter, but the illusion of his absolute authority vanished into the warm tropical air.
"You've made your bed, Y/N," the General said, his voice dropping into a cold, flat monotone. "Don't look to Washington when the foundation cracks."
"The foundation is built on rock, Vance," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "Not paper."
The General turned on his heel without another word, his leather shoes cutting sharp tracks into the lush green grass as he marched back to the waiting vehicle. The young officer opened the door, Vance stepped inside, and the heavy black SUV rolled down the driveway, its engine fading into the distant, eternal roar of the Pacific surf until it was completely gone.
Steve moved instantly, dropping the tongs onto the grill table and wrapping his large arms around Y/N from behind, pulling both her and John into his massive chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin, while Danny and Chin let out a collective, long-awaited sigh of relief in the background.
"He's gone, Y/N," Steve whispered, his thumb smoothing over her knuckles as John wrapped his arms around his father's leg. "He's gone."
Y/N let her head fall back against Steve's shoulder, the final remnant of her old life officially washing away with the tide. She looked across the sunlit yard where Clara and little Steven Jr. were already giggling again, entirely safe in the sanctuary they had fought so hard to defend.
"I know," she murmured, a genuine, radiant smile breaking across her face as she turned in his arms to kiss him. "Let's finish dinner, Commander. Our family is hungry."
The Aftermath of the Storm
The smoke from the black Suburban had long since cleared from the coastal road, but the emotional ozone stayed behind, thick and heavy.
The smoke from the black Suburban had long since cleared from the coastal road, but the emotional ozone stayed behind, thick and heavy.
Danny was the first to move, walking over with a stride that was entirely too energetic for a man who had just witnessed a multi-generational family standoff. He stopped right at the edge of the patio, pointing a finger at the driveway.
"Okay, look, I’m just going to say what everyone is thinking because silence gives me an ulcer," Danny began, waving his hands in his signature frantic rhythm. "Your father, Y/N? Delightful man. A real ray of sunshine. He makes my ex-mother-in-law look like a warm cup of cocoa. The posture, the silver hair, the absolute, unwavering certainty that he owns the western hemisphere? It’s terrifying. I mean, Steven is bad enough with the 'I'm a Navy SEAL, I don't need a map' routine, but the General? That is a man who has a personal contract with the concept of misery."
Y/N let out a soft, genuine laugh, the last of the tension draining from her shoulders as she picked up Steven Jr. from the blanket. "He’s an acquired taste, Danny. And by acquired, I mean most people choose to avoid it entirely."
"Yeah, well, consider me a lifelong avoider," Danny muttered, though his eyes softened completely as he reached out to ruffle John's hair. "You did good, kiddo. Standing up to the big scary general. You want an extra hot dog? Uncle Danny will pull rank on your dad to get you one."
"Yes, please," John said, his small face brightening instantly as he followed Danny back toward the grill.
Chin Ho and Kono walked over next, their expressions calm but deeply grounded. Chin placed a steady hand on Steve’s shoulder. "The Governor called while the General was walking back to his car, Steve. Denning wanted you to know that Vance’s little excursion wasn't authorized through state channels. The Pentagon tried to bypass him, and Denning is already on the phone with the Secretary of the Navy to remind them exactly who has jurisdiction over this rock."
Steve nodded, a hard, grateful smile touching his lips. "Thanks, Chin. Tell Denning I owe him a box of those expensive cigars he likes."
"I'll pass it along," Chin smiled, turning to join Kono and the kids on the grass, leaving Steve and Y/N alone by the edge of the deck.
The Anchor in the Deep
The twilight had officially settled over the island, turning the Pacific into a vast sheet of liquid silver beneath a ceiling of dark violet and brilliant, emerging stars. The children had finally collapsed into a pile of blankets inside the living room, completely exhausted by the day’s high-stakes family drama, leaving the back porch in a quiet, sacred stillness.
Steve sat on the wooden bench, a fresh Longboard beer in his hand, though he wasn't drinking it. His eyes were fixed on Y/N, who was leaning against the railing, her face illuminated by the soft, warm glow of the tiki torches flickering in the wind.
"You're remarkably quiet," Steve said gently, breaking the silence.
Y/N turned her head, looking at him through the dark strands of her hair. "Just thinking about how patterns repeat themselves, Steve. Your father left you a box of mysteries and a lifetime of unanswered questions because he was trying to protect you from the dark. My father tried to force me into a light that wasn't mine so he could control the legacy. Both of them were so consumed by the uniform that they forgot how to just be a parent."
Steve stood up slowly, setting the beer down, and walked over to stand directly behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest until she let her weight settle into him.
"We break the pattern, Y/N," Steve murmured, his chin resting against her shoulder, his eyes tracking the dark line of the surf. "John, Clara, and Steven... they’re never going to wonder if they’re enough. They’re never going to have to walk out of an office or a house to find out who they are. We give them the backyard. We give them the beach. And we give them a home where the armor stays in the closet."
Y/N twisted in his embrace, turning around to face him completely. She reached up, her cool fingers tracing the sharp, familiar line of his jaw, her bright eyes burning with that absolute, undeniable certainty that had defined their lives from the moment they met.
"You're a good man, Commander McGarrett," she whispered, her lips just inches from his.
"I have a good teacher," Steve replied softly.
When he kissed her this time, it wasn't a tactical truce or a victory celebration after a firefight. It was the deep, quiet rhythm of two souls that had survived the storm, conquered the ghosts of their past, and found a peace that no general, no intelligence agency, and no ocean could ever take away. They were built from the same steel, but together, under the Hawaiian sky, they had finally learned how to heal.
Patient Zero
The tropical heat usually broke around 3:00 AM, ushering in a cool, salt-tinged breeze that made the heavy curtains in the McGarrett house sway like ghosts. But on a Tuesday morning, the air inside the master bedroom felt thick, heavy, and charged with an uneasy stillness.
Steve woke up before his alarm, his internal military clock registering a sound that didn't belong to the rhythm of the ocean. It was a low, wet cough coming from the end of the hallway.
He slid out from beneath the sheets, careful not to wake Y/N, who was deep in a rare, heavy sleep after a grueling week of state audits at the palace. He padded down the dark hallway in his bare feet, his hand automatically guiding him toward three-year-old Clara’s room.
The moment he pushed the door open, the scent of lavender vapor rub and fevered heat hit him. Clara was tangled in her pink sheets, her wild, dark hair damp and plastered to her forehead. She was shivering, a small, pathetic whimper escaping her lips as she tossed her head from side to side.
"Clara-bear," Steve murmured, dropping to his knees beside the low toddler bed. He placed his massive, calloused hand gently against her forehead. It felt like a hot stone straight out of the fire.
Clara’s eyes snapped open—glassy, rimmed with red, and entirely miserable. The moment she recognized the towering silhouette of her father, her little face crumpled. She didn't call out for her mother; she scrambled forward on her hands and knees, burying her burning face straight into the crook of Steve’s neck.
"Daddy," she wailed, her voice a tiny, gravelly rasp. "My throat hurts. Hold me. Don't go away."
"I've got you, baby. I'm right here," Steve whispered, lifting her small frame effortlessly against his chest. He grabbed her favorite fleece blanket, wrapping her up like a tactical bundle, and began to pace the length of the small bedroom, rocking her with a practiced, steady rhythm.
The door clicked open, and Y/N stood in the threshold, her hair messy from sleep, her instincts instantly sharp. "Steve? I heard coughing. Is she—"
The moment Clara heard her mother’s voice, she tightened her arms around Steve’s neck with a fierce, surprising strength. "No! No Mommy! Only Daddy! Daddy hold me!"
Y/N blinked, her hand resting on the doorframe as she took in the sight of her daughter practically trying to burrow into Steve’s chest. She stepped closer, reaching out a hand to touch Clara's back, but the toddler let out a congested shriek, turning her face away completely.
"Wow," Y/N whispered, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips despite the worry in her eyes. "Rejected by my own lieutenant. What’s her temperature?"
"She’s burning up," Steve said, his face tight as he kept up the steady pacing, his large hand rubbing soothing circles into Clara’s back. "Feels like at least 102°C. Go grab the liquid Tylenol and a cold washcloth from the bathroom."
"On it," Y/N said, already moving.
For the next four hours, Steve was a prisoner in the living room rocking chair. Clara refused to be put down, refused to let Y/N administer the medicine, and threw a full-scale tantrum if Steve even attempted to shift her to his other shoulder. She fell into a fitful, feverish doze, her hot breaths puffing against Steve’s collarbone, her tiny fingers locked securely into the fabric of his Navy t-shirt.
"You're stuck," Y/N observed around 7:00 AM, walking into the living room with a mug of black coffee, which she carefully held to Steve’s lips so he could take a sip without moving his arms.
"I've held perimeter watch in worse conditions than this," Steve whispered back, his voice rough but full of an immense, gentle devotion. "Just call Danny. Tell him I'm taking a personal day. Clara’s patient zero."
The Coalition of the Sick
By Wednesday afternoon, the perimeter had completely collapsed.
It started at breakfast. Five-year-old John, who usually ran through the house like a miniature hurricane, was sitting blankly at the kitchen table, staring at a bowl of cereal as if he didn't recognize what it was. His shoulders were slouched, and his eyes had that same telltale, glassy sheen that Clara’s had the day before.
"John, buddy, you okay?" Steve asked, setting down a fresh bottle of bleach spray he’d been using to sanitize every doorknob in the house.
John didn't answer. He just let out a dry, hacking cough that rattled through his small ribs, slid off the chair, and marched straight across the kitchen floor. He didn't look at his mother, who was currently preparing a pot of chicken broth. He walked straight to Steve, grabbed a fistful of his cargo shorts, and buried his face in his dad’s thigh.
"I want Daddy," John muttered, his voice muffled by the fabric. "My head is spinning."
"Oh, no," Y/N sighed, leaning her hands against the counter, looking at the unfolding disaster. "John too. Let me feel your head, sweetie."
When Y/N bent down to touch him, John pulled away, scrambling around behind Steve’s legs to use his father as a human shield. "No, Daddy do it! Daddy’s hands are cold!"
Steve looked down at his oldest son, then across the room at the sofa where Clara was still curled up in a miserable, blanket-wrapped ball, refusing to move unless Steve was within a three-foot radius.
"Alright, partner," Steve said, scooping John up with his free arm. The boy was heavy now, but Steve just shifted his weight, balancing John on his left hip while Clara watched them sleepily from the couch. "Looks like you're joining the bunker."
The real coup d'état occurred at noon.
Toddler Steven Jr., who had spent the morning blissfully immune and chewing on his plastic blocks, suddenly let out a sharp, pathetic wail from his playpen. Y/N rushed over, lifting him up, only to find his shirt entirely soaked through with sweat. His cheeks were bright crimson, and he was shivering violently against the humid midday heat.
"Steve!" Y/N called out, her voice carrying a rare note of domestic panic. "We have a third breach! The baby’s got it!"
The moment Steve walked into the room, carrying both John and a whining Clara like a pair of oversized tactical gear bags, little Steven Jr. caught sight of him. The toddler let out a heartbroken sob, completely rejecting Y/N’s attempt to cradle him, and literally lunged out of her arms toward his father.
"Dada! Dada! Up! Up!" the baby shrieked, his tiny arms flailing in the air.
"Whoa, whoa, buddy, careful," Steve said, his military reflexes kicking in as he caught the baby against his chest, somehow managing to support three feverish, sweating, miserable children all at once.
Y/N stood back, her arms completely empty, looking at her husband who was currently buried under a mountain of sick toddlers. She let out a helpless, breathless laugh. "Well, Commander... they’ve completely mutinied against me. They don't want the Ranger. They only want the SEAL."
"They're smart," Steve grunted, though his face was a mask of pure, concentrated concentration as he carefully navigated his way back to the oversized sectional sofa, lowering himself into the cushions as all three children instantly rearranged themselves on top of him like a pack of sick puppy dogs. John rested his heavy head on Steve’s left shoulder, Clara curled into his right side, and baby Steven Jr. sprawled completely flat across his chest, his thumb firmly planted in his mouth.
"You look like a giant, heavily armed mattress," Y/N said, walking over and gently placing a cold, damp washcloth across the baby’s burning forehead, since Steve had no hands left to do it himself.
"Just keep the fluids coming, corporate," Steve muttered, his arms locked around his entire world, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm designed to soothe the three feverish heartbeats ticking against his own.
The Quarantine Order
The Five-0 smart-table was entirely forgotten on Thursday morning when Danny Williams’ voice exploded through Steve’s cell phone speaker, which was currently sitting on the coffee table on max volume because Steve still couldn't move his arms.
"Steven! What is going on over there? The Governor is asking about the human trafficking warrant, Chin is down at the docks doing three people’s jobs, and I am currently staring at a stack of state reports that look like ancient hieroglyphics!" Danny yelled, the background noise of the palace bullpen audible behind him. "Are you dead? Have you been taken hostage by a foreign cartel? Give me a sign of life, Steven!"
"Danny, shut up, you're gonna wake the baby," Steve whispered harshly down at the phone, his face completely rigid as Steven Jr. stirred slightly on his chest before settling back down.
"Wake the baby? What are you talking about, wake the baby?" Danny snapped, his tone instantly shifting from irritation to deep concern. "Wait... did the plague hit the fortress?"
"They're all down, Danny," Y/N’s voice came from the kitchen, where she was currently organizing a small pharmacy of juice boxes, electrolyte solutions, and fever reducers. "Every single one of them. 103°C fevers across the board. And they’ve formed a selective union—they will only allow Steve to touch them. If I get within two feet, it’s an international incident."
A long pause hung over the line before Danny let out a loud, theatrical sigh that practically rattled the phone’s microphone. "Oh, the classic McGarrett stubbornness. Even when their immune systems are failing, they double down on the drama. They only want the big, scary commander. Of course they do. Why would they want their lovely, highly trained mother when they can use a six-foot-one piece of military granite as a cooling pad?"
"Exactly," Y/N laughed, walking into the living room and carefully placing a fresh washcloth on John’s forehead. "He’s been trapped on that couch for twenty-four hours, Danny. I think his legs have permanently adapted to the cushions."
"Listen to me, Steven," Danny said, his voice dropping into a softer, genuinely fond register. "You stay on that couch. You be the mattress. Don't you dare move and disturb my niece and nephews. Chin and I have the palace covered. If anyone tries to break down a door on this island today, I will personally throw a tire iron at them. You just take care of the bunker."
"Thanks, Danno," Steve whispered, a genuine, tired smile breaking through his exhaustion. "See you tomorrow."
"Yeah, yeah. Drink some water, you idiot. Goodbye."
The line went dead, and the quiet of the quarantine house returned. Y/N walked over, sliding onto the small empty space at the end of the sectional, resting her head against Steve’s free knee. She looked at the three children, their breathing finally deep, rhythmic, and peaceful as the medicine finally began to break the fever’s hold.
Steve looked down at his wife, then down at the three little lives draped over his chest and arms. His back ached, his legs were entirely numb, and his shirt was ruined from a combination of sweat and vapor rub. But as he looked at the quiet security in his children’s faces, he knew that this, too, was exactly what his dreams had promised him. The uniform didn't matter. The task force didn't matter. In the middle of the storm, he was their anchor, and he would hold the line for as long as they needed him to stay.
The Long Watch
By 2:00 AM on Friday morning, the living room had transitioned from a quarantine zone into a battle-tested command post. The only light came from the soft, low amber glow of the salt lamp on the side table, casting long, peaceful shadows across the room. The tropical rain had returned, tapping a gentle, rhythmic cadence against the glass panes that seemed to keep the children locked in their deep, healing sleep.
Steve hadn’t shifted an inch in nearly six hours. His left arm was completely devoid of circulation where John’s heavy, five-year-old head was nestled, and Clara’s small hand was still locked firmly around his right index finger like a tiny vice. On his chest, Steven Jr.’s breathing had finally slowed from the rapid, shallow puffs of a high fever into the deep, steady rise and fall of a breaking sickness.
The soft scuff of bare feet on the hardwood signaled Y/N’s return. She had caught a three-hour pocket of sleep herself, and she looked rested, her eyes sharp and clear in the amber light. She carried a fresh, ice-cold bottle of water and a clean, damp cloth.
She knelt silently by the edge of the sofa, navigating the tangle of blankets with surgical precision. She pressed the back of her hand to Steven Jr.’s neck first, then moved to Clara and John.
"The fever broke," she whispered, her voice a low, velvet thread of pure relief. "They’re cool, Steve. Every single one of them."
Steve let out a long, slow breath that he felt like he’d been holding since Tuesday. "Thank God. I think my spine has officially fused with the frame of this couch."
"Let me take the baby," she murmured, reaching out with her arms open. "He’s entirely asleep. He won't even notice the transfer."
As if sensing the incoming tactical maneuver, Steven Jr. let out a tiny, congested whimper in his sleep, his little brow furrowing as he buried his face deeper into the center of Steve’s chest, his tiny fist tightening on the collar of Steve's shirt.
Y/N froze, her hands hovering an inch away before she slowly pulled them back, a soft, defeated smile breaking across her face. "Unbelievable. The kid has proximity sensors built into his subconscious. He’s completely locked on to your frequency."
"He knows his commander," Steve whispered back, a tired, fiercely proud gleam in his eyes. "Just leave him, corporate. I've got the watch."
Y/N didn't argue. Instead, she sat down on the floor directly beside the sofa, resting her back against the cushions right near Steve’s legs. She took the ice-cold water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and held it to his lips, allowing him to drink deeply without disturbing the sleeping coalition on his chest.
"You're a stubborn man, Steven McGarrett," she said softly, leaning her head back against his knee.
"You married a SEAL, Y/N. You knew the parameters of the contract," he murmured, his large hand gently smoothing over Clara’s dark, wild curls. "Besides... after all those years of staring at an empty porch, I'm not about to complain about a full house. Even if they're using me as a human cooling pad."
The Morning After
The tropical sun broke through the clouds at 7:00 AM, flooding the living room with a bright, blindingly clean golden light that washed away the last lingering shadows of the sickness.
The transition from a silent recovery ward to absolute chaos happened in a matter of seconds.
Steven Jr. was the first to blink his eyes open. He sat up straight on Steve’s chest, rubbed his eyes with his chubby fists, and let out a loud, bubbly squeal that instantly shattered the quiet of the room. "Dada! Breakfast! I want juice!"
The sudden movement woke John and Clara, who scrambled up from Steve’s sides like two energetic puppies. The glassiness in their eyes was entirely gone, replaced by the high-octane, chaotic energy that usually defined the McGarrett backyard.
"Daddy, I'm hungry! Can we have pancakes?" Clara shouted, bouncing on the cushions, completely unbothered by the fact that she had been a shivering, miserable ball of fever twelve hours prior.
"I want chocolate chips in mine!" John added, launching himself off the sofa and sprinting toward the kitchen in his pajamas.
Steve lay completely flat against the sofa for a long moment, his limbs tingling as the blood flow finally rushed back into his deadened nerves. Let let out a loud, groaning laugh, rolling his shoulders as Y/N walked in from the kitchen, a brilliant, radiant smile on her face as she intercepted John before he could raid the pantry.
"Alright, the mutiny is officially over," Y/N called out, her voice full of laughter as she picked up Steven Jr., who this time happily wrapped his arms around her neck, entirely forgetting his forty-eight-hour rejection of her. "The chain of command has been restored. Go wash your hands, troopers. Daddy needs ten minutes to learn how to walk again."
Steve slowly swung his legs over the edge of the sofa, his joints popping audibly as he stood up to his full height. He walked into the kitchen, his bare feet tracking the warm morning sun on the hardwood, and came up behind Y/N while she was pouring the pancake batter onto the griddle.
He wrapped his large, heavy arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on her shoulder as they watched their three children bicker happily over who got the blue plate at the kitchen table.
"They don't look like they were at death's door yesterday," Steve murmured, his heart full to the point of bursting as he kissed the side of her neck.
"That's the beauty of the backyard, Commander," Y/N said softly, twisting in his arms to face him, her bright eyes reflecting the brilliant Hawaiian sky outside the window. "We fight the fever, we hold the line, and then we get back to living."
Steve smiled, a wide, permanent expression of pure peace as he leaned down to kiss his wife, the quiet rhythm of the crashing waves outside sealing the absolute certainty that no matter what storm came next, their foundation was entirely unbreakable.
The Request for Backup
The smell of sweet, golden pancakes and sizzling bacon had just begun to calm the morning chaos when the sound of a vehicle door slamming echoed from the driveway.
A moment later, the front door swung open without a single knock. Danny Williams walked into the kitchen, carrying an enormous, bright red plastic container in one hand and a cardboard tray of premium coffees in the other. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting from John, who was currently trying to feed a pancake piece to a toy dinosaur, to Clara, who was enthusiastically coloring outside the lines of a textbook.
"Look at this. Look at this absolute miracle of modern medicine," Danny announced, setting the coffees down on the counter with a dramatic flourish. "Yesterday, I am told the McGarrett fortress is a plague ship. I am told that if I approach the perimeter, I will be struck down by a highly localized, hyper-aggressive toddler fever. Today, I walk in, and it’s a standard, chaotic Tuesday morning at Chuck E. Cheese. What did you do to them, Steven? Did you give them Navy combat rations? Did you inject them with adrenaline?"
Steve, who was finally nursing a hot mug of black coffee while leaning against the counter, let out a rough laugh. "It’s called sleep, Danny. And a lot of Tylenol."
"Yeah, well, whatever it is, I brought backup," Danny said, tapping the heavy plastic container. "This is my mother’s legendary chicken noodle soup. It has been frozen, preserved, and transported across state lines. It cures everything from the common cold to existential dread. I want every single one of these children to eat a bowl, because if that fever makes a tactical resurgence, I am not covering your shift again, Steven. Chin Ho is currently asleep at his desk, and I had to read an administrative brief on maritime zoning laws that nearly caused my brain to shut down permanently."
Y/N stepped away from the stove, a bright, grateful smile on her face as she took the container from him. "Thanks, Danny. The bunker appreciates the supply drop."
"Don't thank me, thank the soup," Danny muttered, though he immediately dropped to his knees as Steven Jr. wobbled over, lifting the toddler up onto his hip with an ease that only came from years of being an uncle. "Hey there, buddy. You look much better. Your head doesn't feel like a molten lava cake anymore."
"Uncle Danno!" Clara squealed, abandoning her coloring book to sprint across the floor, launching herself straight at his legs.
The New Grid
By Saturday afternoon, the domestic routine had fully stabilized, but the lessons of the week remained etched into the quiet moments of the house.
The tropical sun was baking the sand outside the back deck, the brilliant blue waves of the Pacific rolling in with a lazy, soothing rhythm. Steve sat on the bottom step of the porch, his long legs stretched out into the cool grass, a small piece of sandpaper in his hand as he meticulously smoothed down a rough edge on the wooden play set's ladder.
The screen door slid open with a soft hiss, and Y/N walked out, carrying two cold Longboards. She slid down onto the step beside him, handing him a bottle before resting her chin on his shoulder.
"You're still working on that?" she asked softly, watching his large, calloused fingers trace the grain of the wood.
"John took a spill near the slide last week before he got sick," Steve murmured, his voice low and grounded. "Just making sure the perimeter is clear. No rough edges."
Y/N smiled, leaning her weight into his side. "You held the line this week, Steve. The kids... they didn't just want a cooling pad. They wanted the absolute certainty that nothing could touch them while you were holding them. You gave them that."
Steve set the sandpaper down, turning his head to look into her bright, intelligent eyes. The memory of his old, empty house seemed like a lifetime ago, a distant shadow completely erased by the loud, beautiful reality of the family they had built.
"I spent years thinking that being a protector meant standing on a ridge with a rifle, Y/N," Steve said, his hand moving to cover hers, his thumb smoothing over her knuckles. "But this week... sitting on that couch for forty-eight hours with three sick kids entirely dependent on me... that’s the real work. That’s the grid I want to defend for the rest of my life."
Y/N reached up, her fingers catching the back of his neck as she pulled him down into a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt, summer, and an absolute, unbreakable peace.
Across the lawn, the loud, chaotic laughter of John and Clara echoed through the tropical air as they chased Danny’s car down the driveway, their voices rising up to meet the eternal roar of the surf. The storm had passed, the fevers had broken, and under the brilliant Hawaiian sun, the McGarrett home stood entirely secure on a foundation that nothing could ever shake.
The Broken Frequency
The peace that followed the fever didn’t last long. In their line of work, a quiet house was rarely a sign of safety; it was the heavy, suffocating stillness that preceded a visual contact.
It was exactly three weeks after General Vance’s black Suburban had left their driveway when the alarm on Steve’s personal secure terminal began to ping. It wasn't the loud, intrusive siren of a palace breach, but the low, rhythmic chirp of an encrypted emergency satellite frequency—one that had been dormant for nearly a year.
Steve was in the garage, a socket wrench in his hand as he adjusted the alternator bracket on his father's old Mercury. The moment the tone hit the air, the wrench went silent.
Y/N walked down the wooden steps from the kitchen, a stack of freshly folded laundry balanced against her hip. She stopped on the bottom step, her eyes tracking the blue light flashing on the small transmitter mounted near Steve's workbench.
"That's a direct agency routing," Y/N said, her tone dropping into the clipped, flat cadence of an intelligence analyst. "Not the task force."
Steve didn't answer. He wiped his oil-stained hands on a shop rag, stepped over to the bench, and hit the receiver. The static that filled the garage was thick, distorted by atmospheric interference and a heavy, intentional digital scrub.
"Steve..."
The voice was barely recognizable through the distortion, but the cadence was unmistakable. It was Catherine. Her breathing was ragged, gasping, punctured by the sharp, metallic echo of high-caliber rounds hitting hollow steel somewhere in the background.
"Cath, what's your status? Where are you?" Steve demanded, leaning over the console, his thumb locking the channel down to an encrypted secondary relay.
"They didn't... they didn't leave the island, Steve," Catherine choked out, a wet, rattling cough cutting off her breath. "Waincroft’s splinter cell... the evacuation at the harbor was a feint. They pulled me off the transport grid in international waters. They brought me back. I'm at the old naval fuel storage facility... near the ridge. They’re tracking the signal... they know I'm transmitting..."
A heavy, concussive explosion shattered the audio feed, followed by the deafening scream of a severed connection. The blue light on the terminal went dead, returning the garage to a heavy, suffocating silence.
Y/N set the laundry basket down on the steps with a slow, deliberate finality. She walked over to the bench, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her husband as she stared at the blank monitor.
"The old naval facility on the ridge has been decommissioned since ninety-three," Y/N said, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, icy clarity. "It’s a network of concrete bunkers bored straight into the volcanic rock. Perfect for an interrogation box. Perfect for an ambush."
Steve looked at his wife, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line. "She was supposed to be on a transport to D.C., Y/N. If they intercepted her in international waters, this isn't a local hit anymore. This is a salvage operation."
"I don't care about the agency’s salvage," Y/N said, her voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying register that made her look exactly like the soldier from Steve’s dreams. "But she brought a fire team to our palace three weeks ago, and now she’s bleeding out three miles from our children. We don't leave a visual unaccounted for, Commander. Grab the gear."
The Ridge
The storm clouds over the Koʻolau Range looked like a wall of black iron as the armored Five-0 SUV tore up the winding, overgrown mountain road. Danny Williams was in the passenger seat, his fingers white around the grab handle as Steve took a sharp, gravel-slick turn at seventy miles per hour.
"Steven! I am begging you, for the love of sanity, let the helicopter handle the high ground!" Danny yelled, his tie flapping wildly through the cracked window. "We are driving up a mountain that has literally been abandoned by civilized society since the Cold War! The road is sixty percent moss and forty percent prayer!"
"Chin and Kono are already setting up a perimeter with HPD at the lower access tunnel, Danny," Steve snapped, his eyes locked onto the narrow, muddy track ahead. "The air is too thick for the chopper to drop a team on the ridge without giving away the approach. We go in dirty."
In the backseat, Y/N sat in total silence, the heavy tactical vest pulled tight over her black shirt. She was checking the bolt action on her customized suppression rifle, her movements smooth, rhythmic, and entirely devoid of emotion. She didn't look like a mother who had spent the last week fixing pancake plates; she looked like a tier-one operator about to clear a trench.
The vehicle slid to a halt beneath the massive, rust-eaten iron gates of the old fuel storage facility. The concrete structures were swallowed by dense tropical ferns and creeping vines, looking like ancient, brutalist tombs rotting in the mountain fog.
"Danny, take the secondary ventilation shaft. Cover our exit," Steve ordered as he checked his Sig Sauer, his face an unreadable mask of military ice. "Y/N, you have the high terrace. If anyone moves with a weapon, you take the shot."
"Don't have to tell me twice," Y/N said, already sliding out of the vehicle and moving into the dense foliage with the silent, ghost-like efficiency of a jungle-trained Ranger.
Steve watched her disappear into the green for a split second before turning toward the heavy, reinforced steel blast doors of the main bunker. The lock had been blown inward with a thermal charge—fresh carbon scoring still covered the iron. He raised his weapon, stepped into the dripping, pitch-black dark of the subterranean corridor, and let the shadow swallow him.
The Vault
The air inside the bunker smelled of old oil, wet concrete, and copper.
Steve moved through the darkness like a shadow, his tactical light casting narrow, violent beams across the rusted pipes and crumbling drywall. He tracked the crimson drops on the floor—fresh, bright, and leading straight toward the central pump vault.
When he stepped through the shattered threshold of the main vault, the scene looked like an execution box.
Catherine Rollins was bound to a heavy metal pipe near the center of the room. Her tailored suit was torn, stained with grease and her own blood, her face a mask of bruises and swelling. Standing directly behind her, his hand wrapped firmly into her hair to force her head back, was Gabriel Waincroft.
Three heavily armed mercenaries stood in a defensive wedge around them, their carbines trained on the only entrance.
"Commander McGarrett," Gabriel said, a sharp, toxic smile cutting across his face as Steve stepped into the light, his weapon raised and locked onto Gabriel's chest. "I knew the lady’s distress call would work. You’ve always had a soft spot for the things you couldn't keep."
"Gabriel," Steve said, his voice a flat, lethal monotone that didn't vibrate by a single hertz. "The building is surrounded. Your transport is gone. Let her go."
"Oh, I don't think so," Gabriel laughed, pulling Catherine’s head back tighter, making her let out a sharp, ragged gasp of pain. "The data she stole didn't just belong to the navy, Steve. It had my names on it. My accounts. My entire future. I'm not leaving this mountain without the decryption keys, and since she won't talk, I figure you’ll give them to me to save her life."
Catherine looked up through her swollen eyelids, her eyes meeting Steve's with a desperate, heavy sorrow. "Steve... don't... it's an ambush... they have the high ground..."
"She's right about the high ground, Commander," the lead mercenary said, his finger tightening on his trigger as he took a step forward.
Before the mercenary could finish his stride, a single, deafening crack echoed through the massive vault.
The reinforced glass skylight sixty feet above exploded inward. A single, high-velocity round tore through the lead mercenary’s tactical helmet, dropping him instantly onto the concrete floor without a sound.
"Sniper!" Gabriel screamed, trying to pull Catherine's body in front of his as a human shield.
But the crossfire was already set. Steve moved in the same millisecond, dropping to one knee as he fired four rapid, surgical shots into the two remaining mercenaries before they could even adjust their barrels. The rounds took them center-mass, driving them back into the dark corners of the vault.
Gabriel spun, his hand flying to his sidearm, but a second high-velocity round from the ceiling shattered the concrete right between his boots, the spray of stone cutting his face.
Y/N’s voice boomed down from the shattered skylight, amplified by her tactical headset, carrying the cold, absolute authority of a firing squad. "Step away from her, Waincroft. The next one goes through your spine."
Gabriel froze, his hand hovering over his holster, his face pale as he looked up at the silhouette of the woman standing on the iron girders above, her rifle locked onto his skull. He looked at Steve, who was already stepping over the fallen men, his Sig Sauer pointed straight at Gabriel's nose.
The silence that returned to the vault was absolute, broken only by the steady, heavy drip of water from the mountain above. Gabriel slowly raised his hands, stepping away from Catherine with a bitter, defeated sneer. "You people... you play dirty."
"We play to win, Gabriel," Steve said, his voice like stone as Danny Williams burst through the rear door with two HPD officers, ready to secure the prisoner.
Steve immediately dropped his weapon to his sling, kneeling beside Catherine as he used his combat knife to cut the heavy zip-ties around her wrists. He supported her shoulders as her body went limp from exhaustion, her head falling against his chest.
"I've got you, Cath," Steve murmured, his voice gentle but firm. "It's over."
From the girders above, Y/N lowered her rifle. She didn't come down to join the rescue circle. She stood in the high shadows, her bright, fierce eyes tracking the way her husband held his past, before she turned back toward the mountain air, her perimeter permanently secured.
The Broken Link
The descent from the ridge was a silent affair. The rain came down in sheets, washing the mountain mud from the armored SUV as it wound its way toward the military hospital at Tripler. Gabriel Waincroft was locked in an HPD transport miles behind them, but the heavy, suffocating silence inside Steve's vehicle remained unbroken.
Steve kept his eyes glued to the slick asphalt, his hands tight on the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, Y/N sat completely still, her suppressed rifle resting between her knees, her gaze fixed out the side window at the grey blur of the passing valley. She hadn't spoken since she dropped the lead mercenary from the skylight.
Danny met them at the hospital entrance, his face lined with anxiety as the medical corpsmen rushed Catherine inside on a gurney. She was conscious, her face swollen and pale, her eyes tracking Steve until the double doors of the trauma bay swung shut.
"She’s stable, Steven," Danny said, stepping into their path and looking between Steve and Y/N. "The doctors say it’s a couple of cracked ribs and some severe bruising, but she’s going to make it. The agency is already flying a secure transport in from Coronado to pick her up by tomorrow morning."
"Good," Steve said, his voice flat. "Thanks, Danny."
"Yeah, well, don't thank me yet," Danny muttered, his eyes darting to Y/N, who was already turning back toward the exit. "Your wife looks like she’s about to dismantle a weapon with her bare teeth, Steve. Go home. I’ll handle the paperwork with Denning."
Steve followed Y/N out to the parking lot. The rain had slowed to a heavy, humid mist by the time they reached the truck. He caught the handle of the driver’s side door, but before he could open it, Y/N turned to face him. Her expression wasn't angry; it was entirely empty, the cold, analytical mask of a soldier who had just completed a tactical objective.
"She’s alive, Steve. The threat is contained," Y/N said, her voice matching the chill of the mountain air. "But we’re done running toward her disasters."
"Y/N, she was captured because of the data leak that targeted our family," Steve reasoned, taking a half-step forward, his hand extending automatically toward her arm. "I couldn't just leave her up there to be executed."
"I know you couldn't," Y/N replied, stepping back just enough to let his hand miss her. "And I didn't ask you to. I went up that mountain with you, and I cleared the ridge because my family was at risk if Waincroft got those decryption keys. But I saw the way you held her, Steve. I saw the look in your eyes when you cut those ties."
"She’s my past, Y/N. It was a reflex—"
"It's a pattern," she interrupted, her bright eyes locking onto his with a fierce, heartbreaking clarity. "Catherine Rollins is a ghost that you keep trying to save because you feel responsible for the choices she made. But every time she bleeds, she brings the fire straight to our doorstep. First the palace bullpen, then the basement with our children, and now the ridge. I can fight any army the universe puts in front of me, Steve. But I won't fight the memory of a woman who gets a piece of your soul every time she gets hurt."
She pulled open the passenger door, stepping inside before he could answer, leaving Steve standing in the damp, heavy mist of the parking lot. The absolute, undeniable certainty that had defined their marriage for five years suddenly felt stretched, pulled tight by a wire that had been forged long before they ever met.
The Distance Between Waves
The house on the beach was entirely dark when they arrived. Chin Ho had left a note on the kitchen counter letting them know that John, Clara, and little Steven Jr. were fast asleep at Kono’s place for the night, a quiet mercy that gave the empty rooms a vast, heavy stillness.
Steve walked out onto the back porch, the weathered wood cold beneath his boots. He didn't grab a beer. He just stood by the railing, his eyes tracking the dark line where the ocean met the night sky, feeling the familiar, aching weight of isolation trying to creep back into his bones.
The screen door slid open behind him. Y/N didn't come to stand beside him at the railing. She sat on the old wooden bench, her hands resting in her lap, her eyes fixed on the flickering orange glow of a distant buoy out in the surf.
"When I was in the Rangers," Y/N said softly, her voice carrying a rare, vulnerable tremor that Steve had never heard before, "we were taught that a perimeter isn't just a line on a map. It’s an agreement. It means everyone inside the circle trusts that the space behind them is secure. The night Vance came to this yard, I drew that line. I told him my legacy was here, with you, in the mud."
She looked up, the starlight catching the sharp line of her jaw. "But on that ridge today, when I looked through my scope... I realized that your perimeter still has an open gate, Steve. And as long as Catherine has the keys to it, our children are sleeping in a fortress that’s built on shifting sand."
Steve turned around, walking over to kneel in front of her on the wooden deck. He took her hands, his large, warm fingers wrapping around her cold ones, refusing to let her pull away this time.
"Look at me, Y/N," Steve commanded softly, his voice thick with an immense, desperate gravity. "The dreams I had before you got here... they didn't show me Catherine. They showed me you. They showed me the Ranger in the sky, the fight with your father, and the three children running across this grass. The universe didn't send me a temporary harbor; it sent me my true counterpart."
He squeezed her hands, his eyes burning into hers. "I held her today because she was a person in a trench, and that’s what I do. I clear the field. But my heart stays in this yard. My life belongs to you, and to John, and to Clara, and to the baby. If I have to weld that gate shut with my own hands to make you believe me, I’ll do it tonight. But don't tell me she has a piece of my soul. You are my soul, Y/N."
Y/N searched his face, her intelligent brow furrowing as she looked for any hesitation, any lingering shadow of the man who had spent years waiting on this porch for someone who would never stay. She found only the iron certainty of the commander who had pledged his life to hers.
Slowly, the tension in her fingers melted, her hands twisting underneath his to lock their fingers together. She let out a long, shaky breath, her forehead dropping down to rest against his shoulder. "It’s a heavy weight, Steve. The badge, the past... it’s a lot of targets for one house."
"Then we carry it together," Steve whispered, his arms coming up to wrap tightly around her waist, pulling her flat against his chest as the ocean hummed its ancient, unchanging rhythm below the deck. "We don't break, corporate. The foundation holds."
The Final Perimeter
The morning sun rose over Oahu not with the violent heat of a storm, but with a soft, cinematic clarity that painted the Pacific in deep, brilliant shades of turquoise and gold.
A sleek military transport plane sat idling on the tarmac at Hickam Air Force Base, its engines humming a low, powerful vibration that rattled through the chain-link perimeter fences. Catherine Rollins stood at the base of the metal steps, dressed in a clean, dark civilian suit. Her posture was stiff, favoring her bruised ribs, but the swelling on her face had gone down.
Steve stood a few feet away, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, the sea breeze ruffling his dark hair. He didn't move closer. The distance between them was exactly five feet, and it felt as permanent as the horizon.
"The agency is reassigning me to a logistics oversight desk in Lisbon," Catherine said, her voice carrying a quiet, resigned acceptance. She looked at him, her eyes searching his face for the old anchor she used to depend on, but finding only the calm, steady courtesy of a former colleague. "No more deep cover. No more ghosts."
"It's a good assignment, Cath," Steve said softly. "You earned a quiet station."
Catherine looked past his shoulder, her gaze tracking to the black Five-0 SUV parked near the hangar. Y/N was sitting in the passenger seat, her profile sharp and clear against the glass, her eyes fixed forward, entirely unconcerned with the goodbye. She hadn't gotten out of the vehicle, and she hadn't needed to. Her presence alone defined the boundary lines of Steve's life.
"She’s an incredible operator, Steve," Catherine murmured, a sad, genuine smile touching the corners of her lips. "On that ridge... I’ve never seen anyone move with that kind of precision. You didn't just find a partner. You found your match."
"I found my wife," Steve corrected gently, his voice carrying an absolute, unyielding pride. "Safe travels, Catherine."
She nodded slowly, turning to ascend the metal steps without another word. The heavy cabin door sealed shut behind her, and within minutes, the transport plane taxi'd down the runway, lifting into the bright blue Hawaiian sky until it was nothing more than a silver speck dissolving into the clouds.
Steve didn't wait to watch it disappear. He turned on his heel, walked straight back to the truck, and slid behind the steering wheel. He didn't look at the sky. He reached across the console, his large, calloused hand finding Y/N's fingers and locking them tightly together.
Y/N turned her head, her bright, intelligent eyes meeting his with a radiant, peaceful warmth that completely erased the lingering chill of the mountain ridge. "Where to, Commander?"
Steve smiled, shifting the truck into drive. "Home, corporate. The kids are waiting."
Epilogue: The Backyard Century
Three years later, the grass in the backyard of the McGarrett estate was as vibrant and green as it had been in the very first dream.
The old wooden play set had been expanded, now featuring a double slide and a set of rings that eight-year-old John was currently swinging from with the effortless, athletic grace of his mother. Six-year-old Clara was sprinting across the lawn, a bright red beach ball tucked under her arm, laughing hysterically as four-year-old Steven Jr. chased after her, his chubby legs moving in a furious, determined stride.
Danny Williams was sitting on the back porch railing, a plate of grilled burgers in his hand, gesturing wildly with a plastic fork as he argued with Chin Ho and Kono about the proper height regulations for a backyard treehouse.
Steve stood near the shoreline, the cool evening tide rushing up over his bare feet, his long cargo shorts damp with salt water. He was older now; a thick, heavy dusting of silver touched his temples, and deep, beautiful laugh lines were permanently carved around his eyes. The perpetual knot of tension that he had carried in his chest since his youth was entirely gone. He felt light. He felt complete.
A pair of soft, warm arms wrapped around his waist from behind. Y/N pressed her cheek against his broad back, her flowing white sundress catching the evening trade winds. Her diamond ring flashed brilliantly in the final, bleeding rays of the burnt-orange sunset.
Steve turned around in her embrace, scooping her up effortlessly against his chest. She let out a breathless, joyful laugh, her fingers looping through the hair at the nape of his neck as he lowered his lips to hers.
It wasn't a tactical truce, a rescue mission, or a dream behind closed eyelids. It was the solid, unyielding reality of a life fought for and won.
"Daddy! Daddy, look at me! I'm the king of the castle!" Steven Jr. squealed from the top of the wooden ladder, waving his tiny hands in the air.
Steve broke the kiss, keeping one arm securely around Y/N's waist as he turned his head toward the lawn, a wide, brilliant smile illuminating his face. "I see you, buddy! Hold the fort down!"
The children’s laughter rose up into the warm tropical air, blending seamlessly with the eternal, rhythmic roar of the Pacific surf. The gates were welded shut, the ghosts were laid to rest, and the perimeter was entirely secure. Commander Steve McGarrett was no longer a sailor watching the horizon for a ship that would never stay. He was a husband, a father, and a protector, standing on a foundation built on solid rock, entirely home.
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.
