Staring at her screen in shock, Y/N looks at the signing announcement. Glancing at Logan, sat with a smile on his face, she frowns.
"Darling, did something happen?"
Turning to her boyfriend, "They signed Carlos, but-"
"Oh."
"Oh baby, he didnt tell you? Bastard."
"He's your father. He just probably didn't want to upset you."
"To hell with that, Logan. He was discussing a contract with you and fuckings signs Sainz! It's not fair. To play with someones dreams, their life, like that. He's an ass, my dad or not, he's an ass for that."
Looking at each other now, the pain in Logan's eyes is obvious.
She moves to comfort her love, the man she's loved for years.
He didn't tell her when he signed for Williams, or even when his contract was extended. He knew no matter what, she'd be there. A singular tear slips down his face. His girl more upset than him. He thought he was going to be getting another shot to prove himself, but alas the cards did not play that way.
Phone chiming as Oscar texts, asking if the couple are okay. One single message from her father. 'I'm sorry' is all he wrote.
She knows its a business at the end of the day, but how can one be expected to perform against a grid of 2024 cars, when he is racing one from 2023. When his own boss, future father-in-law is saying how much he wants to replace him. He never stood a chance, he was only a seat warmer. Logan's head is a mess. All that's running through his mind is how much he failed, every fuck up, every DNF, Australia, and the only light he sees is her. His Y/N.
No matter what his future holds, he has his girl.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Logan has all of summer break to wallow in sadness. Cuddled with Y/N, watching trashy TV. As quick as ever, Zandvoort rolls around, and he is dreading facing the media.
Luck is not on Logan's side, forced to be on the press conference with Carlos. However Oscar's there too!
Most of the press don't bother to ask him anything, just assuming he won't have a seat and has nothing to add.
Logan's heard things about team principles shitting on Vowels, and the way he's treating Logan.
"And to Logan-" shocks him out of his daydream, "How did your girlfriend react when she found out you hadn't resigned with Williams?"
Logan chuckled, "Uhm, actually, we found out at the same time, James and I had been discussing a contract, and discussing my performance. I had no idea he'd signed Carlos. So yeah, bit of a shock to us both."
"And did you know, Carlos, that James was discussing with Logan?" Everyone looks at Carlos now. His respone is immediate.
"At first yes, I knew Logan was still a contender, but then he'd said that it was just me. So I didn't sign knowing Logan was still discussing contracts"
"And what does everyone think of Andretti appealing the FOM desicion and winning, now they'll be joining the grid for the 2025 season?" Everyone looka shocked at the interviewers question. Everyone but Logan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Qatar. Hot. Humid. Sweaty. That's what Y/N feels standing in the Williams garage. Still, she's there to support Logan. And that's what matters. However, she is suspicious. Hiding phone calls, changing his phone password which used to be their anniversary. Logan's become really skittish since Carlos' signing was announced. He won't be cheating on her, she's sure of that. She has two thoughts, he's either joining Mick in the second Andretti Porsche seat, or he's proposing soon. Focusing back on qualifying, she notices all purple sectors for a Williams, her Logan's Williams.
Last minute of Q1. P13. He's done it.
The garage cheers and she just beams with pride.
Logan makes it to Q3, ending up P6.
He's happy with it.
~~~~~~~~
December rolls around with no news on Andretti's other driver. It's a hot topic in the media. Some think it'll be a rookie, some say Kimi or Seb will come back.
Logan grins going into the media pen after his best quali yet. This is his moment. He has a point to make.
"Logan! P5! How're you feeling?" Logan loves being interviewed by Natalie Pinkham.
"Feeling good, car is handling well, I always love racing here. It feels even better knowing next year I got a new team behind me." Smirking, he knows Natalie will pick up what he means. He just needs her to ask.
"New team?" Bingo!
"Yeah, Andretti reached out to me after
Monza, and well, yeah I just had to take the offer! Racing with Mick, and along side him will be fun! He's a good driver. We both had a rough two seasons to start, but the only way is up!"
" Thank you Logan! And good luck!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sitting down, he glances at his phone.
Over 50 missed calls from his love.
"LOGAN HUNTER SARGEANT! I MIGHT JUST KILL YOU YET!" He knows she's not angry, upset he didn't tell her, but not angry.
"You know gold washes me out!"
He laughs, of course she makes a joke.
That's why he loves her, she knows him better than anyone.
"Marry me"
Shit. He had a whole plan. He was gonna take her to Venice. They love Venice.
"Yes. I found the ring, two weeks ago, but I know you Lo, you have a whole plan. So my answer is yes. When you ask me properly. It's yes."
Giggling they embrace and share a tender kiss. "I'm so proud of you. I love you Lo, forever and always"
"Forever and always baby, me and you against the world"
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.
Dean Di Laurentis x pop star!Reader x Garrett Graham
Summary: fuck your ex-man, I’m the man now. Think I feel bad, he was fanned out. Do what you like, you’ve been too nice. He didn’t do right, that’s too bad now
Warnings: 18+ themes, grooming, sexual coercion, and non-consensual psychiatric institutionalization
The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage. You stand in the center of the soundstage, the heat from the overhead lights baking into your bare skin. You’re wearing something that barely qualifies as clothing — a web of rhinestones, leather straps, and sheer mesh that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Cut!”
The music cuts out, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Shawn’s voice echoes over the PA system, sharp and irritated. A second later, he’s stepping out from behind the monitors and striding toward you.
Shawn. Your manager. The owner of your record label.
Your boyfriend.
The word feels like ash in your mouth. He’s forty-two. You just turned twenty-one. He’s been the center of your universe since you were fifteen, the man who “discovered” you, molded you, and eventually, when you turned eighteen, moved you into his bed. He tells you he loves you. He tells you nobody else understands you.
Right now, he looks pissed.
“You’re stiff,” Shawn says, stepping into your personal space. He doesn’t care about the dozens of crew members watching. His hands settle heavily on your bare hips, his fingers digging into your skin. “You look like a mannequin out there. Loosen up.”
You swallow hard, wrapping your arms around your torso. The air conditioning in the studio is freezing, but you’re sweating under the lights. “I’m trying, Shawn. But this choreography … it’s a lot. It doesn’t feel like me.”
He sighs, a harsh, condescending sound. He reaches up and brushes a stray piece of hair out of your face, his touch lingering. “Baby. We’ve talked about this. ‘You’ is what I say it is. This is what sells. Do you want the new album to flop? After everything I’ve done for you?”
“No,” you whisper automatically. It’s the answer you always give. “But the floor work-”
“The floor work is the climax of the video,” he interrupts smoothly. “When the beat drops, I want you on your knees. Look up at the camera. Part your lips. Make them want you.”
You stare at him, a knot tightening in your throat. “Make them want me how?”
“Mime it,” he says, dropping his voice, though the mic pack on his hip is probably picking it up. “You know exactly what I mean. Down on your knees. Work the air like you’re taking it. It’s edgy. It’s what the fans want to see from you now.”
The studio spins.
You look past him, catching the eye of the cameraman, the lighting tech, the makeup artist hovering with a powder brush. They all look away. Nobody says a word. Nobody ever says a word.
“No,” you say.
The syllable slips out before you can stop it.
Shawn’s eyes narrow. The charming, paternal warmth he uses in interviews vanishes, replaced by a cold, hard stare. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.” Your voice shakes, but you force the words out. The knot in your chest is expanding, turning into a crushing weight. “I’m not doing that. I’m a singer, Shawn. I’m not doing softcore porn for a music video.”
“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” he snaps, stepping closer. “I made you. You would be singing in dive bars in the Midwest if it weren’t for me. You think you have a career without me? You think anyone gives a shit about your voice? They want to look at you.”
“Stop.” You take a step back, your heel catching on one of the leather straps of your thigh-high boots. You stumble, barely catching your balance.
“Get back on your mark,” Shawn orders, pointing at the tape on the floor. “Music!”
The bass blasts through the speakers again. The lights flash.
“Action!”
“No!” You scream it this time, covering your ears. The noise is too loud. The lights are too bright. The walls are closing in. You can’t breathe. You pull at the tight choker around your neck, ripping the rhinestones away.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Shawn yells over the track.
You don’t answer. You turn and run.
You push past the backup dancers, shove through the heavy soundproof doors of the studio, and burst out into the hallway. You’re hyperventilating, tears streaking your heavy stage makeup, ruining the perfect, doll-like face Shawn paid so much for. You just keep running.
***
EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS GOES OFF THE DEEP END?
TMZ Staff | May 29, 2026
Looks like the pressure of stardom has finally cracked another one, folks.
Sources exclusively tell TMZ that pop sensation and former teen sweetheart had a MASSIVE meltdown on the set of her highly anticipated new music video yesterday afternoon.
Insiders on the set report that the 21-year-old singer completely lost her grip on reality midway through the shoot. According to witnesses, she began screaming at the crew, violently ripping off her custom designer wardrobe, and behaving erratically before fleeing the soundstage in tears.
“It was full-on Britney 2007,” one crew member dishes to us. “She just snapped. She was yelling about the lights and the music, completely out of nowhere. Her boyfriend and manager, Shawn Nichols, was trying to calm her down, but she was completely hysterical.”
But wait, it gets worse.
Sources close to the singer’s camp confirm that following the bizarre outburst, she was transported to a private psychiatric facility in the Los Angeles area and placed on an involuntary 5150 psychiatric hold.
For those keeping track, a 5150 hold means the individual is considered a danger to themselves or others.
Shawn Nichols released a brief statement this morning: “We ask for privacy during this incredibly difficult time. She is receiving the best medical care possible, and we are focused entirely on her mental health and recovery.”
Is this the end of her career? Or just another Hollywood tragedy in the making? Stay tuned.
***
“Dude, this pizza is practically raw in the middle.”
“Then put it in the microwave, Logan. Or starve. I really don’t care.”
Garrett Graham doesn’t look up from his phone as he leans back against the worn fabric of the living room couch. His massive frame takes up entirely too much space, his legs stretched out over the coffee table, narrowly avoiding a stack of empty red Solo cups.
“I’m not microwaving pizza, Garrett. What am I, a savage?” Logan complains, tossing the offending slice back into the cardboard box on the kitchen island.
“You literally ate cereal out of a saucepan this morning because you were too lazy to wash a bowl,” Tucker chimes in from the armchair, not bothering to look up from his textbook. “I’d say savage is an understatement.”
“It’s called efficiency, Tuck.”
In the kitchen, Dean is pouring himself a glass of water. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his hair still wet from his post-workout shower. Dean is arguably the most objectively beautiful guy in the house — maybe on the entire Briar University campus. He knows it, too. With a trust fund that rivals the GDP of a small country, courtesy of his high-powered attorney parents and his mother’s luxury hotel empire, Dean’s life has always been a gilded ride.
But for all his wealth, Dean is annoyingly grounded. He’s charming, he’s lethal on the ice, and he rarely spends a night without a different girl in his bed. Usually two, if it’s a weekend.
“Speaking of efficiency,” Dean says, leaning against the counter and taking a long drink. “I need one of you to run interference for me tomorrow night. Jennifer wants to ‘talk about us’ after the party.”
Garrett snorts. “There is no ‘us’, man. You’ve hooked up with her twice.”
“Exactly,” Dean says, pointing a finger at him. “Which is why I need Logan to spill a drink on me, or Tucker to fake a medical emergency. Something. I’m not doing the feelings talk. I don’t do feelings.”
“Handle your own women, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters, his eyes scanning the screen of his phone.
He frowns, his thumb freezing over the screen. He clicks a link on his Twitter feed, leaning forward slightly as the page loads.
“What?” Logan asks, catching the shift in Garrett’s demeanor.
“This article,” Garrett says, his deep voice dropping a fraction. “About that pop singer. The one with the new song that plays every five seconds at the gym.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, walking over and peering over Garrett’s shoulder. “The hot one. What about her?”
“Says she had a complete mental breakdown on set yesterday. TMZ is reporting she got institutionalized. Placed on an involuntary psychiatric hold.”
“That’s what it says.” Garrett scrolls down, his jaw tightening. “Says she started screaming, ripping off her clothes, and her manager had to step in. Now she’s locked up.”
Dean pulls a face, sinking onto the other end of the couch. “Man, Hollywood is toxic. But wait …” Dean furrows his brow, thinking. “Isn’t her manager also her boyfriend? The guy who runs her label?”
“Yeah. Shawn Nichols,” Logan says, grabbing a different, hopefully more cooked, slice of pizza. “The guy’s a billionaire.”
“He’s also like, fifty,” Dean says, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Forty-two,” Garrett corrects, reading from the article.
“Whatever. She just turned twenty-one, right? I remember seeing pictures of her twenty-first birthday party a few weeks ago.” Dean shakes his head. “That’s fucking gross. He’s literally twice her age. And he’s her boss? How is nobody calling that out?”
“Because he has money,” Tucker says simply. “People with that kind of money control the narrative.”
Garrett stays quiet, staring at the screen. The glowing light reflects in his gray eyes. Something about the article is rubbing him the wrong way. It’s an itch right between his shoulder blades.
It’s too neat. Too perfectly packaged. Pop star goes crazy, heroic older boyfriend tries to save her, ultimately has to lock her up for her own good. Garrett knows a thing or two about controlling a narrative. He grew up in a house with a man who was revered by the public. A man who smiled for the cameras, shook hands, and signed autographs, playing the role of the perfect father and the perfect husband. And then the front door would close, and the monster would come out.
His father had beaten his mother for years. And after she died of lung cancer — after the one person who tried to shield Garrett was gone — the violence had turned entirely onto him.
Phil Graham had crafted a perfect public image while systematically destroying his son behind closed doors. So yeah, Garrett has a very finely tuned bullshit detector when it comes to official statements and perfect PR spins.
“It seems fishy,” Garrett says quietly.
“What does?” Dean asks, leaning his head back against the couch cushions.
“This whole thing.” Garrett tosses his phone onto the coffee table. “She’s twenty-one. She’s been with this guy since she was a teenager. Now suddenly she has a ‘breakdown’ on set, and within twenty-four hours she’s locked in a psych ward on a 5150 hold? That means someone signed off on it. Someone said she was a danger to herself. And I bet you anything it was him.”
Logan stops chewing. “You think he locked her up?”
“I think,” Garrett says, his voice hard, “that it’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do.”
The room goes quiet for a second. The boys know Garrett’s history — or at least, they know enough of it. They know not to push when he gets that dark, stormy look in his eyes.
Dean exhales slowly. “Well, if he is grooming her, that’s sick. I mean, my parents deal with high-profile divorces all the time. You wouldn’t believe the twisted shit rich guys pull to keep their wives or girlfriends in line. Locking her in a facility sounds exactly like something a controlling freak would do to keep her quiet.”
“It’s just another crazy Hollywood story,” Tucker says gently, trying to lighten the mood. “Nothing we can do about it from Massachusetts.”
Garrett nods slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s none of our business.”
He picks up his phone again, closing the browser tab. He forces the image of the girl out of his head. He doesn’t know her. She’s a celebrity, living a million miles away in a world that makes absolutely no sense. He has a hockey season to prepare for. He has a team to captain.
But as he pulls up the team schedule, he can’t quite shake the feeling of unease in his gut. He knows what it feels like to be trapped by someone who claims to love you.
“Anyway,” Dean says, clapping his hands together and breaking the tension. “Back to my actual crisis. Jennifer. Tomorrow night. Who is taking the bullet for me?”
“I’ll do it,” Logan groans, tossing his crust back into the box. “But you’re buying the beer for the bender on Friday.”
“Done,” Dean grins, his easy charm returning in full force. “You’re a lifesaver, Logie.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say, Logie.”
The banter flows back into its natural rhythm, loud and effortless. The Briar hockey house goes back to normal. But on the coffee table, Garrett’s phone screen lights up with another notification, another headline flashing across the lock screen.
He flips the phone over, face down.
***
The air in Hastings, Massachusetts, is nothing like Los Angeles. It’s early September, but there’s already a sharp, biting chill in the wind that cuts straight through your oversized flannel shirt. You pull the fabric tighter around your chest, burying your hands in the deep pockets.
“It’s a lot of walking,” David Prescott says, his voice a low, comforting rumble beside you.
David is the Dean of Briar University. He is also your mother’s older brother, the uncle you haven’t seen in almost seven years, not since Shawn systematically cut you off from everyone who wasn’t on his payroll. David is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and kind eyes that look a little too much like your mom’s.
“I don’t mind the walking,” you say quietly. Your voice is still raspy, a lingering side effect of the screaming, the crying, and the long stretches of absolute silence over the past four months. “It’s nice. The air is clean.”
David pauses on the red brick pathway, gesturing to the sprawling, ivy-covered buildings that surround the main quad. Students are milling everywhere — laughing, throwing frisbees, hurrying to class. They look so young. They are your age, but they feel like a different species.
“The Vocal Performance building is just past the library,” David tells you, pointing toward a grand, modern structure made of glass and dark stone. “It’s one of the best programs in the country. Your professors have been briefed. They know you’re transferring in, and they know you want zero special treatment.”
“And they won’t … ask questions?” You ask, chewing nervously on the inside of your cheek.
“They are professionals,” David says firmly. He turns to you, his expression softening. He places a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch — an involuntary reaction that you hate, a reflex deeply ingrained from hands that grabbed, hands that held you down, hands that forced you into a white room.
David immediately drops his hand, taking a respectful half-step back. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay,” you force yourself to say, offering a tight, fragile smile.
“Listen to me,” David says, holding your gaze. “You are safe here. Shawn Nichols cannot get onto this campus. He cannot call you, he cannot dictate your classes, and he absolutely cannot dictate your music. You are here to learn how to produce your own sound, write your own music, and take back your voice. You are just another student at Briar.”
You nod, swallowing the thick lump in your throat. Just another student. That’s all you want. You want to disappear into the crowd. You want to forget the sterile, blinding white lights of the psychiatric facility in Malibu. You want to forget the feeling of the sedatives hitting your bloodstream, making your limbs heavy and your mind thick with fog while Shawn stood in the doorway, watching you with that cold, dead expression, telling the doctors you were a danger to yourself.
You spent two months in that facility. Two months of mandated therapy, group circles, and trying to convince the doctors that you weren’t crazy — that your manager was a controlling, manipulative predator. It was only when David saw the news, hired his own high-powered legal team, and threatened Shawn with a very public, very ugly federal investigation for extortion and abuse that Shawn finally backed down and released his medical hold.
“Thank you, Uncle David,” you whisper. “For everything.”
He offers a gentle smile. “Go to class. Call me if you need anything. My office is always open.”
You take a deep breath, adjust the strap of your plain black backpack, and walk toward the music building.
The first hour actually goes well. Music Theory 301. You sit in the very back row, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over your face and a pair of thick, non-prescription glasses. The professor talks about chord progressions and harmonic analysis, and for the first time in years, you feel a genuine spark of interest in music that doesn’t involve a marketing strategy. You take copious notes. You keep your head down.
When the lecture ends, you wait until the classroom is mostly empty before packing up your bag. You slip out into the busy hallway, keeping your eyes trained on the scuffed linoleum floor.
“Excuse me?”
You freeze.
A girl with chunky highlights is standing in front of you, a smartphone clutched in her hand. She’s staring at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Um, yes?” You ask, keeping your voice low.
“Oh my god,” the girl gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “It is you. I thought—I saw the rumors on TikTok that you were in Massachusetts, but I didn’t believe it! Oh my god!”
Your heart stutters. “I think you have the wrong person.”
You try to step around her, but she moves to block your path. “No, no, I know it’s you! The voice, the eyes! Guys! Guys, look!” She yells to the crowded hallway.
It happens in a matter of seconds. The whisper network is instantaneous. Heads snap in your direction. The casual hum of the hallway completely vanishes, replaced by a rising, electric buzz of recognition.
“Is that her?” “Holy shit, the pop star?” “I thought she was locked up in a psych ward!” “Look at her, she looks awful.” “Get a picture, get a picture!”
Phones. Dozens of them, raised in the air, the camera lenses staring at you like unblinking eyes.
The air in your lungs vanishes.
You stumble backward, your shoulder slamming into a row of metal lockers. The sound is deafening. The crowd is surging forward, a wall of bodies pressing in from all sides.
“Can we get a picture?” “Where’s Shawn?” “Are you having another breakdown?”
The voices blur together into a terrifying, dissonant roar. The hallway lights seem to burn brighter, painfully searing your retinas. Suddenly, you aren’t in the music building at Briar University anymore. You are back on the soundstage. You are back in the hospital.
Hands reach out, grabbing at your flannel shirt, brushing against your arm.
“Don’t touch me!” You scream, slapping wildly at the air.
“Whoa, freak out,” someone laughs. The flash of a phone camera blinds you.
Your chest tightens like a vise. You can’t breathe. There is no oxygen in the room. The walls are closing in, the ceiling pressing down. You slide down the metal lockers, your knees giving out, hitting the floor hard. You pull your knees to your chest and bury your head in your arms, gasping for air that isn’t there.
They’re going to take me back. They’re going to sedate me. They’re going to lock me up.
“Give me some space! Seriously, back the fuck up!”
The voice is a sudden, booming thunderclap. It cuts through the chatter and the camera shutters like a hot knife.
“Move! Put your damn phones away, what is wrong with you people?” Another voice adds, sharper and laced with disgust.
Footsteps pound against the linoleum. Someone is shoving people aside.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.”
You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re hyperventilating, your vision swimming with black spots. You’re shaking so violently your teeth are chattering.
“Garrett, her lips are turning blue, man. She’s not breathing right,” the second voice says, sounding alarmed.
“I know. I got it.”
A large, incredibly warm hand hovers over your knee, not quite touching you, respecting your space. “Hey,” the deep voice says again. It’s calm. Incredibly, impossibly calm, anchoring you slightly to the ground. “I need you to breathe with me, okay? You’re having a panic attack. You are safe. Nobody is going to touch you.”
“Dean, clear a path,” the voice commands.
“Way ahead of you. Back off, vultures! Show’s over!”
“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder now, okay?” The deep voice tells you. “I’m going to help you stand up, and we’re going to get out of this hallway.”
You manage a jerky nod. You can’t speak.
A large, firm hand grips your shoulder. The touch isn’t aggressive or grasping; it’s steady and supportive. He pulls you up with effortless strength. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, keeping your face hidden under the brim of your hat, trusting this stranger because the alternative is collapsing on the floor again.
“Keep your head down,” he murmurs, tucking you against his side, shielding you from the crowd with his massive frame. “Walk with me.”
You walk. The second guy — Dean — is walking backward in front of you, literally shoving people out of the way. “Move it, prep school. Put the phone down before I shove it down your throat. Yeah, that’s right, keep walking.”
You burst through a set of heavy double doors, and the shock of the cold September wind hits your face. It helps. It shocks your system just enough to force a ragged breath into your lungs.
They guide you down a side path, away from the quad, ducking behind the large stone architecture of the library until the noise of the crowd fades completely.
“In here,” the deep voice says.
A door opens, and you are ushered into what smells like an old, dusty study room. The door clicks shut behind you, instantly plunging the space into a quiet, comforting stillness.
You collapse into the nearest chair, leaning forward and putting your head between your knees. You focus on the scuffed toes of your boots.
In. Out. In. Out.
“Get her some water,” the deep voice says.
“Yeah, checking my pockets, Garrett, hold on — oh wait, I don’t carry water bottles in my sweatpants,” Dean snaps back, though there’s no real heat in it. “There’s a fountain in the hall. Give me ten seconds.”
The door opens and closes again.
You are alone with Garrett.
He doesn’t crowd you. He pulls up a chair a few feet away and sits down heavily.
“You’re doing good,” Garrett says quietly. His voice is a soothing rumble. “Four seconds in. Hold for four. Four seconds out. Try to match my counting, okay?”
He starts counting. His voice is rhythmic and steady. It takes a few minutes, but slowly, agonizingly, the vise around your chest begins to loosen. The black spots fade from your vision. The terror recedes, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
You finally lift your head, pulling your glasses off your face and wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your flannel sleeve.
You look at him.
Garrett is sitting backward on a wooden chair, his arms crossed over the backrest. He is wearing a Briar Hockey hoodie, his broad shoulders filling out the thick material. He has dark, messy hair and striking gray eyes that are currently watching you with intense, quiet focus. He’s incredibly handsome, but it’s the lack of pity in his expression that catches you off guard. He isn’t looking at you like you’re broken. He’s looking at you like he understands exactly what just happened.
“Better?” He asks softly.
You swallow hard. “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is hoarse. “I’m … I’m so sorry. That was embarrassing.”
“Don’t apologize,” Garrett says, his jaw tightening slightly. “People are animals. You got swarmed. Anyone would have panicked.”
The door clicks open, and Dean walks in, holding a paper cup of water. “They only had the tiny cups by the fountain, but-”
Dean stops dead in his tracks.
He stares at you. He looks at the paper cup in his hand, looks back at you, and then looks at Garrett.
Dean is equally as tall as Garrett, with perfectly styled dirty-blonde hair and the kind of sharp, devastatingly good looks that belong on a billboard. Right now, his mouth is slightly open.
“Here’s the water,” Dean says slowly, walking over and handing you the cup. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking a small sip. The cool water helps soothe your raw throat.
Dean slowly backs up until he’s standing next to Garrett. He leans down, his eyes fixed on your face. “Garrett.”
“What, Dean?” Garrett asks, sounding slightly annoyed at his friend’s weird behavior.
“Garrett. Look at her.”
“I am looking at her,” Garrett says, though he turns his head to study you more closely.
You shrink back in the chair, pulling the baseball cap lower on your forehead. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a cold dread. They didn’t know. They helped you because they thought you were just a normal girl. Now they know. Now they’re going to look at you the same way everyone else does. Like a sideshow freak. Like the crazy pop star who got locked up.
Garrett’s brow furrows as he looks at you. His gray eyes trace the line of your jaw, the shape of your eyes, the pink flush still staining your pale cheeks. You can see the exact moment the realization hits him. His eyes widen slightly, his posture going completely rigid.
“Holy shit,” Dean whispers into the silence of the room. “You’re … you’re the pop star. From the articles. From the TV.”
You stare down at the paper cup in your hands, your knuckles turning white. “Yes,” you whisper.
“You’re the singer,” Garrett says, his voice completely flat, devoid of its earlier warmth.
You flinch at his tone. You knew it. The compassion is gone, replaced by whatever judgments he’s formed from reading the tabloids.
“Yes,” you say again, your voice shaking slightly. “I am. Please don’t … please don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
Dean crosses his arms, looking completely bewildered. “What are you doing in Hastings? The last time you were on the news, you were being …” He trails off, wincing slightly. “Well, you were in Los Angeles.”
“I was institutionalized,” you say bluntly, finding a sudden, desperate spark of anger. You look up, meeting Dean’s eyes, then Garrett’s. “That’s what you want to say, right? The crazy pop star who had a mental breakdown and got locked in a psych ward. That’s what everyone out there was screaming about. That’s why they had their cameras out.”
Garrett’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it,” you snap, standing up. Your legs are shaky, but you refuse to sit there and be analyzed. “Thank you for getting me out of the hallway. I really appreciate it. But I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need you to gawk at me. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”
You grab your backpack from the floor and turn toward the door.
“Hey. Wait.”
Garrett is out of his chair in a flash, stepping between you and the door. He doesn’t touch you — he’s careful to keep his hands down at his sides — but his sheer size makes it impossible to pass him.
“Move, please,” you say, staring fiercely at his chest.
“I wasn’t gawking,” Garrett says, his voice dropping low, losing the edge it had a moment ago. “And I don’t think you’re crazy.”
You look up at him, startled.
Garrett holds your gaze, his gray eyes intense and unwavering. “I read the articles back in May. Me and my buddies, we talked about it. And honestly? The whole thing sounded like complete bullshit to me.”
You blink, completely caught off guard. “What?”
“Your manager,” Garrett says, his voice tight with an anger that surprises you. “The guy who signed off on your hold. He’s older, right? Much older.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
“I know what it looks like when someone with a lot of power controls the narrative to cover up their own abuse,” Garrett says, his words deliberate and heavy. “It’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do. That’s what I said back then, and looking at you now? I know I was right.”
The breath catches in your throat. You stare at Garrett Graham, this massive, intimidating hockey player you met five minutes ago, and for the first time since you ran off that soundstage in Los Angeles, you feel seen. Truly, actually seen.
Dean exhales a long breath from across the room. “Damn, G. You called it.”
You look between the two of them, the tension slowly bleeding out of your shoulders. “You … you don’t believe the tabloids?”
“I don’t believe anything TMZ prints,” Dean says, walking over to join Garrett. He shoots you a crooked, incredibly charming smile. “Besides, nobody is crazy enough to willingly move to New England in the winter unless they’re desperate for a fresh start. And lucky for you, you just ran into the two guys who basically run this campus.”
“Speak for yourself, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters.
“I speak for both of us, Graham.” Dean turns his attention back to you. “Look. You want to stay under the radar? It’s going to be tough now that people have seen you. But if you hang with us, people will eventually back off. We have a reputation to uphold. Nobody messes with our crew.”
You stare at them, bewildered. “You want me to … hang out with you?”
“We’re offering you protection, sweetheart,” Dean says, winking. “Consider us your unofficial bodyguards. For a very reasonable fee of … helping me pass Music Appreciation.”
Garrett rolls his eyes, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He looks down at you, the intensity in his eyes softening into something protective and warm. “He’s an idiot, but he’s right. You shouldn’t be navigating this campus alone if people are going to act like that. If you need a buffer, we’ve got you.”
You clutch the straps of your backpack, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected kindness. You expected judgment. You expected them to pull out their phones or treat you like a fragile piece of glass. Instead, they are offering you a shield.
“I …” You swallow hard. “I don’t even know your names.”
Garrett holds out a large, calloused hand. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. And the idiot is Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Pleasure,” Dean grins.
You look at Garrett’s extended hand. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the instinct to pull away still strong. But you look up at his face, at the quiet understanding in his eyes, and you reach out.
Your small hand disappears inside his. His grip is firm, warm, and grounding.
“Y/N,” you say softly.
Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking smile that makes your heart do a strange, unexpected flutter.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Garrett says. “Welcome to Briar.”
***
It takes two full weeks of relentless badgering before you finally cave.
You are sitting in the back booth of Malone’s, picking at a plate of cold fries, sandwiched between two human walls of muscle. Garrett is on your left, scrolling through hockey stats on his phone, while Dean is on your right, actively trying to wear down your defenses.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, leaning in so his shoulder brushes yours. “You’ve been here a month. You go to class, you go to the library, you come to the diner with us, and you go back to your dorm. You are living the life of an eighty-year-old nun.”
“I like my life,” you say, taking a sip of your milkshake. “Nuns are very peaceful.”
“Nuns are boring,” Dean counters, stealing one of your fries. “And you, Y/N, are not boring. You need to let loose. Just a little. Come to the house tonight.”
“Dean, I don’t do parties.”
“It’s not a party,” Garrett chimes in, not looking up from his screen. “It’s a small gathering.”
“There will be a keg,” you point out.
Garrett finally looks up, a slow, lazy smirk spreading across his face. “There will be three kegs. But it’s still a gathering.”
You sigh, dropping your head into your hands. Since the day they rescued you in the hallway, Garrett and Dean have somehow seamlessly integrated themselves into your daily routine. They walk you to the music building. They eat lunch with you. They scowl at anyone who stares at you a second too long. They are a loud, chaotic, fiercely protective barrier between you and the rest of the world.
But a Briar hockey house party? That’s entirely different.
“I can’t,” you whisper, the anxiety suddenly flaring up in your chest. “The noise. The people. If someone recognizes me, or if the music gets too loud …”
Garrett’s smirk vanishes. He sets his phone face-down on the table and turns to fully face you. His massive frame blocks out the rest of the diner.
“Hey. Look at me,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register that instantly calms your racing heart.
You lift your head, meeting his intense gray eyes.
“Dean and I have a game tomorrow afternoon,” Garrett says softly. “We aren’t drinking tonight. We’re strictly on water and Gatorade. That means we will be completely sober, and completely alert.”
“One hundred percent,” Dean adds, his usual playful tone gone, replaced by something fierce and serious.
“We are going to be right by your side,” Garrett continues, holding your gaze. “Nobody is going to crowd you. Nobody is going to touch you. If the music is too loud, we go upstairs to my room. If you want to leave after five minutes, I will personally drive you back to your dorm and walk you to your door. But you are safe with us. I promise you that.”
You look between the two of them. You see the sincerity radiating off Garrett, the fierce loyalty etched into Dean’s sharp features. They aren’t trying to parade you around. They genuinely just want you to experience a normal college night.
You take a deep breath. “Five minutes. If I hate it, we leave.”
Dean’s face breaks into a massive, triumphant grin. “Yes! You won’t regret it, sweetheart. I’m going to make sure you have the time of your life.”
***
The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage.
For a split second, you freeze on the front porch of the off-campus house, the familiar vibration sending a cold spike of panic down your spine. It feels exactly like the soundstage in Los Angeles.
Then Garrett’s hand is on the small of your back — warm, massive, and incredibly steady.
“You good?” He murmurs, bending down so his mouth is close to your ear over the noise of the music.
You nod, forcing your shoulders to drop. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Dean pushes the front door open, and the three of you step inside. The house is packed. The air smells like cheap beer, sweet perfume, and sweat. Music blares from massive speakers in the corner, and red Solo cups are practically an accessory for everyone in the room.
It’s exactly the kind of environment you’ve avoided for years. But as you walk through the living room, flanked by the captain of the hockey team and his star winger, something incredible happens.
Nothing.
Nobody swarms you. Nobody shoves a camera in your face. A few people glance your way, eyes widening in recognition, but Garrett shoots them a dark, warning glare that has them instantly looking at the floor. Dean flashes his easy, charming smile, parting the crowd like the Red Sea as he leads you toward the kitchen.
“See? Easy,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen island. “Nobody is going to mess with you when you’re rolling with us.”
“You guys are terrifying,” you say, a genuine laugh escaping your lips.
“We’re cuddly teddy bears,” Garrett corrects, grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge and tossing one to Dean. “What do you want to drink? We’ve got water, soda, or whatever toxic sludge Logan is mixing in that cooler over there.”
You look at the cooler. You look at the red cups.
For the past seven years, your diet, your sleep schedule, and your alcohol intake were strictly monitored by Shawn and his team. You were never allowed to just have a drink. You were a product, and products don’t get hangovers.
“I want whatever is in the cooler,” you say, surprising yourself.
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say firmly. The word feels good. It feels entirely your own. “I want to have a drink.”
Dean grins, grabbing a red cup and dipping it into the cooler. He hands it to you with a flourish. “Cheers to autonomy.”
You take a sip. It tastes like cheap vodka and fruit punch, and it burns on the way down. It is the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
The rest of the night is a blur of neon lights, loud laughter, and a profound, beautiful sense of normalcy. You drink. You actually drink, letting the alcohol warm your blood and loosen the tight, coiled anxiety that has lived in your chest for months.
Garrett and Dean never leave your side. They are true to their word, nursing their water bottles and acting as an invisible shield around you. When a drunk frat boy stumbles too close, Garrett simply steps in his path, folding his massive arms over his chest until the guy awkwardly apologizes and backs away. When a girl tries to sneak a photo of you, Dean gently but firmly blocks her camera, charming her into deleting it with a wink and a smile.
For the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t a pop star. You aren’t a headline. You’re just a girl at a party, laughing at Logan’s terrible dance moves and arguing with Tucker over which movie franchise is better.
By 2 AM, the house has mostly cleared out. The music has been turned down to a low, rhythmic hum.
You are sitting on the worn fabric of the living room couch, comfortably, beautifully drunk. The edges of the world are soft and fuzzy. You have your legs pulled up underneath you, a throw blanket draped over your lap.
Garrett is sitting on your left, his long legs stretched out under the coffee table, his arm resting on the back of the couch behind your head. Dean is on your right, slouching lazily against the cushions. Logan and Tucker are sprawled out on the floor and the armchair, completely exhausted.
The room is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp.
“I can’t believe Coach has us on the ice at noon tomorrow,” Logan groans, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a crime against humanity.”
“You literally chose to play college hockey, you idiot,” Tucker says, throwing a crumpled-up napkin at Logan’s head.
You let out a soft, hazy giggle, leaning your head back against Garrett’s arm. He shifts slightly, adjusting his position so you’re more comfortable, his large hand brushing the side of your shoulder. The touch sends a warm shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
“You doing okay, Y/N?” Garrett asks softly, his deep voice rumbling right next to your ear.
“I’m perfect,” you slur slightly, looking up at him with a wide smile. “I’m really, really good.”
“You’re really, really drunk,” Dean chuckles, reaching over to tug playfully at a strand of your hair. “But it’s cute. You’re a happy drunk.”
“I’ve never been drunk before,” you confess, staring at the ceiling. “Shawn never let me.”
The name hangs in the air, heavy and dark. The easy, comfortable silence in the room instantly shifts. Logan stops rubbing his eyes. Dean’s hand falls away from your hair.
Tucker sits up in the armchair, his brow furrowed. He looks at you, his eyes slightly glazed from the beer, lowering his filter.
“Hey, Y/N,” Tucker says slowly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Tuck,” Garrett warns, his voice instantly dropping an octave, filled with a sharp, protective edge.
“No, it’s fine,” you say, waving a hand vaguely in the air. The alcohol has numbed the sharpest edges of the panic. The memories don’t feel like they’re stabbing you tonight, they just feel like a movie you watched a long time ago. “You can ask.”
Tucker hesitates, but the question clearly burns in his throat. “Was it true? That TMZ article. I know you said the tabloids are bullshit, but … were you really involuntarily committed?”
A heavy sneaker flies across the room, nailing Tucker square in the chest.
“Ow! What the fuck, Logan?” Tucker yelps, rubbing his sternum.
“You don’t just ask someone that, you absolute moron!” Logan hisses, glaring at him.
“I was just asking! She said it was fine!”
“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Garrett snaps. The authority in his voice is absolute. The room goes dead silent.
Garrett looks down at you, his gray eyes dark with concern. His hand moves from the back of the couch to gently grip your shoulder. “You don’t have to say a word to him. You don’t have to explain anything to anyone.”
“It’s okay,” you whisper. You look down at your hands, tracing the lines of your palms. “It’s true.”
The confession drops into the quiet room, fragile and devastating.
Dean shifts closer to you on the couch, the space between you vanishing. “Y/N …”
“He groomed me,” you say, the words spilling out of your mouth. Now that the dam is cracked, you can’t stop the flood. “I was fifteen. He was thirty-six. He told my mom he was going to make me a star. He isolated me from everyone. By the time I was eighteen, I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t have any family I was allowed to talk to. It was just him. He told me that if I didn’t love him back, he would drop me from the label and ruin my life.”
Logan lets out a shaky breath, staring at the floor. Tucker looks like he wants to be sick.
Garrett’s jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks furiously in his cheek. His hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, anchoring you to the couch.
“He controlled everything,” you continue, your voice detached, hollowed out by the alcohol and the sheer exhaustion of carrying the secret for so long. “What I wore. What I ate. How much I weighed. And then the new music video …”
You swallow hard, the phantom heat of the stage lights prickling against your skin.
“He wanted me to … he wanted me to do a routine on the floor. It was basically thinly veiled porn. In front of fifty crew members. I told him no. I told him I was a singer, not a porn star. And he …”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“He lost it. He told me nobody cared about my voice. He told me they just wanted to look at my body. And I just … I broke. I couldn’t breathe. I ripped my costume off and I ran. I just kept running.”
Dean lets out a string of vicious, whispered curses. He reaches out and gently takes your hand, intertwining his long fingers with yours. His grip is grounding, anchoring you from the right side.
“The next day,” you whisper, tears finally pricking the corners of your eyes, “his private security came to my hotel room. They told me I was having a psychotic break. They drove me to a private facility in Malibu. Shawn had already signed the paperwork for a 5150 hold, claiming I was a danger to myself and others.”
Garrett shifts on the couch, his massive body turning fully toward you. He pulls you gently against his side. You go willingly, collapsing against his solid chest, the tears finally spilling over your eyelashes.
“It was so white,” you sob quietly into his shirt. “The walls, the floors, the lights. They didn’t listen to me. I told them he was lying, that he was abusing me, but Shawn had already paid them off. They pinned me down to the bed.”
Your breath hitches, the memory of the heavy hands grabbing your arms making your heart race.
Garrett’s arms wrap entirely around you, pulling you practically into his lap. He buries his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, but it’s exactly what you need. You need the pressure. You need to know you are solid.
“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your hair. “I’ve got you, Y/N. Nobody is ever going to hold you down again. I swear to god, I will kill anyone who tries.”
“They sedated me,” you cry, your fingers digging into the fabric of Garrett’s hoodie. “They pumped me full of so many drugs I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. For weeks, I would just wake up and stare at the ceiling. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t talk. My body … it didn’t even feel like my own body anymore. It felt like I was trapped inside a corpse.”
Dean moves closer, pressing his chest against your back, his arms coming around to wrap over Garrett’s. You are entirely surrounded by them, cocooned in their heat, their strength, and their furious, unyielding protection.
“It’s over,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his lips pressing gently against your temple. “You’re here now. You’re with us. Your body is yours, sweetheart. Nobody is ever taking it away from you again.”
You break down completely. You sob into Garrett’s chest, letting out all the grief, the terror, and the profound, agonizing violation of the past six years. You cry for the teenager who was manipulated, and for the woman who was locked in a white room and forced into silence.
And they hold you.
Garrett rocks you slightly, his large hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, his chin resting on the top of your head. He murmurs quiet, fierce promises into the quiet room. Promises of safety. Promises of violence against the man who hurt you.
Dean holds your hand against his chest, right over his heart, so you can feel the steady, rhythmic beating against your palm. He presses his face into your shoulder, sharing the weight of your trauma without a second thought.
On the other side of the room, Logan and Tucker sit in devastated silence, standing guard over the quiet intimacy of the couch.
For the first time in a very long time, as the alcohol slowly burns out of your system and the tears run dry, you don’t feel entirely broken. You feel exhausted. You feel raw.
But surrounded by the fierce, protective embrace of Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis, you finally feel safe.
***
The sanctuary lasts exactly eight days.
Eight days of quiet mornings, shared coffees, and walking to class flanked by two human mountains who have unofficially made your safety their full-time job. You’re currently sitting at the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Garrett’s massive gray Briar University hoodies. It swallows you whole, the fleece smelling faintly of his cedarwood body wash and ice rink chill.
You’re laughing at something Tucker just said about Logan’s disastrous attempt to cook eggs, a genuine, easy sound that you haven’t heard from yourself in years. Garrett is standing behind you, casually leaning against the counter, his large hand resting absentmindedly on the back of your stool. Dean is across the island, scrolling through his phone with a piece of burnt toast dangling from his mouth.
It is peaceful. It is normal.
And then, in the span of a single second, it shatters.
Dean stops chewing. The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, snapping completely rigid. He lowers his phone, his eyes widening as he reads whatever is on the screen.
“Dean?” Logan asks, catching the shift in the room’s energy. “What is it?”
Dean doesn’t answer. His face drains of color. He looks up from his screen, his gaze snapping directly to you. There is a terrifying, naked panic in his eyes that makes the breath lodge in your throat.
“Dean,” Garrett says, his voice low, warning. He pushes off the counter, stepping closer to you. “What are you looking at?”
“Fuck,” Dean whispers. He drops the toast onto a paper plate, his fingers gripping the edges of his phone so hard his knuckles turn white. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Talk to me,” Garrett barks.
“It’s TMZ,” Dean says, his voice sounding hollow. He looks at you, his expression agonizingly apologetic. “Sweetheart … I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t look. Just let me read it.”
The bottom drops out of your stomach. The world tilts on its axis, a loud, ringing sound starting up in your ears. “Read it,” you force out, your voice trembling. “Dean, read it right now.”
Dean swallows hard. He clears his throat, but his voice still shakes as he reads the headline aloud.
EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS IN PERIL? SHAWN NICHOLS FILES FOR CONSERVATORSHIP.
TMZ Staff | October 14, 2026
The drama surrounding the sudden disappearance of the music industry’s brightest young star has just taken a massive, shocking legal turn.
TMZ has obtained exclusive court documents filed late last night in Los Angeles County Superior Court by billionaire music mogul Shawn Nichols. Nichols, the 42-year-old CEO of Supernova Records and the singer’s long-time manager/boyfriend, is petitioning the court for an emergency, full-scale conservatorship over the 21-year-old pop star.
For those who don’t speak legalese, a conservatorship is a legal concept where a guardian or a protector is appointed by a judge to manage the financial affairs and/or daily life of another person due to physical or mental limitations. Yes, folks. The Britney Spears treatment.
According to the explosive 40-page filing, Nichols claims that the singer’s “sudden, erratic relocation to a remote East Coast college” is proof of a “deepening psychotic break” and “severe bipolar disorder.” The documents allege that following her 5150 psychiatric hold earlier this year, the singer went off her prescribed medication and was manipulated by estranged family members into fleeing the state.
Nichols’s legal team argues that the singer is entirely incapable of managing her multi-million dollar estate, her music catalog, or even providing for her own basic food and shelter. He is asking a judge to grant him complete legal authority over her finances, medical decisions, career moves, and personal liberties.
Nichols’s camp released a statement this morning: “Shawn loves her deeply and is heartbroken by her current, rapid mental decline. He is taking these extreme legal measures solely out of fear for her safety and well-being. He hopes to get her the intensive psychiatric help she desperately needs.”
If the judge signs off, the pop star could be legally forced to return to Los Angeles under Nichols’s direct supervision. Will her mysterious East Coast hideaway be enough to keep her out of his clutches? We’re hearing a judge is reviewing the emergency petition as we speak.
The kitchen goes dead silent.
The air is sucked out of the room. You sit frozen on the barstool, staring blankly at the marble countertop.
Conservatorship.
The word echoes in your skull, heavy and suffocating like a wet blanket. It’s a word that Shawn used to throw around in the dark, whispered into your ear when you fought back about a lyric or a photo shoot. I’ll declare you incompetent. I’ll take it all away. You won’t even be allowed to buy a cup of coffee without my permission.
“He’s going to take me back,” you whisper. The sound is barely audible, but in the quiet kitchen, it rings like a gunshot.
You can’t. Your lungs are locked tight. A conservatorship. It means the end of everything. It means the end of Briar, the end of your vocal performance classes, the end of the quiet mornings in this kitchen. It means a judge signing a piece of paper that turns you back into Shawn Nichols’s property. It means forced sedatives, locked doors, and a lifetime of being entirely trapped in your own body.
“No,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip your hair. “No, no, no, he can’t. He can’t do this. I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine!”
“I know,” Garrett says. His large hands are suddenly on your shoulders, turning you around to face him. He steps between your knees, crowding you, his massive chest blocking out the rest of the room. “Y/N. Look at me.”
“He’s going to send them,” you sob, the panic clawing its way up your throat, raw and agonizing. “He’s going to send the security guards again. They’re going to drag me out of here. He’s going to lock me up, Garrett. He’s going to own me.”
“Nobody is taking you anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble, laced with a violence that is terrifyingly comforting. “Do you hear me? I will break the jaw of any man who steps onto this campus looking for you. I will literally tear them apart. He is not touching you.”
“You don’t understand,” you cry, gripping the front of his Briar hockey shirt, your knuckles white. “He’s a billionaire. He buys judges. He buys doctors. He has a whole team of lawyers who do nothing but destroy people for a living. If a judge signs that paper … I won’t have any rights. I won’t even be a person anymore.”
Garrett wraps his arms around you, pulling you off the stool and flush against his chest. He holds you with crushing, desperate strength, burying his face in your hair. “I don’t care how much money he has. I don’t care how many lawyers he has. We’re going to fight this. We’re not letting you go.”
Across the kitchen, Dean is pacing.
He’s pacing so fast his bare feet squeak against the hardwood floor. His phone is pressed to his ear, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is jumping visibly beneath his skin.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled blonde hair, ruining it. “Come on, Mom. You never go to court on a Monday morning …”
“Dean,” Tucker says quietly. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the cavalry,” Dean snaps. “This guy wants to play dirty with lawyers? Fine. We’ll play with the biggest sharks in the fucking ocean.”
The phone clicks.
“Dean, honey, I’m literally stepping into a deposition,” a sharp, elegant woman’s voice rings out over the speaker. “This better be an emergency.”
“It’s a massive emergency, Mom. Put Dad on speaker too if he’s in the office. Right now.”
There’s a rustle on the other end, a sigh of exasperation, and then the sound of a heavy wooden door clicking shut.
“You’re on speaker,” a deep, commanding voice says. Dean’s father. “Dean, what did you do? Did you get arrested? Did you wreck the car again?”
“I didn’t wreck anything, Dad. Shut up and listen to me,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen wall, his eyes fixed on you. “I need legal advice. And I need it thirty seconds ago.”
“We practice corporate and high-asset divorce, Dean, we aren’t-”
“Mom. Listen.” Dean holds up a hand, pacing again. “I have a hypothetical question.”
“A hypothetical question,” his father repeats dryly. “For a thousand dollars an hour.”
“Just roll with it, okay?” Dean says, his voice tight. “Hypothetically. Let’s say I have a friend. A very close friend. And let’s say this friend is a twenty-one-year-old girl who is incredibly smart, completely sane, and currently attending college in Massachusetts.”
You sniffle against Garrett’s chest, turning your head just enough to watch Dean. Garrett’s hand is heavy and warm on the back of your neck, stroking your hair in a continuous, grounding rhythm.
“Okay. Go on,” his mother says, her tone shifting. The annoyance is gone, replaced by the sharp, analytical edge of a high-powered attorney.
“Hypothetically,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto yours. “Let’s say this friend used to be involved with a forty-two-year-old billionaire who controlled her entire life, her finances, and her career. And when she tried to leave him, he had her committed on a bullshit 5150 hold to silence her. Now, she’s escaped. She’s safe. But this billionaire just filed an emergency petition for a full conservatorship in Los Angeles County, claiming she’s psychotic. He’s trying to use her move to the East Coast as proof that she’s erratic.”
The line goes completely silent.
“Dean,” his mother says. Her voice is soft, but it carries a terrifying, lethal weight. “Is this ‘hypothetical’ friend currently sitting in your living room?”
Dean doesn’t blink. “Hypothetically? Yes. And she is terrified.”
A heavy sigh crackles over the speaker. “Jesus Christ, Dean. You’re talking about the pop star. The TMZ article just crossed my desk ten minutes ago.”
“I am talking about a hypothetical friend,” Dean insists stubbornly. “And I need to know how we stop it. Right now.”
“Alright,” his father says, his voice booming into the kitchen. The playful father is gone; this is the partner at a top-tier law firm speaking. “Listen closely. Conservatorships are extremely difficult to establish over a young, able-bodied adult unless there is overwhelming medical evidence of severe cognitive decline. A 5150 hold from months ago is not enough to grant a permanent conservatorship, but an emergency temporary one? If he bought the right judge, it’s possible.”
“So how do we stop the temporary one?” Dean demands.
“You establish jurisdiction in Massachusetts,” his mother answers instantly. “He filed in California. He’s banking on the fact that her primary residence is still listed in LA. If she’s enrolled at a university in Massachusetts, she needs to establish residency immediately. She needs a Massachusetts driver’s license, she needs a local bank account, and she needs to be evaluated by an independent, board-certified psychiatrist in the state of Massachusetts to prove she is of entirely sound mind.”
“Done,” Dean says, pulling a pen out of a drawer and uncapping it with his teeth, scribbling on a napkin. “What else?”
“She cannot go to California,” his father warns. “If she steps foot in that state, she falls under their jurisdiction, and if he gets a temporary order, the police can detain her. She stays on campus. Does she have any family?”
“My uncle,” you whisper. Your voice is raspy and weak.
Garrett turns slightly. “Her uncle is David Prescott. The Dean of Briar University.”
“Wait, David Prescott?” Dean’s mom asks, her voice rising in surprise. “I went to law school with David. He’s her uncle?”
“Yes,” Garrett says, his arm still locked around you like a vice.
“Okay, this just got a lot easier,” his mother says, the sound of a keyboard clacking furiously in the background. “David is incredibly connected. Dean, you take her to David’s office the second you hang up this phone. Tell him to file a preemptive injunction in Massachusetts citing domestic abuse and coercive control. That blocks the California courts from enforcing anything out of state until a federal judge reviews it.”
“Coercive control,” Dean writes it down, underlining it twice.
“And Dean?” His father adds, his voice softening slightly. “This guy is a billionaire. He’s going to play dirty. He’s going to send private investigators. He’s going to leak more stories. Your friend needs to be prepared for this to get very public, and very ugly.”
“She’s not alone,” Dean says fiercely, staring right at you. “She’s got us.”
“Good,” his mother says. “I’m having my secretary clear my afternoon. I’m calling David Prescott myself. We don’t practice entertainment law, but I know the best sharks in the country who do. I’m going to send them an email right now. This Shawn guy thinks he can just buy a human being? He’s about to find out what happens when old money meets new trash.”
A tiny, breathless sob escapes your lips. It’s a sob of pure, overwhelming relief.
“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. I owe you,” Dean says, his shoulders finally dropping a fraction of an inch.
“You owe us your attendance at Thanksgiving,” his dad replies dryly. “Keep her safe, Dean. Call us if anyone shows up at the house.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead.
Dean tosses the phone onto the counter and exhales a massive breath, running both hands through his hair. He looks at the napkin, then looks at you.
“You heard the lady,” Dean says, a slow, fiercely protective smile spreading across his face. “We are going to war.”
You pull back from Garrett’s chest, wiping your tear-stained cheeks with the sleeves of his oversized hoodie. Your hands are still shaking, but the suffocating, paralyzing terror is beginning to recede, replaced by a tiny, burning spark of defiance.
“He’s going to try to ruin me,” you say quietly, looking between Garrett and Dean. “If I fight this … if I don’t surrender, he’s going to release everything. Every bad photo, every secret. He’ll destroy my reputation.”
“Fuck your reputation,” Garrett says bluntly. He reaches out, cupping your face in both of his massive, warm hands. His thumbs gently wipe away the fresh tears spilling over your eyelashes. “Your reputation isn’t your life. Your life is yours. He doesn’t get to own you just because he has a fat bank account and a big ego.”
“Garrett’s right,” Logan chimes in from the living room doorway, where he and Tucker have been standing guard. “We don’t care what TMZ says. We know who you are.”
“You want to sing, Y/N?” Dean asks, walking around the island and leaning against the counter right beside you. He reaches out and takes your shaking hand, squeezing it tight. “You want to write your own music? Then you fight him. You let my parents and your uncle drop a legal nuclear bomb on this guy. You let me and Garrett stand between you and any paparazzi who try to get close. But you do not give up.”
You look at Dean, at his bright, fierce eyes, and then up at Garrett, whose expression is locked into a mask of pure, unyielding devotion.
You spent years believing you were entirely alone. You spent years believing that if Shawn let go of you, you would simply cease to exist.
But sitting in the kitchen of a dilapidated college hockey house, surrounded by four guys who would literally take a bullet for you just because it’s the right thing to do, you realize Shawn was wrong. You aren’t weak. You just needed the right team to help you stand up.
You take a deep, shuddering breath. The air fills your lungs, crisp and clean.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice gaining a fraction of its strength back. “Okay. We fight.”
Garrett’s face breaks into a slow, breathtaking smile. He leans down and presses a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. “That’s my girl.”
“Alright,” Dean claps his hands together, the energy in the room instantly shifting from terror to tactical execution. “Logan, Tucker. Perimeter check. Make sure nobody is lurking around the house. Garrett, get your keys. We’re going to the Dean’s office.”
“What about class?” Tucker asks, grabbing his jacket.
“Fuck class,” Dean says, grabbing his own keys from the bowl. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a thrilling, reckless loyalty. “We’ve got a predator to destroy.”
***
TRANSCRIPT: GOOD MORNING AMERICA
Air Date: October 18, 2026
MICHAEL STRAHAN: We are following breaking news this morning in the legal battle that has completely captivated the entertainment world. The fight for control over the life and multi-million dollar estate of pop music’s biggest young star.
ROBIN ROBERTS: That’s right, Michael. It has been four days since Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols filed an emergency petition for a conservatorship in Los Angeles, claiming his 21-year-old girlfriend and client had suffered a severe psychotic break and fled the state. But this morning, there is a massive roadblock for Nichols’s legal team.
MICHAEL STRAHAN: ABC News Chief Legal Correspondent Dan Abrams is here. Dan, what is happening with this case? Because it seems like the singer is not going down without a fight.
DAN ABRAMS: She absolutely isn’t, Michael. And she has some very heavy hitters in her corner. Late yesterday afternoon, a team of high-powered attorneys representing the singer filed an emergency injunction in a Massachusetts federal court. They are claiming that Shawn Nichols does not have jurisdiction because she is a legal resident of Massachusetts, currently enrolled at Briar University.
ROBIN ROBERTS: And they’re making some very serious allegations against Nichols, aren’t they?
DAN ABRAMS: Explosive allegations. The Massachusetts filing explicitly accuses Shawn Nichols of severe domestic abuse, coercive control, and using the initial 5150 psychiatric hold maliciously to silence her. They are asking the federal judge to not only deny the conservatorship but to issue a permanent restraining order against Nichols. It is officially a bi-coastal legal war, and it is going to get very messy.
***
The television clicks off, plunging the living room into heavy, suffocating silence.
You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed tightly against the front of the sofa, your knees pulled up to your chest. The remote slips from your fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.
Your chest tightens, the familiar, icy grip of panic wrapping around your lungs. You close your eyes, but all you see is Shawn’s face. You see the cold, dead look in his eyes when he told you that nobody would ever believe you. You see the flashing lights of the cameras. You feel the heavy, clinical weight of the sedatives pulling you under.
“Hey. Look at me.”
A large, warm hand cups your jaw.
You open your eyes. Garrett is kneeling on the floor right in front of you. He is wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his hair sleep-mussed. It’s 6:30 in the morning. He hasn’t left your side in four days.
“Breathe, Y/N,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “In and out. Focus on me.”
“He’s going to destroy me,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “The whole world is watching. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”
“The whole world thinks he’s a controlling piece of shit,” Dean corrects, walking into the living room with two mugs of tea. He sets them on the coffee table and drops onto the floor beside you, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours. “Did you hear what the guy on TV just said? We filed the injunction. He’s blocked. He can’t touch you.”
“But what if the judge in Massachusetts doesn’t believe me?” You ask, your fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans. “What if they look at my medical records from the Malibu clinic? Shawn paid those doctors to say I was bipolar and severely unstable. It’s in black and white.”
Garrett shifts closer, his massive frame effectively shielding you from the rest of the room. He takes both of your shaking hands in his, his grip grounding and solid.
“Then we prove them wrong,” Garrett says, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrates right into your chest. “You have an evaluation with the state psychiatrist this afternoon. You go in there, you sit down, and you just be yourself. You tell them the truth.”
“I’m terrified,” you admit, the words tumbling out on a broken sob. “I’m so tired of fighting, Garrett. I just want to disappear.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Dean says softly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. “I know you’re tired. But you don’t get to give up. We aren’t letting you.”
“If you need to fall apart, you fall apart right here,” Garrett adds, his gray eyes fierce and unyielding. “You let us carry the weight for a while. But when we walk into that doctor’s office today, you hold your head up. You show them exactly who you are. Do you understand?”
You look between them. Two gorgeous, massive hockey players who have completely upended their lives to build a fortress around yours.
You take a shaky breath, letting Garrett’s heat and Dean’s solid presence anchor you to the floor. “Okay. I can do it.”
***
THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER: LEGAL BRIEFS
October 20, 2026 | By Priya Mehta
JURISDICTION DENIED: JUDGE BLOCKS SHAWN NICHOLS’S CONSERVATORSHIP BID IN CALIFORNIA
In a stunning defeat for Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols, a Los Angeles County Superior Court judge has officially denied his emergency petition for a temporary conservatorship over his former client and girlfriend.
The judge ruled that Nichols’s team failed to prove immediate, life-threatening peril, and more importantly, agreed with the singer’s legal team that California is no longer her state of legal residence.
Sources close to the singer’s legal team (which is being quietly spearheaded by high-powered East Coast firm Di Laurentis & Associates) confirm that she has successfully established residency in Massachusetts. Furthermore, a court-mandated, independent psychiatric evaluation conducted yesterday in Boston deemed her “entirely competent, lucid, and showing zero signs of cognitive decline or psychosis.”
The battle isn’t over, however. Nichols’s team is expected to appeal the jurisdiction ruling, moving the fight to federal court. But for now, the pop star remains free, and the music industry is left reeling from the allegations of coercive control and abuse that her team has placed on the public record.
***
The waiting room of the federal courthouse in Boston is sterile, freezing, and smells like lemon polish and anxiety.
You are sitting on a stiff wooden bench, wearing a conservative black blazer and slacks that Dean’s mother bought for you yesterday. Your hands are clasped so tightly in your lap that your fingers are entirely numb.
The door to the judge’s chambers is closed. Inside, your uncle David, Dean’s mother, and a team of three terrifyingly sharp entertainment lawyers are currently arguing with Shawn’s legal team via video link.
You weren’t required to be in the room for the procedural arguments, which is a mercy, because just being in the same building as this legal battle is making your skin crawl.
“Drink this.”
Garrett appears in your line of sight, holding out a bottle of water. He is wearing a dark suit that stretches tight across his broad shoulders, making him look less like a college student and more like a lethal, high-end bodyguard. Dean is sitting on your other side, similarly dressed in a custom-tailored navy suit, currently glaring at a paralegal who dared to look in your direction.
You take the water with a shaky hand, managing a tiny sip. “How long has it been?”
“Forty-five minutes,” Garrett says, sitting down heavily next to you. His thigh presses against yours, radiating a comforting heat. “My dad used to drag me to these things when I was a kid. Lawyers love to hear themselves talk. It takes time.”
You flinch slightly at the mention of his father. You know the bare bones of Garrett’s history — the abuse, the pristine public image, the quiet nightmare behind closed doors. You know exactly why he hates Shawn Nichols with such a visceral, violent intensity.
“I feel sick,” you whisper, leaning your head against the hard cinderblock wall behind the bench.
“Do you want to walk?” Dean asks instantly, his attention snapping back to you. “We can walk the hallway. Stretch your legs.”
“No. I just want it to be over.”
Garrett shifts his arm, wrapping it around the back of the bench and letting his hand rest heavily on your far shoulder, pulling you slightly toward him. “It will be. My money is on Dean’s mom. The woman is terrifying.”
“She made a senior partner cry when I was in the fourth grade because he tried to overcharge a client,” Dean says proudly. “Shawn’s Hollywood lawyers don’t stand a chance against my mother. They’re used to bullying people. She’s used to destroying them.”
The heavy oak door to the judge’s chambers suddenly clicks open.
Your heart slams into your ribs. You shoot up from the bench, Garrett and Dean rising instantly beside you, flanking you like gargoyles.
Dean’s mother, Lori Heyward, steps out into the hallway. She looks impeccable. Not a single hair is out of place, and her tailored skirt suit doesn’t have a single wrinkle. She closes the door behind her and looks at the three of you.
Her face is completely unreadable.
“Mom?” Dean asks, the tension in his voice betraying his calm facade. “What happened?”
Lori lets out a slow, deliberate breath. Then, a sharp, predatory smile curves her lips.
“The California petition is officially dead,” Lori says, her voice crisp and echoing in the quiet hallway. “The judge threw it out with prejudice. Shawn Nichols has absolutely zero legal standing to petition for a conservatorship in this state or any other.”
The air leaves your lungs in a massive, dizzying rush.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, your hands flying over your mouth.
“Furthermore,” Lori continues, her eyes softening as she looks at you. “The judge reviewed the independent psychiatric evaluation and the evidence of coercive control we submitted. He granted the permanent restraining order. Nichols cannot contact you, he cannot approach you, and he cannot dictate your finances.”
You break.
The dam that has been holding back years of terror, manipulation, and suffocating control finally snaps. You let out a loud, breathless sob and collapse forward.
Garrett catches you before you can even stumble.
His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you completely off the ground as he buries his face in your neck. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on for dear life, crying so hard your entire body shakes.
“You’re free,” Garrett whispers fiercely into your ear, his own voice thick with emotion. “You’re free, Y/N. He’s gone.”
Dean wraps his arms around both of you, crushing you in a massive, three-person hug in the middle of the federal courthouse. “We got him, sweetheart,” Dean laughs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “We totally destroyed him.”
You cry until you can’t breathe, but for the first time in six years, they are tears of absolute joy.
***
@PopCultureTea The Shawn Nichols-Y/N court documents just got unsealed and HOLY SHIT. He didn’t just control her money, he literally weighed her food and had trackers on her phone. #FreeYN is trending for a reason. He’s a monster.
@MusicIndustryInsider Several other female artists formerly signed to Supernova Records are preparing to come forward with similar allegations of coercive control and abuse by Shawn Nichols. The dam is breaking.
@BriarHawksSupportClub Anyone else notice that Y/N has two massive Briar hockey players acting as her personal security detail? Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis haven’t let her out of their sight in weeks. Alpha energy overload.
@TMZ BREAKING: Shawn Nichols steps down as CEO of Supernova Records amidst federal investigation into extortion and abuse allegations.
***
It is snowing in Hastings.
Big, thick flakes are drifting down past the living room window of the hockey house, blanketing the front lawn in pristine white. Inside, the house is aggressively warm, the radiator hissing gently in the corner.
You are sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, a massive slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and a red pen in the other. Sheet music is scattered everywhere — pages upon pages of lyrics, chord progressions, and hastily scribbled notes.
“No, that bridge is too slow,” you mutter to yourself, chewing on the end of the pen. “It needs to build. It needs more …”
“More bass,” Tucker suggests from the armchair, where he is aggressively losing a game of Mario Kart to Logan.
“It’s an acoustic ballad, Tuck. It doesn’t need bass,” you laugh, crossing out a line of lyrics and rewriting it.
The front door bangs open, bringing in a rush of freezing air. Garrett and Dean stomp onto the welcome mat, shaking the snow off their heavy winter coats. They just got back from practice, their hair damp with sweat and melted snow, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
“I am freezing my balls off,” Dean complains, kicking his boots off. “Whose bright idea was it to go to college in the frozen tundra?”
“Yours, you idiot,” Garrett says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the hook.
Garrett walks into the living room, his eyes immediately finding you on the floor. The hard, intense lines of his face instantly soften. He walks over, sidestepping the scattered sheet music, and drops down onto the rug right behind you.
He wraps his large arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest, burying his cold nose in the crook of your neck.
“Jesus, Garrett, you’re freezing!” You squeal, squirming slightly, though you make no actual effort to pull away.
“Warm me up, then,” he murmurs, his deep voice vibrating against your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sending a warm shiver straight down your spine. “What are you working on?”
“The new song,” you say, leaning back into his solid heat. “For my final project in Vocal Performance. I’m going to produce it myself.”
Dean walks into the room, grabbing a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table. He drops onto the couch, casually resting his bare feet near your thigh. “Is it about how much you love your two incredibly handsome, heroic best friends?”
“It’s about how much I hate your ego,” you tease, looking up at him.
Dean winks, taking a massive bite of pizza. “Same thing.”
You look down at the sheet music. It’s been three weeks since the judge’s ruling. Three weeks since Shawn Nichols was legally barred from your life. Three weeks since the music industry completely turned its back on him, launching a massive investigation into his label.
He is gone. Really, truly gone.
And you are still here.
You trace the notes on the page, the melody humming in your mind. It’s a song about a cage. It’s a song about the cold, blinding lights of a soundstage, and the terrifying silence of a white room.
But the bridge … the bridge is about the warmth of a cracked leather couch. It’s about gray eyes and crooked smiles. It’s about the fierce, violent, beautiful protection of the people who saw you when you were completely invisible.
“Play it for me,” Garrett says softly, his arms tightening around your waist.
“It’s not done yet,” you say, sudden shyness gripping you. You haven’t sung in front of anyone since you ran off that set in Los Angeles.
“I don’t care,” Garrett says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Play what you have.”
Dean mutes the TV, completely ignoring Logan’s indignant protests. Tucker turns around in his chair. The room goes entirely quiet, filled only with the soft hiss of the radiator and the gentle sound of the snow hitting the window glass.
You look at the acoustic guitar resting against the sofa.
You reach out and pull it into your lap. Garrett shifts slightly, giving you enough room to hold the instrument, but he doesn’t let go of you. His solid presence at your back is a physical anchor.
You place your fingers on the frets. You take a deep, clean breath of Massachusetts air.
And for the first time in your life, you sing a song that belongs entirely to you.
***
“I still think you should skip,” Dean says, leaning casually against the brick wall of the music building. He reaches out, tugging playfully at the zipper of your winter coat. “We could go back to the house. I could make you hot chocolate. Garrett could brood in the corner and look intimidating. It would be a great Tuesday.”
“I have a mid-term, Dean,” you say, laughing as you swat his hand away. You adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder. “And unlike you, I actually care about passing my classes.”
Garrett snorts, standing on your other side with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark denim jacket. The wind off the quad is biting, rustling through his dark hair, but the cold doesn’t seem to faze him. “She’s got a point, man. Your GPA is currently resting on a razor’s edge.”
“My GPA is a work of abstract art,” Dean corrects smoothly. He pushes off the wall, his bright eyes softening as he looks down at you. The teasing lilt leaves his voice, replaced by the steady, grounding warmth that you’ve come to rely on. “Text us the second you’re out, okay? We’ll be right here.”
“I know,” you smile, the familiar flutter of affection settling comfortably in your chest. “You guys are always right here.”
Garrett reaches out, his large hand gently catching your chin. He tilts your head up and presses a warm, firm kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for a second, a silent, fierce reassurance. “Knock ’em dead, sweetheart. We’ll see you in an hour.”
You wave at them as you pull the heavy glass doors of the music building open, stepping into the heated lobby.
Garrett and Dean wait on the concrete steps. They don’t move a muscle until they watch you safely scan your student ID and disappear down the main academic hallway. Only when you are completely out of sight do they finally turn away, falling into stride beside each other as they head back toward the main quad.
“I’ve got a seminar in twenty minutes,” Dean groans, pulling his collar up against the wind. “Ethics in Modern Law. It is aggressively boring.”
“It’s a pre-law requirement,” Garrett points out, his long legs eating up the pavement. “If you didn’t want to take it, you shouldn’t have let your parents bully you into the major.”
“They didn’t bully me. They heavily suggested it while holding my trust fund hostage,” Dean smirks. “There’s a difference. Besides, I’m good at arguing. I might as well get paid for it.”
They turn the corner, taking the shortcut behind the campus library. It’s a quiet, shaded walkway, lined with tall oak trees and thick brick archways that block out the wind and the noise of the main campus. Because of the cold, the path is completely empty.
“You think Coach is actually going to bag skate us this afternoon?” Dean asks, stepping over a patch of frozen leaves. “Because I swear, my hamstrings are still-”
Garrett stops walking.
He stops so abruptly his heavy boots scuff loudly against the pavement.
“G?” Dean asks, taking another step before pausing and turning back. “What’s wrong?”
Garrett doesn’t answer. His entire body has gone completely rigid. His broad shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He is staring straight ahead down the shaded walkway, his gray eyes dark and lethal.
Dean follows his line of sight.
Standing about fifty yards away, near the side entrance of the music annex, is a man.
He stands out instantly. He isn’t wearing a Briar hoodie or a North Face jacket. He’s wearing a tailored, charcoal-gray wool overcoat over a perfectly pressed suit. He has silver hair at his temples, combed back meticulously. He is leaning against the stone railing, casually checking a silver watch on his wrist, his posture oozing a slimy, arrogant confidence.
Dean’s blood goes ice cold in his veins.
“No fucking way,” Dean whispers, the words catching in his throat.
“It’s him,” Garrett says. His voice doesn’t sound human. It is a low, guttural snarl, vibrating with a violence so raw and absolute it makes the air around them feel heavy.
Shawn Nichols.
Here. On their campus. Fifty yards away from the building where you are currently sitting in a classroom, completely unaware that the monster from her nightmares has found her.
“He’s violating the restraining order,” Dean says, his mind instantly racing through the legal parameters. “He has to stay five hundred feet away from her. The music annex is attached to her building. He’s trying to ambush her.”
Garrett doesn’t say a word. He just moves.
He stalks forward, his strides long and aggressive, eating up the distance between them and Shawn. Dean is right on his heels, his own heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The easygoing, charming Briar University playboy completely vanishes, replaced by a cold, calculating rage.
Shawn doesn’t notice them until they are less than ten feet away. He looks up from his watch, his perfectly manicured eyebrows drawing together in irritation at the heavy sound of their footsteps.
“Excuse me,” Shawn says, his voice dripping with condescension. “The library entrance is on the other side. This path is-”
Shawn cuts off.
He looks at Garrett. He looks at Dean. Recognition flashes in his cold eyes. He’s seen their faces. He’s seen the paparazzi photos of the two massive hockey players flanking you at the diner, flanking you at the courthouse, standing between you and the rest of the world.
Shawn doesn’t look intimidated. If anything, a slick, mocking smile spreads across his face.
“Well. If it isn’t the campus security detail,” Shawn says smoothly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his expensive coat. “I was wondering when I’d run into you boys.”
“You have exactly five seconds to turn around and walk off this campus,” Garrett says, stopping three feet away from Shawn. Garrett’s chest is heaving, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is visibly jumping. “Before I break both of your fucking legs.”
Shawn chuckles. It’s a dry, hollow sound. “Violent. She always did like the aggressive type. Although, I have to say, I’m surprised she downgraded to a pair of meathead college athletes. The money must be tight now that she doesn’t have my credit cards.”
Dean steps up beside Garrett, his eyes locking onto Shawn. “You are violating a federal restraining order, Nichols. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the cops, and my mother will personally see to it that you spend the next five years in a maximum-security cell.”
“Ah, yes. The Di Laurentis boy,” Shawn sneers, looking Dean up and down with absolute disdain. “Tell your mother her little legal stunt in Boston was cute. But temporary. You kids don’t seem to understand how the real world works. Restraining orders are just pieces of paper. And she …” Shawn’s eyes flick toward the music building, his smile darkening into something twisted and possessive. “ … she belongs to me.”
Garrett sees red.
“She doesn’t belong to anybody,” Garrett growls, taking a step forward, invading Shawn’s personal space. “You’re a sick, pathetic old man who preys on teenagers because you’re too weak to handle a real woman. You’re nothing without her.”
Shawn’s mocking smile falters for a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine, ugly anger bleeding through his polished exterior. But he recovers quickly, leaning closer to Garrett.
“You think you’re saving her?” Shawn whispers, his voice turning into a venomous hiss. “You think you’re her hero? You’re a temporary distraction. I made her. I built her from the ground up. I know every sound she makes, every secret she has. I know exactly how she likes to be touched.”
The air leaves the alleyway.
“When she’s done playing college dress-up with you boys,” Shawn continues, his eyes glittering with malice, “She’ll come crawling back to me. They always do. She needs the discipline. She likes the control. And when she comes back, I’m going to make sure she never forgets who owns her-”
Garrett snaps.
With a roar of pure fury, Garrett pulls his right arm back, his massive fist curling into a wrecking ball, ready to cave Shawn’s skull in.
“Garrett, wait!”
Dean moves faster than he ever has on the ice. He lunges forward, catching Garrett’s arm mid-swing. The impact of stopping Garrett’s momentum sends a shockwave up Dean’s shoulder, but he holds on with a desperate, iron grip.
“Let me go, Dean!” Garrett roars, his eyes wild, completely consumed by the rage. He tries to rip his arm away, his focus locked entirely on Shawn’s smug face. “I’m going to kill him! Let me go!”
“No! Garrett, stop!” Dean shoves his entire body weight against Garrett’s chest, forcing the bigger man back a step. “Look at me! G, look at me!”
Garrett blinks, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto Dean’s face.
“He wants you to hit him,” Dean says, his voice low and intense, his hands gripping the lapels of Garrett’s jacket. “Look at him. He’s smiling. He wants you to assault him so he can press charges.”
Shawn adjusts his cuffs, looking entirely unbothered. “Listen to your friend, Graham. A felony assault charge would look terrible for a college player waiting to be signed. What would the Bruins say?”
Dean doesn’t look at Shawn. He keeps his eyes locked on Garrett.
“Garrett, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice deadly calm. “You have the draft. You have an NHL contract waiting for you. You have a spotless record. If you hit him, he ruins your career. He takes everything you’ve worked for since you were a kid. You cannot get your hands dirty on a piece of shit like this.”
Garrett’s breathing is ragged. He looks at Shawn, then back at Dean. The violent rage is still there, burning just beneath his skin, but the logic penetrates the haze. Garrett knows what’s at stake. He knows Shawn is baiting him.
Slowly, agonizingly, Garrett lowers his fist. He steps back, his chest rising and falling heavily.
Shawn smirks, a triumphant, sickening look of victory washing over his face. “Smart boy. Stick to hockey. Leave the grown-up matters to the men. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a conversation to have with my girlfriend.”
Shawn turns to walk toward the music building.
“Hey, Shawn.”
Shawn stops, turning back around with an annoyed sigh. “What now?”
Dean is shrugging out of his heavy winter coat. He tosses it onto the frozen grass. He reaches up, casually unbuttoning the cuffs of his expensive button-down shirt and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. He takes his silver watch off and hands it to Garrett without looking.
“See, Garrett has a career to protect,” Dean says, his voice smooth, conversational, and completely terrifying. “He has rules.”
Dean rolls his neck, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet walkway.
“Me, on the other hand?” Dean continues, taking a slow, measured step toward Shawn. “I’m not going pro. I have a trust fund that could buy and sell your pathetic little record label ten times over. My parents are the most ruthless, highly connected defense attorneys on the eastern seaboard. I don’t give a single flying fuck about a clean record.”
Shawn’s smug smile finally vanishes. He takes a step back, his eyes darting to the sides, suddenly realizing exactly how alone they are in the shaded alleyway. “If you touch me, I’ll have you arrested.”
“I’ll have my lawyers tie it up in court for the next thirty years,” Dean smiles, a cold, devastating slash of white teeth. “It’ll be a fun hobby.”
Shawn opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come out.
Dean lunges.
It isn’t a hockey fight. There is no jersey grabbing, no wild swinging. Dean is precise, fast, and completely merciless.
His first punch connects squarely with Shawn’s jaw. The crack of bone is sickeningly loud. Shawn’s head snaps to the side, a spray of blood painting the brick wall beside him, and he crumbles to the pavement like a puppet with its strings cut.
“That,” Dean snarls, his voice echoing off the archways, “is for locking her in a hospital.”
Shawn groans, rolling onto his side and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the pavement. He tries to scramble backward, his expensive wool coat scraping against the concrete. “You … you’re dead. I’ll ruin you …”
Dean grabs him by the lapels of his coat, dragging him effortlessly back to his feet. Shawn is taller than you, but against a 200-pound college athlete fueled by pure hatred, he is nothing.
Dean drives his knee directly into Shawn’s stomach. All the air leaves Shawn’s lungs in a pathetic, wheezing gasp. He doubles over, clutching his abdomen.
“That,” Dean says, his chest heaving, “is for the drugs.”
Shawn falls to his knees, gasping for air, his hands trembling as he tries to shield his face. “Please … wait …”
“And this,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register. “This is for every time you ever laid your hands on her.”
Dean brings his elbow down hard on the back of Shawn’s neck, driving him face-first into the concrete. Shawn goes completely limp, a low, pathetic whimper escaping his bloody lips.
Dean stands over him. He doesn’t stop. He reaches down, grabs Shawn by the collar of his shirt, and hauls him up just enough to deliver another crushing right hook to his cheekbone. Shawn’s head snaps back, and he collapses back onto the ground, unmoving.
He’s conscious, but barely. He is a bloody, broken mess on the freezing pavement, his arrogant veneer entirely stripped away.
Dean stands up straight. His knuckles are split and bleeding, staining his white shirt cuffs red. He’s breathing hard, the adrenaline coursing fiercely through his veins. He looks down at the man who terrorized you for six years, the man who made you fear your own shadow, and Dean feels absolutely nothing but satisfaction.
Dean slowly turns around.
Garrett is standing exactly where Dean left him. His arms are crossed over his chest, his gray eyes dark and incredibly proud.
Dean reaches up, casually running a hand through his hair to fix it. He wipes a drop of Shawn’s blood off his cheek with the back of his hand.
“Hey, Graham,” Dean asks, his voice returning to its normal, casual drawl.
“Yeah, Di Laurentis?” Garrett replies.
“You see any cameras around this corner?”
Garrett takes a slow, theatrical look around the shaded brick alleyway. He looks up at the library roof, then over at the trees. He looks back at Dean, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his handsome face.
“Just brick and ivy, man,” Garrett says. “Total dead zone.”
“Perfect.”
Dean reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out his phone. He unlocks the screen and dials 911, holding the phone to his ear.
He waits for the operator to answer. And then, in a masterclass of acting that would win an Oscar, Dean’s entire demeanor changes. His posture slumps, his voice becomes frantic, breathless, and laced with absolute panic.
“Hello? Yes, 911? I need police and an ambulance at Briar University immediately,” Dean gasps into the phone, sounding genuinely terrified. “I’m behind the campus library. I … I don’t know what happened. This guy just came out of nowhere and attacked me.”
Garrett leans against the wall, watching Dean work with absolute awe.
“Yes, I’m a student,” Dean cries into the receiver. “His name is Shawn Nichols. He’s my friend’s stalker. He has a federal restraining order against him and he showed up on campus looking for her. I told him to leave, and he just went crazy. He lunged at me. I … I had to defend myself. I think I hurt him. Please hurry, I’m so scared.”
Dean gives the operator the exact cross streets, his voice shaking perfectly, before hanging up the phone.
The fake panic instantly drops from his face. He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. He looks down at Shawn, who is groaning pathetically on the concrete, blood pooling around his expensive shoes.
“They’re on their way,” Dean says coldly. He steps closer to Shawn, crouching down so he is eye-level with the beaten man.
Shawn looks up at him through a swollen, rapidly bruising eye.
“Listen to me very carefully, Shawn,” Dean whispers, his voice lethal. “When the cops get here, you are going to tell them that you violated the restraining order. You are going to tell them that you attacked me, and I fought back in self-defense. If you try to say anything else, my mother will rip your life apart in court. And when she’s done, Garrett and I will find you again. And next time, there won’t be an ambulance.”
Shawn swallows hard, coughing on his own blood. He gives a weak, terrified nod.
Dean stands back up. He turns to Garrett, casually rolling his bloody sleeves back down.
“You know,” Garrett says, walking over and handing Dean his watch and winter coat. “I always thought you were just a pretty face.”
Dean flashes a bright, bloody grin, slipping his watch back onto his wrist. “I have layers, G. Like an onion.”
“Well,” Garrett claps Dean firmly on the shoulder, his expression hardening into pure brotherhood. “Remind me to never piss you off.”
“Don’t worry,” Dean says, looking toward the music building where you are safely sitting in class. “I only get violent for the people I love.”
They stand side by side in the freezing wind, waiting for the sirens to arrive.
***
The front door of the hockey house opens with a heavy thud, followed by the familiar sound of heavy boots kicking off onto the welcome mat.
You look up from the music theory textbook spread across the kitchen island. You’ve been home for an hour, the quiet of the house slowly settling your nerves after the exam.
“How was the ethics seminar?” You call out, sliding off the barstool and padding into the hallway in your socks. “Did you survive without falling asleep-”
You stop dead in your tracks.
Dean is shrugging off his heavy winter coat, tossing it carelessly onto the hook. His hair is a mess, his chest is heaving slightly, and his tailored white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. But that isn’t what stops your heart.
It’s his hands.
His right hand is completely wrecked. The skin across his knuckles is split, raw, and bleeding freely. There are dark, smeared streaks of blood running down his fingers and staining the pristine white cuffs of his shirt a stark, terrifying crimson.
A sharp gasp rips from your throat. “Dean!”
Dean looks up, his eyes widening slightly as he realizes what you’re looking at. He immediately tries to tuck his hands behind his back, a sheepish, almost guilty look crossing his face. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re home early.”
“Oh my god, your hand!” You sprint down the hallway, grabbing his arm and pulling his right hand forward. Your heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your ribs. “What happened? Did you get into a car accident? Did you fall? Garrett, why didn’t you take him to the hospital?”
Garrett steps into the hallway, casually locking the front door behind him. He doesn’t look panicked at all. In fact, he looks incredibly calm. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and practically glowing with a fierce, protective pride.
“He doesn’t need a hospital, Y/N,” Garrett says, his deep voice a soothing rumble in the frantic hallway.
“Look at him!” You cry, your fingers hovering over Dean’s bleeding knuckles, terrified to cause him more pain. “He’s bleeding everywhere! We need to clean this out, you need stitches-”
“Sweetheart. Hey. Look at me,” Dean says softly.
He uses his clean left hand to gently cup your cheek, forcing your panicked gaze away from the blood and up to his eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. His bright eyes are warm, grounding, and completely entirely void of pain.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean promises, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. “It barely even hurts.”
“How can you say that?” You whisper, your voice shaking. “Your hand is destroyed.”
“That’s because he hit a brick wall,” Garrett says casually, leaning his massive frame against the hallway wall. “Or, more accurately, a brick wall dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat.”
You freeze.
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. The blood roaring in your ears suddenly goes deadly quiet.
“What?” You breathe out.
Dean sighs, shooting Garrett a mild glare before turning his full attention back to you. “He was here, Y/N. On campus. He was waiting outside the music annex.”
The name isn’t spoken, but it hangs in the air, a dark, suffocating cloud. Shawn.
Your knees instantly turn to water. You stumble back a step, a primal, deeply ingrained terror seizing your throat. “He was here? How close did he get? Did he see me? I didn’t see him-”
“Hey, hey, stop,” Garrett is there in an instant, his large hands gripping your shoulders, anchoring you to the floor. “He didn’t see you. You were safely inside taking your exam. He didn’t get anywhere near you.”
“Then how …” You look from Garrett to Dean’s bloody knuckles. The realization hits you like a freight train. “You fought him?”
“He didn’t fight him,” Garrett corrects, a slow, dark smirk spreading across his handsome face. “Dean beat him into the fucking pavement.”
You stare at Dean in absolute shock.
“He was waiting for you,” Dean says, his voice losing its playful edge, turning hard and lethal. “He was violating the restraining order, and he was planning on ambushing you when you walked out. Garrett was going to kill him, but … Garrett is going pro. He has an NHL career to protect. So, I stepped in.”
“You … you beat him up?” You ask, your voice barely a whisper.
“Very thoroughly,” Dean nods, a flash of pure, unapologetic satisfaction in his eyes. “I broke his nose. I shattered his jaw. I’m pretty sure I fractured a couple of his ribs. He won’t be doing much besides drinking out of a straw for the considerable future.”
“But … the police!” The panic surges back, hotter and more desperate this time. “Dean, he’s going to press charges! He’s going to ruin your life! He’s going to send you to jail!”
“He’s not sending anyone anywhere,” Dean chuckles, stepping closer to you. “I called the cops myself. I told them this deranged stalker showed up on campus, violated a federal restraining order, and attacked me unprovoked. I acted entirely in self-defense.”
Garrett laughs, a low, booming sound. “It was a masterclass, Y/N. You should have seen it. The cops showed up, Shawn is choking on his own blood, and Dean is playing the traumatized victim. His parents are already handling the paperwork. Shawn is the one who left in handcuffs, straight to the hospital ward under police guard.”
You stand perfectly still in the hallway.
You look at Dean. You look at the blood on his hands — Shawn’s blood. The blood of the man who controlled your every waking breath, the man who locked you in a sterile white room, the man who convinced you that you were entirely alone in the world.
Dean Di Laurentis, the wealthy, charming, carefree playboy of Briar University, shattered his own hands to protect you. He risked assault charges, he risked his reputation, he risked everything, simply because he refuses to let anyone hurt you.
And Garrett. Garrett stood back to protect his future, but he was fully prepared to throw it all away for you.
The overwhelming, crushing weight of their devotion crashes over you like a tidal wave.
Tears prick your eyes, hot and fast. A choked, breathless sob escapes your lips.
“Hey, no, don’t cry,” Dean says instantly, his face falling into genuine distress. He reaches for you, careful not to touch you with his bloody hand. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s over. He’s never coming near you again, I swear on my life.”
You don’t say a word. You step forward, grab the lapels of Dean’s unbuttoned shirt, pull him down to your height, and crash your lips against his.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard. And then, with a low groan that vibrates deep in his chest, he kisses you back. His clean left hand sweeps around your waist, pulling your body flush against his hard chest. The kiss is desperate, bruising, and tasted like salt and adrenaline. It is a profound, messy explosion of everything you have been holding back for months.
You kiss him like he is the only oxygen left in the room. You pour every ounce of your gratitude, your terror, and your overwhelming affection into his mouth. Dean’s lips part, his tongue sweeping inside, entirely commanding, entirely devoted.
When you finally pull back, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes dark and blown wide. “Christ, Y/N.”
You step out of his arms, your chest heaving, and turn to Garrett.
Garrett is staring at you, his jaw clenched, his gray eyes burning with a heat so intense it practically singes your skin. He doesn’t move. He waits, completely perfectly still, letting you dictate the terms.
You walk right up to him. You slide your hands up his broad chest, feeling the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart beneath his shirt. You wrap your arms around his thick neck, and you pull him down.
Garrett doesn’t hesitate. His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the floor as his mouth crashes down on yours.
If Dean’s kiss was desperate, Garrett’s is a claim. It is fierce, territorial, and completely consuming. He kisses you with the absolute, unyielding intensity of a man who would gladly burn the world to the ground to keep you warm. You tangle your fingers in his dark hair, whimpering softly into his mouth as his tongue meets yours.
He slowly lowers you back down to the floor, breaking the kiss but keeping his mouth hovering mere millimeters from yours. His breath is hot against your lips.
“Are you sure?” Garrett whispers, his voice thick, heavy with restraint. “You don’t have to do this just because you’re grateful.”
“It’s not gratitude,” you breathe, looking up into his intense gray eyes. You turn your head, catching Dean’s gaze over Garrett’s shoulder. “I’m so tired of being afraid. I’m so tired of feeling like my body doesn’t belong to me. I want … I want you. Both of you.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, stepping up directly behind you. His chest presses against your back. “You have us. Every single piece of us.”
“Make me forget him,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “Please.”
Garrett’s eyes darken. “Done.”
Garrett leans down, scooping you up into his arms effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like you weigh absolutely nothing. Dean leads the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. They don’t go to Garrett’s room at the end of the hall. They take the first door on the right — Dean’s room.
Dean kicks the door shut behind them, the heavy click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.
Garrett sets you down gently on the edge of Dean’s massive, king-sized bed. The room smells like expensive cologne and clean laundry.
“Let me wash my hands,” Dean says, his voice raspy. He walks into the attached en-suite bathroom, turning on the faucet.
You sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling a spike of nerves. For six years, sex was a transaction. It was something Shawn demanded, something you endured by going entirely numb and detaching from your own skin. You don’t know how to do this. You don’t know how to participate.
Garrett kneels on the floor between your knees. He sees the sudden panic flash in your eyes, the slight tremble in your hands.
“Hey,” Garrett murmurs, his massive hands coming to rest gently on your thighs. He doesn’t grip you. He just rests them there, a grounding, solid weight. “Look at me.”
You meet his eyes.
“We are not him,” Garrett says, his voice quiet, steady, and an absolute vow. “Nobody is taking anything from you today. Your body belongs to you. You are completely in control. If you want us to stop, you tell us, and we stop. Instantly. If you want something, you tell us. Do you understand?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”
“You don’t have to be good at anything,” Dean says, walking out of the bathroom. He has stripped off his ruined shirt, his sculpted chest completely bare. His knuckles are washed clean, covered in sterile bandages. He drops onto the bed behind you, pulling you back so your back rests against his chest. “You just have to let us worship you.”
Dean presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, right below your ear. At the exact same moment, Garrett leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the inside of your wrist.
The dual sensation is a shock to your system. It isn’t demanding. It is absolute, pure reverence.
Garrett slowly unbuttons your shirt, his large, calloused fingers moving with agonizing, beautiful care. He pushes the fabric off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Dean’s hands slide around your waist, pulling you securely against his warmth.
They strip you slowly. Every time a piece of clothing is removed, a kiss replaces it.
Garrett kisses your collarbone. Dean kisses your shoulder. Garrett’s hot mouth trails down your stomach, making you gasp, while Dean’s hands trace the curve of your hips. You are completely surrounded, entirely enveloped in their heat, their strength, and their devastating tenderness.
For the first time in your life, you are not a doll to be posed. You are a goddess, and this bed is an altar.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” Garrett groans, looking up at you as he pulls your jeans down your legs. His eyes trace every inch of your exposed skin with naked, starving adoration.
Dean’s hands slide up your ribs, his thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts. “Perfect. Every inch of you is perfect.”
They lay you back against the pillows. Dean moves to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow, his bright eyes locked onto your face. Garrett remains positioned between your legs, his massive frame kneeling at the edge of the bed.
The heat in the room is suffocating.
Garrett leans down, his mouth replacing his hands. His tongue traces the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, moving upward with agonizingly slow precision.
A sharp, shocked gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly up, completely instinctively, to grip the bedsheets.
“Relax, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with lust. He captures your hands, gently intertwining his fingers with yours, pinning them loosely above your head. “Let him.”
Garrett’s mouth finds your center.
The pleasure hits you like a lightning strike. It is so intense, so entirely overwhelming, that your back physically arches off the mattress.
“Garrett-” you cry out, your eyes squeezing shut as the sensation completely shorts out your brain.
“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs against your wet skin, his breath hot and devastating. His tongue works with absolute, devastating precision, learning exactly what makes you whimper, exactly what makes you shake.
Dean leans over, his mouth capturing yours. He kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans, his tongue mimicking the slow, rhythmic glide of Garrett’s mouth lower down.
You are a live wire. Every nerve ending in your body is screaming, singing, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated pleasure they are pouring into you. You don’t have to think. You don’t have to perform. All you have to do is feel.
“Dean,” you whimper into his mouth, your hips lifting instinctively into Garrett’s relentless, driving mouth. “Please … I can’t …”
“Yes, you can,” Dean soothes, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping lightly at your collarbone. He releases one of your hands, his fingers trailing down your torso, slipping between your legs to join Garrett.
Two of Dean’s fingers slide smoothly inside of you.
You scream into the empty room.
The combination of Dean’s fingers stretching you deep and Garrett’s mouth perfectly working your clit is entirely too much. The pleasure builds instantly, a massive, crushing wave that completely sweeps you away.
“That’s it, Y/N,” Garrett growls encouragingly, his hands gripping your hips, holding you firmly in place as you unravel. “Give it to us.”
You shatter.
Your entire body goes rigid, climaxing so hard your vision goes entirely white. You cry out, your nails digging into Dean’s broad shoulders as the waves of pleasure rock through your system, completely washing away years of trauma, leaving behind only the blazing, brilliant heat of the present.
You are gasping for air, trembling violently, a puddle of absolute, melted exhaustion on the sheets.
Garrett crawls up the bed, his massive body blanketing yours. He kisses you, tasting your release on his own lips. “You are incredible,” he whispers against your mouth.
“I want you,” you breathe, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. You look over his shoulder at Dean, whose eyes are completely black with lust. “Both of you. Now.”
Garrett and Dean shed the rest of their clothes in a matter of seconds.
The sheer size of them is intimidating, but looking at them now, you feel no fear. You only feel a desperate, burning need.
Garrett positions himself between your thighs, resting his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing you. He looks down at you, checking your eyes one last time. You nod, a silent, desperate plea.
With a low groan, Garrett pushes slowly inside of you.
He is massive, thick and solid, filling you completely. The stretch is intense, but he stops immediately, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming size of him.
“Okay?” Garrett asks, his voice strained, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Please, Garrett.”
Garrett groans, his hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt.
The rhythm starts, a slow, heavy, relentless pounding that steals the breath from your lungs. Garrett is entirely focused, his gray eyes locked onto yours, reading every twitch of your face, ensuring that every thrust brings you nothing but pleasure.
Dean shifts behind you. He kneels on the bed, pulling your torso up so your back rests securely against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, his hands covering your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks.
“We’ve got you,” Dean whispers in your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
Garrett picks up the pace, his thrusts driving deeper, harder. The friction is incredible. Dean’s hands are everywhere, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, whispering filthy, gorgeous praises into your ear while Garrett completely commands your body.
You are entirely, thoroughly claimed. You are the center of their universe, caught between two massive forces of nature who exist entirely for your pleasure.
“Y/N,” Garrett growls, his control finally beginning to fracture. His thrusts become erratic, frantic. He grabs your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “I’m close.”
“Dean,” you gasp, reaching back blindly with one hand, your fingers curling around the thick, hot length of his erection.
Dean hisses a sharp breath as your hand wraps around him. You stroke him, matching the frantic rhythm of Garrett’s hips.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean groans, his hips stuttering forward into your hand.
The climax hits you a second time, entirely unannounced. It rips through you with the force of a hurricane, your inner muscles clamping down fiercely around Garrett.
With a roaring shout, Garrett thrusts deep one final time, completely unraveling inside of you.
Above you, Dean shudders violently, his own release spilling hotly over your hand as he buries his face in your hair, completely spent.
The three of you collapse together in a tangled, breathless mess of limbs, sweat, and completely ruined sheets.
The room is silent except for the heavy, ragged sounds of three people trying to catch their breath.
Garrett rolls onto his side, but he doesn’t pull out, keeping you securely tethered to him. He pulls you against his chest, his large arm wrapping entirely around you. Dean is on your other side, his arm draped heavily over your waist, his face pressed into the pillow next to yours.
You are exhausted. You are a puddle of goo. You have never felt more alive.
You slowly open your eyes, blinking against the dim light of the bedroom. Dean’s right hand is resting near your face, the white bandages stark against his skin.
You gently reach out, pulling his injured hand toward your mouth.
Dean cracks an eye open, watching you through half-lidded, exhausted eyes.
You press a soft, lingering kiss to the bandaged knuckles. You press another kiss to his palm, and another to his wrist.
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender smile that completely transforms his sharp features. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
“I love you, you know,” Dean whispers into the quiet room.
Garrett tightens his grip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest from behind. He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “We both do. Always have.”
You close your eyes, surrounded by their heat, completely safe, and completely loved.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
And for the first time in your life, you know exactly what that word is supposed to mean.
***
The Briar University Performing Arts Center smells like floor wax, nervous sweat, and heavily sprayed hairspray.
You are pacing the narrow stretch of the backstage green room, your black leather boots clicking a frantic, irregular rhythm against the linoleum. It is the end-of-year showcase for the Vocal Performance majors. Beyond the heavy velvet curtains, an auditorium packed with five hundred people is buzzing with anticipation.
And you are currently hyperventilating.
“I can’t,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of your oversized denim jacket. “I can’t do it. I’m going to throw up. I need to leave.”
“You are not going to throw up, and you are not leaving,” a calm, impossibly steady voice says.
Garrett m steps into your path, effectively blocking your pacing. He is wearing a dark, charcoal-gray button-down shirt that stretches tight across his broad chest, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He reaches out, his massive hands catching your wrists and gently prying your fingers away from your jacket.
“My throat is closing up,” you whisper, panic lacing every syllable. You look up into his gray eyes, completely terrified. “Garrett, the lights. What if the lights turn on and I just … what if I’m back there? What if I freeze?”
“If you freeze,” Dean says, stepping up right behind Garrett, “then Garrett and I walk right up on that stage, scoop you up, and carry you out the back door. We go get milkshakes, and we try again next year.”
You look past Garrett’s shoulder. Dean is wearing a tailored black suit with no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. He looks like a devastatingly handsome menace, entirely out of place among the jittery theater and music students warming up around you.
“You guys aren’t even supposed to be back here,” you say, a hysterical, breathless laugh escaping your lips. “The stage manager said only performers.”
“The stage manager is a sophomore named Kyle who weighs a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet,” Dean smirks, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I looked at him, Garrett cracked his knuckles, and suddenly Kyle decided we were essential personnel.”
“We are essential personnel,” Garrett murmurs, his hands sliding up your arms to cup your shoulders. His heat seeps through the denim of your jacket, anchoring you to the floor. “Listen to me, Y/N. You are not on a soundstage in Los Angeles. You are not surrounded by a crew of people on Shawn Nichols’s payroll.”
You swallow hard, closing your eyes and focusing entirely on the solid, unyielding pressure of Garrett’s hands.
“You are in Hastings, Massachusetts,” Garrett continues, his voice a low, grounding rumble. “You wrote the arrangement. You picked the song. Nobody is telling you what to wear, and nobody is telling you how to move. This is your voice. This is your stage.”
“And if anyone out there looks at you the wrong way,” Dean adds, his voice dropping its playful edge, turning fierce and protective, “I will personally throw them through the nearest stained-glass window.”
You open your eyes, looking between the two of them.
It has been six months since Dean left Shawn broken and bleeding on the campus pavement. Six months since the restraining order became permanent, and Shawn’s entire empire began crumbling under federal investigations.
Six months of waking up in a warm bed, flanked by two men who worship the absolute ground you walk on. They have piece by piece, day by day, helped you put yourself back together. They didn’t fix you — they gave you the safe space you needed to fix yourself.
“Okay,” you breathe out, the vise around your chest finally loosening. “Okay. I can do this.”
“Of course you can,” Dean smiles, stepping forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Y/N?”
A frazzled girl with a clipboard pokes her head into the green room. “You’re up next. Three minutes.”
Your heart does a complicated flip, but the paralyzing terror is gone, replaced by a sharp, electric shot of adrenaline.
“We’re going to head to our seats,” Garrett says, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “Logan and Tuck are saving them. Front row, center.”
“Don’t look at the crowd,” Dean orders gently, capturing your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Just look at us.”
“I will,” you promise.
They both give you one last, lingering look before turning and pushing their way through the backstage doors.
You take a deep breath. You shed the oversized denim jacket, leaving you in a simple, flowing black slip dress. Your hair is loose and natural, cascading down your back. There are no rhinestones. There are no leather straps. There is no heavy, doll-like stage makeup. It is just you.
“Next up, performing an acoustic arrangement on the guitar … Y/N.”
The announcer’s voice echoes over the PA system. The crowd claps politely.
You pick up the acoustic guitar resting on the stand, the smooth wood familiar and comforting under your fingers. You push through the heavy velvet curtains and step out onto the stage.
The lights hit you instantly.
For a fraction of a second, the brightness is blinding. A ghost of the old panic flares in your chest, a phantom echo of a music video set and a screaming manager. But then your vision adjusts, and you look down into the audience.
Front row. Center.
Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis are sitting side-by-side, their long legs practically touching the edge of the stage. Logan and Tucker are sitting next to them, beaming proudly.
Garrett’s gray eyes are locked onto you, burning with a fierce, unwavering pride. Dean shoots you a slow, breathtaking smile, tapping his chest right over his heart.
The ghost of Shawn Nichols instantly evaporates.
You pull the microphone stand a few inches closer, adjust the strap of your guitar, and look directly at Dean and Garrett.
“Hi,” you say into the microphone. Your voice is soft, a little raspy, but it doesn’t shake. “This song is a cover. But the words … the words mean a lot to me. I want to dedicate this to the two people who reminded me what it feels like to be seen. Really seen.”
A hush falls over the auditorium. You can see Garrett’s jaw tighten with emotion, his posture going completely rigid. Dean’s smile softens into something incredibly tender, his eyes shining under the ambient light.
You place your fingers on the frets. You take a breath, close your eyes for just a second, and begin to play.
The acoustic chords ring out, stripped down, haunting, and beautiful. You lean into the microphone, and for the first time in over a year, you sing for an audience.
“And I’d give up forever to touch you …”
Your voice is completely different from the heavily produced, auto-tuned pop tracks Shawn forced you to record. It is raw. It is deeply soulful, carrying the weight of everything you have survived.
“‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow …”
You open your eyes, locking your gaze entirely on Garrett. He is staring at you like you are the only thing in the room. Like you are the only thing in the entire world.
“You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be. And I don’t want to go home right now …”
You shift your gaze to Dean. He is leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. He looks entirely captivated, entirely yours.
As you hit the chorus, you strum the guitar a little harder, letting the emotion swell, letting the power of your own voice fill the massive auditorium.
“And I don’t want the world to see me, ’cause I don’t think that they’d understand …”
You sing the words not to the crowd of five hundred people, but as a secret shared between the three of you. A confession of the months spent hiding, the months spent terrified of the tabloids, the cameras, and the judgments.
“When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.”
You pour every ounce of your trauma, your healing, and your profound, earth-shattering love for them into that single line. Because they do. They know the girl who cried on the floor of the hockey house, they know the girl who fought a billionaire in federal court, and they know the girl who is finally taking her life back.
The auditorium is dead silent, entirely spellbound by the raw, devastating honesty in your voice.
You finish the song, the final, haunting chord echoing softly through the speakers before fading into absolute silence.
For a heartbeat, nobody moves.
And then, Garrett is on his feet.
He stands up, his massive frame towering over the front row, clapping so hard it echoes like thunder. Dean is up a second later, completely ignoring protocol as he puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a deafening, piercing whistle.
The rest of the auditorium erupts. Five hundred people stand up, the applause crashing over you in a massive, deafening wave.
You stand in the center of the stage, the guitar resting against your hip. The blinding lights don’t feel like a cage anymore. They feel like a sunrise. You look down at Garrett and Dean, a massive, tearful smile breaking across your face.
You did it. You took it back.
You offer a small bow, wave to the cheering crowd, and turn to walk off the stage.
The second the velvet curtains fall shut behind you, the adrenaline crashes out of your system, leaving your legs feeling like absolute jelly. You lean the guitar against a flight case, taking a deep, shaky breath, completely overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what just happened.
The heavy stage door bursts open.
“Y/N!”
You turn around just in time to be completely engulfed.
Garrett hits you first, wrapping his massive arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor. He spins you around, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You were perfect,” he growls, his voice thick and entirely wrecked with emotion. “God, sweetheart, you were absolutely perfect.”
“Garrett, put her down, it’s my turn,” Dean demands, his voice cracking with a frantic, desperate joy.
Garrett sets you down, but he doesn’t let go of your waist.
Dean steps right into your space. He is holding the most massive, stunning bouquet of flowers you have ever seen in your entire life. It isn’t a standard dozen red roses. It is an explosion of deep blue hydrangeas, pure white peonies, and trailing green ivy — a completely custom, wildly expensive arrangement.
“For you,” Dean breathes, his eyes blazing as he practically shoves the massive bouquet into your arms.
“Dean, these are beautiful,” you gasp, struggling to hold the sheer weight of the flowers.
“You’re beautiful,” Dean says fiercely.
He doesn’t give you a second to respond. Dean grabs the lapels of your slip dress, pulls you forward, and crashes his mouth against yours.
He kisses you within an inch of your life.
It isn’t a sweet, congratulatory peck. It is a sweeping, desperate, completely devastating kiss. Dean’s mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips, tasting the adrenaline and the joy still humming under your skin. He kisses you like he wants to devour you, like he wants to press himself so entirely into your bones that you never doubt how much he loves you ever again.
You melt against him, the bouquet crushed between your chests, your free hand tangling in his perfectly styled hair. You kiss him back with everything you have, a small, breathy moan escaping your throat.
“Hey,” Garrett growls, his large hand wrapping around the back of your neck. “Share.”
Dean reluctantly pulls back, his chest heaving, a dark, incredibly satisfied smirk on his swollen lips. “She’s all yours, G.”
Garrett wastes no time. He slides his hand from the back of your neck into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants it, and brings his mouth down on yours.
Garrett’s kiss is a force of nature. It is deep, territorial, and completely commanding. He kisses you with a heavy, unyielding pressure that makes your knees completely give out. If Dean wasn’t holding you up from the other side, you would have collapsed onto the linoleum floor. Garrett’s tongue tangles with yours, slow and purposeful, a filthy promise of what is going to happen the second he gets you back to the hockey house.
“Excuse me? Guys?”
The three of you freeze.
You pull back from Garrett, your lips bruised and swollen, your face flushed dark red.
Kyle, the skinny sophomore stage manager, is standing a few feet away, holding a clipboard and looking completely mortified. He is staring at the ceiling, desperately avoiding eye contact.
“Um, congratulations on a great performance, Y/N,” Kyle squeaks out. “But we really need to clear the backstage wing for the chamber choir. You guys are kind of … in the way.”
Garrett shoots a terrifying, lethal glare over his shoulder. “Give us a minute, Kyle.”
“Sure thing! Take your time!” Kyle practically squeaks, turning around and sprinting back toward the other side of the stage.
You burst out laughing, burying your hot, flushed face in the cool petals of the hydrangeas.
“You guys are going to get me expelled,” you giggle, leaning back against Garrett’s solid chest.
“Worth it,” Dean winks, stepping close and casually wiping a smudge of your lipstick off the corner of his own mouth with his thumb. “Come on, superstar. Logan and Tucker went ahead to start the car. We’re taking you home.”
“Are we having a party?” You ask, looking between them as Garrett places a heavy, protective hand on the small of your back to guide you toward the exit.
Garrett looks at Dean over your head. A slow, incredibly dark, incredibly explicit look passes between the two men.
“No,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that instantly makes your pulse spike. “No party. Just the three of us.”
“We are going to celebrate you properly,” Dean adds, his bright eyes tracking the line of your slip dress with absolute, naked hunger. “Behind closed doors. For a very, very long time.”
A shiver of pure anticipation shoots down your spine.
You step out into the cool Massachusetts night air, the heavy bouquet in your arms, flanked by the two men who saved your life. You look up at the dark sky, the stars entirely hidden by the city lights, and for the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t afraid of the dark.
You aren’t afraid of anything at all.
“Take me home, then,” you smile.
Garrett pulls you tight against his side, Dean wraps his hand firmly around yours, and together, you walk away from the stage.
***
THE BOSTON GLOBE | SPORTS SECTION
October 12, 2028 | By Andrew Rhodes
ROOKIE PHENOM GARRETT GRAHAM BRINGS MORE THAN JUST GOALS TO THE GARDEN
The Boston Bruins have a new golden boy, and he’s not just making headlines on the ice.
Garrett Graham, the undrafted free agent out of Briar University, has been tearing up the NHL in his rookie season, boasting a staggering point streak that has Boston fans roaring. But while Graham’s lethal slapshot and commanding presence as a center are the talk of the locker room, the cameras at TD Garden can’t seem to stay away from the VIP box.
For the past two months, the city’s favorite pop star has been a permanent fixture at home games.
Sporting an oversized, vintage Bruins jersey with GRAHAM and the number 44 stitched across the back, the singer has been spotted aggressively cheering on her man from the glass. It’s a remarkable public resurgence for the 23-year-old artist, who famously stepped away from the spotlight two years ago following a highly publicized, brutal legal battle with her former label head.
But Graham isn’t the only man she’s sharing her time with. The internet has been set completely ablaze by the triad’s unapologetic dynamic. Often flanked in the VIP box by Dean Di Laurentis — Graham’s former Briar teammate and currently one of Harvard Law School’s most ruthless top-tier students — the trio has become Boston’s most fascinating, fiercely protective, and deeply private phenomenon.
Whether Graham is tapping the glass with his stick right in front of her seat after a goal, or Di Laurentis is caught on the Jumbotron kissing her cheek, one thing is absolutely clear: the pop princess has found her permanent security detail, and Boston is entirely here for it.
***
TIKTOK TRANSCRIPT | @PopCultureTea
Uploaded: February 15, 2029
(Video shows a shaky, zoomed-in smartphone recording taken on a snowy college campus. The text overlay reads: “Harvard Law just got 100% hotter ☕️💅”)
VOICEOVER (Female, excited): Okay, so I am literally shaking right now. I’m at Langdell Hall at Harvard Law, right? I’m just trying to survive my torts reading, and guess who walks in?
(The video zooms in on a girl wearing a long camel coat, a thick scarf, and dark sunglasses, carrying a tray of three iced coffees. She walks confidently through the heavy wooden doors of the law library.)
VOICEOVER: Yes! It is exactly who you think it is. She is literally hand-delivering iced coffees to Dean Di Laurentis during finals week.
(The camera pans slightly, showing Dean sitting at a massive oak table covered in open textbooks. He is wearing a gray Harvard sweater, glasses perched on his nose, looking deeply stressed. The singer walks up to him, sets the coffees down, and gently pushes his laptop screen down. Dean looks up, his entire face immediately breaking into a massive, gorgeous smile. He pulls her down onto his lap right in the middle of the quiet library.)
VOICEOVER: Look at them! He just pulled her right onto his lap! And for those of you in the comments always asking “who is she actually dating, the hockey player or the law student?” — the answer is both, babes. They don’t hide it. I saw Garrett Graham pick them both up in a Range Rover ten minutes later. We love a thriving, polyamorous, educated, athletic, multi-million dollar throuple.
(The video ends with Dean pressing a long kiss to the singer’s lips before taking a sip of the coffee.)
***
ROLLING STONE | EXCLUSIVE COVER STORY
May Issue, 2029 | By Alexa Simmons
THE LIBERATION: HOW POP’S BRIGHTEST STAR BROKE HER CAGE AND FOUND HER SANCTUARY
She meets me in a quiet, sunlit coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts. There is no publicist hovering over her shoulder. There is no bodyguard standing at the door. She is wearing a faded vintage band t-shirt, her hair pulled up into a messy claw clip, and she orders her own oat milk latte.
It is a stark, jarring contrast to the girl the world knew three years ago — the heavily styled, tightly controlled platinum-selling artist who was never allowed to speak for herself.
Today, she is completely, undeniably free.
Her highly anticipated new album, Sanctuary, drops at midnight tonight. It is her first release since the harrowing federal court case that sent her former manager, Shawn Nichols, to federal prison for extortion, fraud, and coercive control.
“This album is the first time I’ve ever actually introduced myself,” she tells me, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “Everything before this was a character. It was a doll that was dressed up, handed a script, and pushed onto a stage. Sanctuary is just me.”
The album, which she wrote and produced entirely on her own in a small studio she built in her Boston penthouse, is a raw, acoustic-driven departure from her bubblegum-pop past. It is devastatingly honest. It deals with trauma, survival, and the profound, life-altering power of unconditional love.
When I ask about her old discography — specifically the six multi-platinum albums whose master recordings are currently tied up in the bankruptcy liquidation of Supernova Records — she doesn’t flinch.
“The fans have been campaigning online for you to buy back your masters, or re-record them,” I point out. “Is that the plan?”
She shakes her head, offering a small, peaceful smile.
“No,” she says simply. “I’m not going to buy them, and I’m not going to re-record them.”
“Why not?”
She looks out the window for a moment, watching the busy Cambridge street. “Because those songs belong to a ghost. They were recorded under duress, by a teenager who was terrified of her own shadow. People keep asking me if I want to reclaim my masters so I can own my past. But the truth is … they were never truly mine anyway. Shawn Nichols built a cage, and he painted those songs on the walls to make it look pretty. I don’t want to buy the cage. I broke out of it. I’m leaving it exactly where it belongs: in the dust.”
It is a staggering statement of autonomy.
Before we finish the interview, her phone buzzes on the table. The screen lights up with a picture of two men — Bruins star center Garrett Graham and soon-to-be lawyer Dean Di Laurentis, both wearing matching smirks.
She glances at the phone, and a soft, incredibly tender blush touches her cheeks.
“I have to ask,” I say, gesturing to the phone. “The world is entirely obsessed with the three of you. They are notoriously protective of you. How did that happen?”
“They saved my life,” she says, her voice dropping into a register of pure, unwavering devotion. “When the entire world thought I was crazy, when the media was tearing me apart … they just stood in front of me and refused to move. I wrote the title track of the album about them. They are my sanctuary. It’s really that simple.”
***
THE NEW YORK TIMES | ARTS & CULTURE
June 18, 2029
A TRIUMPHANT RETURN: BEACON THEATRE WITNESSES A REBIRTH
There are no pyrotechnics. There are no backup dancers in leather harnesses. There are no blinding lasers or heavy synthesized bass drops.
When she steps onto the legendary stage of Beacon Theatre for her first public concert in over three years, there is only a single spotlight, a vintage wooden stool, and an acoustic guitar.
The silence in the iconic, 2,800-seat venue was deafening as she walked to the microphone. Wearing a flowing, ethereal white gown, she looked less like the manufactured pop princess of the 2020s and more like a timeless, generational storyteller.
The two-hour, limited-engagement concert was a masterclass in vocal control and emotional vulnerability. Performing the entirety of her critically acclaimed new album, Sanctuary, she left the audience completely spellbound, and in many cases, openly weeping.
The emotional climax of the evening occurred during the encore. Before playing the final song, she stepped away from the microphone, looking up into the private VIP balcony on stage right. The spotlight didn’t follow her gaze, but everyone in the room knew who was sitting there.
“I spent a long time believing that my voice was a commodity,” she told the hushed crowd, her voice echoing perfectly in the legendary acoustics of the hall. “I believed that I was only worth what I could sell. But two people taught me that my voice is a weapon. And a shield. And a gift. This is for them.”
She played the final chord as a standing ovation shook the walls of Beacon Theatre. She has returned to the world, not as a product, but as a powerhouse.
***
The roar of the crowd is still ringing in your ears as the heavy stage door clicks shut, sealing you inside the hushed, carpeted hallway of Beacon Theatre’s backstage suites.
You lean back against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes, your chest heaving against the silk of your white gown.
You did it. Two hours. Just you and a guitar, in the most iconic venue in the world, and you didn’t panic once.
“There she is.”
You open your eyes.
Garrett and Dean are leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, waiting for you. They are both wearing impeccably tailored black tuxedos, the bow ties already undone and hanging loosely around their necks.
Garrett pushes off the wall first. He stalks down the hallway, his massive strides eating up the distance between you. He doesn’t say a word. He simply reaches out, his large hands gripping your waist, and lifts you entirely off your feet, crushing his mouth against yours.
The kiss is devastatingly thorough. It tastes like expensive champagne, pure adrenaline, and overwhelming, fierce pride. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on tight as your feet dangle above the carpet.
“Incredible,” Garrett breathes out, tearing his mouth away just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and completely entirely wrecked with emotion. “You were absolute magic up there, Y/N.”
“I second that,” Dean says, stepping up behind Garrett.
Garrett slowly lowers you back to the floor, keeping one heavy, grounding arm wrapped tightly around your waist. You turn to look at Dean.
Dean’s bright eyes are shining, a soft, incredibly tender smile playing on his lips. He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I watched a lot of fancy people in expensive suits crying in the audience tonight. You broke their hearts and put them back together in two hours. You’re a literal superstar.”
“I was so nervous,” you admit, leaning into Dean’s touch, your hands coming up to rest flat against the crisp white cotton of his shirt. “Right before the curtain went up, my hands were shaking.”
“But you didn’t freeze,” Garrett says, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “You walked out there and you owned the entire building.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, deeply affectionate kiss. “We’re taking you home to celebrate. The car is out back.”
The ride back to the penthouse suite they rented at The Plaza is a blur of flashing paparazzi bulbs, heavy velvet privacy curtains in the back of the town car, and the constant, grounding touch of their hands on yours. They don’t let go of you once.
By the time the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse click shut behind you, the exhaustion of the night is finally beginning to seep into your bones.
You kick off your heels, leaving them abandoned on the plush rug in the foyer. The suite is massive, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the glittering skyline of Central Park.
“Champagne?” Dean asks, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket and tossing it onto a velvet armchair. He walks over to the wet bar, grabbing a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon.
“Water, please,” you sigh, reaching behind your back to fumble with the invisible zipper of your gown.
“I got it,” Garrett murmurs.
He steps up directly behind you. His large, warm hands brush against your shoulder blades as he grips the tiny zipper, pulling it slowly down your spine. The cool air hits your skin, making you shiver slightly, but Garrett’s chest presses warmly against your back, instantly combating the chill.
He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss right between your shoulder blades.
You close your eyes, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming. I know you had to skip a team practice for this, Garrett.”
“I would have skipped the Stanley Cup finals for this,” Garrett says against your skin, his hands slipping around to your stomach, holding you securely. “There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be.”
Dean walks over, holding a crystal tumbler of ice water. He hands it to you, then simply stands in front of you, his eyes slowly taking in the sight of you standing between them.
The white silk of your gown is pooled around your waist, held up only by Garrett’s arms.
“Did you mean what you said in that interview?” Dean asks quietly, his voice losing its usual playful banter. “About the masters. You really aren’t going to fight for them?”
You take a sip of the water, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat, before handing the glass back to Dean. He sets it on the side table without looking away from your face.
“I meant it,” you say, your voice completely steady. You look from Dean’s beautiful, sharp features back to Garrett’s intense gray eyes. “I spent my entire teenage life fighting for scraps of my own autonomy. Shawn made me believe that my worth was tied to those songs. That if I lost them, I lost myself.”
You reach out, taking Dean’s hand. You trace the faint, silvery scars across his knuckles — the permanent reminder of the day he shattered his own hands to protect your life.
“But I didn’t lose myself,” you whisper, bringing his knuckles to your lips and pressing a soft kiss against the scars. “I found myself. I found you two. Why would I want to go back and buy a cage when I have the entire sky right here?”
Dean exhales a shaky, ragged breath. He takes a step forward, completely closing the distance between you, and wraps his arms around you, sandwiching you entirely between his chest and Garrett’s.
“I love you so damn much it actively hurts,” Dean groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hot, damp kiss against your pulse point.
“We’re never letting you go,” Garrett adds, his deep voice vibrating right into your spine. He shifts his grip, his large hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the thin silk of the gown, pulling a sharp, sudden gasp from your lips. “You know that, right? You’re stuck with us.”
“I’m counting on it,” you whimper, your head falling back onto Garrett’s shoulder as Dean’s hands slide down to grip your hips.
The emotional weight of the night — the triumph of the concert, the finality of letting go of your past, the profound safety of their arms — suddenly shifts, morphing into a heavy, burning heat that pools low in your stomach.
Dean pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes entirely black with lust. “You were a goddess on that stage tonight. Do you have any idea what it does to us, sitting in the dark, watching five hundred people stare at you, knowing that you belong to us?”
“Tell me,” you challenge softly, a wicked, confident smirk pulling at the corners of your lips.
Garrett lets out a low, predatory growl. He spins you around in his arms, sweeping you completely off your feet. You shriek, a breathless sound of surprise and laughter, as he carries you toward the massive, king-sized bed in the center of the suite.
He tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce slightly against the plush duvet, your silk dress riding dangerously high up your thighs.
Dean is right behind him. He kicks off his dress shoes and crawls onto the bed, hovering over you like a dark, magnificent shadow. Garrett follows, his knee sinking into the mattress on your other side.
You look up at them.
Three years ago, you were a ghost. You were a product, a prisoner, a girl who flinched at sudden movements and thought she had to earn the right to simply exist.
Now, you are lying on a bed in the penthouse of The Plaza, completely untouchable, utterly adored, and entirely in control.
“Take the dress off,” Garrett commands softly, his hands resting on your knees, gently pushing your legs apart to settle himself between them.
You smile, reaching for the fabric at your waist. “Help me.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a devastatingly deep kiss while his hands make quick work of the silk, pulling it down your legs and tossing it onto the floor.
He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes sweeping over your bare skin with absolute worship.
“Perfect,” Dean whispers, his hands tracing the curve of your hips. “You are so incredibly perfect.”
“Mine,” Garrett growls, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your stomach, his tongue swirling against your skin, sending a violent shiver crashing through your entire body.
“Ours,” Dean corrects, smirking as he unbuckles his belt.
“Ours,” Garrett agrees, his massive hands sliding up your ribs to pin your wrists loosely above your head.
You arch your back, completely surrendering to their heat, their strength, and their unyielding devotion.
The city of New York is alive and glittering outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside this room, you are exactly where you belong. You are completely safe. You are thoroughly loved.
And for the rest of your life, you are finally truly free.
summary: in which dean notices the quiet, suspicious intimacy growing between beau and his sister.
pairing: beau maxwell x fem!dilaurentisreader
notes: hi!! thank you so much for your request. i hope i've done your idea justice <3 💌
ˋ°•*⁀➷ in other words, four times dean notices moments between beau and y/n that feel a little too intimate to ignore, and the one time he finally catches on.
ꪆৎ
the car ride
the thing about cape cod was that it had always felt like tradition.
same beach house, same salt-heavy air, same worn wooden deck that creaked under bare feet, same maxwells, same di laurentis family.
for as long as you could remember, summers were spent in cape cod. beach days, late-night bonfires, shared dinners, too many drinks, too much laughter.
it was familiar in the kind of way that felt permanent, except this summer, everything had changed. somehow, somewhere between classes at briar and now, beau maxwell had stopped being just your brother’s best friend and started becoming yours.
secretly, quietly, completely.
which meant one thing.
dean could absolutely never find out.
the first time dean nearly catches on, it happens before you even reach the holiday house, which in hindsight, should've been a clear warning. luckily, he brushes it off as nothing.
dean drives, claiming it’s because he knows the route better, but really, it’s because he has control issues, deeply mistrusting anyone else behind the wheel.
you sit in the backseat, legs tucked beneath you, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, one hand wrapped around an iced coffee.
beau sits in the passenger seat. too close, yet too far all at once.
he looks unfairly good for someone who’d been awake since six that morning, like he hadn’t spent half the night before in your dorm room, his hands warm against your waist as he kissed you breathless against the wall until you’d both lost track of time.
his hair is still damp from a shower, one arm resting against the open window, tanned skin catching the late morning light. every now and then, his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, meeting yours.
never long enough for dean to notice, but always long enough to make your pulse jump.
“so,” dean says, one hand loose on the wheel. “ground rules for the week.”
you immediately groan from the backseat. “oh my god.” beau’s mouth twitches in amusement.
dean glances at you in the mirror. “don’t start.”
“we haven’t even arrived and you’re already lecturing me.”
“because i know you.”
“you know nothing.”
“i know enough to know you make questionable decisions near large bodies of water.”
you sit forward slightly. “that was one time.”
“you fell off a paddleboard while it was still tied to the dock, y/n.”
"i was nine years old!"
beau coughs into his hand, attempting to hide his laughter. you narrow your eyes, gaze landing on the back of his head. “don’t laugh.”
he glances back at you, eyes warm. “i didn’t say anything.”
“your shoulders moved.”
beau turns to look out the window, still smiling, feigning innocence.
you hate him a little for how easily he can do that. how easily he can sit in the front seat, acting as though nothing is happening. like he hadn’t slipped his fingers around your waist for one fleeting second while dean loaded the cooler into the trunk. like he hadn’t whispered, “i miss you,” even though you had been standing two feet apart.
dean keeps talking. something about not getting lost, not swimming too far out, and not letting joanna convince you to jump off the dock after midnight.
you hear maybe half of it, because beau’s hand has shifted. casual, at first, resting near the centre console, then lower. closer to the gap between the seats.
your eyes drop instantly. his fingers hang loosely there, hidden from dean's direct line of sight.
an invitation.
you stare at his hand for a second too long before reaching forward, pretending to grab something from the cupholder. your fingers brush his gently. the action so brief, yet enough for beau to react.
you notice the smallest flex of his hand, like he wants to catch yours and hold it.
“you listening, y/n?” dean asks suddenly.
your head snaps up. “yes.”
your brother looks at you in the rearview mirror. “what did i just say?” you blink. beau turns his face towards the window once more.
traitor.
“you said...” you start slowly, buying time. “to make good choices.”
dean stares at you. “that is the vaguest answer you could’ve possibly given.”
beau loses the internal battle he must've been having with himself, laughing under his breath.
dean glances at him briefly, “what?”
beau shakes his head in response. “nothing.”
dean's eyebrows furrow temporarily, looking at his best friend for a few seconds more. not suspicious yet, just watching. you feel beau’s hand pull back instantly, and the absence of it makes your chest ache.
-
an hour later, somewhere after the second gas station stop, dean brings up a topic that almost ruins everything.
“oh y/n,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just lit a match in the middle of the car. “someone asked about you last week.”
you look up from your phone. “me?”
“yeah.”
beau’s body stills, not much, but enough that you notice. dean reaches for his drink. “a guy from hockey. matthews.”
your face blanks slightly. “who?”
“exactly,” dean says. “which is why i told him no chance.”
you frown. “you told him no chance?”
“obviously.”
“dean.”
“what?”
“you can’t just police every interaction that may come my way.”
“i absolutely can.”
beau stays facing forward, but you catch the way his jaw ticks, fingers tightening briefly where his arm rests against the window. it's subtle, small enough that dean misses it entirely, however you don’t, of course you don’t.
“he asked if you were seeing anyone,” dean continues, completely unaware of the way your pulse had started to climb. “i told him no, and that he should probably leave it there.”
you stare at him. “that’s insane.”
“that’s brotherly.”
“that’s overstepping, dean.”
“same thing.”
beau joins the conversation before he seems to think better of it. “you told him she wasn’t seeing anyone?”
the car goes quieter, not silent, but quieter.
dean glances sideways at him. “yeah.”
beau keeps his gaze on the road. “right.”
your fingers tighten around your phone, anxiety coursing throughout your body. dean’s brows pull together slightly. “why?”
beau shrugs, attempting to be casual. “just asking.”
“since when do you care who my sister’s dating?”
there it is, the first crack.
you feel yourself almost stop breathing. beau doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move, doesn’t panic. he just leans back against the seat and says, “i don’t.” a beat passes, then he adds. “i just think maybe y/n can answer for herself.”
your heart twists. dean’s eyes narrow slightly, caught somewhere between amused and confused. “wow,” he says. “that's very noble of you."
you kick the back of his seat. “shut up.”
dean laughs, and the tension breaks, barely, but not completely. beau looks in the rearview mirror a few seconds later, and this time, when your eyes meet, there’s something there.
something possessive, something frustrated, something almost apologetic.
dean sees just enough of that glance to go quiet, only for a second, but you notice, so does beau.
2. the annual di laurentis & maxwell beach volleyball match
the second time dean nearly catches on, it happens during the annual beach volleyball match, which is ridiculous, because the annual match is usually the least romantic event of the entire summer.
the teams change every year, mostly because dean insists on drafting like he’s building an olympic roster instead of playing barefoot volleyball with relatives and family friends on a beach. this year, you end up on a different team to beau. which is both a blessing and a curse.
a blessing because standing beside him would have been dangerous. a curse because standing across from him somehow turns out to be worse.
he's shirtless, which shouldn't matter, because you've seen him shirtless before, many times.
recently, privately.
with your hands against his chest, his mouth at your throat, his voice soft in your ear telling you to stay quiet. you should have been immune. unfortunately, you're not, not even close.
beau stands on the opposite side of the net beside joanna, sunlight catching on his shoulders, hair pushed back messily from the ocean.
you’re wearing a bikini you had almost talked yourself out of wearing. dean had barely glanced at you before immediately pointing at the sunscreen bottle, “don't make me remind you again.”
you had thrown a towel at his head.
beau, on the other hand, had looked once, only once, then very deliberately looked away, which told you everything.
the game starts messy.
dean is competitive in a way that makes everyone want to either laugh or throw something at him, joanna cheats shamelessly, and beau keeps failing at pretending he isn’t watching you, his attention drawn to you like instinct.
then the guys arrive. not your guys, not anyone’s guys.
just a group from a nearby beach house. loud, sunburnt, carrying beers they definitely should have finished slower. they linger too close to the edge of the game, watching. mostly you.
you feel it before you see it. that prickling awareness of eyes staying too long. one of them says something under his breath to another, and they both laugh.
you miss the ball, dean notices immediately. “you good?” he calls from beside you.
“yeah,” you say, shaking it off. “sun got in my eyes.”
beau’s gaze has already shifted. not to the ball, not to dean, to them.
his expression changes so subtly most people probably would have missed it. his shoulders square slightly, jaw tightening. the warmth in his face completely gone.
you feel your stomach dip, because beau can’t do anything, not really. not without making it obvious, not without stepping into a role nobody is supposed to know he has.
that might be the worst part of keeping something secret. it's not the sneaking around or the lying, it's the consistent restraint. the way love has to sit quietly inside your chest even when every instinct tells it otherwise.
the next serve comes hard, and you dive for it, sand scraping your knees as you manage to bump the ball up. dean shouts something triumphant, joanna yells that it doesn't count.
you laugh breathlessly, pushing yourself up onto your hands. following your action one of the guys whistles. low, obvious, clearly directed at you. your smile falters.
beau hears it, everyone hears it, but he reacts first.
“you wanna keep your eyes on the game?” he snaps.
the beach stills slightly. your head lifts, dean turns. the guy raises his hands, laughing. “relax, man.”
beau doesn’t smile. “then stop being fucking weird.”
beau is usually easy, relaxed, charming when he wants to be. this is different. this is sharp, personal.
dean looks between beau and the guys, then back to you. you can practically see the pieces moving in his head. you stand quickly, brushing sand from your thighs.
“beau,” you say softly, too softly. his eyes cut to you immediately, not like a family friend, not like someone who has known you forever. more like someone who belongs to you, like he forgot, for one second, that he wasn’t allowed to.
dean sees that too, his expression shifting, just slightly.
“you okay?” beau asks.
you swallow. “yeah.”
dean’s brows lift. “why wouldn’t she be okay?”
beau’s eyes flick towards your brother, and for one terrifying second, you think he might say something stupid. something honest. instead, he shrugs.
“because those guys are being assholes.”
dean stares at him, then slowly turns towards the guys. “he’s right,” dean says, and just like that, big brother dean takes over.
which should be helpful.
except now beau looks like he wants to murder someone, dean looks like he’s trying to understand why beau cares so much, and you're standing between them in a bikini, wishing the ocean would swallow you whole.
3. 'one double chocolate chip ice cream with sprinkles, please'
the third time dean nearly catches on, it happens because of double chocolate chip ice cream. by now, he knows he's not just simply imagining it
the afternoon starts on the boat. everyone spends hours out on the water. your skin feels warm from the sun, salt drying in your hair, laughter carried away by the wind.
beau looks incredibly good it almost feels painful.
he sits near the back of the boat, sunglasses on, one arm stretched along the seat behind him, t-shirt abandoned somewhere near the cooler. every time the boat cuts over a wave, his stomach tightens slightly, and you have to pretend very hard that you're looking out at the horizon.
you're of course not looking out at the horizon. you're looking at your boyfriend, from beneath your sunglasses, like a coward, like a girl undeniably in love.
later that evening, beau docks the boat. everyone wanders into town for ice cream.
the shop is crowded, sticky floors and bright menus, families packed shoulder to shoulder, kids running around with melting cones already dripping onto their hands. before you can order, joanna tugs you back outside, insisting she needs your opinion on a bracelet in the little store next door.
which leaves dean and beau inside, alone, with your order.
it should mean nothing.
however, when you and joanna finally meet them outside, beau is already holding two cones. one mint chocolate for himself, one double chocolate chip for you.
complete with rainbow sprinkles. your favourite order. exactly.
dean’s gaze drops to the cones in beau’s hands before settling on his best friend, an unreadable expression on his features.
“how’d you know that?”
beau looks at him. “know what?”
“y/n's order.”
you step forward quickly. “everyone knows my order.” dean turns to you. “no, i know your order.”
“congratulations?”
“why does he know your order?”
beau’s face remains calm, infuriatingly calm. “she gets it every year.”
dean points at him. “i do not like how reasonable that answer was.”
joanna laughs from behind you. “dean, you’re being insane.”
“am i?”
“yes.”
dean looks at you again as you take the cone from beau carefully.
your fingers brush his. a mistake, another one. beau’s thumb moves, not much, just a small, instinctive stroke over your knuckle before he lets go.
dean’s expression goes blank. not angry, not yet. just very, very still.
you immediately shove the ice cream toward your mouth like that can somehow undo the last three seconds.
“good?” beau asks quietly. too quietly.
you nod. “yeah.”
dean stares, his gaze moving between you and beau, something unreadable settling over his features.
for the rest of the afternoon, he watches, and once he starts noticing, he can’t seem to stop.
he notices the way beau instinctively walks behind you on the crowded sidewalk, one hand briefly brushing your back to steer you away from a cyclist. the way you pass him your water bottle without even looking, and he takes it without question, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times before.
dean isn’t entirely sure what he’s seeing yet, but he knows enough to realise this isn’t nothing.
4. jealousy, jealousy
the drinks night is supposed to be casual, which in hindsight, is exactly why it becomes a problem.
it’s just you, beau, dean and joanna at your favourite beachside bar in town, tucked around a small table beneath warm string lights, the air sticky with salt, and music low enough that everyone still has to lean in slightly to hear each other.
dean is, predictably, thriving.
he’s halfway through a beer, leaning against the back of his chair with that stupidly charming smile on his face while some girl at the next table over keeps glancing at him.
joanna notices first.
“oh my god dean" she mutters into her straw. “she’s been looking at you for ten minutes.”
dean’s brows lift. “has she?”
you snort. “don’t act humble. it doesn’t suit you.”
dean's gaze shifts to yours as a smirk graces his features. “what can i say...i’m naturally magnetic, y/n.”
“you’re naturally annoying.”
beau laughs quietly beside you, the sound brushing over you in the way it always does. low, familiar, private even when everyone else can hear it.
you don’t look at him. you can’t.
his knee is pressed lightly against yours beneath the table, hidden by the shadows and the angle of joanna's chair. it has taken every ounce of self-control in your body not to lean into him properly.
dean catches the girl’s eye and smiles. that’s all it takes, within five minutes, she’s at the table. pretty, confident, already laughing at something dean says before he’s even finished saying it.
then, because apparently the universe has decided to punish you personally, two of her friends follow suit.
one of them looks directly at beau and you feel your stomach drop.
she’s tall, sun-kissed, wearing a white linen dress. she has the kind of easy smile that comes from knowing it’s almost always returned.
“hi,” she says, leaning slightly towards him. “i’m natalie.”
beau glances at her politely, tipping his head in greeting. “beau.”
“beau,” she repeats, like she’s testing how it sounds. “that’s cute.”
your fingers tighten around your glass. joanna's eyes flick to you immediately. she knows, of course she does.
dean is too busy flirting to notice anything yet, but joanna sees the way your smile stills. the way you look down at your drink instead of across the table. the way beau’s knee presses a little more firmly against yours, like he feels the shift before you even say a word.
“are you here for the summer too?” natalie asks.
“just the week,” beau says.
polite, short, safe.
not rude enough to raise questions, not warm enough to invite anything. still, it burns.
she doesn’t know he’s yours.
she doesn’t know that his hand had been at your waist fifteen minutes ago in the hallway outside the bathrooms, thumb brushing beneath the hem of your shirt while he whispered that you looked beautiful.
she doesn’t know anything, and you hate that she’s allowed to look at him like she might.
“you should come by our place later,” natalie says, smile widening. “we’re having people over.”
beau pauses and you feel your throat tighten instinctively. dean, finally tuning back in, glances over with lazy amusement. “look at that, maxwell. making friends.”
your nails press lightly into your palm beneath the table.
beau doesn’t look at dean. he looks at you, just for half a second, too quick for anyone else, long enough for your heart to twist.
he turns back to natalie. “thanks, but we’ve already got plans.”
your chest loosens slightly. natalie tilts her head. “all of you?”
beau’s mouth lifts faintly, but his voice stays steady. “yeah.”
dean narrows his eyes slightly. “do we?”
joanna immediately kicks him under the table.
“ow.”
“yes,” she says brightly. “we do.”
you take a sip of your drink to hide your smile. natalie lingers for another second, clearly not used to being dismissed that gently, then shrugs and lets one of her friends pull her back towards the bar.
the moment she’s gone, dean looks between all of you.
“why are you guys being so weird?”
joanna rolls her eyes. “because you make everything weird.”
you stand suddenly, grabbing your drink. “i’ll be back, i'm going to grab some water.”
you slip through the crowd towards the bar, heart beating too fast for something so small, because it is small. you know it’s small. beau didn’t flirt back, he barely even smiled, but secrecy makes everything feel sharper.
every glance someone gives him feels like a reminder that the world still thinks he’s available.
you’re waiting at the bar when he appears beside you. not touching, not close enough to be obvious, but there.
“y/n,” he says quietly.
you keep your eyes on the counter. “you didn’t have to follow me.”
“yeah,” he says softly. “i did.”
you swallow. for a second, neither of you speak.
beau leans one elbow against the bar, studying your expression. “talk to me.”
your grip tightens slightly around your drink. “it’s silly, beau.”
his voice stays gentle. “i don’t think it is.”
you exhale slowly, trying to put words to the feeling. “it’s not even about her.”
beau stays quiet, letting you speak.
your voice softens, “it’s just… hard sometimes.” finally, you look at him. “having to sit there and act like i don’t care.”
something in his expression shifts immediately. understanding, softness, guilt.
he glances down briefly, then back at you. “i’m sorry, y/n.”
you blink. “for what?”
“for putting you in that position.” his voice is low, steady. “for making you feel like you have to pretend none of this matters.”
your chest tightens, “beau-”
“because it does matter.”
his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “you matter.”
your expression softens. his hand shifts on the bar, close enough that his fingers brush yours for half a second. quick. hidden.
“she didn’t matter.”
your breath catches.
his voice stays quiet. “i knew exactly who i was leaving with tonight.”
emotion lodges somewhere in your throat. you look down, a small smile finally pulling at your lips once more.
“i’m sorry.”
beau’s brows pull together slightly. “don’t apologise.”
“i know she didn’t mean anything,” you say softly. “i just… had a moment.”
his expression turns impossibly gentle. “you’re allowed to.” silence settles between you again, but it feels softer now, steadier. “are we okay?” he asks quietly.
this time, your smile comes easier. small. warm.
“yeah.”
some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “okay.”
he says it so softly it almost sounds like relief.
back at the table, dean watches the two of you standing side by side at the counter, not touching, not too close, nothing obvious.
yet, something about it feels strangely intense, serious. your expressions are soft but focused, like you’re having a conversation that matters.
beau says something quietly. you look down, then back up. dean narrows his eyes slightly. he can’t hear a word, can’t see anything concrete, but something about the whole thing feels… off.
a series of tiny moments that finally stop feeling explainable.
nothing obvious, nothing he can actually point to.
yet, enough to leave dean with the quiet, unsettling feeling that he’s missing something.
5. uh oh...
back at the house, you find beau in the kitchen, alone. finally.
the whole house is loud around you, music plays from the living room, parents drink wine on the deck, dean somewhere outside arguing with joanna about whether he cheated at cards.
beau stands by the sink, sleeves pushed up, rinsing sand out of a cooler. you pause in the doorway, he looks up. everything in his face softens, quietly, instantly.
“hi,” he says.
your heart aches. “hi.”
for a moment, neither of you move. “dean’s watching us” you whisper.
beau huffs softly, turning off the tap. “yeah.”
“you noticed?”
“it's pretty hard not to.”
you lean back against the counter, a small smirk gracing your features. “you were the one who knew my ice cream order.”
“i do know your ice cream order.”
“that’s the problem.”
his mouth curves faintly. “i'm sorry for paying attention to you.”
you give him a look. he steps closer, not touching, not yet, but close enough that the air shifts.
“i’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”
your gaze lifts to his. the bar, about how hard this had become.
beau’s jaw tightens slightly. “i hate that you feel like you have to sit there pretending none of this matters.”
your chest tightens. “beau-”
“i mean it.” his voice is calm, steady. “watching you walk away earlier because you felt like you couldn’t react… it sucked.”
your expression softens. "it did for me too.”
“not being able to just…” he exhales, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before lifting again. “be normal with you.”
your chest pulls tight. “beau.”
his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “i know why we’re doing this,” he says quietly. “i do. dean’s your brother. he’s my best friend. i understand why this is complicated.”
his voice drops. “but i’m starting to hate pretending.”
your throat tightens, you look down. “dean’s already noticing.”
“yeah.”
“he’s smart.”
a faint smile touches beau’s mouth. “unfortunately.”
you let out a small laugh, your face softening once more. “that’s what scares me.”
the words sit between you, honest, fragile. beau’s hand lifts slowly, giving you enough time to pull away. you don’t. his fingers brush your wrist, then settle there gently, hidden below the counter.
beau goes quiet. when he speaks again, his voice is gentler.
“dean finding out doesn’t scare me.”
your brows lift slightly. “it doesn’t?”
he shakes his head. “no.”
you laugh softly despite the seriousness of the conversation. “it should."
he stifles a small laugh before shaking his head. “what scares me is losing this.”
your breath catches, his eyes lock on yours.
“losing you, y/n.”
everything in you stills. beau’s expression shifts, suddenly more vulnerable than before, like the words came out before he could stop them.
he swallows. “i’m serious, baby i-”
dean’s voice sounds down the hallway, growing louder as he nears the kitchen. beau steps back quickly, the action alone looking suspicious. dean appears in the doorway two seconds later, his eyes move from you to beau, then to the space between you, then back again.
“what’s going on?”
you grab the nearest object off the counter. a spoon, for no reason.
“nothing.”
dean looks at the spoon in your hand, then at you. “why are you holding that like a weapon?”
you look down. “because you scared me.”
dean's eyebrows furrow. “by entering a kitchen?”
“aggressively.”
beau coughs. dean’s eyes flick to him.
“something funny?”
beau shakes his head. “nope.”
dean stares at him for one long second. then points between you. “you two are being weird.”
your stomach drops. “we’re not.”
“you are.”
“you think everyone is weird.”
“because lately everyone is being weird.”
he holds your gaze for another moment, and for a second, you think that’s it. that he knows, that he’s about to say it.
but then joanna yells from outside, accusing dean of hiding the cards, and he backs out of the doorway with one last suspicious glance. “this conversation isn’t over.”
you wait until he disappears. then exhale. beau looks at you.
“we’re terrible at this.”
-
the following day
the time dean actually catches you, it’s the last night, which feels unfair and inevitable at the same time.
the kind of thing summer had been building towards all week.
the house is full of noise behind you. music, laughter, screen doors opening and shutting, someone yelling about missing marshmallows, the distant clink of bottles being moved across the deck.
you slip away after dinner, simply needing some fresh air.
the dock is quiet when you get there, the water black and silver beneath the moon, the old wood still warm from the day’s heat beneath your bare feet. you sit at the edge with your knees pulled up, chin resting against them.
for a few minutes, you're alone, then the dock creaks behind you.
you don’t turn around, already knowing who had come to join you. beau sits beside you without speaking, shoulder brushing yours.
for a moment, neither of you say anything. tomorrow everyone goes home, and cape cod becomes another distant memory, until next year.
“you disappeared,” he says quietly.
“so did you.”
his mouth curves faintly. “followed you.”
you look at him then, bad idea. the moonlight softens him. his hair is messy from the wind, sweatshirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, eyes fixed on you like the rest of the world had become background noise.
“dean’s inside,” you whisper.
“i know.”
“someone could come out.”
“i know.”
you should move away, you don’t. instead, beau’s hand finds yours, his fingers threading slowly through yours like he’s giving you every chance to pull away.
not rushed, not hidden this time.
“i’m tired of pretending i don’t want to do that,” he says.
your eyes sting suddenly. “beau.”
“i don’t want to spend the whole year only looking at you when no one else is paying attention, y/n.”
your fingers tighten around his. “i don’t either.”
he turns more fully toward you. “then we tell him.”
you laugh once, nervous and soft. “you say that like it’s easy.”
“it won’t be.”
“he might kill you.”
“probably.”
you huff a small laugh in response. he smiles faintly, but his eyes stay serious. “i’d rather deal with him than keep making you feel like something i’m hiding.”
that gets you, completely. this is exactly what you had been too afraid to say out loud.
you look down at your joined hands. “you don’t make me feel like that.”
“sometimes this does though, y/n”
you hate that he’s right. you hate that you love him for noticing. the word arrives in your chest before you can stop it.
love.
maybe it had been there for longer than you realised, waiting patiently for you to stop looking away. beau reaches up slowly, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. you close your eyes for half a second, savouring the moment.
“we should go back,” you whisper.
“yeah.”
neither of you moves. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes open, and then he kisses you. softly at first, careful, like even now, even after everything, he’s giving you the chance to change your mind.
you don’t.
you lean into him, one hand curling into the front of his sweatshirt. beau makes a quiet sound into the kiss like the week had finally caught up with him all at once.
his arm slides around your waist, yours around his neck. for once, there is no pretending, no careful distance, no stolen almost-touch hidden behind towels or car seats or kitchen counters.
just beau.
warm and solid and yours beneath the summer night.
“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
you tear apart so fast you nearly lose your balance. beau’s hand catches your waist instinctively, which, unfortunately, does not help your case.
dean stands at the start of the dock. still, silent. your heart drops through your stomach.
“dean,” you breathe.
he doesn’t look at you first, he looks at beau.
to his credit, he doesn’t move away from you completely. beau lets go of your waist, but he stays close. close enough that dean notices. close enough that you do too.
“how long?” dean asks, his voice calm, too calm.
you stand slowly. “dean-”
“how long?”
beau answers. “a few months.”
dean’s jaw tightens. “months,” dean repeats.
you wrap your arms around yourself. “we were going to tell you.”
he laughs once, humourless. “when? at your wedding?”
“that’s not fair.”
“isn’t it?”
his eyes finally move to you, and the anger cracks just enough for hurt to show underneath. that is worse, so much worse. “you lied to me.”
your throat tightens. “i know.”
“both of you.”
beau’s voice stays low. “that’s on me.”
dean turns on him instantly. “do not do that.”
beau stills.
“don’t stand there and try to take all of it like that fixes the fact that you’ve been sneaking around with my sister behind my back.”
“i’m not trying to fix it.”
“good, because it doesn’t.”
you step forward. “dean, please.”
his face softens for half a second at your voice, then he looks away, dragging a hand through his hair. for a while, nobody says anything. the water moves quietly beneath the dock. the house hums behind you, distant and unaware.
finally, dean exhales, long, tired.
“i kind of figured.”
you blink. beau’s head lifts slightly. dean looks at you both like you’ve personally exhausted him. “i’m not an idiot.”
you say nothing. he points towards the house. “the car ride? weird.”
“the volleyball thing? very weird.”
beau looks down.
“the ice cream?” dean continues. “please. beau knew about the rainbow sprinkles, y/n.”
“lots of people know i like rainbow sprinkles,” you mutter weakly. dean gives you a flat look, you take it as a sign to stop talking.
“and the kitchen,” he adds. “you were holding a spoon like you’d been caught redhanded”
beau presses his lips together. wrong time to laugh, dangerously wrong.
“something funny, maxwell?”
beau shakes his head. “no.”
“good.” silence again. dean’s shoulders drop slightly, not forgiveness, not completely, but something less sharp.
“i’m not mad because it’s you,” he says, looking at beau. that surprises you, it seems to surprise beau too.
dean’s jaw works once. “honestly, if it had to be someone…” he stops, annoyed with himself for even saying it. “whatever. that’s not the point.”
your voice comes out small. “what is the point?”
dean looks at you, really looks at you, and suddenly he’s not angry in the loud way anymore.
he’s your brother.
the boy who used to carry your beach bag because he said you packed like you were fleeing the country. the boy who scared off guys before you even knew they were interested. the boy who pretended he wasn’t protective while being the most protective person alive.
“the point is you’re my sister, y/n” he says, softer now. “and he’s my best friend. and both of you decided i was the last person who got to know.”
your chest aches. “we were scared.”
“of me?”
you hesitate. dean’s expression shifts, that hurts him too.
“not like that,” you say quickly. “not because we thought you’d be horrible. just because it mattered. because you matter. because beau matters. and i didn’t want everything to change before we even knew what this was.”
dean looks at you for a long moment, then his gaze flicks to beau. “do you know what this is?”
beau doesn’t look away. “yeah.”
your breath catches. dean studies him carefully. “yeah?”
beau nods once. “i love her.”
everything stops. you turn towards him. for a second you forget dean is there, forget the dock, forget the entire summer sitting around you.
beau’s eyes meet yours, steady despite the nerves in his face. “i didn’t want to say it like this,” he says quietly.
your eyes burn. a small, helpless laugh escapes you. “on a dock while my brother plots your murder?”
beau’s mouth lifts faintly. “yeah. not exactly how i pictured it.” dean makes a strangled sound. “i’m literally standing right here.” you look back at him, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“sorry.”
dean stares at you, then at beau. he sighs like the universe has personally wronged him.
“unbelievable.”
his voice is different now. still annoyed, still protective, but not furious. not anymore.
he steps closer, pointing directly at beau’s chest. “you.” beau straightens immediately. “don’t fuck this up.”
“i won’t.”
“i’m serious.”
“so am i.”
dean’s eyes narrow. “she’s my sister. don’t forget that.” beau’s face softens, but his voice stays firm.
“i never have.”
dean looks away, jaw tight, before pointing vaguely between you both.
“and no more sneaking around.”
you nod quickly. “okay.”
“no more lying.”
“okay.”
“and absolutely no making out on docks while everyone else is inside eating dessert.”
you frown. “that feels very specific.”
“because it just happened.”
beau looks down, hiding another smile. dean points at him again. “wipe that look off your face.”
beau immediately does, you bite your lip. dean turns to you, eyes narrowing. “and you. don’t think you’re getting out of this because you look emotional.”
you blink up at him. he lasts three seconds, maybe four, then his expression breaks. “come here,” he mutters. you step into him immediately.
dean wraps his arms around you, tight and familiar, one hand pressing briefly to the back of your head the way he used to when you were younger, crying over things you didn’t want to explain.
your throat closes. “i’m sorry,” you whisper.
he sighs into your hair. “yeah. you should be.”
his arms tighten. “i just didn’t want to lose you,” you admit quietly.
dean stills, pulling back enough to look at you. “you’re not losing me because you fell for my idiot best friend, y/n.”
beau mutters, “fair.”
dean doesn’t look away from you. “you’re stuck with me.”
your mouth trembles into a smile. “unfortunately.”
“watch it.”
you laugh softly, and dean’s face eases a little at the sound.
he looks over your shoulder at beau. “you can walk her back.”
beau blinks. “i can?”
“don’t make me regret saying it.”
“i won’t.”
dean starts walking backward towards the house, still pointing.
“door stays open.”
“dean.”
“i don’t care if we’re outside right now, the door stays open.”
you groan. “you’re so annoying.”
he turns finally, heading back toward the house, but stops halfway. for a second, he looks back. not at beau this time, at you.
his expression softens. “for what it’s worth,” he says, quieter. “i’m glad it’s him.” he disappears into the noise of the house before either of you can answer.
you stand there for a moment, stunned. beau steps closer beside you. careful now. respectful of the fact that everything has changed, and yet nothing at all.
“you okay?” he asks. you look at him, really look at him. the boy you had spent the whole summer loving in glances, in almost-touches, in quiet corners and stolen seconds. the boy who had just told your brother he loved you without flinching.
you nod slowly. “you love me?”
his face softens. “yeah.”
your heart turns over. “that’s inconvenient.”
beau laughs quietly, stepping close enough for his fingers to brush yours. “very.”
you slip your hand into his, openly, for the first time. “i love you too,” you whisper.
beau’s entire expression changes. he leans down, then stops, glancing towards the house.
you laugh softly. “dean said no sneaking around.”
“this isn’t sneaking.”
“no?”
his thumb brushes over your hand. “not anymore.”
so you kiss him again, softly, briefly. smiling against his mouth when someone from the deck yells, “door stays open!”
dean, obviously.
beau drops his forehead to yours, laughing under his breath. for the first time all summer, you don’t pull away.
Summary: in which the world reacts to San Jose’s favorite velcro couple
Series Masterlist
@sharksstan: okay but has anyone else noticed that macklin celebrini is NEVER without his girlfriend??? like ever???
@tealdreamer: LITERALLY. i saw them at whole foods yesterday and he was following her around like a puppy. she’d move to look at something and he’d just. follow. it was the cutest thing i’ve ever seen
@celebrinidefender: you guys are weird for stalking them at whole foods
@tealdreamer: I WASN’T STALKING i was buying groceries and they were there!! and they were ADORABLE
***
It starts small.
The first time fans really notice is at a Sharks home game in November. You’re sitting in the section reserved for family and friends, wearing Macklin’s jersey (a game-worn one he gave you, number 71 on the back). The game ends — Sharks win 4-2, Macklin with two assists — and while most players head straight to the tunnel, Macklin skates over to the glass where you’re standing.
He can’t get to you, obviously. There’s literal glass between you. But he presses his glove against it, and you press your hand against the other side, and he’s grinning at you like you’re the only person in the entire arena.
Someone takes a photo. It’s on Twitter within minutes.
@sharkterritory: macklin celebrini after tonight’s W ... absolutely SMITTEN 😭💙
The photo shows him, sweaty and flushed from the game, looking up at you like you hung the moon. You’re smiling back, and the tenderness in the image is almost tangible.
The replies come fast.
@hockey_gf_goals: STOP I’M CRYING
@tealforever: the way he skated over to her before going to the locker room... 😭
@celebrini71: guys this is so pure i can’t
@sharkscommentary: my man played 23 minutes and his first thought was still “gotta see my girl”
***
TikTok POV: You’re at a Sharks game
The video is shot from a few rows behind the family section. You can see you sitting with Cat, both of you chatting and laughing. The game is playing, but the person filming is clearly more interested in capturing you.
Then Macklin gets checked hard into the boards. Not dirty, just hockey, but hard enough that he goes down for a second.
The video catches your reaction in real-time. You’re on your feet immediately, leaning forward, tense. Cat puts a hand on your arm. Macklin gets up, shakes it off, skates away fine.
You sit back down, but your eyes don’t leave him for the rest of his shift.
The video has 2.3 million views.
Comments:
@hockeygirlie: the way she JUMPED up when he went down 😭
@celebriniedits: she said “that’s MY MAN and you better not have hurt him”
@nhlfan2026: the fact that she’s tracking his every move even after he gets up ... this is love your honor
@y/n_macklin_updates: cat having to steady her 🥺 she was ready to fight someone
***
Twitter Thread by @celebrini_archive
okay i’ve been documenting macklin & y/n sightings and i need you all to understand: they are ATTACHED. a thread 🧵
1) spotted at blue bottle coffee in san jose. macklin was sitting across from her but had his chair pulled around so he was basically sitting NEXT to her. they were sharing headphones watching something on her laptop
2) saw them at target. Y/N had the cart, macklin was walking next to her with his hand on the small of her back. the ENTIRE time. produce section? hand on back. household goods? hand on back.
3) they were at the farmers market last sunday. holding hands the whole time. she’d stop to look at vegetables and he’d just stand there, still holding her hand, waiting patiently. then she’d move and he’d follow.
4) SAP center before a game. she was heading to her seat and he literally WALKED HER THERE before going to the locker room. walked her all the way to her seat, kissed her, then left.
5) i work at a restaurant downtown and they came in for dinner. they sat on the SAME SIDE of the booth. there was a whole other side. they chose to squish together on one side.
6) my friend saw them at the movies and said macklin had his arm around her the entire time. like even when he was eating popcorn, he was doing it one-handed so he didn’t have to let go of her
conclusion: they are OBSESSED with each other and i’m here for it
Replies:
@sharksfan02: THE SAME SIDE OF THE BOOTH?? i’m unwell
@macklindefensesquad: “hand on the small of her back THE ENTIRE TIME” somebody sedate me
@hockeyromance: walked her to her seat ... WALKED HER TO HER SEAT ... i need to sit down
***
You’re at a coffee shop near campus, studying for your Evidence final. Your laptop is open, three textbooks spread around you, highlighters everywhere. It’s organized chaos.
Macklin is sitting next to you, not across, with his own laptop. He’s supposed to be watching game tape, but you can feel him looking at you every few minutes.
“What?” You ask without looking up from your case book.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m not staring. I’m observing.”
“Creepy.”
“You love it.”
You do. You hide your smile behind your coffee cup.
He goes back to his tape for maybe five minutes before his hand finds your thigh under the table. Just resting there, warm and solid.
“Macklin, I need to focus.”
“I’m not doing anything. My hand is just existing.”
“Your hand is existing on my thigh.”
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s distracting.”
“Want me to move it?”
“No.”
He grins. You can hear it in his voice. “Didn’t think so.”
What you don’t see is the girl at the table across from you, trying very hard to look like she’s not filming this entire interaction on her phone.
***
TikTok: “POV: you’re trying to study at a coffee shop but the couple next to you is too cute”
The video is a series of quick clips, filmed sneakily over the course of an hour.
Clip 1: You reading, Macklin watching game tape. His hand is on your thigh.
Clip 2: You reaching for a highlighter. Macklin immediately hands it to you before you can grab it. You don’t even look at him, just take it and keep working.
Clip 3: Macklin’s phone buzzing. He glances at it, then shows you something. You laugh, shake your head, and push his phone away. Back to work.
Clip 4: You stretching your neck, clearly tense. Macklin’s hand immediately goes to your shoulder, massaging. You lean into it without stopping reading.
Clip 5: Both of you packing up to leave. Macklin takes your bag before you can grab it, slinging it over his shoulder with his own. You roll your eyes but you’re smiling.
The caption: been watching them for an hour and he hasn’t stopped touching her once. not once. also he just carries her stuff like it’s automatic. i’m SICK 😭
Comments:
@studywithme: the way he handed her the highlighter before she could grab it ... he was WATCHING
@hockeyedits4u: “his hand hasn’t left her thigh” RESPECTFULLY I’M LOSING IT
@relationshipgoalsfr: him massaging her neck without being asked ... WHERE DO I FIND THIS
@y/n_is_goals: the bag thing is what got me. she didn’t even protest. that’s just how they ARE
***
Tumblr Post by celebrini-updates
okay so i was at the sharks practice facility today (i work in the building) and i saw THE most adorable thing
y/n came to pick macklin up after practice. she was waiting in the family lounge and when he came out, he literally RAN to her. this grown man. professional athlete. RAN.
and then he just wrapped himself around her. full koala mode. arms around her waist, face in her neck, the works. and she’s so much shorter than him so she was basically holding him up while he clung to her
will smith walked by and said “you saw her three hours ago” and macklin just said “yeah and?” WITHOUT LETTING GO
they stood there for like five minutes. just hugging. in the middle of the hallway.
i’m not okay
Replies:
macklinsgf: “YEAH AND?” I’M SCREAMING
sharksinthebay: the visual of 6’0” macklin celebrini doing full koala mode ... i can’t breathe
y/n-macklin-forever: three hours. he couldn’t be away from her for three hours without needing a full embrace when he saw her again. THIS IS INSANE
hockey-romantic: will calling him out and macklin not even caring ... peak velcro couple behavior
***
The Sharks are on a five-game road trip. You’re back in San Jose, drowning in law school finals.
Macklin FaceTimes you between the morning skate and the afternoon game.
“Hi,” he says when you answer. He’s in his hotel room, hair wet from the shower.
“Hi. How was skate?”
“Good. Fine. I miss you.”
“You saw me yesterday morning.”
“Yeah, and that was too long ago.” He’s pouting. Actually pouting. “I don’t like road trips.”
“You’re literally playing professional hockey.”
“I don’t like road trips without you,” he corrects. “Big difference.”
“I have finals, babe. I can’t fly to every away game.”
“I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He shifts, getting comfortable on the bed. “What are you doing?”
“Constitutional Law review. It’s riveting.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You don’t actually want to hear about Constitutional Law.”
“I want to hear you talk. So yeah, tell me about it.”
So you do. You talk about the Commerce Clause and the Dormant Commerce Clause and rational basis review, and Macklin listens like you’re telling him the most fascinating story in the world.
He doesn’t understand a word of it, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to hear your voice.
What neither of you know is that Will has walked into Macklin’s room and is filming the whole thing.
***
@_willsmith2’s Instagram Story:
A video of Macklin lying on his bed, phone propped up on a pillow, completely absorbed in his FaceTime call.
You can hear your voice faintly from the phone, talking about something legal and complicated.
Macklin is smiling, chin in his hand, looking at his screen like you’re right there in the room with him.
Will’s caption: “been listening to y/n explain law stuff for 20 minutes. hasn’t looked away from the screen once. simp.”
Comments:
tofff73: disgustingly cute
eklund_72: bro you’re pathetic (affectionate)
celebrini71: she’s explaining CONSTITUTIONAL LAW and he’s looking at her like that?? down horrendous
***
Twitter Thread by @sharksgamereports
OKAY so I was at tonight’s game and need to tell you what I saw during warmups
macklin’s doing his normal routine. stretches, shots on goal, etc. BUT. every time he skates past the tunnel, he looks at it. EVERY TIME.
finally, like 5 min before warmups end, Y/N appears by the glass. she just got there apparently.
this man. THIS MAN. immediately skates over. he’s still in warmups!!! there’s still pucks flying!! he doesn’t care!!!
he skates up to the glass where she is and they just look at each other. she’s smiling, he’s smiling. they can’t even talk through the glass but they’re just. looking.
then she holds up her phone and shows him something (looked like a note that said “good luck” with hearts) and he puts his GLOVE on the glass over where the phone is
i’m not crying YOU’RE crying
oh and then the horn went off to end warmups and he skated away BACKWARDS so he could keep looking at her as long as possible
final score: Sharks 5, Opponents 2. Macklin with 2 goals and an assist. coincidence? I THINK NOT
Replies:
@cellys_girl: “skated away BACKWARDS so he could keep looking at her” STOP IT RIGHT NOW
@macklinmybeloved: the fact that he was SEARCHING for her during warmups ... checking the stands every time 😭
@hockey_wives_gfs: she’s his good luck charm and you can’t convince me otherwise
***
You’re at the grocery store together. It’s a Tuesday afternoon, Macklin’s off day, and you needed to stock up on food for the week.
You have the list. Macklin has the cart.
Or rather, he has one hand on the cart and one hand on you. Sometimes it’s your hand. Sometimes it’s your waist. Sometimes it’s your back pocket. But it’s always touching you somehow.
“Macklin, I need to reach that.”
“Which one?”
“The pasta. Top shelf.”
He reaches over you, grabbing it without letting go of your waist. “This one?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
You continue down the aisle. His hand never leaves your back.
At the checkout, you’re unloading the cart while he bags. But he keeps stopping bagging to help you unload, which defeats the purpose.
“I’ve got it,” you say.
“I know. But I can help.”
“You’re supposed to be bagging.”
“I can multitask.”
“Can you though?”
He grabs you around the waist, pulling you back against him, and you shriek-laugh.
“Macklin! We’re in public!”
“So?” He’s grinning against your neck. “I’m not doing anything inappropriate. Just hugging my girlfriend.”
“We’re in the checkout line!”
“And?”
The cashier is trying very hard not to laugh.
Somewhere behind you, someone is definitely filming this.
***
TikTok: “came to trader joe’s for snacks, left with diabetes from this couple”
The video shows you and Macklin in the checkout line. He’s got you pulled back against his chest, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder.
You’re trying to unload groceries while he’s just holding you. Not helping. Just holding.
“Macklin, you’re not helping,” you say in the video.
“I’m providing moral support.”
“I don’t need moral support. I need you to bag.”
“But you’re so warm.”
“Oh my god.”
The cashier finally says, “You guys are adorable.”
You both look at her, and Macklin says, dead serious: “Thanks. I know.”
You elbow him, and the video ends with both of you laughing.
Comments:
@trader_joes_fan: THE CASHIER CALLING THEM OUT 😂
@macklin_71: “I’m providing moral support” SIR
@y/n_defender: the way she elbowed him and he just laughed ... they’re so comfortable with each other
@couplegoals2026: came for groceries, stayed for relationship goals
***
Reddit Thread on r/SJSharks
Title: Are Celebrini and his girlfriend ever NOT together?
OP: Okay I’ve lived in San Jose for 3 years and I swear every time I see Macklin out, his girlfriend is with him. Coffee shop? She’s there. Grocery store? She’s there. The gym? SHE’S THERE. I saw them at the GYM at 6am last week. Together. Working out together. Like... do they do anything separately?
Top Comments:
u/sharksforever: I mean she did move in with him so ... probably not much?
u/celebrini_fan_01: they’re in their honeymoon phase still, let them be obsessed with each other
u/teal_and_proud: honeymoon phase?? they’ve been together over a year now. this is just how they ARE
u/sanjose_local: I’ve seen them around too and honestly it’s refreshing? Like he’s a 20yo NHL player and instead of being out at clubs he’s at Whole Foods with his girlfriend. It’s kind of wholesome.
u/sharks_analysis: my conspiracy theory is that they’re actually one person in two bodies and they’re just trying to be whole again
u/macklin_stats: okay but the 6am gym thing is insane. who goes to the gym at 6am TOGETHER
u/relationshipexpert: people who are disgustingly in love, that’s who
***
You’re at a Sharks game in your usual seat. The Sharks are down by one with five minutes left in the third.
Macklin gets the puck at center ice. He’s flying, weaving through defenders. He shoots from the slot. Top corner. Goal.
The arena erupts.
Macklin’s teammates mob him, but as soon as he can, he’s looking up at the stands. Searching for you.
When he finds you, you’re on your feet, screaming, hands in the air. His face breaks into the biggest smile, and he points at you — actually points, right at you — before being dragged back into the celebration.
The jumbotron operator knows what the people want. They cut to you in the stands, catching your reaction in real-time.
The photo of that moment — him pointing at you, you crying with joy — trends on Twitter for three days.
***
@SanJoseSharks: CELEBRINI TIES IT UP! 😤🔥
[Attached: Video of the goal and the celebration, including the point to the stands and the jumbotron shot]
Replies:
@hockey_romantic: THE POINT. THE TEARS. I’M UNWELL.
@celebrini_updates: she’s CRYING i’m CRYING we’re ALL CRYING
@y/n_macklin_4ever: the way he searched for her immediately ... didn’t even finish celebrating with the team first 🫠
@sports_photographer: that jumbotron shot is going to be in their wedding montage one day, mark my words
***
After the game (Sharks win 3-2), you wait in the family lounge.
Macklin comes out still in his suit, hair damp from the shower. When he sees you, his entire face lights up.
He doesn’t run this time. But he does beeline straight for you, dropping his bag and pulling you into a hug that lifts you off your feet.
“You scored,” you say into his neck.
“You were crying.”
“I was proud.”
“I know. I saw.” He sets you down but doesn’t let go. “That’s why I pointed. Wanted you to know the goal was for you.”
“They’re all for me, you sap.”
“Yeah. They are.”
He kisses you right there in the family lounge, in front of teammates and their families and anyone else who happens to be around.
Someone (Will, probably) whistles.
Macklin flips him off without breaking the kiss.
***
TikTok by @sharks_insider
POV: macklin celebrini after scoring the game winning goal
The video shows the family lounge. Macklin walks in, spots you, and his entire demeanor changes. Softer. Warmer.
The hug. The kiss. The casual middle finger to Will.
The caption: working for the sharks means I see a lot of cute couple moments. but these two? UNMATCHED. #velcrocouple #sharksfamily
Comments:
@nhlfan2026: THE MIDDLE FINGER WHILE STILL KISSING HER I’M DEAD
@macklin_defense: working for the sharks and getting to see this regularly ... living the DREAM
@y/n_and_macklin: velcro couple is SO accurate. have they ever been photographed separately???
@celebrini_71: the answer is no. no they have not.
***
Twitter Thread by @y/n_macklin_updates
Monthly roundup of Macklin & Y/N sightings because y’all asked for it:
JANUARY: - Coffee shop (together) - Whole Foods (together) - Movie theater (together, same side of the theater) - Bookstore (together, he was carrying her books) - Farmers market (together, holding hands)
FEBRUARY: - SAP Center x9 (she went to every home game) - Starbucks (together) - Target (together, again) - Ice cream place (together, sharing one cone) - Library (yes, together. he was there for moral support while she studied)
MARCH: - Restaurant (together, same side of booth AGAIN) - Gym (together, 6am, they’re insane) - Park (together, he was reading while she studied on a blanket) - Airport (he was dropping her off, they hugged for 10 minutes straight)
Times spotted separately: 0 Times spotted together: literally every single time
They are ATTACHED and I love it for them
***
You’re lying in bed, scrolling through your phone, when you come across yet another thread about you and Macklin being inseparable.
“Did you know we’re a Velcro couple?” You ask.
Macklin looks up from his own phone. “A what?”
“Velcro couple. It’s what the internet is calling us. Because we’re always together.”
“Oh.” He thinks about it. “That’s accurate.”
“Doesn’t it bother you? People constantly noticing that we’re always together?”
“Why would it bother me?”
“I don’t know. Some people might find it suffocating. Too much time together.”
He sets his phone down, rolling to face you properly. “Do you find it suffocating?”
“No.”
“Do I?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then who cares what other people think?” He pulls you closer. “I like being with you. I like that we do everything together. I like that when I score a goal, you’re there. I like that when you’re studying, I’m there. I like that we go to the grocery store together even though one of us could easily go alone.”
“We are kind of ridiculous.”
“We’re happy.” He kisses your forehead. “Let them call us Velcro. Let them notice that we’re always together. I don’t care. I like being stuck to you.”
“Stuck to me?”
“Like Velcro.” He’s grinning now. “See? It works.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
“I really do.”
He pulls you even closer, until there’s no space between you at all. “Besides, they’re right. We are always together.”
“Because you follow me everywhere.”
“You follow me just as much.”
“Do not.”
“You came to my practice yesterday. You don’t even like watching practice.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“You were at school. School is not in the same neighborhood as the practice facility.”
“Fine. I wanted to see you. Happy?”
“Very.” He kisses you. “See? Velcro.”
“We’re not Velcro.”
“We’re totally Velcro.”
“We’re just ... affectionate.”
“Affectionate Velcro.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now. We invented it.”
You’re laughing now, and he’s kissing your neck, and you think maybe the internet has a point.
You are kind of always together.
But you wouldn’t have it any other way.
***
Twitter, the next morning:
@celebrini_updates: NEW SIGHTING: Macklin and Y/N at breakfast spot in downtown SJ. She’s studying, he’s just watching her study. Like that’s entertainment. They’re insane (affectionate)
@sharksfanforever: at this point I’m convinced they have a secret competition to see how long they can go without being separated
@y/n_macklin_daily: THE VELCRO COUPLE STRIKES AGAIN
@macklin_71_fan: remember when people tried to say the age gap was problematic and now everyone just accepts they’re soulmates who happen to be attached at the hip
@hockeycouples: them: exists in the same space the internet: CONTENT
***
And they’re right.
Because two hours later, when you finish studying and pack up your stuff, Macklin is still sitting across from you.
“You didn’t have to wait,” you say.
“I know.”
“You could have gone home. Done something productive.”
“This is productive. I’m spending time with you.”
“I was studying. We weren’t even talking.”
“Doesn’t matter. We were together.”
And that’s the thing, really. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. Grocery shopping, studying, working out at 6 am, sitting in silence.
What matters is being together.
Velcro couple, the internet calls you.
You prefer “inseparable.”
But really, it’s simpler than that.
You’re just two people who love each other and genuinely enjoy each other’s company.
Even if that means going to the grocery store together when one of you could easily go alone.
Even if that means sitting in silence while one of you studies.
Even if it means the entire internet documenting every time you’re spotted together (which is every time either of you is spotted at all).
Macklin takes your bag without being asked, slinging it over his shoulder with his own.
allie hayes x fem!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: allie shows you exactly what she wants needs.
𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬: 18+ mdni; smutty, smut!; porn w/o plot!; sloppy make out; cunnilingus; sloppy fingering; oral fixation; needy!allie; sean slander (deserved); lowkey jealous!reader; lemme know if I missed any!
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.6k
𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲: did i finish the season yet? no. did i write this otherwise? fuck yeah! idc its pride month! enjoy this vv filthy piece!
Malone's was bathed in Briar U's signature blue lights, strobes flashing across the modest-sized bar, the silver tinsel reflecting and shining the color like stars though your eyes were immediately drawn to the brunette behind the bar.
Allie was handing Dean two pitchers of beer when he leaned further into her space. He said something with that smirk that always had his dimples showing, and by the look that melted Allie's face, you could tell he said something that would've made every girl swoon.
Huh.
You gaze sweeps across Dean's back before you made eye contact with Allie, swiftly replacing the spot. "What was that?"
Allie's already big doe eyes widened even more before she laughed nervously. Her head jerking forward. "Is—is it that obvious?"
"Mhm."
Her chest expanded, nose flaring at a breath before she leaned in again. "This doesn't leave this bar. Ever." You smile at the adorable scrunch of her nose, nodding with faux seriousness.
"It was good…like, some would call 'addicting' good," She hissed at you lowly. "But, I think I'm still missing something. I don't know what, but I know I'm missing something."
"Oof." Your face scrunched, lips quirking at the corner before taking a sip of your beer. "Greedy girl."
There was a pause where she just looked at you, lips parted softly, and you pretend you don't see her eyes flickering to your own. She shook her head as if she was getting rid of thoughts before she reached over to slap your shoulder.
"Shut up!" Her head swiveled side to side, making sure no one else heard. "I am not greedy. I just—know what I want."
Her eyes never strayed from your lips—even dilating when you licked your lips.
"What do you want, Al?"
Allie gasped out a quiet 'fuck' when her back made contact with her door, head tilting to accommodate your needy mouth against the sensitive skin of her neck. Her hands fumble against the doorknob, trembling from your weight against hers.
"Fuck it." She cursed under her breath, giving up on opening her door to dig her nails into your arms. "Just fuck me on the couch." You let out a chuckle at that, hands curling around her waist to pick her up, and pushing the door open with ease.
"So needy." You breathed against her ear, trailing hot kisses from her neck and driving a whimper out of her throat when your warm tongue licked the shell of her ear.
You try to pry yourself from her once her back made contact with her pink sheets, but she only held on tighter, letting out an pathetic whimper at your efforts. "Don't go!" She almost screamed, leg tightening around your waist as her face scrunched.
A red hot flush ran down her spine, scrunching her face when she heard your amused chuckle. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't tease you or don't leave?"
"Both." Allie couldn't even reprimand you for calling her needy. Not when you called her a 'greedy girl' at Malone's and she swore she she felt an immediate gush of arousal at the low timbre of your voice.
It left her walking around the rest of her shift with thighs unconsciously rubbing together whenever she caught sight of you—wet and aching. "I need you." She breathed out.
Relief sank her shoulders when you leaned in, one hand firm against her sheets and the other cupping her plump cheek. Her head jerked upward, lips parted in anticipation, chasing. Brown eyes looked at your through fluttering lashes, the beat of her heart ringing in her ears alongside her breath.
She looked thoroughly wrecked in the wake of your fleeting touches; her usual wide eyes were hooded, barely blinking as her tongue peeked out every couple seconds—desperate to get a taste of your beer-stained lips.
Finally giving her what she wanted, your lips made contact with her plump ones, her sigh hitting your skin. Your hand travel up her side, dragging her shirt along, before cupping her beast over her bra. The touch coaxed a whine from her throat, lips parting just enough for you to shove your tongue in her mouth.
"Hnng—" Her warm tongue danced with yours instantly, the muscle pushing against yours, not in an effort to take dominance, no—your casual control over her body had slick running down her thighs already. Who was she to complain? It was in an effort to taste you.
To mold herself inside you—long enough for you to keep tasting her for days.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, it wouldn't be long until you pulled away. Chiding her with a tsk when she tried to pull you in further, addicted to your taste already. You hold her down—so effortlessly, she might add—by her shoulders, gripping your shirt from your nape before pulling it over your head.
The single sight of your skin showing had an audible gasp escaping her lungs, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she bit her lip to hide her excitement.
It was useless however, when her legs crossed the second you pulled away, trying to wane the ache. To no avail.
Her brown eyes trailed over surface over your skin, before she jumped in her spot, hastily removing her blue Malone's shirt, leaving her in her black bra. Pants following the pile not long after.
Allie was about to pull her underwear off before you stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Patience, hun." Your eyes trail down her neck before they found her nightstand.
"You pull off your shirt like that and expect me to—" She was chuckling before she wasn't eyes widening at the tattoo spread across your back.
"What?"
"You have a tattoo." She pointed out, eyes shining in wonder at the angel wings that covered the expanse of your back, feathers detailed and intricate with it burning at the tips.
"Yeah. It's Icarus," You chuckled, pulling and pushing at cabinets. "Like a warning that I'd like to keep in mind."
You continue your fumbling through her drawers for a few more minutes before Allie finally had enough.
"Are you gonna fuck me or steal from me?" She huffed, groaning after you ignored her question.
"Pick a date, Al."
"What—"
"Pick. A. Date."
At your firm tone and glance over your shoulder, she straightened up. "December…twenty-fourth—I don't know—come fuck me already!"
"Your—" You chuckled under your breath. "You picked your birthday?"
"I don't know what you want from me?" Allie was exasperated. Exasperated and needy. She was sitting on her bed with a dripping pussy that even she didn't know if she could touch. She just need you to shove your tongue in her mouth again. At least.
"Well," You huffed, finally turning around. "Do you know what you want from me?"
The sight of the sex position calendar within your grasp had Allie's eyes widening, hands gripping her sheets. You flipped it so she could see the figures' position at the date that you stopped at, and the sight that greeted her had her gulping audibly.
The figure was tied to the bedposts with what looked like handcuffs.
Eyes travel up to your own. Her plump bottom lip was bitten her teeth before she squealed, jumping up and immediately searching her nightstand for her pink fuzzy handcuffs that Sean had rejected the second he laid eyes on it.
She was giggling as she rummaged through the cabinet, but you thought you've made her wait long enough. And she wasn't the only one dripping since Malone's.
You cleared your throat as you approached her bent form, taking the cuffs that you'd already snatched from the cabinet and running it over the inside of her thighs.
She gasped, swiftly turning around and hitting you on the shoulder. "You dick!"
"Do you want me to get on the bed or not?" You laughed, sitting on the bed. But before you could make yourself comfortable against her pillows, her thighs bracketed your waist, cupping your face and claiming your lips once more.
Allie's lips slotted perfectly against your own, giving you the perfect taste of her gloss. She tried prodding at the seam of your lips with her tongue and huffed when you only smiled against her lips, amused at her efforts. Whining against your mouth, she tried again, brows furrowed in frustration. "Please…"
Your palms knead her ass and it had her gasping against you, leaving remnants of her gloss around your lips.
With a swiftness you could only call neediness, she pushed you against her pillows, lips never parting from your own. Not even when she threw away the cuffs, not even when she pulled down her lace panties just enough for it to be hanging off her ankle. Only to look down on your heavy breathing form, chest rising and falling, restricted against your bra.
Allie bit back a smile. "Anything I want?"
"I'm at your service." Your thumb tease her under boob before pressing flat against the peak of her nipple through her bra. Her hand swiftly closed around your wrist. Not to pull away—to press your palm flat against her clothed breast.
"Can I ride your face?" Allie, asked breathlessly. The soft grind of her pussy against your thigh hastening in pace when you wrapped your lips around her pert nipple.
You pull away from her skin with a soft growl, pussy aching at the thought of her arousal all over your face. You answered her with a squeeze on her hip, nipping lightly at her chest before dragging yourself down the bed until your head was right between her thighs.
"Wait! I haven't even—" You cut her off by pulling her down by her thighs, stopping her pathetic hovering and engulfing yourself in everything her.
You groan when she's finally flush against your face. You were determined to have her thinking of you if Dean ever had her like this again.
She keens when you lapped at her opening to her clit, nimble fingers running through your hair. "Oh fuck, baby—you—" What she expected to decrease the pounding ache in her pussy only amplified the pleasure, bending her spine backwards when your tongue prodded through her puffy folds and entered her hole.
Your tongue continues to thrust in and out of her, causing arousal to gush with every push and pull. Her slick ran down the inside of her thighs and down your neck. But you weren't complaining. Not when you looked up to see nothing but unbridled pleasure melting her beautiful face, rampant breathless moans escaping her parted lips.
Allie's brows were furrowed, softly, her eyes hooded and hazy, lashes fluttering. She knew that the moment she closed her eyes fully she'd lose control over her body.
And that's exactly what you wanted to happen.
So, without warning, one of your hands went from cradling her back to pulling down her bra cup. Twisting her areola softly between two fingers at the same time you sucked her sensitive bud, lapping at it softly.
"FUCK! I didn—hng!" She heaved, hand using your own to palm her heaving breast. Her thighs clench harder around your head, humping your face unabashedly.
"Tha's it, honey—shit—fucking use me." You mumble against her, adding the vibrations to her pleasure. You watch her nod dumbly, whines pathetically escaping her throat. A symphony you could listen to forever.
She ground her clit against your nose harder—firmer, fingers pulling your head up further into her mound while you continued to switch between lapping and thrusting your tongue into her weeping hole. You ignore your own throbbing desperation in favor of shoving two fingers into her hole, the sight of her throwing her head back and moaning was enough to drive you into orgasm.
"Bab—baby, please, please let me come. Please." Her hand pried your own from her breast to shove two of your fingers into her mouth, tongue lapping around the digits to muffle her screams. Two of her holes effectively filled by you. Only you.
Only you weren't having it. You didn't like that you couldn't hear her—albeit muffled—moans anymore. Clearly, she was desperate to have something in her mouth, something to do with it as the coil in her belly threatens to snap. So you compromised.
You just press them firmly on her tongue, rendering her jaw slack. Allie whined at the change, but she didn't complain, still holding your wrist firmly as the other played with her tender nipples.
Her head felt incredibly fuzzy, ears ringing but hearing every wet squelch you were dragging from her cunt. The sound was obscene—something she'd never heard come from her pussy before.
Not from her vibrator.
Not even from the Briar U-coined "sex machine" that was Dean.
Especially not from Sean.
"Ahh—babe—fuck me!"She felt like she was in heat; back arched and her hips ruthlessly grinding against your willing mouth and fingers. Saliva dripping from the corners of her mouth and down your arm until you pulled it away.
Allie whined at the loss of pressure in her mouth until a lewd moan escaped her from your wet fingers wrapping around her throat. "God—!"
You were happily drowning in her wetness, humming contentedly against her puffy folds as you move your fingers in and out of her. She felt her lower belly tighten at the feeling of your flesh exploring her cunt and when you crooked your finger just right—right against that spongy spot in her pussy while you mouth suckled her engorged clit—again, and again, she felt the rope in her belly snap!
Her hips stiffened against your face as she let out a gasping moan toward the ceiling. Abdomen clenching while she gushed against your face—arousal soaking you and the sheets below. Her soft thighs clench around your head as you guide her hips back and forth over your mouth, slowly to prolong her high.
Allie fell forward after a few seconds, limbs akin to jello. Her forearms caught her but they were trembling violently. She shivered when you moved away from her thighs, the cool air wafting against her sensitive pussy, and already missing the warmth of your skin.
"Baby—" You cut off her whine with a soft shush, laying her head down carefully against her pillows and swiping her bangs from her sticky, flushed forehead.
You make your way to her and Han's shared bathroom and come back with wet washcloths. Allie looked completely fucked out with her glossy eyes and shaking limbs, reaching for you the second you stepped inside her room.
You drag the washcloth across her forehead, making sure to redirect the rest of her thick hair away from her nape so she doesn't overheat. "You did so well, honey." Your praise made her sigh in return, smiling cutely as she giggled breathlessly. "What?"
"N'thin'," She bit her lip when you went to clean her sensitive center. "I've jus' n'ver heard of your hookups endin' like this."
"Is that bad?" You kissed her forehead then, before carefully maneuvering her out of her twisted bra.
"'s unfair to ya'," You smiled at her slurred speech, eyebrows raising when she pointed a finger at your wet face. "Does it hurt?"
"Does what hurt?"
"I didn't shave and practically used your face like a pillow—" She covered her flushed face with her hands.
"I'll be fine, okay?" You chuckled. "Nothing moisturizer can't help with."
You didn't try to fight her when she snatched the washcloth, determined to wipe off her arousal that dripped down your neck. "I think it's safe to say that that was my most intense orgasm." She grinned like a kid in Christmas.
☄︎ Warnings: NSFW, Oral (f! receiving)
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x John Logan
☄︎ Rating: Mature, 18+
☄︎ Words: 1525
☄︎ AN: written for this request. my brother in CHRIST antonio cipriano is so fucking fine like wtffffff. this intially started off differently in my head but when i saw this pic i reworked it cause i am a WHORE for handy men🧍🏽♀️ xx
☄︎ Summary: You're studying at your boyfriend's house when he decides it's time to fix a leaking pipe.
When you woke up in the morning and headed to the hockey house, you had every intention of this being a serious study session with your boyfriend. You wanted to be overly prepared for your midterms; you didn’t need any nasty surprises coming out of it.
However, every time your mind tries to drive your attention back to the open textbook in front of you, your gaze keeps shifting lower, completely captivated by the view on the floor.
Logan is shoved halfway under the kitchen sink.
He’s wearing a fitted maroon t-shirt that spreads tightly across his shoulders every time he strains against a stubborn pipe. Whenever he lifts his arms, the shirt lifts too, exposing the patch of skin just above where his faded jeans are hugging his waist. You see the patch of hair that leads down his stomach, like an arrow directing you to look at where one of your favourite body parts of him lies.
It's really not your fault. You really did have the best study intentions.
A stray smudge of grease is smudged against his forehead. And his brown curls look messy from rubbing against the bottom of the cabinet. He holds a massive pair of pliers in one hand, propping himself up on one elbow to look up at you with a cocky grin.
“Take a picture, babe. It’ll last longer,” he teases.
You shake your head out of your daydream, pressing your thighs together and shifting in your seat.
“I might just have to,” you reply, leaning your chin on your hand. “I forgot about how handy you were.”
Logan tosses the pliers into the open, rusted red toolbox by his hip.
“Yeah, the P-trap was leaking, and Tucker was complaining about the smell. Figured I’d take care of it. Didn’t realise it would turn you on so much otherwise I’d have done it earlier.” He’s got a stupid cocky grin on his face that he totally deserves to be wearing, you’re practically drooling.
“I never said it turned me on,” you lie.
There’s just something intensely, undeniably, absolutely attractive about seeing him handle tools, the effortless confidence with which he fixes things. You start thinking about all the things in your dorm that you could break, just so you could ask him to come and fix it.
Logan slides out from under the sink, standing up to wash his hands. He turns back to you, leaning against the counter as he dries his hands on a towel.
“You didn’t have to say it.” He sets the towel down beside him. “Come here.”
He curves his index finger, gesturing you over.
“Logan, we’re in the middle of the kitchen,” you protest weakly, even as you slide off of the barstool and walk over to him. “Anyone could walk in.”
“Garrett’s out with Hannah, Tucker’s with Sabrina, and Dean is... well who knows where Dean is but it’s not here,” Logan murmurs. He hooks his fingers into the belt loops of your shorts, tugging you flush against his chest. The faint scent of motor oil and copper mixed with his clean cologne wraps around you like a vice. “We’re fine.”
Before you can argue any further, his mouth crashes into yours. It’s demanding and makes you completely forget what you were even protesting about. You whimper into his mouth, your hands instantly finding their way into his soft hair and tugging at it.
His hands slide down to rest firmly on your ass. He gives it a little squeeze before giving it a slap.
“You have no idea how hard it was to focus on that pipe with you watching me like that,” he murmurs against your lips.
You yelp as Logan’s hands cup under your ass, lifting you up to set you on the kitchen counter. He begins to trail light kisses along the inside of your knee, his hands tightening on your hips.
“Logan,” you breathe out, your head tilting back, “We really shouldn’t. Someone is going to-.”
“I told you,” he interrupts, his breath warm against your skin as he moves his path higher. “Nobody is home.”
Pulling you closer to the edge of the counter, he pulls your shorts and underwear off swifty.
You lay back, your head resting on top of the long-forgotten textbooks and other stationary.
Logan spreads your legs further, appreciating how you’re already clenching without him even really doing anything.
“Logan~,” you breathe, your hand reaching down to try and find his head so you can push him into you.
“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you.”
He lifts up your shirt, pressing a kiss to your bellybutton before kissing a slow trail down.
When you finally think he’s going to kiss you where you’re aching, he moves to your inner thigh, pressing kisses and sucking on the skin there.
“Logan~~,” you whine, louder this time. You’re becoming desperate for it.
“Say my name again,” he says against your thigh. He’s so close to where you need him, his warm breath fanning over you.
“Logan~, Logan~, Logan pleaseee,” you chant.
You bite back a moan as blows on your throbbing clit. He does that a few more times, each time leaning back to admire how your muscles contract.
Before you can beg him again, he finally takes your clit into his mouth. He’s gentle with it, giving you a soft suck before releasing it. He tongues his way down to your whole, lapping up your arousal.
“Mhmm, you taste so good, baby.” He swipes a finger up between your folds, coating his finger in your arousal. “Have a taste.”
He leans over, putting his finger in your mouth. Keeping your eyes firmly on him, you suck it into your mouth.
“See how good you taste?” He asks, his voice heavy with need.
You hum around him finger and he looks back at you with a proud look on your face.
Pulling his finger out of your mouth, he settles back between your legs. Lewd, wet, sounds fill the large room as he laps at your pussy.
Your back arches and your finders find his hair as he sucks on your clit again.
“You like that, baby?” He asks.
“Yes~ I’m dripping wet,” you respond.
Just as you start to feel the pleasure coiling, the heavy front door swings open, the sound echoing into the kitchen.
“Yo! Anyone home? I brought food.”
It’s Dean.
Panic hits you like a bucket of ice water. You try to scramble back on the counter, your face flushing a deep, vivid red.
“Logan! Move, it’s Dean!” You hiss frantically.
Instead of jumping up, Logan’s grip on your thighs only tightens. You can’t help but moan as he licks at you again.
Dean rounds the corner, a brown paper bag in one hand and half-eaten chip in the other. He stops dead, taking in the entire scene. You, breathless and dishevelled on top of the kitchen island, and Logan, face pinned between your knees.
Logan lifts his head to look at Dean, his chin and lips are glistening and there’s a line of spit connecting his lips to your pussy. You freeze, hiding your face in your hands.
Dean lets out a loud whoop!
“Well, well, well,” Dean sings, leaning casually against the wall. He casts his eyes over the tools on the floor. “I knew you were handy, Logan, but I didn’t know you offered full-service plumbing. I guess when duty calls...”
“Dean, oh my God, go away!” You squeak, face still hidden behind your hands.
“Hey, don’t mind me! You carry on.” Dean laughs, completely unbothered. “In the kitchen? Respect.”
Before Dean’s even gone, Logan face is already buried back between your legs.
“See ya later, lovebirds!” Dean struts up the stairs, leaving the two of you alone.
You bite down on your forearm as Logan sucks on your clit again.
“Don’t go quiet on me now, let him hear how wet I get you.” There’s a glint in Logan’s eye, he obviously thrives on this.
The tension leaves your shoulders as Logan works two fingers into you. His tongue presses flat against your clit as he shakes it side to side. It doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build up again, his fingers scissoring and curving inside of you.
You’re babbling now, trying to find the words to articulate what you need from him, you’re on the edge, you’re so close. But he knows what you need and with one final flick of his tongue, electricity runs through your body.
You see stars under the force of your orgasm. Your entire body jerking as you scream Logan’s name.
He holds you close until your pulse begins to slow, telling you how beautiful you look when you cum.
He slowly pulls back just enough to look at you, a smug look of satisfaction on his still shiny face. He stands up, smoothing his shirt. The evidence of his excitement is clear.
He wiggles his eyebrows at you. Just before you’re about to speak, a loud shout echoes down the stairs.
“Hell yeah, Logan. Let’s goooo!” Dean yells through his closed bedroom door.
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.
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.
summary: Dean Dilaurentis has been the only person in your class who comes close to your grade. You've been pretending not to notice him for three months. Then a professor pairs you together for a semester project, and suddenly you have no choice but to sit very close to him in a library for five weeks and figure out what to do about that.
notes: hii i'm back!! i really hope you guys enjoy this one as much as i enjoyed writing it. this came to mind because i'm obsessed with legally blonde the musical thanks to the show, and then obviously i had to rewatch the movie immediately. i read the dean book years ago so i genuinely didn't remember the plot, so for all intents and purposes let's just agree that he went to law school and moved on. also first time writing smut, so i think it's kind of mid, but i did my best 😭 also the legal cases i mention might not be entirely accurate since i am not a lawyer, but i do feel very comfortable using legal jargon in everyday life. thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think 🤍
warnings: swearing, kind of academic rivals to lovers, library shenanigans, one very unhappy night librarian, legally blonde references (many), dean is a menace, reader is a menace back, sexual tension with footnotes, and SMUT (making out, oral f!receiving, unprotected piv, light dirty talk, "good girl", dean calls you baby and honey a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 11.8k
For the past four years, you had spent countless moments thinking about these final months of college.
Truthfully, college had always felt like a dream, a dream that for a long time had seemed impossible and far away, so when the acceptance letter arrived all those years ago, you had been ecstatic in the disbelieving way of someone who had wanted something so long they had stopped being sure they deserved it. What nobody told you was that dreams came with deadlines, sleepless nights, and enough stress to make your eye twitch on a random afternoon for no particular reason.
The dream of becoming a lawyer had started when you were young. It hadn't started glamorously, no single defining moment, no courtroom drama that changed everything. Although you really did have a knack for binge-watching shows like How to Get Away with Murder and Suits. But the real want had started with the slow, accumulating understanding that the world was not fair, and that fairness was something you had to build rather than wait for, and that the people who built it tended to know the rules better than everyone else. You had decided, young and furious, that you were going to know the rules.
Now, years later, it finally felt within reach.
Last summer you had taken the LSAT. When the score came back — 176 — you had screamed so loudly your roommate came running from the other room convinced something had happened. Something had happened. Everything had happened. Applying to Harvard had been a no-brainer after that, the natural conclusion of four years of work that had never once felt like anything other than work. To say it had all been a dream would be a lie. You had earned every grade, every internship, every recommendation letter. Every achievement had come attached to long nights and sacrificed weekends and more cups of coffee than you were prepared to account for.
Still, every now and then, you allowed yourself a moment to appreciate how far you had come.
Then you remembered the Harvard interview scheduled in just a few weeks, and the knot in your stomach returned immediately. It lived there, that knot had been living there for months, through the application and the waiting and the acceptance, through every good thing that should have dissolved it and didn't. You had stopped expecting it to go away. You had just learned to work around it.
What if you stumbled over your words? What if they asked something you couldn't answer? What if four years of work came down to one bad afternoon?
Which was exactly why Professor Whitaker's announcement nearly made you lose your mind.
The second she wrote Semester Project across the whiteboard, a collective groan spread through the lecture hall. Over the next month, students would work in pairs to complete a research project on the evolution of constitutional rights in the United States , a project worth a significant portion of the final grade.
At any other point in your college career, that would have been merely annoying.
Right now it felt catastrophic.
You could not afford for your GPA to slip. Not when Harvard was finally within reach. Not when everything you had worked for was balanced on the edge of these last few months. And that meant you absolutely could not get stuck with a partner who didn't care like a jock who only cared about a sport, someone who would contribute three bullet points to a shared document at the eleventh hour and disappear for six weeks while your entire future quietly collapsed.
The thought alone made you grimace.
So as Professor Whitaker reached for her roster and began assigning partners, you found yourself doing something you almost never did.
Praying.
"The class will be sorted according to performance on the most recent exam," Professor Whitaker announced, scanning the room over her glasses. "That way the workload stays balanced and the pairing is fair for everyone."
A few students groaned.
You sat a little straighter.
Actually, that wasn't terrible. At least now there was a reasonable chance your partner wouldn't be dead weight. You had carried enough dead weight in your academic career to last a lifetime and you were done with it.
Professor Whitaker called your name first. You looked up from your notebook on instinct, even though she already knew exactly where you were. You hated change. You liked knowing where everything was. You liked routines, systems, the quiet reliability of things being where you left them.
More importantly, you liked being good at things.
Which was why hearing that your partner would be someone on your level was oddly comforting. Most of your life had been spent balancing on a very thin line between confidence and crippling self-doubt. On good days, you knew you were intelligent. On bad days, you were convinced everyone else was smarter and better than you. The trick was not letting either version get too loud.
Professor Whitaker glanced down at her roster.
The next five seconds would remain engraved in your frontal lobe for at least thirty years.
"Dean DiLaurentis."
Silence.
Jesus H. Christ.
Your head snapped up. Not because you needed to find him. You already knew exactly where he was sitting. You always knew where he was sitting, a fact you had never examined too closely and were not going to start examining now.
Middle of the sixth row. Today he was wearing a green cardigan over a white t-shirt, looking far too comfortable for someone who had just become the source of your newest academic crisis. He was mid-conversation with Beau Maxwell when his name was called, laughing at something, completely unaware that your entire carefully managed semester had just been handed to him without his consent or yours.
Dean turned around.
Then he smiled.
That smile. The one that belonged on toothpaste advertisements and nowhere else, the smile of someone who had never once in his life worried about whether he was welcome somewhere. It was the kind of smile that assumed the answer before the question had been asked, and it had always, privately, made you want to argue with it.
His eyes found yours immediately.
The realization landed half a second later, oh, you're my partner, and his grin widened, and then, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor that you had never personally found funny:
He winked.
He actually winked.
You stared back at him with the expression of someone who had just been personally wronged by the laws of probability.
You knew Dean. Not personally, god forbid. But you knew of him, the way everyone knew of him. Hockey player. Trust fund. Chronic flirt. The kind of person who walked into a room and somehow became the room. Loud and charming and surrounded by people at all times, the social gravity of someone who had never once had to earn a seat at the table.
Meanwhile, you considered making eye contact with strangers a form of cardio.
This could not be right. There had to be a mistake. How could Dean DiLaurentis possibly have a grade comparable to yours?
You spent your Friday nights in the library. You color-coded your notes by subject, by date, by relevance. You had cried over constitutional law, like actual tears, in the bathroom of the third floor study room, alone at eleven pm because that was what it cost and you had paid it without complaint.
Dean spent his weekends at hockey games and parties.
The math simply wasn't mathing.
Unless.
Oh.
Oh, god.
He was sleeping with the TA.
That had to be it. Everything suddenly made horrifying, perfect sense. The TA was a graduate student from somewhere in the Midwest who had spoken to you exactly three times all semester, and every single interaction had felt like she was being held at gunpoint. If Dean was somehow managing to maintain a functional relationship with her —
Honestly? He deserved the extra credit for that alone.
Three months earlier, it had started.
Professor Whitaker had a specific way of running discussion that you had privately categorized as controlled chaos. She threw a question into the room and stepped back and let whoever was going to talk, talk, with the quiet authority of someone who already knew what she thought and was waiting to see if anyone else did. The lecture hall always felt different during these sessions. Bigger somehow, the overhead lights slightly too bright, the charged quality of a room full of people deciding whether to say the thing they were thinking.
You almost always said the thing you were thinking.
Today the question was about Shelley v. Kraemer.
You had opinions about Shelley v. Kraemer.
"The court got it right," you said, when Whitaker's gaze landed on you. "State enforcement of a racially restrictive covenant is state action. The fourteenth amendment doesn't care that the covenant itself was private — the moment a court steps in to enforce it, the state is complicit. You can't separate the two."
Whitaker nodded — the small, noncommittal nod that meant continue or let someone else.
"I'd push back on that a little."
You turned.
Dean had his pen between two fingers, not quite raised, the posture of someone making a point rather than asking permission. He was looking at Whitaker, not at you, which was somehow more irritating than if he had been looking at you directly. Like the argument was with the room rather than with you specifically. Like you were incidental.
"The ruling is right," he said, "but the reasoning has a ceiling. If state enforcement equals state action, you've created a framework that depends entirely on whether someone decides to litigate. The protection isn't structural, it's reactive. It only exists if someone can afford to fight for it."
The room was quiet for a moment.
You became aware, distantly, that your jaw had tightened.
"That's not a flaw in the ruling," you said. "That's a flaw in the system the ruling exists inside of."
"Sure." Dean looked at you then, for the first time. His eyes were steady, interested in a way that wasn't performative. "But you're writing a decision, not a philosophy paper. The decision has to function in the system it's handed to."
"So your position is that the court should have ruled differently because the system might not implement it correctly."
"My position is that a protection that requires money and access to activate isn't really a protection." He said it evenly, without heat. "I thought that would be something you'd agree with."
The last sentence landed differently than the rest.
Not unkind. Not pointed exactly. Just specific, in a way that implied he had thought about what you would and wouldn't agree with, which was a thing he should not have been thinking about. Which meant he had been paying attention quietly and consistently.
Whitaker moved on.
You looked back at your notes and wrote nothing for the remainder of class. Outside the lecture hall windows the sky was the flat white of a November afternoon, and you sat with the particular discomfort of someone who had just been surprised by a person they had already decided to understand.
That was when it had started. Which meant that three months later, sitting in the lecture hall watching him smile at you like you were a problem he was looking forward to solving, you did not have the excuse of not knowing better.
The lecture hall emptied in a slow, shuffling wave that you had no patience for.
You were already packing your bag when you heard him.
"So." Dean dropped into the empty seat beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never once been unwelcome anywhere. He turned to face you, one arm resting on the back of the chair, bringing with him the faint smell of something clean, something woody, or the cold outside air. "Partners."
"Observant," you said, without looking up from your notebook.
He made a small sound, not quite a laugh, not quite not one. You could feel him watching you with that specific brand of unhurried attention that probably worked on most people and was currently working on you in ways you were categorically refusing to acknowledge.
"We should exchange numbers," he said. "Figure out when we can meet."
"I have time Thursday afternoon." You zipped your bag closed. "After three."
"Thursday I've got practice until five." He pulled out his phone, apparently unbothered. "What about evenings?"
"Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor until nine." You finally looked at him. "Weekends I pick up extra sessions when I can."
Something shifted in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible. Not pity. Something more like recalibration, the specific adjustment of someone updating a model they had been working from.
You watched him process it and kept your face completely neutral, the way you always did when people did the math on your schedule and realized there was no give in it, no free afternoon that existed just for the sake of existing. You didn't need him to feel bad about it. You just needed him to understand that his time was not the only time being managed here.
"Okay," Dean said, and to his credit, he didn't make it weird. "Wednesday? I'm free after two."
"I have a session at two."
"After three, then."
You considered this. "Three. Library. Third floor."
"Done." He held out his hand for your phone with the easy expectation of someone who had never once been told no and somehow, inexplicably, made that feel more like charm than arrogance.
You looked at his hand for exactly one beat longer than necessary.
Then you unlocked your phone and placed it in his palm, your fingers brushing his warm hand briefly.
"Don't put anything weird in my contacts," you said.
Dean smiled and typed with the focused, two-thumbed efficiency of someone taking the instruction very seriously.
He handed it back.
You looked down.
Dean DiLaurentis 🏒 (ur partner deal with it)
You stared at it for a long moment.
"Truly," you said, "a legal mind."
He laughed then , a real one, surprised out of him, and stood to leave, shouldering his bag. He paused at the end of the row and looked back at you with the expression of someone who was about to say something and had decided against it.
"Wednesday, then."
"Wednesday," you confirmed, already looking back at your notes.
You did not watch him go.
You listened to his footsteps until you couldn't anymore and then looked back at your notebook and found the page completely blank.
By the time Wednesday rolled around, you had done the mental gymnastics of calculating exactly how much this project was going to cost you. Not much, you had decided. You were already at maximum stress capacity between the Harvard interview and the end of semester closing in, so there was simply no room left for anything Dean DiLaurentis-related to take up residence.
This was the conclusion you had reached.
You woke up early anyway, restless, and got ready with the focused efficiency of someone who was absolutely not anxious about a study session. In the kitchen, Elisa was at the stove, hair still in a braid from the night before, doing something that smelled like butter and brown sugar.
"Morning, sugar plum." She turned and pointed her spatula in your direction. "Do you want to have breakfast with me?"
Elisa was the easiest person you had ever lived with, which was not something you said lightly. You had moved into her house sophomore year knowing no one and she had made you feel like you had been there the whole time. Wednesdays were her day off no classes, no obligations, and she spent them cooking elaborate things and playing at domesticity in a way that you found deeply comforting. She called them the Tradwife Wednesdays, in a joking manner.
"I can't, I have a class I can't miss." You grabbed your bag from the hook by the door. "Sorry."
"That's okay." She stirred something. "Are you coming back for lunch? I'm trying a new caesar salad recipe I found on TikTok. Caesar 2.0."
"I can't do lunch either. I have a study session at noon."
"Bring your partner. We can all have caesar salad 2.0."
"My partner is —" you paused, already regretting what you were about to say — "Dean DiLaurentis."
Elisa put down the spatula.
"Shut up."
"I'm not going to —"
"No way. You hate him."
"I don't hate him."
"Despise, then."
"Not even that." You pulled on your jacket. "I don't care about him at all. He just exists in the same world as me."
"Sure," Elisa said, in the tone she used when she was humoring you. She picked up the spatula again. "Ask him if he remembers our little trip in the Mystery Machine."
"Goodbye, Elisa."
"Caesar salad is on the table if you change your —"
You closed the door.
session one
He was already there when you arrived.
That was the first thing that threw you off, small and inconvenient, the kind of detail that shouldn't matter and did anyway. Dean DiLaurentis, sitting at the table you had specifically chosen because it was tucked into the back corner of the third floor, away from foot traffic and group study noise and every possible social distraction. You had chosen it because it was your table, the one you came to when you needed to actually work, claimed over three years of afternoons and late nights. The carpet near the window had a worn patch from your chair. You knew which overhead light buzzed slightly and had learned to tune it out.
He was sitting in your chair.
He had a coffee on each side of the table.
Two coffees.
You stopped.
"I didn't know your order," he said, not looking up. "So I got you black. You seem like a black coffee person."
You were a black coffee person.
You sat down without commenting on it and pulled out your laptop.
"I started an outline," Dean said. "Sent it to your email."
You opened it without responding. It was actually structured. Clean headers, logical progression. You stared at it for a moment longer than you intended, turning it over, looking for the flaw. There wasn't one.
"You cited Marbury v. Madison in the intro," you said.
"It's foundational."
"It's also the first thing every professor expects to see. It makes us look like we opened the textbook once and called it a day."
He looked up then. "So where would you put it?"
"Section three. After we've established the framework."
Dean looked at the outline. Then back at you. "...Yeah, okay."
You pulled it up on your own screen and started restructuring. He watched for a second, then turned back to his own laptop without making it a thing, and something about that: the absence of wounded ego, the lack of argument, the simple yeah, okay, was quietly unexpected.
You worked in silence for a while. A real silence, the functional kind, punctuated only by typing and the occasional ambient noise of the floor around you, someone whispering two tables over, the elevator arriving and departing, the hush of a library in the afternoon when the day outside has gone grey.
At some point he shifted in his seat and his foot knocked against yours under the table. He pulled it back immediately, said a distracted sorry without looking up, and kept typing.
You looked back at your screen.
Ten minutes later it happened again his foot finding yours under the table, settling against it with the absent, unthinking quality of someone who wasn't paying attention to their own body. This time he didn't notice. Or didn't move. You couldn't tell which.
You didn't move either.
You looked at your screen and read the same sentence four times and told yourself it was nothing, the table was small, it meant nothing at all.
His ankle was warm against yours for the rest of the session.
An hour passed, and then another. The coffee went cold. The light through the window shifted from afternoon grey to early evening grey, and you were deep enough in the due process section that you had stopped noticing either.
"Take a break," Dean said, without looking up.
"I don't need a break."
"You've reread that page four times."
You looked up. He was still looking at his notes, which meant he had been paying attention to you without appearing to pay attention to you, which was somehow worse than if he had just been watching you openly.
You closed the case study.
"Fine," you said. "Break."
Dean leaned back in his chair all the way back, with the easy, unhurried comfort of someone who had never had to fight for a seat at any table he wanted to sit at. You had noticed that about him early, the specific posture of someone for whom things had always been available, every room an environment that had been pre-adjusted to suit him. It was the kind of thing that was difficult not to notice when you had spent your entire life doing the opposite.
"You know," you said, mostly because the silence was starting to feel companionable in a way you weren't ready for, "you hooked up with a friend of mine once."
Dean looked up. Something shifted in his expression mild interest, maybe the faintest trace of wariness. "Oh really."
"Daphne."
A pause. He turned the name over, and you watched the moment he didn't find it.
"I don't remember," he said.
"She was dressed as Daphne for Halloween. You were, surprisingly, dressed as Fred."
Something cleared in his expression. "Halloween two years ago?"
"That would be the one."
He considered this with the equanimity of someone who had made peace with a certain kind of personal history. "Can I ask why you're bringing this up?"
"No particular reason." You picked up your cold coffee. "Can you even remember her name?"
"I just said I couldn't."
"Right." You set the coffee back down. "Well. For the record."
Dean looked at you for a moment with the expression you were already starting to recognize the one that meant he was deciding whether to say the thing he was thinking. He usually said it.
"You know," he said, "you hooked up with a friend of mine too."
You kept your expression very neutral. "Did I."
"Garrett."
"We made out at a party freshman year," you said, with the patience of someone correcting a factual error. "Did he tell you we hooked up?"
"He didn't say anything." Dean's mouth curved slightly. "I saw you two leaving and made an assumption."
"A wrong one."
"Clearly." He tilted his head. "So. Has Daphne said anything? About her experience."
You considered the question with the gravity it deserved.
"She tried to tell me," you said. "I didn't want to hear it."
"So she didn't give a great review."
"Ravishing," you said pleasantly. "It almost made me want to sleep with you too." You paused. "But then I remembered I have something called self-respect."
Dean laughed a real one, sudden and unguarded. It was, you noted with some irritation, a genuinely good laugh. Warm and surprised, the laugh of someone who had not seen it coming and was delighted by that fact. The kind of laugh that made you want to have caused it again.
"That's funny," he said.
"I know."
He was still smiling when he looked back down at his notes. You looked back at your case study. The library settled back into its particular silence the low buzz of the overhead light, the distant elevator, thirty people pretending they weren't exhausted but something had shifted in the quality of it. Imperceptibly, the way temperature changes in a room before anyone acknowledges it's warmer.
You didn't say anything about it.
Neither did he.
Twenty minutes later he slid his notes across the table, pointing out something you had missed without making it feel like a correction. You leaned in to look without thinking about leaning in and then you were close, closer than you had been all session, his shoulder warm against yours, and you could see the slight curl of his handwriting on the page and the way his finger traced the line he was pointing to, and you became aware very suddenly of his hands. How big they were. How deliberate.
You had not thought about his hands before. Or you had thought about them in passing and moved on. But up close, right now, pointing at a citation on a page they were careful and unhurried, the kind that did things with attention.
You looked at the citation.
"You're right," you said. "Good catch."
He glanced at you sideways, briefly, with that expression.
You both looked back at the page.
Neither of you moved away.
It was near the end of the session when it happened. You were flagging sources, half your attention on the screen, the room around you reduced to the low hum of concentration, when Dean said, mostly to himself, still reading:
"You always sit in the same seat."
You glanced up. "What?"
He seemed to catch himself, just barely, a slight tensing around his jaw. "In Whitaker's class. Third row, right side, second from the aisle. Every lecture."
The air shifted in a way that was difficult to name. Outside the library window the sky had gone fully dark, the glass reflecting the room back at you, two people at a table, closer than they had been three hours ago, the space between them negotiated down to nothing without either of them signing off on it.
"I like consistency," you said, after a beat.
"Yeah." He looked back at his screen. Something in his jaw had gone slightly careful. "I know."
I know.
Two words. Completely neutral on the surface and yet carrying the specific weight of something that had not been meant to be said out loud. Not an admission exactly. More like a door opened a half-inch before he caught it and eased it shut , slowly enough that you both knew it had moved.
You looked at him for a moment.
He did not look back up.
"We should finish the first amendment section," you said.
"Yeah," Dean said. "Probably."
You both looked at your screens.
Neither of you said anything else about it.
You packed up at eight-fifteen, twenty minutes later than planned. The third floor was empty by then, the overhead lights on their late setting. You walked to the elevator in a silence that had become, somewhere in the last six hours, a different kind of silence entirely, not neutral, not loaded, just inhabited.
In the elevator he stood beside you with his shoulder against yours, the same way it had been at the table, and neither of you shifted. The floor numbers climbed down. You looked straight ahead.
His ankle had been warm against yours for three hours and you had not moved away once.
You filed that under the place where you kept everything you weren't ready to examine yet.
session two
The second study session had started with considerably less hostility than the first, which you were choosing not to read into.
It was late afternoon again, the library emptying out around you as people made the reasonable decision to leave, and you and Dean had been working for three hours straight with the focused efficiency of two people who were both too competitive to be the first to suggest stopping. The case briefs were spread across the table in a system that was half yours and half his and somehow, irritatingly, better than either would have been alone. Your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. Your precision and his instinct for where an argument wanted to go.
You had noticed that yesterday too. Filed it away.
What you had not filed away or had tried to and failed was the moment an hour into the session when he had reached across you to grab a case brief from your side of the table without asking, and his arm had crossed in front of you close enough that you felt the warmth of it before it was gone. He hadn't noticed. He had grabbed the brief and gone back to his side of the table and kept reading, completely unaware.
You had read the same paragraph for twelve minutes after that.
"Okay," Dean said, dropping his pen and leaning back. "Break."
"We just had a break."
"That was an hour ago."
You looked at the time. It had been an hour and twenty minutes, which meant you had lost track of time, which meant you had been absorbed enough in the work — in the conversation around the work, the back and forth of it, the way he argued a point and actually listened when you argued back — that the time had disappeared without asking permission.
You put your pen down.
"Fine," you said. "Break."
Dean stretched his arms above his head with the unselfconscious ease of someone completely comfortable in his own body, the cardigan riding up slightly, a sliver of skin at his waist, the line of his shoulders, the way his head fell back for a moment, which you observed in a purely detached and analytical capacity and then looked at the ceiling.
"So," he said. "Harvard Law."
"What about it."
"That's the goal?"
"That's the goal," you confirmed.
He nodded slowly, with an expression that was hard to read. Then, in a voice of complete casual confidence: "What, like it's hard?"
You turned to look at him.
He was already smiling.
"That's the second time today," you said, "that you have made a Legally Blonde reference."
"Is it?"
"You quoted it earlier when I said the admissions rate was three percent."
"I don't remember that."
"Dean."
"It's a great film."
You looked at him for a moment. "Is it your favorite movie?"
"Top two," he said, without hesitation. "Just after Top Gun."
You stared at him. Dean DiLaurentis. Hockey player, pre-law, top of the class, sitting in the library surrounded by case briefs, whose top two films were Legally Blonde and Top Gun.
"God," you said.
He laughed. "What?"
"Nothing." You picked up your pen. "It explains a lot actually."
"Does it."
"The confidence," you said, gesturing vaguely at him. "The hair. The complete inability to walk into a room without knowing exactly how you're going to be received." You paused. "You've watched both of those films a concerning number of times, haven't you."
Dean pointed at you. "Elle Woods and Pete Mitchell are two of the most —"
"Please don't finish that sentence."
"— compelling character studies in the history of American cinema."
You laughed and put your head down on the table.
His laugh was warm and close and you could feel it more than hear it, and when you looked up he was leaning on his elbow facing you — close, comfortable in the way he had gotten over the past two sessions, close enough that you could see the specific color of his eyes in the library light, and the way they crinkled at the corners when he was actually amused rather than performing it. The late afternoon light was doing something completely unreasonable to his face — the angles of it, the warmth of it, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone making a deliberate choice.
"Back to work," you said.
"Back to work," he agreed.
But he was still smiling when he turned back to his notes, and you were very carefully not smiling, and the library was quiet around you in that way it had been yesterday, warmer than it should have been, the silence between you easier than it had any right to be.
Top two, you thought, against your will. Just after Top Gun.
God help you.
You made it another forty minutes before it went sideways.
It started, as these things often did, over something small.
Dean wanted to include a law review article you thought was analytically weak. You had said so. He had disagreed. It had escalated with the particular efficiency of two people who were very good at arguing and had been carefully not arguing for weeks, the pressure of it finding the first available exit.
"It's not a weak source," Dean said, for the second time. "You just don't like the conclusion."
"I don't like the conclusion because the methodology doesn't support it. There's a difference."
"You've said that. You haven't explained it."
"I sent you three paragraphs —"
"You sent me three paragraphs about why you were right," he said. "That's not the same thing."
You looked up from your laptop. He was looking back at you with the expression that meant he was done being patient, and something about that, the specific quality of it, the fact that he was allowed to be done being patient when you had been managing your frustration for weeks —
"You know what, it doesn't matter," you said. "Include it. It's fine."
"Don't do that."
"Do what."
"Shut down and say it's fine when it's not fine." He closed his laptop halfway. "If you have a problem with the source, say it."
"I have a problem with a lot of things," you said, and it came out with an edge you hadn't entirely intended. "I have a problem with the fact that I have no idea how much of this grade I'm actually carrying."
The air in the room changed entirely. The low buzz of the overhead light was suddenly very audible.
Dean went very still. "What does that mean."
It means I've been doing this alone my whole life and I don't know how to stop assuming I'm about to have to do it again. That was what it meant. That was not what came out.
"It means," you said, and your voice was measured in the way it got when you were saying something you couldn't take back, "that I don't actually know how you scored high enough on that exam to get paired with me."
Silence.
Dean looked at you. Something moved behind his eyes, not hurt exactly. The thing that came just before.
"Say what you mean," he said quietly.
And because you were frustrated and tired and the Harvard interview was in two weeks and you had been holding this assumption for long enough that it had started to feel like fact —
"I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA."
The silence that followed was a different kind entirely. Heavy and still, the kind that has a shape.
Dean sat back. He looked at you for a long moment with an expression you had never seen on him before — not the easy charm, not the careful attention, not the almost-smile. Something stripped of all of that, all the way down.
"I got a ninety-four on that exam," he said. "I got a ninety-four because I studied for it. I study for all of them." A pause. Each word placed with precision. "I know you think I'm here because of my last name or my hockey stats or whoever you've decided I'm sleeping with. I know that's easier than just —" he stopped. Exhaled slowly. "I've been doing the work. I've been here every session. I don't know what else you want from me."
You opened your mouth.
"And the TA," he said, " she has a girlfriend. So."
He opened his laptop again. The sound of it was very loud in the quiet room.
You looked at your screen. The cursor blinked in the document you had been sharing for two weeks, both your names in the top corner. You were acutely, uncomfortably aware of the specific kind of wrong you had just been.
Not about the source.
About him.
"Dean —"
"First amendment section," he said. Not cold. Not cruel. Just done. "Let's just finish."
You looked at him for a moment.
"Yeah," you said quietly. "Okay."
The Legally Blonde conversation felt like it had happened in a different library entirely.
Top two, he had said, and laughed, and looked at you like you were something worth looking at.
You stared at the cursor and said nothing else.
Neither did he.
session three
The third session was on a Tuesday.
You knew because Tuesdays you tutored until nine, which meant you had come straight from the library's second floor where you had spent an hour and a half walking a freshman through the commerce clause, and you were tired in the specific way of someone who had been performing competence for other people all day and had very little left over for themselves.
You had also been thinking about what you said for five days straight.
Not continuously. Like something that sits in the back of your mind and surfaces at inconvenient moments — in the shower, between tutoring sessions, at two in the morning when you should have been sleeping and instead were staring at the ceiling cataloguing every assumption you had ever made about Dean DiLaurentis and finding most of them wanting. I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA. The words had a particular quality in retrospect, the quality of something that could not be unsaid, that existed now in the permanent record of things he knew about you.
You pushed open the door to the third floor reading room and told yourself you were fine.
Dean was already there.
Of course he was. He was always already there, with his laptop open and his notes spread out in the handwriting you had become, against your will, familiar with, slightly left-leaning, inconsistent spacing, somehow completely legible. He looked up when you came in. The room smelled like old paper and the particular warmth of a space that had been occupied for a while, and the overhead light buzzed its familiar note.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," you said back.
You sat down. Not beside him, you took the chair across the table, the one you had started in, back when the table felt like a neutral territory that required a border. You pulled out your laptop and opened the shared document and did not look at him.
He did not comment on the seating arrangement.
That was somehow worse than if he had.
You worked. The session had the functional efficiency of two people who were both too professional to let personal things affect the work, which meant the work was fine and everything around it was not. He passed you sources without commentary. You flagged edits without explanation. The back and forth that had become almost conversational — the small arguments, the digressions, the way he said okay when you made a point he couldn't refute — was gone.
The overhead light buzzed. Someone turned a page three tables over.
Around the forty-minute mark he said, "the due process section needs another source."
"I know," you said. "I'm looking."
"I found one this morning. Sent it to your email."
"I haven't checked yet."
"It's good."
"Okay."
Silence.
You checked your email. The source was good. You added it to the document without saying so and heard, very faintly, the sound of him exhaling.
An hour passed like that.
You had just pulled up a new case brief when Dean leaned back in his chair and said, to no one in particular, "I don't actually care about the TA."
You looked up.
He was looking at the ceiling, not at you, with the expression of someone who had decided to say a thing and was committed to the delivery. "I just want you to know that. In case it was still sitting there."
Outside the library window, the campus was dark and wet with recent rain, the paths lit amber under the streetlights.
"It was sitting there," you admitted.
"Yeah." He brought his gaze down to his notes. "I figured."
"Dean —"
"You don't have to." He said it simply, without edge. "I'm fine. I just didn't want it to be weird for the rest of the semester."
"It's already a little weird," you said.
"I know."
Another silence — but this one had more air in it, the quality of a silence that had been cleared rather than accumulated.
"I'm going to apologize properly," you said. "I just haven't figured out how yet."
Dean was quiet for a moment. Then, very carefully, not quite a smile: "Does it involve food."
You said nothing.
"It does," he said. "Okay."
"Back to work," you said.
"Back to work."
You heard her before you saw her.
The click of heels on library floor that had nothing to do with studying, moving with the purposeful energy of someone who had a destination and knew exactly what they wanted when they got there. You didn't look up. You were in the middle of a paragraph and you had a system and you were not going to lose your place.
The heels stopped at your table.
"Hey." Not directed at you. You turned a page. "I've been looking for you."
"Hey." Dean's voice, easy and careful. "Didn't know you were on campus today."
"I wasn't. Now I am." A pause with a specific texture. "Come outside for like five minutes."
"I can't right now, we're working."
We. You noted the word and kept reading.
"Five minutes," she said again. "It's not a big deal."
"I know it's not. I just can't right now."
You turned another page. The paragraph was about tort law and you had read the same sentence three times and retained nothing.
"Dean —"
"Seriously." His voice was still easy but there was something underneath it now, something with weight. "I'll text you later, okay?"
A silence. The kind that meant she was deciding something.
"Who even is she?" The question was directed at you. You looked up for the first time, because that was directed at you, and you had opinions about being spoken about in the third person by someone standing four feet away.
The girl was pretty in the specific, polished way of someone who had never had to try very hard at it. She was looking at you with an expression that was more curious than hostile, which somehow made it worse.
"His project partner," you said pleasantly. "We have a deadline."
"It's literally five minutes —"
"We're aware of how long five minutes is," you said, in the tone you had been practicing for courtrooms. "He said he'll text you. The reading room is a shared space and we're trying to work, so." You smiled. "Thank you."
The girl looked at you. Looked at Dean. Looked back at you with an expression that had shifted into something more speculative, something that said she understood more than you had intended to reveal.
Then she left.
The heels clicked back across the library floor and faded, and the room settled back into its particular silence, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone who had not just done what they had just done.
From across the table, nothing.
You turned a page.
More nothing.
You looked up.
Dean was looking at his notes with the carefully neutral expression of someone using every available resource not to smile.
"What," you said.
"Nothing."
"Say whatever you're going to say."
"I'm not going to say anything."
"Dean."
"I'm just —" He pressed his mouth closed. The not-smile was winning. "Thank you for your help."
"I didn't do it for you," you said immediately. "She was interrupting. It was annoying."
"Completely understandable."
"I would have done the same for anyone."
"Of course."
"It had nothing to do with —" You stopped. "We have three more pages to get through."
"We do," Dean agreed, in the voice of someone being very, very agreeable.
You looked back at your notes.
I would have done the same for anyone.
You were a pre-law student. You were supposed to be good at arguments.
That one had convinced neither of you.
You packed up at nine-fifteen, later than planned, and Dean walked out with you the way he had started doing without either of you deciding he would.
"She's no one," Dean said, when the elevator arrived. Not defensive. Just offered.
You stepped inside. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."
"I know." The doors closed. "I wanted to anyway."
You looked at the floor number climbing. He looked straight ahead. The elevator was small and you were standing close , his arm against yours, the cedar smell of him in the enclosed space, and something about the cleared air of the session, the I'm going to apologize properly, the we he had said without thinking, settled between you like something that had decided to stay.
The doors opened.
"Wednesday," you said.
"Wednesday," he confirmed.
You walked out into the night and did not look back.
You were going to need a very good cake.
session four
It was week four of the project, and Dean had gone back to sitting beside you, in the most inconspicuous way possible.
It had been gradual and deniable at every individual step. First the chair had been angled slightly toward yours. Then it had migrated. Now your thighs brushed every time either of you shifted, and you were acutely, unhelpfully aware of the warmth of his forearm against yours, the cedar-and-cold-air smell of him that you had catalogued in the first session and had been trying unsuccessfully to un-catalogue since.
Things had been a little strange since the fight.
The fight you had caused. With assumptions you had made. About a TA who, it turned out, had a girlfriend.
You had settled, eventually, on cake — specifically the lemon cake Elisa had made that morning, wrapped in foil and sitting on the table between your laptops like a small citrus-scented olive branch, which Dean had looked at when you arrived and had not yet commented on.
You had not told him it was Elisa's. You were not going to examine why.
"So," you started.
Dean looked up from his laptop.
"I would like to apologize."
He held your gaze for a moment. Something in his expression shifted — careful, like he was deciding how much to give you. "It's okay."
"It really isn't, Dean." You turned to face him, which was a tactical error because it meant you were now very close to him, close enough that you could see the dark blue of his eyes in the library light, and the soft fabric of the cardigan where your knee was almost touching his. "I made assumptions. I think the worst of people sometimes and I let it get ahead of me. You've been doing the work. I knew that and I said it anyway. That wasn't fair."
Dean looked at you for a long moment.
"It's truly okay," he said quiet and uncomplicated, completely without performance. "I get it. I know what it looks like from the outside."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"No," he said. "But it makes it understandable."
You looked at him. He looked back at you. The study room was very quiet, the overhead light doing its particular low buzz, the air carrying old paper and coffee and the warm-wool smell of his cardigan.
"The cake is Elisa's," you said, because you needed to say something. "My roommate. She made it this morning and I brought it."
Dean's mouth curved. "You brought me a peace offering."
"I brought us a snack."
"A lemon cake wrapped in foil."
"We've been here three hours."
"That," he said, "is the most you thing I've ever heard." He reached over and broke off a piece without ceremony, and you watched his hands doing it those careful, deliberate and huge hands of his, and felt something tighten somewhere that you immediately filed under irrelevant.
"Good?" you asked.
"Really good." He looked at you with the quiet expression, the one that sat closer to the surface. "Tell Elisa thank you."
"Tell her yourself," you said, and then realized what that implied, and looked back at your laptop.
Dean didn't say anything.
But he didn't look away.
You worked. The tension in the room had changed quality, no longer the awkward residue of an unresolved argument, something else now, something that had been building for four weeks and was running out of places to go. You were aware of him the way you had been aware of him since that first session, the warmth of his arm against yours, the sound of his breathing in the quiet room, the way he tucked the pen behind his ear when he was reading something carefully.
You were looking at your screen. You were not reading anything on it.
He shifted beside you. His knee pressed against yours under the table, not accidentally, not with the absent quality of the foot under the table in session one, but deliberately, with the specific patience of someone making a point without words.
You looked at your screen.
His knee stayed where it was.
Fine, you thought. Fine.
You did not move away.
Another twenty minutes passed like that, both of you working, neither of you acknowledging the point of contact, the room very warm and very quiet. And then Dean reached over, not for a case brief this time, his hand finding yours on the table, covering it, not grabbing, just resting there. Still. Like a question asked very quietly.
You looked down at his hand on yours.
You looked up at him.
He was already looking at you and he didn't say anything, didn't push, just held your gaze with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while and had decided to stop waiting quietly.
You turned your hand over under his.
Something shifted in his face. Not the smile, something more careful than that, something that meant more.
Then his hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your jaw, turning your face toward his unhurried, giving you every opportunity to move.
You didn't move.
His eyes met yours — a question, patient and certain — and you answered it by closing your eyes and leaning in, and then his mouth was on yours.
You had kissed people before.
This was categorically different.
It started soft and then didn't stay that way. His hand slid into your hair and yours found the front of his cardigan — soft wool under your fingers, the solid warmth of him underneath — and when his tongue met yours you made a sound you were going to spend considerable time not thinking about.
The kiss was unhurried. Calculated in the best possible way. Dean kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and when air became a necessary concern he pulled back smiling, pressed a soft peck to your lips, and began a slow trail of kisses along your jaw and down your neck.
His mouth was warm on your neck, lips dragging slow enough to make your breath catch, and his hand slid down your thigh with a deliberate patience that made it very clear he was in no hurry whatsoever.
You pulled his hair and got a low, rough sound against your skin in return, and then his hand found your waist and pulled, dragging you onto his lap until you were straddling him and there was no distance left to negotiate.
You could feel exactly what four weeks of thighs brushing and careful silences had done to him.
Dean — you heard yourself saying. Dean, Dean —
Your hands had found their way under his shirt, palms flat against his stomach, and when you dragged your nails lightly down his skin he smiled against your mouth and rolled his hips up into yours with a slow, pointed pressure that dissolved whatever thought you'd been forming completely.
A loud, deliberate cough came from the doorway.
Mrs. Miller, the night librarian, stood in the entrance with the expression of a woman who had seen too much and was being paid nowhere near enough.
You scrambled back. Dean straightened. A beat of absolute silence.
"We're leaving," you said, with as much dignity as the situation permitted. "We're so sorry, Mrs. Miller."
Mrs. Miller said nothing. She held the door open with the energy of someone who had made peace with humanity's worst impulses but did not have to enjoy them.
You gathered your things in record time. Dean had the audacity to look almost completely composed, which was deeply unfair given the state of his hair, which was your fault. You looked away.
Outside in the hallway you made it three steps before he said:
"So."
"Don't."
"I was just going to —"
"I know what you were going to say."
A pause. Then, with great personal restraint: "Okay."
You made it to the elevator before you looked at him. He was already looking at you.
"The cake was really good," he said.
"Shut up, Dean."
He laughed. The elevator doors closed. You stood in the small lit space of it with your shoulders touching and said nothing else the whole way down.
You were both smiling though.
session five
The fifth session was on a Wednesday.
You had been avoiding him since the awkward encounter with Mrs. Miller.
Not obviously, you were too disciplined for obvious. You had shown up to every class, done every piece of work, responded to every text within a reasonable time. You had simply pulled back the parts of yourself that had started, over four weeks of thighs brushing and functional silences and one extremely ill-advised study room incident, to lean toward him without permission.
You were good at pulling back. You had been doing it your whole life.
The third floor smelled like old paper and the warmth of a space occupied all day, the radiator ticking in the corner, the last of the evening light grey through the windows. Dean was already at the table. He looked up when you came in. You sat across from him, the original position, the border re-established, and he looked at it and then looked at his laptop and said nothing.
You worked.
The project was almost finished. This was the last session, a conclusion, a bibliography built jointly over five weeks, your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. It was good work. You were going to get an A on this project.
You were also going to have no reason to sit in this library with Dean DiLaurentis after next week.
You were not examining that.
"We need to talk about the conclusion," Dean said, around the hour mark.
"I know. I drafted something last night, it's in the doc."
He found it. Read it. Was quiet for long enough that you looked up.
"It's good," he said.
"I know."
Another silence. He wasn't reading anymore.
"Are you going to keep doing this," he said, "or."
"Doing what."
"You know what."
"Dean —"
"Because I can." Simply, without heat. "If that's what you want, I can pretend that kiss didn't happen and we finish the project and that's it. I'm not going to make it weird." A pause. "Weirder."
You said nothing. Outside the window the campus was dark and wet, the paths amber-lit below.
"But I'd like to know," he said, "so I can stop waiting for you to tell me."
The library was very quiet. The radiator ticked. The overhead light buzzed.
"It's not that simple," you said finally.
"Okay." He waited.
"I have the Harvard interview in four days. I have a GPA I cannot let slip. I cannot afford to be distracted by —" you stopped.
"By me," he said.
"By anything."
He was quiet. "That's fair."
"And you don't —" you stopped. Started over. "You don't do this. Whatever this would be. I've heard enough to know that's not something you do. Rollercoaster ride or something like that."
Dean looked at you then. Fully, the way he didn't always let himself — all the way, no management.
"What have you heard," he said.
"Dean."
"No. Specifically."
You met his gaze. "That you don't do relationships. That it's always casual. That you're consistent about that."
He held your gaze.
"That was true," he said. "For a long time that was true."
"And now?"
He looked at you like the answer was obvious and he was simply waiting for you to arrive at it, with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while.
You looked back at your laptop. Your chest felt tight. You had spent five weeks building a careful wall and he had just put his hand flat against it and pushed, gently, without drama, without raising his voice.
The same way he had put his hand over yours on the table.
Just resting there. Like a question asked very quietly.
"Four more pages," you said.
Dean was quiet for a beat.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
You both looked at your screens.
You finished the project.
Professor Whitaker announced the grades on a Thursday morning.
You were in your seat when she read them out.
A plus.
You looked up. Dean was already looking at you from the sixth row, and the smile on his face was the quiet one, the one you had catalogued in week two and had been trying not to think about since. It crossed the room and landed somewhere specific.
You gathered your things after class with the focused efficiency of someone with somewhere to be, and you almost made it to the door.
"Hey." He fell into step beside you in the hallway, easy and unhurried, bringing with him the cedar smell. "A plus."
"A plus," you confirmed.
"Told you the Marbury placement was better in section three."
"That was my idea."
"I agreed with it enthusiastically."
"You said yeah, okay and went back to your laptop."
"Enthusiastically," he repeated.
You stopped walking. The hallway moved around you, students flowing past, and Dean stopped too, and you were standing in the middle of it looking at him.
You had done it. You had actually done it. Four years of work and one extremely stressful semester and a project partner you had spent the first two weeks convinced was going to ruin everything, and you had gotten an A plus and the Harvard interview was tomorrow.
The knot in your stomach, which had lived there so long you had stopped noticing it, was gone.
Dean was looking at you with an expression that had gone soft in a way you weren't ready for.
You hugged him.
You weren't sure you had decided to. Your arms were around him and his were around you a half second later, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, and he was warm and solid and smelled so good, and you stayed there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.
The hallway moved around you. Neither of you moved.
When you pulled back he was still looking at you.
"Good luck tomorrow," he said quietly. "You don't need it. But good luck."
You nodded. Looked at him for one more second.
Then you walked away.
You made it to the end of the hallway before you thought —
oh.
oh no.
And kept walking anyway.
the wednesday after
The Wednesday after the interview, you were in the kitchen with Elisa when the doorbell rang.
Elisa looked at you. You looked at Elisa.
"Are you expecting someone?" she asked.
"No."
"Should I get it?"
"I'll get it," you said, in the tone of someone who had a feeling.
You opened the door.
Dean DiLaurentis was standing on your porch in a green cardigan — of course he was, he owned approximately nine of them — holding grocery store flowers and a DVD copy of Legally Blonde.
You stared at him.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
"I heard the interview went well."
"How did you hear that."
"Beau knows your roommate apparently."
You were going to have words with Elisa. "It went well," you confirmed.
"Good." He held out the flowers. The stems were slightly damp from the cold outside. "These are for you."
You took them. "And the DVD."
"Also for you."
"Dean." You looked at him. "I don't own a DVD player."
Something flickered in his expression, that almost-smile. "I know."
"So this is."
"A reason to invite me in," he said simply. "So we can watch it on your laptop. If you want."
"My laptop also doesn't have a DVD player."
He made a gesture as if to throw the DVD across the lawn, which made you laugh despite yourself.
You looked at him standing on your porch and thought about five weeks of sessions, the foot under the table, the arm reaching across you, the knee pressed deliberately against yours, the hand resting over yours on the table, quiet as a question.
"You drove here," you said, "with a DVD."
"I did."
"That's extremely old fashioned. You might as well stand under my window with a boombox playing George Michael."
"If that's what you want."
"Most people would have just texted."
"I'm not most people," he said, simply, without needing anyone to confirm it.
You stepped back from the door.
"Elisa made caesar salad," you said. "She's been waiting for an excuse to feed someone new."
Dean stepped inside. The warmth of the house closed around him.
"I love caesar salad," he said.
"I know you do," you said, closing the door. "It's very you. That and like, Steak Tartare."
"What's wrong with Steak Tartare?"
Elisa lasted forty-five minutes before she announced she was going to her boyfriend's and picked up her keys with the energy of someone who had orchestrated something and was not going to pretend otherwise. You did not look at Dean when she left. You heard the door close and the house settle into quiet and then it was just the two of you on the couch with the TV on and Elle Woods on the screen, his arm warm along the back of the cushion behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of it without it quite touching.
You had made it approximately eleven minutes into the film.
"I got in," you said, to the screen.
Dean went still.
"The interview —" you stopped. The room was very quiet. The lamp on the side table cast everything amber, warmer than the library had ever been. "They called this morning. I got in."
A beat of silence.
"Harvard," he said.
"Harvard," you confirmed.
Another beat, long enough that you turned to look at him. He was already looking at you.
"I knew you would," he said.
And then he kissed you.
It felt like something he had been waiting to do since the door opened, like Elisa leaving had simply removed the last obstacle between the moment and itself. His lips were on yours immediately, and Dean tasted like mint, and you found yourself wondering distantly if he had come here prepared for this, if this was always how tonight was supposed to end.
He didn't kiss like a careful person. His tongue was thorough and consuming and somewhere in the back of your mind you remembered that cliché about tongues fighting for dominance, that was what Dean was doing, except you found you had absolutely no desire to fight him for it. You would give him whatever he wanted.
Your hands found his shoulders. His found your waist, your thighs, and then settled, decisively, with intent, on your ass. An ass man, you noted, which tracked completely. He pulled you closer and you went willingly, swinging one leg over his knees until you were straddling him. He groaned in satisfaction, his hands pulling you flush against him, his hips rising to meet yours.
Air became a problem. You pulled back, opening your eyes, and found Dean with his eyes still closed, already searching for your mouth again. You gave him a small peck, then made a slow path of kisses from his mouth to his ear to his neck.
On his neck you bit him, lightly, experimentally, and the response was immediate. His hand came down on your ass in a sharp reflexive slap that startled a breathless laugh out of you. Through your skirt and his jeans you could feel exactly how much he was enjoying this, and you rolled your hips deliberately. The sound that came out of him made you stop entirely.
God. You wanted to hear that sound on repeat for the foreseeable future.
He seemed to resurface from wherever he had gone, and then he was standing, actually standing, with you in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his back.
"So," he started, eyes dropping to your mouth in a way that was frankly unfair. "Where's your bedroom?"
"Up the stairs, first door on the left," you answered against his neck, punctuating it with another bite.
"Stop teasing me or I'll drop you."
As a direct response you attempted to suck a mark into his neck. He fake-stumbled dramatically on the first step, which made you shriek and then immediately muffle it, and he laughed, low and warm and entirely too pleased with himself.
"I told you," he said.
You made it to your bedroom, and you silently praised the rare burst of energy that had led you to tidy it the night before. He dropped you onto the bed and you propped yourself up on your elbows and watched him pull off his cardigan and then the white shirt underneath.
You let out a slow whistle.
Hockey had been very, very good to him.
"Has anyone ever told you you're kind of annoying?" he said, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed and pushing your legs open. His eyes went to your underwear. Something in his expression softened. "Cute underwear."
"Only this blond guy I'm sort of into," you said, focusing very hard on something other than what was about to happen. "And I wasn't planning on sleeping with anyone today, hence the polka dot Snoopy panties."
"No, I genuinely think they're cute," he said, and pressed a kiss to your clothed center that made your breath catch. "But they do have to go."
He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down, and then — you watched, incredulous — tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans.
"Absolutely not —"
"Focus," he said.
"You're so wet," Dean murmured, his gaze on you in a way that made you feel simultaneously embarrassed and triumphant. He kissed the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, everywhere except where you needed him. "All from just kissing?"
"Stop teasing," you whined.
"Not so funny anymore, is it."
"Please, Dean —"
"Please?" He looked up at you, and the expression on his face was criminal. "So you're telling me I spent weeks and months putting up with you being rude to me, when I could have had you this polite just by bending you over a table?"
The image that produced made you moan before you could stop yourself.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he said, voice low. "To taste you."
His tongue pressed flat against your center and you moaned so loudly you were immediately grateful Elisa had left. He explored you with single-minded thoroughness, his tongue parting you, learning you, the sounds filling the room obscenely, the wet heat of his mouth and your increasingly frantic responses.
When his mouth found your clit your hands flew to his hair, pulling, trying to bring him impossibly closer.
"You taste so fucking sweet," Dean said against you.
"Fuck — Dean —"
The feeling built and crested and his hand came down across your stomach to hold your hips in place as they jerked. Your thighs trembled. He felt the way you clenched around nothing and knew.
"Be a good girl and come for me."
The orgasm hit like a wave breaking — sudden and total.
"Dean — oh my god —"
He worked you through it, his tongue slowing gradually until he finally pulled back. When he stood you were completely wrecked, sprawled across the bed, unable to form a sentence, staring up at him. His chin was wet. He looked insufferably composed.
He removed his jeans and helped you out of your dress, then came down over you on the bed, his weight settling between your thighs. He kissed you slowly, his hands cradling your jaw with a tenderness that was almost absurd given what had just happened, sweet and careful and at complete odds with the rest of the evening.
You felt him against your thigh.
Oh. He was — yes.
"Breathe, honey."
It was annoying how well he could tell when you'd stopped.
Your hips rolled up against him instinctively, looking for him.
"I need you inside me, Dean —"
"So demanding," he said, cutting you off with a kiss. His hand slid down between you, pressing the length of him against your folds, and the sound you made was not dignified in the slightest. He tapped the head of his cock against you and you dug your nails into his back.
"Please — Dean — please, please —"
He finally gave you what you were asking for, positioning himself at your entrance. The thick head breached you slowly, stretching you out, and you tried to pull him deeper faster.
"Oh fuck —" you moaned as he bottomed out.
"God damn," he breathed. "You're so tight."
His hips pulled back and snapped forward and then he was properly fucking you, hard, deep, everything you had imagined during different library sessions. His mouth found your collarbone, your chest, and then he took one nipple between his lips and you arched off the bed.
"You really do have the most absurd —" he said against your skin.
"Do not finish that sentence —"
"— tits. I could spend all day here."
Your walls tightened around him as the second orgasm built.
"I'm gonna come —" you breathed.
"I know."
He moved back up to your mouth, kissing you as you fell apart, and at the last moment he pulled out, the warmth of him spilling across your stomach. He stood and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a cloth to clean you up. He discarded it somewhere, then lay down beside you and pulled you against his chest without ceremony, your legs tangling together.
The room was quiet. The lamp was still on. Outside the window the November street was dark and still.
"So," you said finally, staring at the ceiling. "You really are an overachiever."
"Shut up, (Y/N)," Dean said, and kissed you.
You stayed like that for a while, his heartbeat under your cheek, the lamp casting everything amber, the particular quiet of a house when everyone who needed to leave has left.
You had spent four years not allowing yourself anything that wasn't useful. Not a detour, not a distraction, not a single afternoon that didn't have a purpose.
Dean DiLaurentis, you thought, had been the worst possible use of your time.
Tumblr Blog Termination Warning – FOR WRITERS WITH TAGLISTS!
Yesterday my entire blog was terminated TWICE without warning by Tumblr while I was tagging the folks in my Pope taglist in the comments. There was no warning, no email. I just hit 'enter' and boom I got the termination notice.
Almost 10k followers and thousands of fics gone in an instant.
I raised a ticket and an hour later the blog was reactivated. There was no info about what I did wrong but an email that said, it’s been reactivated. I still didn't have one that told me why I had been terminated. Two mins later I went back to the taglist and picked up where I left off with the Pope taglist and immediately, as soon as I clicked 'enter' it happened again.
So, I raised another ticket.
It’s my belief that they’ve activated a bot to stop scammers from tagging loads of folks in those ‘send me money for fake charity’ posts they do, and unfortunately if you have a big taglist you’ll fall into that net too.
I’m not sure how this effects people who put their taglists in the actual post, but I imagine they’ll also be cracking down on that at some point if scammers start to use that method.
I just wanted to make everyone aware so that what happened to me doesn’t happen to other people.
