summary: a quiet morning moment between you, your baby, and jack comes to a halt when your baby says something surprising
pairing: jack abbot x single mom!reader
words: 1k
tags: fluff, like tooth rotting fluff, sweet family moment
part of this universe: a mans touch
"We can add pears and carrots to the list of foods she likes." Jack commented from his seat on the other side of the kitchen, where he was spoon feeding your very ravenous baby. You glanced over your shoulder, away from the fruit you were cutting up, and laughed so hard at the sight of your daughter that you had to put your cutting knife down.
Jack had only just started feeding her her breakfast and she was already covered in the pureed food. The orange mush coated her mouth and covered her chubby cheeks and grabby hands. She bounced and wiggled in her highchair as Jack scooped another spoonful of food for her and she screeched impatiently when she decided Jack was going too slow for her liking. She lunged forward, stopped by the tray table of her highchair, and reached for the spoon with frantic, pudgy hands.
You wiped the tears of laughter from your eyes as Jack dodged her grasping hands and expertly directed the spoon into her mouth. That didn't stop your little girl from grabbing Jacks hand and the spoon once it was in her mouth, her dirty fingers smudging carrot and pear puree on Jacks hand. Your daughter chomped on the spoon with her toothless gums, attempting clumsily to get every spec of food off the spoon.
"She does really like that one. Good to know." You said as you came up to stand behind Jack. You rested your hands on his shoulders and kissed the crown of his head. "I hope you don't get any on your shirt or sweatpants."
"If I do, I'll just do a load of laundry." Jack said as he tugged the spoon out of your baby's mouth, much to her displeasure. Her tiny brow furrowed and she started babbling, making nonsense noises as she smacked her palms on the table.
"Tiny girl, I'm going as fast as I can." Jack said with a light laugh as he scrapped the spoon in the bowl of food. You turned away from your family to go back to prepping breakfast for you and Jack when your daughter did something that surprised you.
"Da, ah! Dada!" Your baby babbled, making you spin back around in surprise and bringing Jack to a dead halt. You stared at your daughter with wide eyes before bending at the waist so your face was in her eye line.
"Did you just say dada?" You asked, your voice a little high in disbelief. Jack was completely frozen in front of your daughter, the spoon hovering in the air in shock.
"Dada!" Your little girl called out again as she leaned towards Jack again, her palms slapping the highchair table. You stood up and covered your mouth with your hands out of surprise, a big, brilliant smile lighting up your face. You couldn't believe it. You hadn't even been calling Jack Dada or Daddy to your little girl and she did it on her own. You and Jack had been living together for about a month now but the relationship was still fresh. You also knew logically that your daughter was just making noises but it still meant a lot and you couldn't deny how happy your daughters words made you.
"Oh my god Jack," You said, your voice full of joy as you stepped forward to rest your hands on his shoulders again. Jack still didn't move, the spoon frozen in the air as he stared at your baby. Confused, you bent over his shoulder to get a look at his face and saw his eyes full of tears.
"Oh Jack," You cooed as you wrapped your arms around Jacks neck and head and hugged him close. That broke him out of his shock and he set the spoon and bowl down on the table as he blinked rapidly. He sniffed, trying to compose himself and doing a poor job at it. You pulled back to look at him and brushed the tears from his cheeks with your fingers.
"She called me 'dada'." Jack breathed, his eyes wide and voice full of shock. Jack looked completely floored, his brain having trouble understanding that your little girl had called him something so important. You gave him a bright smile and nodded.
"Yeah she did. Because that's what you are Jack, you're her Daddy." You ran your hand comfortingly over the back of Jacks head. You turned to address your daughter. "Isn't that right bab-oh."
Your baby was seconds away from crying.
She sat pouting in her highchair, her bottom lip jutted out and trembling as her tiny eyes swam with unshed tears. Her eyes were locked on Jacks tearful face and your heart both broke and sang at your daughters reaction to Jack. She was upset that he was upset, but Jack mattered enough to her that his tears made her cry too.
Jack looked over at your daughter and immediately jumped into action, his earlier surprise disappearing as he reached forward to unclip your baby from the highchair and lift her into his arms. He held your food covered daughter to his chest as he made soothing shushing sounds and pressed a kiss to her head.
"It's okay tiny girl, I'm okay. I'm sorry I scared you." Jack swayed side to side on his kitchen chair as he tried to sooth your daughter. Her butt rested on his large forearm and he rubbed her back with his free hand as the tears slipped quietly down your baby's cheeks.
"Oh honey," You reached out and wiped away her tears with the back of your fingers. "It's okay. Dada was just a little surprised. These are happy tears, my soft hearted girl." You rubbed her cheek affectionately with your knuckles and gave her a reassuring smile. You glanced down at the food puree that was transferred from your baby's bib to Jacks shirt.
"You're definitely going to have to do laundry." You said. Jack didn't look at you, he was focused solely on your little girl who was touching Jacks tear covered cheeks with her sticky fingers.
"I know." He said softly, still looking at your daughter. You smiled to yourself and decide to let them have their moment. As you backed away you saw your daughter rest her head on Jacks shoulder and grab at his shirt like she was trying to pull him close.
"Daddy's got you, it's okay tiny girl. Daddy's right here." Jack rested his cheek on the top of your daughters head and you took a mental picture of the moment, wanting to savor it forever.
Hello hello. Here's all of my fics that happen on the same timelines. This is part of a second masterlist version that i am organizing by category (this one's for you anon). It's taking forever because tumblr wanna act up and won't allow me to link some things, but it will eventually be up.
Daddy!Azriel
One More [Smut] -> Family Dynamic -> Keep Me Satisfied [Pregnant!Reader] -> Hush Little Baby -> Here's to Tradition -> You Too -> Can't You See? -> Concord -> Come Back -> Burning Man -> Promises -> Summer Daze -> Two is Better Than One -> Taciturn -> In the House Love Built [Smut] -> The Calm Beneath the Storm -> Cuddle Me In -> The Rowdy Bunch -> The Honeycrisp Grove -> Winter Winds -> Sticking Together -> Snatched -> No Tricks, Just Treats -> In Ribbons [Smut, Sub!Az] -> Unwrapped -> Into the New -> Here for You -> Between Me and You -> The Safeguard -> Warrior Status -> About Last Night
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Daddy!Cassian
Terrible Twos -> Strips and Sutures
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Daddy!Eris
Due Time (Part 2) -> Sweater Weather -> Milk & Cream -> Late Nights in the Middle of June -> Cherries, Juniper, and Orange Slices
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Small Town!Cassian [Archeron Sister!Reader]
Break Up in a Small Town -> Dial Drunk
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Rhys' Sister's Best Friend!Reader
Clandestine Love
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Art School AU
Midnight Muse
Coal Lined Lens [Azriel]
Structure of the Gods [Cassian]
Dioxazine (Part 2) [Rhysand]
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Vampire Azriel
You Keep Me Sharp and Test My Worth in Blood -> (Blurb) -> Bleed for Me -> Body and Soul [Smut (read warnings)] -> (Blurb 2)
Summary: After being a guest on Suchwita something bloomed
Genre: fluff, slow-burn (maybe?)
Warnings: mc is a super awkard outspoken extravert. If you know, you know :)
Word count: 1,7k
Author’s note: I apologize for any errors! English is not my first language. Would you like maybe a part 2? Let me know!! I hope it will make you smile! Enjoy!
Being an incredible actress you are and gaining fame by your talent, it became kinda a part of your weekly schedule to attend talk-shows or interviews to promote your ongoing or upcoming projects.
“We’ve received one interesting invitation recently,” your manager said as you were stuck in a morning Seoul traffic jam on a way to a shooting.
“I thought you would let me rest next week,” you slightly rubbed your sore neck. Mornings never were your thing.
“Yes, but I thought this one would be, what’s the word, a pleasant one,” your manager faced you with a sly smile.
“And why would I find it “pleasant” exactly?” You sigh without much enthusiasm staring at a window.
“Well, I don’t know a lot of shows that let their guests get drunk in the middle of the day.” And that was the moment of realization.
“Wait. Wait! You didn’t…” you turned to face her with absolute disbelief in your eyes.
“Well, let’s say I have a few friends in a production group,” she winked at you.
“You are absolutely the best!! You know that, right?” You squealed out of excitement and did a little happy dance in your passenger seat.
And just like that with a little help from your manager (aka Fairy Godmother here) you were an upcoming guest for Suchwita! Truth be told, you’ve admired Yoongi and respected him even without knowing him personally. His creativity, his edgy and new ideas, his seriousness with his projects and the little things he did for his fans and how supportive and encouraging he was. All of that mixed with his tragic life events that he had strength to turn into something beautiful. Everything about him was a mystery you wanted to solve.
Now, one week later, you found yourself standing at the entrance of the Hype office building.
“Shall we?” Your manager smiled and took you by the hand leading you the way.
You were sitting in a dressing-room completely lost in your thoughts, worrying about how things are going to be: “What if I say something stupid? What if food gets stuck in my teeth? What if…” As you were wondering time passed and all the finishing touches were done. You were informed that it was time to go on set.
You entered the filming location and saw him. For a moment you think you forgot how to breathe and your hands started to tremble even more. Yoongi was talking to a director. So easily, so freely, without any nerves…that you couldn’t say about yourself. You felt stiffness in your body and it was challenging to be relaxed. But it wasn’t only about the fact that Yoongi was there, you also wanted to deliver, to be perfect - a real professional you are.
You decided to focus on work and tried your best to control emotions. Slowly approached the filming set, director and him. Everyone alone the way was super nice and welcoming so there’s no need to worry, right?
“Pleasure to meet you,” you said while bowing to both men.
“Thank you so much for coming,” the director answered, “are you familiar with a type of show?”
“Yes!” You may or may not screamed with too much enthusiasm. You saw how Yoongi smiled a bit and felt your cheeks turned red, staring at the floor you continued. “Oh, sorry. I’m just nervous a bit. Um, yes, I watched the show, I am familiar with the concept.”
“Great! So Yoongi will do the intro and you can come out and join him,” the director ordered while going to his place.
You waited patiently as Yoongi took his seat and smiled at you. Wait. What did he do? That’s the lightning that curved his lips, right???
“A lot of interesting guests always come to Suchwita. Guys, get ready to be amazed by her talent and personality. Let’s check the guest list. Name: Y/N. Known for her amazing roles, she is a blend of carefree sociability, sparkling imagination and deep introspection.” He stood up and bowed to you as you stepped to the filming set. “Nice to meet you. Please, take your seat.” You quickly bowed to him and did as the man said.
“Welcome once again. I spotted a bag in your hands. Can you tell me what did you bring on Suchwita?”
“Well, I consider myself a romantic. And you know how they always drink wine on first dates? Well…” you didn’t finish because you were interrupted by the host.
“Did you just call our encouter a date?” He made a surprised face that quickly transformed into a reassuring smile.
“What? No! No, I mean I did say the word date but it’s not like we’re on a date. It was an example of a first meeting…” For a moment you felt so embarrassed by your words but then your gaze met his and you felt how warmth spread all over your chest. It was comforting in some sense and gave you a little bit of confidence. “Anyways, wine just never gets old. I brought you my favorite: white and semi-sweet. Just for the atmosphere. I know that wine experts will probably have something to say but I like it and that’s why it is here,” you smiled at him.
“Good for you I’m not really a wine expert. I think you made a great choice.” The glasses were filled.
“Your new series just premiered on Netflix. Congratulations on that. Can you tell me more about your character?” Yoongi asked.
“Well, she was very challanging and interesting character to play. She is someone who suffered a lot. And I naturally try to be very light and outgoing but for this role I really had to go back to my traumatic experiences to be able to transmit and portray the right emotions. That wasn’t easy because, well, dark places are not a lot of fun. So, I kinda created this alter-ego of my past pain and experience to fit the role. You know, just like you play with your alter-egos in your music videos,” rapidly you covered your mouth with your hand. You got carried away giving the answer to the question that didn’t notice how easy (and natural) it felt to open up to Yoongi because he made you feel understood although you barely knew him. And maybe that was the reason you spilled a little too much information and that’s why now you only have one thought in your mind: “SHITSHITSHIT. Okay, now he will think I’m a crazy stalker who decodes every single of his music videos. Great.”
“Hm, It’s interesting that you listen to my music. You don’t look like someone who would be interested in that but I feel honored, in a good way,” he laughed, seems like at his own thoughts, and sipped a little bit of wine. “I actually already watched half of the season. Your acting is amazing.”
“But you don’t look like someone who would watch a series like that,” you fenced with his own words.
“After a long day that’s exactly what I need sometimes.”
Word by word, question by question everything just felt…easier? Maybe you became comfortable with each other, or maybe it was the wine that made you loose but it felt like it wasn’t an interview anymore. You also asked him questions that you were interested to know and he answered willingly. It was like cameras hadn’t existed. His head slightly tilted and his gaze following your passionate way of gesturing and your big shining eyes as you were responding or telling something. Yoongi also was very attentive, a real gentleman he is: putting food on your plate, pouring more wine to your glass. He was just soft, simple and sweet. Conversation was a flow.
“And the last question that I ask every guest on Suchwita: what is Y/N’s dream?”
“My dream is to be there for people. I think we live in a world that has enough cruelty and stress. I just want to be someone who could give a sense of comfort. Through my personality, through my roles. I just want to help as many people as I possibly can. Just like you do with your music.” He fixed his gaze a little bit longer on you as if he was amazed and took his time to appreciate your beauty.
After the cameras were off Yoongi approached you.
“I had a lot of fun today. It was like a breath of fresh air. Thank you for coming,” he lowered his gaze slightly as if he was shy and added quietly, “I mean it”.
Without a perfect lightning and being this close you noticed how tired he was. He didn’t show it obviously but you felt it.
“Thank you for having me! I think a lot of people tell you that but you are really good at hosting. You make people feel understood.” Now was your time to shyly hide your eyes.
“Oh,” he was a little bit surprised by your praise, “and I thought it was so interesting to listen to you, you are amazing at telling stories, I haven’t felt that introverted in a while,” he chuckled.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry, Yoongi!! I’m such a chatterbox, sorry,” you were sincere in your apology.
“I didn’t say it was bad, you were perfect. I mean…I like that you’re like that.” Your whole face brightened by his compliment and he smiled of how adorable you were.
“Actually, I thought we could exchange numbers. If you want to, obviously. You know, maybe producers will need me to ask you some additional information or I could send you the episode when it will be edited.”
“Sure! I would love that!” You smiled.
He awkwardly passed you his phone. It was the tiniest moment but you felt how his skin brushed against yours but it was enough. You immediately felt it like a stream of electricity that send a heat wave all over your body. You looked at him and noticed his gaze fixed on you.
“Here you go. Thank you so much for everything again,” you gave you his phone back.
“The pleasure was mine.”
That day you left the Hype office with a blooming feeling of happiness in your chest and maybe you were not the only one who felt the same.
Summary: Mateo Diaz keeps work and home separate. No one at the Pitt knows about you, the engagement ring on your finger, or the baby due any day now—until you come through the ambulance bay nine months pregnant, scared, and asking for him.
Warning: pregnancy/labor, water breaking, fall/collapse scare, ED stabilization, emotional panic, protective Mateo, medical setting, birth/newborn fluff.
Masterlist
Requested by: @kitkatrina
I hope I did your vision justice 🫶
The thing about Mateo Diaz is that he is good at drawing lines.
Work is work.
Home is home.
The Pitt gets twelve hours of him at a time. Sometimes more, if the board is ugly and the night refuses to end. The Pitt gets his jokes, his quick hands, his easy smirk, the part of him that can start an IV on a moving target and still have enough attitude left over to annoy a resident.
But home gets the rest.
Home gets the version of him who leaves his shoes by the door because you hate outside germs on the floor. Home gets him rubbing circles into your lower back at two in the morning while you swear his daughter is trying to rearrange your ribs with her feet. Home gets the half-asleep kisses, the grocery lists, the arguments about crib sheets, the quiet pressure of his palm against your belly when she starts kicking like she knows her dad is finally close.
Nobody at work knows about that version.
Nobody knows about you.
Nobody knows that the pretty silver ring on his chain under his scrubs matches the one sitting on your swollen finger. Nobody knows that he has loved you since he was a lanky seventeen-year-old who thought nursing school sounded terrifying and you somehow made him feel like he could survive anything. Nobody knows that he has a bassinet set up on his side of the bed because he insisted, absolutely insisted, that he would be the one getting up at night too.
Nobody knows because Mateo likes it that way.
“You don’t think it’s weird?” you asked once, sitting cross-legged on the couch at seven months pregnant, watching him fold tiny onesies with the intense concentration of a man defusing a bomb.
Mateo looked up at you. “What?”
“That no one at work knows I exist.”
His hands paused over a yellow sleeper covered in little ducks. He looked guilty for half a second before he smoothed it out.
“They know I have a life.”
You snorted. “That is not the same thing.”
“No,” he said, softer. “It’s not.”
You remember him coming to sit beside you then, careful with the couch dip because your hips had been killing you, his hand sliding over your belly like it always did when he needed to remind himself what was real.
“I just don’t want them in it,” he said. “Not because I’m hiding you. I’m not hiding you. I just… the Pitt takes everything if you let it. I need something that’s mine.”
You believed him.
You still believe him.
Right up until tonight.
Tonight, the apartment feels too quiet without him.
You wake up with a sharp, wet warmth between your legs and the immediate, primal sense that something has shifted. For a second, you just lie there, blinking at the dark ceiling, trying to make your brain catch up with your body.
Then another cramp grips low and deep, meaner than the practice contractions you’ve been brushing off for weeks.
“Oh,” you whisper.
The baby rolls hard under your ribs.
“Oh, no. Not now.”
Your hand fumbles for your phone on the nightstand. You call Mateo once. No answer. You call again. No answer.
You text him.
baby i think my water broke
matteo please call me
i’m serious
The little delivered checkmark mocks you.
You sit up slowly, breathing through the pressure building in your pelvis. The birthing class videos all said to stay calm. Take stock. Time contractions. Call your doctor. Don’t panic.
Those people had probably not been nine months pregnant, alone, without a car because their fiancé drove it to work, while their baby apparently decided tonight was a perfect night to make an entrance.
You call the hospital’s OB line and get told to come in.
You laugh a little, breathlessly, because yeah.
Great.
Perfect.
You pull on Mateo’s hoodie because it’s the closest thing within reach. It smells like laundry detergent and him, and that almost breaks you more than the pain. You shove your feet into sandals, grab your hospital bag from beside the door, and make it down exactly one flight of apartment stairs before your legs decide they are done negotiating.
The contraction hits like a fist.
You gasp, grab the railing, and your bag slips off your shoulder.
“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, okay, okay—”
Then your knees buckle.
You don’t fully fall. Not really. You sort of collapse sideways onto the stair landing, one hand locked around the railing, the other wrapped around your stomach like you can shield the baby from gravity by sheer force of will.
A door opens above you.
“Sweetheart?” Mrs. Alvarez from 3B says, voice sharpening. “Oh my God. Are you in labor?”
You try to answer.
What comes out is a sob.
She is already moving.
By the time the ambulance gets there, you are sweating through Mateo’s hoodie, trying not to scream in the hallway, while Mrs. Alvarez holds your hand and tells every EMS provider within a five-foot radius that your fiancé is a nurse and he works at the Pitt and his name is Mateo Diaz and somebody better find him.
You want to tell her that he keeps work separate. You want to tell her that nobody knows. You want to tell her Mateo is going to lose his mind.
But then another contraction hits, and all you can do is grip her hand harder.
The ambulance ride is bright and bumpy and terrifying.
One of the paramedics is kind, with tired eyes and a calm voice. He asks how far along you are. Your due date. If this is your first baby. If you’ve had bleeding. If you feel the baby moving.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, she’s moving. She’s—she’s really moving.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. We’re going to get you checked out.”
“I need Mateo.”
“We’ll find him.”
“He works there,” you say, almost angrily, because everyone keeps saying that like it fixes anything. “He works there and he’s not answering his phone.”
The paramedic glances toward his partner.
You see the look. The poor-girl look. The maybe-he’s-not-coming look.
You close your eyes and turn your face away.
By the time the ambulance doors open at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, the pain has teeth.
The ambulance bay lights flash overhead. A rush of cold air hits your face. Voices overlap.
“Twenty-six-year-old female, G1P0, approximately thirty-nine weeks, possible rupture of membranes at home, contractions about three minutes apart now—”
“Any bleeding?”
“Negative bleeding noted.”
“Vitals?”
“BP one-forty-two over eighty-eight, heart rate one-ten, satting fine, alert and oriented, near-syncopal episode on stairs, no abdominal trauma reported—”
You are rolled through the bay and into the Pitt, where everything is too loud and too familiar from Mateo’s stories.
You’ve heard about this place in fragments.
Not names, usually. Mateo is too careful for names. But you know the shape of it. The chaos. The board. The trauma rooms. The doctors who yell but care. The nurses who keep the whole place from burning down. The night shift that runs on caffeine, spite, and muscle memory.
And then you hear him. Not his voice. His laugh. Somewhere to your left, quick and warm and unmistakably Mateo.
Your head turns before you can stop it.
He is standing near the nurses’ station in black compression sleeves under his scrubs, a roll of tape hanging off two fingers, looking over his shoulder at something a doctor is saying.
For half a second, you just stare at him.
Your Mateo.
Your fiancé.
The father of your baby.
The man who forgot to answer his phone because the Pitt swallowed him whole.
“Mateo,” you try to say.
It comes out too small.
The paramedic raises his voice. “Anybody got OB?”
A nurse steps in beside your stretcher. “OB’s been paged. Let’s get her into a room.”
“Mateo,” you say again, louder this time, panic cracking through the syllables.
His head snaps up.
Everything stops on his face.
Not the room. The room keeps moving. The Pitt does not stop for anyone. But Mateo does.
The tape falls out of his hand.
He goes completely still.
His eyes move over you once, fast and clinical out of instinct—your face, your belly, the monitor straps, the wet fabric at your thighs, your white knuckles gripping the blanket.
Then the clinical part of him breaks.
“Baby?”
The nurse beside you glances at him.
Jack Abbott, who you recognize only because Mateo once described him as “night shift attending, weird energy, probably immortal,” turns from the foot of the stretcher. “Diaz, grab me a BP cuff that actually works and call OB again.”
Mateo doesn’t move.
Jack’s brows pull together. “Diaz.”
“I can’t,” Mateo says.
His voice sounds wrong.
Flat. Shattered.
Jack looks at him. “You can’t what?”
Mateo swallows hard. His face has gone pale under the fluorescent lights.
“I can’t work on her.”
The nurse at your side pauses for half a second.
Mateo looks at you again, and this time his whole face crumples.
“That’s my fiancée.”
The word lands like somebody dropped a metal tray.
For one suspended, impossible second, everyone looks at him.
Jack.
The nurse.
A resident standing near the doorway.
Someone at the desk.
Even you, through the pain, almost laugh because this is so not how you imagined meeting his coworkers.
Then Jack claps once, sharp and loud.
“Great. Congratulations. Everybody keep moving.”
The room snaps back into motion.
“Diaz, out of the way if you’re not staff on this case.”
Mateo jerks like he’s been slapped. “I’m not leaving her.”
“You’re also not touching her chart,” Jack says, firm but not cruel. “Stand by her head. Hold her hand. Be fiancé, not nurse.”
Mateo moves instantly.
He is at your side in two strides, taking your hand in both of his, bending over you so his forehead nearly touches yours.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my phone was in the break room, I didn’t—”
“You took the car,” you gasp, furious and crying and so relieved you can barely breathe.
“I know.”
“I was going to take the bus.”
His expression breaks harder. “You were what?”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Baby—”
“I called you.”
“I know,” he says, voice wrecked. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Another contraction rips through you, and you crush his hand so hard he actually winces.
Jack glances up from the foot of the bed. “Good grip. Respect.”
You would glare at him if you had the energy.
A nurse slips a blood pressure cuff around your arm. Someone places an IV. Someone else asks you questions you answer in fragments. Yes, first pregnancy. No complications except mild swelling. No bleeding. Yes, prenatal care. Yes, baby’s been moving. No allergies. No medications other than prenatal vitamins and iron.
Mateo answers the ones you can’t.
Your OB’s name.
Your due date.
The fact that you had slightly elevated pressures last week but labs were fine.
That you hate needles but pretend you don’t.
That you faint if people say the word episiotomy too many times.
“Mateo,” you snap.
He blinks. “What?”
“Do not tell them my business.”
Jack, without looking up, says, “That ship sailed when you came in crowning-adjacent wearing his hoodie.”
“I’m not crowning,” you say, horrified.
“Didn’t say you were. Said adjacent.”
You make a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
Mateo kisses your knuckles.
The OB resident arrives fast, hair pulled back, badge flipping as she steps into the room. She introduces herself, pulls on gloves, and takes over with a calm efficiency that makes the room feel less like a free fall.
They check you.
Six centimeters.
Your head falls back against the pillow. “Six?”
“That’s good progress,” the OB resident says. “Baby sounds good so far. We’re going to get you upstairs to labor and delivery.”
“Now?” Mateo asks.
Jack gives him a look. “No, Diaz, next Thursday.”
Mateo ignores him. His eyes are locked on you.
You can see the war in him. Nurse brain trying to calculate. Fiancé brain trying not to combust. Future father brain realizing this is no longer theoretical, no longer tiny socks and crib assembly and late-night jokes about diaper brands.
This is happening.
You squeeze his hand.
“I’m scared,” you whisper.
His face softens instantly. Everything else falls away.
“I know,” he says. “I know, but I’m right here.”
“You weren’t answering.”
“I will spend the rest of my life making that up to you.”
“You better.”
“I will.”
“You’re not allowed to pass out.”
He gives a shaky laugh. “I’m a nurse.”
“You’re also dramatic.”
Jack makes a low sound from the foot of the bed. “She’s got you there.”
Mateo looks over his shoulder. “Can you not?”
“Nope.”
The OB team gets you ready to move. The nurse unlocks the bed. Someone bags your belongings. Mateo refuses to let go of your hand, walking alongside the stretcher as they roll you out of the room.
The ED watches.
Not obviously. Not rudely. But everybody watches because Mateo Diaz, private, smooth, untouchable Mateo Diaz, is walking through the Pitt looking like his entire heart is being wheeled away on a stretcher.
A nurse at the desk whispers, “Fiancée?”
Someone else whispers, “He has a pregnant fiancée?”
A resident mutters, “He has a personality outside work?”
Jack hears it and points without looking. “Chart faster.”
At the elevator, Mateo leans down, pressing his mouth to your temple.
“I love you,” he says.
You close your eyes.
“I love you too.”
The elevator doors open.
Jack steps in after you.
Mateo looks at him. “What are you doing?”
“Escorting you upstairs before you try to come back down and pretend you’re capable of working,” Jack says.
“I’m fine.”
“You froze so hard I thought we were going to have to CT you.”
“I did not.”
“You dropped tape.”
Mateo looks personally wounded. “That could happen to anyone.”
Jack smiles thinly. “Sure.”
The elevator rises.
You breathe through another contraction, Mateo counting softly beside you because he knows you hate when people tell you to just breathe without giving you something to follow.
“In for four,” he murmurs. “Out for six. That’s it. You’re doing it.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate you a little.”
“I know.”
“You’re never touching me again.”
Jack looks at the ceiling.
Mateo nods seriously. “Completely fair.”
“I mean it.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re getting snipped.”
Jack coughs into his fist. Mateo doesn’t even flinch. “We can talk about that after she’s here.”
“We’re talking about it now.”
“Okay.”
The doors open to labor and delivery.
The world changes.
The harsh churn of the ED gives way to a different kind of controlled chaos. Softer lighting. Warmer voices. Monitors. Nurses who look at you like they have seen every kind of panic and know exactly where to put it.
Mateo stays with you through all of it. He stays when they get you into a gown. He stays when you cry because the contractions get worse. He stays when you snap at him for touching your hair, then cry harder when he stops. He stays when you ask for the epidural and then change your mind and then ask again.
He stays when your blood pressure makes everyone pay closer attention for a while, when labs are drawn, when the OB attending comes in and talks through the plan in a voice that is calm but serious enough to make Mateo’s jaw tighten.
He stays.
He is not nurse.
He is not Mateo from the Pitt.
He is yours.
When the pain crests and you start to shake, he cups your face and talks you through it, forehead pressed to yours.
“You’re okay,” he says.
“I’m not okay.”
“You’re safe.”
“I don’t feel safe.”
“I know. But you are. I’ve got you. They’ve got you. She’s okay.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, and there is steel in it now. “I’m watching the monitor. She’s okay.”
“You’re not supposed to nurse me.”
“I’m not. I’m fiancé-ing you with clinical awareness.”
Despite everything, you laugh.
It breaks into a sob halfway through, but he smiles like it counts.
Hours blur.
At some point, Jack disappears back downstairs after telling Mateo, “Do not come back to the ED tonight unless you’re holding a baby or actively dying.”
At some point, Mateo finally checks his phone and sees the missed calls, the texts, the photo Mrs. Alvarez sent of your abandoned hospital bag sitting in the hall.
At some point, he steps into the bathroom and you hear the water run for a long time.
When he comes back out, his eyes are red. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you noticing. Then everything gets serious.
Ten centimeters.
Pressure.
The room fills.
The OB nurse lifts one of your legs. Mateo takes the other side, looking absolutely terrified and absolutely determined.
“I can’t,” you cry after the first push, sweat slicking your hairline.
“Yes, you can,” he says.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“Mateo—”
“You can,” he says again, voice shaking but certain. “You are the strongest person I know. You got down a flight of stairs in labor because you were trying to get to our baby. You can do this.”
You sob.
He kisses your forehead.
“And I’m right here. I’m not missing it again. I swear to God, I’m right here.”
So you push.
And push.
And curse.
And cry.
And threaten his life in front of three nurses and an OB attending.
Mateo takes it all like a man accepting a holy punishment.
Then, suddenly, there is pressure and fire and a sound that tears out of you from somewhere ancient.
And then—
A cry.
A tiny, furious, wet cry.
The room shifts.
Your whole life shifts.
The OB lifts her up just enough for you to see a squirming, red-faced baby with dark hair plastered to her head and fists already clenched like she is offended by the concept of air.
Mateo makes a sound beside you.
Not a laugh.
Not a sob.
Something ruined and beautiful in between.
“She’s here,” he whispers.
They place her on your chest, warm and slippery and impossibly small.
Your hands shake as they come around her.
“Oh my God,” you breathe. “Hi, baby. Hi.”
Mateo bends over both of you, one hand covering the back of her tiny body, the other braced beside your shoulder like his knees might give out.
“She’s perfect,” he says, crying openly now. “She’s so perfect.”
You look up at him. His face is wrecked. You have seen Mateo scared before. Tired. Angry. Soft. Half-asleep and grumpy over burnt coffee.
You have never seen him like this.
Completely undone. Completely yours.
“Do you want to cut the cord?” the OB asks.
Mateo looks at you first.
You nod.
He does it with trembling hands.
Later, after stitches and checks and skin-to-skin and the first sleepy attempt at feeding, after the room empties and the world quiets down, Mateo climbs carefully into the bed beside you.
He is still in his scrub pants, his shirt wrinkled, his badge clipped crookedly to the pocket.
Your daughter sleeps against your chest in a tiny striped blanket, her face smushed into the most judgmental expression you have ever seen on a newborn.
“She looks like you,” Mateo whispers.
“She looks mad.”
“Exactly.”
You elbow him lightly.
He kisses your hair.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
Then you whisper, “Everyone knows now.”
Mateo is quiet.
You glance up. “Are you mad?”
His face changes immediately. “What? No.”
“You always wanted to keep us separate.”
“I wanted to protect this,” he says, touching one gentle finger to the edge of the baby’s blanket. “But I’m not ashamed of this. Of you. Of her.” His throat works. “Never.”
You look down at your daughter.
“She made a dramatic entrance.”
“She’s your daughter.”
“She ignored her due date and came when she wanted. That’s you.”
“She terrified an entire ED. That’s also you.”
You smile, tired and sore and overwhelmed.
He smiles back.
By the next afternoon, you are exhausted in a way that feels cellular.
The baby has a name now.
Sofia.
Sofia Elena Diaz.
Mateo says it like a prayer every time someone asks.
He changes her first diaper with the grave seriousness of a man performing a sterile procedure, then gags when she immediately ruins the clean one.
“You’re an ER nurse,” you say, watching him from the bed.
“That’s different.”
“You’ve seen intestines.”
“My daughter should respect me more than this.”
“She’s sixteen hours old.”
“She knows what she did.”
You laugh so hard your stitches hurt.
When discharge finally happens, Mateo looks like he might bubble wrap both of you if given access to supplies.
He checks the car seat straps three times.
He asks the postpartum nurse two different questions about normal newborn breathing even though he absolutely knows the answers.
He carries your bag, the diaper bag, the paperwork, and somehow still keeps one hand hovering near your back like you might vanish if he stops touching you.
“We have to go through the ED,” he says, a little too casually, as you wait for transport.
You raise an eyebrow. “Do we?”
“The exit’s faster that way.”
“Liar.”
He looks down at Sofia in her car seat.
“They want to meet her.”
Your chest softens.
“Oh, they do?”
He shrugs, suddenly shy. “Apparently the whole department has opinions.”
“About our baby?”
“About me having a secret baby.”
“You did kind of have a secret baby.”
“I had a secret fiancée and a private unborn child.”
“That sounds worse.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Jack already said that.”
By the time he wheels you through the ED, word has clearly spread. The Pitt tries to act casual. It fails spectacularly.
The night shift gathers in pieces, pretending they are definitely not abandoning tasks to hover near the hallway. Jack stands with a cup of coffee, looking smug. Shen appears beside him with the expression of someone about to say something unforgivable. Ellis leans against the desk. Lena, the night charge, has the warm, knowing face of someone who already heard every detail and decided Mateo is lucky to still be alive.
Mateo stops the wheelchair.
For once, he looks nervous at work.
Jack looks into the car seat first.
“Well,” he says, voice softer than you expect. “That’s a good baby.”
“She has a name,” Mateo says.
“I assumed.”
You smile down at her. “Sofia Elena.”
Lena’s face melts. “Oh, Mateo.”
Mateo clears his throat.
Shen leans in, hands behind his back like he is inspecting art. “Tiny Diaz has no idea her father is workplace lore now.”
“Don’t call her Tiny Diaz,” Mateo says.
“She entered through the ambulance bay and exposed your secret family,” Jack says. “She earned a title.”
Ellis smiles at you. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I had a baby.”
“Fair.”
A nurse you don’t know peeks over Mateo’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful.”
Mateo’s face changes.
That proud, stunned softness comes back, the one he wore upstairs when Sofia cried for the first time.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Jack looks between you and Mateo.
Then, in a voice dry enough to start a fire, he says, “So. Six years? Fiancée? Whole baby? Anything else you forgot to mention? Secret farm? Identical twin? Night job as a magician?”
You press your lips together.
Mateo exhales through his nose. “No.”
Shen lifts a finger. “Respectfully, I don’t believe you.”
Lena ignores them and squeezes your shoulder. “You did good, honey.”
The kindness almost makes you cry.
“Thank you.”
“And you,” she says, pointing at Mateo, “answer your damn phone.”
Mateo nods immediately. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jack takes a sip of coffee. “We’re all saving that tone for later, by the way.”
“Please don’t,” Mateo says.
“Oh, absolutely.” Sofia makes a tiny squeaking sound from the car seat.
Every single person goes quiet.
Mateo looks down like she has just delivered a keynote speech.
You look at him instead.
At your private man.
Your line-drawing, work-separating, home-protecting Mateo.
Standing in the middle of the Pitt with his whole life out in the open.
And he looks terrified.
But he also looks happy.
So happy it hurts.
He reaches down and brushes one knuckle over Sofia’s blanket.
“Ready to go home?” he asks you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Jack steps back, clearing the way. “Go home, Diaz.”
Mateo grips the wheelchair handles. Then Jack adds, “And congratulations.” Mateo pauses. His shoulders soften. “Thanks.”
Shen grins. “Bring her back when she can roast you.”
“She’s not coming back here unless it’s for a non-emergency social visit,” Mateo says.
You glance up at him. “A non-emergency social visit to the ED?” He thinks about that. “Okay, no. Bad idea.”
You laugh, and he starts pushing you toward the exit.
Behind you, the Pitt goes back to being the Pitt. Phones ring. Monitors beep. Someone calls for a trauma room. Jack starts barking orders. Shen says something that makes Ellis groan.
But Mateo keeps walking.
Out of the fluorescent lights.
Out of the noise.
Toward the car.
Toward home.
Sofia sleeps through all of it, tiny and unimpressed, one fist curled beside her cheek.
Mateo gets you both loaded in like you are made of glass. He checks the car seat one more time. Then he closes the back door gently and comes around to your side before getting behind the wheel.
For a second, he just stands there, looking at you through the open passenger door.
“What?” you ask. His eyes shine again. “I’m taking my girls home.” Your throat tightens.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “You are.”
He leans down and kisses you carefully, soft and lingering. Then he rests his forehead against yours.
“No more buses,” he murmurs.
“No more missed calls.”
“No more missed calls,” he promises.
And for once, the line between work and home is not a wall.
☆ SUMMARY: In a final and desperate attempt to try and revive your love life, you turn to a dating app– only to have every attempt sabotaged by your boss.
☆ CONTAINS: Younger, fem!reader, touch starved reader, a down bad, jealous Jack and a patient that can’t take a hint.
☆AUTHORS NOTE: I guess I have one more Sabrina Carpenter titled fanfic in me…No, I'm just kidding, I’m so thankful that you guys like the fics. Anyways, here’s to manifesting away the bums in your life and getting an actual man/woman/other that respects you!
☆ PAGE DIVIDERS BY: @angeliicide
01:27 AM
You were tired of the dry spell you had been going through and as embarrassing as it was to admit, you needed to get laid.
So yes, you’d caved, and downloaded Hinge once again.
Unfortunately, being on your phone at work meant you had to be sneaky– which you had clearly failed at, since John and Parker were currently crowding you as you scrolled through the app.
“Okay, what about him?” you say, turning the screen towards them. Two equally disturbed looks are sent your way and you wordlessly swipe left.
“I’m never getting laid at this point,” you whine, letting John take your phone as he starts swiping for you.
Parker sighs, leaning back in her chair as she crosses her arms, giving you a perplexed look– like it's your fault nothing is happening in the romance sector of your life.
“Quit moaning– see, this is why you should date women,” she shrugs, as if you hadn’t thought of that either.
“Don’t you think I would if I could?” you retort, feeling less hopeful with each piece of advice given to you from your colleagues.
Parker raises her hands in defeat, though you don’t miss the amused smirk on her face, clearly finding entertainment in your despair.
“Yeah, these guys ain't it– everyone is either a republican or holding a fish in their pictures–” John finally speaks up, grimacing in disgust, “Also, this guy is thirty, who can’t use ‘there, their and they're’ at that age?
Just as he’s about to hand your phone back, someone intercepts the action.
“Is there a reason three of my residents are huddled around like a football team instead of, you know, actually working?”
Jack quirks an eyebrow, glancing between the three of you, looking like you were caught with your hands in the cookie jar.
Squinting down at the screen of the phone, he’s confused when he’s met with the picture of a man, standing shirtless on what seems to be a fishing boat.
He glances up at John, before humming in surprise.
“Didn’t know you swung that way Shen– but hey, all the power to you. I’m, uh– what’s it called? Right– an ally!””
“It’s not mine!” John exclaims, though you suspect he’s more offended over the fact that Jack thought he was into guys that fish, rather than assuming he's gay.
You hold back a laugh, shaking your head as you stretch your hand out towards Jack.
“It’s mine,” you say weakly, embarrassed that your boss caught you in such a vulnerable, degrading state.
Actively trying to score a date.
Jack’s expression shifts, not in a dramatic way, but you catch it– that flicker of surprise that later turns to interest.
“Oh,” he says, looking back down at the phone in his hand, then back at you. “Didn’t peg you for the fishing-boat type,”
“I’m not,” you deadpan, reaching a little more insistently for your phone. “That’s why he was getting rejected,”
He doesn’t hand it back right away, instead tilting the screen again, eyes darting across like he’s assessing injuries on a patient.
You can feel the judgement radiating off him.
“Okay, enough about my non-existent love life– can I have that back?”
“Doesn’t seem that non-existent from here,” Jack mutters, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek as he turns to show you the DM section– filled with messages you hadn’t bothered replying to.
Oh, so he can’t figure out how to lower the brightness on his phone, but he can work the Hinge DM’s?
“Hey, that’s private!” you blurt, making another grab for it, but Jack just lifts it slightly out of reach, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s enjoying this far too much. “Give it back, Abbot–”
“No, I think I’ll be keeping this actually,” he muses, promptly putting your phone into his pocket.
You blink, looking at Parker and John for help, but when you turn around, their chairs are empty.
Traitors.
Whirling back, you turn around just in time to see his retreating figure making its way towards the medicine dispenser.
“Are you serious right now?” you call after him, already moving to follow.
Jack doesn’t even slow down, only stopping to press his pincode into the tiny screen on the automated medicine cabinet.
“You can’t be tindering’ while on the clock–”
“It was Hinge, and I’m on my break!” you counter, annoyance growing at the way he won’t even look at you. Stepping between the cabinet and his frame, you cross your arms, hardening your gaze as much as you possibly could. “Do you want me to end up alone forever?”
Jack rolls his eyes at your hyperbole before glancing back at you. You’re close– close enough that he can see the leftover from your lunch on the side of your mouth. Without thinking, he reaches up, wiping the corner of your lips with his thumb, then stepping back as if nothing had happened.
“I doubt that’s going to happen.” he mutters dryly, his large hands landing on your shoulders as he gently pulls you out of the way. “You can have it back once you’ve assessed at least three patients in triage,”
Your brain short-circuits as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, the stroke quick, almost absentminded, followed by the warmth of his hands touching your body– and fuck, you just realized how touch starved you actually are.
Because your boss being…well, himself, should not have this effect on you.
“Three patients?” you confirm, breaking out of your spiraling thoughts.
You’d rather run the entire ER completely by yourself on Christmas, than to try and figure out why you were having fanny flutters after a glorified shove from your attending.
02:45 AM
Jack stands in the breakroom, pouring himself his third cup of coffee for the night when it vibrates again.
He tries to ignore, he really does– that insistent buzzing in the right pocket of his scrubs. It’s almost 3 AM– who in their right mind is texting at this time?
He knows it’s not his phone, no one texts him. Well, besides Robby, his psychologist, and at times, the pharmacy with a reminder for him to pick up his prescriptions.
Still, his curiosity gets the best of him, and before he knows it, he’s making sure the coast is clear and quickly digging your phone out of his pocket.
Just as he expected– several messages on your lock screen and all of them from Hinge. Jack’s eyes dart across the screen, each message sending him further reeling.
“R u up?”
“Ur sooo hot,”
“Did it hurt when you–”
Yeah, okay, that's enough. Jesus, who are these douchebags in your phone?
Jack shakes his head, going to stuff your phone back into his pocket and try to ignore the weird pit that formed in his stomach at the thought of you actually giving any of these guys a chance.
Or anyone in general, his mind echoes, but he shakes the thoughts before they can take any actual form.
Instead, he’s staring at the influx of shitty pickup-lines and decides to do you a favor. His thumb swipes over the screen, deleting the first message.
“He was short anyways,” Jack grumbles quietly to himself.
Deciding that he liked the feeling of “helping” you, he keeps going and only stops when he’s content– which coincidentally happens when your lockscreen is clear again.
Holding back a smug grin, he takes a long sip of his coffee leaning back against the countertop.
Oops.
03:18 AM
Parker Ellis does a double take when she finds you ducking behind the counter by the hub. She leans over it, peering down at you suspiciously.
“…Why are you crouching on the floor?”
You flinch in surprise, only relaxing when you look up and see that it’s just her.
“Shit, you scared me. I…” you huff, hesitating as you look over your shoulder before answering. “I’m hiding from a patient,”
Parker hums, not as fazed as you expected her to be at the revelation.
“Yeah, been there, done that,” she reminisces, before looking at you incredulously. “But you don’t do that, so spill,”
Deciding against having to pay orthopedics a visit, you stand up straight again, still eyeing the surrounding area warily.
“Well…there’s this one patient that–”
“There you are, doc!”
In an almost comedic timing, a voice loudly interrupts.
You stiffen, squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you pretend not to hear him he’ll leave you alone?
“Doc!” the voice calls again, closer this time. “Been lookin’ for you everywhere!”
That clearly did not work. You inhale slowly through your nose, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile onto your face as you turn around.
“Mr. Williams–”
“Hey, I told you to just call me Henry,” he smirks, sauntering up to the counter and leaning against it– awfully confident for a man currently dressed in a hospital gown. “Anyways– you left before we could pick a day that works for you,”
You laugh awkwardly, briefly glancing at Parker, as to signal help with your gaze.
“Uh– I would, I just– I think Dr. Ellis here needed a second opinion–”
“Oh, no, that’s fine. By all means, go ahead and finish up here!” she chirps, stifling a delighted grin, as she looks between you and Henry expectantly.
You make a mental note of her betrayal, vowing to never cover her shifts again.
Henry perks up immediately, sending you what you can only assume is meant to be a sexy smolder.
…It’s not.
Henry leans in a little more, like he’s expecting you to meet him halfway, biting his lip, and you have to stop yourself from physically recoiling.
“I’m pretty flexible,” he adds, lowering his voice like it’s supposed to be charming. “You just tell me when you’re free, and I’ll make it work,”
You laugh again and it comes out strained this time.
Fuck, is this the life you’re doomed to live? At this rate you’re going to end up alone. Maybe you should just suck it up and say yes–
“Is there a problem here?”
Your saving grace appears in the form of Jack Abbot, and you have never been more relieved to hear his voice.
Parker— the snake— chooses right now as her moment to chime in, placing a firm hand on Henry’s shoulder.
“Come on, Henry, let me take you back to your bed,”
“Wait a minute, I still need to–”
Henry’s protests fade away as Parker leads him back to his room, thankfully in the west and furthest wing of the department.
Sighing in relief, you turn to Jack with a bright smile, about to thank him, when he decides to speak up.
“Seriously? I take your phone and you pounce on the first patient your age?”
Your smile drops instantly, an offended expression forming.
“What? I was not–”
“Well, you sure as hell didn’t shut it down, did you?” he grunts, eyebrows raised and a cynical look in his eyes.
Your mouth snaps shut, a sheepish look crossing your face, because yes, you did have a slight moment of weakness and debated hooking up with a patient.
A girl’s gotta eat, though!
“Robby’s always nagging about patient satisfaction scores anyways,” you joke, but it falls flat, Jack’s unamused face making you have second thoughts.
“That was a joke,” you clarify, thinking it was just the late hour getting to him.
“It wasn’t very funny,” he counters, rolling his eyes.
Jesus Christ, he's sassy tonight–
Sighing, you dig the heel of your palms into your eyes while you speak up, voice laced in exasperation.
You’d fight this battle another time.
“Sure, whatever– I’ve cleared three patients, can I have my phone back now?”
Jack purses his lips, and you’re confused about what the hold up is about. When he still doesn’t reach into his pocket, you speak up again, face scrunching up in confusion.
“Okay, have I done something?” you ask, eyes flitting across his hardened face and closed off body language. Everything screams annoyed and you have no clue why he would be angry with you.
“No, I just think you have terrible taste in men” Jack mumbles, pointedly avoiding your gaze.
“Really?” you scoff, face twisting in disbelief. “This is about my dating choices?”
“It’s about you bringing it to work when you should be clearing beds–”
“We have like, five rooms empty–” you retort easily, which only seems to further agitate Jack.
“Well, we should have more– we would have more, if you would just focus and get to work!” he barks, before turning away and storming off.
You stand in the middle of the ER, mouth slightly ajar as you try to understand what just happened.
And despite everything that had just transpired, you realize you still haven’t gotten your phone back.
03:36 AM
Jack regrets it as soon as he says it, but it's too late by then– he’s already stormed off and turning back and apologizing would probably reveal what he’s doing a terrible job of trying to hide.
He doesn’t understand it, why someone as brilliant, beautiful and kind as you would settle for those…disappointments.
You needed someone who would take care of you– to make sure you ate something proper during work, an actual hearty meal, instead of those protein bars you claimed sustained you.
Someone who could understand where you were coming from when you complained about work and your patients– not an insecure idiot who would whine about the late hours you worked— saving lives daily.
You definitely needed someone who would spoil you.
Maybe pick you up and drop you off at work, someone to wine and dine you, run you baths after a particularly grueling shift, to sit by the tub and rub your damp shoulders and neck, before slipping further and–
Jack shakes his head, swallowing hard. Fuck, he was getting out of hand.
“Get it together, man” he mutters under his breath. A passing nurse gives him a quick glance, and Jack quickly sends her a charming smile, like he wasn’t just staring into nothing, thinking about you.
04:30 AM
You stretch your arms up, suppressing a yawn as you settle down in front of an available computer, tapping your ID badge on the card reader and logging in to finally start charting.
The screen flickers alive and for a moment, you just stare at the blank page, thinking about the events that had unfolded.
Jack took your phone. Then he cockblocked a potential hookup. Then he yelled at you, and even though you’d cleared more than three patients, you still hadn't gotten your phone back, which was throwing you completely off your game.
You hadn’t even been able to do your five-minute doomscroll while on the toilet earlier.
A cup lands on your desk, stopping your train of thoughts. Blinking, your eyes snap towards the culprit.
Jack is already looking at you, before his gaze shifts to the empty screen in front of you.
“...You looked like you needed some caffeine,” he mumbles and lingers, despite his action being complete.
In your tired, barely conscious state of mind— a snort slips past your lips.
You cover your mouth in horror.
Jack’s eyebrows raise in surprise, unable to resist the smile forming on his face. He points at you, and you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole.
“What was that?” he wheezes out through breathy laughter.
“What was what–” you say, voice unusually high pitched as you feign ignorance, though the way your cheeks turn red betray your words.
“That– you just– did you just snort?”
It’s not loud, he’s clearly trying to keep it contained for your sake, but it breaks through anyway– a sharp, surprised laugh that he clearly didn’t plan on letting out.
Your cheeks redden further and you huff, standing up and quickly logging out of the computer.
“I’m leaving!”
Jack moves before his mind registers what he's doing, his hand shooting out and grabbing your wrist. You freeze at the touch, stiffening just a bit.
He’s not too bothered about it, having a sudden surge of confidence, which was evident in the way he tugs you closer to him.
“Hey– it was cute,” he says softly, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes your heart pound faster in your chest and your hands grow clammy.
“You’re just making fun of me,” you shake your head, muttering weakly, though a bashful expression still sweeps over your face.
“I’m not,” he says and it comes out too fast. Then, like he hears himself and doesn’t like how insincere it sounded, he tries to soften it. “I’m not making fun of you,”
Reluctantly, Jack lets go of your wrist and grabs the coffee cup he brought you earlier. He easily identifies the look on your face as hesitation, motioning towards the cup in his hand with his chin.
“You know, you laugh at everything when you’re tired,” he says, biting his lip as he holds back another grin.
When you don’t take it, he takes your hand and forces you to grab onto it.
You reluctantly let your fingers wrap around it, peeking into it.
“We’re still not friends,” you huff petulantly.
“Maybe I don’t want to be your friend,” he says, eyes lingering just a moment too long— before turning around at the sound of his name being called.
At his departure, you to overthink every decision you’ve ever made in your life— the ones that have led you here.
To a reality where Jack Abbot flirts with you, then leaves like it’s nothing.
06:00 AM
You’ve spent the last hour and a half of your shift avoiding Jack, going as far to write your charts on the other end of the ER.
It’s your own fault, really. Clearly being deprived of love and affection has left you overthinking everything– as if there’s any actual chance that Jack Abbot has been flirting with you.
No– there’s no way.
If you knew, you’d have done something about it way sooner, not wasted your time on dating apps, entertaining guys that eventually end up calling their exes when wasted, and ruining any chance they had with you.
All the good guys were either deceased or taken, and the only exception to that could not be your boss.
Because if there was something there– anything real, anything intentional– you would’ve seen it.
You’re not oblivious, you’ve dated enough men, survived enough disappointments to know what actual interest looks like.
And Jack?
Jack is just…
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, because the list that comes to mind doesn’t help your argument.
He’s attentive. Annoyingly so, at times.
Well, he has to be, he’s the attending, you reason with yourself. It still doesn’t settle your thoughts, though.
But then you think back to the coffee he brought you, exactly the way you liked it and under the pretense in which he had brought it over. He noticed that you were tired– that you laugh at things that aren’t even funny, when that’s the case.
Also, your phone.
When he eventually gave it back, you had no notifications. Not that you’re that popular anywhere, but you specifically remember there being some texts you were purposefully ignoring, from some sleazy guys on Hinge.
Did he delete them because he…
You sit up straighter, now racking your brain for every interaction you’ve ever had with the older male.
When he first realized it was your phone, the one opened and active on dating apps.
Henry– the way he was unreasonably upset after that whole fiasco, snapping at you then storming off like a child, throwing a temper tantrum.
The brief, casual touches, like it’s second nature to him to take care of you.
The final nail in the coffin is when you decide to look up, searching for him– just to end this once and for all, to convince yourself that the sleep deprivation was getting to you– when you lock eyes with him from across the department.
He blushes— actually blushes— before fumbling with the ipad in his hands, and then just…takes off, leaving you to stare at the spot he had just occupied, mouth slightly parted in disbelief.
Holy shit.
Jack Abbot liked you.
06:57 AM
The last few minutes of a shift are always the worst ones. It’s like time moves in slow motion, wanting to prolong the suffering for as long as possible.
Your phone buzzes, and you don’t think about it when you dig it out of your pocket, blinking sluggishly as you try to read the notice.
Huh, guess there’s a warning for heavy rain–
“Are you serious right now?”
You flinch at the sharp tone of voice that’s suddenly directed at you.
Jack stands at the opening of the locker room, jaw clenched and hands on his hips as he takes in the sight of you on your damn phone, yet again.
“It’s not even seven yet, and you’re still entertaining those…losers?”
Now that you knew what his annoyance stemmed from, you could have some fun. You shrug, grabbing your jacket from the locker, and zipping it up as you speak.
“What? It’s the perfect time to go on a breakfast date–”
“You’re not going on a fucking breakfast date,” he scoffs, walking towards you.
You smile innocently, tilting your head slightly as you blink up at him.
“Give me a better offer, then,”
Jack falters, stopping just a few feet away, annoyance slowly fading at your words.
You don’t back down, looking at him expectantly.
“Well? If you’re going to reject everyone for me, then you might as well take me out as well,”
He gapes, eyes widening in realisation.
You knew.
He clears his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets, then taking them out again and crossing his arms.
Come on, man– you're fidgeting like a dork!
“I– yeah, sure,” he splutters out, wincing at how he sounds.
“That doesn't sound very convincing, Jack,” you tease, enjoying the fact that he was a blushing mess because of you, far too much.
“Go out for breakfast with me,” he says instantly, voice breathless and hands falling to his sides, like he's ready to reach out and stop you if you try to leave now. “Please,” he adds quickly.
The last bit of control he’s been holding onto all night slips, and Jack was ninety percent sure he would beg if you asked him to.
Luckily enough, you don’t. Instead, you smile at him– that radiant smile that makes his stomach flutter with what can only be described as butterflies– just to walk right past him.
He feels his heart drop, closing his eyes as he curses internally.
Of course you were only messing with him–
“Are you coming or not?” you call out from where you’re leaning against the doorway, still sporting that same smile.
Waiting for him.
Jack has never walked faster in his life.
In the parking lot, he opens the passenger side door of his car for you, only to stop before he shuts it– searching your gaze.
“...You’ve deleted your account, right?”
☆END NOTE: “A boy who’s jack-ed and kind” haha, get it…? Also, this could’ve been great smut, but I’m just not there yet. “Even though you bought the Quinn subscription to hear Shawn Hatosy moan in your ears–” WHO said that?
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. You think guys that cook are hot.
pairing. John Tucker x Reader
tags. Fluff, crack-ish?
note. I did giggle while writing this at 1am.
ice time. 1.8k
You think that guys that cook are hot.
That’s basically the number one thing on your list of standards for a guy.
And if you add in, John Tucker, #46 of the Briar U hockey team, who not only cooks but does it wearing a pink apron with the kind of earnest, unbothered pride that should not be as attractive as it is — you can therefore conclude that Tucker is hot and totally your type.
Hannah and Allie are 100% aware of this fact, considering that they were there when you started massively crushing on the hockey player back in sophomore year, and were the ones who listened to you ramble about said hockey player early into the year when you found out he could cook.
Unfortunately, your two friends learning about this fact while also actively dating two guys in Tucker’s own friend group meant that you were now in the unique and deeply unfortunate position of being perceived. Specifically, being perceived by people who knew Tucker, liked Tucker, and had absolutely zero reason to keep your little crush under wraps.
Allie, bless her heart, had lasted approximately three weeks before she'd accidentally let it slip in front of Dean that you thought Tucker was, quote, "disgustingly attractive and it's all because of the cooking thing." Dean, being Dean, had found this information deeply funny and had done absolutely nothing responsible with it, ultimately teasing you every time you and Tucker were in the same vicinity of each other, although thanks to Allie, had really did keep the teasing to just you. You still found the whole situation deeply mortifying.
The only thing keeping you from burying yourself in gravel and suffocating was the knowledge that Tucker, as far as you knew, had not been told. Yet.
You were choosing to believe the "yet" was still working in your favor.
It mostly meant that whenever Tucker showed up places that Hannah or Allie also happened to be, you developed an immediate and urgent need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Bathroom. Kitchen. The parking lot. You were adaptable. Very much so.
"You're not even being subtle about avoiding him anymore," Hannah had told you once, watching you physically reverse direction in the hallway when you spotted Tucker heading your way. "Like. At all."
"I'm being incredibly subtle."
"You walked into a trash can."
"I meant to do that."
She had given you a look that said, very clearly, that she did not believe you. You had chosen to ignore it on account of self-preservation.
The problem was that Tucker kept showing up. Outside the dorms when you'd come to hang out with Hannah and Allie. At the coffee shop near campus. At Malones — because you worked there and that was literally where the group hung out. At the rink when you'd come to watch a game and hadn't factored in post-game corridor hangouts. And every time, without fail, he was easy to talk to and warm and sincere in that genuine, unguarded way he had, the kind that felt less like a personality and more like a reflex — like being kind was just the thing he defaulted to, same as breathing.
It was even more annoying because he was always like that. Like the teasing from his teammates rolled right off him, and he just kept showing up with food and a good attitude and that small, steady presence that made you feel like whatever room he was in got a little calmer.
It was fine. You were fine. Everything was completely fine.
Which brings you here, to Hannah and Allie's kitchen, helping set up for a casual get-together that you had been assured would be small. Just a few people. Chill. Relaxed.
They were currently hosting eight people and counting, and Tucker's jacket was by the door when you arrived. Hannah had neglected to mention this when she'd asked you to come early and help with the food, even when you asked about the paper bag on the counter, which you later on learned was brought by none other than Tucker.
You were starting to think your friends were not entirely on your side, because the moment you arrived, Allie and Hannah started teasing you increasingly.
The thing is, you didn't know exactly when the conversation in the kitchen shifted to types in men (again), and your crush on Tucker. Which you tried very hard to keep his name as lowkey as possible. They find it amusing. You don’t.
Allie hands you the tablecloth then heads to the sink to wash the dishes left, humming something under her breath like she isn't the reason you're currently in this situation.
"So," she says, turning on the tap. "Hannah was telling me you nearly bolted out of the rink last week when Tucker walked into the corridor."
"I didn't nearly bolt. I had somewhere to be."
"You told us you had to go check on your laundry," Hannah calls from across the kitchen, not even bothering to look up from where she's arranging the snack bowls. "At eleven at night."
"Laundry doesn't have a curfew."
Allie snorts. You smooth the tablecloth aggressively.
"Can we not do this tonight?" you ask, with as much dignity as you could muster. "There are guests."
"There are guests because we invited them," Allie says pleasantly. "Including Tucker, who brought ingredients and is currently grabbing something else and will be back in a few, which I know you clocked the second you walked in."
You had, in fact, clocked it the second you walked in. You say nothing.
Hannah finally looks up, the picture of innocence. "You know, it's kind of impressive how much energy you spend avoiding someone you claim to just have a small crush on."
"It's a normal-sized crush."
"You once left through a fire exit."
"The regular door was blocked."
"By Tucker saying hi to you."
A pause. You smooth an already-smooth section of tablecloth. "It was a crowded hallway."
Allie turns off the tap, reaching for the dish towel with the serene expression of someone who is deeply enjoying herself. "All we're saying is that it might be time to, I don't know, exist in the same room as him for more than four consecutive minutes."
"I exist in the same room as him all the time."
"Without a planned escape route," Hannah amends.
You open your mouth. Close it. The tablecloth is extremely smooth at this point. You are doing a great job with the tablecloth.
"My type," you say finally, pivoting with what you feel is remarkable, amazing, grace, "is simply guys who can cook. That is a completely reasonable standard."
Hannah rolls her eyes at you, turning to set down a bowl of snacks while you finish wiping the counter. "Your type is guys that can cook."
“And? I think cooking is hot.” You miss the way Hannah’s eyes drift past you to someone behind you, busy wiping down the counter as you shrug. Your increasing embarrassment had made your tongue loose, and you had in fact given up on being vague. “Why else do you think I like Tucker?”
“Oh?” The voice behind you makes you freeze. Your hand stiffens on the tablecloth, eyes widening as you’re now suddenly acutely aware of the warmth behind you. “Is that so?”
You look up, and Hannah has a hand over her mouth, amusement dancing in her eyes as she speaks to you through your head.
"Hannah. Help me."
"Nah, girl. You got this. Go you."
Fingers gripping the tablecloth, you plaster a smile on your face and slowly turn.
Behind you stands Tucker, his eyes crinkling as he smiles at you. "Hey, Name."
Your cheeks warm. You are pretty sure that you are the definition of a tomato at this point as you clear your throat in an attempt to be nonchalant. "Heeey, Tuck."
His grin only widens, arms crossing over his chest. "So." His brow lifts, and you swallow. "You think I'm hot?"
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.
"I think," you say carefully, in the measured tone of someone carefully disarming a bomb, "that the cooking thing is hot. Objectively. As a concept."
"Uh huh." He doesn't look even remotely convinced, which is deeply unfair considering he's the one who snuck up on you. "And I cook."
"Lots of people cook, Tucker."
"Do they cook as well as me?"
You pause. And the horrible, traitorous, honest part of your brain supplies: no, actually, because you'd had his cooking twice now, once at a team dinner Allie had dragged you to and once when he'd brought food to the apartment for no stated reason, and both times it had been genuinely, annoyingly, unfairly good.
"That's not the point," you say.
His smile tips into something a little softer, a little more knowing, and somehow that's worse than the teasing. He takes one step closer, enough that you would have to actively crane your neck to look away from him, and doesn't say anything for a beat.
"I'll cook for you sometime," he says finally, like it's easy. Like he's offering to lend you a pen. "If that's what it takes."
You stare at him.
From somewhere behind Tucker, you hear Allie make a noise that she unconvincingly tries to smother with a cough. Hannah, you suspect, is still standing at the counter with that same hand over her mouth.
"That," you say slowly, "is the most confident thing anyone has ever said to me."
Tucker shrugs, that easy grin back in place. "I'm a confident guy."
"You're a menace."
"You think I'm hot."
"I think your cooking is hot."
Tucker laughs, saying your name in a way that makes your stomach flip as he tilts his head, and there's something warm in his expression underneath all the amusement. "Same thing."
You look at him for a long moment. He looks back, patient, like he has all night and fully intends to use it.
"Fine," you say, because apparently self-preservation has fully left the building. Your face feels like a furnace, and you are hyper aware of every little sound Allie and Hannah makes behind you, plus thawing Tucker this close to you. "Yeah. Okay. I think you're hot."
The smile that breaks across his face is, genuinely, a little devastating.
"Cool," Tucker says. "I'll text you about dinner. This week?"
You're pretty sure your soul briefly vacates your body.
"This week," you hear yourself agree.
He nods, satisfied, like that's settled then. He glances over his shoulder at Hannah and Allie, who are both staring with the barely-contained energy of two people who have been waiting for this for approximately two years. "Ladies." Then, back to you, quieter, "Talk to you later?"
"Yeah. Yep. Sure." you say, a little helplessly.
Tucker smiles. Then he's heading back toward the living room, and you are left standing in the kitchen, gripping the tablecloth, staring at the middle distance, smiling widely.
A beat of silence.
"Look at you!” Hannah says loudly, while Allie rounds the counter to throw her arms around you, giggling at your still flushed face.
"I hate both of you," you tell them, but the smile on your face doesn’t fade.
• ☆ . ° .• ° . ☆ John Tucker looks cute in his bee costume. You get cuteness aggression.
Entering the hockey house and seeing your boyfriend in a bee costume became the highlight of your night.
“Tuck.” You gasp the moment you spotted him, and you have to physically stop the urge from making the most embarrassing squeal. It was muffled against your hand as you weave through the crowd. The moment you stop in front of him, you have to fight back the painfully obvious smile threatening to grow on your face, and he only lifted a hand to you.
“No. Baby no.”
“But Tuck—”
The costume was just the barebones of a bee costume. A black and yellow tank and wings, but it was enough for you to find the idea of a bee costume on your boyfriend adorable.
“No.” His lips curl into what could be a pout, and it definitely did not help the fact that you found him absolutely adorable. You bite the inside of your cheek, and his eyes narrow at you.
“Oh my god you’re so cute.”
“Baby.”
“I want to bite you.”
“Oh god.” Tucker laughs, but he keeps his hand raised it like the distance would keep you away from him. It doesn’t, and you immediately corner him, hands on his cheeks while you squeal.
“Look at you!”
“[Name]—”
“You have little wings!” You squish his cheeks.
“It is a bee costume.”
“You look so cute!”
“Yes, babe-“
“And your stupid face!”
“Stupid??” He sputters, but you interrupt him, pressing a kiss to his lips. Then his cheeks, forehead, and anywhere that you can kiss.
Tucker would only laugh, half-leaning into your touch, half trying to fight back by gently trying to pry you away, but its obvious that he isn’t against the kisses. “Guys.” He manages to call out to Dean and the rest in the kitchen. “Help she’s attacking me.”
“You look happy about it.” Dean snorts.
Logan lets out a laugh, patting Dean’s back. “Don’t help him, he’s exactly where he wants to be.”
Tucker finds himself in the corner of the kitchen, your hands on his cheeks while you aggressively shower him kisses, giggling about how cute he looks.
His cheeks are flushed, and he keeps getting knowing smiles and winks from the others when they walk by, none of them really helping him out, instead laughing at the sight of him being completely smothered in kisses by his girlfriend because she’s currently going through what you call cuteness aggression.
“Baby.” He huffs, but it’s quickly replaced by a smitten grin when you only peck his lips as you beam.” Oh, hush, Tuck.” You squeeze his cheeks, grinning widely as your chest tightens at the sight of him. “You’re just adorable in the costume, let me love you.”
“I know, but I’m pretty sure your lipstick is all over me.”
You beam. “It definitely is, but I’m not budging”
His retort is drowned out by the kiss you pull him into, complaints dying in his throat as his lipstick covered mouth only curls into a smile.
You and Tucker breaking the bed would be hilarious
Tucker girls, this one is for YOU. And for the non-book girlies, Tucker is not the innocent guy you made him to be
Summary: You and Tucker break the bed
Warnings: 18+, smut, nipple play, p + v, dirty talk,
Unlike Dean or Garrett, Tucker didn’t take girls into his bed. It wasn’t that he didn’t have sex — he did. Just not there. For reasons none of the guys fully understood, Tucker’s bed was off-limits. Almost sacred. Malone’s bathroom, a girl's dorm room, even his truck if he was desperate enough, but never his bed. That space was reserved for something more than a casual night. Something real.
So when he took you upstairs during a post-game party, you couldn’t help but feel special.
You and Tucker had been seeing each other for a few weeks of heavy flirting at Malones. On a downpour night, he kindly offered to drive you home…which ended with you riding him in the driver seat of his truck. Since then, you’ve been making out at parties you happened to be both at and snaking hands under clothes.
There was also that one blowjob in Malone’s bathroom.
Tucker’s mouth was sucking on your nipple, teasing as you pulled at his curls. He was good at this. Playing with your breasts and busying his mouth on them. He knew exactly how much to bite and suck and kiss — how to make you feel good.
You pushed your hips against his hard cock, still hidden by the boxers he had yet to take off, silently directing his attention to where you needed it most. Foreplay was nice, but your pussy was aching for him right now.
‘’Come on, Tuck. I need you.’’
You did it again, grinding against him needily, and he lifted his head. ‘’You in a hurry tonight or something?’’ Tucker asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘’No. I’m just really horny, so get naked and fuck me,’’ you ordered, reaching down his back and pulling down his boxers mid-ass. ‘’Please.’’
Tucker laughed and crawled up to your lips, kissing you as he reached for a condom in his nightstand. ‘’Yes, ma’am.’’
After rolling it on, Tucker positioned himself between your legs and sank himself into you in one go, filling you and making you gasp. You wanted him to be quick, so he did.
For the next ten minutes, the only sounds echoing in the room were your and Tucker’s moans of pleasure mixed with skin slapping and the creaking of the bed at every deep thrust. Sex with him was much dirtier and hotter than I thought it would be. At first glance, Tucker doesn’t look like he’d be this way, but isn’t it always the quiet ones?
‘’Ahh, fuck—’’ you cried out after a particularly hard thrust, quickly bringing your hand over your mouth. There’s people in the house.
But Tucker grabbed your hand and held them both above your head. ‘’Let me hear you, baby,’’ he whispered against your lips. ‘’Tell me how it feels.’’
And you did exactly that, back arching as he drilled into you, causing the headboard to hit the wall over and over and—
Crack.
For one suspended second, neither of you moved. What was that?
Then, the bed gave a pathetic groan as the wood splintered beneath you and collapsed on the top left side.
‘’Are you fucking kidding me?!’’ Tucker grumbled, pulling out to go and look at the wreckage. The condom was still on, the mood thoroughly ruined by splintered wood and pure structural betrayal.
He exhaled through his nose — half laugh, half groan — and dragged a hand down his face.
The bed was definitely broken.
The one time he takes a girl to his bed, it breaks.
Warning(s): insecurity in a relationship. happy end
The thing about being popular was that people always assumed they knew you. They saw you walking across Briar's campus and immediately made up stories in their heads. They saw how many people waved when you passed. They saw how easily you could slide into any social group and how often your weekends were booked with parties, hockey games, and campus events. To most people, you were the girl who had everything.
They didn't know that popularity had never really interested you. You liked people that was all. You liked making friends. You liked talking to strangers. You liked helping people feel included because you knew what it felt like to be left out. Unfortunately, being friendly often got mistaken for flirting, especially by men. It happened constantly. Guy would stop you after classes, they offered to buy you drinks, asked for your number, they were always convincing themselves that if they tried hard enough, eventually you would say yes. However, you always politely turned them down. Not because they were bad people or because you thought you were too good for them. It was the fact that none of them were John Tucker. And once you had Tucker, nobody else even registered anymore.
The realisation hit you one afternoon while sitting in the student union. You were waiting for Tucker to finish practice, scrolling through your phone while half-listening to a conversation happening nearby. A guy from one of your classes had approached your table twenty minutes earlier and was currently trying very hard to flirt with you, but you weren’t even paying attention, you just kept checking the time and the entrance, patiently waiting for Tucker.
The guy was saying something about a party that weekend when the doors opened, and there he was. Tucker. The moment you spotted him, your entire face lit up without you even realising it. But the guy sitting across from you certainly did because he stopped talking immediately. You were already gathering your things, still smiling, and you walked away from him.
"Tuck!"
The second Tucker heard your voice, his head snapped up. His tired expression disappeared instantly and a smile spread across his face, and just like that, nothing else mattered. Not even the crowded room or the conversations you had been having, just him. Always him. He opened his arms automatically when you reached him, and you stepped right into them. The hug lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like coming home.
"Have you been waiting long?" he asked.
You shook your head against his shoulder. "Nope."
"You lying?"
"Maybe."
His laugh vibrated through his chest, and your heart melted. That always happened, no matter how many times you saw him, or how many dates you went on, or how many nights you spent together. You never got used to him. Never stopped getting butterflies. Never stopped feeling lucky. The funny thing was that Tucker seemed completely unaware of the effect he had on people, including you.
A week later, you were reminded of that fact when you arrived at a hockey party together.
The house was packed, there was music blasting from the speakers, and there were people crowded in every room of the house. The moment you walked inside, several people greeted you, and a few guys immediately wandered over to you. However, you barely noticed them because you were too busy reaching for Tucker’s hand.
As the night went on, you floated from conversation to conversation. Tucker stayed close but eventually got pulled away by some teammates who wanted to discuss practice. You didn't mind. You found yourself talking with a group near the kitchen. At some point, a guy you'd met once before decided to shoot his shot. Again.
"You know," he said with a grin, "I still don't understand why you're dating Tucker."
You blinked. "What?"
"I'm just saying." He shrugged and gestured vaguely, "You could have literally anybody."
The comment annoyed you instantly. Not because it insulted Tucker, but because it completely missed the point. Before you could answer, a familiar voice spoke from behind you.
"She's allowed to have terrible taste." You turned around. It was Tucker. The group started to laugh, and you laughed along with them, but something about Tucker’s smile felt off. It was small and forced.
The feeling lingered all evening, and later that night, after the party ended and the two of you returned to his apartment, you couldn't stop thinking about it. You were curled up beside him on the couch. His arm rested around your shoulders. The television played quietly in the background. Everything looked normal, but something wasn't. You knew Tucker, and he was thinking… a lot. Eventually, you muted the television. He looked down at you.
"What happened?"
You studied him. "You tell me."
"What?" His eyebrows lifted.
"You've been weird all night."
He immediately looked away like he was caught. Your stomach sank, because suddenly you knew. "Tucker."
He sighed. The kind of sigh that suggested he'd been carrying something around for a while. "It's nothing."
"John." That got his attention immediately. You would only use his full name when you were serious.
For a moment he stayed quiet, but then he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
"You ever think it's strange?" he started.
You frowned. "What?"
He laughed softly, but there wasn't much humour in it. "You dating me."
Your heart broke immediately. "Oh, Tucker."
"No, seriously." He sat up slightly. "I don't get it."
You stared at him. He looked genuinely confused. As if your relationship were some unsolved mystery. As if he couldn't understand why you'd chosen him.
"Everybody loves you." His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. "You know that, right?"
You said nothing because you already knew where this was heading.
"People remember you when you leave a room." His voice grew quieter. "You've got guys hitting on you all the time."
He laughed once, very dryly. "You could date literally anyone."
Then he finally looked at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes nearly shattered your heart. "But you picked me."
The silence that followed felt heavy and painful because you realised he truly believed he wasn't enough. It wasn’t a joke or false modesty. He genuinely couldn't understand why you loved him.
Slowly, you shifted closer. "Tucker." He didn't answer. "You know what my ex used to do?"
His jaw immediately tightened. You rarely mentioned your ex.
"He forgot anniversaries." Tucker's eyes darkened. "He ignored me when I was upset." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "He made me feel like loving me was a chore."
The room went silent. You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers, and then you looked directly into his eyes. "You know what you do?" His expression softened.
"You bring me coffee before my morning classes." A tiny smile appeared on his face. "You walk me home." The smile grew. "You text me good luck before every exam."
His cheeks turned pink. "You remember every random thing I tell you."
By now he couldn't even look at you, so you squeezed his hand. "Tucker, you make me feel loved every single day."
The room felt impossibly quiet. The kind of quiet where every word mattered.
"You make me feel safe," you continued. His throat bobbed. "You make me feel important." His eyes grew suspiciously shiny.
"And when I'm with you..." You smiled softly. "I feel happier than I've ever felt in my entire life."
He looked away immediately, he was overwhelmed. You could tell. He closed his eyes briefly, as if he was trying to process your words.
Then he whispered, almost too quietly to hear, "You really mean that?"
The question hurt because he sounded genuinely unsure. You reached up and cupped his face, making him look at you.
"Tucker." Your voice softened. "I am completely in love with you."
His breath caught. "And I don't care how many people know me." A tearful laugh escaped him. "I don't care how many guys flirt with me."
You leaned closer. "The only person I want is you."
For a second, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke, and then Tucker suddenly pulled you into his lap. Holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.
You laughed. "Tuck—"
"I love you." His voice cracked slightly. The words sounded almost desperate, like he'd needed you to know. "I love you so much."
Your heart swelled. You wrapped your arms around his neck.
"I love you too."
He buried his face against your shoulder, and for several long moments, neither of you spoke. You simply sat there together, wrapped up in each other. It felt safe, comfortable, and loved.
Eventually, Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you. The doubt was still there, but it was smaller now, fading. And you kissed him softly. Once, twice, and three times all over his face until he started smiling. Until the uncertainty disappeared completely. Until all that remained was the look he always gave you. The one that made your heart race. The one that made you feel cherished. The one that reminded you exactly why every other guy on campus faded into the background whenever John Tucker walked into the room. Because no matter how many people wanted your attention, there had only ever been one person who owned your heart. And he was sitting right in front of you, looking at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. The truth was, you felt exactly the same way.
summary: during a summer of heatwaves, arguing, and a chance encounter with your high school bully, your least favorite coworker ends up being your biggest supporter. in more ways than one...
wc: 17.5k (promised you guys a long one)
cw: coworkers to enemies to friends to lovers, curvy!reader, bisexual!reader, good ally (but slightly oblivious) steve, slight homophobia, talks of queerbaiting and bisexual fetishization, college burnout, feelings of inadequacy from both parties, TENSION, slowburn, maybe too many inner thoughts about steve in that slutty little uniform, making out, dirty talk, teasing, body insecurity (on both parts tbh), oral (f recieving), bigdick!steve, grabbing that mans ass because we need more of it, p in v sex, fluffy ending, cuddling
love notes: yet another long curvy!reader x steve harrington fic because i love him so very much. off the bat i want to make it clear that this reader is bisexual and its a large part of the story. i've always dealt with a lot of these struggles as a hyperfemme curvy queer woman and this was really cathartic to write about. i hope you all enjoy it as much as i did writing it, even though it took me forever. i'll just say half the reason is because sometimes its hard to think about writing when you have to picture him in those stupid little shorts... (⸝⸝♡﹏♡⸝⸝)
(also, not a face reveal but the photo on the banner is me in my Robin cosplay since pinterest was a failure on finding anyone curvy in the scoops cosplay. when in doubt, be self indulgent i guess!)
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A small bead of sweat started to roll from Steve's forehead to his brow as he slumped into one of the backroom chairs. He could see you grimace as he wiped it away with that stupid hat before dropping it on the table.
"What?" his exasperated tone was laced with heat exhaustion, "Am I not allowed to sweat in front of you?"
"No, by all means, sweat all you want," your fingers twitched around the straw in your drink, the plastic crinkling under the pressure, "Just try to get more on your uniform. It adds to the… aesthetic."
He rolled his eyes in that bitchy way you'd come to almost admire.
"Yeah well maybe if I get sweat stains all over the hat, I won't be forced to wear it anymore."
You give a fake pout after taking another sip. "And the heats already ruining that perfect hair, your life is so difficult."
He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, the blue of his uniform making his hazel eyes look impossibly more brown, "You have no idea."
The door swung open, letting in a blast of mall air that did little to cool the room.
"Eugh!" Robin practically wretched from the doorway. "Can you guys get rid of that rancid trash? I'm pretty sure there's kiddie puke in there and the heat is not helping."
It was true. The break room smelled horrendous. The freezers and the sale floor were cold to protect the product, but back here was a stuffy, sticky coffin of recycled air.
One of the mall's maintenance guys was supposed to fix it this morning but he hadn't been back yet. And to be honest, he looked a little sketch. No tools, very short sentences, and a vaguely Russian accent.
"It's your turn, Buckley," Steve grumbled without moving.
"Nuh-uh. I did it yesterday. You two can duke it out but it's not gonna be me."
The swinging door to the shop floor shut behind her and she was gone.
Great.
You didn't even need to look at him to know he had that stupid, lazy grin on his face.
"You two can duke it out," he mimicked in a higher pitch, still slumped in the chair, clearly having no intention of moving.
"Look, there's two bags already, we can each just take one. For once this summer, I don't have the energy to argue with you. I'm sweating from way too many places I'd rather not be, I think my deodorant gave up hours ago, and my drink is already mostly water."
With a dramatic sigh, you pushed yourself up from the chair, the red vinyl sticking to the back of your thighs with an embarrassing noise. Steve watched, an unreadable expression on his face, as you went to the corner by the door where the offending bags sat.
"What?" you echoed his earlier tone. "I can't help it if the shorts don't come in a bigger size."
You yanked one of the black plastic bags from the pile, and Steve finally stood up. The shorts they had you wear were ridiculous on your frame, a size too small, digging into your hips and thighs. Usually you didn't care, but today, with the heat melting everything in the mall to a sticky pulp, you felt like you were suffocating.
"Trust me, I'm not looking," Steve said. But he was.
He grabbed the other bag, his arm brushing yours. The contact lasted less than a second, but it sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the oppressive heat. You blamed it on static, on the friction of the plastic bags, anything other than some pretty boy in a sailor suit. He was the antithesis of everything you were supposed to like.
You made it to the employee entrance at the back of the mall, near the loading docks. The heavy metal door groaned open, and a blast of real, unconditioned air hit you.
The groan Steve let out was dramatic, even for this heat. "It's worse out here."
You couldn't argue. The air smelled of hot asphalt and distant trash. The sun beat down on the concrete as you trudged toward the giant green dumpster, the plastic bag scraping against the pavement.
"Let's just get this over with," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.
Steve tossed his bag in with a lazy heave. It landed with a sickeningly wet thud. You did the same. As you turned to go back inside, you tripped over a deep crack in the pavement.
"Fuck!" you grunted out, turning to take a look at your knee, which was now stinging and bleeding. You ripped your knee away from the searing concrete and inspected the damage.
A deep scrape, a little bloody but more dirt and grime than anything else. You huffed out a frustrated breath, your already frayed patience wearing even thinner. You lay back on the hot pavement, one knee propped up, and awaited the sweet release of heat induced death.
"Looks like someone hasn't gotten her sea legs." Steve stood over you, blocking the sun in his eyes with his hand, the other settled on his hip. "Oh, shit, that actually looks bad..."
"Brilliant observation, Captain." you snapped, the pain making you sharper than usual.
He crouched down, the shorts stretched tight across his thighs. This uniform was truly ridiculous, but the way it fit him was… infuriating. Being near eye level with his crotch was not helping matters.
"You're bleeding," he said, his voice softer now. He reached out as if to touch your knee, then thought better of it, letting his hand hover for a moment before dropping it.
"Again with the astute observations. You missed your calling, Harrington. Should've been a detective."
"C'mon." he rolled his eyes again, extending a hand to help you up. "Let's get you back to the break room. We've got a first aid kit in the stockroom. I'm pretty sure I saw it when I was looking for places to hide the day they made us film that embarrassing commercial."
You ignored his hand and pushed yourself up, your palm stinging on the hot pavement. He gave you a raised eyebrow and you sighed before reluctantly taking his help. His grip was firm and warmer than you expected. You tried to pull away as soon as you were standing, but he held on for a beat too long, steering you toward the door.
The break room was still a sauna, but at least it wasn't the blazing sun. He sat you down in the same chair you'd vacated earlier and rummaged through a cabinet, finally emerging with a white plastic box with a red cross on it.
"Alright, tough guy," he said, kneeling in front of you. "Let's clean this up."
"I can do it myself." You protested, but he was already wordlessly cleaning the wound.
He was really good at this, you thought. Much more than you expected someone like him to be.
"What, did you patch people up after you and your jock friends threw them against lockers or something?"
It was an unnecessary jab, but you needed to say something to break the otherwise tender moment.
He looked up at you with an almost hurt expression as he ripped the gauze packet open with his teeth. The motion was quick and efficient.
"Yeah, that was me," he said, not looking at you, focusing on cleaning the scrape with an antiseptic wipe. "King Steve. Got the T-shirt and everything."
He sounded so bitter, like the name tasted wrong coming from his lips.
"Sorry," you mumbled, feeling a pang of something you didn't want to name. "That was..."
"Forget it," he cut you off, but his touch gentled even more. "People are allowed to think I'm an asshole. I was an asshole."
You stayed quiet as watched him gently pressed the fabric to the cleaned wound, noticing how such big hands could be so precise. How someone who you knew could be a clumsy, arrogant moron could now have a look of intense focus.
He's quiet for a long moment, before glancing up at you again. "Had my ass kicked more than a few times. You learn a few things. Like how to clean a scrape."
There was something more there, something in the way he said it that you couldn't quite place. He wasn't talking about a simple schoolyard scuffle. But you didn't have the energy to press.
"Well if they didn't build this mall so fast maybe all the pavement wouldn't be cracking..." you muttered, both embarrassed by your fall and desperate to move on from an impending heavier topic.
He lets out a short, amused breath of air and he's taping a fresh piece of gauze over your knee. He's so close you can smell him, a clean scent of soap and a tinge of sweat. It's a musky, surprisingly comforting smell that has no right to be this intoxicating.
"All done, think you'll survive."
He pats your good knee and sits back on his heels, surveying his work before looking up at you, as if asking with his eyes if there's anything else you may need.
It was a cruel joke seeing him like that, practically on his knees in front of you. His hair was sunkissed, brushed slightly more away from his forehead. His eyes were unfairly puppy dog-ish and you swore he had to actively put balm on his lips with how pouty and shiny they always looked.
Steve was pretty, and you hated it. You hated how easy he was to look at.
"Guess I'll have to." You push the chair back and stand. "Thanks, I guess. For the medical attention and not, you know, leaving me to die out there."
"Yeah, well, Buckley would have my head if I came back without you." He stands too, his height suddenly imposing in the small space. "Can't have you bleeding out on my watch. Bad for business."
He walked over to grab his hat and did a little trick where he flipped it onto his head. You tried to look unimpressed, but a ghost of a smile tugged at your lips.
"C'mon, Harrington, don't flatter yourself. My death would probably improve sales."
His laugh was real this time. "I disagree. We'd have far less preteen boys trying to order extra scoops just to get you to lean over the counter."
You paused, your hand on the panel of the swinging door. That was… new. A warmth that had nothing to do with the weather spread through your chest. You risked a glance back at him.
He looked as if he was surprised at himself, too. He was leaning against the table again, trying to regain that careless facade, but something had shifted. You saw it in the slight tension in his shoulders, in the way he couldn't quite meet your eye for a second.
"The shirt." he gestured, clearing his throat. "It's, y'know, tight."
Any hint of flirtatious energy inside you evaporated at that. You were suddenly acutely aware of the way the company mandated top stretched across your stomach and chest. The casual, almost clinical observation stung more than any deliberate insult could have.
Steve could practically feel an icy chill when you wordlessly pushed through the door and it had nothing to do with the AC from the sales floor.
"Shit..." he muttered to himself, relaxing against the table with a deep sigh, running a hand down his face. He knew that look. He had said the wrong thing. Again.
The rest of your shift was a special kind of hell. The soft serve machine seemed determined to only dispense melted soup, the toppings station was a sticky mess that no amount of wiping could fix, and the endless loop of corporate-approved pop hits drilled directly into your skull. Every interaction felt like a performance. Your smile for the customers was a brittle mask, your sarcastic remarks to Robin were forced and thin.
"Are you good?" she asked when it was close to closing and the Friday rush had died down.
"Yeah. Fine."
Your words were short as you marked your clipboard for the nightly inventory.
"Okay... well you're practically putting your pen through the paper there..." She gestured with her scoop, "and you haven't made a single joke about the mall cop that looks like Tom Selleck if he was raised by wolves."
You glanced at the man leaning against one of the columns outside the store, sporting a truly glorious yet questionable mustache. You shrugged and went back to your clipboard.
You could feel her looking at you before letting out a dramatic sigh and going back to her duties.
Steve didn't try to talk to you. He worked with a quiet efficiency, wiping counters, restocking syrups, avoiding your line of sight.
Eventually Robin shut the gate and you counted the money in the till.
"You missed a twenty."
It comes from over your shoulder, not in a malicious way, but a simple statement of fact. The fact that it was his voice though, that made you clench your jaw.
"No I didn't." Your reply was clipped.
"Yeah, you did. It's stuck to the back of the tray." He reached over you, not quite touching you, but close enough that the scent of him - that faint musk- washed over you again.
His thumb brushed the bill loose from its hiding place. He set it on top of the stack without another word and turned to wipe down a spotless display case.
The silent ride home with Robin was just as bad. Your hands gripped the wheels a little too hard.
"He's not that bad." Robin finally said from your passenger seat.
"Who? Tom Selleck wolf-cop? No, I think he's probably a pillar of the community." The sarcasm was so thick it was nearly solid. You knew exactly who she meant.
"No, Steve."
You sighed, letting your shoulders slump as you pulled into her driveway.
"I mean, he's a total dingus, sure, but he's not malicious, you know?" She was unbuckling her seatbelt, gathering her bag. "He's just… post-prime Steve Harrington. He's still figuring out the new manual."
"It's weird of you to defend him."
"It's weird of you to get your panties in a twist over a stupid sailor boy." She shot back with a grin, hopping out and leaning back in through the open window. "Look, all I'm saying is... don't take whatever dumb shit he says to heart. He's probably just scared of your... you-ness."
You raised an eyebrow.
"Anyway," she said with a yawn. "I have the morning shift tomorrow so I need sleep."
"Wait... you're not closing on a Saturday?"
"Nope. You're on your own with Captain Hair Care." She wiggled her fingers in a wave. "Don't let him get under your skin."
She was gone before you could formulate a decent comeback, a skip in her step as she trotted toward her front door. You watched until she was inside, the porch light flicking on. Alone with the quiet hum of your car's engine, you leaned your forehead against the steering wheel.
Robin's words bounced around your head. Scared of what? Your tendency to swear like a sailor? Your less-than-perfect figure in a ridiculous uniform? Your ability to form complete sentences without the word 'like'? The thought of the former King of Hawkins High being intimidated by you was so absurd it was almost funny.
But it was the last thing she said that stuck. Don't let him get under your skin.
Too late. He was already there, a low-grade fever you couldn't sweat out, even in this miserable heat. The image of him kneeling in front of you, his focused expression, the gentle pressure of his fingers on your knee... It played on a loop behind your eyelids.
Right next to all the annoying shit. Forgetting to restock the cherries. Leaving sticky rings on the counter. The way he tried to charm every mom who came to the counter. And that comment. The clinical, almost detached observation about your shirt being tight.
He was under your skin alright, like a parasite.
Saturday afternoon arrived with the subtlety of a jackhammer. The heat was worse. It shimmered off the asphalt in visible waves, ready to fry an egg or melt your skin off.
You walked into Scoops Ahoy at 1:59 PM, a minute before your shift. The blast of frigid air of the mall was a welcome shock. When you clocked in, Steve was already behind the counter, wiping down the surface that was already immaculate.
"It's been surprisingly dead for a Saturday," he said without looking up, breaking the silence. He sounded tired. "Guess everyone's at the pool."
"Smart people are at the pool," you mumbled, tying on your own ridiculous apron. The uniform felt like a punishment, the fabric scratching at your already overheated skin.
Robin popped out from the back, changed in some normal summer clothes.
"Lemme guess," you sigh. "The pool."
"Right you are my fellow corporate slave! Some of the band kids are getting together, and I cannot miss an opportunity to make fun of Brad Johnson's new haircut." she beamed. "You two have fun. Don't burn the place down."
She gave you a pointed look, then one at Steve, before she disappeared out the front with a jaunty little wave.
"I would give anything to have the morning shift right now," you grumbled to no one in particular.
"You and me both," Steve sighed, finally looking up at you. "I could be at the pool right now, seeing how the summer is treating the female population of Hawkins."
A familiar irritation sparked in your chest.
Of course.
That's where he'd be. Scoping out chicks in bikinis. The thought made your stomach clench for a reason you refused to examine.
Instead, you grabbed a rag and started wiping down the already clean topping bar.
"I already did that..." he started.
"Don't you have a pool of your own?" your voice came out judgey and sharp, but you didn't look at him.
"Uh, yeah... I do. But it's no fun by yourself." He gestured vaguely with the rag.
"I'm sure you have a rolodex of numbers you could call."
There. The perfect jab. Annoying, bordering on cruel, and it would hopefully shut him up for a few hours.
"Right," a bitter, short little laugh escaped him. "Look, could you just... not do that?"
"Do what?"
"That thing you do. Where you act like you know everything about me."
Your hands stilled on the counter.
"I don't. I'm just making conversation based on the public record."
"Look, I know what my 'public record' is, alright?" His voice wasn't angry, just... weary. "You've made it pretty clear you think I'm some shallow, womanizing douchebag. But maybe..."
He trailed off, tossing the rag into the sink behind the counter with a wet slap.
"You know what? Never mind."
The silence that followed was thick as the hot fudge congealed in the drip tray.
A few hours went by and the after dinner rush finally slowed.
You managed to have a civil, albeit short, conversation about the best Muppet. You argued for Animal, obviously. He was a Kermit man through and through. It was the most you'd talked to him without the conversation taking a sharp, veiled turn.
As the night progressed, just a few hours left of your shift left, you both found yourselves people watching in between customers.
"Oh shit, that's Stacey Carmichael," Steve said, a little too loud, a spark of that old King Steve charm suddenly igniting. He instinctively ran a hand through his hair. It was a reflex. "She, uh, she used to be a cheerleader."
You rolled your eyes as you watched the tall, gorgeous blonde talking with a group of other equally gorgeous girls in the food court.
"Yeah, I'm aware. She was in my class."
"Oh shit... yeah you were a couple years ahead, right?" he looked at you with genuine curiosity, which somehow was more annoying.
"A gap year and then the failed college stint," you said, quoting the air with your fingers. "I was supposed to be a sophomore this year."
"So what happened? If you don't mind me asking..."
"Another gap year." was all you offered. You didn't want to get into the messy details of your spectacular failure. Of the crippling anxiety and the pressure of it all. How you'd locked yourself in your dorm room for three days before finally calling your parents in tears to come get you.
He seemed to understand this was a door you didn't want to open. He nodded, his eyes drifting back to Stacey, who was now laughing at something her friend said, a bright sound that carried across the food court.
"She turned me down for prom, you know," he said, a thoughtful look on his face. "Her prom. My sophomore year. I was so sure I had it in the bag. I'd just gotten my car."
"And already going for senior girls, huh?" you couldn't help but poke, a genuine, small smile gracing your lips. "A real legacy player."
He flushed, a deep pink creeping up his neck. "Shut up. She was... mature. For her age." He winced at how that sounded.
"Code for: she had boobs and long legs. Still does." you summarized, taking a sip of the soda you'd poured yourself a while ago.
"Yeah, well," he leaned against the counter, mirroring your posture. "She's still pretty."
"So go talk to her." The words were out before you could stop them. "You're a changed man now and all."
He looked at you like you'd just suggested he go wrestle a bear. "No way. Not now. Not... not here."
"Why not? She'd probably still swoon for the old Harrington charm."
"I'm in a sailor suit," he deadpanned, gesturing down at himself with a look of utter revulsion. "The magic's kind of gone when you're asking for their order of banana splits instead of asking them to dance."
You had to stifle a laugh.
"Girls aren't that complicated. If she's still shallow like she was in school, she already peaked anyway."
"You really think that?" He looked at you, and for a moment, the usual smirk was gone, replaced by a genuine, searching expression. "That people just... peak?"
"I think some people do," you said quietly, your gaze drifting to Stacey's group again. "She once asked me in English class if my hair was a 'political statement'. So, yeah. I think her peak was probably getting crowned queen of the winter formal."
The corner of Steve's mouth twitched.
"You had that pink streak in the front, right? That was cool."
Your eyes snapped back to his. Cool?
Coming from him, that felt like a betrayal of the natural order.
"Principal Higgins would disagree. He called it a 'deliberate act of insubordination' and threatened to suspend me if I didn't wash it out."
"He was a dick," Steve said with surprising vehemence. "He gave me detention once for a week when Mrs. Click caught me and Tommy H. trying to see how many pencils we could fit in the ceiling tiles."
You made a disgusted look at the mention of Tommy Hagan. That was a name you could have happily gone the rest of your life without hearing again.
"You were a child of privilege, Steve," you said, your tone light but sharp, trying to steer the conversation back to safer, more familiar territory.
He picked up a stray cherry that had rolled onto the counter and popped it into his mouth. The way his lips closed around the small red fruit was distractingly... something. "I think I was a bored little shit with too much time on my hands. There's a difference."
Seriously, why were his lips so—
"And now you're a bored little shit in a sailor suit," you shot back, grabbing the cherry stem from his fingers and throwing it in the trash. Your fingers brushed his lips only just slightly. A current ran up your arm that you blamed on the static from the stupid poly-blend uniform.
You turned back to see Stacey and her friends heading to the ice cream parlor.
"And, sailor, here's your cue."
You leaned against the back counter, a gesture that forced Steve to take the lead and serve them. He straightened up immediately, that lazy, charming smile sliding into place like a well-worn mask. He was good at it, you had to give him that.
"Welcome to Scoops Ahoy, ladies. What's your pleasure?"
Stacey giggled, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Steve Harrington? I haven't seen you in ages. You work here?"
"Just for the summer," he said with a casual shrug that was anything but. "Living the dream. So, what can I get for you? On the house, for old times' sake."
Her friends tittered. You rolled your eyes so hard you were worried they'd get stuck.
You busied yourself with wiping down yet another spot on the counter that was already perfectly clean, trying to ignore the easy way he worked them.
You heard that sickeningly sweet voice say your name and you looked up at Stacey. Her perfect pink lip curled a little as she looked at you. "You're still doing... this?" She gestured vaguely, an all-encompassing wave that clearly meant your entire existence— your curvy frame in the too-tight uniform, the dark eyeliner that was slightly smudged at the end of the day, your complete lack of interest in her conversation.
A hot prickle of shame and anger started at the back of your neck. Until you looked up at her and noticed a familiar tell you'd only seen from a few girls in your college.
It was less judgmental curiosity and more... interest.
You held her gaze and gave her a slow, deliberate smile before leaning over the counter. You knew exactly what this did to the uniform top.
"Yep. But now I have a deep and abiding passion for corporate-mandated polyester and the art of the perfect swirl," you said, your voice dripping with mock sincerity, giving her exactly the right amount of sarcasm and confidence.
To your left, you heard the soft clink of a metal scoop hitting a ceramic bowl.
Steve had stopped.
Stacey's perfectly composed mask wavered for a second, a flicker of... something in her eyes.
"Oh. Well. Good for you," she said, her smile becoming more genuine.
Steve, bless him, was clueless. He made an attempt to steer Stacy's attention back to him. As if he was doing you a favor. Getting you away from her taunting.
"Alright ladies..." he started, trying to regain control of the situation, but he didn't understand.
You already had it.
Stacey's friends lost interest and started ordering their sundaes.
While Steve was occupied, Stacey leaned a little closer to you, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Hey, so, me and some friends are having a little get together tomorrow night. A bonfire, out at Lovers Lake. You should come."
‘Little get together’ was code for summer rager. You knew the type. Keystone lights and weed stolen from older brothers.
She was watching you, waiting. Not mocking. Expectant. And in that moment, the pieces clicked into place without any apprehension. Her initial judgment wasn't about you being beneath her. It was about her trying to figure out if you were like her.
A packed party meant no one was looking too much at any two people slipping off into the woods. A bonfire at Lovers Lake was prime real estate for secret encounters.
Steve's head popped up from behind you, a look of pure confusion on his face. He was completely lost.
"A party?" he asked, trying to smoothly join the conversation he wasn't a part of. He turned to Stacey. "Cool. Who's all going?"
Stacey didn't even look at him. Her gaze was fixed on you.
"We're not really advertising," she said, her tone dismissing him so completely it was almost masterful. "But... you're both welcome to join. Just some of us who are home for the summer. Hanging out."
The offer was still aimed at you. Steve was an afterthought, a necessary addition to extend the invitation to the other half of the current Scoops Ahoy duo.
He didn't seem to realize that Stacey Carmichael, the girl who had turned him down for prom, the girl who represented the peak of the very social hierarchy he used to rule, had just completely shut him out to talk to you.
"We'll think about it," you said, your voice casual, as if you got invited to ragers by reformed mean girls every day of the week. You gave her another slow smile, this one with a little more teeth.
"Cool. Hope to see you there," she said, finally turning to collect her sundae from a flustered-looking Steve. "Thanks, Stevie. It's... cute. The uniform."
The name 'Stevie' was the final twist of the knife. She sauntered away with her friends, their laughter echoing back from the polished linoleum.
You let the silence hang in the air for a solid ten seconds after they were gone.
"I think that went well," he said, crossing his arms and nodding his head. "She did a little volley there by mentioning the party to you and then looped me right back in. Classic misdirection. She's interested."
You stared at him. He was genuinely analyzing this like it was a sports play.
"Steve," you said, your voice dangerously quiet.
"Yeah?"
"She wasn't interested in you."
"What are you talking about? She was totally flirting. I think she wants me to go to that party tomorrow." The hope in his voice was pathetic. "She even called me Stevie. That's pretty straightforward."
"That's not what was happening." You leaned forward, lowering your voice even though you were completely alone in the ice cream shop. "She wasn't interested in you."
The gears in his head were turning visibly.
"Okay...?" He drew out the word. "So... she was just being nice?"
"Let me spell it out for you, Captain. Her invitation wasn't for you. It was for me."
He blinked. The full, glorious impact of your statement seemed to short-circuit his brain.
"So she wants to be friends after bullying you in high school? Yeah, right."
"I didn't say she wanted to be friends." You met his bewildered gaze head-on, your own expression a mixture of pity and amusement.
And then, you saw it. A flicker of something in his eyes. A lightbulb, dim and far away, but it was on.
"Oh," he breathed out. He leaned against the counter, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. "Oh. Wow."
He looked from you, to where Stacey's group had disappeared, and back to you again, as if trying to solve a complex equation.
His gaze settled on your face, not your body, not your clothes, just your eyes. He was looking at you differently.
Not as a coworker, not as a friend of Robin's, not as the girl who made sarcastic comments. He was looking at you as a person with a secret, a life beyond this stupid counter.
"So she's...?" he trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.
You just gave a simple nod.
"Holy shit," he whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. It wasn't the cocky, practiced smile he used for customers. "Okay, now the prom thing makes so much more sense."
You couldn't help it. An honest-to-god laugh escaped you, echoing slightly in the empty shop.
"So that's what you get out of all this? An explanation for your bruised teenage ego?"
"What did you want me to say?"
It wasn't rude or judgemental like a small part of you had suspected he may be. He was confused and you had thrown a lot at him all at once.
"I was prepared for you to be an asshole, honestly."
"I can be," he said, shrugging on a surprising wave of vulnerability. "But, you know, not about... that." He gestured vaguely between you and the direction Stacey and her friends had left. "It's not... I don't see why it's a big deal."
Your laugh was a little softer this time. "You're the last person I expected to have that reaction."
His smile was a little softer now, something unreadable in his eyes as he cleared his throat a little. He busied himself with grabbing the clipboard and starting the closing inventory checklist before he spoke again.
"So are you, uh, also..." he didn't look at you as he spoke, focusing hard on counting the boxes of cones like they held the secrets of the universe. "...like Stacey?"
"Gay?" you finished for him, the word feeling foreign and loud in the quiet shop. "No. Not... exclusively."
You watched the back of his neck turn pink as he nodded, processing the new information.
"Okay," he said to the inventory sheet. "Okay. That's... fine."
"Wow, Harrington," you deadpanned. "Don't get too excited. You might pull something."
He finally turned to look at you, and the smile was back, but it was different. It was real. "Sorry. My brain is just... rebooting. You know, Steve, circa '83, probably would have had some deeply stupid and offensive thing to say right about now."
"Yeah, well," you leaned against the counter, trying to act casual, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. "He's not here right now. Just the sailor."
"Good," he said, his gaze holding yours for a beat too long. "The sailor is much better company."
The last hour of your shift passed in a strange, comfortable silence. It wasn't tense or awkward, just...
Unnerving?
You kept catching him watching you. Not staring, not leering, just... watching. When you'd catch his eye, he'd look away quickly, a faint blush creeping up his neck, and pretend to be intensely fascinated by the nutritional information on a can of whipped cream.
"I'm not interested in Stacey." You finally say, much more casually than you feel, as you count the till.
Steve looked up from where he was sweeping the floor, leaning on the broom. "I figured."
"Did you?" Your tone was laced with skepticism.
He shrugged, pushing a stray sprinkle into a dustpan. "Yeah. I mean, you called her 'shallow'. You don't seem like the kind of girl to go for people you think are shallow."
He paused, then added, "Even if they do have incredible legs."
A small, unexpected laugh bubbled out of you. "Okay, fair point. Her legs are pretty great."
He grinned, a genuine, easy thing that made your stomach do a little flip. "See? We agree on something."
"Miracles do happen," you said, bagging the cash. "I just genuinely can't believe you didn't pick up on what was happening. I thought you were supposed to be the expert on girls."
"Former expert," he corrected, a wry twist to his lips. "My certification expired. Turns out, knowing how to get a handjob in the back of your car at a party doesn't exactly make you an authority on the female mind. Or... you know. Any mind but your own, really."
You made a disgusted noise. "Charming."
"I'm just being honest," he said, resting the broom against the wall and leaning against the counter opposite you. "It was all a game. And I was good at the game. But that's all it was. It was all... surface."
The words hung in the air between you, until he added the most vulnerable part. "You know, until Nancy."
You stopped counting the cash. This was the most he'd ever said about Nancy Wheeler outside of a few offhand comments you'd overheard, and it felt significant. Nancy Wheeler, the quiet, smart, headstrong girl who had brought Steve Harrington to his knees in a way that no cheerleader or social climber ever could.
"Surface?" you prompted gently.
"Yeah," he said, looking down at a worn spot on the linoleum. "She... she wasn't... She cared about things. Like, real things. The newspaper, and... college, her family and friends, and the future. And she saw right through the bullshit. Through me. It was... terrifying. And also maybe the best thing that ever happened to me."
The sincerity in his voice was disarming. He wasn't performing. He was just... talking. To you.
"And I'm guessing it didn't end so well," you said, finishing up the till and sliding the tray into its slot.
His smile was sad, a ghost of the easy charm he usually wore. "I, uh, didn't handle some things well. After her best friend went missing... I didn't... I wasn't there for her the way I should have been. I was still playing the game. And then... Jonathan Byers happened."
You knew Jonathan Byers. The quiet, intense photographer with the difficult home life. Another one of Hawkins High's outliers.
"Let me guess," you said, leaning on the counter, mirroring his posture. "They're together now?"
"I'm not angry," he said, and to your immense surprise, he sounded like he meant it. "I was, for a while. I was an asshole about it. But... they make sense. They actually, like, talk to each other. He gets her in a way I never figured out how to."
The only sounds were the low hum of the freezers and the distant muzak trickling from the mall's main speakers. You watched him, this boy you had so neatly categorized and dismissed, and saw the edges of the caricature start to fray.
"You're not so bad, Harrington. For a washed-up jock."
He looked up, a flicker of that old, lazy grin returning. "Coming from you, that's practically a marriage proposal."
"In your dreams," you scoffed, but the retort lacked its usual bite.
"You're right, my legs aren't nearly as good as Stacey's," he let out a dramatic sigh.
You couldn't help the way your eyes glanced downward to see what he was talking about. The uniform shorts, while stupid, did little to hide how strong his legs were. How much they must've been toned from years of sports. How they hugged his thighs just right. How they hugged his--
"You're staring."
Your head snapped up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "I was not."
"Were too," he sing-songed, that stupid, completely gorgeous grin spreading across his face. "Don't worry, I get it. The uniform is a lot to handle."
"I was admiring the craftsmanship of how the seam is coming undone on your left thigh," you shot back, your face feeling hotter than the summer pavement outside. "Shoddy workmanship. I should report it to corporate."
He looked down, genuinely inspecting the seam in question. "Oh, hey, you're right. The thread's all popped." He fingered the loose string. "Huh. Probably from when I had to haul that new container of sprinkles out of the back. Nearly gave myself a hernia."
You internally were grateful for his complete obliviousness to your real line of sight and rolled your eyes. "Yeah, a real hero. The sprinkles would have been lost without you."
He shrugged, unbothered. "A hero's work is never done."
The weekend went by without much issue. You didn't go to the party. Something about getting high with a bunch of vapid teens you went to high school with, while trying to pretend you weren't having a mid-college crisis, felt about as appealing as licking the floor of the ice cream shop.
Instead, you’d stayed home, listened to records on repeat, and tried to write a short story that was going nowhere.
Tuesday night was when you always closed with Steve.
It was dead. A Tuesday night in Hawkins in mid-June was the definition of purgatory.
You both did your closing duties with practiced ease, a silent, efficient rhythm that you'd fallen into. He'd sweep, you'd wipe.
"So, like... the other night..." Steve started as he swept, his tone betraying the fact that it had been weighing on his mind.
Him speaking had broken the zoning out you were currently doing.
"What about it?" you asked, feigning disinterest as you scrubbed at a stubborn spot of dried fudge on the counter.
"Did you, uh..." He paused, leaning on the broom. "Did you and Stacey...?"
"If you're asking if we had some secret girl on girl rendezvous at Lovers Lake, the answer is no," you said, not looking at him. "I didn't go to the party."
He let out a small breath, and you couldn't decipher if it was relief or disappointment.
"Oh. Okay."
"It's not like porn, you know," you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. "The concept isn't a free-for-all for any man's viewing pleasure."
He bristled, his brow furrowing. "That's not what I was asking. I was... curious."
"What, wondering if we would go back home and wear silky pajamas and hit each other with pillows?" The sarcasm was a familiar armor, and you pulled it tight around yourself.
He almost looked angry now. He slammed the dustpan down on the counter a little too hard. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Assume the worst of me. Every single time. I ask a simple question and you turn it into me being some kind of... of..." He struggled for the word.
"Scumbag?" you offered helpfully. "Caveman? Horndog?"
"I was going to say moron," he shot back, his voice low and surprisingly hurt. "But I'm not that guy. And it's... it's getting really fucking tiring trying to prove it to you."
You were silenced for once, before you let out a deep sigh and put the rag down for a minute.
"Look," you started. "College was... hard for me. On like, so many levels. I guess I thought the one way it would be easier is that I didn't have to hide certain parts of myself like I did here. And then I quickly realized that there were new reasons it was hard being... like me."
You couldn't bring yourself to put a label on it. You hadn't quite figured out what one worked and that was okay.
"But anyway, one of the biggest hurdles, and maybe the most surprisingly common reaction I got from both men and women was to... treat it like it was for them. That it was a performance."
"Okay," he said, leaning against the counter, listening.
"You know, I’d meet a girl at a party and we'd chat and flirt and once it got to anything more than that, anything physical, she was usually just trying to catch the eyes of some pervy frat guys." You let out a self depreciating sigh, a little embarrassed to be telling him all this.
"And then if I tried to start something with a guy, they acted like it was a free pass for a threesome. It wasn't genuine interest in me, you know, just in what I could offer them. What my... existence could do for their sexual fantasy."
Steve watched you, his eyes soft and serious. There was no smirk, no hint of judgment.
"So when you get that look in your eye-like you're trying to work out some kind of complicated puzzle that would probably earn you a prize if you solve it, it's... hard not to assume. So I'm sorry. That I was an asshole. It's an ingrained defense mechanism."
The confession left a raw, buzzing silence in its wake. You had laid a piece of yourself bare on the grimy linoleum floor, a piece that you'd been holding on to since you decided to take a gap year, and it was in front of him of all people.
"Okay," he finally said, his voice quiet. "Okay, I get that. I'm sorry that happened to you. That's... shitty. People are shitty."
He looked down at the floor, kicking at stray sprinkles before looking back at you.
"For what it's worth, I'm not asking for a show." he said, a little sadly. "I don't... I wasn't picturing that."
He paused. "I just... I was just trying to figure it out. Figure you out."
You looked at him, your heart giving another one of those little, painful flips.
He cleared his throat and picked up the dustpan. "The good thing is, I'm a very slow study. So you'll have plenty of warning before I solve any of your complicated puzzles."
You watched as he fell back into the rhythm of sweeping. You noticed the way the muscles in his back moved under the thin fabric of that ridiculous shirt. How the shorts rode up just a bit as he bent over. How the back of his neck, where his hair started to curl with sweat, was surprisingly vulnerable-looking.
You were humanizing this man. You were seeing him as Steve. A guy who worked a shit job, who had a complicated past, who seemed genuinely, achingly lonely sometimes. A guy who, for some reason, was putting in the effort to be decent to you, even when you were a complete bitch to him.
"Why do you want to figure me out?" You asked, busying yourself with meaningless cleanup to hide the softness in your own voice.
He finished with the dustpan, straightened up, and leaned against the broom handle again. He looked out over the deserted food court, at the mall security guard making his slow, predictable rounds.
"I don't know," he said after a moment. His gaze was distant, fixed on the flashing lights of the arcade. "I guess I've realized there's more to people than I thought. A lot more. And I feel like I spent years… just not seeing any of it."
He turned to look at you, and the sincerity in his eyes was so disarming it almost felt like a weapon.
"You're interesting. And you don't like me. I'm trying to figure out what I did. And... maybe if I do, I can stop doing it."
The honesty of it was a punch to the gut. He wasn't trying to charm you, wasn't trying to get anything from you. He was just a guy trying to understand why he kept failing.
"I—" you started, but no words came out.
He saved you by pushing off the counter and grabbing the clipboard for the closing checklist. "Alright, what's next on the shutdown protocol?"
He was letting you off the hook, changing the subject, giving you space. And you were ridiculously grateful for it. But you also didn't want to take it.
"You didn't do anything, Steve," you said, the words quiet but firm.
He paused, pen hovering over the checklist. "Come on. Every time I talk to you, I feel like I'm putting my foot in my mouth."
"That's not your fault," you clarified. "I don't dislike you. I dislike the idea of you. The version of you that lived in my head. The guy who had it all. The guy who never had to try."
You gestured vaguely around you. "The guy who was probably going to get a sports scholarship and have a summer fling and never think about the people who had to clean up after him."
Steve finally looked at you, really looked at you, a small, frown line appearing between his brows.
"Little fun fact? I am trying. All the damn time," he admitted. "And the summer fling? Not exactly panning out. And the sports scholarship..." He scoffed, a short, bitter sound. "Let's just say my dad and Coach had a little talk about my 'priorities' last year and I didn't listen. I don't think college is in my future."
You felt a strange pang of something in your chest. It almost felt like guilt. You had built this whole narrative in your head about him, this perfect, easy life, and here he was, chipping away at it with every quiet, honest word.
"Oh," you said, brilliantly.
"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimicked, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He set the clipboard down, moving to the back to start emptying the sanitary bins. "The universe has a funny way of kicking you in the teeth. Turns out I'm not as special as I thought I was."
"But!" He turned to you and pointed, before pushing the door open with his back. "I'm kind of okay with that now."
You watched the door swing shut behind him, waiting a beat before following.
"Well, I guess I'm sorry for underestimating-"
You're suddenly chest to chest with him in the back room. He'd forgotten the trash bag. He'd turned right around and you walked straight into him.
"-you." you finished, your breath catching in your throat.
One of his hands was braced on your waist, grabbing to steady you. You could feel the warmth of his palms seeping through your uniform. You could smell him again, that clean, soapy, slightly sweaty scent that was becoming infuriatingly familiar.
"Whoa, easy there," he said, but his voice was lower than usual. He didn't move away, the softest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Your eyes, almost of their own accord, flicked down to his lips. They were slightly parted. And in that split second, you wanted to know what they tasted like.
This was bad. This was so, so bad.
You pushed gently against his chest. "Personal space, Harrington."
He blinked, the spell broken. He let go of your arm and took a half-step back, running a hand through his hair in that nervous way he had.
"Right. Sorry." He looked anywhere but at you. "My fault. Should've worn a bell..."
It had been four days since the almost-kiss. It's all you could think about, but neither of you spoke about it.
The silence that settled between you now was different. Before, it was laced with tension and disdain. Now, it was charged with something else.
Luckily, the busy Saturday night crowd had left you both too busy to think about anything but orders and cash. You moved around each other in the small space with a new, careful choreography, your hands brushing, your shoulders passing close, each touch a tiny jolt.
A mother with three screaming kids finally left, leaving a sticky trail of melted strawberry ice cream across your clean counter.
Robin was at the register, her head in her hands.
"I swear to God, if one more kid asks for gummy worms on their chocolate ice cream, I'm going to scream."
"It's a culinary revolution, Buckley. Don't stifle their creativity," you said, scrubbing at the sticky spot with maybe a little more force than necessary.
"It's gross." Steve chimed in, wiping down the scoop well.
You both looked at each other at the same moment before quickly looking away.
Robin's head shot up, eyes narrowed. "You two have been weird all week. Weirder than usual. What's going on?"
"Nothing," you both said in perfect, damning unison.
"Oh, my God," she breathed, a look of dawning, horrified comprehension on her face. "You had sex."
Steve dropped his scoop. It clattered into the metal well with an almost ear-piercing clang.
"No!" he yelped, his face turning a shade of red you'd only previously seen on a sunburned tourist.
"No!" you echoed, your voice slightly higher than you intended. "What the hell Buckley!"
You both looked at each other again, this was the last person you wanted to be in this interrogation with.
Robin stood up straight, planting her hands on her hips. She looked back and forth between your panicked faces with a gleeful expression.
"Relax, you two. I'm messing with you," she said, waving a dismissive hand, although her eyes still held a speculative glint.
Robin was too good at her job, her specialty being pattern recognition. She had you two pinned, at least enough to know something had shifted in whatever weird, antagonistic ecosystem you and Steve inhabited.
Steve picked up the scoop, wiping it on the side of his apron. "Hilarious. In no world would that ever, in a million years, happen."
The words were a slap in the face, even if they were said in a panicked attempt to deflect Robin's teasing. You felt a hot surge of anger, but you didn't even have the energy to fight him on it. You just bit the inside of your cheek, focusing intently on scrubbing the last of the sticky pink sludge from the counter.
"Yeah, Steve only goes for girls of a certain pedigree, isn't that right?" The words came out sharper, more acidic than you intended, but you were hurt. "He has standards to maintain."
Robin looked between you two again, her grin faltering as she sensed the shift from playful banter to something real.
Steve winced, physically recoiling from your words as if you'd slapped him. He looked at you, his expression a mess of regret and pleading, but your back was to him.
"Alright, I think I've overstimulated the weird little... whatever you two have going on here," Robin said, grabbing her bag from under the counter. "I'm taking my break before I have to witness an extinction-level event."
She gave you both one last, inscrutable look before disappearing through the swinging door, leaving you and Steve alone in a silence that was so loud it hurt.
You kept scrubbing at the counter, the rough texture of the sponge a welcome, painful distraction. Your shoulders were tight, a knot of anger and humiliation lodging itself right between your shoulder blades.
"You know that's not what I meant," he finally said, his voice quiet, rough.
"Wasn't it?" you shot back, not turning around.
A customer came to the counter just then— a worn out looking dad with two kids hanging off his legs— and you had to switch on your customer service face. It felt like a mask that was cracking. You took their order with a brittle cheerfulness that you knew Steve could see right through.
He took over making the sundaes while you worked the register, a silent, tense dance. His hands were clumsy, fumbling with the hot fudge pump. He was off-balance.
When the family left with their ice cream, the silence descended again, heavier this time.
The line picked up again and the two of you were too busy to even look at each other. He made the ice cream, you rang it up. There was no room for error or emotion. It was the most efficient you two had ever been.
Robin had the mid shift, so you and Steve closed yet again. For the last hour, the only sounds were sloshing of the mop bucket and the click clacks of the calculator.
The cleaning was almost done. You'd wiped down every surface, emptied the sanitizing buckets, and were now in the backroom hunched over the final inventory sheet. The numbers swam in front of your eyes.
You couldn't wait for your day off tomorrow. Maybe you'd hit up the pool or see if a new album had dropped at the record store. Anything to get out of this polyester prison and away from the suffocating silence.
"I'm not going to apologize for saying something dumb to Robin to get her to back off," he finally said, his back to you as he restacked the crates we had been counting. "Because I didn't mean it. I think you know I didn't."
"Why do you think I care if you meant it or not?" you said, not looking up from the clipboard. "It doesn't matter to me who you do or do not want to sleep with."
"Because I hurt your feelings," he stated, simply, matter-of-factly. He wasn't asking. He knew.
Your head snapped up. "You have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"
"No," he said, turning to face you. "I just feel like every time I get close to saying something right, I trip over my own feet and say something monumentally stupid instead."
He took a step closer, the backroom suddenly feeling much, much smaller.
"Look, I'm not sorry for trying to get Robin off our backs," he said, his voice low. "but I am sorry for how I did it. That's all. End of story."
He stood there, waiting. He wasn't pleading or demanding. He was just... present. He was holding himself accountable, and it was maybe the most attractive thing you'd ever seen him do.
You slammed the clipboard down on a crate before turning around, the noise echoing in the small room. "Why do you even care?"
"Because!" he burst out, his frustration finally boiling over. He ran both hands through his hair, messing it up. "Because for some insane reason I can't figure out, I like being around you! And I'd rather do that without you looking at me like you want to set me on fire!"
The confession held more weight than you realized, your breath hitching slightly at his earnestness.
You stared at him, truly and completely speechless for the second time that week. This whole conversation had careened wildly off the rails you'd laid.
You didn't know what to say. So you just watched him pace in the cramped space. He was like a caged lion, all restless energy and barely contained frustration.
"I've had my life fall apart, okay?" he said, stopping to face you. "My girlfriend left me for a guy who's probably a better person than I am, my dad looks at me like I'm a monumental disappointment, and my crowning achievement is a hairdo that gets compliments from either freshman girls or lonely housewives."
You didn't mean to laugh, but a small hysterical sound escaped your lips. It wasn't mocking; it was just the pathetic honesty of it.
"And then you show up," he continued, taking a step closer, a wild, desperate light in his eyes. "You're smart, and you're funny, and you're... you just don't give a shit about any of the stuff I spent my whole life trying to be good at. You see right through it, and it's infuriating. And it's... good. It feels real. For the first time in a long time, something feels real."
He was so close now. The space between you was humming with a new tension.
"So, yes. I care. Not because I see you as some novelty or a challenge or whatever fucked up things you think guys like me think. I care because you're the most interesting person I've talked to in months. And because I said something stupid that made you look at me the way you looked at Stacey Carmichael and I can't stand it."
You couldn't move. You could barely breathe. Every carefully constructed wall you'd built around yourself was crumbling, brick by brick, at the blatant sincerity pouring out of him.
"Do you always give romantic movie speeches or is it a special occasion?" The words came out quiet, stripped of their usual bite.
He didn't even smile. "I'm not trying to be romantic. I'm trying to be honest."
Oof. You should say something. You should deflect. But he spoke again before you could.
"Not that... I mean, not that you're unattractive because you're very much..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you. He was so close you could feel the warmth coming off him, see the way his throat worked as he swallowed. "You know."
"Squished into this uniform?" you offer with a laugh that has zero humor to it.
"What? No!" he frowned. "You look… good."
Now it was your turn to blush, a heat creeping up your neck that you prayed he couldn't see.
"Yeah, well, you'd look good in anything," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "That's your whole... thing."
You didn't want to admit it before, but you knew. Even in this stupid uniform he was handsome, but there was something else there.
Steve's smile was lopsided and soft.
"So you forgive me? For being an idiot in front of Robin?"
"I'll consider it."
He took another step closer, and this time you didn't back away. The fabric of your uniforms nearly brushed. You were close enough now that you had to tilt your head back to look at him.
"What, are you gonna kiss me or something? To seal the deal?"
It was meant to be a joke, a final test. A way to push him away and see if he'd flinch. You expected him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to step back into the familiar safety of sarcastic banter.
He didn't.
He just looked at you, his eyes searching yours, and the lighthearted air in the room vanished. Your bravado evaporated.
His gaze dropped to your lips, and then back to your eyes.
"I might," he said, his voice a low murmur. "If you wanted me to."
Your breath hitched. This was a bad idea. A terrible, no-good, very-bad idea.
"Do you want to?" you whispered back, the words barely audible.
He answered by closing the final inch of space between you.
His lips were softer than you imagined. It was a careful, searching kiss, nothing like the confident, performative smooches you'd witnessed him bestow on girls in school hallways.
You responded in kind, a soft sigh escaping you. Your hand, as if of its own accord, came up to rest on the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair there. That seemed to be the permission he was looking for.
The kiss deepened. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. He tasted like mint toothpaste and a faint, lingering sweetness from the strawberry flavoring he'd been ‘testing’ earlier.
Your free hand found its way to the front of his ridiculous shirt, your fist clenching in the fabric. He was solid, warm, real. Not the caricature you'd built in your head.
He angled his head, the kiss becoming more insistent, more desperate, his free hand steadying on your waist. He pulled you flush against him, and you gasped into his mouth as you felt his body against yours.
The rational part of your brain, the part that was still screaming about what a monumentally bad idea this was, went completely silent. All that was left was the feeling of him. The smell of him.
You were tentative as your hands trailed down his torso, palms flat against his toned pecs to the softness of his stomach and back up to his strong shoulders. You wanted to feel him.
"Hey," he murmured against your lips, a slight smile in his voice.
You pulled back just enough to see his face, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. His hair was a mess from your hands, his lips were swollen and wet, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want.
"Hi," you breathed back.
"This is," he started, then seemed to change his mind, leaning in to kiss you again, a soft, brief press of lips. "This is not a good place for this."
"No," you agreed, your brain slowly coming back online. "Not really."
He looked past you, towards the door that led out to the shop floor. "We need to go before that weird mall cop comes by."
You were suddenly acutely aware of your surroundings. The scent of dry goods, the hum of the freezers. You could still faintly smell the disinfectant and the sickly-sweet cherry flavoring.
"I'll go lock the gate and we can leave through the back." He kissed you again quickly and practically jogged out of the room, not giving you a chance to respond.
You took a minute to try and calm your racing heart before grabbing your bag. You could hear the heavy clank of the metal gate from the front of the shop.
You met him by the back door, the silence between you now charged with a different kind of electricity. You followed him out into the oppressive heat of the Hawkins night.
The air was wet, clinging to your skin. The parking lot was a sea of asphalt, shimmering under the orange glow of the mall lamps. The cicadas were screaming their summer song from the trees beyond the lot.
"Which one's yours?" he asked.
"The blue shitbox over there." You pointed to your car.
"Classy." He grinned, shoving his hands in the pockets of his ridiculously short shorts. "Mine's the Beamer."
"I know."
He walked with you to your beat-up car, the silence stretching out between you. You could still feel the ghost of his kiss on your lips.
"So," he said, stopping next to your door, his proximity making it hard to think. "Now what?"
You looked up at him, at the hopeful, uncertain look in his eyes. "Aren't you the expert in this stuff? Master of the..." you trailed off, not knowing what to call this.
"Post-shift makeout session in a stuffy back room?" he supplied, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, kind of a new one for me, too."
He wasn't trying to play a part, not with you.
You leaned back against the warm metal of your car door. "Do you work tomorrow?"
"You don't have my schedule memorized yet?" he asked, a flicker of the old Steve in his tone. You decided you liked this version better. "I'm off. So are you, according to the board."
"Right."
"So," he said again, rocking back on his heels. "Do you wan--"
"I don't do hook ups." The words tumbled out of your mouth, blunt and defensive. It was your last line of defense, a final test to see what he'd do with the rejection. “Not… any more. Since, you know.”
He stopped rocking, his smile fading. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable in the lot’s lights.
"Okay..." he said, his voice quiet as he drew out the word. "I wasn't asking for one."
You winced internally. You hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly.
"I just mean, I don't..." you struggled to explain yourself, the heat from the asphalt and the heat from your blush making it hard to breathe. "I'm not that girl."
"I know," he said simply. "I wouldn't be standing here if I thought you were."
The certainty in his voice was disarming. He stepped closer again, crowding you against the car door.
"Is that what you thought this was?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine despite the humid air. "That I'd kiss you in the back room and then expect to... what? Come home with me and...?" He didn't finish, just let the question hang in the heavy air.
You almost hated that you wanted to be more than a forgotten hook up.
The idea that the one guy you've been trying not to want for weeks, might see you as just another notch on a bedpost, was a rejection that would sting more than anything else.
"I mean... I wouldn't want to get fired," you deflected. "Hypothetically, workplace fraternization would be very frowned upon by our corporate overlords at Scoops Ahoy."
God, that was weak. He knew it, too.
A lazy grin spread across his face. "If I did bring you home with me, hypothetically, it wouldn't be a hook-up."
And that, that right there, was what made you feel lightheaded. The casual certainty in his voice. He wasn't just trying to get you into bed. He was trying to get you.
"I mean... I'd be lying if I said I'm not thinking about it, or that I'd be against something happening..." he admitted, his gaze dropping to your lips again. "But I'm also thinking about seeing you tomorrow. And the day after. And maybe taking you somewhere that doesn't require a sailor hat."
You felt a smile tugging at your own lips, unguarded. "Oh yeah? Like where? The food court?"
"Even better," he said, leaning in, his lips ghosting over yours. "The movie theater."
You couldn't help it. You laughed. "Wooing me with all the high-class hotspots, Harrington."
"I aim to please," he whispered, and then he kissed you again. "I can also do restaurants, if you're feeling particularly adventurous. Maybe even that fancy Italian place out by the highway if I save up my tips for a month."
You were smiling against his mouth. "A whole month of Scoops for a plate of spaghetti? You drive a hard bargain."
"I like you." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Simple. Direct. A fact.
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "That's all this is. It's not a game. It's not a hook-up. I just... really like you."
You held his gaze, feeling the warmth fill your body.
"Do you like diner food?" you whisper.
"Is that a serious question? Of course, I like diner food." The hopeful, ridiculously bright look that came back onto his face was worth more than you thought it would be.
It gave you the confidence to be bold.
"I could... follow you home. And maybe in the morning you could take me to the diner for pancakes."
He blinked. "Seriously?"
"I'm not into hook-ups, Steve." The words were a little shaky, but you were sure of them. "But I'm not a nun, either."
He blinked again, trying to process. "So... you're coming home with me?"
"I'm following you home," you corrected, your own lips curving into a smile. "My car is my escape route. Don't make me use it."
"I won't," he promised, his voice dropping into that low register that made you want to melt into a puddle on the asphalt. "I won't."
He leaned in for one last kiss in the parking lot, a sweet press of lips that tasted like promise.
Following his BMW through the darkened streets of Hawkins in your hammydown car was one of the more surreal experiences of your life. The juxtaposition was almost funny. His clean, expensive car cutting through the night, you rattling along behind it, engine groaning in protest.
You'd driven by his house plenty of times. Large, sprawling, and dark. The kind of house that was meant for a family that was whole and happy, but instead there was an emptiness to it that you could feel from the driveway, a silence that had nothing to do with the late hour.
You hadn't asked if his parents were home, you already knew the answer. It was common knowledge that the Harringtons were never really around. You'd assumed he loved it. An endless party house. But seeing the stark reality of it, not even a single light on at the entrance, the cavernous windows all dark, you felt a different kind of understanding. A strange wave of pity and protectiveness washed over you. He was all alone in that big, echoing house.
He parked in one of the garages.
(Seriously, why were there so many?)
You had to park yours in the drive, a small, rebellious speck of automotive failure in the middle of all that success.
Steve must have gone in through the garage, because he was opening the front door as you got out of your car. You didn't miss the way he was still a little nervous about this whole thing. The confidence he had in the mall parking lot had retreated behind a wall of shyness that you had yet to see.
You walked up to where he was waiting at those red double doors.
"It's huge," you managed, feeling small.
"Yeah, well. My mom likes to entertain," he said, the words flat and devoid of any real emotion. He wasn't bragging; he was just stating a fact of a life that didn't feel like his.
He led you inside and locked the front doors as you toed off your shoes. The stairs were right by the entry way, carpet over wooden slats, the hall into the living space on the other side.
He turned a small lamp on by the wall before turning to you, hands on his hips and looking at the floor, trying to break the silence.
"Alright," he said, finally looking at you. "This is it. Casa del Harrington. Don't touch anything."
You could hear the smile in his tone.
"Wow, what a tour. So many highlights," you played along, your own lips tugging into a grin.
"I'm saving the best for last," he said, grabbing your hand. His was warm and a little sweaty, and your fingers linked together like they'd been doing it for years. He led you upstairs.
The hallway was long, half balcony, half doors to other rooms. One floor was bigger than your whole family home.
He pushed open a door at the end of the hall. "And this," he announced with a flourish, "is my room. The grand finale."
It wasn't what you expected. It was... plaid. Like, beige and black plaid walls and matching curtains.
"I swear I have a personality," he said, noticing your amused expression. "My mom's interior decorator did not get the memo."
"It's very... masculine," you managed, looking around the random items. A bowling pin on the desk, a poster of a car, a poster of a bikini clad woman he clearly flinched at when you saw.
The king-sized bed, the sheets on top slightly rumpled from this morning, seemed to take up half the room.
It felt... intimate. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that made you feel like you were seeing a part of him no one else was supposed to. The messy pile of clothes on a chair, the photo on his dresser of him and a younger boy with curls and a goofy smile, a half-empty bottle of cologne.
"I'm gonna..." he cleared his throat. "Go change from this... stupid uniform." He gestured down at himself before turning to the door.
"Don't!" The protest slipped out before you could stop it.
Shit.
"Uh... I mean..."
He turned back slowly, his eyes wide, surprised. "Don't what? You afraid to be alone in here?"
"No, it's not that," you said, feeling your cheeks flush. You bit your lip, trying to find the words that wouldn't make you sound like a complete lunatic.
"I mean, don't... not because I don't want you to," you stammered, your gaze dropping to his chest. "It's just... I've been looking at that stupid uniform all summer. And I have this stupid image in my head of you in it and I..."
You trailed off, mortified. What were you even saying?
A slow grin spread across his face, a flicker of the cocky Steve Harrington you knew, but it was tempered by something softer.
"Oh," he said, the understanding dawning in his eyes. He took a step back into the room, closing the door behind him. "So... this is a thing for you, then?"
"It's not a thing," you denied, but your voice was weak and embarrassed. "It just... fits...well?"
That was also a bad choice of words.
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole, but then he started walking towards you with a slow, deliberate pace.
"Fits well?" he asked, his tone low and teasing. He stopped directly in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from him. His gaze was heavy, searching your face. "You think so?"
You couldn't speak. You just nodded, your eyes locked on his.
"Is it the shorts?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Or does the dumb little scarf thing get you going?"
"Steve," you whispered, a pathetic attempt at shutting him down.
But instead of backing off, he took a hold of your waistband, tugging you flush against him. His hands were confident but not rough.
"Because, you know…" he continued, leaning down so his lips were right next to your ear. "I was thinking the shorts are a little short. Show a little too much thigh."
You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel the steady, rapid beat of his heart under your palm.
"I take all my nice words back, you are actually evil."
He chuckled, the sound a deep, warm vibration against you. "Only a little bit."
One of his large hands found the red tie of your own uniform and played with it a little, not quite touching your chest, but his eyes were there.
"You're one to talk, you know..." he confessed. He traced the collar of the blue and white striped top. "Gotta say, I'm more than a little curious to see what's underneath. Not really leaving much to my imagination here, sailor." He says pulling at it a little to see your neck line.
"You're the one who said it was tight on me last week," you reminded him, your own hands slowly, nervously sliding up to wrap around the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the soft hairs there. "Wasn't really a confidence booster..."
"Is that why you were quiet the rest of the day? You thought it was, what, an insult?" He was genuinely confused. "It wasn't. I was trying not to stare, god, I was trying so hard not to stare."
Your fingers stilled in his hair. "Really?"
"Yeah," he breathed, leaning in again. His lips brushed your jaw, a fleeting, warm touch. "I spent the rest of the shift trying to think up ways to get you fired, just so I didn't have to look at you in this stupid uniform anymore."
The laugh that escaped you was half-shock, half-desire. "That's the most romantic and simultaneously psychopathic thing anyone has ever said to me."
He nipped at your earlobe, and a full-body shudder wracked its way through you. "God, when I was patching up your knee? And you kept flinching and your shorts were riding up your thigh and I could feel you shaking... you have no idea what I was thinking."
"I have a pretty good idea," you gasped as his lips trailed down the column of your throat. His hand was still on the ridiculous scarf-thing, one thumb stroking the skin just above your collarbone.
"No, you don't," he murmured against your skin. "But I'll show you. If you let me."
You didn't answer with words. You answered by tilting your head back, giving him better access, and by pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies. He took the invitation, his kisses becoming open-mouthed and hungry against your throat.
His hands finally moved to the hem of your uniform top, warm fingers brushing against the sliver of exposed skin on your stomach. You sucked in a sharp breath. His touch was a brand.
"Is this okay?" he breathed against your skin, pausing.
You answered by grabbing the hem of your own shirt and pulling it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor.
Your eyes were searching his face, trying to gauge his reaction, half-expecting a flicker of disappointment or the detached calculation you'd imagined from the old Steve. Instead, you were met with clear want.
"Wow," he breathed, his gaze sweeping over you. He looked dazed. "Wow."
"Stop," you said, but it was a weak protest.
"No, I mean it," he said, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there. "Those are... wow."
He was looking at your breasts like he'd just discovered a new continent, but it was the reverence in his expression that did it for you.
"They're boobs, Steve," you said, your voice shaky with a nervous laugh.
"They’re great boobs," he countered, leaning in to kiss you again. This kiss was different. Deeper, more possessive. One of his hands slid up your back, his fingers tracing the clasp of your bra.
It was a simple, utilitarian, beige thing. Nothing lacy or special. You suddenly felt a pang of self-consciousness.
"This is the least sexy bra in the history of the world," you murmured against his lips.
"I'm not really looking at the bra," he said, a smile in his voice. He deftly unhooked it with one hand and you felt the straps fall loose.
He pulled back just enough to slide the bra down your arms and let it join your shirt on the floor. The cool air of the room on your bare skin made you shiver.
"Jesus," he breathed, his eyes wide, devouring the sight of you. He looked like a kid in a candy store who'd just been told he could have whatever he wanted.
He didn't say anything else. He just looked, his gaze hot and heavy, and it was somehow more intimate than if he'd touched you. You'd never had anyone look at you like that. Like you were a masterpiece.
Then he was kissing you again, and this time his hands were on you, warm and sure. They weren't tentative or clumsy. He knew what he was doing.
One hand cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple, and a jolt went through you so intense you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, as he rolled the sensitive peak between his thumb and forefinger.
You pulled his shirt up, your hands flattening against the warm, bare skin of his back. You could feel the muscles there, tense and solid. He helped you pull the stupid uniform shirt over his head, and then it was your turn to look.
His chest was smooth and defined, a patch of chest hair trailing down to a soft tummy that you wanted to lick.
"Got a little soft from all the ice cream," he said, a self-deprecating note in his voice.
"I like it," you said, and you meant it. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. His breath hitched. "You're hairier than I thought though."
He let out a surprised laugh, a real, genuine burst of sound that rumbled through you.
"You been thinking about my hair distribution a lot?" he teased, his hands settling on your hips.
"You'd be surprised," you murmured, kissing your way up to his collarbone.
"Let me get my hands on you before I explode" he whispered, and he was tugging you towards the bed. He sat down on the edge, pulling you to straddle him. His hands roamed over your back, your hips, your ass, appreciating your shape.
Your breasts were pressed against his chest, the coarse hair a delicious friction. You threaded your fingers through his hair, tilting his head back. You kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that you felt all the way down to your toes.
"God, you feel good," he breathed against your lips, his hands squeezing your ass.
He was hard, you could feel it through the layers of fabric between you, a rigid, insistent pressure against you.
"Steve," you whispered, rocking against him. The friction was maddening.
"Tell me what you want," he said, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.
You took a shaky breath. You weren't used to this. Guys usually just took what they wanted, assuming they knew.
"Touch me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "Everywhere."
He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. "My pleasure."
He guided you onto the bed, your back sinking into the plush comforter. He followed you down, settling over you, propping himself up on his elbows so he wasn't crushing you.
He started slow. His lips traced a path from your jaw down to the hollow of your throat. His hands mapped your body, savoring every curve.
"I can't believe this is happening," he murmured, mostly to himself.
"Me neither," you admitted, your hands stroking through his hair as he kissed a path across your collarbones.
When he finally took one of your nipples into his mouth, you arched off the bed with a choked gasp. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, his other hand coming up to toy with its twin.
"Look at these... God," he said, pulling away with a wet pop. His thumb and forefinger rolling the sensitive nub, pulling a little making your hips buck. "Fucking perfect."
The compliments, the reverence, it was overwhelming. It was too much, but also exactly what you needed. He wasn't treating you like a conquest. He was worshiping you. You were the only thing in this cavernous, lonely house that mattered.
He shifted, moving down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your hips.
"Can I show you what I was thinking about when I patched you up?" he asked, his gaze flicking up to meet yours from his position above your shorts. His fingers were hooked into the waistband, teasing the elastic.
You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with anticipation.
He grinned, that wicked, knowing grin, and slowly, torturously, peeled your shorts down your legs. He tossed them aside, leaving you in nothing but your plain cotton underwear.
He settled between your thighs, pushing them apart. His gaze was heavy, and you felt a fresh wave of self-consciousness wash over you. You started to close your legs, to hide, but he held you in place, his hands firm on your thighs.
"No," he said, his voice a command. "Don't you dare hide from me."
He leaned down, and you felt his breath, hot and damp, through the thin cotton of your panties. Your hips bucked, a silent plea.
"God, you're already so wet for me," he murmured, his thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric.
You whined, a high, desperate sound you didn't recognize as your own. Your hands fisted in the comforter.
He took pity on you, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down.
"Look at you," he breathed, spreading you open with his thumbs. "Pretty. So fucking pretty."
He didn't wait. He leaned in and licked a flat, broad stripe up your center.
The world tilted on its axis. Your back arched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as you fought to keep your eyes open. He looked up at you from between your legs as he did it again, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of you. His perfect nose nudged against your clit. He groaned, a low, rumbling sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and the vibration of it shot through you like lightning.
"Steve... oh, god..."
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a rough whisper against your sensitive skin. He settled in, alternating between broad, lazy strokes of his tongue and focused, precise circles around your clit. His hands held your thighs apart, his grip firm and grounding. He wasn't trying to impress you with some frantic, porno-worthy performance. He was trying to make you feel good. He was paying attention.
He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, cataloging every reaction, every twitch, every gasp. When your hips started to cant up, meeting the rhythm of his tongue, he knew he'd found it. He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked.
"Fuck!" you cried out, your hands flying from the bedspread to tangle in his hair, holding him to you. "Don't stop. Please, god, don't stop."
He didn't. He doubled down, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves in a relentless, perfect rhythm. He slid one finger inside you, then another, curling them in a 'come here' motion that made you see stars.
"Steve," you whimpered, his name a prayer on your lips. "I'm... I'm..."
He knew. He could feel it. The fluttering of your walls around his fingers, the way your thighs were starting to tremble uncontrollably. He was good at this. He'd learned a thing or two, a quiet voice in the back of your mind supplied, before the thought was obliterated by the coiling tension in your stomach.
And then you were falling. The world shattered into a million pieces. Your back bowed off the bed and a long moan was torn from your throat as the orgasm hit. He didn't stop, didn't let up, working you through it until you were a boneless, panting mess beneath him.
He finally lifted his head, his face glistening, a satisfied grin on his lips. He crawled up your body, pressing a kiss to your lips. You could taste yourself on him, the intimate flavor making your head spin.
"Your thighs are shaking," he whispered, the words a warm puff of air against your cheek. His hand came up to stroke your hair tenderly.
"Blame the sailor uniform," you managed, your voice hoarse. Your brain felt like it had been scooped out and replaced with cotton candy.
"And let it take all the credit? No chance. That was all me, baby."
Baby.
"You're insufferable," you whispered, but you were smiling, pulling him down for another kiss. You could feel him, still hard against your hip through the fabric of those ridiculous shorts.
"You don't seem like you're suffering too much." He rocked his hips against you, a deliberate, delicious friction that made you gasp.
"Conceited, too," you retorted, your hands coming down to cup his ass, pulling him tighter against you. The muscles were firm and perfect in your palms.
The move must have surprised him a little because he flinched away. Not in a bad way, he looked confused by the feeling of your hands there.
Truthfully, you hadn't been with a guy in a while, and your reflexes were a little rusty on the male body.
"Uh...sorry..." You whispered as you moved your hands back to the bed.
He just shook his head. "No, no. You just surprised me is all." The look on his face was a mixture of confusion and awe. "I... uh..." He was stammering again, which was weird.
"I'm not used to girls... well, touching my ass," he admitted with a little laugh. "Usually it's just been about what I can do for them."
You hadn't even thought about it. You'd been more interested in the feeling of him.
His smile was gone, replaced by that serious, searching look again. He was watching you, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"You've definitely had girls touch you before, Steve." You whisper, hands impatient back on his lower back.
"Yeah... yeah. Just not like this." He leaned down, kissing your shoulder. "Not where it's about... me."
He had no right to look so vulnerable. Not with the reputation he had around Hawkins. Not with everything you'd heard. But as he hovered above you, all you saw was a boy who was used to being wanted for what he could provide, not for who he was.
"Also it's... been a while for me." he admitted, his lips against your neck again like it would help hide the confession.
The idea that you were the one to make him this nervous, this unsure, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever experienced.
Your hands roamed over his back, feeling the muscles tense and flex under your touch. You wanted to memorize the slope of his shoulders, the ridge of his spine, the dip at the base of his back.
"I like it, for the record." He says after a moment of your hands playing with the waistband of those shorts, lost in the feeling of your hands on him. "I like how handsy you get when you're turned on."
You smile and your hands move back to his ass to push him more firmly against your core, you let out your own moan against his lips. He was still so frustratingly clothed.
"It's your turn," you breathed, your hands tugging at the fabric. "Lose the shorts."
He kisses you quickly before pulling back to take them off. There was a significant wet patch on the front from where he'd been pressed against you. You watch his eyes trail down to it.
"Oops..." you whisper with a smirk.
He just shakes his head with a chuckle before he finally, finally slides them and his boxers down in one go, kicking them to the floor.
And then he was naked. All of him. And your brain had to recalculate.
You'd heard the rumors, of course. Locker rooms were a breeding ground for exaggerated gossip. But seeing him in the flesh... seeing the hard, thick length of him, curving up towards his stomach... the rumors hadn't been exaggerated. They'd been an understatement.
He followed the path of your eyes, and you watched a flicker of something- pride, maybe, or just deep-seated insecurity- cross his face.
"You're staring," he said, a nervous edge to his teasing tone.
"I can't imagine a person who wouldn't."
You reached for him, your curiosity overriding any lingering shyness. He was deliciously heavy in your hand, the skin velvety soft. He let out the prettiest moan as you gave a slow, tentative stroke, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture at the tip. His hips stuttered forward, an involuntary movement.
"Jesus," he breathed, his head falling back. His hands braced on the mattress on either side of your head, caging you in. "Okay. Yeah. That's... okay."
He looked wrecked already. His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted. It was a heady kind of power.
Your other hand slid up the back of his thigh, over the firm curve of his ass. You gave a little squeeze and he swore again, his hips bucking into your fist.
"Tell me what you want, Steve," you murmured, your voice low and sure.
He looked down at you, his eyes dark, a muscle working in his jaw. He's never been asked that. Not like this.
"Jesus Christ," he said again, as if that were the only coherent thought he could form. "I want... everything."
"Be more specific," you pressed, your thumb swirling over the head of him.
"I want to be inside you," he ground out. "I need to be inside you."
"Good," you whispered, pulling him down for a kiss. "Get a condom."
He blinked, then nodded, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes at the loss of your touch. He rolled off you, rummaging in the drawer of his bedside table. He came back with a little foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth.
You watched him roll it on, your own body revving with anticipation. He hovered over you again, one hand braced on the bed, the other lining himself up with your entrance.
"Just... go slow..." you say with a steadying breath. "I'm eager, yeah, but like I said, it's been a minute for me too. And you're... not exactly... small."
He looked genuinely relieved that you'd acknowledged it. "Yeah. I know. It's... it's a lot sometimes, for people. I'll be careful, I swear."
The vulnerability was back, but this time it wasn't about your reaction. It was about the act itself. He was scared of hurting you.
He pressed forward, and you felt the stretch, the welcome pressure of him entering you. It was a slow, deliberate push, and you felt him inch by inch. You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to grip his biceps.
He paused, giving you a moment to adjust. "You okay?"
"Just...really love touching you," you gasped out in lieu of a real answer. And it was the truth. Your hands were on him, feeling the toned muscle and the warm skin and the slight tremor in his arms as he held himself still. "You can keep going."
He kissed you, a slow, sweet kiss, almost overwhelming feeling of him filling you. He started to move again, shallow rocking that gradually built into a deeper rhythm.
"God," he breathed against your lips, burying his face in your neck. "You feel... you feel incredible."
Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, silently begging for more. The feeling of your plush, soft thighs around his hips made Steve lose all train of thought. He was breathing into your neck and making these small helpless sounds, like he couldn't believe this was really happening.
He set a pace that was both leisurely and deep, rolling his hips in a way that made you see stars. One of those strong arms made its way under you when you arched into him, pressing your chest to his. The movement shifted you, and he slid deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out.
"Right there?" he asked, a smug satisfaction in his tone. He rolled his hips again, deliberately, grinding against that spot.
"Steve..." you whimpered, unable to form a coherent thought.
"Say my name again," he commanded, his voice a low growl against your ear. His lips moved along the shell of your ear, nipping gently. He was chasing the praise you gave him, hungry for it.
"Steve," you repeated, louder this time, your hands tangling in his hair.
"You feel incredible, fuck you're so soft everywhere" He panted.
He was losing control, the careful rhythm faltering as his hips began to snap harder, more erratically. Your hands slid down his back, your nails trailing just enough before grabbing onto his ass to keep him deep inside you. You didn't want this to end, but you were already climbing again, that coil of heat tightening in your belly.
"I'm..." you started, but you couldn't finish. The words caught in your throat as he shifted, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. "Holy fuck..."
The new angle was putting his cock impossibly deep, hitting that spot with every thrust. His name became a mantra on your lips, a prayer to the only god you currently believed in.
"I know, baby, I know," he panted, his face buried in your neck. "Doing so good f'me... taking it so good."
The praise was your undoing. Your world went white. You clenched around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you breathless and shaking. A cry tore from your throat, needy and real.
The feeling of your walls closing in around him, the sound of you crying his name, it was too much. He drove into you once, twice more, a whimper tearing from your own lips at the overstimulation. Then he stilled, burying himself deep as he came with a long, shuddering groan against your neck.
For a moment, you both just lay there, a tangle of arms and legs and heavy breathing in the oppressive heat of the room.
Slowly, he lowered your leg back down to the bed, but not before kissing the inside of your knee like a silent 'thank you'. He brushed a sweat-damp piece of hair from your forehead, a gesture so soft and tender it made your heart clench. He was still breathing heavily, each pull almost leading in so a loft laugh.
"Usually I can last longer than that." he's quiet, confessing something you didn't even ask for. "You just..."
He didn't finish.
You just what?
You wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come. You were too spent, too content. He carefully pulled out of you, and you both winced at the sensation. He dealt with the condom, tossing it in the small trashcan by the desk with perfect aim.
You expected him to roll over, to put some space between you. That's what the other guys had done. A moment of awkward silence, then the shuffle of sheets and a mumbled 'I'll be right back'. But he didn't. He shifted, pulling you into his arms until your head was resting on his chest, right over his heart. The beat was still fast against your ear.
His arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. One of his legs tangled with yours, a possessive but gentle weight.
"Your chest hair is sweaty." you mumble against him, but your teasing tone gave away that you didn't actually mind. In fact, you kind of liked it.
"I'm aware," he laughed. "You did this to me."
"Oh, so this is my fault?" You laughed with him, your fingers tracing abstract patterns on the soft skin of his stomach.
"Entirely," he confirmed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
The comfortable silence that settled over you was warm.
"So," he started, his voice quiet in the dim room. "Diner pancakes in the morning. You still on for that?"
You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. His hair, which you now realized was grown out a bit more than usual and slightly sunkissed, was fanned out on the pillow, a complete mess. His eyes were soft in the low light, a perfectly warm mix of green and brown.
"You're so beautiful." The words slipped out.
A faint blush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks. He turned his head for a moment, a boyish gesture that was so at odds with the confident way he'd been looking at you earlier.
"Was that weird?" You asked, suddenly self-conscious. You hadn't meant to say it out loud.
"No," he said, turning back to you, his gaze catching yours. "Just... not what I'm used to hearing."
He reached up, his thumb stroking your cheek. "The girls I'm used to... they'd call me hot, or tell me they liked my car. They wouldn't say that. Don't really think I'd like it from them anyway."
"Maybe you've been talking to the wrong girls," you whispered, leaning into his touch.
"I'm starting to realize that, yeah," he agreed, his hand sliding around to the nape of your neck, pulling you down for a slow, gentle kiss.
You shifted, settling more fully against him, your leg draped over his. Your body was pleasantly sore, a lingering reminder of the way he'd touched you, the way he'd moved inside you.
You were both slick with a cooling layer of sweat in the humid, still air of the bedroom. The window unit was rattling away, doing a valiant but ultimately futile battle against the heatwave and your combined body heat. The sheets were twisted around your legs.
"Your parents aren't, like, gonna come home, are they?" you asked, a flicker of anxiety cutting through the post-coital bliss.
He let out a soft, bitter laugh. "No. My dad's in Chicago until August. My mom's on some retreat on the east coast. Supposed to 'celebrate the woman within' or some phony shit." He paused, tracing the line of your spine. "I think the only thing within her is a tanned tennis instructor named Todd."
"Ouch," you murmured, kissing his collarbone.
"It would be, if my dad didn't spend so many late nights at the office with just his secretary," he said, the words devoid of any real emotion. It was just a fact of life. "This house has been a revolving door for their issues for years. But I'm used to being alone here."
He squeezed your shoulder. "So, no. We're not going to get interrupted."
You felt the weight of that admission, the casual mention of a loneliness so profound it had become normal. It explained a lot about him, the desperate need for attention, the endless parties. He was just trying to fill the silence.
"We could... spend more time together tomorrow. After pancakes," you offered, your own nerves fluttering. "If you wanted."
He went very still. You could feel the change in his breathing, the way he held it.
"Yeah?" he asked, his voice a little rough. "You'd want to?"
"Do... you want to? I don't want to get in the way of you, like, hanging out with your friends or..."
"At this point my friends are a group of preteen nerds I was forced to babysit," he said, a small smile in his voice. "I think I'd rather hang out with you."
"Preteen nerds?"
"It's a long, very weird story," he said. "Involved a lot of digging and a very big bat."
"A bat? What, were you playing baseball?"
He huffed a quiet laugh against your hair. "Something like that. If you keep seeing me, maybe I'll tell you all about it one day."
"Are we seeing each other? Is that what this is?" You tried to keep your tone light, but your heart gave a little lurch at the prospect of putting a name to this thing between you.
"I'd like to," he said, so quiet you almost missed it. "If you would."
"I would," you whispered back, the answer easy and true.
He rolled onto his side, shifting so he was facing you, propping his head up on his hand. The little bedside lamp cast a warm, golden glow over him, highlighting the soft curve of his lips, the earnestness in his eyes.
"Good," he said, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. "So, pancakes in the morning? Then maybe we could go to the lake? It's supposed to be even hotter tomorrow. We could go for a swim."
"Trying to see me in a swim suit?"
"Is it working?" he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Maybe."
"Should I try to convince you?"
"You're welcome to try…" you challenge.
A slow, predatory grin spread across Steve's face. He leaned in, capturing your bottom lip between his and giving it a gentle, suggestive nip. "I think," he murmured against your lips, "I can be very convincing..."
a/n: Genuinely i need this man irl, if you know where to find him, lmk. ENJOY!!💕
Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley wakes up extra early to get your daughter dressed and fed, before taking and dropping her off at daycare, just so you can sleep in
Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley will play barbie’s with your daughter to keep her occupied so she won’t bother you while you work. “Come er’ pretty girl, mamas busy right now. Let’s go play”
Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley scanned every toy store and online store for the exact jumbo pink fluffy unicorn stuffed animal for your daughter, after she left it at a restaurant
Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley shed a tear when your daughter brought him a piece a paper with colors scribbled on it, that said “Happy Father’s day!”. He hugged her and whispered, “Thank you baby”. To this day shes still the only one to see this man cry.
Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley who agreed to accompanying you and your daughter to the park so quickly. He nearly ran out of his chair to get his shoes on. You couldn’t stop laughing when Simon fell of the swings.
Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley who rocked your baby girl to sleep and sat with her for an hour before placing her in her own bed. He peppered her little face with kisses.
Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley who stands in the kitchen making you tea, while you sit on the counter in his tshirt.
“Thank you, Si”
“For?” He grumbles
“For helping me, and loving her like shes your own”
He walks over to you and hands you the tea, then he places his hands on your waist. He kisses your forehead and says,
“Whatever keeps my girls happy”
a/n: RAHHHHH I WAS GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET WHILE WRITING THIS!!! I hope you all enjoy this as much as you enjoyed my last post. I do just want to say, based off my schedule i’ll most likely be posting twice, maybe three times a week💕
Kim Mayfield never intended to return to Hawkins after graduating, but life has a funny way of working out. She finds herself back there in the beginning of summer, back to the mundane things that she had run away from. Everything is normal.
There’s just one problem.
Steve Harrington.
He’s handsome, funny, charming and sweet in a way that makes her heart pulse and her palms sweat. He makes her forget why she’s sworn off love; reminding her that someone can come in and sweep her off of her feet.
If only he wasn’t her best friend's ex-boyfriend. Completely off limits.
Oh, and her roommate. There was that too.
Modern AU. Roommates to lovers slowburn :)
CW: Mentions of toxic relationships, Male/Female masturbation, unprotected and protected sex, oral sex, dry humping, drug and alcohol use
summary: One secret changes everything. As the Cody family’s carefully buried truths come to light, you find yourself caught between running from the people you love and fighting for them. In the end, loving Pope Cody doesn’t just change your life, it changes the entire family. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: sexual content/smut, abusive relationship (not andrew), bestie!deran trope, not timeline specific, fix it fic, some parts are dark, mentions of SA/grooming, parental abuse, smurf and baz, manipulation, j redemption arc, murder, violence, major character death, canon show themes, substance use, drinking, gun use, possessive!pope, jealous!pope, soft boy!pope, discussions of mental health, warnings are chapter dependent. total word count: 123.4k amalia’s love note: finally started a masterlist for this series lol, love yall. this masterlist is ever changing and parts are being added inbetween updates as i go!! NOTE! this fic does not have a taglist, to be notified of updates pls follow this blog and turn on post notifs <3
doe-eyed running to my tranquility (smut, angst)
After escaping your abusive boyfriend, you get pulled into the dangerous world of the Cody family and unexpectedly become the center of Pope Cody’s obsessive attention. As dark secrets unravel around you, Pope grows fiercely protective, pulling you deeper into his chaotic life until the line between safety and danger disappears completely.
take what you want (smut, fluff, angst)
After a job goes wrong, Pope disappears for four days, hiding his injuries and burying himself in silence. But when you finally confront him, you realize his biggest problem isn’t violence, it’s that he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to want or need anything. So you show him exactly how badly you want him to take what’s his.
i love the sick (angst, dark)
What starts as a simple night watching Lena turns into something far more dangerous when Baz leaves you at Smurf’s overnight. As Smurf slowly tightens her grip, quietly isolating you from the outside world, J is the only one who notices the pattern for what it really is and for the first time, he steps between you and his family. The night cracks open the fragile balance you’ve built with the Codys, exposing a darker, more volatile side of Pope Cody that leaves your relationship hanging by a thread and forces long-buried truths dangerously close to the surface.
all my morals shot (smut, dark, angst)
One secret sends you running from the Cody family, but escaping Pope Cody proves impossible. As buried truths come to light and old wounds turn into reckless choices, you’re forced to confront the feelings you’ve been trying to outrun. Meanwhile, Smurf realizes too late that you’ve become a threat, not because you’re using Pope, but because you’re the first person who truly chooses him. And no matter how hard you run, Pope always finds his way back to you.
mirror (fluff, angst)
Vignettes from your years-long friendship with Deran Cody, and the long-overdue conversation that finally puts the pieces back together.
nothing at all (dark, smut, angst)
A phone call from your father cracks open wounds you thought had long since healed. As you struggle to keep yourself together, Pope shows you the terrifying truth about loving a man who would do absolutely anything for you.
siren sounds (angst, smut)
Smurf draws a line in the sand, and suddenly everything you love is at risk. Forced into an impossible choice, you tell a lie that could cost you everything to protect the person who matters most.
jealous type (smut, angst)
Jealousy isn’t your best look. According to Pope, though, it’s definitely your hottest. A harmless night out quickly turns into a game neither of you has any interest in losing.
boy (fluff, angst)
For the first time in your life, Craig Cody is speechless. Beneath the jokes and bad decisions is a man standing at a crossroads, trying to figure out whether he’s capable of becoming someone different than the people who raised him.
honeybee (angst)
For someone who’s spent their entire life expecting loss, happiness can feel just as frightening as heartbreak. As your relationship with Pope deepens, you’re left navigating the uncomfortable reality that the more you love something, the more there is to lose.
stranger danger (dark, angst)
Life. Death. Maybe the line between them was never as wide as people liked to believe. Sometimes it all comes down to a single choice, a single second, and when the dust settles, one person gets to keep living while another doesn’t.
did you miss me? (dark, angst)
Some moments divide your life into two parts: the person you were before, and the person you have to become after.
Time, You & Me (dark, angst)
You always imagined forever would be enough. You never considered forever might end six feet underground.
queen of nothing (angst, dark)
Separated by circumstance, Pope is forced to make a decision that unknowingly places you in danger. In return, you’re willing to shoulder decades of his pain, proving just how far you’ll go for the man you love.
summary: Whirling into the Cody’s life at 16 like the hurricane you are, the permanent intertwine was instant. Younger than the four sons and a late bloomer, you were an afterthought romance wise. Right up until after you turned 20. Having never even thought about you before, a certain Cody brother can’t help but do exclusively that at your newly developed captivating looks that match your ever-present, chaotic personality. After years of being nothing more than acquaintances, you and Popes new growing bond eventually has you facing the possibility that the intimidating and guarded Pope Cody could be the first to tame the tumultuous storm inside you.
current wc: 44.8 k
chapter links (ongoing!!) :
◅ chapter one ▻ ◅ chapter two ▻ ◅ chapter three ▻ ◅ chapter four ▻ ◅ chapter five ▻ ◅ chapter six ▻ ◅ chapter seven ▻
authors note: HII !¡ I finally started my multi part pope cody fic everyone be proud (thanks guys I can feel the pride) anywayy im really excited about this because i loveee what I’ve written so far and i think yall will too🫵🏻
contains: this will be MDNI AS ALWAYS!!! But before we get to smut we got a slowwwwww burn with hella angst lowkey and a lot of personality but its worth its trust
(plot takes place years before any of animal kingdoms seasons, then loosely follows s1)
main masterlist
— if you want a tag in upcoming parts, comment on the most recent chapter and I’ll tag you when the next one drops! please have your age in your bio to be tagged :D —
Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader
Summary: Two bounty hunters and a green baby. Feelings are stupid, but the sex is nice.
Status: Ongoing
Warnings: Past Abuse/Trauma. PTSD. Gore. Possessive/Protective Din Djarin to the MAX. Emotionally stunted reader who likes violence (yay!) Sex in Space. More explicit warnings are in each chapter.
1. Turning Point || 2. you could be my unintended || 3. I Lost Myself || 4. Sound of the Sea || 5. It’s About the Blood || 6. dark marks
